#sharper than a two edged sword

[scripture-pictures]

#hebrews 4:12 #the word of god #quick #powerful #sharper than a two edged sword #daily bread #nightly bread #god is love

[feyascorner]

6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it. 

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back.  Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot. 

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

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#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst

[revasserium]

butterfly lovers opla zoro screaming crying throwing up

butterfly lovers

opla!zoro; 7,106 words; fluff, kind of childhood friends to lovers, slowburn af, nsfw, pron with TOO MUCH plot, opla!canon divergence, ships doctor!reader, fem!reader, riding, "good girl", emotional sex

summary: yours and zoro's story, from two different perspectives.

a/n: @halfvalid this is ur fault. take responsibility pls. also the smut is literally just one part of a larger story, but it does actually get explicit so. do with that info what u will u__u.

false start.

most good stories, scholars and storytellers would both agree, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. though, famously, not necessarily in that order. and this particular story — well, it has several places one might call the beginning. and one of them is here — in shimotsuki village, in a patch of rich green forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and earth.

it would be a lie to say that the story begins here, at a doujou where eight year old boys and nine year old girls swing wooden swords hundreds of thousands of times each day. where you’d seen zoro for the very first time.

the story could have started here, but alas, it did not.

because you see, you’d never been great, or even particularly good at swordsmanship. and zoro — zoro was one of the best. even from the beginning, his raw, unfettered talent was a force to be reckoned with. but the reckoning came in the form of the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, and you were no more part of zoro’s story then than a drop of ink in a midnight ocean — lost to the tumultuous waves of childhood tedium, of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

but you’d known him then, watched him as he grew, as he got better and better and better. bigger, stronger, quicker, sharper. and beside him was kuina, steady as the shifting tides, relentless in her efficacy, tireless in her craft. he was good, but she was better.

until one day, when very suddenly, she wasn’t.

the story, as it is, does not start here, because you’d made the solemn walk to kuina’s funeral altar with the rest of the students at the doujou in complete silence, had knelt there in equal silence and watched as sensei had bestowed the wadou ichimonji upon zoro, watched as he had gripped the sword with both hands, his knuckles going white as the sword’s moon-washed sheath, and bowed his head in acceptance.

it does not start here because later, instead of following the same, silent procession of kids back to the doujou’s main compound, you’d slipped away, silent as a shadow, and sprinted through the wide, cedar forest to a secret, open patch of grass where the sun bled from a stretch of endless sky blue enough to sting, and tiny little white-petaled flowers had sprung from the still-damp earth, turning their faces towards the coming spring.

you’d run, screaming through the field till you’d run out of breath to scream with, and collapsed among the tiny white flowers, panting and staring up at the endless blue sky, feeling the helplessness pulse through your veins. because even though kuina hadn’t been your friend — you’d exchanged perhaps a handful of words in all the years you’d spent here — she’d been a constant presence in your life. and now, she was gone. and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

you laid there for longer than you can remember, and then, as the sun finally dipped beyond the far horizon and the darkness grew longer than the sea was wide, you got up and trudged towards the clearing’s edge. only to find a small creature huddled against the trunk of a thin sapling tree — it looked like nothing more than a bundle of white-spotted fur, and it took you a long moment to realize that it was a fawn, curled into a pile of gnarled roots, shivering, eye wet and wide and terrified.

you blinked, staring at it for a few seconds before you’d noticed the gash on it’s hind leg, jutting out at an uncomfortable angle. your heart had stuttered inside your chest, and you’d dropped down to your hands and knees, cooing softly as you slowly approached the creature, trying to look as unmenacing as possible.

“hey there… are you hurt?” you’d said, crawling towards it, trying very hard to make your movements as slow and smooth as possible.

the fawn shivered as it stares at you, apparently caught between sheer terror and curiosity. you tried to smile, before digging into your pockets and pulling out a handful of peanuts, offering them to the fawn on an open palm.

“c’mon, i’m not gonna hurt you… i just wanna take a look… at that leg of yours, can i do that?” you’d asked, inching in closer and closer until the fawn’s warm, wet nose dug into your palm, it’s smooth-edged teeth grazing your skin as it crunched through the peanuts. you took the chance to glance down at it’s injured leg — it wasn’t a deep wound, but judging by the angle, it was a bit dislocated and would need to be set back right if the fawn was ever going to walk again.

slowly, you reached out a free hand to gently stroke at the fawns haunches, feeling it’s muscles tense up beneath you, even as it continues to snuffle against your palm, eager for any remnants of the peanut shells. you ran your hand along it’s leg and quick as a flash, you pressed against the odd jutting of bone, even as it snapped back into place with a satisfying crack.

the fawn made a shrill, screeching noise, jerking to its feet, but a moment later, it seemed to realize that it’s leg was no longer hurting. you held up both your hands in what you hoped was a calming gesture before tugging out a few more peanuts holding it out as an offering.

the fawn blinks it’s dark, watery eyes at you a few times before limping forward to dig its nose once more into your palm. you allowed yourself a smile then, and a soft relieved laugh as the fawn limped forward a few more steps, testing the weight of it’s body on its newly repaired leg. it looked more confident now, seemingly realizing that the wound was somewhat fixed, and it gave you one last, lingering look before it bounded off back into the sunset forest, leaving you with nothing more than a handful of peanut shells and a tightness in your chest you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

you’d snuck back into the doujou that evening, smelling of mud and moss and cedar, and you’d lain in your futon, staring up at the high slatted ceilings, streaked with moonlight, wondering where on earth you truly belonged.

the next morning, everyone woke to neatly a folded futon and a wooden training katana, the hilt carved with your name, laid across your pillow.

so you see, the story could have started here. but it didn’t. and perhaps we should be thankful for that.

the cost of ambition.

the story, as we know it, starts then at the baratie, on the morning after a meal was eaten and not properly paid for, after an ill-fated duel between a boy with a mouthful of ambitions and a man who’d forgotten what it felt like to be truly surprised. well, he was surprised that morning, watching the boy fall back with a gash the size of the world spurting blood across the docks.

“grow strong,” he’d said, “and come find me.”

and it starts, when a pirate in a straw hat comes crashing into the baratie’s kitchen, shouting about a dying friend.

“help! help! zoro… zoro needs a doctor!”

“whoa, whoa, slow down, chore boy — i can’t understand a word you’re saying,” zeff holds up a hand to stem luffy’s panicked rambling.

“my friend is dying…”

“the nearest doctor’s on the conomi islands —”

“wait, no —” sanji frowns, cutting zeff off, “lemme look at the reservations from last night —” he hurries off to the front desk and returns with a thick leather bound volume, flipping it open to scan through the seating chart for the night before.

“i knew it!” he says, pointing at a name written in deep, ocean blue ink, “there — her! i’ve heard of her — she’s the best ship’s doctor in the east blue, and if i’m not much mistaken, her ride’s not due to leave till this afternoon.”

“great! c’mon — we haven’t got time to lose!” luffy says as he rushes out of the kitchens, leaving sanji and zeff to exchange an exasperated look before following after.

they find you on the loading docks, your nose buried in a notebook, your hand flying across the page, ink smudging your unrolling sleeve.

“please! we need a doctor! my friend — zoro — he’s dying!”

you jerk up from your notes, the name ringing in your ears like an alarm bell, rocking through your body like the base boom of a signal flare. zoro? here?

you look around even as luffy makes his way to you, pressing in too close, a hand on top of his head to keep his hat from flying away, the other curling around your upper arm.

“w-wait — what’s going on? did you say someone was dying?”

“yes! my friend! he got into a fight with this warlord guy and now he’s bleeding from everywhere —”

“show me,” you say, lurching to your feet and shouldering your leather knapsack, pursing your lips as your vision threatens to tunnel ahead of you. zoro. it’s been such a long time since you’d heard that name. sure, you’d heard of his exploits in the east blue. how could you not have?

demon, bounty, pirate hunter. hunter, hunter, hunter —

you take a deep breath as luffy leads you onto the deck of the going merry and ducks below, motioning for you to follow.

when you step into the room, you don’t notice the orange-haired girl or the long-nosed boy, instead, your eyes are drawn to the body on the kitchen table as a magnet would a compass rose. his shirt torn into barely more than ribbons, a large red gash oozing blood, bisecting his torso like some unbridgeable canyon in miniature, his skin paler than you’d ever remembered it being, sweat beading his flickering brow —

oh, zoro…

you resist the urge to press your hand to your mouth. so instead, you swallow back your heart and try to assess the damage. massive blood loss, possible head trauma, and who knows what else?

“you said a warlord with a giant sword did this?” you ask, hurrying to the table and frowning down at the gaping wound.

“y-yeah — he — he had a big hat with a white feather on it —” luffy starts.

“mihawk. his name was dracule mihawk,” the orange-haired girl cuts in, her voice sharp and a bit too forced to be steady, “he told zoro to get stronger, and that… it wasn’t his time to die yet.”

you grimace, chewing on your bottom lip as you dump your supplies unceremoniously onto the countertop next to him, digging out the necessities.

“well, he wasn’t lying — the cut’s clean and judging by the size… he could’ve cut much deeper. but he didn’t,” you sigh, absently rolling up your sleeves as you pull out a hooked suture needle and a length of thread.

they watch you work in silence, first cleaning the wound, and then slowly, painstakingly pinching and stitching him back together. by the end of it, you’re nearly dizzy with exhaustion, and the sky outside has already turned a deep, bruising purple.

you sigh, wiping down your hands.

“can someone go and ask the waiter for a fish? any fish’ll do, but the fresher, the better. oh, and a bottle of scotch.”

“got it!” the boy with the long nose bolts up and is gone in a flash.

you slump down into a nearby chair and let your head loll back. a moment later, you feel someone pressing a glass into your hand and open your eyes to find the orange-haired girl holding a glass of water.

“here… you looked like you could use it.”

“thanks,” you say, taking a grateful gulp.

“i’m nami, by the way… thanks for —” she waves at the shape of zoro still on the kitchen table, “and that one over there is luffy. the guy that just left is usopp and —” her breath catches as her eyes fall back onto zoro’s form.

“i know who he is,” you say, your voice quiet as you look down at the glass clutched in your hands.

“you know zoro?” luffy’s voice is loud, but not unpleasantly so.

you glance up and feel the truth pulsing against the back of your throat like a heartbeat. then, you shake your head with a soft smile.

“i mean, he’s got quite the reputation.”

luffy lets out a laugh, “yeah! he sure does — he’s a great fighter! probably one of the best i’ve ever seen!”

you nod, staring at the sloshing liquid in the bottom of your glass.

a few moments later, usopp returns with sanji in tow, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and a dead fish in the other.

“you’d better have a good reason for this,” he says, his expression grim, “zeff’s not gonna be happy when he finds these gone.”

you force a smile, “well, i can promise that at least one of those things’ll be put to good use — can you just skin the fish for me, please?”

sanji frowns, “and the scotch?”

you glance around before shrugging, “i don’t know about you guys but… i think we could all use a drink.”

the cliche of the morning after.

when zoro wakes up the first time, it’s to a world-muffling quiet. he coughs, uncertain of where he is, his head throbbing, his chest feeling too light and too heavy all at once.

“oh! you’re awake — here… have some water. you’ll need it.”

he hears the voice, both familiar and foreign, and then, he feels the cool press of a glass against his lips.

he gulps down the water greedily before pain rockets through him and he lets out a loud groan.

“i… i had a dream…” he says, his head spinning, the words slurring from him, and for a second, he wonders if he’d just been fed alcohol instead of water, but the pain seizes him again and he can’t stop talking.

“yeah? what did you dream about?” the familiar, foreign voice asks, soothing, as a cold palm presses against his forehead.

“shimotsuki village… i — i made a promise. i told her — i’d be the greatest… swordsman…”

his voice is fading, and the world is fading with it.

“yeah… you did, huh? and i’m sure you’ll fulfill it, one day…”

zoro sighs, sinking gratefully into the warm, welcoming arms of darkness once more.

“but not today,” you say, reaching out to wipe the sweat from zoro’s brow, your voice so soft that you’re sure no one else can hear, “today… you just need to keep on living. and that’s the greatest promise you could ever make to me.”

smooth sailing.

when he wakes up proper, you aren’t there to greet him. but he doesn’t miss the shape of you as they all pile onto the merry to go looking for nami. he doesn’t miss sanji’s too-wide grin or the unpleasant, burning itch that shoots through his healing wound as he watches the cook ask you about your favorite foods.

he keeps quiet for the most part, but you find him still, and you ask him how he’s doing with a ship’s doctor’s professionalism and efficiency.

“how’re you healing?”

“fine.”

“any tenderness?” you ask, your brows knitting as he tugs open his shirt and lets you peel the bandages away.

“not really,” he lies, because the the tenderness is not skin deep. he feels it in the labyrinthine galleys of his soul and he can’t quite figure out why you, of all people, might make him feel this way.

you run a surgical hand along the stretch of puckered skin and he sucks in a long breath, feeling his cheeks flood with inexplicable heat.

you smell of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth and for the life of him, he can’t remember why it makes his entire body go soft with memory. it reminds him of… something.

something, something, something.

“i hear you, y’know,” you say, and he jerks back to the present, with you absently rolling up your shirtsleeves before tugging at a fresh piece of gauze to wrap him back up.

“don’t know what you mean.” he looks away, willing himself to stay still as you daub a pungent cream against his chest before applying the layers of bandage. he lifts his arm to give you more room even as you shoot him a disbelieving look.

“sword practice, in the middle of the night. i told you that you need to rest — you’ll only prolong your own healing if you keep on pushing yourself like this. rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro narrows his eyes. because he’d heard that from someone, somewhere before.

“your bodies need time to repair,” his sensei used to say as they all gathered after dinner at the doujou for evening meditation, “and a disciplined mind leads to a disciplined body. don’t forget that rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro had never been good at it, but over the years, he’d managed to endure.

“there. all done.”

you lean back to admire your handiwork, unaware of zoro’s eyes as they scan over the shape of you, taking in the length of your hair, the bright of your eyes, the limber, spider-quick thinness of your hands and fingers.

“thanks,” he says, slipping off the kitchen table, pausing as he notices how still you’ve gone, your eyes wide as you blink at the planes of his chest, inches from your nose. a second later, you stumble back, clearing your throat, a sweet dawning pink dusts the high of your cheeks as he cocks his head to watch you, fascinated by your reaction.

he almost grins, letting his stomach flex as he takes his time in doing up the buttons of his shirt, before grabbing his swords and slipping from the room, leaving you to clean up your medical supplies, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

zoro wonders, just briefly, how it might feel to catch your lips between his own teeth instead.

ink, skin, and bullets.

it’s you who bandages nami’s self-inflicted wounds, you who spends four meticulous hours tattooing over the sawfish curl with a pinwheel spiral that curves into a tangerine’s plumpness. you, who soothes eucalyptus balm over nami’s arm before wrapping it up in a fresh roll of gauze, waving away her hiccupped thanks.

and it’s you, who gets a shotgun pressed into your palms by a stony-faced nojiko as you all prepare to march on arlong park.

“if i can’t go with you… then at least, i can give you the tools,” nojiko says as she wraps your fingers around the butt of the gun.

zoro narrows his eyes as he watches the way your fingers shake as you weigh the shotgun in your palms.

“i don’t like it,” he says.

“yeah, you shouldn’t come with us — we’ll need you to patch us up after,” sanji agrees with a wink, much to zoro’s displeasure.

but you shake your head, a steely light in your eyes as you clutch the shotgun to your chest, “no, i — i want to come. i mean — like luffy said… it’s our fight, after all.”

arlong park.

the flurry of battle is as it always has been. you use the shotgun more as a blunt instrument than as a projectile carrier, but it seems to work just as well. you’re small, and quick, and your knowledge of anatomy (yes, even fishman anatomy) allows you to maneuver the head of the shotgun into the softest, most venerable places on a fishman’s body as you all fight your way through arlong park.

but zoro is never far off, keeping close to you as he fends off the worst of the snarling fishmen, his sword flashing like fish scales in the midday sun.

there comes a moment when he slices an oncoming fishman right through the jugular that you let out a long breath, wincing as the fishman’s body hits the ground with a dull thud, and zoro sighs, turning towards you. but a second later, he freezes as you grab the hilt of his sword and shove it backwards.

he feels it resting against thick, bullet-proof flesh and he hears the loud panting of something next to his ear as he sees in the reflection of your eyes — a fishman standing behind him, frozen against the tip of his blade, the hilt clutched in your shaking, shivering hands.

“d-don’t — i’ll kill you —” you say, your voice a forceful, fractured thing.

zoro searches your eyes before clasping his hands over yours and slowly tugging the sword from your gasp.

“hey…” he says, deliberately drawing your gaze away from the fishman before he jerks his sword back and feels, with a satisfying shink, the weight of the blade sinking into unforgiving flesh. he feels your fingers trembling beneath his as he pulls the sword away, and the fishman behind him sinks to his knees before falling sideways with the dull thunk of a no longer animate body.

you try to tug away, but zoro holds you steady, running his thumb in soothing circles along the backs of your hands.

“s-sorry — i — i couldn’t —”

zoro shakes his head, pulling you up by your elbow.

“it’s okay — don’t apologize.” he whips his swords around and catches another fishman in the stomach, dropping him with a flicker of silver and a splash of red.

“you never have to apologize…” he says, as he reaches for your hands and curls them in the warmth of his own, callused palms.

finding neverland.

you kiss for the first time after a brutal battle. after the deck has been washed of blood and the railings have been hung with the remnants of the tattered sails.

repairs are much needed, but zoro had saved you yet again. you pull him to you in the darkness of the midnight deck, the crow’s nest empty because, well, he’s supposed to be up there, keeping watch. but you’d caught him instead, curling your fingers into the soft linen of his shirt, your mouth seeking out his in the relative dark.

“mnph —”

he grunts as his hands find purchase against your shoulders, pressing you back and back and back, till you’re pushed flush against the thick totem of the main mast, and your panting breaths are all he can taste against his desperate lips.

“s-sorry…” you let out a helpless laugh as he pushes forward, his teeth clacking against yours.

“quit that,” he says, his voice nothing more than a panting breath on the open sea air.

“hm?” you blink, lashes fluttering in the moonless night, your lips kiss-swollen and delectable even as zoro forces himself to pull back, studying you with an accusatory eye.

“you’re always saying sorry,” he says as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. above you, the main sail whoomps, catching an evening wind.

“i’m not… i don’t…” you look away, embarrassed to be caught. zoro reaches down to grab your chin, forcing your head back towards him.

“yeah, you do,” he says, his voice gentle, even as he cups your cheek.

“you don’t ever, ever, have to apologize for just... being you. got it?” and there’s a burning ember in the spark of his voice as he twists your face up towards him, his lips hot and hungry as he brands you with this promise, and you’re powerless to do else but accept it.

you find your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, his breath cascading over your lips even as you press in close, close, closer. a helpless whine twists its way up the back of your throat as zoro hoists you up, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

“z-zoro… please,” there’s something broken in the tenor of your voice that breaks him more completely than he has the words to describe, so he settles for holding you tighter over his hips and carrying you to his room. it takes a bit of finagling to get you comfortably situated in his hanging bed, but once he does, he can’t help the soft sigh that escapes him as he looks over the length of your body.

from your pink-flushed cheeks to the loose, crumpled material of your button up shirt, all the way down to the hem of your skirt as it brushes up along the skin of your thighs. he leans own to press an indulgent kiss into the dip of your collarbone.

“'please' though… i like a little bit more,” he says, reaching down to pop the top button of your shirt, to revel in the way you hiccup as he teases a line down your chest, his lips following his fingers as he undoes your buttons one by one.

“i — ah —” your fingers curl into the soft moss of his hair and he groans, long and lush into the creamy expanse of skin above the waist of your miniskirt.

“again…” zoro says, whispering the word against you, tugging on the elastic of your skirt, pulling them down the length of your legs.

“z-zoro, please!”

your head tips back as you feel his tongue flick over the hot button of your clit, his fingers digging into your hips, the pads of his forefingers tracing gentle circles around your hip bones as he holds you to his mouth and moans.

there’s a fumbling of fingers and a clashing of teeth as he wrenches himself up from between your legs to mouth at your lips. you taste yourself on his tongue and shiver at the indecency. still, the coals of desire burn in the pit of your stomach as his fingers press into your spit-slicked folds and you feel your whole body arch up in response.

he has always been quiet, but none more so than when he’s working three digits into your fluttering core, his eyes dark and fixed as they watch his own fingers pull out of you and push back in, slick and shiny with the evidence of your arousal.

“fuck…” he whispers the word like a prayer, slipping passed his lips like some holy thing. you can hear the near reverence in his voice as he slowly removes his hand and presses them to his lips for a taste. the lewdness of it makes the hot coil in the pit of your stomach twist all the tighter. and this time, when he drags himself up the length of your body to kiss you, you whine against his mouth, tasting your own tang on the heat of his tongue.

“ngh — fuck —!” you echo, as he flips onto his back and tugs you over his hips in one, fluid moment, his palms helping you grind your sodden folds over the length of his cock, the friction all-consuming and dizzying. a thin string of arousal connecting the tip of his cock to the seam of your cunt and zoro is helpless to do much else but moan thickly at the sight.

“shit.”

you whimper softly as he teases at your entrance, your palms splayed against his chest for support, your thighs shaking on either side of his hips as he eases you down inch by slow, excruciating inch, ontohis thick, throbbing cock. you toss your head back as he pushes into you, the fit of him fiery-tight and stretching you in ways you’d never thought was possible.

you feel him pulsing against your walls, and you wish briefly that you could’ve tasted him as he’d tasted you, before he sheathed himself inside you. how would he taste, you wondered, and you feel your mouth water at the thought of his heavy, salty weight on your tongue.

“n-ngh!” your voice cracks as he rocks his hips experimentally against yours, the drag of him inside you driving you to near incoherence.

“good girl,” he whispers, the words falling from him like second nature. you keen beneath his praise, bracing yourself as he plants his feet on the bed and jack hammers up into you, his stomach tensing in deep breaths of tight, sinewy muscle, his arms flexing as he helps you rock down above him.

“pretty… fucking… girl…” he intersperses his heavy groans of pleasure with soft exclamations, fucking you now to the light, rhythmic rocking of the ship, even though there’s nothing light about the way his cock bullies it’s way into your cunt again and again, forcing you to clamp down around him on each and every thrust.

there’s nothing gentle about the way he digs his nails into the flushed skin of your hips, how he leans up to latch his greedy mouth onto one of your pert nipples, moaning as he savors in the way you arch against him, pushing your chest more fully into his mouth.

“r-right — right there —”

“yeah?” he asks, half-smirking as he looks up at you, his warm gaze betraying the hard, teasing edge behind his voice, “where do you want me?”

you keen, whining as you drag your hands down your own body to press against your stomach, grabbing his hand to push it against you as well, his palm hot and flat as it lays along your tummy.

“r-right here —”

“fuck — that’s right —” he jerks up into you, burying his face in your chest with a clipped moan as he quickens his pace, his one hand pressing against your stomach as you feel him pushing up farther into you than you’d ever imagined possible.

the pleasure is intense, an other-worldly feeling as he finally pushes you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, your arms winding around his torso, to act as both tether and tide as he holds you to him, grounding you to this feeling while simultaneously casting you against the rough edges of this most selfless and selfish pleasure.

“h-holy… fuck me…” you breathe out, clutching at zoro’s back, digging ruddy red grooves into his shoulder blades as he rolls over to fucks down into you, relentless in his chase of his own climax, groaning deep and throaty as he finally spills into you.

you hiss as you feel the heat of him pooling inside. and it’s not till a few minutes later that he picks his head up from where his face had been buried in your neck to shoot you a wide, lopsided grin.

“yeah, pretty sure that’s what i just did,” he says, rolling onto his side and letting out a deep, soul-steadying breath.

you roll your eyes before turning to look at him, only to find him watching you with a gentle, anchoring softness. and like this, it’s hard to see him as the battle-hardened warrior. like this, it’s hard to imagine that he’d ever made such a promise as to become the greatest swordsman in the whole, entire world.

like this, he just looks like a lovestruck boy, forced to grow up much too soon, searching for any remnants of pleasure he might have left to hold on to.

an irony of hands.

it’s never easy, the night after enemy raids, the deck pooling with bodies and blood, the sea the color of a scabbing wound, flotsam and jetsam like bloated body parts floating on the dark, inky waves.

you’re helping usopp push some of the dead bodies overboard, but then you find one man with three deep gashes on his torso and blood bubbling on his lips.

“… gonna… gonna report — never… escape…”

you nearly yell as you see the tiny den den mushi in his hands, his fingers quivering as he tries to dial the emergency line. you smack it from his hand and press your tiny, surgeon’s scalpel to his throat. it’s sweet, polished silver gleams wicked beneath the moonless night.

“don’t you fucking dare,” you say, even though your voice shakes, and there are perhaps a million other ways of taking care of him more easily. but you know that if you throw him overboard now, he’d bob, half-drowning and helpless, for a few hours, or maybe even days before he’d finally succumb to the terrible, patient drag of the ocean (and most likely, dehydration).

“no,” a voice says, steady and firm, as a long, rough-fingered hands enter your vision and carefully tug your hands way from the man’s throat.

you look up to find zoro, his hand still clutched around yours, an unspoken sweetness flickering behind his eyes.

“i — if we toss him over — he'll just —” you swallow thickly, tearing your gaze away from zoro’s face as his expression shifts into something of the unreadable and soft. you hate to let him see you like this, so hesitant, so incompetent.

“let me do it,” zoro says, giving your hands a light shove before, with one swift arc of his blade, he severs the man’s carotid, leaving him slumped and bleeding on the blood-stained deck.

“oh… oh god…” you press your shaking fingers to your lips, the silver scalpel falling with a loud clatter.

“c’mere,” zoro says, tugging you up and leading you down to the hallway below decks. he slows as the pair of you enter the darkest part of the hallway, and he turns to hold you at arms length, his fingers tight on your arms as you feel his eyes scanning you over, and over, and over.

“you’re not hurt?” he asks, voice quiet and clipped.

“no,” you shake your head.

“not even a little?”

you shake your head again, pursing your lips this time to keep the sob from pouring through.

still, he sees it, and he pulls you to him, cradling your head in his large, warm palm, the other arm wrapping around your middle.

“stupid girl,” he murmurs, light, into your cheek even as you let out a bitten off sob against his chest.

you hiccup, curling your fingers into the material of his shirt, "i — i couldn’t do it,” you say, squeezing your eyes as he holds you to him and lets you cry.

“i — i couldn’t kill him.”

zoro sighs, pulling back to smooth a hand over your hair, bringing it down to cup your now tear-stained cheek.

“yeah, i know. but that’s not what your hands are made for,” he says, letting his own hands trail down and down and down, till he’s got both of your palms cupped in his like a wishbone.

“don’t you get it?” he asks, staring down at your palms, upturned against his, “these hands were never made for taking lives…” he looks up, his eyes too bright in this borrowed darkness. and then, he smiles.

“they were made for saving lives instead.”

confessions, part i.

you stare at him for a full ten seconds before letting your body fall laxed into a soft, bubbling fit of champagne-colored laughter.

“i love you,” you say, the words tumbling from you, more truth than any story or poem or legend or myth either of you have ever heard.

“i love you, zoro,” you say again, tasting the words on your tongue like fireworks, like pop-rock candies, like the first, stinging breath of autumn after the hazy veil of summer has finally lifted. and slowly, in the clarity and truth of your declaration, you think you can see his lips as they lift up in an open-heart smile, as he too tastes the words you’ve just so recently mustered the courage to say.

confessions, part ii.

zoro stares back, and or a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. then, for too long. and you think you’d made a mistake, telling him how you feel. but then, he smiles — a true smile, a smile that lights up his face and erases all the grooves and lines that should’ve been worn there by the weathers and weights of hardship.

and still, listening to your words, he smiles — a smile that makes him nothing short of incandescent.

he nods, squeezing your hands in his.

“i love you too.”

false start (redux).

every story as a beginning, a middle, and an end. though not necessarily in that order. and, looking back, roronoa zoro knows that if he had to pick, his story probably begins here — at the ripe age of eight, in a doujou nestled next to a forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth.

it probably starts with an endless parade of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

its true — it could be said that his story starts with kuina, the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, who was better at swordcraft than zoro thought he ever might be. and to some, this is a good enough kind of beginning to latch on to.

but no, zoro knows, because he knows himself now, and he knows that stories, just like swordsmanship, is an art that requires a certain amount of tempering. a certain degree of trimming and tailoring. a certain kind of articulation.

so he’s certain that it starts here, when he’d seen you for the very first time. and it’s true, you’d seemed like nothing special then, just another quiet little girl who’d been forced into the doujou by some faceless set of rigid, expectant parents, and you’d worked just as hard as you could have, given your natural inclination for anything but sword play.

he’d known that you’d never be great shakes at swordsmanship, but still, he’d found himself drawn by and to you, as a magnet would a compass rose, as one might find their destiny, or their soulmate. he had found his eyes tracking you whenever you weren’t looking, found himself watching as you’d patter around after sparring practice to ask everyone how they were feeling, to dig your tiny fingers (strong and dexterous as they already were) into a knot here, an aching muscle there, a pinched nerve that might’ve been really bad if not found here, and left to fester in that vast, horrible elsewhere.

but he’d been a shy, quiet, kind of boy, absorbed by his sport. and kuina’s skill was more than enough for one growing, teenage boy to contend with without worrying about the strange attraction he had towards perhaps the least “swordsy” person in the entire class. and so, he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to you, never questioned when you’d kept away from his side of the classroom after sparring practice, when all the other girls would flutter around him like a flock of unwelcome pigeons, asking if he wanted to be their stretching partner.

then, the morning came when shimotsuki-sensei had informed him in not so many words that kuina was gone. and the funeral had slipped by in a hazy blur of bodies and incense, and the next thing he knew, he was holding the wadou ichimonji, and sensei was saying something about keeping kuina’s dream alive.

he’d seen you flit from the funeral march of black-clad children, shadow-dark and raven-quick, right off into the thicket of trees. and he’d followed you, because he couldn’t think of a place he’d like to be less than back in that suffocating practice room with all his fellow classmates, half of them casting him curious looks, the other half avoiding his gaze like the literal plague.

he’d followed you to the clearing, and watched as you’d sprinted, screaming around the field of tiny, white-petaled flowers until you slumped down, panting with your face upturned to a sea-breeze sky. he caught himself before he could burst out laughing (or crying, he wasn’t quite sure which he wanted to do more at that moment), and he’d forced himself to sit still behind the trunk of a large tree and watch as you pushed yourself up. the light of the dying sun washed your figure in a great, dream-like ream of orange and gold.

then, just as it seemed like you were going to head back, he spotted you spot the injured fawn, curled into the gnarled roots of a sapling cypress tree. and he’d watched still as you slowly approached the creature with a handful of peanuts before distracting it and crack — he’d heard it clear across the clearing — the sound of a bone being set back into place.

the fawn had screeched and bolted to it’s feet.

but you were just as fearless as you always were, holding out your palm with more peanuts, and zoro had watched, with a mounting fascination coiling in the base of his stomach, as the fawn dug its nose into the palm of your hand.

he’d seen the brilliance behind your eyes, heard the bell-toll sound of your soft, everlasting laughter.

and he vowed, then and there, to become the greatest swordsman he could be, the greatest swordsman in the world, if only to protect you from those who might hurt you. from those who might threaten to take away the light — the life — that thrummed, ever present, in the palms of your very own hands.

a/n: i know, i know, there was an authors note before. but i feel like i can explain this better now that you've read the fic -- to me, the story of "butterfly lovers" is and always has been as story of someone pretending to be someone they're not, right? so in that sense, you/reader was just trying to fit into a mold that wasn't quite made for her before discovering her true calling as a doctor. and the fluff and romance was that, unbeknownst to her, zoro's known that this entire fucking time. u__u anyways. i hope you enjoyed. bless up and simp zoro, fam.

opla!zoro requests are open!

#opla zoro #opla roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x you #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro smut #one piece live action #one piece netflix #opla #x reader #opla fanfic #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #opla zoro x reader #one piece #one piece smut #opla smut #floofy floof floof #ya nasties #perchance to dream #scheduled post

[walkswithmyfather]

‭‭2 Timothy 3:14-17 (NIV)‬‬. “But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have become convinced of, because you know those from whom you learned it, and how from infancy you have known the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.”

‭‭Hebrews 4:12 (ESV)‬‬. “For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”

“The Question of Inerrancy” by In Touch Ministries:

“Do you believe that all of the Bible is true?”

“Have you ever wondered about the supposed inconsistencies critics point out in the Bible? Such things might leave you questioning how to tell what’s truly God’s Word and what isn’t. The answer is simple: God is the final authority. The Sovereign of the universe had no trouble keeping His Word pure. As 2 Timothy 3:16 says, “All Scripture is inspired by God and beneficial.”

Reading the Bible as a whole document reveals that each part is consistent with every other. God allowed for writers’ differences in viewpoint and background, which at times can give the appearance of discrepancy. But further study always reveals how the various parts fit together. Consider, for example, the gospels’ different angles on a story. Writing to Jewish people, Matthew emphasizes history and the fulfillment of messianic prophecy. John tells a love story about a Savior willing to die for the world. While both authors traveled in Jesus’ company, their perspectives differed. Yet in the fundamentals, they and the other two writers are consistent.

It is critical for believers to trust in the inerrancy of the Scriptures. A flawed book could only be the product of man’s hand, but the Bible is the authoritative Word of God. His Spirit did the talking, no matter whose hand wrote the message.”

#‭‭2 timothy 3:14-17 #hebrews 4:12 #god loves you #bible verses #bible truths #bible scriptures #bible quotes #bible study #studying the bible #the word of god #christian devotionals #daily devotions #bible #christian blog #god #belief in god #faith in god #jesus #belief in jesus #faith in jesus #christian prayer #christian life #christian living #christian faith #christian inspiration #christian encouragement #christian motivation #christianity #christian quotes #in touch ministries

[lady06reaper]

Viking x Sweetheart reader. Who on the outside is a big sweetheart who wouldn't hurt a fly. Said Viking got her from a village.

Only when alone with her husband does she cuss like a sailor and scream when she wants to. Just a overall temper (Viking finds it hot tho-)

She also acts like this around her kids (if she has any) and her kids are absolutely flabbergasted to see how their mom acts outside of home. Often getting secretly slapped upside the head when they say something smart only to realize no one saw it.

- Marshmellow (bit of a crackfic lol)

ya know, this the OPPOSITE of me, I'll cuss anytime, it's only when I'm alone I'm a total "sweetheart"

NSFW lines are slashed, the rest is SFW besides the cussing

HOW THE RAGNARSONS REACT TO YOU HAVING THE MOUTH OF A SAILOR

Bjorn wouldn't know it was coming, you were the sweet and doting wife, helping neighbors and playing with the local children

Your were a delicate flower in his eyes, but he knew you could hold your own when need be

Until you came home and slammed your dagger into the table where he was eating

"That mother fucking no tits asshole of a cunt! Who the hell does she think she is?! Talking about my damn husband in that fucking manner!"

his hand stopped mid path to his opened mouth, his eyebrows rose away from his widened eyes

did he hear that correctly? or was the mead taking effect already?

he stayed like that for a few moments until you snapped at him to say something

"Your mouth, where'd you learn to talk like that?"

little to Bjorns knowledge, you had always had that vocabulary, it just only came out when you were pissed

not to mention you prefer to keep the innocent facade up in public, but that doesn't you can't flip the switch if you get pushed more than what you did that day

More occurrences like this happened, though he was prepared to just let you go and cool off

that doesn't mean he didn't help you let out your frustrations with sex either

Now he knew that this delicate flower of his was poisonous

Ubbe had a feeling that that mouth of yours was dirty, he just never witnessed it

unless you were going down on him

the feeling stayed dormant for the longest time, until he came home to the long house turned upside down

furniture was strewn across from its original places, some were broken too

You were sitting on the throne throwing daggers at a table you had propped up on its side, cussing every time the enlarged knives left your hands

"That *thud* little dicked *thud* no balls *thud* bastard child *thud* of a fucking merchant! *thud*"

he now knew his feeling was right, as they normally were

he was grateful you ran out of daggers when he reached you, or otherwise he feared one would end up in him

he didn't need no explanation, he knew that the merchant you were lewdly referring to must've tried something on you to woo you away from him, it wasn't the first time, but you were so sweet in public that you didn't want to ruin your public look by cussing the man out in public

no words were spoken as he picked you up bridal style and carried you over to the bathtub where you and Ubbe would share a relaxing soak

Ivar knew from the start that you had a mouth, there was no way you were as innocent as you portrayed

there was always two sides to sword, he just hasn't seen your sharper, more deadlier side

until he about took your blade to his throat when he approached you in the woods while you were hacking a tree with your sword

"What's the matter my dove?" Ivar cocked his head to the side.

"That god damn fish fucking tree humping shit eating whore of woman your brother keeps closely by his side! Bitch tried to say my form was wrong during training!"

and there was your sharper edge

Ivar never understood why you kept this side hidden, especially from him

he figured it was a threat to everyone to have your meaner side out in public, and keep your softer side for him only

but Ivar wasn't you, you preferred to keep this side a secret incase you truly needed it

he thought it was hot watching those profanities drip from your mouth

like his cum did last night when you two were fucking

but, I also know that if he encouraged the sailor talk he would also receive it too, which would most likely turn into a battle of who can come up with the worst names

he liked the fiery side of you and wished you would show it more often

the villagers did not as they heard every cuss word that came out of your mouth, including the whore

#vikings #vikings x reader #bjorn ironside x reader #bjorn ironside #ubbe x reader #ubbe ragnarsson #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless

[bucknastysbabe]

You chose the highborn route, be prepared for a night with your sweet sworn sword.

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Criston is unhinged, Targ!Princess reader is a little manipulative, soft domme, pet names, slight Degredation, fuck the thoughts outta your head, sub space for Criston, edging, overstimulation, hand jobs, praise kink

Lowborn route

Dividers by: @plutism

Criston had slunk into your chambers that night, eyes dark, posture defeated. You, the object of his desire and forbidden lover opened your arms as always. He knelt by your bedside, letting your smaller hand caress a stubbled cheek, the other palm smoothing errant curls.

“What’s wrong sweetheart, dear babe, coming to me like a kicked pup.”

His voice quavered when he replied, “Don’t want to think. I think too much, it’s driving me mad.”

“Think about what?,” you asked, Criston’s agonized expression making your chest clench. He was of the emotional sort— prone to bouts of anger or deep self-hatred, despondency.

“You, my Princess, it’s always you.”

Figured, he was madly in love lust obsession with you. You’d have to fuck the thoughts out of his pretty head. It would clear the knight up until the next time he got lost in the forever fog of honor, duty, love, oaths, guilt and shame.

“You can hold it,” you smiled down at the poor thing.

Criston was a sloppy mess. Long dark hair sweaty, lips swollen and wet, eyes wide with hot tears. Even his olive skin burned a shade of mauve. Pre-cum soaked his trembling belly, slick oil all over his cock and balls. To you— he was a masterpiece.

Your sweet little Kingsguard who cried and followed you like a puppy. Sick with love. Would do just anything for you. Like now. You’d been keeping the man on the edge from having two orgasms now. His thighs shook from underneath, white teeth biting down on a tender lip as he held off the release.

He whined long, eyes pouring fresh tears. Criston’s voice cracked as he babbled, “M’so close- closeclose oh gods princess- please stop mmh I’m going to pop!” Your hand slowed to a stop, cooing, “Good boy, letting me know, such an obedient puppy.”

He sniffled, “Th-thank you princess.”

You watched his breathing slow down before beginning to jerk him again. You used one hand to pull down the excess skin on his shaft, the other circling his purpling cockhead with a flat palm. The brunette began to sob, almost sounding like a pained laugh. He tried to shy away, writhing, hands firmly tied behind to prevent that from happening.

“Hn- oh- hnghhh,” was his eloquent little reply.

You soaked up his pleas, pussy throbbing at how desperate he got. Leaning closer and pressing your tits against muscled chest you playfully asked, “You gonna pop pup? You hurting? Oh poor Ser Criston, can’t even control himself. I bet you rut your pillow every night, whining for me like the puppy you are.”

He nodded tearily, thick brows furrowed. You could tell the knight he was a stupid aurochs and he would agree. But he wasn’t. Criston was sharper and stronger than he let on. Just liked being used like a flea bottom whore to abate his wild delusions.

Pressing your lips to his cheek you taunted further, “The gallant Ser Criston, unhorsed Daemon, rendered Strong to Brokenbones, the only knight to see live combat here. Yet my hand has you pinned.”

He groaned in frustration, wrists pulling at the bound rope. Criston gritted out, “I- I’m holding it, I’m…oh, it’s all for you!” Patting a wet cheek you sighed, “I know, so strong and valiant. Couldn’t ask for a better shield, mine so true and chivalrous.”

This situation was not chivalrous, but Criston’s desire to please and be polite was. He whimpered softly, lips puckered into a pout. You kissed the swollen flesh, hand still easing him along. He opened his mouth for you, silently begging for a kiss.

Relieving your flat palm from his over-sensitive prick, Criston’s body settled some. You awarded his pretty mouth with a searing open-mouthed lip lock. The brunette arched into your tits, mouthing at you eagerly, letting your royal tongue force his into submission. You loved the shiver forced down his spine when you suckled on a sweet tongue.

Criston began to whimper again, belly tightening, cock leaking so so so much pre. You sped your hand up, pulling away to his agonized noise. Nuzzling at his cheek you purred, “You’re just perfect baby. Not having any more nasty thoughts? Just how full your poor balls are hm? How your princess always takes care of her sweetie?”

“Gooooooods yes,” he moaned.

He was drooling now, unable to stop cute hitching of breath, having achieved his perfect little empty headspace. You cooed further, “Pretty puppy, good puppy, been so obedient. Do you want to come for me?”

He babbled, “Whatever you w-want, mmm, close close, princess please, my angel!”

Swiping a hand across his swollen cockhead you ordered the man to let go. By the gods he did, so wonderfully. Sobbing and mouthing at your neck, thighs jumping in tune with his cock twitching and spitting pearly essence all over his tight belly. He cried your name, some swear words, mainly indecipherable crying gibberish. Tongue and head too thick with heady pleasure.

You eased him through the intense sensation, sliding your smaller palms across his heaving sides. “That’s it Criston, good, good, let it out.” He’d stopped releasing but needed a good little cry into your neck. You scratched at the sweaty hair on his nape, murmuring sappy words.

After taking a deep inhale, Criston childishly blinked and stared at you, waiting for something. You smiled softly and purred, “Relax Ser Cole, I’ve got my puppy taken care of. Just lie down, let me get these ropes off.” He slurred out an ‘m’kay’, tired from the ordeal. You smiled down at his relaxed face, glad to keep your knight complacent and sweet for a bit longer. He smiled softly, utterly drained with bone-deep pleasure.

#ser criston cole smut #ser criston cole imagine #criston x reader #ser criston cole x reader #targtower reader #subby crispy #hotd smut

[c0rrupt4]

𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘆 •︎ Il Dottore x Male Reader

This is the prologue of the book on Wattpad, you can read it here

"Why Shouldn't I get rid of you and your incompetent team!? Let me hear your reasons! I'm sure they're just as laughable as your team's performance!"

The deep red hue of blood was all over the man's lab and face, pouring out even more from the victim it came from. The man in question... Il Dottore, the second of the Fatui harbingers, is a madman who dislikes failure. A man with great accomplishments, but has less patience than a grain of salt.

"Lord- Lord Dottore!" The female Fatui captain said in between gasps, attempting to regain her breath. It doesn't help that Dottore's greatsword was impaled through her chest.

"After extensive research, our team found a gateway to another-" The Fatui captain's words were cut off as she coughed up blood.

"To another world!"

Dottore was stunned.. he was quiet for a few moments before he turned to the papers he laid on his desk. The ones he was planning to rip up in her face as he mocked before finally murdering her...

"So.. these papers? Is it the research your team did while you forsaken my own research? I don't believe someone as insignificant as you could do such a thing."

"It's- It's true my Lord! If you would just be gracious enough to give me another chance! I can prove it to you! Under Sumeru there-"

Dottore quickly cut off the Fatui captain, "I do not wish to go back Sumeru. Such foolish people are there, even if I discover an entryway to another planet. They would entirely reject it just because it's my project. Besides, I do not wish to be rejected once more."

"M-my Lord... Lord Dottore if I must insist, will you please, please hear me out and give me another chance to finish this research!"

"Fine continue you have 2 minutes to change my mind," Dottore said as he quickly set a timer and grabbed the project notes to view.

"One moment my, Lord."

The Fatui captain stood up straight and stopped leaning against the counter. She braced herself. Then proceeded to pull Dottore's claymore out of her chest in a swift motion. The movement caused her to vomit up blood and for blood to pour out of her chest too, but after a few moments she stopped bleeding out. Only for the wound to start regenerating and heal. Within a moment's notice, the wound was gone. The only evidence of the wound through her chest was her, bloodied uniform, the bloodied Claymore she was holding, and the man who inflicted the wound.

"As incompetent of a Fatui agent you are, you are one of my many perfect test subjects. This is the only reason that I'm allowing you the chance to reason with me, the reason why you are still alive and not a corpse like the rest of your team. This is the most valuable thing about you. Which goes a long way seeing as you disrespected and blatantly ignored the orders of the brilliant man that gave you such wonderful abilities."

"Yes, and I am forever grateful and indebted to you, Lord Dottore. My sincerest apologies. Permission to begin my reasoning?" The Fatui Captain asked with a bow.

All Dottore did was nod and start the timer.

"Lord Dottore, deep in Sumeru, In the desert, there are ruins of a temple, and within the temple, there are ancient artifacts from another world! And- And a portal to it too! we've almost reopened it, but the last part of the message we haven't finished decoding yet, we do know after we reopen this temple someone will reward us for it on the other side. We believe it's some form of a priest or something! Lord Dottore I beg of you for another chance. I won't fail-"

The timer went off and the room quickly fell silent. The Fatui captain quickly began trembling, but she didn't dare to move or make a sound. If looks could kill it would, Dottore's burning gaze felt sharper than any two-edged sword would feel piercing her skin. The poor, poor Fauti captain was shaken to her core! She could feel her mouth dying up and her heart racing! Her ears were ringing as she could hear the clock on the wall ticking... It was madness! The Fatui captain felt weak in her knees and could feel herself pass out at any moment! But after what felt like an eternity of intense burning silence, Dottore finally cleared the silence for a moment as he cleared his throat, picked up the notes, and started to look through them.

"I'll allow it." Dottore said breaking the silence.

"In fact, I have grown interested in this project, I will be looking into this project. I will be assigning you a team that is far better suited for this project. Grab whatever supplies you require just make note that you have taken in. I'll request permission from the Tsaritsa and we shall leave for Sumeru immediately once my leave has been approved."

"Madame Tsaritsa, thank you so much for approving my leave. I didn't think you'd accept it immediately."

"Yes, I'm oddly interested in this new planet." The Tsaritsa paused to take a sip of her tea. "Could it be maybe this planet is where the traveler came from?"

"Indeed. My faithful previous test subject has even said that someone was waiting on the other side with a reward if we restore the other side of the portal."

"I see, then do not tally here any longer, Go to Sumeru quickly. I presume you'll need funds so I'll arrange it with Pantalone that Tartaglia will bring it to you."

"Hm, I do believe Pantalone has cut down the amount I'm allowed to spend after my previous trip to Sumeru, as he claims that I squandered the funds."

"I shall handle it Zandik, just make sure to arrive swiftly to Sumeru."

"Yes- but Madame Tsaritsa, in all due respect, you know how I feel about that name.."

"Ah, my sincerest apologies, Dottore."

"No, harm done Madame Tsaritsa, I shall be taking my leave now."

"Goodbye, Dottore, I wish you safe travels and fruitful work."

"Thank you, Madame Tsaritsa.." Dottore said before standing up and taking his leave.

"What this is magnificent..."

【︎ᴜᴘ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ...】︎

プリースト❃

║▌│█║▌│ █║▌│█│║▌║║▌│█║▌│ █║▌│█│║▌║║▌│█║▌│ █║▌│█│║▌║║▌│█║▌│ █

#dottore x male reader #fantasy #magic #wattpad #dottor #dottore #fatui dottore #dottore x reader #dottore x y/n #dottore x you #fatui harbingers #genshin impact fatui #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x male reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #fatui x reader

[hopethroughscriptureministries]

Discovering the Power of God's Word:

A Journey Through Scripture

Introduction: Embark on a captivating journey through the timeless wisdom and power of God's Word as we delve into the pages of Scripture. Join us as we uncover the transformative truths, hidden treasures, and life-changing promises waiting to be revealed in the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture Passage: Psalm 119:105 (KJV) Cross References: 2 Timothy 3:16-17, Hebrews 4:12, James 1:22-25

Commentary: In Psalm 119:105, the psalmist declares, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." The Word of God serves as a guiding light, illuminating our way and directing our steps in the midst of darkness and uncertainty.

2 Timothy 3:16-17 affirms the divine inspiration and authority of Scripture, declaring that all Scripture is given by inspiration of God and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works.

Hebrews 4:12 describes the Word of God as living and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. It penetrates deep into the innermost recesses of our being, exposing truth and bringing transformation.

James 1:22-25 admonishes believers not only to be hearers of the Word but also doers, for blessed are those who hear the Word and obey it. The Word of God is likened to a mirror, reflecting our true spiritual condition and revealing areas in need of alignment with God's will.

John 15:1-17 - Jesus' teaching on abiding in Him as the vine and bearing fruit.

Colossians 3:12-17 - Paul's exhortation to clothe ourselves with virtues such as kindness, humility, and forgiveness.

Matthew 7:16-20 - Jesus' teaching on recognizing false prophets by their fruits.

Ephesians 5:9 - Paul describes the fruit of the Spirit as being in all goodness, righteousness, and truth.

Matthew 12:33 - Jesus speaks about how a tree is known by its fruit.

James 3:17-18 - James describes the wisdom from above as being pure, peaceable, gentle, and full of good fruits.

Proverbs 11:30 - "The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life; and he that winneth souls is wise."

Psalm 1:3 - "And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper."

Galatians 5:16-26 - The contrast between the works of the flesh and the fruit of the Spirit.

Luke 6:43-45 - Jesus' teaching on how a good tree brings forth good fruit, and an evil tree brings forth evil fruit.

These cross-references provide additional insights and perspectives on the fruit of the Spirit, encouraging further study and reflection on this vital aspect of the Christian life.

Questions:

How does the Word of God guide and illuminate your path in life?

In what ways do you actively engage with Scripture to experience its transformative power?

How can you apply the truths and principles found in God's Word to your everyday life and decision-making?

What steps can you take to deepen your understanding and appreciation of the King James Version of the Bible?

Prayer: Heavenly Father, we thank you for the gift of your Word, which is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path. Open our hearts and minds to receive the truths and promises contained within its pages, and empower us to live according to your will. May your Word dwell richly in us, guiding, transforming, and renewing us day by day. Amen.

#faith #christianity #christian faith #bible #jesus christ #faith in jesus #bible scripture #christ #bible verse #christianlife #Scripture #BibleStudy #KJV #TransformativePower #DivineInspiration #Guidance #Truth #Light #Wisdom #daily bible verse #bible study #holy bible #christianty #christian blog #god words #godspromises #god is good #godismyshepherd #godsprovision #godsword

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 14

Status: Work In Progress Version: 1.01 Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC Rating: NC-17 (This chapter R) Genre: Adventure/Romance Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships. Notes: Want to say thank you to @rolansrighthorn for beta-reading for me and providing some helpful suggestions, and of course to  @fistfuloftarenths who is of Sally Menke levels of importance when it comes to editing these chapters~ The characterization would not be as consistent without her help! Table of Contents

Read below the cut or on AO3

New Tricks - Chapter Fourteen

Consciousness, if it could be called that, came to Rugan in short bursts. Every memory retained that same watery feel, the edges bleeding into each other. Rolling in and out like waves on the shore.

He felt aware of Olly at his bedside, though all he saw was the lamp light behind his eyelids. 

‘Chin up, Olly.’ He tried to say but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

Muffled voices, arguing amongst the lads. Bellar grumbling, Sal scolding, Olly pleading. He couldn't make out the words.

The next ebb seemed sharper, clearer. 

“You were just going to leave him here alone like this?” A woman's voice this time, familiar, though he couldn't yet place it.

“...I'll stay with him.” He tried to remember, there was a thread there that tugged at him and he felt he was so close to knowing.

A hand squeezing his own, it was soft and cool to the touch and then just as quickly it was gone. He wanted to reach out for it but the tide was going out again.

It seemed brighter now and there was a cool breeze against his cheek.

“Rugan, do you know what a lucky bastard you are?” 

He didn't feel lucky, he felt like he was being jostled about like a sack of flour. Everything smelled of ox shit.

The memories were mostly dark and silent after that, but there were other sensations. The feel of a metal spoon pressed against his lips, warm broth on his tongue, richer than any he remembered tasting before. A cool cloth pressed to his forehead, slick fingertips smoothing over his chest and throat mingling with the scent of cedarwood and peppermint oils. 

There was a bitter broth the next time, but a gentle voice bade him drink and he relented without any hesitation.

This time when he slipped under there was not that familiar inky blackness but instead a staccato of noise. Was that Brem’s laughter? Bellar?

“It's your hand Rugan.” Tamlyn was seated across from him at a round wooden table. They were a quartet, the other two players were at his sides and yet somehow obscured from his vision. He looked down at his cards, four through nine of hearts.

“Flush of hearts, lucky me.” He laid them down on the table.

“Not so lucky as me. Royal flush of blades.” She laid down her cards and the swords seemed to shine under the lamp light. 

When Rugan looked down at his cards he saw that the hearts were more articulated than before. They seemed to pulse and beat, blood dripping down them.

His eyes darted back and Tamlyn’s blades now each had blood running down from tip to hilt. He looked up and there was a hot red line across her throat from which blood began to seep.

Rugan jumped back from the table, knocking it to the ground. 

The right player turned to him, suddenly clear and illuminated, Izzy.

“You killed her with kindness.” Izzy's voice had a strange timber to it, it was polite but not kind.

“Will I kill you with kindness?” It was Olly on the left, drenched by the rain, lips purple from the cold.

He stumbled back and fell, when he rose to his feet he was in water, a river perhaps? But he could see neither shore in all the blinding fog. It came up to his knees and he was shivering from the cold, his back was slick. 

A small skiff approached and Sal stood at its prow, hand extended.

“I can take you to the other side, do it for say fifty tarenths.”

“The other side?”

“You know, the one we don't come back from.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Sal had already put his pole into the water and began pushing off. “but you'll have to wait a while for the next one, watch out for the sirens.”

“Sirens?” But Sal had already disappeared into that blinding mist.

“He's exaggerating.” It was Izzy at his side, but he hadn't heard her approach.

“How did you get here Iz?”

“I came with the rain.” She pointed up.

He looked but saw nothing but blinding white, when he looked back again she was gone. In fact the entire river was gone, replaced with rolling grasslands, yet it was still too damned bright.

“We can give you a ride to the next town.” It was Zarys astride a horse.

“Cost you an arm and a leg though.” Bellar was grinning wickedly, having pulled up beside her on his own steed. In one hand he did have the bloodied arm of some poor sap, and he wiggled it for emphasis.

“Same old story.” He muttered in response.

“Rugan?”

Izzy again in that green flowing dress. She was smearing something on his forehead, charcoal? Where had she come from? The walls of the tower office felt so claustrophobic, hadn't he remembered this place as being large? 

His own hand wrapped around her wrist in an instant.

“Didn't I tell you before this place was off limits?” He asked, growing frustrated with her constant intrusions.

“Did you?”

“Why are you haunting me, Iz?” He demanded.

+++++

“Why are you haunting me, Iz?” It came out as little more than a whisper, his voice straining from disuse.

“I'm not haunting you, Zhent. You're ill.” Izzy moved from her chair to sit on the bed beside him, reaching out with her free hand to brush back the hair from his temples. She felt such relief at the sound of his voice, even hoarse as it was.

“I’m dreaming.” He murmured.

“You probably were, you’ve been asleep for a few days now.” But he was already slipping back under.

+++++

When next he woke there was sunlight streaming in past the thin white curtains. This seemed less chaotic, more grounded than the memories that came before, yet the place was so unfamiliar to him he wasn’t sure if he truly was awake. 

The room was bright and clean, the ceilings were high and the windows narrow. He tried to sit up and it felt as if his body was weighted down. He groaned, muscles straining, he was able to get himself upright but already felt exhausted from the effort.

He heard the rustling of fabric to his left and looked over the edge of the bed. There on the floor was a small woman in a bedroll.

He watched her stir and look up at him bleary eyed. Her hair was a tangled mess, dark circles hung under her eyes and it looked as if she had slept in her clothes. In short, she was gorgeous.

“Iz.” His voice little more than a hoarse whisper. 

“Hey, you're awake.” Izzy smiled at him, she looked relieved.

“Where–?” His question was cut off by a cluster of coughs that racked his body. Izzy scrambled to his side and smoothed her hand over his back until the fit subsided. She handed him a glass of water from the bedside table and he drank greedily. 

“We’re in Crimmor, the boys said you fell ill on the mountain pass.”

When he was done she took the cup and pressed her hand to his forehead, frowning slightly.

“Your fever’s returning. I’ll brew you some more tea.” She propped up the pillows behind him and helped him to lean back against them. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He wanted to ask her to stay but found he didn't have the strength for it, already his eyelids felt like lead. Rugan rested them for what seemed like only an instant but when he opened them next Izzy had already returned, pressing a hot mug to his lips.

It was bitter and he made a face when she pulled the empty mug away. “Lass, that is not a proper brew.”

He heard her tinkling laughter and smiled as he closed his eyes once more.

+++++

Over the course of the next day Rugan's condition began to improve, and with that came longer bouts of lucidity. 

While his newfound clarity boded well for his health it did not help at all with how he physically felt. 

Now he was aware of every ache the fever provided, his whole body felt sore and misused. The coughs were equally bad. They racked the whole of him when they came on and often were accompanied with the expulsion of sickly green bile. Izzy was always there with a cup of water and handkerchief, a gentle hand on his back. But her pitying looks grated on him, they reminded him of Olly in Daggerford. After the tenth or so time he found himself snapping at her. 

“Gods’ sake woman stop mothering me.”

She had flinched at this, but he had pretended not to see.

And that was another thing. What in the hells was she doing here of all places? Hadn't he worked to banish her twice already. First her memories then her damned letter. Now here she was, in the flesh, still her sweet self. Doting on him as if she had nothing better to do. When she sat next to him he would catch a whiff of her hair. She smelled like soap and hazelnuts and cherries. Rugan found himself alternating between wanting to pull her into a tight embrace or sending her back to whatever hell she came from.

“Where are the lads then? Haven't seen them yet.” He asked between mouthfuls of dinner that night.

“They went on ahead to Athkatla.”

“Happy to leave me for dead were they? Suppose it's only sensible.”

“That's not so, they were going to wait two days then pool their coin to put you up at an inn. I volunteered to look after you instead.”

“Don’t have anything better to do Iz?” He scoffed.

“Not when the ground’s frozen over, no.” She teased.

“Needn’t have bothered.”

“Would you rather some tavern wench ran off with your coin purse?”

“Surprised Bellar didn’t do that himself.”

“He took my ring as collateral so there’s that.”

He had forgotten about the ring and felt a rush of guilt. If Izzy was upset by that, it didn't show.

Izzy looked at her hands pensively. “Olly was really worried about you, you know.”

“Lad's soft heartedness is the whole reason I'm in this mess.” He didn't bother to hide his frustration.

“He meant well.”

“With all due respect, lass, his little crisis of conscience nearly got the both of us killed.”

“Just don't be too hard on him when you see him next, please.”

“I don't need you telling me how to do my job.” Rugan snapped. The way she recoiled at that stung but he held firm, there had been more than enough weakness for one run already.

His point was somewhat undercut by a series of coughs that doubled him over. When he had gotten hold of himself he noticed Izzy fidgeting, trying to restrain herself from the coddling he so detested. At least he had told her that he detested it.

‘Just as bad as Olly she is.’

In an effort to maintain some of his dignity he rose from the bed and poured himself a cup of water from a pitcher set on the nightstand. His eyes met hers over the top of his glass, as if daring her to chide him for getting out of bed. She didn’t take the bait, though she looked at him appraisingly.

“If you’re well enough to stand, then here, hold out your arms, and straighten your shoulders.”

“What for?” He looked at her curiously but obeyed.

Izzy took out a loose bit of string from her pocket and pinned it between his shoulder blades with one hand while pulling it taught to his wrist with the other. She repeated this strange gesture with his back and shoulders before scratching something down in a notebook.

“What was that about Iz?” He asked again.

“Not telling, you'll just give me a hard time about it.” She blew the loose dust off the charcoal before clapping the book shut and tucking it into her pocket.

He snorted. She had been the one fussing over every little thing, but fine he wouldn’t push the matter.

+++++

Another repercussion of his prolonged bouts of consciousness was that he had begun to take better note of his surroundings.

The walls were clean and plastered, with raised wooden side panels topped with smooth chair rails. There were also brass wall sconces and an impressive looking fireplace against the far wall. Next to the fireplace were a pair of plush looking chairs and a small tea table. It wasn’t extravagant and gaudy like the homes of patriars he had seen, but it was more that he could have ever hoped to afford in a lifetime.

The following day he made a mental note to ask Izzy about it when she next appeared and did so. She had come again with a cup of the bitter tea. Sitting down on the bed beside him she held it out.

“Here.”

He accepted it with both hands and drank it down quickly to get it over with. Still his face winced with distaste and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Iz, be honest.”

“Hmm?”

“You are a bleeding noble aren't you?”

“What?” She looked utterly baffled.

“There’s no way you can afford to stay at this inn on just digging up dead people’s trinkets.”

“Oh, gods the house.” She laughed.

House? For some reason that struck him as worse than an expensive inn.

“No this isn't mine Rugan, my friend from school is putting us up.”

“School? You didn’t make out like you’d properly attended.”

“Only for the first year, couldn’t afford to after that.” She looked away sheepishly and busied herself with the hem of her shirt.

“Ah, I'm much the same, only did a couple of years at the temple school before I was put to work. Your writings rather nice though for only the one year, can barely do more than chicken scratch m’self.”

“You got my letter.” She was smiling at him now and he tried to push down the warmth he felt at that.

“Aye, was a kindness for you to bother, my thanks.”

“I didn't learn writing from school though, my dad taught me. You’ve him to thank.”

“Suppose that saved a coin or two.”

“Well I didn't go to temple school at all. We were moving around too much, my parents and I that is. So they just taught me reading and writing and what have you on the road. I just did the one year of university well after they’d died.”

“University?! That’s a sight better than you let on Iz.”

“Oh, they don’t really teach dead languages anywhere else. Not unless you're high up in some clergy or another. Thought it might be nice to have classmates for once too. What about you? What was temple school like?”

“You don't need to humour me Iz, sophisticated lady like yourself.” He huffed.

“I'm not! I didn't have anyone my own age to play with growing up, always thought it must be nice to have peers you see every day.”

“Doubt the lil bastards I used to knock about with would've met your standards.”

“Wish my standards were as high as you seem to think.” She snapped.

They both sat stewing till a rap came at the door.

Izzy let out a sigh of frustration. “That'll be your bath.”

“Don't need a bath.” He wasn't sure he had the strength to climb into a tub.

“Oh didn't realize we'd been housing an ox in here with you, that would explain the smell.”

“Well I certainly don't need your help with it.”

She was getting to her feet now. “Did you think it was Bellar sponging your bits while you were busy being unconscious?!”

His face felt hot with embarrassment but he couldn't back down. “And just how exactly would you manage to get me in the tub, lass?”

“Unlike you, I haven't suddenly developed an aversion to accepting help when needed.” She had stomped over to the door and now threw it open.

A frightened servant stood on the other side, he couldn't have been much older than Olly.

“Gregor if you're still willing to help me with this surly bastard I would very much appreciate it.”

“Yes saer.” Came the timid response and Rugan wished that the fever had just killed him outright.

+++++

Rugan had traded stewing in the bed for stewing in the tub. He sat arms crossed, piping hot water up to his shoulders.

Like the bedroom, the bathing room was luxurious without ostentation. The floor was composed of simple stone tiles, these continued halfway up the wall and were topped with a black stone trim. The floor slightly sloped to the center where a drain was ready to accept any spills. There was a faucet fixture on the wall nearest the tub with runes on either side that allowed for the adjustment of the water temperature. Everything was practical without a hint of excess and that aggravated him all the more. At least he could make fun of the frivolity of patriars.

Izzy was sitting on a stool behind the tub, her fingers slowly working the shampoo into his scalp. This should've been nice, after all when had he last enjoyed a hot bath? This would've been nice if he hadn't felt like some aging invalid that needed a wet behind the ears pup to help him into a damned tub. He had at least been able to scrub himself clean. He could've done the hair himself too, but Izzy had asked so nicely and he did feel some small bit of remorse for how he had treated her. 

Obliquely he watched her reflection in the mirror, gauging her expression, Izzy seemed to be enjoying herself at least. She dragged her nails lightly over his undercut, eliciting a sigh of approval. He could see the corners of her mouth quirk up in a smile.

“We could take the boat down to Athkatla when you're feeling well enough,” She suggested as her fingers trailed down his neck to his shoulders. “it's much faster than a caravan. Might even be able to make that job.”

“Cost half my coin too I'll bet. Bane knows how much of my wages Zarys will cut when she finds out I've been out near a tenday.”

“Zarys?”

“My boss back in the Gate, black-hearted vixen, that one.”

“I can pay for the boat.”

“Just flush with it aren't you lass?” And despite his best efforts he couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice.

“Work’s better in the summer but since Corra lets me winter here with her I can save on room and board, that's all.”

“Don't know why you bothered slumming with us Zhents in Waterdeep if you could come home to this.”

“It's not my home.” She said, soft but firm. “And I don't recall you ever bringing me to a slum.”

“Usually save that for the fourth date.”

Instantly her hands were gone from him and she was stalking over to the other side of the tub, filling a bucket from the faucet.

When she returned she dumped it over his head without warning. Rugan shouted and spluttered as the ice cold water crashed down about his face. 

“There,” She said, glowering at him. “you’re all rinsed.”

“What the hells woman?!”

But she was already throwing open the door to speak to the servant from earlier.

“Gregor, he's ready to be taken back to his room now. If you can manage on your own.”

When the boy answered in the affirmative she stalked off on her own.

#rugan #bg3 rugan #rugan bg3 #zhentarim #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 rugan #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #new tricks #rugan x oc #bg3 fanfic: new tricks

[vlazed]

The Fascinatingly Inconsistent Design of Dark Matter Blade

Being one of the most infamous Kirby villains, Dark Matter has been subject to many cameos and references since its first appearance back in Dream Land 2. Throughout that time, it has varied from appearance to appearance, and that’s what I’ll be diving into today!

I’ll specifically be dissecting their Dark Matter Blade form in this post, I will likely make a separate post for their orb form, as while less numerous, it has still undergone interesting changes over the years.

Kirby’s Dream Land 2

This is the form Dark Matter first takes when expelled from Dedede’s body to battle Kirby and their Rainbow Sword, also referred to as Dark Matter Swordsman. What an epic swordfight to start out the final boss fight with!

Due to Kirby’s Dream Land 2 being a Game Boy game, Dark Matter Blade lacks any color in this first iteration. But worry not, they received official artwork to accompany their first appearance, have a look:

Ahh, much better! It is here that the mainstays of Dark Matter Blade’s design are established. Cloak with strips of triangles going up the middle, shoulder pads with golden trims, flowing black hair, and a visor containing a single eye. Two details I want to specifically point out here are:

Their eye. Specifically, the dark grey pupil and white sclera. This stands out because of how it differs from most eyes on Kirby characters, as they often don’t have sclera to speak of, making Dark Matter Blade’s stand out in that regard. It gives them a sort of creepiness factor, having a plain old eyeball up in there.

The piece directly below their mask. Due to it’s similar coloration to the shoulder armor, it is typically interpreted to be a third piece of armor, though the lack of detail in this illustration can cause it to be confused for a scarf as well.

Kirby Squeak Squad

After a significant span of time with only their orb or “Real” form appearing, Dark Matter Blade finally got new artwork for the release of Kirby Squeak Squad! Oddly, this is not because Dark Matter Blade appeared in the game itself, rather because it appeared in a graphic depicting itself and other final bosses of the series. Strangely, Dark Matter Blade is the only one of these bosses to have received new art for the unlockable graphic.

Regardless of the reason for this art’s existence, the design of Dark Matter Blade here is roughly the same as Dream Land 2, barring some slight differences in color and shape.

Their hair is less smooth, rather being sharp and angular. The neck piece has sharper angles, making it clearer that it is meant to be armor here. In terms of color, their cloak has more of a purple hue than the previous red, their shoulder pads are a much deeper violet, and the pupil is black as opposed to the previous grey.

Given that this appearance was mostly meant to give them new artwork to reflect the newer style of the series, it makes sense that they underwent very few changes for this iteration.

Kirby Mass Attack

This is quite a big one. In the Kirby Quest sub game in Kirby Mass Attack, Dark Matter Blade undergoes a drastic redesign for their appearance as the final boss of the mode, differing greatly in terms of shapes, color, and even receiving new elements to go along with it.

To start with the new elements, the bottom edges of their cloak have received a lighter trim, and it has received new jewelry in the form of a necklace starting from their shoulder pads, featuring green and blue gems.

In terms of shape, their hair is now more curved and flowing again, their mask has received rounded edges, and their neckpiece has been retextured to be a scarf to accompany its new red coloring.

Speaking of colors, most notable is their eye, which has received a vibrant cyan sclera, making it feel less realistic and more in line with the series typical aesthetics. The way it flashes makes it come across as a manifestation of energy more than an eyeball too! Their cloak is now darker, with its hue being more blue-green, their shoulder pads are a lighter blue, their hair and body have been given a slight purple tint, and as mentioned before, their scarf is now red.

This is a redesign I must say I am quite fond of, though one could argue it is somewhat cluttered, the added jewelry helps add more of an ancient, royal vibe. The neckpiece being a red scarf is lovely in helping add a break in color along with reusing the other reds in the palette. I personally love the eye of energy and having colored sclera, though I do wonder if it being blue adds a bit too much to the palette as a whole. Overall, a lovely makeover for a lovely little appearance.

Kirby Planet Robobot

Returning in the form of the Dark Matter Clone fought in the side mode Meta Knightmare Returns, this is Dark Matter Blade’s big return to the series, as it had not appeared in a central mode since Dream Land 2!

This new appearance is, for the most part, a return to form for Dark Matter Blade, mostly mimicking its original design from Dream Land 2 barring some specific exceptions.

Their neckpiece has been given more definition, jutting out in the front and sporting the same texture as the shoulder pads. Yes, its now clear that it is a piece of armor! Alongside this, the cloak is now a slightly lighter white, no longer having a warm grey tint, and their shoulder pads are now a much more vibrant purple.

However, what stands out most about this appearance is their eye. It’s orange! Both the pupil and sclera are orange, in fact, turning red once the boss enters its second phase. It is unclear why this change was made, as no previous art or appearance depicts blade with an orange eye. Perhaps it was meant to invoke the look of the more energy-based eye from Mass Attack? It is unclear.

What is even more unclear is whether or not this is meant to be taken as a retcon to the eyes design entirely, or if it is meant to be a clone specific trait (and no, future appearances don’t clear this up.) But regardless, Robobot was a refreshing and simple appearance for the dark sword.

Team Kirby Clash Deluxe/Super Kirby Clash

Expanding on the subgame featured in Planet Robobot, Dark Matter Blade’s likeness appears in this game as a piece of armor equipped by Kirby. How cute!

Though simple and seemingly matching its appearance from Robobot, there are a few notable changes present:

The eye has returned to its previous white sclera, with the pupil being given a new violet tint.

The neckpiece is now depicted as a scarf, despite keeping the same purple coloring.

Those two changes together are incredibly confusing! If its meant to signify that only the real Dark Matter Blade has white sclera, why is the neckpiece a scarf instead? This adorable armor set is a pile of contradictions!

Kirby Star Allies

In this title, Dark Matter Blade makes a cameo in the “Big Boss Brothers” puzzle, appearing alongside other final bosses of the series. Despite being such a small appearance, the design still technically features changes!

Specifically, the neckpiece is back to being a piece of armor (even more obvious now due to its shine) and the eye, which is now a burning red! It technically has no visible pupil, but I assume that’s only due to the size of the art.

What makes the appearance of the eye such a head scratcher is that this is the first time the original Dark Matter Blade has appeared with a red eye, a trait that was previously only locked to its clone (we know the Blade depicted in this piece is the original, as only final bosses appear in the artwork). Is this meant to mean that the original has been retconned to have an orange/red eye? If so, why did Clash feature the original white sclera? So many questions… at least they look stunning in this iteration, the red eye fits them very well.

Kirby’s Return to Dreamland Deluxe

Rounding out this post is the most recent depiction of Dark Matter Blade, appearing as a dress up mask sold in the remake exclusive Merry Magoland. Ah, it seems to have taken its appearance from Planet Robobot. Does that mean we’ve established the new canon design..?

…wait, Clone? Yes, the Mask in Dreamland Deluxe is, bizarrely enough, made of the Dark Matter clone. This is especially odd because there is no non-clone mask present, and order wise the mask is put with the other Dream Land 2 masks in the shop. No other character is treated like this, there is no “Sectonia Clone” or “Dedede Clone” mask or what have you. If Magolor could make a mask of Zero and so many other villains, why not go the extra mile and make the mask of the original? Perhaps this is purely done to keep it ambiguous what the true design is meant to be?

Regardless, this final appearance is a (slightly confusing) fine place to end this journey. Dark Matter Blade has remained one of my favorite Kirby villains, especially design wise. Out of all of these, I’m torn between Star Allies and Mass Attack in terms of a favorite. I have no doubt that, if this dark sword makes another cameo one way or another, it’s design will have changed one way or another as it always has.

#dark matter blade #dark matter swordsman #dark matter #dark matter kirby #dark matter clone #kirby #kirby series #rtdldx spoilers #i was going to make this and the orb one post but it became a lot longer than i expected so i’m splitting them up #that and i hit the image cap lol #shoutouts to weirdmarioenemies their writing style inspired how i handled some of this

[castellankurze]

What if The Locked Tomb was JoJo's Bizarre Adventure with Lyctoral Cavaliers

Second House -MARTA DYAS- Favored Weapons: rapier & dagger Necromantic Option: [Rapture] A consummate duelist in the Second House tradition, Marta Dyas is a skilled swordswoman whose necromantic power enables her to drain the living energy from nearby foes, using it to augment herself or proximal allies. Ironically this has the effect of making the duelist less effective the fewer opponents she faces; making her most effective at the beginning of battle, trending downwards the longer a fight goes on.

Third House -NABERIUS TERN- Favored Weapons: rapier & trident knife Necromantic Option: [It's Gonna Be Me] Stylish and precise, Naberius Tern's Third house necromancy steals the death energy from defeated opponents to augment his blades, making it so that armor or flesh touched by the cutting edges will crumble and rot in moments. Despite his formal bearing this has the effect of making Tern more effective in pitched battle, building his effectiveness as bodies hit the floor.

Fourth House -JEANNEMARY CHATUR- Favored Weapons: rapier & dagger Necromantic Option: [Here Comes the Boom] In flagrant Fourth House tradition, Jeannemary Chatur carries the ability to excite necromantic energy in the recently-deceased, converting corpses into deadly bombs. An ability that renders the enthusiastic cavalier potentially deadly to friend and foe alike, especially as the explosions chain together in the heat of battle in exceedingly dangerous - if awesome - eruptions.

Fifth House -MAGNUS QUINN- Favored Weapons: rapier & dagger Necromantic Option: [Dead Man's Party] Although a cavalier of modest skill at best, Magnus Quinn is fortunate to be heir to a classic Fifth House power - the ability to raise intangible souls of the recently dead, turning them on his attackers as furious revenants. Away from the battlefield, Magnus more often uses this ability to gather information, questioning the dead for what knowledge or insight they held in life.

Sixth House -CAMILLA HECT- Favored Weapons: paired swords Necromantic Option: [Private Eyes] The Sixth House are known for producing scholars and researchers, and although she's sharper-edged than most Camilla Hect is no slouch in this area. Her necromantic ability can read the traces of history left on objects by the living and the dead; in battle this allows her to anticipate how an enemy will use their weapons, countering opponents who become too predictable.

Seventh House -PROTESILAUS EBDOMA- Favored Weapons: rapier & chain Necromantic Option: [Who Wants to Live Forever] Protesilaus Ebdoma, Knight of Rhodes is a formidable fighter, disdaining the traditional dagger in favor of a heavy chain with which to lash and bind opponents. Using a variation on the Seventh House trademark, he can preserve his body and continue fighting even through all manner of injuries minor and grievous, remaining self-sustaining until proper healing can be sought.

Eighth House -COLUM ASHT- Favored Weapons: long sword & shield Necromantic Option: [Black Hole Sun] A staunch member of the Templars of the White Glass, Colum Asht favors a heavier defense than most cavaliers, bearing armor and shield to complement a broad sword. His powerful necromantic ability is the soul siphon, draining the life from his opponents to wedge open the River, summoning forth into himself revenant shades of equal power to bolster his strength, though betimes this has the effect of leaving 'quirks' in the Eighth House knight's personality. To date they have always smoothed over with time.

Ninth House -GIDEON NAV- Favored Weapons: great sword & knuckle knives Necromantic Option: [Move Your Dead Bones] The unlikely Ninth House cavalier disdains the traditional dueling weapons in favor of a large two-handed sword, wearing a set of knuckle knives just in case she gets the chance to punch someone. Gideon Nav's necromantic ability is equally unsubtle, using pieces of bone as summoning foci to call forth bone constructs, often in the form of raging skeletons or giant fists to batter her opponents.

(Ninth House) -ORTUS NIGENAD- Favored Weapons: poetry (black sword & buckler) Necromantic Option: [The Man in Black] Although receiving nominal training as a cavalier in his youth, Ortus Nigenad's true arena is the stage. After his immersion in the River, the poet's fervent faith granted him an unusual necromantic capability: summoning forth a shade that takes the form of Matthias Nonius, storied cavalier of the Ninth House, to fight with deadly skill on his behalf.

#TLT #The Locked Tomb #JJBA #Marta Dyas #Naberius Tern #Jeannemary Chatur #Magnus Quinn #Camilla Hect #Protesilaus Ebdoma #Colum Asht #Gideon Nav #Ortus Nigenad #I had to include Ortus because without him this idea wouldn't exist #tried to push the boat out a lil on the music genres #not as successful as I would have liked maybe #ah well #what would your cavalier [stand] be?

[moodymisty]

Hello! I noticed you wrote something for Darksodwrs Samael, I'm so happy! Might I request some... Headcanons I think would be best, for Samaels s/o or, if the relationship isn't established just yet, crush, always ‘draping’ him in earnest, kind yet simple compliments? From both his spectacular appearance to his brilliant mind? Apologise if this is a bit vague! Thank you!

Author's note: Hello Hello friend! I'm excited to give another try at writing for Samael, so hopefully you will like this one. I decided to do some headcanons, with a bit of a little tiny drabble at the end. Best of both worlds.

Relationships: Samael/Gn!Reader (just how it turned out; not a nickname or anything that could allude to a specific gender in sight)

Warnings: None, unless you consider flirting with a demon something to warn about ;3

Samael is of the sort who believes that behind every single compliment, wink, gift- is a motive. Be it monetary, physical, or something else entirely. No one does something without expecting something in return, be it now, or down the line.

That thought process very quickly gets challenged however, when he meets you.

As a human associated with the Horsemen, you have a lot to gain from making nice with him; Or at least making a tentative enough relationship that it secures more of the safely of your realm.

But everything you do just, doesn't make sense to him. No matter how hard he's tried to wrack his brain, there isn't a solid reason as to why you do and say the things you do to him.

You'd first asked for a tour of his palace- odd, given humans have a fear of Hell, but he had indulged. Maybe you're looking for structural weaknesses, or ideas of what he's researching to relay back to the Horsemen so they can keep an eye on him. He doesn't think it would be too unusual for them to use you in that way; Even if they are not fond of the two of you being in the same realm to begin with.

But no, that doesn't turn out to be the case. You just ask about paintings and gold coins, curiously looking up at towering statues of demons who's names you have not the slightest clue.

And as if that isn't odd enough for the demon to deal with, not soon after, you start complimenting him.

Not even just about his power or stature, but odd seemingly minuscule things. And for the first time, he doesn't have a response to them. At least none of the usual ones. They all feel so, crude, in comparison as to what you're saying to him.

'Do all demons have wings like yours? They look amazing...'

'Have you really been around that long? You need to tell me about some of the things you've seen.'

'Has anyone ever told you your voice is, really soothing?'

You always have a smile when you say these things, and for the first time, Samael is genuinely confused and almost unsure of what to do. On one hand he wants to be suspicious, but on the other, he feels like he's getting wrapped around your finger.

Each time he sees you he's yearning for a compliment to come from your lips. Less so because of narcissism, and more so because they sound so earnest. You mean each and every one of them, unlike others who are only seeking to throw platitudes at him.

Maybe that's been your plan the whole time, to make him like you like this. He almost becomes furious at the idea that it's actually working.

You're on his mind far more than anything else, thinking of you and softening some of his sharper edges so he doesn't wound your gentle soul with harsh words he's used to using towards other demons.

He starts getting you physical gifts in retaliation; A handcrafted sword, jewelry suited to your tastes, mythical texts in books bound with gold filigree. All extravagant, and nothing he's even done before. He didn't even go through this sort of thought for Lilith.

You refuse most of them, the latest time specifying why- saying that your time with him is good enough. And it only serves to baffle him even more.

In a way, Samael would almost classify himself as beginning to have an obsession over you. But he keeps himself in line with his expected formality, just barely.

"So, what is it you're going to show me?"

You can't help but keep up the air of curiosity, looking up at Samael as one of his wings casually stretches. Their shape was always curious to you, but you've never gotten around to asking if they're simply unique to him, or if the odd upside down shape is simply common among demons. He's the only friendly demon you've met, after all.

"Your ceaseless curiosity is going to get you in trouble, one day." He says so with a voice filled with teasing, so you just shrug your shoulders.

"Funny, you're not the first non-human that's said that to me." He's not surprised in the slightest at that fact, though he does wonder who else it was that said so. Presumably one of the Horsemen.

Death, if he had to guess. It would be the most in character of him to do so, especially considering he is the one most against your being near him.

"Here we are." You're a bit too busy looking up at him to notice where you've ended up, until you turn your head and notice the drastically different scenery ahead of you.

"This is my private library." He takes on step forward, still speaking to you, but also overlooking the vast array of tables and shelves. His tail gently hovers over the ground, swaying back and forth lazily.

"Almost every bit of knowledge I have collected rests here." Samael protects this area with almost as much fervor as his own life; It's the source of so much of what he knows, and a one of his grandest prizes.

After all when you're effectively immortal, things like gold and shining trinkets stop meaning as much, in the grand scheme of things. Then do things like information, knowledge and secrets, begin to hold a much greater value. So even if you may not even realize, it's a overwhelmingly large deal for him to do this.

A testament for how much he sees in you that he likes.

"You had mentioned enjoying tomes." He has a tiny smirk that reveals the sharp points of his upper fangs. "Feel free to sate your curiosity."

Mouth set partly agape you look around, the usual filigree of the demon's palace also adorning a large array of tomes. He's watching your glowing face, and in a briefly pride filled thought, he's pleased to finally get such a reaction from you. None of his other gifts had worked; And over time he's learned that you don't want strictly physical things.

What is odd for him however, is that getting this reaction from you doesn't earn him anything. Normally that would've been his only goal, but now, it's only seeing your fondness for him that he desires. A small repayment, for all of the kind little human words you've shown him.

"Seriously?" His smirk grows wider, showing off his sharp teeth even more. At which you smile back, feeling your face grow a bit warm.

"Thanks, Samael. This is amazing."

"Now, go have your fun. Before the Horsemen come to steal you back." He gestures with his head forward and watches as you trot away. Though as you start to look around, Samael's mind begins to wander as well.

Now that he's earned your friendship, Samael begins to wonder what he can do to earn more, looking at the way you're gleefully peering around. You've shown so much of your little soul to him, and he wants more. Not to toy with it, or snuff it out; He wants to keep it safe. Keep it all to himself. There's not much more he wants now than for you to say you love him.

Now Samael finds himself understanding why the other races are becoming so fond of humans.

#i really hope my samael writing has improved in this one i feel like it has a bit?... but i still want to poke him with a stick a bit more #Samael/Reader #darksiders x reader #samael x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

[walkswithmyfather]

“For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword.” —Hebrews 4:12a (KJV)

“So submit to [the authority of] God. Resist the devil [stand firm against him] and he will flee from you.” —James 4:7 (AMP)

“Our Defeated Foe” By Billy Graham:

“How do we overcome the devil in everyday life? First, we need to recognize that the devil is a defeated foe. The Son of God came to undo the work of the devil. The crucifixion of Christ, which looked like a mighty victory for Satan, turned out to be a great triumph for God, because it was on the cross that Jesus took your sins and my sins. God laid our sins on Christ, so that when our Lord bowed His head and said, “It is finished,” He was referring to the plan of redemption and salvation. Then . . . we are to resist the devil. If we resist him, Scripture says, he will flee from us. Jesus overcame the devil not by argument but simply by quoting Scripture. That is why it is so important to learn and memorize Scripture passages.

Prayer for the day: Thank You, heavenly Father, for the protection of Your Word as I face everyday temptations.”

#hebrews 4:12 #james 4:7 #bible #christian blog #god #belief in god #faith in god #jesus #belief in jesus #faith in jesus #bible verses #bible truths #bible scriptures #bible quotes #bible study #billy graham quotes #christian devotionals #daily devotions #christian life #christian living #christian faith #christian inspiration #christianity #christian motivation #christian encouragement #christian quotes #keep the faith #make him known #powerofgod #christian prayer

[greenhousethree]

Gin and Nev... A friendship forged in fire

Wow thank you so much, I appreciate it! And I love this question! Apologies for the late response… I’ll get better at these 🫠

But oh boy, life at Hogwarts during book 7… I love it; it’s such a rich, chewy era for resilience, relationships, and coming-of-age. And I’ve really enjoyed creating snapshots of different characters’ perspectives (I have a couple more in the works for that series); they’ve really helped shape my ideas for arcs after the war. 

Neville and Ginny, though!! Two of my absolute favorite characters. The books don’t give us much to go on, but my headcanon has always taken the potential for their friendship and run a bit wild. I think these months at Hogwarts would have solidified it: running the D.A., caring for younger students, and pissing off the Carrows. 

(This turned into a full-on ramble, so here we go…)

I don’t think Neville and Ginny were particularly close before this year. Friends, for sure, but I think Ginny would have seen him primarily as her brother’s dorm-mate, even after the Yule Ball. She had her own friends (and boyfriend) to occupy her during D.A. meetings in OoTP, and we’re told that that Neville and Luna were the ones who bonded after the Department of Mysteries. 

Throughout Deathly Hallows, though, Neville’s no longer a peripheral friend of Ginny’s, but a comrade on a battlefield that’s been otherwise abandoned. Two Gryffindors, both with more skin in the game than most, both with nothing to lose by fighting. I think that pressure would give them both a harder edge than their peers; even Luna, who joins to form that melt-your-heart trio of misfits, has to worry about her father’s safety as a consequence of her actions. But Neville’s parents were Aurors and Ginny’s family make up most of the Order— they both come from fighters. 

Like Harry and Hermione (another gorgeous friendship that reduces me to a puddle), I think Ginny and Neville’s relationship is a thing with legs of its own, independent from the trio’s dynamic. Their characters balance one another beautifully, based on everything we’re given in the text. I put a glimpse of this into “Defiance,” which takes place in October of that year. And as the months passed, they would have only grown closer, trusted each other more, and developed sharper instincts for one another out of survival.

There’s an incredible amount of grit behind the strength we do get to see from Ginny in canon. Girl has seen a lot by this year, and I think she’d be the one to spearhead the revolution within the walls. But, and this is more of my HC here, she’s headstrong and impulsive... like an unbroken filly, I think she’d need someone else to take aim after the abandonment by Harry and her family makes her desperate and reckless. In a war of strategic mayhem, I see Neville acting the playmaker to Ginny’s agent of chaos, directing her desire for resistance into action. I’ve never had a doubt that she’s the one to hatch the idea of stealing the sword, but he’s the one pulling out the drawing board immediately after “Defiance.” He’d feel the most guilt after the fallout of their plans, too, surrounding the events of “Surrender.”

And, as the Carrows continue to do their damnedest to break her, I think Ginny gradually relies on Neville more to be the ballast of their ship. It’s a role that I think Harry will take over a bit, eventually: encouraging her to harness her fire as she picks up the pieces of her Hogwarts years.

And Neville! If ever there was a better fictional character to steal my heart. By the end of book 7, we see a completely transformed version of the nervous little sweetie who’d lost his toad on the train. I don’t remember where the idea came from to have him growing herbal remedies and passing them off as homework, but I sort of fell in love with it. This boy’s using Mandrakes as weapons up until the very end; surely he spent the entire term risking his behind to visit the greenhouses and follow his passion (and without a handy invisibility cloak, too… take that, Potter).

Neville’s always looked up to Harry, drawing inspiration from seeing him speak up against Umbridge and Snape. We get glimpses of his burgeoning voice in OoTP and HBP, fighting alongside Harry in the Department of Mysteries and defending Hogwarts after Dumbledore’s death. But we don’t see Fully Evolved Neville— D.A. leader, confident battle strategist, “I’ll join you when hell freezes over” Neville— until he’s spent more time with Ginny (DH, ch. 36). I’m sure her sharp tongue and rogue fearlessness have rubbed off on him by the time she’s whisked off to Muriel’s, and it’s something he carries with him (along with Luna’s desire for justice) in that final month facing the Carrows without them.

After the war, I have no doubt that Neville and Ginny remain close. Similarly to her dynamic with Harry, there’s an opposites-attract element to their relationship: with her encouraging spontaneity and exploration and him bringing more grounded levels of insight and empathy. I think the trio with Luna remains intact, but, like the Golden three, morphs a bit into three individual friendships with their own strengths to offer. Ginny’s seen enough of Harry’s struggles to help Neville navigate his new war heroism in a world where he’ll become more popular than he ever imagined (she definitely becomes the world’s best wingwoman at many a pub). The three of them all lose a great deal, too— particularly Ginny, with the death of her brother. I won’t go into detail because I have a lot drafted up for these two… but I think her relationship with Neville, welded and galvanized by a year of growth and suffering and hope, will be instrumental to her journey of regaining her voice. 

Lots of words, lots of thoughts, but I hope that addressed the question! Thanks again for reaching out, it means a lot! 🌱

#anon ask #answered #this one's for the nev stans #Neville and Harry are definitely the only ones to call her Gin #ginny weasley #neville longbottom #hp headcanon

[sam-glade]

D'you wanna detail more about gullin and the flying and blindness thing for me to take forever to get around to having thoughts about?

For you, Sleepy, I'm going to offer two brief snippets.

The basic release of his powers takes the form of a whirlwind carrying a handful of knives which he directs with his will. With the full release, he becomes the wind.

He *almost* gets there in book 1 of Days of Dusk. Here's a description of his sparring session with Lissan:

Gullin flung a knife towards Lissan, inviting him to step into the attack while he forced him to parry another knife with his Sword. Now this was the tricky part. While Gullin kept six or seven knives in the air at a time, he couldn't focus on more than three to lay out their distinct paths. The others kept spinning in the general vicinity waiting for their turn to be useful. So while Lissan prepared to block the two knives he saw, a third one was coming towards his upper back. It got close. Very close. At which point Lissan pivoted on his heel, let one of the decoys fly past him, blocked the other one with his Sword, and flicked away the last knife with the back of his hand, then shook it as it presumably stung. “Oh, come on!” Gullin shouted. Lissan grinned, his bright eyes alert, gleaming with… enjoyment? He was having fun? Gullin sent three more knives towards him in a quick succession, planning his next move. Maybe he could get more knives to go where he wanted — yes, he wanted to try it, and his opponent was up for it. He felt a thrill, acutely aware of any solid obstacles for the knives, not even seeing them, but mapping the layout in his mind, feeling as the wind moved around them and buffeted them. He rattled the branches on the trees, combed the grass, and carried the birds flying in chevron formation far overhead, all at once. It was a good feeling, almost as if he wasn't standing there, but became the wind itself. Almost. You’ll get there, Greenbird, the Spirit of his Knife, the Wren, chimed in and chirped in delight. He narrowed his eyes and aimed a fourth knife at Lissan’s left bicep. The kid didn’t see it coming. In all fairness, neither did Gullin — the knife vanished entirely into the wind — but he was aware of it. The blade cut into the muscles and Lissan yelped.

And by book 2 he is struggling to find a sparring partner who'd give him a proper challenge. Here's a description fresh off the keyboard (yesterday's NaNoWriMo writing):

Gullin was the wind. He leant into the feeling without reservations, delighting in how right it was. He surfed around the arena, enjoying the even curves of its walls and the perfect hemisphere of the Laerius dome enclosing it from the top. A thought nudged him that this wasn’t right, and that wind shouldn’t be caged like so. He should be free. Later, he countered these thoughts. For now, he had to focus on the lone figure in the middle of the sandy area. He made a sharper turn and hit Lissan directly from behind, in an attempt to use his broad back to put him off balance. Of course Lissan’s reflexes were too good for it to work — he braced himself when the vanguard of air stirred his hair and tickled the skin on his back. Gullin didn’t see him, not in this incorporeal form, but he was aware of him as an obstacle — of the flow of air around him, of the solid block that had to be circumvented. As Lissan settled more firmly on his feet, Gullin sent two smaller gusts towards him from either side; one low, aimed at Lissan’s left shin above the edge of his boot, the other coming towards his right bicep. The gusts were followed by invisible knives. This had to be the full release of Gullin’s power; neither he nor Ivy could imagine any more tricks up his sleeve. Invisible knives, Gullin disappearing entirely into the wind — no, becoming the wind. For anyone other than Lissan, this training would be deadly.

Days of Dusk taglist (please message me to +/-): @acertainmoshke @another-white-void @cee-grice @cljordan-imperium @eldritchx @elshells @goldxdarkness @poetinprose @sparrow-orion-writes

#gullin #gifts of fate #the prince's shadow #ask and i shall answer #writeblr