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xxsabitoxx · 11 months

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How the Pillars react to your death

Important note: all of these deaths occur during the infinity castle arc, heavy and implied spoilers. Rengoku’s reaction to your death takes place before Mugen Train! Reader’s gender is unspecified.

Warnings: this post contains spoilers for the final arc of the manga. This includes implied spoilers for various characters. Please do not read this if you don’t want to be spoiled and don’t blame me if you go ahead and read it anyways lol

A/N: I wrote this whole post in my head while showering last night and I’m honestly offended it took me 3x as long to actually write it.

Giyu

“CAWWW! DEAD! KOCHO SHINOBU AND L/N Y/N ARE DEAD! THEY DIED AFTER A CONFRONTATION WITH UPPER MOON TWO!” Giyu’s body comes to a screeching halt, Tanjiro shooting past him before falling to his knees as violent sobs wracked his body. Giyu, on the other hand, is frozen in place, a sob stuck in his throat. Shinobu’s death was a punch to the gut, but you? For the first time since Sabito had died, Giyu felt tears burning at the back of his eyes. Yet, nothing would come out, those tears wouldn’t break the barrier and slip down his cheeks. His tight throat would not let the sob escape. There was no possible way you were gone, you promised him you’d be okay. Though, childish beliefs like that reminded him of his own faults. Once again, he couldn’t protect the people he cared about. Rather than wallowing in sudden grief, he began moving again, past Tanjiro who was struggling to get back up. He needed to keep moving, if he didn’t stop, he was certain he would collapse entirely and never get up again. He couldn’t let your sacrifice go to waste.

Shinobu

Her feet barely hit the ground, body manoeuvring through the endless castle with one destination in mind. “CAWWW! DEAD! L/N Y/N IS DEAD! THEY DIED AFTER ENCOUNTERING UPPER MOON TWO!” She stumbles, shock hitting her like a bucket of ice water being dumped over her head. Her mind is racing, not willing to believe what the crow had just said to be true. You had steered away from the plan. In a desperate attempt to save Shinobu’s life you tried to defeat Upper Two yourself. Hot, angry tears are spilling down her cheeks, hand clutching her heart as she tries to understand. “Why would you do this? Why wouldn’t you take my word for it and go with Tomioka? Look what you did… you went and got yourself killed,” Yet again, Upper Two had taken something precious to her. One word flashed through her mind, alongside your beautiful face. Revenge. She would get her revenge, not only for Kanae, but for you. “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll be with you soon.”

Rengoku

It’s quiet, too quiet even. You should be back by now, the sun has fully risen. Kyojuro’s heart is hammering in his chest, doom creeping up his spine. He has an unshakable bad feeling about your late arrival. His worst fears are confirmed when your crow arrives without you. “No…” breathless, as if all the air is being ripped from his lungs. “Don’t say it…” his knees are giving out as your crow lands on the wooden porch. “T-they’re gone…aren’t they?” he chokes it out, the words are as bitter and burning as bile. Your crow only caws, soft and full of sorrow, unable to share the proper message as Kyojuro begins to sob. He’s curling in on himself, crying so loudly but unable to hear it due to the intensity of the ringing in his ears. It’s a panic attack manifesting in the most intense form. He can’t fathom a world without you, nevermind having to live in one. Senjuro is rushing to his brother's aid, seeing your crow gives him more than enough information to know as tears well in his eyes.

Tengen

He’s kneeling dutifully outside of Nezuko’s room, Shinjuro by his side. His wives are inside, too stubborn to sit out and not help at all. Their excuse being that Nezuko saved his life, they owe her the same kind of protection now. You on the other hand, were too determined, leaving your retirement to fight the battle against the demon lord himself. Nothing Tengen nor his wives said could convince you to stay on the sidelines. His heart is sinking the moment your crow appears in the distance, he’d recognize it anywhere. “N-no… don’t you dare…” Tengen’s voice is cracking as it lands, Shinjuro is turning his head the other way, knowing what is to come. “Don’t you dare say they are dead…” his voice is rising in his panic, he knows the answer. The commotion has Makio, Suma and Hinatsuru running outside. The moment Hina’s eyes land on your crow, a violent sob escapes her chest, falling to her knees as Makio and Suma come to the same conclusion. “T-they’re dead…aren’t they?!” Makio sobs, Tengen can’t raise his head as your crow delivers your final message.

Mitsuri

She’s frozen in place as a crow comes directly for her, fear is ebbing through her body, a cold sweat forming on her brow. She knows the message before the crow can even utter it. “No! Go back! I don’t want to hear it!” Obanai is frozen beside her, grabbing her arm so she doesn’t collapse. The crow circles around her, cawing woefully as she begins to cry. “I-I don’t want to know! Don’t tell me!” she’s hiccupping as Obanai tries to pull her forward, they need to keep moving. “Mitsuri…” his voice is surprisingly soft, the crow is still circling overhead. “We need to hear the message…” she shakes her head, hands coming up to cover her ears as tears slip down her cheeks. The crow caws again, Obanai signals for it to deliver the message. “CAWWW! L/N Y/N IS DEAD! THEY DIED AFTER AN ALTERCATION WITH UPPER MOON ONE!” The crow continued on about who lived and who died, what was important is that upper moon one was dead. That didn’t matter to her though, no she couldn’t even hear the rest of the message over the ringing in her years. Mitsuri let Obanai tug her along, they needed to keep moving at whatever the cost.

Muichiro

“CAWWW! L/N Y/N IS DEAD!” He keeps running, uncertain as to why he feels a tightness in his chest at the crow’s message. “THEY DIED DURING A CONFLICT WITH UPPER TWO!” He’s still moving, more so concerned over his unexpected and overwhelming sadness. Why am I sad? I don’t even remember that name… but then your kind smile is flashing before his eyes and the world is crashing down around him. He comes to a screeching halt, eyes wide as he finally pieces together the message. “y/n…” how could he ever forget? Before he realizes it, he’s sniffling. Tears blur his vision for a moment before he blinks them away. He begins to move again, the sadness gripping his chest is slowly fading, fading until he can’t even remember why he got teary eyed in the first place. He needs to remember the task at hand… where was he heading again?

Obanai

The flapping of wings catches him off guard, head craning upwards as the crow begins to caw. The noise is full of sorrow, which can only mean it bears bad news. “Obanai…” Mitsuri is watching the animal circle above them, her heart pounding erratically at the endless possibilities of the message it may share. “CAWWW! L/N Y/N IS DEAD! THEY DIED IN BATTLE AGAINST UPPER MOON ONE!” Obanai’s feet are slowing, hitting the floor beneath him with a little too much force as the message rings through his head over and over. “N-no… oh… Iguro I…” Mitsuri is crying, staring at the man beside her as the world seems to cave in on him. It’s as if everything is in slow motion for a few beats in time. The words the crow uttered felt foreign, your name paired with ‘dead’ didn’t make any sense in his mind. It was impossible really, there was no way you were dead. You had gone to face Upper One with Gyomei, Sanemi, Muichiro… four hashira against upper One and you didn’t make it? You were so strong… no the message can’t be correct. “Kanroji… let’s keep moving.” he’s turning it off, every swelling emotion is being suppressed as he takes off again. Mitsuri is left with no choice but to wipe her tears and follow.

Sanemi

Upper Moon One is standing before him, Gyomei at his side. This battle needed to be won, if not, everything would be lost. The demon before him needed to be put down, there was no other option. He’s talking, but he couldn’t be bothered to listen. Rather, Sanemi is gauging every vital point he can strike and how to go about doing it. “CAWW! I BRING A MESSAGE!” he doesn’t glace up, nothing that crow could say would be able to break his focus. “L/N Y/N IS DEAD!” except for that. Sanemi inhales deeply, eyes widening significantly as he debates on if he heard the message correctly. “THEY DIED DURING AN ALTERCATION WITH UPPER MOON TWO! UPPER MOON TWO IS NOW DEAD!” it feels as if all the air in the room had been sucked away with the crow’s flapping wings. Upper One no longer seemed smug about the message after the addition of Upper Two being defeated. Beside him, Gyomei is crying. Sanemi doesn’t realize it, but so is he. He’s oblivious to the hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. Still, his patience remains intact, waiting for Gyomei’s signal to attack the high ranked demon. Now, he has absolutely nothing to lose. Kagaya is gone, now you are gone, it is likely the rest of the Hashira wouldn’t make it out of this… he has nothing left to fight for.

Gyomei “CAWWW! L/N Y/N IS DEAD! THEY DIED AFTER ENCOUNTERING MUZAN!” Tears flow freely as he fights, part of him wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the message in the first place. You had met the unfortunate fate of encountering Muzan himself. It was likely that you were alone, if you weren’t, you were likely the strongest in your group. It pained him, knowing you likely died a brutal death. That pain fueled his attacks, taking every ounce of heartbreak and despair out on the demon before him. You didn’t deserve that, nobody deserved a fate that cruel. He keeps moving, mind reeling yet completely focused. It’s as if he is fighting in a bubble, the world muffled around him yet perfectly clear all at once. Too many emotions are raging through his soul to really pinpoint just one of them. He can only hope you’ll wait for him on the other side, he can only pray you’re watching over him at this very moment. Guiding him, giving him strength. “I’ll meet you again soon, don’t worry. I promise I won’t keep you waiting much longer. Wait for me, please? You will, won’t you?”

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cuubism · 11 months

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Like the Foxglove to the Hummingbird

Dreamling, E rated, Fertility Rituals, Sex Magic, Canon-verse, Soulmates-of-sorts Theirs was a long love affair, Hob and the concept of dreaming.

Children were born dreamers. Naturals at seeing what could be instead of what was, at touching the innate fantasy and magic of the world, finding it and building it in their play and in their stories. They lost the knack for it as they aged, as the harsh realities and responsibilities of the world intruded—but in their youths, they were looking towards the sky.

Not Hob Gadling.

Hob never had the knack for it. He saw too much, too young: neighbor boys cut down by swords, and just-born babes starving in the winter cold, and good people who tried to help the sick struck down by the same plague. Family, friends, whole villages. Muck was what it was, muck it would stay, and no use harping on dreams when one had to survive.

But survive Hob did, when so many others did not. Hob hit adulthood, and the world still lay before him in all its wasted glory. Hob did not know hope, had no acquaintance with some high fantasy life somewhere far away from here. But Hob did know good ale, good friends, the warmth of a fireplace on a cold night; the rush of stepping off a battlefield with all his limbs intact, and the sweet moans of a lass as he plumbed her secret places for the first time. Hob knew the turning of the sun, and the gentle nicker of a horse that had given him its trust— and heaven might have been a crap shot, Hell not even worth thinking of, but there were dreams down there in the muck, if one was willing to trust in life.

Hob believed not in progress or a better world, or a grand arc of history that bent toward justice. He only believed that there would be a tomorrow, and that something there would be worth sticking around for.

Hob Gadling was not born a dreamer, but he chose to become one. And later, Hob would think that someone out there must have had a sense of humor—for they saw fit to send this scrappy, self-made dreamer, of all people, an actual dream.

—

The creature that stopped before Hob could have stepped out of a dream. Only later would Hob know how right he had been in that thought. For now, all he knew was that the most ethereal thing was standing over him, querying him, challenging him. And Hob was inclined to meet that challenge, to push onwards, he always was.

Besides, his dream creature was so pretty. And he looked at Hob with such fixation. Like Hob had plucked some string within him he hadn’t known was there, and he was trying to pick out the notes of that song.

Hob was challenged to return, to meet him again. And he would. Hob wanted to meet him again. To touch this being that had come down off its cloud. He felt like he was meant to.

In truth, he wanted to have him now. To lure this strange creature who was challenging him not to die out behind the tavern and— no, that certainly wasn’t good enough for this dream of a thing, he would have to find a proper room, he would want to do this properly.

Hob would make him feel so good if only he wanted. It struck him like a blow, that wanting. A peek at something he wasn’t yet meant to touch.

But he could be patient. Hob wasn’t often patient, but he could be, for this. He would meet this stranger again, and find out why. Get a proper look at what he had only glimpsed.

He told his dream creature as much. Grinned at the self-satisfied smile that was returned to him. His strange creature might not believe him, that he would come back, that he wouldn’t give up. But Hob had made his choice long before they had met, and wasn’t inclined to change it.

—

That night Hob’s dreams were a swirl of hands and skin and wet kisses. Of his stranger’s dark hair and sharp eyes, teeth set to his inner thighs, the tang of his spend in Hob’s mouth. The contortion of his stranger’s body under his, and his long fingers, and his soft moans. Pain and pleasure. Taking and being taken. The hook of joined bodies.

Hob disrobed a thin frame and unveiled a marvel, wrapped his arms around a narrow waist and kissed soft hair, murmured words he wouldn’t remember, had his stranger in the room above the tavern, in his seat at the table, in a great bed he couldn’t identify, held him, ravished him, again and again, wet lips, aching thighs, his stranger’s cries dragged from deep within him.

Hob woke feeling ruined. If that was what dreaming was like, well. Maybe he would keep to it.

—

Choice being made, dreaming came naturally to Hob after that—in his own fashion. He was no writer, no artist, though he did come to enjoy stories. He was no particular believer in divinity or magic. And Hob did not dwell on fantasies or powers beyond what was attainable to him in this life—a way out of soldiering for a living, a proper trade, then simple riches and social stability, and finally a family to call his own again. No use dwelling on the unreal, when there was such to be had here, if only one persisted long enough.

(Only occasionally did Hob mull on the unreal. The unreal of his stranger. Only when his life brushed up against his stranger’s did Hob’s dreams spiral out briefly into the cosmos, for something about his stranger inferred the fantastical, the unnatural, the darkest darks and lightest lights reachable or unreachable to the human mind. He thought that his stranger had seen things on this earth that would be unimaginable to a man like him who had spent all his life in one certain corner of the world. They were discovering new corners every day, and his stranger had been to all of them, Hob thought. Had touched every fantastical creature spoken of in stories, dragons and unicorns and great beasts under the sea. If the moon was travel-able, he had been there, too.

But this was a flight of fancy, a little story; Hob had no ambitions, no hopes, of touching any such things himself—strange enough already, for his life to touch his stranger’s.)

And when their paths parted again, diverging along the counterpointed sound waves of their lives to intersect again only a century hence, said fancies faded again to the background and Hob’s dreams returned to their mundane heights.

—

The first time Hob actually longed for his stranger, his dream, longed rather than just wanted him, was in the mid-1600s. Broken, filthy, lying in a gutter somewhere starving, he would think of his mysterious stranger swooping in to rescue him. Materializing from the very shadows Hob languished in, sweeping his imperial coat from his shoulders and draping it over Hob’s rags. Coming to him as some awesome beast, a great black unicorn, perhaps, for their touch was said to heal—and resting the tip of his horn on Hob’s head like a strange knighting, banishing the many bruises from his skin. Appearing, even, as the night itself, and softening the sharp edges of the darkness. Whisking him away, maybe, to some faraway land. Just for a little while.

Hob’s hallucinations brought him to many strange places. Made him long for a touch he had never felt.

Looking back on this later, from a time when he knew who his dream truly was, Hob would wonder if it wasn't the ability to dream itself that he had truly been missing. He never gave up on life, but dreams felt distant from him then, even the modest ones he had been accustomed to. And Hob’s chosen love affair with dreaming had been long by now, and he missed the press of it along his side like a lover’s warm body, a bed gone cold.

It was only when he saw his dream again that he touched it once again—the presence of dreams. It was so easy, then, when his dream asked if he wished to live.

—

A century later, Hob’s longing somehow brought him here—a borrowed bed in a particular inn, his borrowed stranger bobbing between his legs. His fine fingers wrapped around Hob’s thighs, his fine lips around his cock, swallowing him down like ambrosia. Hob couldn’t quite replay the steps that had gotten him here in this state, but he knew he was on borrowed time, that he would soon have to give his stranger back to whatever unfathomable business he came from—so he decided not to overthink it and just let the dream of it all wrap around him. A memory to carry until next time, a brilliant fantasy brought to earth.

He spilled in his stranger’s mouth, half-delirious with the heat of it and the shift of his throat as he swallowed, and scrabbled blindly for his stranger’s arms, drawing him up into a mashing kiss before he’d even had a chance to wipe his mouth.

His dear stranger whined into his mouth, composure broken, and Hob only hoped he knew that this was a sacred space, that nothing would leave these walls, that Hob knew how dearly he held his armor and wouldn’t take it away from him—that he felt blessed to touch such a thing at all—

“Hob,” breathed his stranger, voice all cracked stone, and Hob wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, held him close, slipped his other hand between them to take him in hand.

“Shh,” he hushed, stroking him in quick twisting motions, not meaning to leave him in suspense any longer. “I have you, s’alright.”

“I would have been fine without your intervention,” panted his stranger, face pressed to Hob’s throat now as he squirmed so beautifully in Hob’s grasp. “I would have—”

“Oh, don’t I know it, dearling,” Hob consoled. “I’m sure you could have wiped the whole inn off the map if you wanted, hm?”

“Yes. I—” He let out a strangled sort of whimper, muffled into Hob’s neck, as Hob twisted his hand just so. And when Hob finally made him come, he stumbled over the edge of it with a surprised sound, like Hob had caught him off guard, and pressed his face even further into Hob’s neck, fingers grasping restlessly at Hob’s sides.

Hob soothed him through it. “Shh, sweet thing.”

His stranger grumbled against his skin. “You need not placate me so.”

“Want to, though. So pretty, you are, it makes a man say terrible things.” Dangerous things.

“Hmm.” His stranger subsided, and they lay there for a time, loosely entwined. Finally, he said, “I cannot stay long.”

Hob couldn’t hide the disappointed note in his reply. “I figured as much.”

“My responsibilities are great,” said his stranger.

Hob wondered what those responsibilities might be. He still didn’t know who his stranger was. He hadn’t even gotten a name.

“I know,” he said, voice tight.

Not long after that, his stranger was gone again, though for the first time, he seemed genuinely reluctant to leave.

Hob held the memory of that night close in the coming years. He didn’t know exactly what it meant yet, him and his stranger, his dream, but he knew it was something more than a casual tangle of bodies. He knew their paths had collided for a reason, even if that reason was only that it gave them both comfort, something to cling to.

He came back to that night again and again, mulled on the memory of his stranger in the years before they met again. Perhaps, when that day came, Hob would find a way to express even a small fraction of what he thought they could be to each other.

That day did come, and Hob said so. Gave his stranger a small window into his feelings since their union—since they had met, really. Called him friend, called him dear one, expressed how he wanted to care for him.

These sentiments were not taken well by the strange creature Hob had bedded. He recoiled from the name friend, from Hob’s insinuation that there might be anything real there, something more than fleeting. He fled from it, nearly in tears, leaving Hob bereft and wondering what he was supposed to do when his heart was increasingly captured by a being that did not want him back, did not want even to hear of it.

Hob was hardly going to ask for his hand in marriage. He wouldn’t even ask him to stay. All he wanted was the slightest acknowledgement that there was anything there between them.

But how dare he, to ask him to say that it meant something.

—

Many stopped dreaming in the 20th century, but not Hob. Later he would learn it was because of Dream’s absence, this collective loss in the ability to dream. But Hob kept dreaming, because his dreams were never tied to sleep anyway—always to the real world, the one he properly lived in. Nor were his dreams tied to his stranger, not truly, for all that he usually left their meetings feeling a bizarre mix of devastating loss and unique excitement for the years ahead.

When his stranger walked out at their last meeting, all he felt was the devastating loss. It lodged in his chest and kept him company through the years, like a bullet that had stuck in him and couldn’t be carved out. But he didn’t stop dreaming, of his stranger’s return that he so fervently hoped for, of new inventions across the century whose stories he could share, of the end of each war, of change, always so invigorating to watch happen around him. Hob was still dreaming, pain didn’t stop it, hadn’t since that terrifying period three hundred years ago, and even if his stranger never returned—he wouldn’t give it up.

He might nurse the wound forever like a longing widower, but he wouldn’t give up.

And Hob would be glad he didn’t, for, cliche as it felt, not giving up on his dreams got him his dream back.

—

“I missed you,” Hob said, not for the first time, on the night his dream returned. He’d managed to lure his just-returned friend, his Dream, he now knew, upstairs with him, despite their parting, and now had Dream lying across the couch with his head in Hob’s lap. So much more than he’d thought he would be allowed, this tenderness. But Dream had explained, somewhat reluctantly, that he was tired, that his realm was tired, desolate, damaged—and perhaps that was all this was. Seeking sanctuary, rest, nourishment.

“I am missing you more the longer I lie here,” Dream said, his low voice a purr against Hob’s thighs. “It seems that. My time away was… illustrative of more than one misstep.”

“Oh?” That unexpected admission lodged itself in Hob’s heart, piercing right between his ribs. To think that such a thing as Dream might want him back…

“Stay, then,” he said, and ran a hand through Dream’s feathersoft hair. “And get tangled up. If you want to.”

“And miss this more when I must go?”

“And come back,” Hob said. “Yeah.”

Dream let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world in it. “Very well. I will come back, then.”

And Hob drew a blanket over him, and kept petting his hair, offering what comfort he could as his heart leapt and sang.

—

Hob no longer quite knew what dreaming was, because every day merged the real and imaginary. His stranger, his Dream, once only in the stories in the back of his head, walked beside him now. Drank tea in his kitchen and shared his bed. And in his dreams, too, they walked, through strange vistas and sentimental places. It was the culmination of a long, twining pathway, the both of theirs, where Hob stepped through the Dreaming like a second home he had always known he was meant to walk. Met Dream, daily, at that turnstile between sleeping and waking, where things blurred and slid and he felt, sometimes, he might be able to pull dreamstuff right through into the waking world.

And one day, hovering on those cloudy crossroads, Dream said, “There are some particularly strong dreamers in this world.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hob drifted back to wakefulness from where he was falling asleep against Dream’s side, fingers lazily combing his hair.

Dream was lying beside him on his back, stilled in thought. Hob wished he would relax. Though Dream’s manners of relaxing could be strange. “You are one of them.”

Hob pushed himself up on sleep-heavy arms. Dream’s expression was considered, but he was staring off into his own thoughts, or into an echo of the Dreaming perhaps, rather than at Hob. “Huh?” Hob said eloquently. “But I’m not like. An artist or anything. You have no idea how unfantastical I am.”

“Art is only one manner of dreaming,” Dream said. He looped his arm around Hob’s shoulders and started rubbing there, though he still seemed lost in thought. “Though admittedly I have focused much on creating inspiration in that realm in the past. An oversight on my part, perhaps.”

“What are other types of dreaming?” Hob asked, rather than asking what Dream meant about him being a strong dreamer.

“Much of dreaming is passive, and all sentient beings have the right to a place in the Dreaming when they sleep,” said Dream. “But there are also those who bring dreams to the waking world. Enact my power here, as it were. Art, literature, theater, storytelling, these are forms of strong dreaming, of course. But striving to enact positive change in the world against great opposition and the pull of Despair is also a form of dreaming. Invention is a form of dreaming. Love is a form of dreaming.” He smirked. “Perhaps I will reclaim it from Desire.”

Dreams and Desire fighting over the concept of Love, Hob thought, head spinning. That was a tussle that had been happening for a long time with no end in sight, he thought.

Still, he didn’t know what this had to do with him, unless Dream meant the way that Hob loved Dream, but he didn’t think that was all of it.

“I have recently been reminded that living is also a form of dreaming,” Dream explained, sensing Hob’s question. “Persistence. Stubbornness. You love life, Hob. No matter how it tries to prove it is undeserving.”

“That counts as dreaming in your book?” Hob said, dumbstruck.

Dream ran a hand through his hair with a tiny smile. “Very much so. And the Dreaming loves you. It feeds off your presence.”

“Feeds,” Hob repeated. “That’s. Um. A lot. Wait, does that mean you ‘feed off my presence’?”

“You nourish me in many ways,” Dream said. “As friend, lover. As dreamer, as well, yes.”

“Like a battery,” Hob said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him.

Dream wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“Like a good meal?”

“You are well aware that I meant it metaphorically—”

Hob kissed him halfway through that line, and Dream’s words melted into a comfortable hum. Hob settled over him, giving up on sleep in favor of the pleasure of touching Dream, again. His own dream on earth.

He was going to have to mentally unpack this whole you are a strong dreamer thing later, and properly mull over the fact that his mere stubbornness to keep living was apparently enough to nourish all of dreaming. And his lover most of all.

For now, he just grinned cheekily and said, eyebrows raised innocently, “I could feed you again?”

Dream grumbled. “Must you make everything innuendo?”

“You handed it to me,” Hob pointed out.

“So I did,” Dream admitted, aggrieved. And Hob smiled and went back in to nourish him, figuratively or literally or all ways between.

—

“There is, in fact, a ritual,” Dream said.

They were sitting on a couch in the Dreaming library, Hob’s legs draped over Dream’s lap. Dream had a book open in one hand, and his other loosely holding Hob’s ankle, half tender half possessive—but he was now just looking at Hob expectantly.

“A ritual for what?” Hob asked, feeling very much like he was about to be dropped off the edge of a cliff. He often got premonitions like that when talking to Dream in the Dreaming, for Dream’s feelings and intentions were everywhere in the space and the Dreaming seemed determined for Hob to understand them.

And Dream actually blushed and looked away.

“Wait,” Hob said, realizing, nudging Dream’s thigh with his toes until Dream looked back at him. “Are you somehow talking about sex?”

Dream plucked at the hem of Hob’s trousers. “The Dreaming loves you,” he said, instead of answering, and almost in a way that suggested this was no longer a source of joy to him, rather an incursion.

“Okay,” Hob said, and scooted closer until he could rest a hand on Dream’s arm, concerned, now, by whatever this was. “Aren’t you also the Dreaming?”

Dream nodded. And finally he said, “Answer me this, dreamer. Is it me that you love, or is it dreaming?”

Hob’s heart lurched at the flat, guarded tone of Dream’s voice. There was very much a wrong answer to this, he knew, but he wasn’t even sure he understood the question. He knew what was in his heart, but he didn’t know what would assuage Dream’s uncertainties.

“I fell in love with you a very long time ago,” Hob told him gently. “My mysterious, mystical stranger.”

“That is not as long as you have been dreaming.”

“Can’t I love both?” Hob asked. “Can’t I love all of you?”

Dream stayed silent.

“What answer were you hoping to hear, Dream?”

“I do not know,” Dream admitted, with a pained breath. “No one has loved… all that I am. I am dreams, and the Dreaming, and people have loved the Dreaming. But.”

“You are also Morpheus,” Hob supplied, and Dream nodded.

“I suppose I… have been loved, as such.”

He didn’t sound wholly convinced of it. Hob took his hand, kissed it, held it close to his face. “Has truly no one loved both?”

Dream shook his head, his gaze on his own hand pressed to Hob’s cheek. He twisted it to cradle Hob’s jaw, thumb to the corner of his mouth. “Not the way you have.”

With aching slowness, Hob pulled his strange, unfathomable, hurt creature into a hug. Dream tucked his face into Hob’s shoulder. “Let yourself have it, then, yeah?” he urged. “Will you trust me?”

“Yes,” Dream vowed. “Only beware of the power you hold, Hob Gadling.”

For Dream to even admit such a thing was a power placed in Hob’s hands, he thought.

He squeezed Dream’s shoulders again and then pulled away far enough to look at him. “What’s this ‘ritual,’ then? Is this a good thing, or a you sacrificing yourself upon the altar of my apparent greater love for the Dreaming kind of thing?”

“There are no sacrifices and no altars,” Dream said, with an eye roll that Hob thought meant he was feeling slightly more at ease about the whole thing now, which Hob was glad for. “I am not a god.”

“So what is it for, then?”

“I shepherd all dreaming minds,” Dream said, starting his explanation several steps away from what Hob had asked as per usual. “Particularly strong dreamers can oblige me to take certain actions. Namely, vortexes, whom I must kill for the sake of the rest of the Dreaming. But most powerful dreamers present not a threat, but an opportunity. It is a symbiotic relationship, you understand. I created the landscape you see here, the dreams and nightmares who inhabit it, but the Dreaming would not exist at all if there were no dreamers. There is a ritual one can perform, to remember their importance to one another—dreamer and Dreaming.”

“And… this involves sex, somehow?” It was the impression Hob had gotten from Dream’s reaction before, and he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that.

“It can,” said Dream, carefully. “It is mostly about love. And devotion. And union.”

This was starting to sound to Hob rather like marriage. Or at least, a wedding.

“And… you want to do that? With me?” Hob couldn’t help but feel shaken by the thought. That Dream felt them so important to each other, their love so true, that he would use it to symbolize the power of his entire realm.

“I would explore it,” said Dream. “If you are amenable.”

“I mean, obviously I would—“ Another thought occurred to Hob halfway through that sentiment. “Wait. You don’t have to do this, do you?”

“It is not a necessary part of my function, the way dealing with dream vortexes is,” Dream stressed. “It is merely. An opportunity. To strengthen the bond between dreamer and Dreaming.”

“Between dreamers and you?” Hob added, voice tipped up in a question.

Dream shook his head. “I am but a conduit.”

“You are dreaming,” Hob said. “That sounds pretty damn central to it, to me. Besides, Dream—“ he took Dream’s hand and squeezed “—I’m not really interested in using you as a bridge for some ceremony. But if you want to do it with me, and the Dreaming, then we can talk.”

Dream smiled, a tiny, surprised thing. “This is why it has not happened before. Because no one would see it the way you do.”

“Never?”

Dream shook his head. “No one has… loved me quite the way you do.”

And if that didn’t hurt and make Hob feel more special to Dream in equal measure.

He wrapped his arms around Dream and pulled him close, kissing his temple. “Well, if you want to do it, then fill me in on what it entails and let’s see, hm?”

Dream hummed, a pleased, purring sound, and let Hob hold him close.

—

This was how Hob found himself, one night, in one of the great forests of the Dreaming, just before dawn. Dream had brought them to a small clearing covered in grass, where old growth trees leaned in above them and framed a cloudless sky, scattered with stars.

It was a uniquely quiet part of the Dreaming. Not a properly sentient dreamspace like Fiddler’s Green, but something older and wilder, a place that still grew only out of Dream himself. No other beings around, only Dream sitting across from him, a loose robe around his shoulders and pooling in his lap.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice deep and old as the shifting of the trees around them. Hob was reminded of the moment he had first seen him, and the bolt of realization that this was an ancient thing, a wild and magical thing.

“Why, could something go wrong?”

Dream shook his head. “If we are not committed, it may not achieve its intended effect. But there will be no adverse results, no.”

Something could go very wrong indeed, then. If Hob wasn’t committed—in whatever way that manifested—he was certain it would break Dream’s heart.

Still, if there was anything he had been forever tied to, it was his Dream, and his dreaming. So he took both of Dream’s hands in his own. “Okay. Then I’m ready if you are, dear heart.”

“Dear heart,” Dream echoed, a hint of a smile on his lips. A tentative, hopeful glow in his eyes. He was so beautiful.

“Dear,” Hob repeated, and kissed his cheek. “Dear,” he said again, and leaned down to kiss the grass between them.

When he looked back up, Dream’s cheeks were colored with the slightest blush. “Truly, you are singular, Hob Gadling.”

Hob kissed him again, on the lips this time. Dream leaned into it with a hum, and Hob tangled a hand in his hair, holding him there, holding him close. “Nah,” he said, when they parted for a breath, lips still brushing Dream’s. “I just love you.”

“Yes,” Dream breathed, an exhalation of great weight. He pulled Hob close by the front of his shirt, hands fisted tightly in the fabric, and fell back onto the grass, Hob following to land on top of him. He cradled the back of Dream’s head in his hand to protect him from hitting the ground, though he suspected the soil of the Dreaming would be soft and kind to its creator, even this old forest, with its tangle of hard roots under every patch of ground.

Indeed, a flurry of flower petals swirled up from where they’d landed, carried on the wind of Dream’s power. Hob knew not where they came from, but they circled around Dream’s head and then disappeared into the woods as Dream’s hair fanned out over the grass, robe slipping open in a deep vee over his chest.

Hob raised an eyebrow. “You doing that?”

“Not… consciously. I—“ Dream ran his thumb over Hob’s cheek, a steadying motion. “I must… let my power merge more with the Dreaming’s, for this. Give it agency over me in a way that I normally would not.”

“Just be safe, yeah?”

“The Dreaming is me. It is safe,” said Dream.

“Only you usually keep yourself more separate,” Hob guessed, and Dream nodded.

“I do not usually relinquish such direct power to the broader Dreaming, like so,” he confirmed.

Dream didn’t usually relinquish any power ever, Hob thought. “Well, just relax,” he told him, and Dream huffed.

“I was under the impression that I was leading this.”

“Well, maybe I wanna. You’re supposed to give up control, aren’t you?”

Before Dream could answer, Hob kissed him again, pressing him down into the grass with both hands in his hair. Dream tipped his head back, baring his throat with a little whimper, and Hob took the hint, kissing under his jaw and sucking a mark into the skin.

“Very well,” Dream breathed. “Take the lead, then, dreamer.”

So Hob did, pulling his loose shirt over his head and tossing it off into the grass. Despite the relative chill of the night air, and the darkness, he wasn’t cold. He supposed that was the Dreaming, already building magic up between them.

Dream pet at his bare arms and shoulders, clearly pleased, as Hob guided his legs apart, slotting himself between them. Dream folded his legs around Hob’s waist, hands in his hair now, running through the strands with actual sparks following his fingertips.

“I think I like this wild magic,” Hob told him as he kissed Dream’s throat again, then his sternum between the lapels of his robe. “I think I like seeing all your feelings like that.”

Dream grumbled, “You would,” but didn’t stop touching. His fingertips tingled against Hob’s skin. Hob thought about having those hands all over him, and groaned.

“Yeah, I like it a lot,” he confirmed, and tugged on the tie of Dream’s robe. It fell open around his body, and oh, he was so gorgeous in the dark, almost glowing from within with power, deep shadows in every corner of him. “You’re beautiful,” he added, and the air shimmered around them. Hob grinned in delight at the reaction. “Ha!”

Dream squirmed uneasily under him. “You have much influence here.”

Hob laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “Oh, yeah? Is this thing making you uncomfortable?”

“I trust you,” Dream said, which wasn’t quite an answer. Hob waited, and he added, “I want this.”

“Okay,” Hob said, offering a reassuring smile. “Let’s have it, then, yeah?”

The reassurance didn’t land as solidly as he had hoped. “Can I?” Dream whispered, and Hob didn’t think it was something he would have vocalized if it wasn’t just them, alone here in the grass. It was so important to Hob to catch that feeling, to not leave him holding it in empty air. “Would you, truly, love me? The King of Dreams, of Nightmares? The landscape of the unconscious? Hope and fear, persistence and uncertainty, creation, story, ambition, art and terror all?”

“I already do,” Hob murmured, kissing his lips, his cheek, his forehead, lingering there in benediction. “I already have. I’m no artist or visionary with one foot born in the Dreaming. I chose to love you, you know.”

“Oh,” Dream breathed, hands framing his face. “You did, yes.”

“Would choose it again until the end of time, my Dream,” Hob vowed. “Love for you carried me through every hardship. And now. Maybe my love can carry you in return.”

“It does.” Dream’s eyes were shut now, and Hob watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the air wavering around him as his composure slipped. The tightening of his expression as he fought it.

“Don’t,” Hob said, as Dream’s hands fell from his face to grip his shoulders, fingertips sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hold onto yourself so tightly like that. Isn’t the point to let go? Let me catch you.”

“I—” A tremor ran through Dream’s body, echoing out into the ground around them. “I. Yes.” Incrementally, he relaxed, opening his eyes again, and they were rimmed red. Hob ran his thumbs across Dream’s cheeks as tears slipped out one by one, water breaking its surface tension and spilling over.

“Do you want to stop?” Hob asked.

Dream shook his head. “It simply feels… more than I expected.”

“Okay.” Hob kissed the corner of his eye, catching a tear on his lip. “Stop me whenever you need, okay? But otherwise, let me take care of you. Will you let me take care of you?”

“You are good to me,” Dream breathed, eyes falling shut again, “my dreamer.”

The word shimmered something through Hob’s being, a title, a calling, a naming. The Dreaming reaching out to its other half. A magnified version of what he had felt in the Dreaming recently—a comfort, a closeness, a sense of belonging.

Breathing hard now, he kissed down Dream’s collarbone, then his sternum, peppered kisses over each of his ribs, wrapped his hands around Dream’s thighs. He pressed his nose into Dream’s stomach, felt the tension in all of his muscles and their gradual loosening as Hob kept kissing him.

“Relax, Dream. You have got to let go.” Dream’s fingers wound into his hair again, gripping tight. “Easy, my love.”

“I—” Dream blew out another shuddering breath, warm wind whipped around them, caressing Hob’s shoulders like a phantom touch— and he felt the moment Dream finally turned the Dreaming over to his hands. The diffusion of power into the clearing around them, the way the stars shined brighter, the loosening of Dream’s grip in his hair. Dream’s chest heaved like he was truly breathing, like he truly needed to, and Hob surged back up to catch his mouth in a kiss.

He felt so connected to the Dreaming now. He could feel the raw dream power in him, what he could usually only just barely touch by touching Dream. And he knew then that if he wanted to bring the Dreaming’s power to bear against Dream, he could—and that Dream was trusting him not to.

I am but a conduit, Dream had said. Hob shivered. The swirl of emotions was almost overwhelming—honor that Dream would trust him with this, that he even wanted to; and pride that Dream had been able to take that step; and horror at the thought of it ever being abused.

It’s safe, Dream had also assured him, and Hob was about say something to the effect of this not being safe at all, actually—before realizing that Dream meant it was safe with Hob. That the thought of Hob being the danger in this scenario had never crossed his mind.

Dream’s love for him was a terrifying thing sometimes. And a great gift.

“C’mere.” Getting choked up, he gathered Dream close to his chest, pressing his face into his neck. “I love you, you know?”

A tremor ran through Dream’s body, and he hummed, wrapping his arms around Hob’s shoulders. “Hob, I—” his voice rumbled unevenly through Hob’s chest. The powerful thrum of it that usually echoed through the Dreaming whenever he spoke was brought down to normal volume, a human sound Hob could hold within him. “I need—”

“Shh, shh, I’ll give you everything, don’t worry. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Hob dragged his fingers through the soft grass at their sides, and Dream shivered. “All of you.”

Dream plucked at the waistband of his trousers. His voice was a whisper in the night. “You are still clothed.”

Hob laughed. “In a rush, now?” But he obediently tugged off his trousers, throwing those to the side as well, and then they were skin to skin, only Dream’s thin robe between their bodies and the ground. Dream was bared to Hob in all his beauty, familiar now but so special when he could feel the energy of dreams in him, the power and vitality of them.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” he said. Dream made a quiet, rough sound in his throat.

“You are incomparable with the Dreaming’s raiment upon you,” he said, hands running up and over Hob’s shoulders, up his neck to frame his face. Hob leaned in to kiss him and finally pressed their bodies together properly, grinding against him. Dream gasped, already so on edge, hiking his legs up to allow better access. Hob took one narrow thigh in his hand and bent him back further, hooking Dream’s leg over his shoulder. He had Dream physically at his mercy now, too, twisted and pressed into the ground, and he felt this was what was supposed to happen. That Dream was supposed to trust, and Hob was supposed to be deserving of it.

He would be deserving of it.

“Going to make you feel so good,” he promised. “Trust.”

“I trust,” said Dream. He was moving needily against Hob now, and pink dawn was peeking over the horizon, the darkness of early morning slipping away, and Hob reached between them to press his fingertips to Dream’s entrance, finding him already loose and slick. Dream magic. Wanting made manifest.

Hob swallowed hard, throat tight, heat building in his groin, aching in his thighs. He slipped two fingers into Dream, relishing in Dream’s groan, the line of his throat as he tipped his head back. Hob worked him open carefully. Normally, it wasn’t possible to hurt Dream during sex in the Dreaming unless he allowed it, but Hob wasn’t sure that was true in this particular moment. All the power was in his hands, and he wanted it to be right, and good, and easy.

Dream’s hands grasped the back of his neck, buried in his hair. His groan was long and dragged with the agony of wanting, and Hob kissed at his jaw to appease him, nipped along the shell of his ear. “Hob, I am ready.”

“Alright, love. You know me. Got to be sure.” He lined himself up and pushed in, one long, smooth motion, breath trembling as Dream’s heat enveloped him. Dream whined, grip tightening in his hair. And Hob braced himself over him, starting to fuck him in long, slow rolls, each point where they touched a bright spark of dream power. So much of it, in his chest, in Dream’s body, in Hob’s hands where they brushed Dream’s sides. As far as Hob had learned, there was no inherent incantation of this ritual—it came only from them, and their transfer of power, and their trust and devotion. And he could feel it, that connection, and the conduit Dream had made of himself, though Hob would never see him that way. For him it was Dream first. Always had been.

There were words, though. Dream had said he would know them, that he would find them within the Dreaming. And find them he did. He kept his pace slow and dragging as he spoke, fitting the soft, solemn lines.

“I take thee as my lover, all world’s dreaming.” His voice felt rough, torn, and it sounded like marriage rites.

“And I take you, dreamer,” Dream replied, hushed. His breath hitched with each of Hob’s thrusts. His eyes were midnight blue in the shadows, and Hob couldn’t look away.

“To hold you from within and without," Hob continued. “To make you stronger.”

“To never forget you and your power,” said Dream, and the Dreaming flared around them in reminder.

“To help you grow,” said Hob.

“To help you rest,” said Dream.

“To help you rest,” Hob added, kissing his forehead, and Dream huffed.

“Not the words.”

“Still.”

Dream sighed again, and Hob kissed his lips, quick and light. “To inspire you.”

“To inspire you,” Dream echoed. Met Hob’s eyes again, a hopeful, vulnerable little look. “Kiss me again?”

Hob could never say no to that. He kissed him deep, plumbing his mouth with his tongue. Dream groaned, surrendering to it. Hob increased his pace, just a bit, and Dream’s groan stuttered out into a drawn out moan. Hob kissed him deeper, kissed it out of him, pressing Dream’s hiked up leg to his chest until he whined from the angle. Until he was hitting Dream right where he wanted and each thrust drew him a punched out gasp.

“The words?” Hob prompted, grinning against his cheek, and Dream just groaned.

“Hob—”

But he gathered himself, breathed out, wonderfully affected— “I will be a haven for you.”

“I’ll be your custodian,” promised Hob.

“You will plant in me.”

“You’ll help me bloom.”

“You will…” Dream swallowed, throat bobbing, trembling under him, “love me.”

Hob kissed his forehead, and Dream closed his eyes. “I will love you.” Those were the end of the set words, but Hob continued, pressing kisses over Dream’s face: “I’ll adore you, I’ll worship you, I’ll love you fore—”

Dream pulled Hob’s lips back to his. Kissed him deep as he pulled Hob’s body into his, encouraged Hob to thrust harder, clenching around him, and Hob did, bringing them closer and closer until the heat peaked and his orgasm washed over him.

Dream followed him over the edge with a cry, a rush of dreaming power going with him. Hob felt it his hands, over his skin, in Dream’s fingertips where he clutched at his hair. He could feel the entire Dreaming now, the infinite expanse of it. The long history of hope, of curiosity that had curled around him on dark nights; invention and newness, the reshaping of hands and thoughts; change and memory, the shadow that had cloaked and warmed him all his life. Companion, haven, challenge. A shape too big for comprehension. And all of it localized within his lover. Within his heart.

Hob kissed him hard as the power shimmered through them. Waves of pleasure through Dream, through the Dreaming. He held Dream close to him, body and soul, every moment a deeper connection.

When he pulled back from the kiss, Dream’s eyes had slipped to their natural starry darkness. Hob rested his hand on his cheek. Swam in the pleasure he could see in that look. Pressed his forehead against Dream’s.

“Did it work?” he murmured, voice thick.

“I should probably tell you.” Dream was still twined around him. “It is not binary, where the ritual works or does not. It is a degree of power. Of. Connection.” His voice was more solemn than Hob would usually have expected in the aftermath of sex. “You felt it, did you not?”

Hob could still feel it, Dream running through him, and the vastness of him at the edges of his vision. “Yeah. I did.”

Finally, Dream slipped away, just far enough to separate them. Curled up against Hob’s chest, resting his head over Hob’s heart. “I did not imagine,” he started at a whisper, “how it would feel. To give over the Dreaming.”

Hob wrapped his arms around him. “How did it feel?”

Dream’s voice was still a whisper. “Terrifying. But. Freeing. And you held it so beautifully.”

“I’m proud of you,” Hob murmured. “For even being willing to try that.”

“I have wanted to for a long time," said Dream, "but did not always know it was what I wanted. I would have rejected the idea until recently. But always. There was an itch in me. Something with teeth, biting.”

“What changed?”

Dream’s lips curled up in a tiny smile. “You. I knew there was something to you that I needed, even when I first saw you. Only I did not know what. Not until. My escape. When I saw you again.”

“Couldn’t have imagined anything like this, but I wanted you the second you challenged me,” Hob told him. "I felt like I was supposed to. Like. I'd been watching the horizon for you. Still can’t believe my own patience about it.”

Dream chuckled. “Not so patient. My return was not the first time we had each other.”

“I don’t get any credit for four hundred years?”

“I was speaking of your dream.”

It took Hob a moment to think back. He dreamt of Dream quite a lot, nowadays, and had in the past, too. Then it clicked. He had had really quite a vivid dream the night they had met, hadn’t he? Vivid enough that he could still remember it, when he had forgotten whole eras of his long past. He pushed himself up to look Dream in the eye. “That was actually you? Dream.”

“As I said.” Dream’s voice held a tinge of guilt now, though he didn’t look away from Hob. “I was… compelled by you.”

“You’re a little nightmare, you know that?” Possibly he should have been upset over it, but wasn’t. Dream had that effect on him. And he had known, already, that Dream had hooked something sharp into him, long before they had acknowledged it. “I did wish it was you at the time, although I was imagining you in my bed, not the real you in my dreams.” He swept his thumb over Dream’s lip, and Dream’s tongue dipped out to wet it. “Hottest dream I ever had. Left me wanting for days, you did.”

“Good.” Dream tipped his head back as Hob kissed his throat. If they weren’t careful, this was going to tip right back over into sex, but as much as Hob wanted to make Dream come again, make him cry from overstimulation, he wanted this more right now: touching and lying quietly in the aftermath of their lovemaking. And baring long-held truths, apparently. “I imagined you wanting me, and satiated myself on that for a long time.”

“Could have had me any time you wanted,” Hob murmured. “Only had to say.”

“I see that now. I worried what it meant that I wanted to. And. I understand now that I was sensing something… true and dangerous that really was there, only I needn’t have been worried about it.”

“Dangerous?” Hob asked, but he knew what charge Dream spoke of. He still felt the echo of the Dreaming held in his hands. Union was safety and comfort but also a collision of power.

“Most dangerous,” Dream agreed. He ran his thumb along the hollow of Hob’s eye. “Most kind. Most lovely.”

“Keep me, then,” Hob said, though it was almost a plea, his face still held in Dream’s palm. The perennial fear that Dream would flit away again was always within him, even now, in the wake of all that power, that sharing. Dreaming was so immense. And Hob loved it, loved him, but it was a terrifying thing, to love something so much greater than you, even if doing so felt right.

“Can you not feel it?” said Dream. He took Hob’s hand and a spark jumped between their fingers. “The Dreaming would not let you go now. And nor would I. Even when you return to the waking world, there is always a place for you here. Beside me.”

“Dream…” Hob kissed his hand, then leaned back in to kiss his cheek. Lingered there, with their faces pressed together, his heart soothed of a raw wound he had almost forgotten had once been carved. Wedding vows, Hob had thought of the words they had spoken. He thought now that he had been married to dreaming for a very long time, and being able to give that devotion to Dream himself was only a solidification. It did not, truly, need words. It needed only their hands tangled together, and Dream tucked in his chest, where he had always, truly, resided.

Hob was not made for dreaming. But he chose it. And he intended to keep it.

#nothing like fucking a concept amiright!#this fic got weird sorry #but ive had enough of obsessing over it. here it is #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #my writing #ritual sex fic #with LORE! :D #every person on earth definitely dreamed about this that night lol

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captainmera · 2 months

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He looked into the galderstone. It’s blue shimmer allured him. Caleb stroked the surface of it. “I’d give anything to be alive and see her again.”

this line HURTS SO MUCH especially after all that has happened in ttocw RAAAAH /pos

Ok but seriously it so much fun to go back and read TGB (especially Caleb's arc) now that we've got to see so much of how you build his character nowadays

Man some lines just hit like an emotional train like These are not my hands.” He said, curling his fingers in. “This is my thumb. And my blood. But not my life. I wouldn’t rob Hunter of his life, I know what that’s like.” yeah that whole scene where Caleb was crying in hunters body got me rolling in tears /pos

All in all it was quite entertaining to watch goofball English-man argue with the children :)

I KNOW. 😭

Not me sitting over here all "how can I make this more tragic? :)" and then build Caleb up as someone who flip-flops between trying to live day-by-day and suicidal ideation, only to find hope and freedom and everything he ever wanted. And then the consequences of his deceits and lies catches up to him and he's murdered. And then he's a ghost who haunts his brother and lives inside the hearts of Grimwalkers made in his image ---

tgb spoilers beneath

SO I ASKED MYSELF, Y'KNOW??? HOW CAN I MAKE IT WORSE? oh, I KNOW!

What if he manages to manipulate his way to an unfinished grimwalker. And gets a new body. AYE????

THAT PLAN OF HIS, YEAH? GET A NEW BODY, AYE?? AND VENGEANCE???

AYE.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT, INNIT?

So he gets a body. Luz fights Belos, defeats him. That old bugger's still going and tries to run, aye?

But instead of killing him, y'know.. Because he's done a lot of harm and edited historical documents etc, his victims needs justice, aye?

And Caleb, who blames himself for being the trigger of events for leaving, for having raised Philip and subsequently turned his brother into this maniac, feels responsible.

Caleb, who wants retribution for being robbed of his life. but also justice for Evelyn and the realm he calls home, wanting to be put to justice for his own crimes as well as Philip's, which he views as an extension of his own.

He's in this half-finished grimwalker body. Open wounds and all, managed to stagger his way to the battleground, arrives post-defeat of Belos. And just as Belos is going to pull a last power-move, Caleb's there.

And manages to trick Belos into believing he's no longer bewitched, he's free. They can take down the realm together. Belos possess him.

with this spell I declare the pain to be shared.

and locks Belos into his galderstone heart forever.

That way, Philip got what he wanted - his brother back.

Caleb gets what he wanted - to "save" his brother but also bring him to justice to face his crimes.

Like this, Caleb asks to be sentenced, to be the "guard" of his brother and be his stand-in. As a responsible big brother, he lets "belos" go to court, encaged in Caleb's heart and only let out if allowed and even then Caleb. as both blueprint and grimwalker, has the final say in how long he gets to be out.

Caleb finally gets his peace by going to jail, and can help the boiling isles regain what Belos has taken away from them. Caleb was there after all, through the eyes of grimwalkers, he knows a thing or two.

There's two sentences.

One for Belos, aka Philip Wittebane. And one for his brother, Caleb Wittebane. They are conjoined for now, and the court doesn't agree with Caleb that he should suffer the same sentence as Belos. Though it cant be helped.

But as Caleb is in control, they make accommodations in his cell. Like for example he gets a TV, and a magical window he can look through but not break so he can see the island.

He gets visitation rights, too, and mandatory therapy.

Hunter and Luz visits a lot, and once the Clawthornes find out they're related, they visit too. Old friends of Caleb's like the batqueen, visits now and then too.

Caleb spends his days learning to read and write, helping Lilith and the new government find lost documents!

It is not difficult for him to stone sleep, and he does it more often than he should probably.

To him, this prison is basically just a nice extension of his previous prison in the galderstone heart.

But he dips down to his brother. They have things to talk about, to fight about, to argue and discuss. Philip has admitted defeat and gives the information Caleb is asking of him.

The brothers love one another, but both are resentful. So it's going to take a decade or few to see eye-to-eye. But Caleb is determined to make Philip understand he's done wrong and that this punishment is justified.

"The only reason you're not dead, Pip, is because my love for you triumph the hatred and anger I have for you. I cannot forgive you, not until you are truly sorry. I need you to repent. For once in your life, admit you're not the smartest in the room 'nor the most noble. You're not." "I-" "You are not! You are but human! We are human- We aren't perfect! By god, Pip, I am not the brother 'nor man you thought or wished I was. And you are delusional to think that you are any greater than the next flawed man." "..." "You have done great evil, Pip, and you can't even see it. I need you to see it." "... If what I've done is so evil, then know I did it for you." "Why do you think I'm here?" "..." "You fool." The colourful smokes wisps up into the starry skies. Caleb looks up at the endless moving, twinkling, cosmos. It is not a normal night sky, it reminds him a bit of that Collector child's magic. But perhaps that's just the Galderstone magic looking similar. He looks down at his pouting brother, he's changed form to his young adult self. His face all crinkled up with foul thoughts. Caleb sighs. Another argument leading nowhere. But someday he'd get through to him. Someday he would. The boy he once was, was in there, somewhere, or at least so Caleb hoped. But maybe that was just an older brother's wishful thinking. He did not want to give up hope on Philip changing his ways. Perhaps it would take another 400 years to do it, but they had the time. And it's not like Philip had anybody else than Caleb and the beasts to talk to. Artemis taps around in the sand. "Ah, yes, I see you are losing to Artemis' masterful game of tic-tac-toe." Philip glances at the sand and the little pebbles. Indeed, he kept losing to the palisman. He let out a grunt. "Don't feel bad, he wins against me too. And I've gamed him for 400 years." "Mh." "...Alright, well, good night, Pip." "..." And Caleb left. Opening his eyes to the quiet of his cell. It was a nice cell, like a little flat with no privacy if someone looked in through the bars. He turned on his pillow, his soft and pleasant pillow. And saw the photograph of Evelyn by his bedside. And smiled. What wonders the modern day could conjure, huh? They took out a memory of her from him, copied it, put his memory back in his head and let him keep this copy of her - amongst other photos that donned his walls. Nearly from floor to ceiling, there were photos of his past, of Hunter and his friends, his descendants. Some posters of things he liked from the human realm and the demon realm. But near his bed, like the star on a christmas tree, was a framed picture. His Evelyn. "Oh Ev, he's stubborn." But Evelyn's photograph didn't respond. "But so am I. And he is helping, although a bit less graciously as I'd hoped. But he is giving what I'm asking for at least, with some... Persuasion." Evelyn's photo was smiling sweetly at him, and he smiled back. "Lilith is coming tomorrow, with Hunter and Amity. What do you think I should wear? Mh? Blue shirt? Red shirt? I like the red one.. It has frills!" He got lost in her eyes and cuddled down. "Yeah.. Red one." He closed his eyes to dream. "G'night Ev." And as he slept, he had another one of those dreams where she played a lyre for him. They laughed, and talked, and played in the summers and winters of his dreams. An endless forest with golden lights, her laughter, and his cheeky grins. This dream was a summer. The tulips swayed in the breeze. Caleb liked to think those dreams were her ghost visiting him. After all, he'd been a ghost for centuries, he knew what they could do. Entering dreams were one of many perks. He had his hell in his galderheart, his heaven in his dreams. He was at peace.

#tgb #tgb spoilers #ttocw #mini-story at the bottom #cus I cant help myself

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bestjeanistmonster · 8 months

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In dc au i kinda gave the black arms a new ability to mind control people and add them to the hive-mind as workers bent on serving Black Doom, kind like Starro from the comics

So when they invade earth, Black doom appears offers to help Shadow take over the world and Shadow’s like ‘neat’

Sonic tags along for the ride but Black Doom assimilates him into the hive-mind with mind control stuff without Shadow knowing, Shadow was doing something else at the time (looking for that damn fourth chaos emerald) and when he meets back up with Sonic he’s acting a lil… off

At this point Shadow would’ve been rethinking him and Black Doom’s partnership, so Doom would target Sonic so he could keep an eye on Shadow more discreetly, while also being someone that Shadow is more likely to give info to rather than a doom eye, then when Shadow is pretty much definitely gonna betray Doom, Sonic tries to steal the emeralds Shadow has from him

I just have this mental image if Sonic and Shadow leaving a room, Sonic behind Shadow just intensely staring at Shadow’s quills where he put the emeralds

Sonic is keeping up conversation while reaching for it but then Shadow without turning around grabs his arm

The whole hive-mind thing is unknown to Shadow, he just thinks that Sonic just wanted to grab the emeralds for Eggman, but if that was the case he would’ve stoken them himself and he wouldn’t have waited ages either, he’s getting red flags so Shadow restrains Sonic quickly with vines and locks him in the GUN vault, not before stealing his phone

So he's running through the base while going on Sonic's phone to see if this was part of a plot or something but then he sees just how many missed calls from the Doctor there were, there were over 50, there was no way Sonic missed them

So he calls Eggy and the guy is raging, ranting about how he'd been calling Sonic all day since the hedgehog had hung up on him earlier

That’s when he realises something is very, very wrong

Throughout this arc it becomes apparent just how many people are under black doom’s control, that there’s no one who Shadow can trust, but later when there’s a confrontation about it Black Doom points out that Shadow himself had done the whole mind control thingy using his pheromones in order to have free minions

"And who are you to judge me? You too have made use of my methods, using your plant pheromones to give yourself some extra canon fodder, i do the same, coincidences are funny are they not? Besides you and i both know they are only meat at the end of the day, we are simply putting them to more constructive use."

He placed a hand on Sonic's head, "and they have the honour of being part of the hive, and they serve their purpose to benefit us, and they are happy to do so, for they are free of all the sorrow, the pain, the anner and they are no longer alone, they are at peace. A productive existence, a better existence, would you not say?"

And Shadow… he can’t say that he’s wrong or else he’s a hypocrite

Then when Doom sicks Sonic on him it’s even more disturbing for Shadow to see Sonic like this, the blue hedgehog being oddly calm and ease during the fight, with a serene smile on his face, saying stuff like: "Join us Shadow, it's so nice and welcoming, you won't ever have to feel the pain again. Lord Doom will heal you of it, like he healed me :)"

Just creepy shit like that, it’s only offset by the many breaks in the mind control as it showcases how much effort black doom has to put in to keep someone like Sonic on leash

Shadow has to put Sonic under his control and try to override Doom's control, but he doesn't have to do much to help Sonic's will fight back

Like 2 mental nudges and then it breaks

Then Sonic is hit by the quiet, the quiet of being alone in his own head

After that whole debacle, Shadow fully connects to the green and murders Black Doom, gaining a third eye in the process

#jeanist thinks #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sth #sonic fandom #sonic au #sonadow harlivy au #also there’s the irony that Sonic’s free will is too strong to be contained #but even as he’s freed he’s still under someone’s conttol whether he knows it or not #sth au

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sinbinfamiliar · 6 months

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So… hear me out.

I’m horrible at timelines so bear with me on this, I know as much as I know, and I couldn’t find anything that was super solidly concrete for timeline placement of events per say, so I’m making a bit of wiggle room for myself here.

But when Enver dies by the hands of Tav and you use speak to dead on him, you see that basically his soul has been yoinked by Bane, and is going to internally be tortured for failing.

And while I know that Enver is considered a chosen, much like Orin and Ketheric were, both of them had transformations. Both of them had another form to take on thanks to their deities/gods they were chosen by. Enver never truly does, he stays as himself.

And while I know that it’s outdated information, but since Bane was known in the past to grab someone as a vessel, a avatar, and puppet then around while the original resident of the body couldn’t only watch, what if this is either fully or partially the case?

What amazing context that could add to the events of the story for Enver, and added angst and sadness as well. What if not all the actions of his were his own by choice? Perhaps selling Karlach off wasn’t 100% his choice at the time if he was chosen by then, and being push to do what Bane wanted, maybe even controlled in a sense. How painful would that be to know he was there, watching when he did things that even he wouldn’t do?

Imagine the utter anguish it would cause, and the tragedy it makes. The moments he does have control of himself he is still trying to maintain a semblance of control over his life as always, in the same situation he was in the past. Wanting power sure, but at these costs? Even he may not have stooped so low. What if Karlach was right? That she didn’t know what happened and he just up and sold her, and it was actually out of character for him. Because it wasn’t him. What if most of what we see in the game isn’t fully him? Or him at all? How utterly intriguing would it be then to bring him back somehow, to see how much of a different person he could be when not controlled, and able to try again to make better choices.

To have the option your companions did.

How utterly fascinating would it be to relearn a character again that you thought you knew, but didn’t perhaps know as well as you thought? To know not all of those horrible i choices weren’t all his.

I dunno, maybe I’m woobifying a villain again, but the idea that maybe not every action and choice was all Enver’s seems so much more in depth to delve into then someone as easy as “evil cause evil” in a basic sense. Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course. But I’m a sad sap who likes tragedy in heaping layers of pain lol

The redemption arc that could come from somehow saving Enver’s soul, using true resurrection, and giving the actual true second chance he needed, just hits different ya know? Living with all the memories of the things he didn’t have control over perhaps as he was second passenger in his body, and now needing to live with them and face those consequences and perhaps get better(much like your companions, who aren’t perfect either even during happy ending style routes)

Bah! Just food for thought though!

Perhaps my own personal theory/headcanon I may work with though. Cause I just truly love the tragedy of it all. BUT I’m just rambling at this point!

Also here ya go! @houseofhopeofficial ^w^ tagged ya like you wanted!

#lord gortash #lord enver gortash #enver gortash #bg3 gortash #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #I did not back read this to see if I had any typo’s #but I am far to nervous to read back to make sure #lest I back pedal and not post this #OOF I haven’t interacted with a large fandom in this way in a long time #in a very long time #usually I’m in smaller fandoms #but this one? it’s big #I feel very smol compared #big time shy and anxious pft

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disabled-dean · 4 months

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Asterism of an F-Series Ford Pick Up- 17k

Now with BELOVED amv by @butch--dean 🖤

Summary: When you've been to hell, desire is isolating and ugly.

Or: Cas drives his truck for a case and Dean is exceptionally horny about it.

“Once on a hunt when he was a teenager, Dean had been caught too close to an explosive when it had gone off. There had been the moment when the projectile hit, and the moment when it had detonated. And just before it had, there had also been a moment when he had believed that maybe it wouldn’t.

He had thought about that moment for years, over and over again, until something else had taken its place. And the way that that moment was quiet, the way it was still- that is how this feels. To lie beside Cas in the bed of his truck, their shoulders barely touching.”

Follow @deancastruckwip for bonus content <3

Ten Minutes From Home [Lebanon Coda] WIP 30k

We've truly come a long way since the iconic:

"Physically restraining myself from writing a coda fic for Lebanon, where John stays over at the bunker, Cas comes home in the middle of the night & there's tension between him and Dean over whether or not they will still share a room, and then 29-year-old Mary has to sit through Thee most homophobic breakfast with her dead ex-husband, closeted son, and his common law married, ancient eldrich boyfriend."

This fic is a deep dive into some of the juicier elements of Lebanon, including- justice for Mary Winchester and her rich internal life, the intricate dance constructed around Dean's homosexuality and John's neglectful/abusive parenting and the impact of the Michael arc on Dean and Cas' relationship. Also features: recovering!alcoholic dean, a staggering amount of risky bunker sex, biblically accurate sibling interactions, and studies on objectification. Also Sam is practicing witchcraft as a treat, and I put that guy in eating disorder recovery (because he fucking needs it) <3

Haven't started posting this one! But you can follow @lebanon-wip for excerpts, inspo, and bonus content <3

An Easier Softer Way WIP 38k

Recovery!natural. Injured after the hell rescue goes wrong, Dean ends up disabled and living in a small rural town in Eastern Washington. With Sam fucked off to god knows where and without the fight to distract him, Dean has nothing left to focus on but his burgeoning sobriety, and persistent dreams of hell.

Set in the arid low-lands of the river valley, surrounded by apple orchards and twisting irrigation canals, Dean becomes convinced he can see a great beast stalking through the hills bordering the town. The same beast he has dreamt of since returning from hell, the same one he can sometimes feel beside him when he knows that he’s alone.

Walking the line between grief and reality, isolation and community, Dean has to pull together what's real and what isn't as he adjust to his disability, and finds faith that he is capable of building lasting relationships and creating a life for himself worth loving.

Also eventually Cas shows up, and they save the world.

He’s still debating just getting the fuck out of there when a women at the head of the long table clears her throat, and starts to read from a laminated print out. The edges of Dean’s vision blur out a little. He has to leave. He has to- the woman is still reading. Dean tunes back in in time to hear, “-At some of these we balked. We thought that we could find an easier, softer way. But we could not." Here, the speaker pauses, and Dean feels like she looks right at him. But she doesn't. She just gives the laminated sheet a little shake, clears her throat and continues, "With all the earnestness at our command, we beg of you to be fearless and thorough from the very start.” And no one could ever call him a coward. So he stays.

Honestly the most plot I've ever worked with (and very deeply personal) so this one could be a while. @aneasiersofterway for inspo, vibes, and bonus content.

#my work #spn fic #destiel fic #deancas fanfiction

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what-would-have-happened · 1 year

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MHA FIC REC LIST

Because apparently this is a thing that people do; so, I’m going to list the best fics I’ve ever read as well as why, exactly, you should read them. It’s a very varied collection, but you’ll find a lot of dimension/time travel, as well as Todoroki-family centric fics here.

Dragonborne — Ojiro/Shinsou. Set in an AU where Ojiro’s quirk isn’t just Tail, but something insane and awesome, actually. This fic has incredible writing and a very compelling plot that gets PERFECT around the middle of the story; if you are someone who likes either Ojiro or Shinsou for no good reason, this is the fic focusing on them that you’ve been looking for. 125k, complete.

Mild-Mannered School Teacher/Adrenaline-Junkie Vigilante — Fuyumi/Miruko. Fuyumi becomes a vigilante and runs around vigilanting with Dabi, without realizing who he is; she gets a girlfriend along the way. Check this one out for a peak f/f ship and lots of Todoroki drama; funny and emotional at the same time. 136k, complete.

Back To Me — no ship. A story about Kurogiri finding Shirakumo, or maybe about Shirakumo finding Kurogiri. Either way, it’s a rollercoaster; mental conflict abounds as the man of mist tries to figure out who he is, and villain-hero conflicts aren’t exactly making doing so easy. 214k, in progress.

Quirked — Erasermic. Izuku travels to a parallel dimension where no quirks exist, and manages to bring a quirk along with him. Despite not having had one before. What else to do than to become a hero? This is the vigilante Izuku story to surpass ALL vigilante Izuku stories, full of fresh and interesting ideas as well as a carefully evolving plot. 133k, in progress.

Cracked Glass — no ship. Essentially a Promised Neverland AU, but it takes place in a dimension parallel to canon; when said dimension collides with canon, it begins the first chapter of a brilliant disaster. Ojiro stans, this is another fic just for you. If you’re not an Ojiro stan, read this anyway and become one. 192k, marked incomplete, but it more or less is finished.

Dermabrasion — Dabihawks. This is a world where Shouto goes looking for Touya, and wouldn’t you believe it, he finds him! Naruto is vaguely involved. No, that wasn’t a typo of Natsuo. SO MANY GOOD TODOFAM FEELS. God, this fic is excellent; really explores the dynamics of everyone in the family in wonderful detail. Yes, everyone. All the Todorokis get screentime here. 410k, complete.

make this feel like home — Tododeku. A story about the three younger Todoroki siblings trying to get along over the holidays; eventually, they drag the oldest brother in too. Short but sweet, funny, and hits you right in the heart. 26k, complete.

Cair Parallel — Shinsou/Kaminari. If you don’t ship them (as I do not) you can simply ignore that part; and it is beyond worth it, for this fic’s magnificent story. It’s gotta be one of the most creative things I’ve ever read. Modern no-quirks AU, but the gang plays dungeons and dragons; so many varied character arcs, all developing with an equal amount of focus, and so much humor alongside the complex relationships. If you’re of the opinion that Iida needs more fics where he’s a main character, well, I am too, so come check this out. 590k, complete.

Artificial Parenthood, Affectionate Brotherhood — no ship. If you read only a single fic on this rec list, read this one. It’s metaphorically every single chaotic Dabi-gets-deaged fic you’ve ever read, but combined into a vaguely coherent narrative that’s glued together by innovative word usage, that good old Todoroki angst, and Bakugou. There’s also time travel. There are so many thoughts in this story, and they’re all condensed tighter than a steel rope. I can read this again and again and again, and I still don’t know if I’ve found everything this has managed to express. Probably not. If I had to say the story was focused on anything, I’d say Dabi, Bakugou, and the escalating terror of existence. 208k, in progress. (the other fics in the series are worth a look, too.)

The World Ended Before It Could Begin (Time Doesn’t Heal All Wounds) — no ship. Shinsou time travels back from the Nomu apocalypse to save the world, and runs directly into a pre-Dabi Touya. Events proceed with a lot of confusion from there as Shinsou tries his best while trying not to rope his friends into danger as well (he does not succeed) and with no intention of gaining a family (he gets one anyway.) Lots of family feels and humor here; Touya goes undercover as Dabi at one point, which is hilarious. Also: duck feet. 72k, complete.

Lost In The Darkness — no ship. Shigaraki kidnaps Bakugou at Kamino, but instead of the events we all know, there’s an earthquake, and they both fall in a pit and die. Okay, they don’t die. They do become besties, though; a hero-villain team up that’s determined to change the world and recruit each other to their respective sides, Bakugou and Shigaraki are like a pinball machine that wrecks everything else around themselves for the better. The League attempts redemption, Midoriya and Kirishima try their best, and the Todoroki brothers get dragged into the situation one after the other. If one thing’s clear, it’s that no one’s life will ever be the same again. 394k, one chapter left.

Ignite to the Call — no ship. The dimension travel is premium here, my friends. A group of UA students wake up in a world that’s both similar and different to their own; where reality could have gone, if one thing had changed. What is that one thing? Surprise, no one knows! Featuring Izuku as Shigaraki’s little brother, Dabi as a guy who wants to know why Shouto froze him in an iceblock, a collection of teenage runaways and dangerous animals, one or quite possibly two ghosts, A Great Escape Plan, and copious amounts of kidnapping. 600k, in progress.

Bakugou Bewitched — no ship. I can think of no better way to describe this fic than the term Platonic Bakudeku; the friendship is strong in this one. In summary, Bakugou is inflicted with the curse of obedience from Ella Enchanted. (I’ve never watched Ella Enchanted.) It makes his life increasing flavors of difficult, and the relationship between him and Midoriya is the most twisted spiked thing, and also stronger than the hardest steel. These two are inseparable—to Bakugou’s great distress. If you want a fic that treats the Bakugou-Izuku relationship like the insane shard of intensity that it is without once touching the line of romantic, this is the one. There’s also lots of neat Bakugou family content, which I don’t see often. 155k, complete.

sunshine in the library — Shinsou/Izuku. A vampire AU with the most beautiful feels, this fic is coming for your heart, and dragging a new OTP along with it. The plot is best described as a bundle of awesomeness with Shindeku the main and magnificent focus. Featuring: Izuku as a guy way in over his head, Shinsou as the brooding vampire who needs some light in his life, and Iida and Uraraka as vampire hunters who are rather unhelpfully misguided. They’re trying their best. The plot that’s planned out for this fic is fifty two forms of brilliant, and I can’t wait to read it all. 46k, in progress.

Where your love has always been enough (for me) — Enji/Rei. Endeavor time travels after his death to twenty years in the past; to a time before he broke his family. He doesn’t break it this time. Endeavor redemption arc, and a Todoroki family where only the father holds the weight of what he had once done. Where sometimes there’s a second chance. I dunno, but maybe the Todorokis need a little less angst inflicted on them, every now and then, and positive emotions, instead. You’ll definitely feel positive emotions reading this. 160k, in progress.

This Is Why We Have The Rules — no ship. Kirishima makes an entire chapter worth of accidental innuendos, Iida almost becomes the overlord of UA out of sheer exasperation plus a lack of sleep, and Ojiro is the only normal student in class 1A. That’s it, that’s the fic, and it’s one of the funniest things I have read in my entire life. 8k, in progress.

Soulmates and Wormholes — Kiribaku, Tododeku. It’s a modern AU featuring the well-loved soulmates trope; but with a twist, and that twist is parallel universes. This fic is consistently hilarious throughout and tells a compelling story that only gets more and more interesting every chapter, and I cannot wait to see where it’s going. It’s excellent. 76k, in progress.

And that’s all for now! Thank you for reading!

#mha fanfiction #mha #bnha #fanfic #todoroki #todoroki family #todoroki shouto #shinsou hitoshi #ojiro mashirao #kurogiri #dabi #touya todoroki #bakugou katsuki #deku x shinso #shindeku #midoriya izuku #fic rec #rec list

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teecupangel · 10 months

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Desmond lives after the Solar Flare but half of his face is torched and all his ancestors (including Haytham) can control his body sometimes..... which is basically just a Two-Face/Harvey Dent scenario

If I remember correctly, Two-Face can’t control which side takes over, right? (then again, I’m sure there’s a specific timeline or arc where he can in the comics)

So let’s use that.

Desmond can’t control who takes over, but there’s pretty much trust among them all, and they’re cooperating with each other, although there is a lot of suspicion being directed at Haytham because he is a Templar.

Although Haytham is acting quite ‘cooperative’ (which is suspicious all by itself too) and they all have the same priority: to keep Desmond safe.

Unorganized Notes:

Prioritizing Desmond’s safety was bound to happen. They all share the same body so that means they need to protect said body.

Desmond wouldn’t wear any ‘two-faced’ themed clothes because that kind of fashion sense will catch people’s eyes. He’s most definitely going to keep his hood on and maybe even get a face mask or some kind of fabric he can wrap around his lower face to make it harder for people to see how half his face is torched.

He might even grow his hair, so he could use it to hide half his face, although that would end up being scrapped because, goddammit, it’s hard to see and the hair gets in the way.

The most ‘two-faced’ theme clothes he’d do would be to wear a full on half white half black mask. Maybe even add a bit of gold accent to it?

Wanna make Desmond’s life more annoying? It’s not just his face. Half of his body is torched, and the middle of it looked like the burnt part was slowly creeping towards the other half. (I kinda like this idea of him being more like the burned version of Hel, the half-normal, half-rotting goddess of the dead… so, like the Muspelheim-version of Hel XD)

In this scenario, Desmond could be a rogue Assassin, working alone to fuck up Abstergo while looking for Bill Miles because he (especially Altaïr and Ezio) want his Apple back.

Altaïr usually takes over when something tech-heavy is needed, since his time studying the Apple helps him understand 21st century tech far more easily than Desmond himself.

Ezio usually takes over when it’s time to put on the charm and for any situation where swaying other people to their side is paramount.

Ratonhnhaké:ton takes over when they need to hunt something or someone, or if they need someone who hits fast and hard with no qualms fighting a lot of people with really fast guns.

Haytham usually takes over when it’s time to stop being nice and manipulate people. Threatening and intimidation? That’s more Altaïr’s alley. Haytham is there to lie and cheat and manipulate people into doing what they want without them realizing it. Oh, and if the need to act like an elitist prick is needed (“There’s no need to for such rudeness.” “Bite me, Haytham. Ow! Did you just… bite my own arm???” “It was not me. I would never drop to such immature tomfoolery.” “… Guys…” “Not me/no/It was not me.” “Well, obviously, one of them are lying.” “Uh-huh.”) (It was Ezio)

#uncontrollable bleeding effect switching #two-faced inspired au #desmond is the muspelheim-version of hel #physical-wise #if you want to add glowing golden lines in the cracks of desmond’s burned body #go ahead #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #altaïr ibn la'ahad #ezio auditore #ratonhnhaké:ton #connor kenway #haytham kenway #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed

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badnew2005 · 1 year

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dennis’ shirt in gets romantic . do you remember hoodiegate. blue and arguably stripey (simply because of how material works) a core emotional dennis motif. but these aren’t bold stripes. it’s The material that makes it seem stripey, all blended together, unending stripes, you can’t tell where one ends and another beings, it’s continuous, but still landscape. you don’t know where he is emotionally, and he doesn’t either. just come back from north dakota. pretending everything’s the same. knowing everything’s different. macs out. and he left. and came back. there are blue stripes.

then THE blue stripe dennis emotional shirt. big and bold. it’s got a different neckline than break up’s shirt but it’s essentially the same pattern. following the narrative of the episode. dennis is out (of the plan)… but he won’t leave. hearing mac set up dee and greg. the wink. confusion and then acceptance. “what do you mean the plan is in motion for me, i thought i was out” setting dennis up with lisa. maybe teddy was a platonic friend from highschool that makes greg jealous. maureen kicking mac out of their apartment after getting married to dennis. “so i’m still your leading man” the big stripes. big emotional arc. calling lisa “my roomie” when he has to flirt with her. drinking wine. helps when your sad. still got big blue stripes. you miss teddy and no one can replace him. macden coming home singing the boys are back in town. maureen couldn’t replace mac. i don’t love you maureen (looks at mac) i never loved you (maureen). blows hitting on lisa purposefully. if he really wanted to sleep with her “sex, banging” he wouldn’t have been that forward, knew it wouldn’t work. big blue stripes. i’m still your leading man. mac thinking that went great. i find you annoying this whole thing is annoying. i’m leaving (to mac’s room). you just have to trust the structure. Just Trust The Structure!!!

third and final dennis shirt. still blue. it’s checkered But the more prominent stripes are facing downward. a Change. the emotional blue stripes are still there but there’s new stripes, going in a different direction. horizontal stripes shown in closeted dennis moments. the macden story and frank and charlie’s stories mirroring eachother - as they once did in fights gay marriage/gets divorced. straight is gay. the stripes have changed. the whole worlds upside down and the emotional dennis stripes have twisted. stops trying to set dennis up with a woman and moving the focus to setting mac up with a man. it won’t play in middle america but we’ll jam it down their throats till they enjoy it. mac coming in and out of the closet like a yoyo. so you’ll help me. i will. emotionally charged macdennis moment. mac let’s go find you some romance. the stripes have changed. this cat is coming out of the wall. to get him out you introduce another cat and they get codependent then that second cat will come out and hopefully the first one will come out soon after. episode before gets romantic was mac finds his pride. Just Trust The Structure. the framing of dennis, with his horizontal and vertical stripes, standing behind mac (hoodiegate). if you just give us a chance, we could tell a love story for the ages (chuckles softly) (dennis is out of frame) a gay…. gay-ass love story. sunnys relationship with its audience and the media. greg i don’t know what you’re talking about … back to dennis. and his stripes. you can barely see the horizontal stripes. they’re mainly vertical. he’s changing. this is a turning point. it was me, it was always me. lisa’s here, focus on dennis. lisa as maureen lisa as mandy. he doesn’t want lisa here. now dennis and his stripes are out of frame again. moving away from the love story, teddy reveal, someone smarter than me could talk about father son relationships here. dennis isn’t over macs shoulder but we still go back to him. you can see the checkered shirt so clearly but the vertical stripes seem even more prominent up close. director glenn. trusting the structure. dennis shots isolated from macs “love story” until the reveal it wasn’t romantic. dennis ready with the speaker. that’s not romantic or comedic. i guess we’re not gonna get that romantic comedy ending after all. mac and dennis’ story mirroring charlie and franks’ Again. the stripes have changed. the cat is coming out of the wall. and i am trusting the structure

#this is so stupid #i don’t know how to talk about stripes eloquently #macdennis #tagging a post ? oh my god . she’s back #WITH NONSENSE #gets romantic truly an insane episode #i will always be trusting the structure #and on the look out of emotional dennis stripes shirts #the fights gay marriage gets divorce mirroring saying how mac and dennis had a more valid marriage than dennis and maureen and frank n char #the gang gets romantic #iasip

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bardic-inspo · 2 months

Text

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Two: Moths to Flame

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

✨Full Chapter List ✨BG3 Fic Masterlist ✨

Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

“Have I left you speechless?” Astarion laughs like the sound of tinkling chimes. “No need to be shy, darling. It’s stunning. Truly.” “I thought you quite loathed me,” she says coolly. No matter how sweet he sounds, there’s still a sharpness to his stare that warns of claws. Maybe that’s why she hasn't moved an inch since she’s seen him.

Chapter CW: Minor/Supporting character death.

A/N: Cross-posting from AO3. Dividers by @cafekitsune.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

“If I knew you’d be playing the role of dead weight, I would’ve left you for dead on the side of that road!”

If Astarion saved even half his venom for the gnolls tearing down this road, maybe they wouldn’t be in such dire straits.

Nevermind that Naomi and Shadowheart would’ve told Astarion to beat it before he could take another slice with that knife of his. The party’s Most Valuable Cleric isn’t exactly leaping to Naomi’s defense at the moment. As it is, none of them have much of a defense left at all.

Snapping jaws clamp to Shadowheart’s shield and drag, shunting it sideways. Magic flares, bright and scalding, from the half-elf’s hands. A screech shreds the air, the acrid stench of singed fur burning in Naomi’s nose. But the gnolls’ incessant cackling doesn’t falter.

Shadowheart stumbles backward with wet, slapping steps. “A little help, here!” She grunts through gritted teeth.

Karlach heeds her plea, flames leaping to life across her flesh. She swings her axe in a wide arc, but the gnolls jerk backwards and the blade only breezes over air. Their foes slink into a circle around her and Shadowheart, spitting.

Sweat beads across Naomi’s brow. She clutches the silver symbol chained around her neck -- an elven dancer, poised with a sword. Come on. Come on!

Silver flame snaps at the heels of a slavering gnoll. But it snuffs soon after it sparks. Harmless as a sneeze. Slitted eyes lock to hers. Maddening laughter mingles with a low, guttural growl.

“That’s it?!” Astarion’s exasperation hits a new octave. “That’s your contribution?!”

Naomi’s chest heaves. She drops back into cover behind the overturned cart, shoulder brushing Astarion’s bristling one. An arrow hisses past her ear. The ground sizzles where it splatters on impact, bare inches from her feet. Something snaps free beneath her ribs, like a breaking bowstring.

Nevermind all of this cleric shit, actually.

“Fuck it!” She snarls.

“Oh now, you’re throwing in the towel?” Astarion seethes. He nocks another arrow and shifts to shoot. “I was sure you’d set fire to it al--”

For a sparse, sacred second, Astarion’s livid glare gives way to eyes blown wide as moons. They track the quivering mote of magic hanging a breath from his nose as it steers an arrow safely past instead of through him. Even after the flute leaves Naomi’s lips, the hum sticks on her skin like static. His jaw drops slack, anger melted to awe. What started as a shout ends in a whisper only she can hear.

“--ready.”

Noise rushes in again. Karlach rushes the opening and arcs down with her axe. The gnoll cleaves. The weapon wrenches back with a sickening crunch. Blood splatters the dirt in webby strings.

Naomi pivots, forgoing cover and for the flute pressed close. Magic shivers across her lips, like the gentle caress of a lover. She shudders. The tremor builds, barreling down her neck, raising hairs in its wake, running through her ribs, to her feet, until the ground itself is shaking. A storm of claws rains from overhead as the gnolls lunge towards her. Thunder pulses from where she stands, sudden as a snap of fingers.

The gnolls fall, backs slapping sand. Heat lashes near Naomi’s cheek. Karlach swings again and makes a mess of them. The road’s a river of red, vined in viscera.

It’s over. But it isn’t quiet. A chorus of breath that can’t be caught aches in Naomi’s ears. Her heartbeat’s a rampant drum, pounding next to a melody that plays faintly in her mind. She can’t quite grasp the tune. But it lingers all the same, like a bruise she doesn’t remember earning.

She’s earned someone’s ire, apparently. Astarion’s glare comes to life once more with murderous vengeance. “You’re a fucking bard?! This whole time, you-- I fucking knew it!”

By the time they trudge back to camp -- beaten, bloody, but still breathing in spite of it all-- Astarion’s changed his tune.

“Well, well,” he tuts with a devilish gleam in his eye, “someone’s been holding out on us.”

Naomi trains her attention to the task at hand -- dinner. The meat starts to sizzle on its skewer. Not so different from those scarlet eyes searing into the back of her head. But other stares join Astarion’s, morphing into shadows cast long from the firelight. She doesn’t need to turn her cheek to know they’re waiting. All of them, at this point.

One of them isn’t so content to continue doing so.

“So, it seems that while you’re an absolutely abysmal cleric, you’re not a bad bard. I’d say I underestimated you,” Astarion muses dryly, “but given the evidence, I don’t know what other conclusion I could’ve drawn. Whatever else you are, you’re quite a good liar. Aren’t you?”

She spares him a sideways glance to find his arms crossed. Astarion doesn’t wait, he demands. An answer, attention, satisfaction. The rest of their crew beg the same, but they have the decency to do so in blessed silence.

It’s a virtue that eludes her, even as she tries to seek its sanctuary. Naomi rubs her throbbing temples. Still, the ringing in her ears doesn’t stifle. It prickles in the depths of her memory, in a melody both foreign and familiar. Gods, how does it go again?

Astarion clears his throat, expectant.

Naomi sighs tightly. “And I suppose that wounds you, you open, bleeding book.”

His cover hasn’t opened an inch in the weeks since their second meeting. Third, technically, if you count his apparent sighting of her on the nautiloid. But she’s seen enough to be sure it is a cover.

After all, she first saw ‘mister boring magistrate’ fishing in the Flophouse. As far as she could tell from her brief residency there, Fraygo’s housed foreigners, passersby, and people who wanted to rob them. If Astarion’s from the Gate as he says, it leaves little wonder as to what category he’d fall in.

“Ha!” His laughter comes pitchy. “On the contrary, I’m thoroughly entertained. I suppose that’s what a bard’s good for.”

Naomi’s jaw shifts, but before she can parry his backhanded commentary, a gentler voice enters the fray.

“We’ve all got our stories, our secrets, and our reasons for them,” Wyll interjects. “You don’t owe us every one of yours. But we do deserve to know where your loyalties lie.”

Naomi winces. The fire’s spitting, but it somehow stings far less than the warlock with the heart of gold wondering where her heart is at.

Astarion scoffs, hands shifting to his hips. “More importantly, I need to know you’re not holding back when you’re supposed to be watching my back!”

“Why were you?” Shadowheart’s voice cuts in, cool as steel. “Holding back?”

Naomi’s eyes flit to Shadowheart’s scar, so similar to the one Naomi has across her own nose. Her fingers twitch. She buries the urge to reach up to her own face to trace the shape of the scrape. Why were you holding back?

It didn’t end well the last time she played, she could say. Or at least, the last time she sang. She could say, ‘superstition’. But either way, she’d have to say so much more.

“It’s been a while since I played,” she settles on instead. “I grew up in an Eilistraeean temple, in an opening to the Underdark. Before all of this, I hadn’t ventured very far out onto the surface. I was only just starting to. This little adventure has been…strange in so many senses.”

Wyll’s expression softens. “You thought your goddess would protect you.”

Sure. Close enough. Naomi takes the cue, smiles sadly, and nods. Astarion spoils the moment with some strangled sound between a laugh and a snort. Like a dying horse.

A hand cuffs her shoulder. Naomi stiffens for a second before easing again. Gale kneels down beside her, plucking the skewer from between her fingers. An act of mercy, it turns out. She blinks, now noticing the blackened meat that’s been right in front of her and in the flames for far too long.

Oh. Naomi’s lips twitch ruefully. Crispy.

“A bard’s magic is arcane,” Gale says, taking a knife to carve off the worst of the char. “But we’ve all seen you wield divine power. Your goddess must still favor you.”

“Hardly,” Astarion mutters, faint with dwindling interest. He’s drifted halfway back to his tent, though his ears stay perked.

Gale arches a brow. “A great deal, I’d wager. Most deities are not so content to play ‘second fiddle’, so to speak. If a god gifts you powers, they usually expect you’ll use them effectively.”

“I swear I really am better with a fiddle,” Naomi says, sheepish.

“You’d be better at banging pots and pans than with sacred flame,” Shadowheart laughs without malice. “You’re not bad at healing, though.”

“Ouch,” Naomi pans. “I think I might need some.”

The wizard needs a more intellectual peace of mind, it seems. Their banter only deepens Gale’s worry lines.

“Eilistraee is the Dark Dancer,” Naomi tells him. “She’s a goddess of freedom, and music, and, well, dancing. She’d never punish me for this.”

She wouldn’t. Naomi swallows hard. Would she?

“If anything,” she says, shrugging her shoulders back, “she’s probably as relieved as the lot of you look.”

Gale nods, saying nothing, but thinking loud enough for Naomi to hear him without the help of the tadpole. He’s caught on something, like a gear that won’t budge. She teeths her cheek, pondering what has him hung up, when fresh heat prickles her skin.

Her eyes dart to the campfire, but Gale has it neatly tamed. It’s Karlach that’s crackling. The tiefling saunters up behind them.

“So, new you,” Karlach says, eyes alight with mischief, “what other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”

Before she can entertain an answer, Gale gives her one.

“I’m formally usurping you from dinner duties,” he says warmly. “My first command with my newfound authority is for you to regale us with song while I rescue our sustenance.”

Naomi offers an easy smile. “Your wish is my command, oh benevolent one.”

Naomi frees the flute from the fastenings at her belt, lifts the hollowed bone to her lips, and lets her breath flow. Music flows with it, playful and springy. It floods their little clearing in the woods, hushing the sounds of scurrying creatures.

Is this how it goes? No.

It’s not the melody haunting her head, but for a few moments’ time, she doesn’t feel so trapped in there. Vaguely, she feels her comrades watching her again as she plays, but as the music carries through the camp, it carries her mind away from them. Carries her away from tadpoles and gnolls and concerns of certain doom. They’re all fading sparks, drifting into nightfall. To dust, they all return.

Until her wandering, distant gaze meets a vermillion one, and it pins her back to the present. Astarion peers at her over a page he's no longer pretending to read. He’s got that look again, the one he wore when she cast cutting words and cast away the arrow intent on his demise. Such round eyes, softened in surprise. But they narrow, knife-like, a second later, as soon as he sees he’s been seen.

A sly smile curls over Astarion’s lips as her song bends with the smoke from the cookfire. It’s a small victory, maybe, but she’s not sure if it's his or hers.

The song dwindles. Naomi spies another set of glittering eyes that send her stomach plummeting. Lae’zel doesn’t just stare. She’s stabbing Naomi, surely, in some spiritual sense if not a literal one. Must not be keen on bards.

Naomi sets the flute away again. Karlach clears her throat pointedly.

“Erm, don’t take this the wrong way -- not that that wasn’t very lovely! It was! I was just wondering, do you have anymore, you know, fighting tricks?”

Naomi shrugs. “I can cast ‘stab’ as a cantrip.”

“You--”

The bugbear snarls through his teeth.

“--ruined--”

He grips the morningstar like a vice, taking swing to Astarion’s head. Still, snickers spill in a fountain from the elf’s lips. He can’t stem his tide of laughter. Not since they burst into the barn and found the bugbear and the ogre fucking over a haystack.

The flute fucks the bugbear, instead. The morningstar glances, harmless, over and above Astarion’s carefully coiffed curls.

“--my--”

Splinters burst from the board the bugbear breaks instead of the Gale he intended to. The flute screws him again.

“--rutting!”

And again. He’s left panting, winded, and dearly wanting.

“Oh that’s what that was supposed to be?” Naomi huffs. “Sounded like you stubbed a toe.” Her eyes drop to his bare member, still bared for all to see. “It looks like a stubby toe.”

That hit landed. She can see it in the crazed gleam that bulges in his eyes. The morningstar thumps, forgotten, at his furred feet. The bugbear lunges. The flute flies from her fingertips and crunches to ruin between his jaws. He spits out the pieces like loose teeth.

Naomi lets out a deflated groan. “See, this is why I didn’t pack the fucking fiddle.”

“Not so tricksy now!” He laughs darkly, lips parted in a too-wide grin.

Her back smacks boards. Hot, rancid breath clouds her cheek as the bugbear looms, boxing her in. Only for a moment. Naomi spies a tell-tale shimmer behind the bugbear’s back.

“Oh no,” she says with a smirk. “Now I’m much worse.”

Astarion’s knife sinks in. Blood sprays in a warm, wet rain across her neck. The bugbear’s face twists with the blade.

Her lips pucker, and a high, wavering whistle whisks her away. Mist shrouds her shoes as she fades. Naomi emerges again above the fray, poised on the junction of beams crossing beneath the pitched roof. A low woosh chases after her. Astarion unfurls from the fog on the beam’s other end, the soles of his boots glowing briefly blue.

He sets his sights on their larger quarry. Karlach’s kept the ogre at bay, but the beast bears down, relentless with fists and fury. Gale gives them a wide berth, working glittering fractals out of the air with a flourish and a biting incantation. Frost fans from his outstretched palms. His spell paints an ice slick beneath the ogre’s fumbling feet. Down she goes. Naomi braces against the aftershock. Debris patters her shoulders as the whole barn rattles.

Karlach tumbles down, too. The tiefling buckles, hissing as she grips the gash in her arm. Naomi’s whistle keens sweeter. When Karlach draws her hand away again, the wound’s drawn closed.

An arrow flits past her cheek. Naomi turns to see Astarion easing from his stance as the ogre breathes her last. Her one-time lover’s still stubbornly holding onto his, though.

A gargled cry echoes from down below. Naomi watches the wounded bugbear crawling among the scattered straw. Pitiful.

“Hey!” She calls. “Up here!”

His neck cranes, wild eyes burning at the sight of her overhead. Naomi’s tongue lies heavy in her mouth. The words are stones. She casts them with a pair of fingers. Middle ones, raised in turn.

“Up. Yours.”

Green light floods his skull, seeping from his eyes sockets, gushing from his lips. He shudders. And then he wilts, limp and lifeless.

He’s hardly mourned. Astarion’s breathy laughter spurts out of him, unbidden.

“That actually killed him?” He beams, but his eyes are dark and his voice scrapes low. “Oh, you’re an absolute menace.”

The praise rings in her ear. Like temple chimes. Or warning bells. Or, something else. A song, maybe. She can’t pin it down.

Sea spray slaps the cliffside near the coast, but it doesn’t drown the peeling cry of a lute plucked to misery. A shrill chorus comes with it. Naomi grimaces.

“Is that meant to be music?” Lae’zel’s face wrinkles in disgust.

“I didn’t think you knew the meaning,” Naomi mutters, picking her way up the slope.

“Likewise,” Lae’zel grumbles.

“It’s quite agonizing, isn’t it?” Astarion groans.

The culprit comes into view as they crest the hill. She’s a tiefling woman with violet skin and flowing hair decked in motley. A pretty picture of what a bard should be, if she wasn’t wilted over her own instrument.

“It’s-- it’s just stuck,” Naomi sighs, shaking her head.

The tiefling shoots a wary glance her way. “You’re right. But how did you know?”

“Besides the fact that poor lute is crying out for mercy?”

“Ugh. I know I’m butchering it with this stupid song,” the tiefling mutters, burying her head in her hands.

“It’s not stupid. It’s just…stuck,” Naomi says again. Like the sudden lump in Naomi’s throat that thickens, and doesn’t budge. She coughs to clear it, but the pressure remains. “Let’s start with the lyrics.”

But it doesn’t stop there. By sundown, Alfira’s pitched a tent in their camp and taken refuge by the fire. Her music’s mournful, but hopeful. Happy in the sad way of something good that’s happened before. But now, it’s done with.

Gale balks as Naomi reaches to stir the stew. She’s shooed off unceremoniously. Forever banned from dinner duty, it seems.

She paces, purposeless. Fluteless. Fidgeting. Cursed with idle hands. At least a devil’s workshop might put them to use. Sounds productive. This dwelling certainly isn’t.

What use is it, thinking about the Doom again? The tadpole is already in her brain. Doesn’t mean it has to be so incessantly on it.

And of course, their only hope, Halsin the druid, had to find himself in the middle of a goblin fortress. Something, someday should be easy. If it isn’t any of this. Tomorrow, they’ll attempt extraction. Which means tonight, there’s no use being sick about it.

But her ears are still ringing. Someone hands her stew. She sips it halfheartedly, and sets the rest away to cool indefinitely.

“Won’t you share a song of yours?” Alfira says some time later, with a pitying sort of smile.

Naomi sits on the stumps with her, heaving a weighty sigh. “Who’s to say I have any? You said yourself, you haven’t heard of me.”

“You helped me find the words for my music well enough. You’ve got something stuck, too. Don’t you?”

Naomi frowns. Yes, something stuck something awful. A little worm, wreaking havoc in her head. Among other things. Or, maybe the obvious thing is the only thing. Side effects of side-stepping ceremorphosis for too long.

Alfira shifts her lute in her lap. “How about I play, and you sing it if you know it?”

The first chord thrums. Naomi feels it stir beneath her sternum. Feels the shrill ache leave her ears at last. This isn’t what’s stuck. But, maybe it’s part of it. Her eyes slide shut, as if to sleep.

Naomi knows it. She knows the first note catches in her throat before it comes free, but she frees it anyway. She feels the butterfly fear flutter in her gut, and sings, still.

“Bare feet along the coast

Sand swallows the steps we’ve tread before

But you’ve made your mark

Like the silver tide that sunders the shore

Breaking waves and carving cliffs

Yielding to the sweeping sea

In the salt and in the stone

You’ve made your mark on me…”

It’s been a long time, she thinks, as the final verse closes, and silence comes again. It’s been a long time since she sang.

It’s about time. It was all a long time ago. It hasn’t happened since. It doesn’t have to happen again.

And it felt good. She lets out a long breath that drifts like a ghost. Gods, it felt good. She peels her nose to the simmering stars, shoulder blades sinking back and down.

Naomi blinks. She didn’t realize how much time slipped from her, sitting here, as the embers withered down to smoke plumes. She’s the only one that remains to keep the crickets company. Soft snores and sounds of slumber flit across the camp. Naomi stands, stiffness prickling in her legs.

“Quite the view. Isn’t it?”

Not alone, after all. She pivots, pulse kicking only to tumble right back down again.

“Astarion! You’re--”

Lounging. Just a few feet away. He lies with his arms propping his back, head tilted towards the sky, just as hers was. Basking. Moonlight melts in his curls and leaves a sheen on his cheeks. He looks made of marble; sharp edges lining supple muscle and smooth skin.

“I didn’t know you were there,” she finishes lamely.

“My apologies for startling you,” he says, not seeming sorry at all. “You seemed lost in thought. I found myself in much the same state. Reflecting on what tomorrow might bring when we find this druid.” His expression shifts, smirk fading with his brow bending in. “Will he know how to bring the tadpole under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?”

“Honestly? I…” Naomi trails off, toying with the notion. Honesty hasn’t been her strong suit. So far. She takes a stab at it, anyway. “I doubt there’s a simple solution to something that’s so fucked to begin with.”

Astarion cocks his head. “You’re not one for faith, are you? I suppose that makes us kindred spirits. Perhaps that’s the real reason why you couldn’t keep with the cleric routine.”

The barb doesn’t feel like one, said so gently.

“You have a lovely voice, you know,” he says, soft as silk. “I hope this isn’t the only chance I’ll get to hear it.”

It might be. Naomi swallows, but her throat’s grown dry as a desert.

“Have I left you speechless?” He laughs like the sound of tinkling chimes. “No need to be shy, darling. It’s stunning. Truly.”

“I thought you quite loathed me,” she says coolly.

No matter how sweet he sounds, there’s still a sharpness to his stare that warns of claws. Maybe that’s why she hasn't moved an inch since she’s seen him.

“Not quite,” he says with a shake of his head. “I quite like what little of ‘you’ I’ve gotten to see. Better than whatever you were pretending to be. I’d like to see more of the real you, however tomorrow unfolds.”

So that’s what he means. He doesn’t want this to be an end. Naomi tilts her head. Why?

He stands in a lithe motion, fluid as a brushstroke. “And you’d like to see more of what the surface has to offer, I’m sure. I promise it’s not all illithids and imminent doom. There’s beauty here, if you know where to find it.” He drifts a step closer. And then another. “Art. Poetry. Music.”

Every word is crooned in a low timbre with a rasp at the edge. They sound like songs, the way he says them. Brimming with depths unknown and promises just below the surface. Same as his eyes, alight with an agenda she can’t quite clock.

Same as that night at the Flophouse, where she couldn’t shake his stare. What would’ve happened if something else hadn’t almost happened? What would he have done, if she came as close as they are now?

She should know better, now. He’s nearer than he’s ever been, aside from the times they’ve brushed by each other during their brushes with danger. And he’s pretty to listen to. A red flag all on its own. She should know that, at least.

“Alfira had it right, didn’t she?” Astarion says with a lift at the corner of his mouth. “You were stuck. And now you’re…” He closes his fingers to his palms and opens them again, casting them down to his sides. “...free as a bird.”

“And it suits you,” he says, wetting his lips. His gaze dips down and lingers for a moment before it fixes hers again. “This little transformation of yours.”

Noise rips to life in her ears. Naomi’s palms fly to her temples and press. But it doesn’t drown out. Bile burns the back of her throat. She spies a blur, shifting past Astarion’s shoulder.

“What is that?” She pants. “Alfira?”

Her pulse sprints. Panic pours adrenaline in her veins. Alfira’s tent is torn. Ribbons of it billow in the breeze. The stench of rot rolls with it. Naomi recoils. Not again. No.

There’s a shape, in the dark. Wet, like a puddle. Crumpled. Breaking, under gnashing teeth.

And another figure, hunched over the first. Pale. Spindly. Bony.

Astarion doesn’t budge. His brow wrinkles, annoyance cracking his facade. “I don’t hear--”

But the dead do. The creature’s head rolls upright with a sickening snap. The brush comes alive in sudden cacophonous clatter.

Astarion moves when she makes him. Naomi shoves his shoulders with as much force as she can muster. “Astarion -- look out!”

“Well,” Astarion says, with a hint of a smile and reproach in equal measure. “Looks like someone’s finally decided to rejoin the living.”

Naomi finds him with one knee propped, an arm draped over it, and his other leg dangling over the low stonework on the side of the bridge. A creek babbles beneath their feet. His knife glints by the barest light of the slivered moon, flipping once more before he stows it.

“I slept?” She asks, though she knows the answer.

“Like the dead,” he replies, with a smile that’s grown. It doesn’t match the flicker of worry that darts through his eyes, rabbit-quick, and then gone. Quick as Naomi’s heartbeat, still hammering. “Did you dream?”

“Mhm,” Naomi hums, forlorn. “Spiders again.” She saunters over to sit upon the stone beside him, swinging both legs over the side of the wall and letting them hang.

“Hm. Considering our daily dose of the macabre, perhaps that means it was a pleasant one, compared to what it could’ve been.”

The fire snaps behind them, festering in its final death throes. When she glances back at it, over her shoulder, there’s no flames to be seen. Only a flurry of sparks, bursting to fleeting life on a wayward breeze. The campsite’s quiet as the grave without another soul stirring.

In darkest night, she and Astarion can see better than most others in their camp. It used to irk him, getting voluntold for this shift of watch. He prefers to see the sunrise. But then, he decided, all on his own, he’d rather see the stars with her. So, he’d abandoned Gale’s educational company for finer sorts. His words, not hers.

There isn’t much to see, though. Even the moon’s turned her cheek, showing only a glimpse of it. Naomi scans the cliffs, surveying either end of their chokepoint on the road cutting through them. Not many places to run, should they find themselves surrounded. But there’s not many threats they wouldn’t see coming from up here.

Baldur’s Gate is still three sleeps away. Though, Naomi will take the trance for them, instead. If she has any say in it. She hadn’t meant to sleep at all, let alone into the start of her watch.

“I promise no more corpses came calling,” Astarions says with a searching gaze. “No more curses, and no more hungry shadows.”

Naomi’s attention follows the slope of own arm, to her palm, splayed, on the stone. No more spell stains on her skin, either. For now. Still, her gaze lingers, until a paler hand comes to lie over hers.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” He murmurs.

Naomi swallows, but finds herself suddenly parched. For water. For words.

“Oh, don’t hurt yourself, dear,” he sighs, but it’s soft. “I think I can hear it well enough without the worm. You don’t think expunging a centuries-old darkness did the trick.”

Naomi dares a glance upwards. He speaks reassurance in the language of skepticism. But she catches a glimpse of anxiety again, passing like a phantom on his face before fading.

“You don’t think saving a cleric of Selune, rescuing the actual divine daughter of Selune, or wrenching Shadowheart from Shar’s grip exorcized any of your own demons.” He clicks his tongue. “Even though you killed a lot of already dead people.”

Astarion leans in, stoking familiar, feather-light anticipation in her gut. He stops as they come nearly nose-to-nose. Farther than her lips would like, but near enough to read her mind. “You need to be sure.”

“If I can be,” she says, weaker than she means to.

Gooseflesh wakes on her skin, brought to life by Astarion raising only a finger. His nail drags, just sharp enough to be sweet, up the column of her throat, sending a shiver down Naomi’s spine. His index presses beneath her chin, and lifts.

“Then sing for me.”

He didn’t ask for a frail whisper, but it’s all she has left to offer. “What do you want to hear?”

Just one finger, one little motion. And she’d offer him anything. He knows it. He has to know it.

“One of your songs,” he says at once. “The one you sang at Last Light.”

He knows exactly what he wants. Naomi’s chin still rests on his fingertip, but barely so, on a barely-there touch. Only her feet hang loose, but the whole of her feels weightless.

“I sang a lot of songs at Last Light,” she says, clearing the husk in her throat.

A pout wrinkles his perfection. “You know the one.”

A wry smile steals across her face. He knows it, too. Even though she hasn’t sung it since. His finger leaves her chin with a flick as the first note leaves her lips.

“When she laid her gaze on me

What I knew of warmth melted

Into honey-covered and sticky-sweet

Incessant, yearning, burning heat…”

And when she laid her gaze on me

I felt myself undone

For whatever I had been before

Was gone to dust forevermore…”

She sings it in elvish, the way she wrote it. She sings about a girl’s first time in the sun. About a silly little drow who confused freckles for death pox. It starts sweet. Hopeful. And then it aches with a swell.

Astarion draws his dagger, and draws watchful eyes over their surroundings.

“But when I stumbled back to shadowed halls

And gazed upon a looking glass

I found not love, but scalding sin

Written on my very skin…”

Whatever I had been before

Whatever I might have lived to be

Was gone to dust forevermore

The sunlight scorched the life from me...”

I drew my fists and damned her name

But still I bore my grief and shame

That I had traded night for light

That I must forsake her to save my life…”

The song ends where it started: hopeful. Like the way Astarion glances at her now. Wide-eyed, like he’s been wind-blown by wonder, wearing her favorite smile. The points of his fangs poke out from his lips by the barest bit.

He stows his dagger in its sheath again. But the pinprick of nerves stays sharp, needling beneath Naomi’s ribs.

“When dawn broke the dark didn’t waver

Nor did my heartbeat slow

I watched the sun rise from safety in shadows

And dared, again, to dance in the glow…”

And still, I lived, and still, I breathed

And still I bore the scars

But no others knew them by that pain

They said my freckles looked like stars…”

She laid her gaze on me again

And I was never the same

I laid to rest what I had been before

And when I end, I’ll be dust, evermore

But the great between is my domain.”

“Hm,” Astarion hums, fingers still rapping the rhythm on the stone. “Perhaps you were right, my dear. I daresay there’s an undead presence nearby that’s simply insurmountable. I don’t think we should trifle with that level of dark power. Best to cater to his whims.” His eyes flash, brimming with mischief, and the lightest nip of hunger. “Keep him sated, so to speak.”

“Don’t I already?” Naomi shoots him a sideways glance, but her wary eyes are quick to return to the darkened edge of her sightline.

“Mm. You are…”

Stuck in his throat, it seems. Seems a fair revenge, for how he’s made everything beneath her ribs feel like mush with just a look. Made her sing with one wag of a finger. Made her dare to sing again, at all.

“...too adorable,” he huffs with an accompanying eyeroll. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling. Look around,” he says with a wave of his arms. “It’s only me.”

It is. Just the two of them. But it hurts to look at him, just now. Like staring straight at the sun. She can feel the warmth he doesn’t speak, hear the part he doesn’t say. And you know I’d never hurt you. I love you.

Or, she wants to. Hear it. Maybe more than he wants to say it.

Naomi wavers where she sits. “It took a few hours, with A-Alfira--”

“We’re on watch. We’ve got the time, an arsenal of weapons, and alarm spells. And a cleric. A real one, with Selune on our side instead of Shar. Oh, and dare I forget,” he leans a whisper to her ear, the sound as sheer as a negligee, “a very limber bard. You must’ve heard of her.”

Briefly, his hand cups her cheek, kissing sweet, tingling coolness over the warmth flushed there. Naomi arches a brow, but it’s too late. It’s already over, and he already knows he’s found a new trick. And, it’s at least sort of working to quell the disquiet gnawing at her insides.

“I know you don’t believe it yet,” he says, his smile giving way to seriousness. “But I do. You’ve survived so much else. Why not this, too?”

Naomi gives the slightest shake of her head. “Because there is never a simple solution to something that is so fucked to begin with.”

“Well,” he says, chipper regardless, “then it’s a good thing there was absolutely nothing simple about lifting the shadow curse and shooing off all of those other pesky undead. There’s only room for one in the tent.”

He’s right. No more undead show up before the sun does. But still, some haunted song begs remembrance in the back of Naomi’s brain.

A/N: The fic settles into a more linear progression (less time hoppy) going forward from this chapter. Hope you enjoyed, would love to hear if you did! <3 <3

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #bg3 fanfic #midnight chimes #naomi tavriel #my writing

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