#lurking in my head like a PARASITE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teecupangel · 9 months

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So, ive recently gotten back into Protocreed and a what if..? idea i had was:

After Abstergo recovers Desmonds body, they experiment with his DNA and Blacklight. Resulting in him being revived after an outbreak and breaking free.

It could even be the assassins fault that the outbreak happened!

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the body dissapearing. It's only after the outbreak was contained and culled that Subject 17 was noted as missing. With all the footage being destroyed it is impossible to tell what happened to it, but the general consensis is that one of the infected ate it. It is a crushing blow to their research, but thankfully they have plenty of samples stored in a different facility, so all hope is not lost. No one thought of the possibilty that a repeat of Alex Mercer's revival could happen. Subject 17 has been dead for months, the body is simply too old. So no one thought too look in the shadows of the city, where something lay lurking. Tracking. Hunting.

Hungering

So I have a ProtoCreed idea similar to this that I posted here.

The comments/replies have more details on how it would go but, in a nutshell, Blacklight is a failed/abandoned Isu project headed by Tinia (so we can have a little hehe moment with Alex being called ‘Zeus’) and Dr Mercer is not a Templar but he’s still a piece of work.

And Desmond’s Isu to human genes ratio + his Bleeding Effect screwed up the virus that he still has the superhuman feats that Alex has but he can’t morph his body to have weapons or anything like that.

Instead…

It’s like he can spawn three specific humanoid figures made of the black and red writhing flesh which only has one specific goal: keep Desmond safe.

There’s more details in the link above but the main point is that Desmond’s virus makes him be able to ‘summon’ his ancestors who holds a piece of Alex’s OG abilities and it’s unclear if they are mindless or if their connection with Desmond keeps them docile because when Abstergo try to cut their connection (which are tendrils of red and black connecting the creatures to Desmond’s shadow), the creature goes berserk and attacks and devours everything around until Desmond reconnects with it.

So we have:

Altaïr = Blade

Ezio = Hammerfist

Ratonhnhaké:ton = Whipfist

Ezio gets Hammerfist because the sword of Altaïr is iconic so Altaïr gets the Blade and Ratonhnhaké:ton had the ropedart so he gets the Whipfist. XD

Although, in my original idea, Desmond keeps his memories (thanks to the Bleeding Effect) but if you want to go down the route of Desmond being ‘incubated’ by the virus during the story of Prototype and waking up afterwards, we can easily do that and the incubation period is actually what corrupted Desmond’s mind.

So in this situation, Desmond would be more like ‘Eve’ from Parasite Eve, the new origin of an outbreak (and everyone believes it’s Alex’s fault which will lead us to a modified setup for Prototype 2 and Alex and Desmond having an antagonistic start).

But the outbreak is strange because it seemed… targeted.

The ones to be hit first were Abstergo facilities or facilities under Abstergo’s shell companies.

And the spread only began when these facilities had fallen and the barricades have been breached, like… it wasn’t truly intentional but more of a ‘side effect’.

So now we have Alex trying to figure out what this new outbreak is because the ‘children’ for this one are faster and more cunning, using their surrounding to hide and wait. And these children seemed to be taking orders from three creatures made of darkness and blood.

(Or, if you want to preserve the Assassin white and red color scheme, it’s gonna be grosser with them being filled with pus and blood instead. The pus could be a sign that the virus is being combated by Desmond’s Isu genes though and that could be a clue for Alex)

And any time Alex tries to eat any of them, he only gains snippets of the memories of the same person: a man named Desmond Miles.

The three commander creatures also seemed to travel via shadows, being able to melt into the shadows before Alex could ever destroy them completely.

Later, he would realize that the whole city (whichever city we’re planning to set this on) are filled with what looked like lines all over (maybe one would say that maybe it’s the ley lines or something and Alex would say that it looks more like… veins…) and these veins are actually how the commanders travel all over the city.

At the center of the veins is a cocoon…

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 6 months

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First time fics

I was tagged by @undercoverpena and @secretelephanttattoo a while ago for this wonderful idea. This got a bit out of hand but I wanted to write a little love letter to each of these wonderful writers.

Disclaimer: LJ @prolix-yuy claimed most of my Pedro boy V cards because she's always the one who leads me into temptation i.e. new boys to obsess over ❤️

Din: @the-scandalorian (Masterlist) | @mandosmistress (Masterlist) | @mandoblowmybackout (Masterlist)

I was scavenging for Din fics on Google like a gremlin when I stumbled across Tumblr. I don't remember whose I read first, but I'm pretty sure I devoured all of Simone and Mari's Din fics during my lurking months, though it took me some time to work up the courage to comment and reblog! I was so thrilled to become friends with both of these lovely ladies!

Vibes was one of my first Din series after I got stuck into the fandom, and Ash was one of my first friends I met here!

Javier: @mandosmistress (Masterlist)

I remember reading Mari's Javier even before I watched Narcos, and I fell in love with him and his tight jeans irrevocably.

Jack: @prolix-yuy (Jack masterlist)

I already loved LJ before she wrote Cognitive Dissonance, but there was no way back after she introduced me to cowboy Jack. As I've said many times, LJ is the reason Palomino exists, and this fic is one of the most important stories to me, ever, for so many reasons ❤️

Frankie: @prolix-yuy (Frankie masterlist) | @intheorangebedroom (Masterlist)

See? I wasn't joking when I said LJ took all of my Pedro boy V cards! I remember devouring this series when it was still only on AO3. SW!Frankie remains so close to my heart.

Pleased to Meet You was not my first Frankie, but it is Maddie's first fic. Bonding over PTMY brought us together (among *ahem* other things *ahem*), and it will always be important to me.

Pero: @prolix-yuy (Pero masterlist) | @psychedelic-ink (Pero masterlist)

Yup, it's LJ again. I fell so hard for this combative, grumpy Spaniard and his Guerrera ❤️ I also fell in love with Sil's Pero, and that's how we found each other so it will always be extra special for me!

Dieter: @pettyprocrastination

I remember reading Extra Whipped Cream and going absolutely feral for PS!Dieter. I think it's the probably first Dieter fic in the fandom (not fact checked!), and it's still one of my favourites.

Ezra: @iamskyereads (Compulsion masterlist)

Compulsion is my first full-length Ezra fic and it is absolutely fantastic. I need this filthy, sweaty, loquacious spaceman, bad.

Joel: Sil (Joel masterlist)

I was very late to reading Joel, and I still haven't read much of him, but I remember I couldn't resist reading Musician!Joel in Head Filled with Parasites, the first of many wonderful and unique interpretations of Joel.

On top of my moots above, np tagging some lovelies who might want to share their firsts and anyone who wants to play: @wildemaven, @nothoughtsjustmeds, @radiowallet, @joelsgreys, @julesonrecord, @maievdenoir, @mrsquill, @dreamymyrrh, @refined-by-fire

#tag game #fic rec #first time fics

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ficbrish · 4 months

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7 Snippets, 7 Mutuals

Thanks @rotschopf-thedrow for tagging me 🥰

Rules: Share seven snippets and pass onto seven mutuals.

Since I'm still chipping away at Kinktober 2023 😅 I have more than seven one shot drafts to choose from! 😀 Here we gooooo!!!!

I'll try to stick to the order they'll most likely be posted in.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

If you are not an adult, do not interact!

Astarion/Vistri

The Truth of It (Tav; Act I; Mountains - camp)

Prompt: Thighfucking

[[tw/cw: Suicide, cptsd, self-hate, teasing, explicit language]]

Like a child, she brought her knees up to her chest, and rested her chin in the crook of them. Her expression was thoughtful, not refusing. She looked like she was going to answer, and was just deciding how.

And then she didn’t. She just sat there and stared ahead.

The broken way he eventually said, “Oh, my darling…” pulled at the thread that was holding everything together.

“Don’t!”

Vistri was stiff as the rock around them. So unmoving, she was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said very calmly, “Is there anything I can do?”

She shut her eyes tight, and began rocking, “No. Stay there. Shush.”

He nodded and waited for her signal to do anything other than watch and freeze. The timelessness of the hells fell over their heads. Gravity felt steeper. Now was forever.

“Okay,” her voice broke the spell, and she looked up at him, nodding, to repeat, “Okay.”

Astarion flew around her, and for the first time outside of a whoopsie in battle, held her so tight for the sake of his own aching heart. He kissed the top of her head reflexively. He warmed her back with one hand and cradled her face against his neck with the other.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered senselessly, “I’m so sorry.” He had no idea whether he was apologizing for whatever she couldn’t say, or himself. Perhaps both. Perhaps a bit more for his own wrongdoing.

Only it didn’t feel wrong. And that scared him. Frightened him.

Vistri knew she was crying but couldn’t feel herself doing so. She knew she was being held by him, but rather looked out and saw it from above and off to the side. She thought she looked terrible, and he looked so fine. Dashingly picturesque and tragic.

Nobody ever held her the way he did now. She never felt such warmth, and they were both such cold people. How was it possible? Was it some dream?

She started speaking, “We’re more similar than you know.”

Right then, Astarion predicted the gist of what she was about to say. He could tell just by the look on her face, and the way her tone itched at his brain, she had her own Cazador.

“Yeah,” was all he said, and it was so warm. Like an embrace, it held her softly and made her feel like something meant to be protected. She nodded tearfully into him. It was indulgent, but she knew she had to pull herself together. The home she found was rented, and Vistri could only borrow so much. Astarion had more to give, but it wasn’t for her. There was no way she’d be one of the lucky ones.

He kissed her head again, and caught himself, “Sorry. Is it okay to touch you?”

She nodded harder than the last time.

His chuckle was relief. To her, it was a song. He held her tighter. She dissolved.

He’d taken off her mask, stripped off her costume, and naked, she cried into his chest, “I just want to die. I want to be dead. And I can’t. I keep trying, and I can’t.”

Holding her at a moment like this was a key part of his plan. Step one, open her legs. Step two, her heart. It was a system as efficient as it was ugly and cheap. And it made him ugly and cheap, but it also made him safe. He closed his eyes, the tears soaking through his shirt felt like fire and it burned into his cursed, cold skin like a holy symbol; a brand. It was like her body knew what lurked inside his, called him out for the parasite he was even as she was oblivious to it, and fought back to defend against him when she couldn’t.

Vistri sunk into him, tucked into his warmth. She found her breath again in his arms, and in the moment she came back to herself, started to laugh.

He peeked down, “What are you chuckling about in there?”

Her eyes were still freely flowing, but she was more present in there, “In where?”

“My shirt,” he said, “My damp shirt, mind you.”

“How is that my fault?”

He glared at her, “What do you mean, how?”

“I told you not to ask questions.”

“Well excuse me for wondering about your tendency to… To—”

“Always try to kill myself?” she finished, her tone too light.

Astarion sighed. She threw her head back and laughed. He didn’t join in.

“You promised.”

“Let me let you in on a little secret about me and promises,” he said dangerously sardonic, eyes lowered, “Besides, I already pretended to laugh earlier.”

“Faking it doesn’t count!”

“Maybe I’d find it funnier if…”

“If what?”

If what?

If the others wouldn’t kill him before her corpse was cold? If they didn’t rely on each other every battle? If the very thought of her…

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t want you dead! Is that so horrible to believe?”

His grumpiness was sweet. They were always pretending, with each other, with everyone else. Vistri knew it the moment she first laid eyes on him. That’s why every word he uttered that she ever wanted to hear made her shiver with a dull sorrow, and why the words he pushed her away with were such a loving embrace.

“Of course it’s horrible,” she joked, smiling, “I can’t give you what you want and kill myself! However will my two worst impulses co-exist?”

Astarion smirked, “Shithead.”

She smiled.

He kissed her cheek to whisper in her ear, “If you ever feel such a desire coming upon you in the future, come to me, darling. I can’t provide you a real death, but I have plenty of little ones to give.”

He was so close, she prayed he didn’t hear the way her breath gave out.

“I heard that,” he muttered against her cheekbone.

[I'm almost finished this one and I cannot wait to share the whole thing!]

The Cave (Durge; Act I; post-goblin; forest - spider cave/camp)

Prompt: Wrist/Arm Restraints

[[tw/cw: Teasing]]

“Worth it!” Vistri said, showing everyone her prize: Armor for the forearms made of a hard, dark leather that laced up along the sides. They were plain except for the embroidery that covered it all over with elegant patterns of silver thread.

“Oh, those are quite lovely,” Gale commented, stepping closer.

“No!” Vistri pulled them back, “I won’t let you eat these!”

“I wasn’t!—I wasn’t going to eat them. And I don’t eat magical items, I absorb them.”

“These aren’t magical anyway, they’re just pretty.”

Gale sighed, “I wasn’t…”

Astarion grinned, “Not as pretty as you, my dear.”

Vistri flipped one of her braids, “Aw, stop!”

Karlach frowned, “Eugh, they’re being all mushy again! Gale, tell them to stop. It’s too much cuteness, I can’t take it.”

“Why do I have to be the one to tell them to stop?”

“Cuz you’re like a dad.”

“I’m not—“

“You are!” Vistri laughed, “You’re just like somebody’s dad.”

“Not the Daddy vibes you hoped to give off, eh?” Astarion teased.

Needless to say, Gale pouted the whole way back to camp.

When they returned, Karlach announced, “Gale is everyone’s dad!”

“Oggy! Oggy! Oggy!” Wyll chanted in acknowledgement.

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” Karlach shouted, pumping her fist in the air. Gale had to duck.

While everyone else went to rag on Gale about being the camp dad, Astarion watched Vistri make a beeline for Shadowheart. He paid mind to their chat as he “tidied up” his tent area.

“You’ll never guess what I found at the bottom of a spider web.”

Shadowheart raised a brow, “Lolth’s chosen?”

“No, and how dare you,” she brought the armor out from her pack, “I found these beautiful things!”

She didn’t look too impressed, “They’re… Nice.”

Vistri narrowed her eyes, “Well, thank goodness they’re not for you.”

He saw her go to Lae’zel next. Which could only be a slight on Shadowheart, because the Githyanki wasn’t going to care. Predictably blown off, Vistri then moved to Halsin and Wyll, where she finally found compliments. For some reason, she even showed off her find to Withers, who met her with even less enthusiasm than Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Maybe she just wanted him to feel included. Vistri was always doing stuff like that.

Finally, she doubled-back to him.

“It’s because of the undead thing, isn’t it?” Astarion smirked as Vistri approached him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Do you sew?” she asked, knowing full well he did.

“What?”

Vistri held up one of the arm bands, “The thread is loose here. Look!”

Astarion smirked, “Are you asking me to fix it?”

She rolled her eyes, “No.”

“It seems to me that your new treasure is soiled and I’m the only one you trust to mend it.”

“That isn’t… un-true.”

“So, you’re asking me to fix it?”

“No, silly!” Vistri looked suggestively into his eyes, “You’re going to offer.”

Insolence was the word that came to mind. Her blinking grin said, I have a need you’re lucky enough to fulfill, but her eyes were not so sure. There was something weak in them, like slipping fingers. They were on a precipice that hung on his answer, Was she worth it?

“Would you like me to fix it?”

Vistri smiled warmly, “Oh, darling! How kind of you! Of course.” She shoved the object into his hands.

He didn’t let her go just yet. In a soft tone, he demanded, “Say thank you.”

Vistri held her breath, her eyes grazed over his lips, “Thank you.”

Astarion dropped her hand and started to assess the damage. It wasn’t just a simple tug. A blade must have slashed it, because the original pattern was unrecognizable, and its thread was frayed. He’d have to use some of his own. Luckily, he just picked up a spool of silver the other day.

Vistri was still standing there. She hadn’t gone away.

“You’ve never been one for micromanagement. Please don’t start now, dear.”

“I wasn’t—I just…”

Astarion looked confused, “Oh?”

Vistri scoffed, “Never mind that!”

“I think you just want to hang around,” he teased, seizing the opportunity.

She looked away from him face the other direction, like a cat. Gale came sauntering over, escaping the cheers of “Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!” from the other side of camp.

“What kind of nasty thing did you say to make Vistri, of all people,blush?”

“I’m not—!”

Astarion smirked, “I dare not repeat it.”

“You scoundrel!” he grinned.

Vistri sighed theatrically and looked to Astarion, “I guess father doesn’t approve.”

Gale’s smile dropped like a sudden downpour, “I’m not—!”

[I swear they adore Gale lol. They all rag on each other, and apparently it's his turn.]

A Tumble (Durge; early Act II - near Last Light Inn)

Prompt: Biting/Scratching, Piercings/Tattoos, Marking

[I actually have the whole snippet here as a wip wednesday!]

Enough (Tav; Early Act III; Rivington - barn at camp)

Prompt: Mutual Masturbation

[[tw/cw: Suicide, cptsd, breakdown, teasing, explicit language]]

Her voice wasn’t hers, like she was channeling a ghost. Someone else spoke, “Please don’t hate me.”

He held her steady, “I don’t hate you.” He kissed her forehead, “Could never hate you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he started to worry his head might pop off.

“I just want you to be all right, love. Whatever tonight is, we’ll see each other through. Promise.”

Something light snuck its way into the melody of her weeping. He watched her start to settle into it, shuddering out the bad. Then, as peace began to peak, it was washed over with disgust.

“Gods! I’m so embarrassed!”

“Don’t be! It’s the nature of all fucked up people,” Astarion babbled, “Nothing out of the ordinary—It’s practically routine, darling. No reason to worry.”

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

He chuckled, “Good thing then we’re all fucking stupid.”

That got her to laugh, if even just for that little bit. At the end of it, there was a respite. No quick breaths, no tears; just a stillness.

“I love you,” she said, and then the crying came on again.

Astarion kissed her hand and put it to his heart. Vistri rested her head on his shoulder and let go of whatever she could. She poured stories she still couldn’t tell onto his shirt in salty tears. They soaked warmly onto his skin, quickly turning cold.

“I’m truly sorry, love” she muttered, wiping her face on her wrists, “My temper…”

“I could tell you to fuck off too, if you’d like.”

She chuckled, still not lifting her face from his shoulder.

“Look, it’s already helping. All right, fuck off then!”

It bubbled into full blown laughter, “Foolish!”

There was little difference between her now and the moment before. She was just as raw, even as her grief flipped to its other side. Exposed and bleeding, she stood at the precipice of salvation and ruin. The monster in Astarion whispered to go in for the kill. He blinked away those instincts, choosing another way.

“I love you as well,” he said softly.

Vistri kissed his hand and lifted it to her heart. It raced under his palm. His expression barely shifted but she could see his hunger in it clearly. She smirked warmly and leaned her neck a little closer.

“I-“ he stuttered.

She winked, “If you’re good.”

Astarion swallowed. He hated that he couldn’t feel her heart without the urge to consume it, but she loved that part of him, leaned into it. Instead of shying from the monster, she was ready to risk it all to make it more powerful. It would be more flattering if she didn’t hate herself so much, but thinking that way was unkind, did her an injustice. She stopped all other monsters. Her fealty was not to a vampire, but to him.

“Maybe later,” he smirked, “I dare not take from you now. Besides, you’d probably taste awful.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“All that stress in your system… Well, it sours the vintage.”

She took a very deep breath and exhaled with a shuddering sigh. All the stress in her system made her teeth chatter as if she were cold.

“I’m here, love. I’m here.”

She nodded, “I know. Thank you.”

[This one is really complicated to write, but it's starting to come together. I want to get it right. It's a tricky one.]

Blood Moon (Tav; ShadowPen au collab; post-epilogue; Storm Coast - ShadowPen's farm)

Prompt: Body Worship (Genitals), Vampires/Werewolves

[[tw/cw: Explicit language]]

Things were getting much too sappy for listening in to stay bearable. Astarion chuckled low in her ear, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Vistri laughed and grabbed his hand to lead him out of bed. She suppressed a giggle and shushed him with a finger to his lips as they stood. He nodded, and they “snuck” out of the room, and then the cottage.

Once outside, their laughter began to slip. They took off into the grey dark, running from the threat of being overheard. When they stopped, it all came tumbling out. Panting and laughing with hands on knees, they were surrounded by trees.

“So are they,” Vistri panted, “Are they married now?”

He smirked, “You jealous?”

Vistri threw her head back and howled.

“Oh, really? The thought is that disgusting?”

“No!” she protested, “It’s not that!”

He grabbed her up and growled into her neck, “It’s not that?”

Putty. She was putty.

She just shook her head.

“Look, my dear. We’re in the woods again.”

His allusion to those first nights together raised her skin and sent a delightful shiver along it. There was almost a full moon, and its light sprinkled through the leaves and made the shadows shine.

Vistri stroked his cool cheeks with her fingers, “I feel so lucky—Are you cold?”

“If you’re offering to warm me up, then yes, I’m absolutely freezing.”

Even after all the time they’d had together, her lips still quivered as they met his. It felt like all the great love stories, and the dreams they bore. She was always afraid he didn’t feel it too, but the look in his eyes as he pulled away was always saturated with it. How dare she ever doubt him.

“I could take you here,” he offered in sultry song, “Just like old times.”

She chuckled, “Are they old times already?”

“I know it’s only been a while, but it feels longer. In a good way! The best way.”

“Not in the boring, dreadful way?”

“The complete opposite. You’re perfect and you thrill me. Two hundred years of torture passed in a blink, but nearing two years with you? Every moment is its own lifetime.”

[Just like with "To Belong", QueenMills and I will be doing a collab with our OCs. We will each write a one shot from the same events from our ship's perspective.]

The Black Masquerade (Durge; 2 yrs post-canon; Upper City - Eomane Manor)

Prompt: Dirty Talking, Pussy Eating/Blowjob, Breath Control

[[tw/cw: Teasing, explicit language]]

“Astarion and Vistri Ancunin of the Underdark!” the announcer called out.

Astarion muttered into her ear, “I thought these things were supposed to be anonymous.”

Vistri got up on her toes to whisper back, “What’s even the point of wearing masks?!”

The announcer, donning the puffiest, bluest breeches imaginable, made his annoyance clear. They hadn’t begun moving yet and were clearly bitching about him or his patron. He looked rather like a large, pissed off blueberry.

He cleared his throat to repeat, “Vistri and Astarion Ancunin of the Underdark!”

Astarion lowered his lips to Vistri’s ear, “Do you think he reversed the order of our names on purpose?”

“Let’s go!” she giggled, tugging on his arm.

“You’re wrinkling my costume,” he whined.

Astarion made sure to give the announcer a little trip as they passed by. Vistri bit her lip in order not to laugh.

The ballroom seemed to still as they appeared at the top of the stairs. Their costumes had been carefully planned and chosen to conjure the allure of vampirism without being too on the nose. Gods damned Petras kept insisting they should look like bats, but thankfully Petras had as much say as taste in this regard. They thought ravens were better suited as inspiration and decided to be adorned all over in black feathers flowing with gilded accents. The pitch-black drama of their long, winged trains adorned the pale Vampire and his periwinkle Drow, evoking the powerful and deadly allure of the Underdark itself.

The draping of their dress was complex, but with simple lines, and showed plenty of skin. It was really two parts, a tunic and a skirt, but passed for one whole. Its design deconstructed what was classic and created something no Baldur’s Gate ballroom had ever seen. If they didn’t already stand out enough, their black masks were as dark as a deep abyss and had long, curved beaks that looped all the way down to their waists. They’d be uncomfortably heavy to wear if Vistri hadn’t enchanted them with a Feather spell.

It was a bit of a risk to upstage everyone else as the outsiders, but when Vistri had asked Astarion how he wanted to approach their first impression, he scoffed and said, “How we always do. Drop in and immediately show them we’re better.”

[This one is turning out SO long, but SO worth it 🔥]

Working title: Partition, please! (Tav; 1 yr post-canon; Underdark - Spawn fortress)

Prompt: Fancy Dress

[[tw/cw: Teasing, sexual content, explicit language]]

“Hold still.”

“What do you mean, hold still? I’m not moving.”

Vistri laughed, “You are!”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“Your eyes! You keep squinting them!”

Tonight was a big night. A whole year since they’d taken the fortress. They’d been so busy, it felt like a week. Now it was time to celebrate. Dress up and dance. Her hair and makeup already done, Vistri was helping Astarion, who couldn’t rely on a mirror.

“Astarion!”

“What?! I am simply sitting here.”

“You made me mess up!”

“What my eyes do when you poke at them is not something I can control!”

Vistri wheezed, “Hold on, hold on! I can fix it.”

“Stop laughing. It’s not me moving, it’s you laughing!”

“Sshhhh! I’m concentrating, you cunt.”

Astarion let out a long sigh, then stopped breathing to stay as still as possible. His unnerving stillness was an unsettling aid to her focus. His chest didn’t move, but he was right there, alive in his eyes. It slowed time, sharpened her mind.

“There,” she eventually said, and Astarion eagerly took a deep breath in. Seeing his chest move made her fly to his lips.

He chuckled and spoke against her kiss, “You’ll mess it up!”

“Haven’t done your lips yet.”

“I wasn’t talking about mine.”

“Shit!” Vistri ran over to the mirror.

One leg up on the vanity stool, she leaned into its reflection and whined. Astarion raised his brow, she’d given him quite the view. Neither of them were dressed yet, still in their undergarments. He found himself staring at the little strip of cloth snug between her thighs. He wanted to run his fingers along it, and then tear it down her legs with his teeth before sinking them into her.

“There’s always staying in,” he suggested.

“Don’t make me laugh!” she giggled, fixing her lips, “I’ll fuck it up again.”

“Fucked up my good work, mind you!”

Since Vistri had to do his hair and makeup, it was only fair he’d done hers.

She scoffed, “You’re so much prettier when you’re not cross, you know. A little advice for this evening.”

He smacked her tush in retaliation for her tease. She yelped.

It took her way less time to sort Astarion’s hair, but it always behaved so well. “It’s the only thing that’s ever consistently gone right in my life,” he always said.

“It’s the only thing that’s—”

“—Always gone right in your life. I know, love.”

“Oh? Do I bore you?”

“No!” she laughed, “No, you never bore me!”

[Them doing each other's makeup is so 😍 They're killing me 😭]

Tagging (no pressure, of course): @acciokaidanalenko @blkgirl-writing @magicallulu7 @nowandthane @vorchagirl @malabadspice @elfjpeg

[Read my other one shots: AO3 | Tumblr]

#vistarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion x durge #durge x astarion #seven snippets seven people #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #BrishFics #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers

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sodabranch · 2 months

Note

Halo here, still waiting for the next time their irl friends are up to play Lethal Company together... Justice time!

1. One thing that would suck about the Company is that I doubt it you get time off for illness/injuries. So imagine the dilemma of Justice having to leave to look after the employees heading to the bunker, but also being worried about the one needing to be left to rest on the ship.

Other than the issue of the employee being unable to react timely to an enemy lurking near the ship, I see Justice's past experiences worsening their mental conflict. They were always there, when the master or someone in the household got sick, so leaving them feels unnatural.

And what if it's something they can't simply recover from? Earning a disability is bound to be as easy as death itself, on the job.

2. Okay, this one isn't a Justice specific one. I was thinking, man, even the freakiest and erratic of nutcracker OCs will find a human out there who thinks they're really cool! Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

Because the nutcrackers have parasites, making them semi living, what if one could apply a freaking soulmate AU to it?!

3. Justice, in the past, waiting for the master to come home from work, but they're coming home late. How would Justice react? I could imagine it thinking about how it can't just make a phone call.

Sure, you could easily turn the idea into angst, but I see it that the master simply had overtime, and eventually came home just fine. But Justice is a bit angy they never warned it, because it was worried...

4. The employees and Justice were gathering scrap from a mansion. Everyone is back inside the ship, confident that Justice will soon return safely. In the midst in the snowstorm, they see its approaching silhouette, but something about it is different? Oh, that's right, it's carrying scrap, too. But what?

As Justice steps inside, they see it's a—

Oh no, it's a somehow decently preserved and clean puffy dress?! Justice is irradiating excitement; isn't this fitting for a partner to wear for a waltz? The employees, on the other hand, are thinking 'Oh crap, it's gonna make one of US wear it!' They then push the one who they know Justice sees as the master to the front of the group, like a sort of sacrificial offering to wear the dress.

~ Halo

Oh, I'm also waiting for my friends to have a free night so we can play Lethal together and totally suffer the consequences of our own actions...

I just arrived home a moment ago so brace yourself:

Aaaand no, I also doubt the Company would be so kind to offer you some time off or even compensation lol. Once you're away from Gordion you're on your own, buddy;; better read the fine print.

Justice would be torn between staying with them or helping the team. On one side, it would be able to provide care for the injuried person, aiding them on their needs and staying guard in case any entity was to take advantage of their state; on the other side, there's no way it is going to abandon the team!!! four people is still better than three. Yes, of course it believes that the team can totally fend for themselves!! but maybe just maybe,,, what if some monster sneaks up on them and it can't do anything, then what!

In the amidst of this mental dilemma, Justice settles on giving the crewmate a walkie and gestures for them to use it if something were to happen, then helps tucking them in the uncomfortable bunk bed (to much of Justice's dismay. It really has ought to look for a way for them to rest more comfortably...), and there's no way it is going to forget the "healing kiss" to the forehead before heading out with the rest of the crew. Then maybe it would keep checking on them from time to time, excusing itself to "bring some scrap back to the ship".

Oof I let myself get invested in that one,,,

AND UMGMMGGMMGMG, SOULMATE AU???? ON MY BLOG?? MORE LIKELY THAN YOU THINK- I REALLY need to think of a way to make this real???? I never thought of it as a possibiity, but you're kinda so right? Preach.

Asdhsdhd also choking up from thinking of Justice waiting by the door to see if their master makes it home safely...

At the start, it would be a bit confused, they were supposed to arrive some time ago! Well, could have been a slight delay, but that doesn't erase the nagging thought telling it something might have happened. What if they got injured on their way back? What if someone did something? What if this? What if- Enough for now, it should think more rationally than that. So naturally, Justice decides to busy itself with some cleaning while it waits... Only for more minutes to pass and for it to start growing more and more worried. Now without any tasks to do while it waits it just sits motionless on the entryway, expecting to see them any second now...

And it's not until the sound of keys turning and the door creaking open that it can rest, seeing the face of their master and mentally restraining itself from running up and hugging them. For now, it is glad it got to see their face for another day.

AAAAAAA THE LAST ONE THE LAST ONE

Just just imagine,, while exploring this mansion, Justice finds itself in some sort of bedroom. Rummaging through it, it wasn't long before something caught it's attention: a perfectly preserved dress stored inside some sort of garment bag... The sight alone brought back so many memories of packed ballrooms and the many dances that took place, most of which Justice had to spectate. As a guard, it was supposed to watch over the people, never let in the fun.

So it guesses the crew won't have much trouble when it brings the beautiful garment back to the ship!! One of them even stepping forward, how sweet!

and im cutting it here because it may be getting too long :9 but I have so many new ideas giggles*

#ask #my guys #im so tired ughhghghg #but i got too excited and wanted to answer this before going zzz

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goodgirlofglory · 2 years

Note

Hey babes💕

Can u please write a sequel to "To give you what you need" where she gets pregnant. I really wanna know what would Steve do!

Hiya, luv!!💝

Oh lord yes, here it comes!!

Keeping you

(Edit: this has turned into a multiple part series - /Masterpost/)

Pairing: Soft!Dark! Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 4k

Warnings: non-con, dub-con, pregnancy anxiety, forced pregnancy, explicit sexual content, explicit language, oral (female recieving), vaginal sex, mild violence, lots of crying.

Summary: After Steve’s meticulous work and your lack of choice, you're pregnant. His reaction has you finding yourself in a whole new predicament.

Note: This is the third installment following Taking what he wants and To give you what you need. These have all been quick scribbles without much editing, so please forgive any jarring character changes, kink swaps and general plot holes. Not beta-read either, so I'm living on the edge here.

Your media consumption is your own responsibility, but I advise you not to engage if the content of the warnings trigger you.

My work is not to be distributed outside this blog.

It felt like your stomach dropped clean out of your body and through the floor. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears like a raging river during spring floods.

On the bathroom counter in front of you, the test was mocking you.

Positive.

“Oh god,” you whispered to yourself. You’d just sat there crying for about an hour, miserably holding your own shoulders in an attempt at self-soothing that seemed to have no effect.

You’d been suspicious for a few days now, carrying the sneaking, gnawing feeling that something was different inside you. But you were hardly surprised. Barely two days had gone by between Steve’s visits after he’d caught you taking Plan B. You wondered how in the hell he had the time and resources to hound you so insistently.

It had always been inevitable, of course. Since that first night, you had been completely at Steve’s mercy, and now you could feel the bonds of his control tightening, making it hard to breathe.

Pregnant. Fucking hell. You didn’t even know what he did for a living. He’d told you once he was a secret agent, whatever that entailed. Like James Bond? CIA? KGB? Was he a good guy? Who the fuck knew, it certainly didn’t feel like it. He felt like a dangerous, reckless maniac. And now his child was growing inside you? Like a parasite. You could barely support yourself.

You took a deep, fortifying breath.

No, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. There was no way. You needed to find a way out of this, whatever it was, this thing with Steve had gone too far.

You took your phone out with shaking fingers and typed in a search for the nearest abortion clinic. Next state over, 14 hours drive. Fine. You had the day off tomorrow anyway, and it wasn't like anyone ever noticed you at the yarn store anyway.

Getting a small bag packed in a matter of minutes, heart in your throat, you threw the test inside - in case you needed to check on the way and make sure you didn’t imagine things. Adrenaline pumped painfully in your chest as you slipped out into the night and got into your car. You looked over your shoulder all the while, paranoid Steve might lurk in any shadow. You got out of your driveway and took the highway heading south. Steve had been there the night before, so it was early for him to return, but you had learned the hard way never to assume anything about his behavioral patterns.

“Oh god, your mouth,” he’d sighed, stroking your hair softly as you took him in, the weight of him on your tongue anchoring you as his scent made you light headed. Everything was so wet, your pussy pulsing as he slid into your throat, a breathy moan on his lips.

You nearly reared into another vehicle. “Shit,” you exclaimed, and clung to the steering wheel as the thoughts whirled around in your head.

You’d driven for about an hour when the road cleared, and you were all alone, surrounded by thick forest. Glancing at the clock, it read 01:03 am, and you stifled a yawn. There was still a long way to go. Outside the street lights passing by shone a warm, yellow hue, and glancing up you saw the stars shining bright in the night sky.

Glancing back to the road, your eyes nearly popped out of your head. Ahead, a figure stood in the middle of the road, and you stomped the breaks hard. The wheels screeched. Your stomach surging, the car ground to a full stop and you slammed back into your seat with a grunt, knocking the wind out of you. Panting, you looked up.

It was him.

Instant tears pricked your eyes and you felt faint with the sudden horror of the situation. He’d found you. How were you going to explain this?

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.

You sat still, not really able to move, stiff with fear. He slowly moved forward, almost tauntingly as he walked up to the car.

Don’t run, he’ll know for sure then that you’re hiding something.

But your fear won out, and your mind went blank as you tore your seatbelt off, ripped the door open and bolted off the road, running into the ditch on the side and through the bush, into the treeline. Your sweater snagged on a branch, and you stumbled over a stump, feeling drunk as you stumbled through the night, not seeing a goddamned thing. You just needed to get away, die falling off a cliff if necessary.

It was futile, of course. Deep down you knew it was all futile, you were never going to escape.

Sure enough, Steve caught up to you, grabbing your arm in a steel grip. He spun you around and pulled you tight to him, his other arm wrapping around your waist to secure you to him.

You shut your eyes, a whimper escaping your clamped shut mouth, mind whirling as you started to prepare for your punishment. This will hurt, you thought miserably to yourself, preparing for it the best you could, trying to cool your frantic breathing.

But nothing happened. Above you, you heard the wind rustling the trees softly. You noticed how cold it was, shivering with it now, and Steve was breathing so soundlessly, he might as well be made of stone.

You cracked an eye open and looked up at him. His eyes were steady on your face, his lips in a neutral line. He didn’t look angry, he didn’t even look upset. He looked…guarded, thoughtful.

You opened your other eye, studying him closer for any trace of emotion, opening your mouth to say something, finding you had nothing to say. You stuttered, blinked, frowned, dumbfounded by his lack of reaction.

“You’re coming with me,” he said then, his voice brooking no argument, his look steely. He turned and started to tug you along by the arm, back the way you came. But you didn’t go back to your car, just walked straight past it on the still empty highway, and then into the treeline on the opposite side.

“M-my car,” you started

“I’ll come back for it later,” he cut you off, not even looking down at you.

Coming up through a clearing, tumbling awkwardly behind Steve’s confident walk, your eyes landed on what looked like a private jet, just sitting there, in the woods. A moment later, you realized Steve was walking straight up to it, and confusion scrambled your mind. Did he own this? Where was he taking you? Who the hell was this man?

The jet jolted as it touched whatever landing spot you’d come upon. This was kidnapping. No one would find you now. Not that anyone would come looking. You had no family left and your social life was practically none existent. Except for Steve’s visits, ironically enough - which was probably why he’d kept you through these last months. No one to tell, no one to miss you.

Steve walked intently to the back of the jet where you sat, unstrapped you from the intricate safety straps and hauled you firmly, though more gently than you’d expected, to your feet. The jet plane opened at the back, a flash of wind making you squint painfully before you saw the house in front of you.

Well, not house, mansion. With a distinct cabin-like aesthetic, but there was no mistaking that this was the home of someone powerful and wealthy - even in the dark of night. Your jaw fell slack as you took it all in. There was a small pathway dotted by spot lights leading from the landing patch, through an elaborate, though wild garden trimmed with lanterns and into the huge, three story building cluttered with tall windows. Your apartment looked like a broom cupboard compared to this, and you almost felt embarrassed over it if this was where Steve lived.

The inside continued the lavish display. Huge, expensive looking furniture, walls lined with art depicting urban New York-esque motifs and row upon row of diplomas and awards, medals and honorary memorabilia. No pictures of family, nor any clutter. Every surface was shining and spotless, not even a carelessly strewn magazine or a lone standing coffee cup to be seen. If this was where Steve lived, it didn’t seem like he lived here. It didn’t feel like a home.

Steve hurdled you through a large living room as fast as your shaking feet could keep up, up a grand staircase in the main entry hall, down a long hallway and in through a set of double doors at the end. It was a bedroom, though not recently slept in from what you could tell. The immaculate made up bed must have been a double king size with about fifty pillows on it. Steve pushed you down almost rudely, and you bounced on a mattress that felt like a floating cloud.

Steve dumped your bag next to you. You hadn’t even noticed he’d brought it with you.

He stood before you, hands on his hips, stance wide, that same, undecipherable, neutral expression on his face. Your defiance sparked, you were irked and annoyed and tired of being panicked.

He didn’t say anything, clearly expecting you to growel, and you refused. The silence stretched on. He cocked a brow, so arrogant, so entitled, and fury rose high in your throat like bile.

“Fuck you,” you snarled under your breath, immediately fighting the urge to wince as you realized what you’d said. This would get you in trouble.

Steve didn’t react at all.

“Do you have any idea how unsafe that part of the state is at night?” he asked, and the infuriating irony of him lecturing you on danger had you scoffing in frustration.

“How did you know where I was?” you asked back.

He reached into a pocket and pulled out your mobile phone. Your jaw went slack as realization hit you.

“You tracked my phone!?” you asked, horrified.

“I track everything, including your search history,” he said matter of factly, putting your phone away again.

You felt a pang of nausea, mind swimming momentarily as you mulled that over. All those months of googling how to prevent pregnancy naturally, how to escape abusive relationships, how to get away from stalkers. And he’d seen it all. Heat rose on your cheeks.

The abortion clinic.

You’d never even stood a chance. You sighed defeated and put your face in your hands, vehemently despising feeling so exposed.

“Show it to me,” he said then, bringing you back from your thoughts.

A beat of silence, the night completely soundless.

“What?” you asked, not following.

He made a pointed look at your bag.

The test.

You didn’t want to show him. Couldn’t bear it.

“I left it at home,” you lied.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I threw it out,” you lied again.

“No.”

“I don’t-”

“y/n, you do not want to try me right now,” he said, and the downright ice in his voice made you shiver, fear settling a cold sting in your chest. You wanted to cry.

Slowly, you bent down and unzipped the bag, searching past your joggers and toothbrush to that familiar shape and feel of the pregnancy test. You pulled it out slowly and held it out in your hand, eyes down on the bright orange, lush carpet on the floor, not able to meet his eyes.

The test was taken from your hand and you let it fall to your lap. What were you going to do?

The silence droned on again. You briefly wondered how he would react. How smug he would be, how mean and condescending, how possessive and objectifying he would act, how he would torment you with the knowledge that he had done it. The thing you’d fought so hard. Marked you as his, made you pregnant with his kid. With his seed as he liked to call it in his throws of passion. You ignored the memory of how feral that had made you sometimes.

You heard a shaky exhale, so small that if it wasn’t for the crushing silence in the room, you would have completely missed it. Confusion had you looking up before you could think, and your mouth fell open again.

His eyes were glossy, wide as they stared down at the test in his hands, his brows in a small frown. It was the first time he’d looked anywhere near vulnerable in all that time you’d known him, and it tipped you off your axis, warped your mind with confusion.

He looked up to meet your eyes and instantly got down, sat on his knees in front of your sitting form on the bed. His hands, searingly warm through the fabric of your pants, landed so gently on your thighs, pinning the test, the herald of your doom, firmly to your thigh as his eyes didn’t leave yours.

There were tears there, making the blue shine so bright it caught you.

“You’re a miracle,” he whispered, and you almost recoiled with the shocking sincerity in it.

He stared into your eyes for so long, and you wanted to break eye contact, but couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

He took a large breath, again slightly shaky.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you, I swear. From now on, I’ll always keep you safe,” he said then, a hand moving up to press so tenderly to your belly, the warmth seeping into your core, almost too hot. “You…and our child,” he continued after a beat, his breath hitching as he breathed in again.

You didn’t move. Were too shocked too. This must be a dream, you thought helplessly as Steve broke the eye contact to stare lovingly at your stomach, his fingers stretching and curling slightly against it. This must be a weird dream, this isn’t my life.

But it was. And there was Steve. Moved to tears at the truth of you being pregnant with his kid. So tender and sweet where he’d been so unrelenting and harsh before. He’d never let anything happen to you he’d said, completely glossing over the fact that he had happened to you, and now sealed your fate.

He leaned forward, slowly, bending over your legs and pressed his face into your belly, his breath warming the fabric of your sweater. He pulled the fabric up to reveal the skin underneath and pressed a lingering kiss there, slick with spit. He kissed it again, slowly, and then again, slightly more urgently.

The tension grew hot and fast like it always did, and you could feel it like air right before a summer storm - sparking with electricity and premonition. Steve gently pried your legs apart to shuffle between, still pressing wet kisses to your stomach.

“So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You’re a miracle. So good to me. So good for me,” he continued, as if to himself, as if so overwhelmed by his emotions, the words bleeding from him like blood from a cut. His kisses almost felt like cuts, overwhelming you with contradicting, heart wrenching confliction.

Maybe you should just give in. Give in to him. Let him have you, possess you like he was determined to do. Maybe you just needed to take comfort in him now, to let him soothe away your anxieties with his conviction. That this was a good thing, could be a miracle like he said, and not the utter demolition it felt like.

His hands slowly moved to unbutton your pants, gently prying them off you, and you let him. What choice did you have? At least this was familiar. You could lose yourself in this, let yourself be obliterated by his hands, mouth, body and cock like you had so many times before.

Discarding your panties with your pants, Steve stayed on his knees on the floor by the bed, draping your legs over his shoulders as he lowered his head between your thighs. He devoured your cunt, tongue mapping it out with his spit, and you fell backwards on the mattress, letting your mind go blank with the sensation.

Despair slowly enveloped you, tears blurring your eyes before trailing from the corners and into the hair at your temples. He moaned into your mound, growing incessant, his hands grabbing your hips tightly. It felt like the world was spinning away slowly, sinking, bleeding out of oxygen and leaving you aching.

You came with a keen, convulsing quietly on the bed, thighs clamping down around his head as he groaned, sending vibrations through you. The tears kept coming, a silent river flowing down your face.

He slowly got to his feet, crawling up over you and pulling you further up the bed with an arm around you. He saw the tears and your face and raised a warm, calloused hand to wipe the wet away.

“Shh, no, no. Sweetheart, I know this is scary, but it’ll be alright. I’m here,” he said low and soothing, bending down to kiss your eyelids as they slid close. A small sob broke from you.

Yes, exactly.

You didn’t move as he slipped between your legs, sitting back on his haunches. He unbuttoned his plain, blue shirt. He was wearing regular clothes, you noted, not able to care. As his skin was unveiled, sculpted muscles rippling elegantly under smooth skin, your hands absentmindedly reached up. You stroked up his stomach, feeling the muscles twitch under your touch. He panted softly as you caressed him, but you felt nothing. Couldn’t care. It was like every feeling you had was muted, had bled out along with your tears.

There was no point either way. Your life was over. What is freedom, integrity and autonomy good for anyway, when I can live to be underneath Steve’s body, you thought sarcastically and bitterly to yourself.

His eyes followed your hands, wide and intent, and you could see how hard he was, the bulge in his jeans obscene.

Yes, fuck me. Fuck me til I can’t even remember my own name. Make me forget everything.

“Make me feel good,” you whispered out loud, pleading, eyes meeting his, body lethargic, heavy and dull.

He didn’t even seem to notice, his pupils blown wide, breath picking up as he hastily unbuttoned his pants, sliding them down just far enough to free himself. He lowered himself down, leaning on one hand as his other guided him inside you, slipping in in the most subtle way, like two puzzle pieces linking together in a chain of a thousand others. You gasped slightly as he bottomed out, the sting of his girth welcome as everything else was just numb.

Oh, who were you kidding. It felt good. In spite of everything, when Steve did this, it always felt good, and the guilt of making this an escape, cowering away inside this one respite, this silver lining, stung along with new tears in your eyes.

He started moving slowly, rocking you softly on the mattress as his body lowered to lay flush against yours, warm and heavy. You wrapped your heavy, limp arms around his neck, just letting the movement rock you, letting him do as he wanted.

He turned his lips to your ears.

“You’re gonna stay here from now on. We’re gonna raise it here. Together. Be a family, you, me, and our child. Our baby,” he murmured, interjected by soft grunts. “You’re mine. Finally, completely mine.”

His hips picked up speed, moving more frantically, his cock spearing you with the pulse after pulse of pleasure. You felt the distinct need for it to be harder. More painful. Not tender and intimate like this. Like you were lovers, in love, married, about to have a kid together. You wanted him to choke the life out of you, hit you until your skin turned raw and red, bend you til your bones protested and pound you like he was punishing you. Until he drew blood. Like he had done so many times before. But no, he chose this moment to be sweet.

He leaned up on his arms again, staring into your eyes as he grinded inside you, the way slick and easy for him.

“I love you,” he whispered, so genuinely and achingly gentle.

You came, back arching off the bed, a strangled noise catching in your throat. Your whole body stiffened to the point of pain, and Steve fucked you through it, slowly, eyes boring into you, taking in every minute detail. He followed into his own orgasm as you came down from yours, groaning loudly as he jerked twice inside you, and you felt the warmth of his come as his cock pulsed familiarly against your trembling insides. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, panting hotly against the skin, his whole body slumping to pin yours down.

The distracting pleasure faded away like a dull ache, and you were defenseless against the welling grief washing over you again. The anxiety that always sparked after he’d come inside you was gone now. The damage is already done, you thought bitterly. A little extra seed would make no difference now. He had thoroughly claimed your body as his.

Your body jerked with a sob underneath Steve. He raised his head and looked at you, hand coming up to wipe at your tears again.

“Hey now, what’s this?” he asked softly, brows drawing up in a fond expression.

You couldn’t even muster enough strength to be provoked by his ease, his audacity to play ignorant to what he was doing to you - what he had been doing for months.

“Just let…let me go,” you whispered.

He looked at you, and his brows twitched, delicacy starting to bleed away from his afterglow.

“What?” he asked.

“Please. I don’t want this,” you said, voice small and frail.

He blinked a few times and you could see his mind warring against your words. This was not what he wanted to hear. He never wanted to hear those words.

“I do-”

“No,” he said, quickly pulling out of your body and sitting up on his haunches. You stayed lax on the bed, legs spread, his come leaking out of you, your arms slung out on the mattress at your sides.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want you, I don’t want the child,” you said, and you sounded so dead, so lifeless and muted, speaking the words to the room more than anything. You just needed to say them out loud - to have given this last, defining defiance. To protest out loud - if only for the symbolic meaning of it.

You heard Steve’s breath pick up again, and knew this wasn’t wise, was not going to save you - was probably going to come back and bite you in the ass later. He wasn’t pleased. But you didn’t care. If he was going to steal your life, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of playing house with him willingly. Not just yet.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice steely, but you detected that small undercurrent of anxiety.

“I’ve never meant anything else,” you countered, still staring up at the ceiling, not moving save for your steady breaths, tears still falling silently from the corners of your eyes.

Silence.

“We’ll see,” he said, or rather, gritted out through his teeth, and you felt the mattress dip as he got off the bed. “You’ll stay here, eat and sleep. I’ll get your things soon, including your car, though you won’t be needing it. This place has everything you need - fully stocked pantry, a cinema, pool, good outdoor grounds and a library. If you want any other books, let me know and I’ll get them for you. Food as well. Though I don’t want you to be unhealthy, I suspect whatever cravings you get can’t be helped.”

He talked as if discussing a matter of business, not mapping out your prison for you. The ceiling turned blurry as you stared, exhaustion starting to seep into your bones.

“Oh, and y/n,” he said, bringing your eyes to him as he lingered in the doorway, pants and shirt buttoned again, “if you do anything to harm yourself or the child, you will never leave this room again.”

Note: I'm thinking of maybe continuing this as a series. Possessive, unhinged and slightly yandere Steve always gets me going<3 Lmk if you'd be interested in reading more of these two<3

Edit: Weee, it’s a series!!! Here is part 4

#dark!steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers smut #dark!steve rogers smut #soft!dark steve rogers #soft!dark steve rogers x reader #soft!dark! steve rogers smut #soft!dark! steve rogers x reader #in the balance

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leahnardo-da-veggie · 1 month

Text

Old Friends

Iz stood in front of the grand double doors, head bowed. Her shackles dragged heavily behind her, digging into soft flesh. The guards, clad in dark chitin that obscured their faces, were ill at ease, even as they opened the doors to the throne room.

She could have broken her chains with a snap of her fingers, and she itched to crack the necks of her 'captors'. But she had a message to deliver, and she would not forsake her duty.

"The queen will see you now," one of them rasped. Iz nodded once, and shuffled in.

The floor was marble, a sea of darkness with silver streaks running through it like lightning striking a sea. Pillars of obsidian rose from the ground, proud towers looming over Iz.

And surrounding them: Lush, verdant greens. Fronds of ferns adorned the walls, creepers climbed the pillars like mountaineers scaling a cliff. They flourished with unnatural intensity, making the air thick with moisture and spores, lurking in the dark places. This was no sea, Iz decided. It was a swamp, heavy and menacing, and above all, rotten.

The magic here was cloying, simultaneously sickly sweet and rancid, like corpse-flowers. It clung to her skin wetly, coating her in a layer of mildew, filling her mouth with putrid sourness. Shadows shifted in dark corners, watching her with unnerving intensity.

Peacock feathers, long and lustrous, framed a throne of gnarled wood and dark metal. Upon it sat the witch of the swamp, the queen of the damp and the darkness. Her eyes were the blackness of insects, multifaceted and glittering in the dim light. Her dress was made of long trails of fern, clinging to her body like a parasite. Her lips quirked upwards to reveal a neat row of canines. One hand held a glass of wine, whilst the other three arms rested on the sides of her throne.

"You," Iz sighed.

"Hello, little one. Long time no see, as your people say," the Queen of the Fae said, resting her head on one hand. "I wish I could say your visit was a surprise. But alas, our friendship was not to be." Her smile was sharp and bitter.

They glared at each other silently. Finally, Iz slumped. Amongst those who could have claimed Aurumndale's throne, her friend-no-more was amongst the least welcome. Nonetheless, Iz was blood-sworn, and she would execute her task.

"I beseech you to put our grievances aside," she murmured. "Heed me, for I bring a warning. The Godhuntress has killed Hydrel, God of Water. Soon, she will come for you."

The Queen laughed, a buzzing of a thousand voices. "What could she possibly want with me? I am no friend of the gods, and neither are my people. We have no reason for dispute." Nonetheless, there was an undercurrent of fear in her words, a hesitation that belied her doubt.

The Godhuntress had come from the depths of Sylvandor, a dark figure who killed the gods with methodical ease. Every day, another temple would fall. Every day, she grew in power. And none could stop her.

"You and I both know that is a lie," Iz said. "Her shadow will only lengthen with time, and the wishes of our elders will be lost with the wind. We must take her down now, before she consumes us all."

The Queen paused, delicate eyebrows furrowing. "I have been fooled by you once, and I will not fall for it a second time. The Godhuntress has all the power she could wish for. She would never pursue our scraps."

"Power begets power, Desalia," Iz said, naming her old friend. "And I do not ask you to trust me, or to aid me, only heed my words. Take care, lest your people fall."

Queen Desalia's face darkened. "Are you threatening me, mortal? I could crush you like a twig," she hissed, gripping the sides of her throne. "I have not forgotten your betrayal, traitor."

Iz wanted to grab her, shake her and scream the truth in her ears. She wanted to plead with her old friend, beg for forgiveness. She wanted the camaraderie they had all those years. But she was no girl-child, not anymore, and she had better causes to pursue. "Hydrel is dead, my Queen. The Lord of the Sun and the Ladies of the Air are long gone. All that stands between the Godhuntress and supreme power are the Elder Gods, and they are in hiding," Iz snapped, meeting the Queen's eyes.

For an indeterminable time, they stayed like that, staring at each other, glaring as though the force of their gaze might melt the bonds between them. Finally, Desalia broke the silence. "You left me there to die, Isobel," she whispered. "Why?"

"I- I never meant to leave you there," Iz murmured. "I thought you dead, and I thought- I thought I would die, had I stayed. I offer you my repentance, Desalia. This is me returning the favour, the smallest mercy I can offer to the one I wronged."

The Queen bent her head, shaking it softly. "You truly believe this? That the Godhuntress will destroy our world, and claim it for her own?"

"Yes!" Iz felt hope leaping in her chest. "She has come for the Lich, and she will hunt the selkies and the spirits. Then she will find you, and your people, and you do not stand a chance. Unless you take action now. Have you ever known me to be wrong?"

The Queen glared at her, but it had lost its fire. "You were wrong when you left me." She sounded bitter.

"I wish I could believe you, but my people will not interfere. We have abstained from taking part in any war for millennia now, and I cannot, in good conscience, drag my people into a battle that is not ours to fight," she said, her voice hard.

Iz could feel the chasm between them, unspoken words and gnawing pain that separated them. "This is your war. The Godhuntress kills indiscriminately. By the time she has taken the last of the gods, none of us will be able to stop her. Please," she pleaded.

The word hung in the air, suspended by a fragile silence. Queen Desalia broke it with a slash of her robes. "Isobel," she murmured, her voice tinged with loss. "I cannot listen to you. I must not. Forgive me, for casting your branch aside, but-" She slumped, shaking her head.

"I understand," Iz said quietly. "Thank you, and I pray for the safety of your people."

It was a farce. Perhaps they simply had too many sour memories between them. Perhaps the Fae truly could not intervene in the matter. Whatever the case, it was Iz who had failed her former ally. She gathered her clothes and stood up, shaking off the chains with ease.

"Wait!" The Queen stood up. "Once this is over, you could come- Come and visit me again, Iz." It was a desperate last throw, a final olive branch cast into the murky waters of their past.

"Thank you, and may the gods be with you, Dez," she said, pushing the sudden pang of agony aside. "Wherever they may be now."

#writeblr #my writing #writing #creative writing #short story #writerscommunity #fantasy #spilled ink #writing community #fantasy fiction #This was an attempt to inspire the feeling of having lost a friend #Of words that were never said and now can never be mentioned #I hope I succeeded in doing so

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dmagedgoods · 9 months

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I got inspired by anyone who did it 💕, so I wrote a little intro for Rowley in BG3 too, if he was a companion instead and the MC met him for the first time. ~ You could swear you are being watched. – Out from the dark shadows between pieces of deformed wreckage, as if someone – or something – was lurking, watching your every step. The feeling is threatening and your hand moves to your weapon. Still, it happens faster than you can react, and a dagger cuts through the smoke-thick air, directly toward your face, and misses it by merely three inches. The sudden attack and a wet sound behind you make you turn around in a swift motion, and the small creature breaks down dead. Some of the intellect devourers must have survived the crash. Your eyes search the shadows of the wreckage and near rocks and something higher up in them moves. A moment later, a man slides out of them and lands smoothly on his feet in front of you; his movements are dexterous, his body athletic and lithe like a predator’s meant to hunt in the dark. “This was a hard decision, you know? I like those little abominations, and you could turn into an obstacle rather than an asset.” An unsettling smirk plays across his mouth that seems just a touch too wide for his slim, sharp-edged face. You realize that the impression is strengthened by a wide scar from his upper lip across his right cheek. He looks at you, appears relaxed, but you are not fooled: His cold grey eyes stay attentive. Something in them reminds you of an upcoming storm. His ashen-blonde hair is short but just long enough to look unruly and wild. He wears black leather and two long shiny daggers cross on his back. His pointed ears are pierced in many places, adorned with silver jewelry, and give him away as a half-elf. “Now, but I have a choice for you …” His statement is cut short when your tadpole reaches out for his and a gasp leaves his lips. Your instincts tell you that the mind of this man is the last place you want to be, but the parasite doesn’t care for your attempt to hold it back and pictures flash up in front of your eyes. Light reflects in sharp metal, blood covers your skin. It’s not your own. You turn away in satisfaction, a short-lived sensation that’s swallowed by cold only a moment later. Your face in the shattered mirror on the wall makes you flinch, reminds you too much of what has been. There is a hole, something missing, something missing that will never return, and the abyss caused by this lack draws in all happiness that dares to emerge. You stare at the stranger who braces himself against the stony wall. He already found his grin again but the pictures you just saw expose it as a lie. “You just became a useful someone to stick with.” He steps closer and for the first time, his smile seems to reach his eyes. “The name is Rowley. What do you say? Want to buy my service for a while? – Not in coin. You'll pay me for my help by finding someone to remove those little fuckers from our heads.”

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #oc: rowley #my ocs #my writing #dmagedtexts #bg3 spoilers #not really #just being careful

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owls-and-bees · 8 months

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My first TMA fic :D

Title: the inherent romanticism of sour candy

Words: 2,007

Set in season 1 but there are small references to later seasons (no major spoilers)

Jon walks in on Martin having a panic attack and deals with it very well and is not at all awkward about the whole thing because he’s sooo good at feelings

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Jon stared at the screen in front of him, scanning over the many, many, words in the excruciatingly long email Elias had sent him.

Something about a noise complaint from the non archive employees, or maybe a noise complaint about the non archive employees?

Truthfully, he didn’t process a single word of it.

His leg tapped rapidly against the concrete floor, in unison with his hand, clicking the pen that had run out of ink when he was still in college. He kept it around regardless, mostly to click mindlessly, and he had long since tuned out the sound it made.

To put it simply, Jon was far in over his head.

“Take the promotion” He’d thought

“It’ll be fun!” He’d thought

He thought wrong.

It was bad enough that Jane Prentiss decided to make her dramatic reappearance, but of course it had to be in the form of an attack on one of his employees.

Because obviously a new job he was entirely unprepared for wasn’t enough stress! Why not throw a whole pile of worms on top?

Jon had begun to think that this was all just some horribly elaborate hazing ritual for the new archivist. Did Gertrude have to deal with worms too?!

Of course not, Jon had only seen the woman a few times but he was rather sure a gust of wind would be enough to knock her down. She was short and frail, (not that Jon was any different)

and as Tim described her “more cardigan than woman”

Sure, she was stubborn. But there was nothing that could convince Jon that the nutty old bat had ever actually dealt with an entity firsthand!

It had all just become a bit much, and Jon found it harder and harder to focus.

With Martin living in the archives, Jane lurking around somewhere (and sending the occasional ominous text message from martins phone), parasitic worms infesting the building, and of course to top it all off, Jon had to keep his assistants’ living situation hidden from Elias! Who would almost certainly disapprove of the whole affair. Even Jon wasn’t sure it was the best idea, given it probably broke several institute codes.

Jon leaned back in his chair, finally straightening his god awful posture. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sound that was somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a pained groan.

He turned his attention back to his computer, closing the half-read email.

‘It can wait until tomorrow’ he reasoned. ‘Not like I can focus on it in this state.’

He tried to ignore the weight that seemed to pull his eyes shut, and the almost silent clock on the wall that reminded him of how unreasonably late he had stayed.

That had always been a flaw of Jon’s, there would always be one or two more things left to finish before he went home, and those one or two things split into five or six. And the next thing he knew he was waking up at his desk in the middle of the night, with the imprint of a pen on the side of his face as evidence of his terrible self preservation skills.

He stood from his chair, decidedly ignoring the loud cracks that came of every joint in his body.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check on Martin before I leave. Make sure he hasn’t burnt down my archive yet.’

He rolled his eyes at the thought of Martin scrambling to put out a fire, forgetting, in the panic, about the loads of Co2 extinguishers kept in the archive.

Not that it would be completely unreasonable, even Jon found himself forgetting that fire extinguishers can be used for more than killing worms. But he couldn’t help the slight chuckle that left him at the thought of Martin throwing his tea at a fire before thinking to use an extinguisher.

Jon placed a hand on the door to the archive room, but froze when he heard a noise from inside.

A gasp?

Oh god…

Jon’s amusement at the idea of a fire quickly turned to genuine dread. He pushed open the door, already prepared to reprimand Martin for having a flame in his archives. But was met with an… unexpected sight.

Martin was sat in the furthest corner from the door, his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. His face, previously buried in his knees, was now staring up at Jon in a mix of panic and embarrassment. His eyes were red and cheeks tear-stained.

He didn’t say a word, his breathing still ragged and uncontrolled. But that look on his face was enough for Jon to understand the situation, staring up at him like he’d seen a ghost.

Any words that came to mind were lost just as quickly.

“Oh-” Jon froze, staring at his assistant for what felt like far too long. Before slowly, uncomfortably, and without breaking eye contact, backed out of the room. “I um…I’m sorry.” He spoke, his usual bluntness prevalent even now, as he slowly closed the door in front of him.

Jon leaned his head against the now closed door, cringing at his own discomfort.

Martin just stared at the door, unsure what to do after… that.

It wasn’t like panic attacks were completely new to him, but until now he’d managed to keep them outside of work. Away from Jon, who already disliked him at the best of times.

God… of course it had to be Jon who walked in! At least if it had been Tim or Sasha he could have been saved the pure humiliation!

It wasn’t like Martin ever had a chance in hell with Jon anyways, but he would have at least liked to keep a shred of his dignity!

What would Jon think of him after this? Did he consider panic attacks a fireable offense? Of course not! Jon isn’t completely emotionless… right?

Martin found himself spiraling once again. Now due to the thought of what he would say next time he saw Jon, rather than his experience with Jane prentiss.

He bit down on his lower lip, one of the more painful anxious habits he’d picked up in his youth. Images flashed through his mind of any and every potential scenario that could arise when he saw Jon again.

But before he could properly freak out, the door to the archive creaked open again, and Jon stood in the doorway.

This time, however, he walked in. all the way over to Martin in fact, and sat down beside him.

“Jon, I- I um”

“It’s fine.” He cut Martin off “you don’t have to explain yourself, I understand.”

“Alright.”

Martins reply was soft, it made him feel even more pathetic than he already did.

“Here.” Jon placed two items between them.

One was a cup of tea, the other was a bag of… sour candy?

“Oh, uh thank… you?” Martin was a bit confused, but appreciated Jon’s strange attempt at comfort regardless.

Jon let out a sigh, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, trying to save Martin the embarrassment. Or maybe just to save himself the discomfort…

“sour candy helps with panic attacks. I read this article the other day. it’s quite interesting actually, I’ll send it to you. Sour candy shocks the senses and knocks you out of the fight, flight, or freeze state. Interestingly, mint has a similar effect. I would recommend reading up on it if you have the chance. It would probably be good to keep mints or gum on hand, just in case.”

Jon stopped speaking, realizing now that he was infodumping on his coworker In the middle of a breakdown.

“I uh, I thought they might help.”

Jon finally looked back to martin, who stared at him like a deer in headlights.

It took a moment for martin to process that Jon had finished speaking, but when he did he gave the man a small smile.

“Thank you, Jon. Really, I appreciate this.”

Martin's breathing had returned to normal now, and Jon’s presence had already served to ground him, but he took a candy anyways.

Then, a sip of the tea. The warmth seeped through the cup into his hands, further solidifying the feeling that he was safe here… with Jon.

He smiled fondly at the mug in his hands, he knew Jon probably just grabbed the closest to the front of the cabinet, but the thought of him picking out martin's favorite mug intentionally warmed him more than the drink.

Martin didn’t often go for floral teas, but this was from Jon, so for all he cared it could be oolong and he’d still treasure every sip.

“Lavender?” He mused

“Yes. Lavender helps to regulate the nervous system.”

Martin gave a soft chuckle at Jon’s usual bluntness “no, I know that. I just didn’t realize we had any.”

“Ah, we don’t. I keep some in my office.”

Martin gave a small hum in response, only now considering it a bit odd Jon had sour candy and lavender tea in his office. Or that he just had this knowledge of panic attacks on hand.

“Jon… do you-” he cut himself off, trying to find a way to phrase his question that wouldn’t be overly intrusive.

Jon was still his boss.

Though he had probably broken the boarders of boss/employee decorum when he started living in the workplace.

“Hm?”

“Have you… been having panic attacks?” Martin asked, his tone laced with concern.

Jon sighed softly, something that almost seemed like a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you never worry about yourself?”

Martin started to speak, but realized he had no defense against the accusation.

“Alright yes, point taken.”

He should probably drop it, but Martin didn’t like the idea of Jon suffering alone.

“Still though, have you?”

Jon let out a soft nose exhale, the closest thing to a laugh martin had ever heard from Jon. “Yes, from time to time. but that’s nothing you need to worry yourself over.”

“Fine, please take care of yourself though?”

“Only if you can promise the same.”

Jon smiled, it was small, but still there. And more importantly, it actually seemed genuine. And it was one of the most beautiful things Martin had ever seen. He could have sworn his heart skipped a beat, or five.

It wasn’t like the man never smiled, but more often than not it was the forced kind that never reached his eyes, the smile he used for group pictures and conversations with Elias.

But this? This smile was one of fondness, it seemed. But who knows, maybe Martin was just reading too far into things again, he did have that habit when it came to Jon.

He stared at the other man, ever-present infatuation knocking at his heart as he tried his best to memorize the sight, quickly as he could. assuming, rightfully, that Jon wouldn’t let a soft moment last long, because of course he couldn’t.

Jon placed a hand in front of his face and cleared his throat.

“It’s late, I should probably go home. Are you… going to be alright?”

Martin smiled at Jon, his eyes filled with pure adoration. “Of course, I’ll be fine. Get home safe, Jon.”

“Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow Martin.”

Jon stood from his place next to Martin, heading to the door.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Oh- Um… I’ll send you the article, i-it really is interesting, I promise.”

“Looking forward to it. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin had heard his name from the other man countless times, but he had never heard it spoken so softly. Like the words might break if said with any more force.

The sound of it was divine, ringing through martins mind like a melody.

The door clicked shut, and Martin raised the mug once more to his face, and hoped for the life of him that Jon hadn’t noticed the pink hue that dusted his cheeks.

#I’m so normal about tma #should I write more jmart fics??#they’re my sillies #the inharent romanticism of sour candy #jmart fic #jmart #jmartin #tma jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #I’m still new to posting fanfics on tumblr fjjdjdj #owlbee #owlbee writing

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bethanythebogwitch · 4 months

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Australian Pokemon: 3 creepy lines

Another of my posts of Fakemon based in a hypothetical region called Goorda based on a mix of Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand (though mostly Australia). This time I designed three evolution lines based on creepy or ghostly concepts. For pervious posts see regional variants, birds, early-game standards, misc 2, misc 1, starter variants, and starters.

First up is Parapteer, the Parasite Pokemon, dark/psychic type. This Pokemon is a parasite that is weak and helpless on its own. It targets Staryu and hollows out their bodies, using them as a new home while disguising itself as a Staryu. It benefits from its host's latent psychic powers, which are added to Parapteer's own. It uses the psychic powers and disguise to sneak into a group of Staryu and plant its larvae on them, beginning the next generation of parasites. Pictured is Parapteer both in its host's body (left) and exposed (right).

Parapteer is based on Dendrogaster, a genus of parasites found worlwide that grow inside of starfish as weird, branching tentacle creatures. Parapteer exaggerates Dendrogaster to make it more like a body snatcher, killing Staryu and stealing its body as a grotesque puppet master. Honestly, this might be too grotesque for a Pokemon fan work. It would definitely have some ability like Minior where its disguise can be broken, revealing the parasite within. It could be found in the same areas as Staryu, meaning a trainer trying to fish up a Staryu has a chance of getting Parapteer instead. Its name comes from "parasite" and "puppeteer". I got the idea for this fakemon from this post.

Next is Thylament, the Mournful Pokemon, ghost/normal type. Thylament were once living beings, but they were driven to extinction by humans and have lingered on as ghosts. They mourn their deaths and avoid humans, who they fear for causing their extinction. It takes a very skilled trainer to earn the friendship of a Thylament.

Thylament is based on thylacines, also known as Tasmanian tigers. These wolf-like marsupials were once a dominant predator of Australia before being outcompeted by dingos and having their population reduced to Tasmania. The rest of the population were killed by European colonizers, with the species becoming extinct in 1936. Real thylacines were orangish, but Thylament is greyscale due to its status as a ghost. Its name comes from "thylacine" and "lament".

Thylament evolves to Skulvenge, the Vengeful Pokemon, ghost/dark type. Unlike its morose and mournful pre-evolution, Skulvenge is driven by anger over humanity causing its extinction. They take their anger out on humans, especially those exploring alone. Very few trainers ever successfully tame a Skulvenge and it is said that Skulvenge will only ever accept a trainer who also burns with anger out of a shared desire for vengeance.

Skulvenge is a mature thylacine who has decided that it's not going to take extinction lying down. The skull on its head and the inversion of its colors mark Skulvenge as being more angry and aggressive than Thylament.

The last Pokemon for today is Davalossam, the Shipwreck Pokemon, ghost/water type. When a ship sinks with crew aboard, the ghost of the crew may fuse with the shipwreck, animating it as a Davalossam. The vengeful sprits of the drowned crew seek to drag others to their fate, driving Davalossam to attack and sink ships. Nobody knows how many Davalossam lurk in the deep seas, but all sailors fear one day encountering one determined to drag them down to the depths.

Pokemon makes some very disturbing ghost types, so I don't thing a shipwreck in the shape of a shark driven by the vengeful spirits of its downed crew would be too far for an official game. I drew from sailor folklore of ghost ships and similar stories for Davalossam's origin, as well as stories of sea monsters that attacks and sink ships. While not being a grass-type, it probably would know at least Wood Hammer, being made of wood and all. Its name comes from "Davy Jones' Locker" (a euphemism for the bottom of the sea in reference to shipwrecks), "jetsam" (discarded refuse from ships), and "thalassic" (oceanic).

I wanted to include a 4th line based on the legendary creature known as the yara-ma-ya-who, but I am struggling to come up for ideas for how to adapt that to a Pokemon. I'm open to suggestions. Thanks for checking out this post, I hope you liked it.

#pokemon #fakemon #pokemon oc #dendrogaster #starfish #parasite #thylacine #tasmanian tiger #shark #shipwreck #ghost type #art #digital art #new artist #artists on tumblr #artblr

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blackjackkent · 6 months

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Hector goes into the zaith'isk first. At first Lae'zel said that she should, that it is both her duty and her right, but Hector insisted. (The dialogue option was a bit un-Hector-ish which is why I'm summarizing; I think ultimately he insists on going in first because he doesn't fully trust this machine and doesn't want to subject his companions to it before himself. Also the scene is more interesting if he's in it. XD )

Amusingly, Lae'zel actually approved of him being forcefully demanding about it. ("You walk the line between confidence and arrogance. A beguiling turn of events.") She's very hard to predict. :P

Anyway...

Narrator: The zaith'isk. This unnatural device offers your best chance of purification. You feel your parasite stir.

Hector is a man who has been raised for self-sacrifice, charity, etc., but the fearful part of him is already regretting demanding to be first into the chair. The thing is...unsettling in the highest degree, like an open mouth of flesh and metal waiting to swallow him.

"Do not fear," Stornugoss says, running a hand along the device's metal frame with a dreamy expression. "My experience in operating this machine is unparalleled. There is nothing on any plane stronger than a zith'isk for curing unwanted afflictions."

Hector swallows, feeling his throat suddenly dry and constricted. "Will it hurt me?" he asks unsteadily.

She looks back at him and quirks one eyebrow up sardonically. "More than ceremorphosis? Chk."

It's not much of an answer. Certainly not a heartening one. There will be pain, no doubt of that. Perhaps he should have expected that all along. This culture of Lae'zel's is not a gentle one.

With a sudden burst of motion, he forces himself forward, turning to settle into the chair before he can think too much about the action.

Narrator: Your body grows cold, its warmth sapped by the cold metal seat. The machine awakens.

Around him, the machine's biomechanical arms twist, clicking together like the pincers of a giant, horrible insect.

"You must focus on the parasite at all times," he hears the ghustil say. "The zaith'isk will do the rest."

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. There is no turning back now but the terror is pulsing in every cell of his body now. His fingers clench around the armrests of the seat, his knuckles turning pale white on his copper skin.

A soft, undulating glow of pale light begins to circle him, emanating from those strange arms draped around him on all sides.

Narrator: Layers of magic weave themselves tightly around your head. The tadpole squirms and contracts. It's trying to hide. [PERCEPTION] The device possesses immense but unfocused power. If you fail to direct it towards the tadpole, your faculties could face permanent harm.

Narrator: Your skull groans and bends under the pressure. Then - agony.

It's like a white-hot poker shoved directly into his brain, through his eyes, into his nostrils and his mouth and ears all at once. Everything is fire and flame, blinding. It is the pain that came with the tadpole connections, with Omeluum's experiments, but multiplied a hundred times, a thousand times. He is dimly aware that he has begun to scream, but it sounds far away, far less immediate than the unending, pounding, searing pain.

[SAVING THROW] Follow the doctor's instruction. Seek the tadpole.

Narrator: Through waves of torment, you search for the parasite's lurking presence. The device searches too - you sense its hunger, its craving. It wants the tadpole, but maybe something more.

Gods...it hurts, it hurts...he can think of nothing else but the pain and the squirming, consuming tadpole and the squirming, consuming machine. He has always been here in this white-hot suffering, and it had no beginning and will have no end...

"That's it. Ignore the pain. Think of the tadpole!" He can hear the ghustil's voice in the distance. "Think of it purged!"

And then, stronger, demanding his attention like a drill sergeant, Lae'zel - with a layer of worry he has never heard in her voice before. "This torment. You-- you must persist! You must be cleansed."

He tries to hang on to these grounding voices but everything feels so far away...

Narrator: The parasite burrows deeper, sinking its teeth into your brain's exposed tissue. It sucks greedily. You feel yourself ebbing away, while the parasite only grows stronger. It's evolving.

[SAVING THROW] Stay calm. Guide the device closer.

"That's it!" Stornugoss calls gleefully through the haze of agony. "You're almost there! The zaith'isk never fails!"

Narrator: The device *yearns* for the creature, for every part of you tainted by its presence. You will be *consumed.* The tadpole quivers. A different magic is building within it. This one is ancient. Rotten.

Terror seizes him. He is caught between two powers over which he has no control, and with the clarity of awareness of an animal caught in a deadly trap, he knows suddenly, with horrible certainty, that the device is destroying him. He is being pulled apart, mind and body and soul, and perhaps the thing never meant to let him survive the process at all.

And oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, it hurts, it hurts so much...

He lets out a soft, whimpering cry and strains at the arms of the chair, trying to push himself away, to disconnect from the machine and its power...but he can't move, except in spasmodic jerks as the pain floods him.

"No..." A soft voice inside his mind. The guardian from his dreams. She is with him, within him, a faint beacon of hope and calm within the tempest raging around him. "No more."

He clings to that slight beacon, pushes himself up slightly in the chair, gritting his teeth, trying to focus. The tadpole's threat lingers, but the machine's is sharp and immediate, overwhelming.

[MONK][SAVING THROW] Channel your ki. Flood the creature with your essence.

Narrator: You pour yourself into the tadpole's putrid magic. Its strength multiplied, it unleashes on the machine. The two forces fuse violently together, your brain their conduit. Your body and mind drift apart - you are being undone.

The pain settles into a constant inescapable plane, no peaks and valleys of hammering pulse but simply pain, forever, always, unchanging, blank. He feels reality start to slip away, his fingers going slack on the chair arms.

And then the guardian is with him again, her voice in his ear, in his thoughts. "Enough."

There's a horrible, metallic screech from under him, around him, and then an almighty explosion that lifts him into the air, shattering the machine apart and sending him flying through the air. He hits the ground with a grunt, all the air knocked from his body, and lies there still, barely conscious. The agony of the machine is gone, replaced by the thousand little aches of reality. He is still breathing. His heart still beats.

Narrator: The room swims back into focus. Your mind is intact, yet unfamiliar. Inside it, the tadpole lives on. And you feel...different.

Slowly, slowly, the dizziness fades and he is able to push himself unsteadily to his knees, then to his feet. He can hear the ghustil screaming behind him, but it takes a few moments for the words to settle into something with meaning.

"No. NO! The zaith'isk... What have you done?"

She rounds on him, eyes wide with fury. "My life's work, gone. And yet you live! And so does your parasite!"

Narrator: Her voice cuts with a fanatical edge - an obsession bordering on mania. If there's a chance the parasite lives, she wants it.

Hector takes a step backwards, steadying himself against the pillar behind him. In some other circumstance, perhaps, he might feel some compassion for her, for whatever "life's work" she has lost -- but he is still barely conscious, ears ringing from the pain, feeling like a mad dog that has just escaped a trap and is desperate to run.

"Your zaith'isk tried to kill me," he grinds out between his teeth. "And failed."

Did Lae'zel know this is what that machine was designed to do? Did she mean to sacrifice them all?

Surely not... She made it very clear she would kill them herself if the need came to it. She did not need this machine. But then why... why...

Stornugoss scowls. "The zaith'isk does not fail," she snarls. "The only variable in this experience was you - and your parasite. And I *will* uncover how this happened." She turns, stalks away towards the door. "Wait here. I will gather my tools."

She disappears and the door shuts behind her - and locks.

Hector stares at it in silence, breathing deeply, trying to bring his heart rate down to a manageable level. The fear and pain are still so close, so near to panic.

At his side, Lae'zel turns to face the shattered machine again, a wail of despair on her lips. "No! I followed the protocol. I MUST BE CLEANSED!"

And in his mind, like a whisper, he hears his guardian, unreadable emotion in her mental voice. "Incredible...your parasite is even stronger now..."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #eyyyyy another long one :D #this is so inteeeeeense #also really proud of some of these screenshots haha

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throughpatchesofviolet · 10 days

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ooh yes what’s the gist of your mermaid lore? ~sunlight-ships

Not me looking up "gist" to make sure I answer this question properly-- /lh

I'm really glad you asked, Jordan!! Most of my Mermaid Lore™ exists solely to flesh out Heathcliff's background, but it also differs quite a bit from what's canon in Limbus Company itself.

In Limbus, Mermaids are the byproduct of a human being swallowed by a Whale--Whales can "parasitize" humans in this way. They lose their human form and become more monstrous--like this, for example:

My Mermaids don't work like that, though--the idea is that there's these Mermaids that are canon to Limbus, and then there's a different set of Mer that mostly lurk beneath the waves (not to be confused with the Waves), collecting human souls to hand off to Davy Jones.

The Mermaids I created are just as afraid of the canon Mermaids from Limbus--they've had to fight them off to defend their territory numerous times--but humans don't see a difference. Mer are Mer, and Mer are dangerous, so they need to be killed.

Anyway, getting into the specifics of "my Mermaids," they're all based on Irish Merrow--a fact I've thrown around several times, by now. These are Mermaids that can assume human form if their special article of clothing--a red cap--is removed from their head. I changed it so that the Mer have to don a necklace to assume human form, since that works better with future plot things!!

They spend their lives serving Davy Jones, who's a sort of overseer of the depths of the Great Lake--the lore is murky even to the Mer, but some say he can control the Waves and the Whales themselves. In order to reside in the Lake, the Merrow have to pay a fee: a certain quota of human souls that Davy Jones sets every few moons. Failure to meet the quota results in death.

Generally, the Mer I created have the power to control the weather, and they often utilize that to sink vessels and reap the souls of sailors in order to pay their fee, keeping them locked in lobster cages until it's time to turn them over to their "benefactor."

It's important to note that this fate usually befalls male Merrow specifically, since the females actively scorn them and instead pursue human partners. If a male child is born from their union, the female Mer will throw him into the sea, and the odds of that child surviving are exceptionally low--though, thankfully, some of these abandoned Mer babies are found and taken in by older Merrow, who raise them.

The last major thing is that, like in most mermaid stories, Mer--or, at least, male Mer--are specifically warned to avoid contact with humans, as it often leads to their death. This, of course, doesn't stop Heathcliff, no matter how often he's warned of the dangers. /lh

#I also have some specific lore on like ... illnesses they can get but that's not as fun #not that all of this is fun because it's actually kinda sad--#I have so many ideas about little baby Mer!Heathcliff btw #he's so itty bitty and cute ...#the Book of Jordan #AU: Taste the Salt Upon My Breath 🌊#r: remind my heart to beat 💢#don't forget to write #death mention #body horror tw #tw body horror #ask to tag #scattered pages

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noamuth · 1 month

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Banter: Astarion

Dalamus sits in his usual spot, at a table set up in front of his tent where all his attempted gemcutting takes place. He sits straight, posture immaculate and piwafwi hood drawn over his head as he polishes the face of a stone with fine grit. But someone is lurking...

"Touch my hood, vlos'dritalur, and you will lose your hand."

A huff of exasperation leaves Astarion as he finally steps into view from behind Dalamus. "I don't get it," he says, arms crossed and head tilted. "Why does the little parasite protect me from the sun, but not you?"

Dalamus does not look up. "And I am to know the answer to this, how?"

"Doesn't it annoy you that we don't know anything about our little stowaways?" Astarion asks, gesturing flippantly with a hand. "It annoys me."

"It takes very little to annoy you, Astarion. Perhaps they are playing favorites, and your worm likes you more." Dalamus smirks as he finally peers up at the pale elf.

Astarion is anything but amused. "Oh, I don't like that answer. This face was not made for tentacles, you know. Are you sure it hasn't affected your reaction to sunlight? Have you even checked?"

Dalamus rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "I still burn. But I do not burst into flames as a vampire would. Seems to me that would be a vital problem to solve if it wishes to turn you."

"I suppose..." He sighs dramatically. "Oh, alright. I suppose that's the best answer I'm going to get. Have fun playing with your rocks."

As Astarion leaves the way he came, he quickly pulls the hood of Dalamus' piwafwi down and briskly escapes melee range.

Dalamus simply snaps his fingers, says a word, "Ssussun," and is rewarded with the undignified shriek of a vampire who has been engulfed in flames... Until he realizes it is harmless Faerie Fire. Then the shriek is followed by a string of Elven curses--some Dalamus knows and others he, impressively, does not.

#missy writing #strighym drabbles #astarion #drowic spoken #vlos'dritalur = blood drinker/vampire #ssussun = light

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willothewispaudio · 11 months

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How difficult are your werewolves physically to stereotypical werewolves? All the werewolf lore has left my skull and I don’t have the time to rewatch vids lol

They haven't been seen in universe yet, so I am spoilering this!

Enjoy!

My werewolves are more akin to eldritch horrors than giant wolves. They don't have fur, but are made out of shadows, and teeth, and claws. They can have unique attributes, like multiple limbs or antlers or extra eyes. The full transformation only happens during the full moon, but they can have partial transformations leading up to it. The wolf is a more a parasite, it feeds off the host's thaum and needs its body to have a physical form.

They get their name werewolf because of their association with the moon, their pack mentality, and that their heads look like wolfish silhouettes when they howl.

As a bonus, the transformation is kinda like a venom suit transformation: the person gets ingulfed in the shadows as it takes over. I like to think the wolf is literally lurking beneath the skin, so I kinda imagine like a black sludge coursing through the hosts' veins.

#will o the wisp audio #willothewispaudio #ww: werewolf #i have been thinking about these wolves for years #ever since i read the book “by these ten bones” by clare b dunkle as a kid in the school library

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piperjistic · 3 months

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Sunny lil’ Thang

There goes they swinging their bat again. The zom-bear goes SPLAT on what’s left of the pavement in this vine-ridden town.

“There goes Smoky.” They murmur in distaste, eyeing the green mush and bones, stomping on it to ensure it was dead. I clasp my hands together and bow my head.

“Rip, he’ll be missed.”

They snort, pivoting towards me; their bat rests against their shoulder as they cock their head inquisitively. And if I may add, no zombie gunk in sight. “Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” I nod reverencely, strolling over and indulge. “Such a symbol to all nature lovers out there.” I tip-toe past the sludge even though I wear rainboots.

“That’s right, you are one. Umm, yeah he’ll will be missed.” I laugh, almost haughty. They smile. Gah, my heart!~ I think I might melt under their sunbeams…

Oh, right! Introductions. Hi, I’m BW. That’s Vega. My nonbinary beloved.

… Well, my soon-to-be-beloved that I haven’t confessed to yet.

They’re… or more like the idea of them and me is such a funny lil thang to me.

Well more like sunny to me.

Plants can’t grow without water and the sun. And they’re my sun to my water that let us do amazing things. Does that sound right?

I still don’t know what exactly is their plan or where they’re going but I’ll follow, until the creek dries up or can’t make a path, I’ll follow them to the very end.

“BW?”

“Huh? Yeah?” I snap out of my trance.

“Ready to get going?

Huh? Yeah! Of course! I just thought you were gonna say anything else, ya know? Anyway come on!” I skipped ahead. “Where we headin? This way right?” I point. They nod. I smile and march onward. “Then let’s get going…!”

- • - • -

Not much happens besides that for a minute per-say. Sure for someone not in a zombie-animal-corpse-apocalypse the killing of animal zombies ravaged by parasitics plants with water-bending and magic bat combo, it would be a lot! But not for me and Vega!

Plus we were quiet so we didn’t attract much attention. We stopped for obvious pee breaks and (I) chatted to some plants about the trouble that lurks ahead, cus of course there’s trouble ahead, there’s always trouble gor me and V. But nothing can stop us. We’re the ultimate team! Except for food, maybe that’ll be the end of us.

We’ve almost through town, we made it to a gas station, or… what it used to be. Best to stay clear, don’t want to accidentally BLOW UP, but eh- it happens…. Hey! Wait! What if I can bend the oil—

“… Hey….” Uh.. I snap my head from the decrepit gas station, gaze intently trained on them. They scratched their back of their head.

“Hey~” I finger-gun. So awkward….

“I never did tell you where we were going…” They glance back as we trot through the dingy dirty patches and roots, tapping the bat against their shoulder.

Distant moans echo in the distance, thankfully filling in any moments of silence or pauses. They inhaled deeply as their beanie sags on their curly brown hair. I speak up, accepting the offer for conversation, but keep it cool of course.

“I thought it was private or whatever.” Glancing in front to hop over a root, waving my hand around while the rest balled up in my pocket. “But regardless I would follow you to the ends of the earth—“ Shit.

“What—“ I stumble over a root but catch myself, a handy water hand pushes me forward from a nearby puddle. That doesn’t matter to me as much as Vega stares widely at me. Recover damnit!

“I mean-uh- it seems fun! The end of the earth thing. Duh. “ I muster a smirk, but not a confident one.

Oh BW, you useless lesbian.

“Ah… Okay. Well actually we’re not going to thr ends of the earth.” I gasp dramatically, hands pushing up my cheeks and wide eyes. Water seems to follow me, curling around my feet and acting like a skateboard, water-cruise slightly ahead of Vega’s pace.

“You’re not?”

“Shocker..! “ They wave their hands playfully defensively in front of them. “I know. But uh, I want… to sette?” Their voice cracked.

Settle?

Settle! Oh my gosh maybe the cottagecore dream will come true!

Keep calm BW, damnit.

“Settle?” We seemed to stop, moving forward anyways, as they pace, while I cruise around them. Even fiddling with my updone bow, I probably need a new one soon.

“Yeah, uh,” The brunette does a double-handed swing at the air, no force behind it as they walk in circle. They’re practically shimmering in the sun with their tan skin….. ah…

“I always been into history and antiques an’ stuff.” Patting their handy bat. “And I was thinking might as well live in a museum right? A big one of course.” They glance away to the ground, tugging at their hair, even digging their shoe the dirt more.

They never do that. They aways look into peoples eyes. They’re chill but not too chill, like not aloof. Confident but not like too confident, may be a little arrogant…. But not…Are they scared? Worried? That I might judge them? Oh Vega…

“Yeah- n’ stuff.” I manage to say, thoughts clearing like water spreading away. I step closer.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I shrug, folding my arms behind me. They frown.

“Well what do you think?”

“What do I think?” I lean in, cracking a small smile. “It’s perfect.”

They blink as my smile grows. Their shoulders and grip on the bat even loosen. “That’s… all?”

“That’s all? No! It would be so cool! It’s a great idea babe, I mean hello! We don’t just get access to the displays but also the backrooms! And guess what we can find there—“ I skip ahead, they follow.

“This isn’t even mention where we could sleep! I mean hello! We got the whole place to ourselves! Imagine sleeping in a fake tree with a hamrock with trex bones as our stairs! Oh! Or race around in old convertibles!” I mutter the last part, espying a patch of dandelions. “If they work anyway.”

Their eyebrow shifts up, while the other quirks down, almost…. No, they’re weary. Oops, too much?

“Didn’t realize you would be… so invested in…. this.” My heart pounds loudly. The bat rests in their hands. I shrug again, smiling the best I can. Honesty is the best policy. Even when embarrassing. Right?

“Where you go, I go, ya know? I don’t got anywhere or anyone to be with right now... outside of you of course.” It took a moment, but they sigh. My heart even slows down. Am I safe?

Vega cracks a smile, shaking their head. My smile was genuine this time. There we go. I glance at the puddle below me. Oh thank sparks! My face isn’t red. That would be—

“What other ideas do you have for our bedding arrangement, B?”

B? B. B~ My heart swells, I can feel my face heat up, so I turn away. I spoke too soon. I march forward in hopefully the right direction. But— that’s my nickname to them. B. I love it- It’s taking everything to now turn to jello and passout so back to their question!

Well- Uh-“ I adjust my glasses, holding a piece of my raincoat as a shield. I cough a few times, then face Vega. I must of recovered if they aren’t questioning my face. Okay okay, museum honeymoon. Uhhhh— I light up!

I practically hop at the ideas rushing back to my brain.

“We could stay in the giftshop! Oh my gosh yes! So many trinkets there and we wouldn’t have to move ‘em to our bedding area, because we live in the giftshop! Butttt then there’s another thing to consider, the proximity to the bathroom—“ I’m practically skipping, and I flash a smile back at them, sun shining behind me for the last time today, probably blinding them. “Well don’t just stand there! Come on! Oo! And the food court—“

Vega shakes their head as they follow BW, muttering with a soft yet sweet smile. “Such a sunny lil’ thang…”

#imagination nation #write bite #calamity bash

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goodbye-alchemy · 6 months

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(More Robin and Astarion lore!)

If you asked Robin what her favorite thing about Astarion is, she’d probably furrow her brows, fighting the blush from spreading across her face and pointed ears. Even as a girl constantly lost to the world within books, the words would elude her at the mention of the pale elf’s name. She’ll think quietly for a moment, lost in the archives of her mind, and look up at you with a ready grin and a story to tell.

After the mishappenings that took place within Cazador’s chambers, Astarion had gone off to be alone for a while, pondering the past two centuries of fear he had endured. He walked aimlessly around the dark halls of the palace, not sure what he was looking for. He remained there for multiple days, even sleeping in his old bed in the spawn dormitories.

On the fifth day, Robin decided she would go and check on him, or offer him a drink so he wouldn’t be weakened. She stepped into the dusty, empty, castle and began looking for him. As far as she knew, he would be the only living, -or unliving- thing roaming these halls.

She rounded the corner, lost as all hells, and heard a low rumbling noise. Nothing dangerous, just enough to move her hand to her quarterstaff, readying herself to defend. She peeked her head around the door and saw the source of the vibrations; a black cat sitting under the window, purring loudly in content. Kneeling next to it was Astarion, who was petting the animal with half-lidded eyes, quietly illuminated by the moonlight trickling in behind him. His white hair was practically glowing in contrast to the darkness that filled the room.

Robin contemplated making her presence known but paused for just a moment. She couldn’t help but stare as his long and slender fingers, covered in the blood of his terrorizer just days before, were so gentle and graceful now. Almost as if killing Cazador had freed them from their spell of bloodlust, and they were back to before his entire plight began. The hands that grasped his mother’s finger as a babe. The hands that played street ball with the other elven children. The fingers that put quill to paper as he gave out rulings. The very hands that dug through six feet of dirt to break the surface into his prison, and ceased to exist from then on.

“Oh,” Astarion looked up at Robin. “my dear, what are you doing here?” The cat would sit, staring at him expectantly.

“How did you know I was there?” Robin asked, surprised.

“You’re awful at sneaking, I feel as if you know that quite well.” Astarion said, matter-of-factly.

Robin sighed. She did know that quite well. The guards at Rivington Jailhouse would attest. “Well… who is that you’re sitting with in the dark like this?” She asked, walking over and kneeling beside him. The cat looked at her warily.

“This is Primrose. She’s lurked in the palace gardens for years.” He continued petting her. “I kept her a secret from Cazador and the other spawns. I knew those bastards would drink her dry the moment she was seen. I suppose, then, her nightmare is over now too.” His voice was tinged with sadness.

Robin reached out to Primrose gently, who sniffed her hand cautiously before pressing her fuzzy forehead to the palm of her hand. “A lovely thing, she is.”

Astarion smiled softly. “Yes, she is. In many ways, she was my only confidante for the time before I was blessed with this cursed parasite.” He gently touched her tail, which flipped playfully. “I thought perhaps she’d be the last being to see me gentle.”

Robin would pause the story at this point and laugh softly to herself, shaking her head. “I knew then that at his heart, Astarion is a man that is not only kind but much, much kinder than you and I. Kinder than any man.” She would run her hand nervously through her hair, choosing her words carefully. “He had every reason to be eternally vengeful. To turn his face from the world that had all but abandoned him. Despite the cruelty that drowned him, he still chooses to be kind in spite of it.”

“But did he not fight you tooth and nail at every opportunity to help others?” You would ask, perplexed at her observation. The man was not exactly known for his acts of altruism.

Robin would giggle. “Indeed. Many days we spent bickering over such things. He wanted us to be safe, first and foremost.” She looks at the ground thoughtfully. “But… he let me win every time. He never once, in this entire journey, stopped me from reaching out to those who needed us. And when it came down to it, he would whine and pout but never failed to put his life on the line for those people, all the same as you or I.”

She would then excuse herself, citing urgent matters to attend to, and walk away blushing to herself about how the rest of that story played out.

As they sat there, looking down at Primrose, Robin’s hand would brush Astarion’s accidentally, triggering a slight static shock between their skin. She would begin to pull away instinctively and look up at him. “Oh! Sorry-” her words stopped short as he suddenly grabbed her wrist. His eyes, no longer looking downward, were now gazing quite intensely into hers. Robin searched his face and saw tired eyes, knitted eyebrows, and what looked like… gratitude.

He pulled her in, gently, slowly, and leaned toward her, until their breaths were mixing in the air. His red pupils flicked between her eyes and her lips, with his own parted ever so slightly. Robin’s heartbeat was filling the room, growing faster and faster. She pressed her eyes closed as hard as she could as she felt a cold hand cup her cheek. His thumb ran tenderly over her warm skin, unable to do anything else.

“Would it be terrible… If I…” his words trailed off. He questioned even then if he was deserving. If he could be afforded kindness. Robin, at the sound of his voice so wounded, met his questioning eyes and in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, closed the distance between them.

A frozen second in time that burned into their minds indefinitely. Robin recalls this moment as being more nerve-wracking than any danger they had come across in all their travels.

Her and Astarion, sitting in a quiet, dark room, with a purring cat between them, vowing silently to be each other’s kindness.

#bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #creative writing #author #writing #robin x astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #fanfiction #larian #i am frothing for them actually

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