#<- tagging you guys because i know some of you do archiving on purpose

[hughesapalooza]

so fascinated by the prevalence of archiving in sports fandom

[meanbossart]

So we know Drow and Orin were a thing, but what was Drow’s relationship with Gortash and/or Ketheric like? Asking because I did a little post about my Durge Dude’s relationship with the other chosen recently, wondered what your Durge’s were, and I don’t think you’ve ever told us what Drow’s dynamics and/or history with them so I’m curious

I talked about this a long, long time ago, I think Gortash has a tag in my archive if you want to dig up those old posts. However, while my ideas have remained more or less the same I do think they require some comprehensive updating! So here we go.

Ketheric:

Their relationship might as well have been nonexistent, which kind of seems to be the pattern here for Ketheric among the chosen seeing as he was in this plan for vastly different reasons. DU drow rarely saw the general if not to strategize alongside the others or strut around moonrise towers finding things to scoff at.

Unlike Gortash, Ketheric didn't care for networking or keeping things amicable - he remained cold and uncaring through DU drow's occasional attempts to get a rise out of him, expressing discontent in the lest amusing way possible if nor outright ignoring him. He never extended him a hand or an invitation for brunch, he never spoke a word about himself lest it be used against him - as it happened with the little that had to be shared. The only time DU drow ever saw Ketheric flinch was whenever he expressed his strong desire to go pay Isobel his respects.

Gortash:

DU drow and Gortash were "friends" in the most strained and flimsy sense of the word. Gortash strikes me as a the kind of guy who will forego all dignity if it favors him on the long term, for both practicity's sake and possibly an ingrained penchant for self destruction. DU drow saw this, and the moment he caught onto the fact that he was indispensable for Gortash's plans, he started to pick at him ever so subtly to see how far he could be pushed before breaking. He insulted Gortash's appearance, choices, faith, background, family, he destroyed his property and made a bad job of covering up his tracks on purpose, he sent followers to kill his men in the hopes of seeing him be stressed out about it the next day. It never worked. Gortash still invited him to his dinners, still shook his hand, still remained unambiguously smug - it would be infuriating if it wasn't impressive. Respectful, even.

But even if they were amicable, even if they were on "acceptable terms" and the closest thing each other had to a real, equal friendship, DU drow always saw Gortash as a sniveling child trying to play grown-up; lacking in any real free-will of his own because his pursuits were motivated entirely by a sob-story of a past. Gortash did not fit the britches that he was trying to wear, and DU drow had a sneaking suspicion that if he ever got to the top, to the place where he was trying to be - commander of the world and killer of the universe, side by side with him - that then, then he would finally break; once he realized that all he had accomplished was isolating himself with the most cruel man in the world.

And he dreamed of this day. He fantasized about it. He eagerly awaited to see Gortash's face drop the second he got everything he ever wanted - he got a glint in his eye picturing it whenever they toasted or shared a laugh about their brilliant futures. He loved Gortash like a butcher loves a fat cow that's going to keep in alive during the coming winter. It's still a kind of love. It's always a kind of love with him.

[roguishcat]

Brunch

Summary: Another, better emotionally equipped male would probably just ask Tav out. Like on an actual proper date at a nice venue rather than sticking to their monthly meeting for brunch as a pathetic excuse for spending time with her. But that was the crux of the problem. Astarion had absolutely zero clue as to how to be in a relationship.

Humour/Friendship/Romance

Tags: AU, Modern times, Elf Astarion, No Cazador, Mature Language, Suggestive Themes, Jealous Astarion, Astarion is bad at feelings

Two-shot: Part 1 - 5k words

Pairing: Astarion x unnamed female Tav

Rating: Mature (Part 2 will be rated E, so MDNI please)

A/N: This does not have a beta. So if you notice any mistakes, please let me know! 💖 Comments are always appreciated!

“Sorry, I’m late,” Tav stumbled gracelessly into the café, her cheeks flushed from the heat.

“Quite alright, darling. I have already ordered,” Astarion replied, his eyes sweeping over her in appreciation.

Tav, being herself, misjudged his look and self-consciously pulled on the front of her dress, unsuccessfully trying to get it to unstick from her clammy skin. Everyone was suffering from the heatwave, and they looked it, except Astarion, of course. He, unlike Tav, looked as cool as a freaking cucumber. Silver curls falling just so, his white shirt fresh, sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms.

“I’m just going to go and splash some water on my face, it’s boiling hot outside today. I don’t know how you can bear it. Here, hold my bag.”

She thrust her tote into his hands and walked off in the direction of the bathroom. Astarion wasted no time in rummaging through it because really, what else did she expect? If she didn’t want him to snoop, she shouldn’t have handed him her things and allowed for him to have ample time alone with said things.

Tav was quick to come back, she didn’t even bother taking her bag back from him when she sat down. Sweet, trusting thing that she was.

“How you’ve been?” she asked and reached for her glass of water.

“Good. Won the case, quite predictably. The other guy’s lawyer was completely out of his depth.”

Astarion didn’t even look up from his phone as he said that. Tav wasn’t even annoyed. He’s been like this as long as she’s known him. For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be disinterested and careless, but actually Astarion noticed much more about others than he ever let on and could even be quite sweet, on a very, very rare occasion.

She was glad that their friendship survived over the years, even if they only met up for brunch once a month. She would like to see more of him, but with how busy Astarion was, it was frankly quite a miracle that he had deemed her important enough to meet up with any regularity.

Astarion and brunch, who would have thought that he would even entertain the thought of something so mundane?

When Tav first met Astarion all those years ago, they were all dirt-poor students, roommates trying to get by. Actually, she was still eyeballs-deep in student debt, unlike Mr. Big Shot lawyer, who was doing very well for himself evidentially.  

“How about you, dearest? Anything exciting happen lately?” Astarion questioned.

Tav knew what he was alluding to and was quite prepared to lie through her teeth. Because her latest attempt at a relationship was not going well, but she would never admit it to Astarion. She didn’t need his ‘I-told-you-so’ smirk.

“Good, good.”

Astarion scoffed and rolled his eyes at her woefully inadequate attempt at lying. And to him, out of all people. He did not buy it. Because he knew exactly what Tav looked like when she was actually excited about someone.

“Thought as much. That’s why I went ahead and dumped him for you.”

“Excuse me?!”

She noticed that the phone in his hands was not actually his.

“You cheeky bugger, I can’t believe you swiped my phone and managed to unlock it! And who gave you the right to end my relationship, hm?”

“Tav, two pity fucks because for some reason you were feeling charitable do not count as a relationship. I did you a favour.”

“You’re the one to talk. You’ve slept with tons of people for much less than puppy dog eyes!” she shot back.

“If you are referring to the time Gale and I got shitfaced and got it on in the public garden, let me assure you, the stars that night were beautiful. It was a magical, unforgettable evening.”

“Sure it was,” she laughed and grabbed her phone.

She couldn’t stay mad at him for long and he knew it. Besides, he was right. She wasn’t that into her now ex. She only went out with him because he kept asking and she thought that it wouldn’t hurt to give it a go and make it work. Because, truth be told, it’s been a long, long, long while since she’s been on a date, so she thought that a nice dinner with a conventionally nice, smart, attractive person was not a bad thing for her.

Their order arrived. Full breakfast and coffee for Tav, just black coffee for Astarion. He sipped it slowly, enjoying the way Tav dug into her food with gusto.

“Mmm… this is awesome. Sure you’re not having any?”

“Food? Here? You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grimaced. Even the coffee was foul. He could only imagine what the food was like.

“Yes, I know, I know. Your taste is way to refined to dine on something so greasy and disgusting.”

“Yes, because some of us actually have class.”

“I would throw my bacon at you, but it would be a waste of good food. Consider yourself lucky that this is delicious.”

Her attention back on her food, Astarion was free to look at her at his leisure. He knew Tav hated summer, she was no good with the heat. But he quite liked seeing her all sun-kissed, new freckles dotting her skin, hair swept up to bare her beautiful neck.

Astarion would never admit it even if he was threatened with decapitation, but he liked talking to her, watching her. Tav was probably the only person he actually enjoyed spending time with nowadays, but it was not always so.

Astarion was not very fond of Tav when they first met. Actually, that was an understatement. She annoyed him constantly, especially when she was trying to be friendly and welcoming. He could not understand what her deal was. In his experience, people were never nice just for the sake of it. There were always strings attached. So, her doing the whole sweet girl-next-door act left him entirely unimpressed and irritated. If only he could afford the rent, he would not even bother with roommates. As things were, he had to put up with two.

Except over the years he noticed that her kindness was not reserved to the few that she could possibly gain something from. Tav was helpful, thoughtful and empathic towards everyone, which immediately drew people to her. He suddenly found himself a part of a friendship group which gravitated towards Tav. Them liking her was definitely the only thing they initially had in common.

Whilst Astarion enthusiastically threw himself into his studies during the day and even more enthusiastically enjoyed recreational activities with different partners after hours, he gradually came to appreciate her and was glad that Tav became something of a constant in his life. She was a clueless, naïve, sweet fool, but she was his fool. Not that she was stupid, she was quite intelligent, but rather too wide-eyed and hopeful for this world. People like that did not go far and Astarion was planning on going very far and making the most of every opportunity, no matter the cost.

At one point, sometime between cramming for his finals and helping her study for hers, Astarion toyed with the idea of sleeping with Tav. It wasn’t the first time he thought of it. Over the years, he entertained the idea in passing on several occasions with the level of enthusiasm one has when selecting a sandwich for lunch. That is, the same lukewarm interest that most of his conquests would receive. But over the years, Tav wormed her way into his heart. She was not just an annoyance, not just a roommate. They became friends, even if Tav was the one doing all the heavy lifting when it came to maintaining the said friendship. She was just always there and Astarion was very much taking her presence in his life for granted.

However, the realization that their studies and therefore time together would soon be over made the elf see Tav in a different light for the first time. And so he wondered, if she wasn’t just a roommate, just a friend… Whatever in the world could she be?

If anything, Tav was quite beautiful. Not staggeringly gorgeous, like some of his ex-lovers, but very pretty in her own way. Astarion was sure that if they had sex, it would be a fantastic experience for both of them. Especially for Tav. She would actually get an experienced lover unselfishly fulfilling her needs for once. But then he thought of something that he cared squat about when it came to others and very much when it came to her.

Tav’s feelings.

She wasn’t a prude, but she didn’t just sleep around for the sake of it. She would probably start reflecting on what it meant for their friendship, worry that it was going to screw everything up. And that was why Astarion didn’t go through with it. Although he was really tempted.

Predictably, they drifted apart after graduation. Predictably, it was his fault. He was the one who constantly cancelled plans and didn’t turn up when she invited him and others to outings. Tav went on to get her teaching certification and he continued on his path of becoming a lawyer. He worked hard and partied harder. His life was a kaleidoscope of faces he couldn’t remember, except those that he regularly spent time with for work.

It was fun, great fun, such great fun, he kept telling himself. It was exactly what he wanted. To take the big city by storm and make it his. To get away from his past, from the memory of scrimping and saving, living in borderline poverty as a child. Feeling helpless as his mother worked every waking moment to provide for his future, them constantly worrying about making ends meet. That was why he made damn sure that no one knew anything of his past. And that meant detaching himself from everyone who knew him before he became Astarion Ancunín the successful lawyer, who was now well on his way to getting a promotion and yet another pay rise.

A little under a decade passed. Astarion rarely gave Tav or any of his former friends much thought. Then, one balmy summer afternoon he saw her in the busy city street, surprisingly talking to Halsin, the environmental lawyer he went up against a few times, out of all people. Astarion felt as if someone sucker punched him. Stunned, Astarion found himself stopping abruptly, not paying attention to people bumping into him. Tav was wearing a pretty sundress that bared her delicate collarbones and shoulders, the light fabric whispering against her skin, her unbound hair framing her face. And then she laughed at something Halsin said, a genuine, full laugh, and smacked his biceps playfully. Astarion felt a wave of something that he could not quite recognise. Another, better emotionally equipped person, would recognise the feeling as longing. To Astarion it was just an unpleasant, hollow feeling that he was quite unfamiliar with.

Whatever it was, it compelled him to cross the street and start walking in her direction. Tav was just turning around when she collided with Astarion, which may or may not have been on purpose on his part.

“Ouch, sorry. I wasn’t- Astarion?”

He inwardly preened that she recognised him immediately. Clearly, he was just that unforgettable.

“Hello, darling,” he practically purred, steadying her gently.

“Wow, it’s been years! Fancy bumping into you like that, literally,” Tav chuckled, feeling quite drab next to him. “Well, I would love to catch up, but you probably have some place to be, all dressed up like that.”

Ah, that was true. He did have some place to be. He always had some important meeting, or trial, or party to go to. But that meant letting her go and that was definitely unacceptable.

“Actually, I am quite free this afternoon. How about getting some brunch?”

“Brunch? Really? Didn’t think you’d be the type, Ancunín,” she teased him a warm smile. “But sure, why not.”

He immediately regretted suggesting brunch, out of all things. But he was never very good coming up with something when put on the spot. And yes, brunch was something boring married couples and the elderly enjoyed, but there they were, walking down the busy street and into the nearest café.

And that was how it became their monthly thing. Meeting up for brunch on Sundays.

Another male, who was better versed at recognizing his own feelings, would have probably just asked Tav out by now. Like on an actual proper date at a nice venue rather than sticking to their monthly meeting as a pathetic excuse for spending time with her. But that was the crux of the problem. Astarion may have had a wealth of knowledge when it came to casual flings and friendly fucks, but he had absolutely zero clue as to how to be in a relationship.

And by gods he wanted to! It was embarrassing how much he wanted to. He wanted to wake up next to her every day, to have her move in with him, to have Tav around constantly, give her presents, see her face light up beautifully, whisper sweet nothings into her ear as they got lost in each other. You know, all that sappy crap that couples found so endearing. He wanted all that sappy crap.

But to get to that stage, he had to actually make the first move. He was kind of hoping to entice Tav into propositioning him first, but she was either incredibly dense, bless her heart, or just pretending not to notice that he was constantly flirting with her. Though perhaps it could have something to do with him parading a staggering number of lovers in front of her over the years. He admitted to himself that if tables were turned, he too would doubt that the other person’s interest was sincere.

And so Astarion decided to go for it and ask Tav out. Because he couldn’t stand the thought of her going on yet another date with someone who was not him.

He cleared his throat. “Tav?”

“Hm?” she looked up from her food, half-way done. It was truly impressive how she could devour huge amounts in no time at all.

“I have this thing that I’m supposed to attend, a charity gala dinner of sorts. Would you like to come?”

“You mean to tell me that Astarion Ancunín can’t get a date for the evening?” she teased. “I find that very hard to believe. But sure, sounds like fun,” she smiled, looking quite excited.

He deflated a little. Because whilst it was a ‘yes’ on the outing, it seemed like Tav thought he meant going together as friends. He sighed into his cup. It would have to do for now. At least he would have someone he actually wanted to talk to throughout the evening. And he was curious what Tav would choose to wear. He rather hoped it was something backless.

On Monday, Shadowheart stopped by his office, knocking on the open door to get his attention.

“Got a minute?”

“For you, dearest? Of course.”

She walked up closer to his desk, delicate heels clicking on the hardwood floor and then the sound being swallowed up by the expensive carpet.

“I heard you are bringing Tav along with you to that charity thing,” she began slowly.

Astarion scowled and took his gold rimmed glasses off. They were non-prescription, as everything about him including his eyesight was perfect, but he rather liked how sophisticated he looked when wearing them.

“And how, pray tell, do you know that?” he drawled, annoyed to have Shadowheart out of all people find out about his plans.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart gave a longsuffering sigh that was meant to show that she doubted his intelligence, “I know you don’t pay attention to anyone unless there is something to gain, but you do remember that I used to hang out with you and Tav at uni? Of course, not,” she scoffed at the blank look he gave her. “You didn’t even recognise me when I first started working here.”

Astarion vaguely remembered that there was a goth chic hanging out with Tav from time to time, but he was otherwise uninterested in anyone that he wasn’t involved with. He barely said ten words to Shadowheart back then. Her being snarky and mean should have been reason enough for them to hit it off instantly, but not so. Years later, when Shadowheart first started at the company, the silvery blonde hair, the professional-looking pencil skirts and heels, and the much softer manner with which she carried herself were polar opposite to the way she looked when they were in their early twenties.

“Get to your point,” he huffed, really not in the mood for whatever Shadowheart had to say.

“Look, I like Tav. She’s not like you and me. We are pragmatic, narcissistic, ruthless,” she accentuated her words by closing the file he was looking through sharply in his face. “Which makes us perfect at what we do. But, for some reason, Tav seems to like you well enough to keep putting up with you as a friend. But do you really think that you two are on the same page about what is going to happen once you bring her home?”

“Ah, yes. The relationship advice that I didn’t ask for from the person who is as terrible at relationships as I am. Good talk,” he opened the file again to signal that their conversation was over.

“I’m serious. You can’t just screw around with Tav. She is the type that is for keeps and shit.”

“Tsk, I see Karlach’s potty mouth is rubbing off on you,” he admonished the half-elf with a smirk.

“Perhaps in more ways than one,” Shadowheart all but purred.

“Do not need the sordid details and to save you the trouble, never will in the future.”

“Oh really?” she raised her eyebrows in surprise, flipping her long hair over her shoulder, “I thought you lived to gossip. When did you become such a bore?”

“Since I had this terrible, headache inducing environmental case thrown on my table,” Astarion rubbed his temples, trying unsuccessfully to fight back a yawn.

“Halsin?”

“Who else. As if it is possible to save that fucking lake for those damn ducks. What is it with that man and ducks?”

She chortled. “Good luck with that. Who knew that he would be so proficient at what he does, right? Wasn’t he the one who was caught streaking couple nights before his graduation? I think we were first year students at the time.”

“It was him, shouting something along the lines of being one with nature. Nice ass though.”

“Nice ass indeed,” she agreed. “But we are digressing. Don’t just sleep with Tav to have yet another notch on your bedpost. If you want to try to make it work with her, go right ahead. Gods know she’s had a crush on you long enough. But if not, well… Expect to be in for a world of hurt. Karlach will hound you and impale you with one of those new swords she bought for her weapon collection she thinks she snuck past me a couple of days ago.”

“You are living together?” Astarion actually looked up, giving her his full undivided attention.

“So it seems,” Shadowheart smiled, a proper, genuine soft smile which rarely graced her face. “Think about what I said. And don’t do anything rash.”

After she left, Astarion tried to focus on his computer screen and the papers in front of him, but his thoughts kept drifting to what Shadowheart said earlier.

Tav has had a crush on him for years. Surely not! He would be the first to know if she had feelings for him, right? And what confused him the most that instead of being elated, relieved that she wanted him, he felt a sick kind of dread.

Shadowheart was right. What was he even thinking? He was not ready for an honest-to-gods relationship! Especially with someone like Tav! Someone he cared about too much to just say ‘thanks, but no thanks’ if something went wrong.

He groaned and massaged his temples again. Why did he even ask her? He couldn’t just cancel now, could he? Although… why couldn’t he? It would be easy enough. Make up an excuse of some sort. Tav would probably forgive him. One could hope.

That same evening there was a pounding on his apartment door. Shadowheart was furious, that much he could tell just by checking the doorcam.

“Can I help you?” he opened the door and Shadowheart stormed right in.

“Cut the crap, Ancunín!” she snapped, eyes blazing and clearly ready for a confrontation. “Tav called me. Apparently, you haven’t the balls to actually admit that you like her, so you just cancelled the date!”

“It wasn’t a date,” he said pathetically, sounding like a petulant child even to his own ears.

“That’s what she said too. That it was just you two going as friends,” she mocked. “So, tell me, what set you off? Was it me telling you that she likes you? Is that it?”

“That has nothing to do with this!” he bristled, his hackles raised. “I simply decided that I don’t want to take anyone.”

“Sure you did,” she rolled her eyes at the obvious lie.

Astarion chose this moment to regroup, sensing that Shadowheart had one over him. And under no circumstances was the obstinate elf stooping so low as to admit that he was afraid of dealing with feelings. Letting out a breath, he ran his fingers through his snowy curls, letting his lips curl upwards into a smirk. It was a familiar act, comforting in a way. Playing the rake has served him well over the years.

“Besides, why would I even want Tav in that way? I could have anyone, literally anyone, just like that. I could have you right here, right on the floor, right now, if I wanted to.”

“Excuse me?” She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, unimpressed by his insinuation.

“You heard me. In fact, I think that’s why you are really here,” he took a purposeful, predatory step towards her, taking his glasses off and giving her a slow, practiced smile. He tilted his head forward a little, letting a rogue curl fall out of place, dropping his voice to a sensual murmur. “Want me to throw you one, Sha-dow-heart?”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. In hindsight, perhaps challenging her was not one of his brightest ideas. But then again, how many of his snap decisions were?

“Do it,” she lessened the distance between them, so they were standing almost nose to nose. “I said do it. Throw me one, Astarion.”

“Excuse me? Wha- what about Karlach?” he stuttered, panicking and unsure of what to do next.

“Let’s just say we have an understanding, of sorts. So come on then. Right here, right now, on the floor.” Shadowheart trailed a delicate finger up and down his chest, bringing her other hand up to pop the top button on her shirt open.

“What do you say?” she murmured, looking up at him through her long, fluttery lashes.

Shadowheart was a picture and she knew it. There was no way any living, breathing creature would turn her down, especially when her intent was all-too-clear.

Astarion gulped. “I- I think you should go.”

“I knew it!” she jabbed him hard with a manicured finger, making the elf wince. “I knew that you were full of shit! And you know why? Because you like Tav, you clueless idiot! So do yourself a favour, stop being a fool and call her! Take her to the party, don’t take her to the party. But tell Tav how you really feel or I swear to gods, I will give her number to everyone who has been clamouring to ask her out. I have a list a mile long of people who would happily sweep her off her feet the way that she actually deserves! Your move, Ancunín.”

And with that she stormed out, slamming the door shut for good measure.

Astarion did not call Tav. Not that evening, not the day after, and not the day after that.

He hated how much of a coward he was. And Shadowheart was right, Tav deserved much more than his half-arsed attempts at asking her out.

On Friday evening, Shadowheart stopped by his office before leaving for the day and sat down on the sofa opposite his desk, crossing her shapely legs as she looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“Halsin asked Tav out, you know. And she said yes. They are meeting for drinks tonight, probably right about now.”

Astarion did not look up from the papers strewn across his desk. “Thank you for that information, not that I asked.”

“So I take it that you don’t care?”

“Not in the slightest,” he waved her question off, as if it was completely inconsequential and unimportant, lifted the cup of coffee off his table and took a sip. He definitely would have to pull an all-nighter, with the workload being absolutely impossible.

“Good, good. That’s what I thought too. Which is why I told Tav that it wasn’t slutty at all to go all the way on the first date.”

He choked on his coffee.

She quirked an eyebrow and waited a beat for her words to sink in. “And then, being a good friend, I made sure that Tav had three types of condoms in her bag. Halsin looks like a big boy, but you never know what size they might actually need.”

Astarion could not reply because he was still trying to cough up his lungs, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

“But never mind that, I’m sure you have a marvelous evening ahead of you,” Shadowheart smirked, getting up and smoothing the front of her pencil skirt out. “I, for one, am meeting up with Karlach in an hour, so have a nice weekend.” With that she walked out of his office, her heels clicking in a way that could only be described as smug.

Astarion told himself that it didn’t matter to him if she slept with Halsin. Hells, it didn’t matter if she slept with half the city! It was none of his business. He had their monthly brunches to look forward to. The next one would be in a couple of weeks, or 26 days, or 624 hours. Not that he was counting.

And that was how Astarion found himself standing across the street from the place that he heard Tav go on about. He guessed correctly, she was indeed at that exact restaurant.

Astarion scowled as he saw that she actually made a real effort for this date, looking absolutely delicious, if he said so himself.

He could have taken her there. It could be him sitting across from Tav now. Reaching out to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth with his napkin, she really was a messy pup sometimes, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Leaning forward to-

“Oh, hells no,” Astarion hissed, watching as Halsin leaned forward to whisper something in Tav’s ear, making her blush prettily.

“You deserve it, you know.”

He jumped at the familiar voice. Karlach was looking at him with a smirk, Shadowheart standing next to her tiefling.

“What are you doing here?”

“On no, Shadowheart, Astarion’s been discovered!” Karlach stage whispered. “Spying on a person on her date like some kind of creep.”

“And you two? Don’t tell me you just happened to stroll past this particular restaurant at this exact time, hm?” Astarion mocked, his back rigid as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Oh, we are nosy, alright” Karlach admitted readily with a shrug. “But we are rooting for this date to be a success. And I bet Shadowheart that you would turn up. Pay up, baby!”

Shadowheart grumbled and got her phone out, sending the money to Karlach. “You see, I had some faith in you. Should have known better.”

“Well, thank you very fucking much,” he bowed with a flourish and turned away from the two. “Now if you two excuse me, I have a date to crash.”

“What do you think you are doing? There is no way you are going there!” Shadowheart hissed, grasping his forearm and making him squirm. The woman was deceptively delicate, holding him in place easily with a vice-like grip.

“And why the hells not?” Astarion spat, finally managing to push her away with his other arm.

“Because Karlach here will throttle you if you make one step towards that restaurant.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. He survived this long by knowing to pick his battles wisely. He could perhaps take Shadowheart in a scuffle, but Karlach was a different matter entirely. Yet, he was not above being a petty bitch about it.

“Shadowheart wanted me to throw her one,” he hissed spitefully.

“Yes, she told me about that conversation you had,” Karlach grinned, completely unfazed by the hostile looks the two elves were giving each other. “Because my baby always tells me everything.”

“Baby does,” Shadowheart nodded without looking away from Astarion but squeezed Karlach’s hand, her shoulders relaxing somewhat.

“Ew, talking in third person,” he sneered. “It’s such a disgusting, coupley thing,”

“How would you know? Not exactly an expert,” Shadowheart countered quickly, making him scowl.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Karlach patted Astarion’s silver curls good-naturedly. She really did feel sorry for him, firmly believing that the elf was capable of getting his head out of his ass if given enough incentive. “Whatever happens now, happens. You missed your chance.”

“Shadowheart? Is that you?”

The three froze as they saw that Tav was walking towards them, smiling broadly.

Shit.

She saw them. The three weirdos stalking their friend whilst she was on a date. Not their proudest moment.

💖Tag list 💖:

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@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9, @hellethil,

@khywren, @maeryls-journal, @larvasmoon, @xxnashiraxx

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

My Work on Archive Of Our Own

Please ignore if me gushing about the reception of my fics is irritating. I understand there are some people who genuinely hate when fanfic writers do this, so I'm putting it under the cut so you don't have to see it!

(And fair warning; if this irritates you and you still decide to click 'keep reading' and you then decide that I am obviously up myself so I deserve a hate anon or several, I need to preemptively remind you that I gave you the choice not to engage. You will be blocked and I shall call you a silly little guy if you do this.)

I also would like to make this an invitation to anyone who wants to share their proudest stats, or a nice comment they got, or even just something they are really really happy about in having written their fic. (No need to click read more, just go for it and use this as your excuse to show some pride.) On any platform!

Gonna tag the following: @lya-dustin @ewanmitchellcrumbs @the-common-cowgirl @the-wonderland-madnesss @marthawrites

@vampire-exgirlfriend @exitpursuedbyavulcan @emilykaldwen @ripdragonbeans @aegonx

Feel free to turn this into a pass-on game, if you like! We should celebrate the things that make us happy, too. ❤️

I've not ever really posted about this because, IDK, I worry about being considered a conceited asshole. I figure, though, that this is my blog and my safe space and if I want to celebrate something I'm proud of then I should be able to do so. Nor am I implying that I believe this is any sort of metric of popularity or superiority, OR that I write for the sole purpose of validation through clicks and numbers. I have very little interest in engaging with any of that rhetoric. NO. It's just a convenient bonus, kinda like how I love my job and the fact I get paid is awesome but not my primary reason for doing it.

Okay, I think I've got the disclaimers out the way? (Can never be too sure with fandom.)

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reads my stuff. Not only on here, but on Archive Of Our Own, which is more or less a place I consider the Ultimate Fanfiction Site (TM). It used to be fanfiction.net for me, but then their ads got annoying and their content ban gross, so AO3 it is! I've read fanfiction on AO3 since I was like 13, and I still find it crazy beyond belief that my work is not only on there, but that it gets any sort of traction at all.

As a little acknowledgement of something I'm proud of, I wanted to document my stats on my big series, terms of endearment, as of June 2024. It is by and large the biggest project I have ever done, and I've poured countless hours of researching, writing and editing into it.

darilaros (princess)

Words: 48,843 Comments: 254 Kudos: 801 Bookmarks: 111 Hits: 21,971

gevivys (beauty)

Words: 52,147  Comments: 578  Kudos: 2,965  Bookmarks: 490  Hits: 106,019

dōnus riñus (sweet girl)

Words: 58,775 Comments: 660 Kudos: 3,414 Bookmarks: 635 Hits: 141,339

ilībītsos (little slut)

Words: 62,725 Comments: 556 Kudos: 1,880 Bookmarks: 289 Hits: 99,939

ñuhus prūmȳs (my heart)

Words: 104,063 Comments: 1,188 Kudos: 2,274 Bookmarks: 368 Hits: 110,356

jorrāeliarzus (beloved) (ongoing)

Words: 38,451 Comments: 234 Kudos: 454 Bookmarks: 86 Hits: 16,208

That makes for a total of 365,004 words; 3,470 comments; 11,788 kudos; 1979 bookmarks; and 495,832 hits. Jesus Christ.

To everyone who kudos'ed, commented, bookmarked, subscribed or even just clicked on the link to the fic, thank you very much. This series has grown and grown, not just in my head but also in audience. It's given me so much encouragement and support in my writing, and a feeling like maybe I am decent at this? I don't know. I used to write when I was a kid, but I stopped during high school. Rediscovering the joy of it hasn't just been rewarding in terms of having fun with it, but also in discovering that there are people who genuinely want to read what I'm putting out. I've spent a lot of my life feeling powerless and silenced, so this really means so much to me.

I am going to keep on writing for as long as I possibly can, because I genuinely haven't found a hobby as long-lived and fulfilling as this.

Thank you. I'm so very lucky. I'm so grateful. I love you all!

[elias-magnusnt]

Hello! Welcome to my weblog. I'm Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, here to answer any queries you might have about my Institute, the supernatural or my personal character.

FAQ:

-Can I get a raise?

When you stop spending all your time on the internet and do some actual work instead of looking at my blog, yes.

-Do you take interns?

We are always in need of interns. They're so easy to lose.....

-What happened to [First Name] [Last Name]?

I don't know. Check our obituary.

-What happened to [Evil Object] and can I take it home?

No. It's locked away for a reason.

-Will you ever free the Archival Staff?

No. They are staying there to be punished for their crimes.

-What are the crimes?

Asking too many questions.

-I've got [Any legal query involving Elias Bouchard]

Talk to my lawyer. I assure you, you'll want to speak to him first.

-I've got [Any legal query involving the Institute being responsible for members of your family or friends being eaten]

I don't care.

-Can we get a cat in Library?

Mmmh okay.

-Can we get a cat in Artefact Storage?

It will die.

-Can we get a cat in the Archives?

Oh boy, I am not dealing with that.

-What about Michael?

I can't properly put into words just how vague of a question that is.

-Are you ever gonna install an accessibility ramp?

I don't want to be called ableist because I killed disabled people. If you want to die under horrible circumstances, well... I don't know? Ask a good friend or move to Australia. Just get off my lawn before you do it.

-What are those earrings from?

Claire's

-Your employee bit me/Tim Stoker seduced me/your Archivist shot me in the face/your Archivist is in my dreams/anything else regarding the bad behavior of my employees

Not my business, take it up with them.

-What about [supernatural entity that features in one of your statements]?

Really? I don't care about what my people are doing to you, and you think I control these freaks?

-I am being haunted and I am afraid I'm going to be hurt.

Not my business yet, you have to get traumatised first.

-What happened to your nose?

Don't trust gingers, they're the spawn of the Devil.

Ooc rules/

Okay this this is going to be. A slightly covertly villainous, although still very polite, jonah!elias. But guys i have so many headcanons.

Sfw stuff is obviously encouraged as is flirting or nsfw although Elias might react by rebiffing you. Hey, I'm up for it, don't hate the game hate the player and get yourself some more rizzarooni. Any in universe ships are welcome too!

In universe hate is welcome but please stay on track and only bring up stuff he did. No baseless "i want to hit you with many hammers" that's the thing i'm sensitive about guys please

Any interaction from anyone including non rp blogs is very welcome, asks reblogs, feel free to hop into my posts... Yeah

Apologies for delays in responding to stuff, it is never in character my brain just has the processing power of a magnavox odyssey (and i get. stressed.)

Asks are tagged with #asks

Longer conversations are tagged with #rp chain

Everything is tagged with #tma rp

More outwards manipulation is tagged with #tw manipulation

But I'll have to issue a general gaslighting warning for the whole blog, Elias is gonna... Elias...

#suggestive and #nsfw are tagged as well

#elias does a posting: original posts

Tagging ships for filtering purposes

My main is @klm-zoflorr and I have another rp blog, @ghosts-of-wars-past (melanie king)

[paeliae-occasionally]

Writer Questionnaire

Thanks @drchenquill, @the-letterbox-archives, @the-golden-comet and @ominous-feychild the tags!

I haven’t posted in a little bit because of real life, but I might be back soon. I miss you guys…

how long have you had your writing tumblr/writeblr? a fast and loose estimate is fine!

Just over a month.

what led you to create it?

I wanted to chat about my world and I really didn’t like the atmosphere in other social medias.

what’s your favourite thing about the writeblr community?

All of the talent and love <3 Making this account has motivated me to plan 3 different WIPs and write the first few chapters. I had never been able to get to this place before, so thank you everyone!

what’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you?

Feel free to ask things. Even if it is just a hello! I love interacting with people, any questions about my world or my writing process. Or Physics if you are particularly curious…

is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash?

I like my dash. Lots of great people!! I wouldn’t really change anything.

which wips or writing projects are you noodling about, lately?

I have just finished by full outline of the Xaeren WIP and have written a draft of chapter one. I have also finished chapter 3 of Paeliae.

how long have you been working on them?

Well I started building the world years ago, just daydreams, maps and languages. I wrote the history mostly last year and this year and then the characters developed from the places and history.

do you remember what inspired them/what got you started?

The world was a project I started just for fun, then acted as a setting to tell stories in. I then liked the stories a lot and decided to write them.

how much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them?

A long time. Not even just my current characters, many many more people who don’t even fit in this world as well.

when someone asks the dreaded, “what do you write about,” question, what do you usually say?

Umm… I say Sci-fi fantasy, and worldbuilding, then when they look blankly at me I say like tolkein and then they leave me alone.

name any characters you created. side characters, protagonists, antagonists, characters who’ve never been written, the first original abomination you ever pulled from your ass; whomever you’d like!

The main characters in chronological order:

-Ez and Rin (they are the the first romantic relationship I wrote and I love them.)

-Paeliae (His story describes the dissolution.)

-Xaeren (The inventor of most runes and the last godkiller.)

-Apollo and Tyro (Essentially modern day)

-Marsh and Daimion (I’m still not sure how future-ish I want this.)

who’s the most unhinged?

That really depends.

I’m sure lots of people would expect Marsh, but while he has no internal rules against murder, he keeps closely to the rules he does hold for himself and is really loyal when it comes down to it. Even if he doesn’t realise this he does care deep in some hidden part of him.

Xaeren cares the least about his own moral code. The only motivator he has is killing the goddess, and there is nothing he won’t do to get there regardless of the fact he knows it is wrong. He assumes he will die in the attempt so lives like a dead man because he has no life beyond this purpose. He might appear kind at first but you will always be second to his mission.

who comes the most naturally for you to write?

Apollo or Marsh. Apollo because he is lovely, I always like writing him comfort the team and also his fight scenes are really cool. Marsh because he acts so carefree and his humour is great.

do you ever cringe at them?

Yes. Mainly because I hate my writing, but also I just don’t like writing romance in general, so writing Zahra and Daimion has always been a bit weird. Strangely I never got that vibe with Ez and Rin, that might be because they are such a beautiful tragic couple that the story feels less like a romance.

how much control do you feel you have over your characters? do they ever “write themselves,” refuse to cooperate, or do things you didn’t expect? to what degree? are some less cooperative than others?

Well… I have a very clear idea of who they are and would much sooner change a plot point than a character so in that sense I have little control, but also they are my people so I can get them to cooperate.

do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters? and do you have a preferred means of receiving said questions? for example, as asks, as replies, as reblogs, as tag notes, as comments on ao3, etc.

Yes!!! I love it, any method is great! I am more likely to see asks and reblogs, but anything works!

what makes you want to follow another writeblr account? do you follow ‘em as you see ‘em, or take time scoping out the blog to make sure you align with its content? do you follow based on wips, or vibes?

Vibes. If they seem cool, I will follow them. I’ll likely do a quick check to make sure that they seem like a real person and that they make posts that I would like to see, but this is not usually based on their WIP type.

what makes you decide against following?

If I wouldn’t like to see their posts, I won’t follow them. This could be for many reasons, but common ones include: They seem like a bot, they post overobscene stuff, they make me feel uncomfortable, etc.

do you interact with non-mutuals often?

Sometimes, but if I interact with someone I am likely to then follow them.

do your mutuals’ characters occupy space in your noodle?

Yes! I have so many peoples characters whom I love and cherish.

Tagging @saturnine-saturneight, @theink-stainedfolk, @phoenixradiant and @oliolioxenfreewrites

[hellostarposts]

Episode 47 - The New Door

New door to the tunnels??? Just making a guess.

Helen Richardson

She’s crashing out over not being able to draw a map. Valid.

Jon sounds like he’s talking to a child.

Less than 2 million?? That’s cheap???

Helen is gaslighting herself about the spooky vibes of the house.

Why do I feel like the whole “not being able to visualize the house” is going to become important.

Suspicious man who didn’t give a name. Very tall and long straw coloured curly hair. Round face.

No handshake, Red Flag.

Not a human laugh.

Small yellow door with a black handle.

R has confirmed that this Micheal is the same one that stalked the real sasha, not the fake one after the artifact room incident.

Okay, I can’t blame her for opening the door because she’s tired and in customer service mode.

Yeah the pocket dimension would want you to enter it.

Long windowless corridor. Lit by electric lamps, swirling green patterns. Gradually curved to the left.

Walls have pictures of the same corridor but at different angles. What kind of rip off mirror maze is this?

Did Micheal extend the hallway so she could be trapped? Or does she legit just not remember entering?

Violence is the correct reaction in this circumstance.

I lowkey love that her cell phone screen was just another picture of the hallway.

Helen, Are you sure that the slightly to the left is not just an optical illusion?

Ah, using the maze technique was smart.

This is giving me the same vibes as those horror games where its just the same hallway over and over again.

Three days? Impressive.

Constant shivering? That called a panic attack or the start of a fever but panic attack seems more fitting.

New entity alert!

The walls changing to only show this new monster is so good. 

I’m writing this little thing before I’m even done with this episode. I know that you guys have many feelings about Michael, the distortion man. I’ve seen it in my few trips into the tags and R said that my mirror maze comment might not be taken well. My defence is that it is like the second or third time hearing about this guy. I know next to nothing about him, so you guys will have to wait and see my opinion develop. But like why can’t we have actual mirrors in the pocket dimension. They make mirrors without the silver so that shouldn’t be an issue.

Bulbous sharp hand.

Additionally, the way Helen described the monster made me think of the wire monster from those backrooms games.

So the monster is Micheal?

Did Helen just not describe her experience? Like how did this not end up with her in the psych ward.

Fear of doors is valid. 

Wow Jon is not being a skeptical ass this time. Character development.

Maybe Jon will focus all his stalker energy on finding Micheal now. But it will likely just end up with him stalking Not-Sasha.

THAT’S NOT SASHA!

“Do you even know that they’re lying to you” accompanied by tinnitus inducing static

OOO Jon meets Micheal. No need for stalking escapades I guess.

Helen is the Wanderer

Okay, he’s fun in the same way that Tim is fun but spooky.

The stabbing on the first meeting. Not very cool, at least buy him dinner first since you seemed to enjoy it.

Well a supplemental isn’t needed.

What purpose did telling Jon those things have? Oh I don’t want to impact this but i will send him into a full on episode. 

All I will say is that Micheal made himself sound like a meddling bitch or a shit disturber, whichever you prefer. Who’s obviously never heard the saying “pick a lane and stay in it”

I totally glossed over the fact that Micheal just conjured a door in the archives and no one noticed. Would’ve been funny if it was the same yellow door but that would’ve set Helen off.

So a very important episode, we finally actually meet Micheal. I’m sure that we will find out why he went after a real estate agent at some point. But more importantly, were they actual mirrors or pictures? I still don’t know, unless I missed Helen mentioning her own reflection. I kinda touched on my current feelings about Micheal, he seems fun and I fully understand why he’s well loved. I just don’t know enough yet to join a side. Aside from calling him a shit disturber, which is exactly what he’s doing by adding to Jon’s paranoia. 

Originally, I thought that it was Micheal who got and replaced Sasha. Now I’m not too sure because of the table. But the table does have a hypnotic effect so maybe but seems unlikely. Is the Not-Sasha thing not going to be resolved until the end of the season, that’s what it feels like.

[introchasingstars]

My first ever tag game? How exciting (Terrifying)

Thank you, @the-letterbox-archives, for the tag! The question appears to be about character names/their origins, so here we go! Admittedly, my naming process is a bit whack, so I apologise in advance.

Fennic Ferris Etwile

Alright, my good old boy Fennic. His name mostly just exists because I thought it sounded nice? Fennec is stolen from 'Fennec Foxes' but make it special, Ferries from Ferris Buller's Day Off and Etwile was just my brain mushing names together. It's a very fantasy sci-fi sounding name so I'm pretty alright with it.

Next up are a few of the Delefaye... These guys are self-proclaimed gods. They needed big fancy names, I apologise in advance. I've only got three down here because, honestly, the other five are named purely based on the fact that I thought they sounded nice? I'm sorry 😭

Enzophilius "Nozo" Delefaye

Enzophillius is a combination of a few different names I enjoy. Enzo is a name that I find a bit sentimental for no particular reason. I wanted to figure out a way to include the name Enzo in a book of mine, yet I could never figure out a way for it to fit in. So I decided to mash it together with 'Xenophillius' (You know if you know) and got Enzophilius. Nozo came from the fact that I don't believe he'd enjoy Enzo as a nickname (I know it completely defeats the purpose of Enzo), but I couldn't imagine Vassago calling him Enzophilius. I think he'd hate "Nozo" a lot more than the nickname Enzo, but the lore behind Nozo is to cute for me to change it.

Leviathneer "Leviath" Delefaye

Listen - Listen. I can explain, I promise, I know it's an odd choice, but may I remind you that he's a holy being? I couldn't name him Bob - alright, maybe I could have, but this one probably has the most explanation out of all the Delefaye. He's the Delefaye of intelligence, extraterrestrial vastness, water, universal problems, and preciseness.

I enjoy the sea serpant Leviathan, and it seemed fitting due to Leviathan being a sea serpant that often does chaotic things. I also enjoy the name Veneer, and by combining the two, I ended up with Leviathneer and while I know it isn't everyone's personal favourite I quite enjoy it.

Freydarli "Darli" Delefaye

I mostly thought Freydarli was just a really cute name for a lovely character. I struggled quite a bit with her name, I still do, but mostly over if the spelling needs to change or not. For the longest time, I just had her called 'Freya' with her partner Vesselyn calling her darling. Eventually, the two names clicked in my brain, and 'Freydarli' was born. I do think it's a much better suiting name for her than Freya or anything else I could have come up with.

Have some mood boards I've made for some of the characters

Freydarli

Leviathneer

Vassago

I tag @strayedstarzz and anyone else else who wants to join in this game. Tell me your naming origins if you have any!

[another-lost-one]

Most/Least Tag Game

Rules: give us the links to your wonderful works with the most and least hits, subscriptions, word count, comments, kudos, bookmarks To find this information, go to your AO3 dashboard, then select 'statistics,' and you can filter your works according to various metrics

Most Hits & Comments » Sunny Side Up A college AU in which Wei Wuxian is sleep-deprived and Lan Wangji doesn't know how to talk feelings. Contains: accidental kissing and idiots in love. (co-written with the amazing @vendettafrank)

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Untamed (TV), Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Most Subscriptions » And All The Lovers, They Are In Heaven Now Felix has a desire, so of course Bang Chan will provide. Luckily, the guys all love Felix very much and would do anything for him. Featuring: absolute depravity, catholic trauma (the authors), and the Cathedral in Chartres (also co-written with @vendettafrank).

Chapters: 7/7

Fandom: Stray Kids (Band)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Most Word Count » Under Ice A retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's Snow Queen, in which Will changes and Alana travels to save him from the cold ice palace.

Chapters: 6/?

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Most Kudos » No Regrets Castiel, the new priest in town, visits a farm only to succumb to his personal temptation in the form of a very straight-forward stable boy.

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Least Hits » Like Glaciers Colliding An episode 6 canon divergence, in which Wang decides to cause In problems on purpose (and also disregard his own). Sexy-sad blowjob fic, with a sprinkle of philosophy and lots of daddy issues.

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: 180 Degree Longitude Passes Through Us (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

I left out some of the categories because they applied to the same works or didn't apply at all. Of course my favorite of them has the least hits but that is the price for writing for a small fandom <3

Tagging: @vendettafrank @hauscrashburn @jellokiel and @returning-spring <3

[szyszkasosnowa]

Bookshelf wrapped

A list of books I've read in 2023 for statistical and archival purposes and also because I like to catalog things (and tumblr let me down by not having a year in review this year).

If any of my followers would feel inspired to do a similar thing please tag me, I'd love to see what you've read!

Służące do wszystkiego, Joanna Kuciel-Frydryszak. I love reading the first-hands accounts of history, esp from regular/lower class people. So it's worth to read just for it. There was something lacking for it to be a really good reportage tbh.

Fire and Blood, George R.R. Martin. Really nice if you're an asoiafhead. Can't really recommend to someone who hadn't read asoiaf before. Also I wish GRRM would focus on finishing the saga instead of starting new projects. But can't really blame him for pursuing side stories.

Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer. Keep thinking about that redditor guy who said this book inspired him to try and prepare to climb Mount Everest in one year. Maybe reddit pisses on poor even more than tumblr.

Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert. I must say that of (5) Dune books I've read so far, this has the higher amount of what I consider Dune's fatal flaws. Mostly unnecessarily convoluted dialogues that end up being borderline incomprehensible. It also underutilizes very interesting characters, like Scytale and Mohiam. I would give extra points for Paul's ending, but then I've read Children of Dune.

The True Deceiver, Tove Jansson. Just fine. Even better if you like winter.

Children of Dune, Frank Herbert. Way better than Messiah, can't hold a candle to the original Dune. I feel like some stuff was retconned in this part, concerning Alia's and the twins' abilities. Esp. Alia's arc could use more foundation set in the previous parts.

God-Emperor of Dune, Frank Herbert. Still not as good as the original Dune, but what a beautiful wild ride. So many cool ideas and characters, including the answer to the question 'would you love me if I were a worm', Idk why the people say it's not adaptable to the screen, I know exactly how I would direct the movie. I wasn't born a nepo baby so you will probably never see this, sadly.

Uncle Vanya, Anton Chekhov. I saw a really good performance before reading the play so it probably influenced my rating. Good read for ugly girls who pull no bitches.

The Last Question, Isaac Asimov. Clever.

Girl, interrupted, Susanna Kaysen. Good read for mentally ill and probably ugly girls.

Other voices, other rooms, Truman Capote. Loved how the climate was painted, and I'd say the way it was written, but I've read the translation. So I liked the translator's way with words I guess.

Dracula, Bram Stoker. Jonathan's diary at the beginning is crazy, scary and overall amazing, but sadly it's the highest point of the novel and the rest doesn't live up to the hype. It's still good and it nice to compare how some motives evolved in the popculture.

Chłopki. Opowieść o naszych babkach, Joanna Kuciel-Frydryszak. Again, I absolutely loved the primary sources used in this book. And it's in fact rare to see some memoirs by the women of the lowest of low classes. But other then the sources, Idk.

Heretics of Dune, Frank Herbert. The issues of Messiah are back. Can we let go of Duncan at last. Honored Matres as a concept are questionable/laughable. I wanted to ask on Dune subreddit if anyone else thinks Teg and Patrin were gay for each other but they removed my ask, so I'm just gonna believe this on my own.

The Crucible, Arthur Miller. Very good. I have some issues with the character of Abigail and how she compares to the historical Abigail though.

Things fall apart, Chinua Achebe. Crazy good. I kept changing my mind on what I like the most about the book as I read it. In the end I think what I liked the most was giving a perspective of the people who didn't fit with the traditional society.

Śniła się sowa, Ewa Ostrowska. Raw, disgusting, unsettling portrayal of a small, closed off countryside society, and its violence. As small, closed off countryside societies are one of my biggest fears, I loved (?? appreciated) this book.

Owoc żywota twego, Ewa Ostrowska. As above, but even more disgusting and unsettling. Dead Dove Do Not Eat, but if you're fully ready for what awaits you, it's a good read.

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad. Actually good.

Kiss of the Spider Woman, Manuel Puig. Very cool idea for the book structure (dialogue-only, two inmates try to pass time, one recounts to the other the movies he had seen). But the story itself isn't bad also.

Dungeon Meshi, Ryouko Kui. Beautiful! Heartwrenching! Heals your depression! Elf twinks! Extremely thought out worldbuilding and a consistent, planned out story. Love to see it.

I don't include the manga I've read that are ongoing (or I hadn't finished them).

[ampsychoy2k]

"I mean, I guess I'm a pretty sick guy..."

A selective and private 18+ RP blog dedicated to the one and only Patrick Bateman, as written by author Bret Easton Ellis and director Mary Harron, and as played by Christian Bale. Mergers and Acquisitions Murders and Executions preformed by Bunny 🐰

I am a novice to the Tumblr RP community: I have a background in writing fanfiction and have roleplayed recreationally in the past, so if I get anything wrong, please feel free to let me know! Any advice is welcomed and appreciated!

Mun is 18+ and uses she/her pronouns. Minors do not interact. Since this is a sideblog, I follow back from @/bunnylouisegrimes, my fandom blog on hiatus. Other than posting fics on Archive of Our Own and role-playing, I've decided for my mental health I no longer want to engage with fandoms at large.

While not everything will be 18+ or triggering, given the nature of Patrick's character and the source material, expect some Dead Dove Do Not Eat type content, including violence, sex, and torture. I will tag everything as best as I can, and encourage the blocking of triggering tags.

If I use something of yours and do not provide credit on accident or because I cannot find the source material- please let me know and I will be sure to give credit! I do not mean to steal on purpose and try to give credit when I can!

You all like Huey Lewis and The News? Well, you better, or else the boy next door will have some words with you. Afterall, it's always Hip To Be Square >:)

[catcrumb]

How do you stay motivated to do dailies? I really admire your dedication to these funky fresh cats. I've tried doing my own dailies (drawing, writing etc), but always lose steam about a week in. Was there a point when it became second nature, and just fit really easily into your routine? Or is it always going to be a bit of an uphill battle?

my big rule is that it doesn't have to be "good." that was the first and still the most important rule. some days i have the willpower to get out my tablet! some days i have my mouse! and some days i just wiggle my finger in the shape of a cat on my laptop's trackpad, slap some random thought i had onto it, and hit that post button. doesn't have to be perfect. doesn't have to be a work of art. could look like complete shit. just has to be a cat.

like this guy? very low effort! i had a headache that evening after doing a bunch of things i needed to do, and was like "ah fuck i still gotta do today's catcrumb". this took me thirty seconds. but that was that day.

something that has also helped me a lot is making my rule "one per day", not "once per day". after drawing the one i posted tonight, i drew two more doodles that are gonna be tomorrow's and the day after that's catcrumbs. so i don't have to draw for the next day and a half! the queue function is one of the big reasons i really enjoy tumblr as a platform. (the queue, tags as undervoice, tags for archival purposes, easy chronological and sortable archive/portfolio, and the anonymity. not to mention the vibes. also ive been here for over a decade and can't leave)

also, i use mspaint because it has a limited toolset, so it's just less overwhelming and not as daunting as the beefier art program i have for other art. if i had to open up clip studio paint every day....... i would not have lasted two years lmao.

and tbh the limited toolset has made me feel freer to try new things! like with color! when i was drawing mostly in Digital Art Programs and the edges of school papers i rarely ever got to coloring because i would spend so long on the lines. but with mspaint i draw with the pixel-pencil so it's easier to use the fill tool. this is one of my first little "landscapes" :) i drew it in february 2020. i still think about it a lot!

(also, i've found that the landscapes, which i spend more time and effort on, get less of a response than the scribbly ones. which i'm not bothered by, because 1. it makes me feel less pressured to do the big labors of love 2. it makes me feel unashamed when i only have energy for a quick scribble 3. my loved ones adore my little landscapes, and that's more important to me than Number Goes Up. but also it's fun to see the number go up in response to my scribble. it's a win/win.)

and finally there's accountability. i have a very firm rule with myself that i draw for ME, and my followers are a side effect/bonus of me posting it publicly. i do not create for an audience. to quote:

The difference between an inner-directed process of discovery and a kind of outer-directed pseudo-creativity that in its pursuit of attention gets overwhelmed by desperation.

but that doesn't mean that attention doesn't matter to me. i would not have gotten as far as i did if i hadn't shown my art to my friends/mutuals and gotten very sweet responses from them. that was what made catcrumb happen: the people who i know, am close to, and whose kindness is personal to me. i adore and appreciate the kindness of strangers! but it has to come in second to the kindness of friends, because otherwise you will go crazy. i'm pretty lucky that i have the sort of homebody personality that has little interest in strangers, which helps my brain not get rotted by clout.

so i showed my art to my friends, i got encouragement, they thought i was funny, i kept going, because i liked amusing myself and my friends with my little drawings. and then the snowball went further down the hill, etc etc. nowadays my main motivator is that i told my mom about catcrumb and she would definitely say something if i didn't post. sometimes just knowing that someone would notice is enough.

i hope this is useful. i am a person with a couple of brain problems that have made me debilitatingly incapable of forming and maintaining habits my entire life, so i'm honestly shocked that ive managed to keep a daily habit going for two years! ive never managed anything like that before! maybe because it doesn't Matter. i don't do catcrumb for money - ive thought about a patreon, but i couldn't do it. my executive dysfunction is too powerful, and catcrumb has always been about being the teeniest task to execute.

and it makes me smile. i like drawing little cats sitting around smiling or yelling or holding an object. :~)

tl;dr keep the bar as close to the ground as you possibly can

[springdandelixn]

Playing Favorites - Part I

Professor!Vision x F!Reader

Summary: You’re failing your class and your professor is offering you a helping hand.

Warnings: flirting, age gap, forbidden relations

A/N: This is a prequel to Among the Stacks and Lunch Break. Basically how Professor Vision and his kitten started their campus romance. Victor Shade is Vision’s human name.

As always, your comments and likes are highly appreciated. Tell me what you like about this story because I do like reading them. Also, reblogs would be great for it would help share my work.

I no longer hold a tag list but if you wish to be updated with new fics I release, follow my archives blog, @springdandelixn-archives​ and turn on the notifications. 

I hope you guys enjoy! 💛

You stare at the images displayed on the laptop before you and scribble down important points in your notebook as Professor Shade discusses the lecture he did earlier that day. With the failing mark you got on your quiz last week, he’s offered to tutor you in private, opting for a more hands-on approach for you to better absorb the lessons instead of struggling in a room with other students. 

You’re on a scholarship and another failing mark would see to it that you’d lose it. And you can’t, for the scholarship was more than a means to get into a university that you cannot afford, but more of an escape from the abusive home you’ve come to know; your father’s drunken rage and strong hand along with your mother’s eyes full of regret for even bringing you into this world. 

You can’t go back. You never want to. So, you took his offer for one-on-one lectures, thinking that this would be what’s best for you.

But god, you’re terribly wrong. 

You try your best to focus on what Professor Shade is saying, trying your best in listening to his thorough explanation about the Trojan War as his smooth voice reverberates against his office walls.

But you can’t find it in you to focus, your eyes darting down at your notes and then up at him, only for it to be taken by his strong forearms, bare with his sleeves rolled up. His tie is gone as well and the top two buttons of his powder blue shirt are undone and his blond hair is slightly unruly and falling over his eyes, that’s framed with his glasses, as he repeatedly runs his fingers through them while continuing with his lesson. 

You know Professor Shade to be an attractive man. You’re not blind and neither are your classmates. How they openly gush over him when he enters the lecture hall and once hearing Miranda saying something about wanting to wake up to the sound of his voice. They would even purposely make a ruckus that would prompt Professor Shade to call their attention, the group of girls swooning at the action instead of getting flustered like how you would.

You don’t doubt that he’s got an array of admirers, students, and faculty alike. That there must be some invisible line to garner his attention that you never found yourself in. 

Until now. 

“Are you still with me?” Professor Shade comes up close and you blink away your thoughts, leaning back to look up at him. But you regret doing so almost instantly as the light of his office cascades down on him, accentuating his chiseled jaw and his stubble. 

He asks his question once more and you nod in response, looking down in embarrassment for staring. A frown then forms on your lips when you see your notes far behind the slide on the screen. You trailed off and it’s because you can’t keep your focus intact.

“Maybe it’s time for a break.” He announces and walks over to his desk, a sigh leaving your lips as you place your notebook down on the low table in front of you. “Any preference?” He asks from your side. 

“Water is fine. Thank you.” You mumble as you glance at him then look back down at your hands.

You must have looked like a complete idiot in front of him for spacing out because all that’s running through your head is how handsome he looks. He must think that he’s wasting his time staying after office hours just to teach you when you’re not even listening. 

You hear some glasses clinking at your side and you glance up to see him pour water into a blue mug and some hot water from his electric kettle in a yellow one. The rip of a paper fills your ears and you watch him dunk the tea bag in one before taking both mugs and walking back to you on the couch. 

“Was I going too fast?” He asks, giving you your water before placing his tea on the table and taking a seat beside you. An unexpected wave of disappointment washes over you when he keeps a good distance from where you’re seated. “You know you can tell me if I am. This whole arrangement is to cater to your needs.”

“I know, professor.” You mutter and take a welcome sip of your drink, the cool liquid drenching your seemingly parched throat. “I guess I just feel a bit overwhelmed about this.” You confess as the anxiety you feel over the whole ordeal finally sinks in. 

What would your classmates think if they found out that you and the history professor have this arrangement? What would they even say? You can already imagine them looking at you with judgment, could already hear the lies they would concoct between the two of you because of your inability to pass and his willingness to help. And worst of all, you don’t even want to think how it would impact him and his career if such falsity reached the faculty or the dean. 

No! You cannot put his job on the line! He may be doing such as an act of kindness but you know the world, especially the students, to be brutal. Scholarship or not, it would be unfair to him.

“I think this is wrong.” You blurt out. And the way Professor Shade looks at you, eyes laced with worry and brows knitted in concern, makes you want to retract your words. 

“Why? Is it not helping?” He asks and you can sense the sadness that surrounds him. “Are my teaching methods ineffective or would you like us to try something else?”

“I just—I’m worried.”

“About?” He prompts.

“What would the other students say if they found out you’re giving me this..this special treatment?” You question, your spunk taking you by surprise. “No offense, sir,” You clear your throat before pushing on. “But I don’t even understand why you’re wasting your time on me. I failed your test, shouldn’t you be angry or have me do some extra credit work?” You’re rambling, your anxiety level and your emotions piqued and you can’t find it in you to stop. “And if the other students see, they’ll take and say you’re playing favorites and—”

“So, what if I am?” You blink in surprise at his question, eyes wide as you look at him, your string of words gone. 

“I’m sorry. What?” You ask in disbelief.

He chuckles as he leans back against the couch. “What if I’m playing favorites? What does it matter to them?”

“I—” You’re flustered by his admission. Is he really doing such a thing? You dare not ask but are you his favorite among the lot of students in his class? You feel a shyness run up your spine that makes you fold yourself small on the couch, looking down at the mug of water clasped in your hands. “Then that’s—t-that’s unfair to them, isn’t it?” You stutter.

“How so? How is it unfair for a teacher to help a struggling student?” His question comes a little strong but you sense no hostility from him. He pushes. “What’s unfair is if I don’t give you a chance to pass my class and you don’t give me a chance to help you.” You feel the couch dip from his weight and startle when he takes the mug from you, setting it beside his. You look up at him in surprise when he wraps his fingers around your hand after. “You are on a scholarship, yes?”

You don’t know how he knows that but you nod nonetheless.

“And maintaining a certain grade will help you keep the status?”

You nod once again. 

“I want to help you keep it. To help you finish university with your scholarship intact.” He thrums, feeling your cheeks heat up when his thumb gently caresses your knuckles. “But you seem hesitant for me to do so. Why?”

You sigh. “People talk.” It’s all you can say because it’s simply the truth. 

No one ever wants to be found in the center of a scandal. It was already proven to be something dreadful after that one girl freshman got into one with the engineering professor.  

“You’re worried people would gossip?”

Another nod.

He hums at your response and you look down once more at your joined hands. You notice how big his is, how it almost swallows yours whole.  But most of all, you somehow feel a sense of safety in his hold, in his presence overall. That your thoughts and worries seem frivolous when he’s around. 

But you shake your head. That’s the crush talking. The crush pushing you towards him and making you decide to keep the arrangement. To not think of the ‘what ifs’ and ‘buts’, instead having you relish on the fact that he’s given you his time and effort to see that you’re taken cared of, that your education doesn’t perish.  

“If the arrangement makes you uncomfortable,” he starts. “We can try different methods. Video calls perhaps? Or meet at the library?” He suggests. “That would be more public and there are study rooms that would give us enough privacy.”

He still wants to pull through even after you’ve given him several good reasons why he shouldn’t. He doesn’t look dumb, far from it. He doesn’t even seem to be that dense to not know how university students function; how barbaric they can get and easily turn anything innocent into something malicious.

Curiosity takes the better of you so you ask, “Why are you doing this, sir?”

“You’re one of my best students,” He admits without hesitation, almost with glee, and you feel the blush creep up your neck, bleeding to your cheeks. “You’re punctual and attentive, not like the others who intentionally cause a ruckus for attention.” He praises. “And, if I’m being quite honest, that’s a breath of fresh air. You, darling, are a breath of fresh air.”

Darling? A pet name? You dare not think it but is he flirting with you? You’ve never once heard him call any other student by that name. 

You avoid his gaze and pull your hand free from his hold, yet you already miss the warmth of it, opting to twiddle your fingers against your lap if only to distract you from his flowery words. 

“What I mean is—” he clears his throat. “You deserve to pass my class. My best student does.”

-

You pack your things and wait by Professor Shade’s door, watching him stow away his things into his messenger bag and take his jacket that hangs at the back of his office chair. His eyes meet yours when he stands in front of you, a smile on his face before he opens the door and gestures you leave first, turning off the lights of his office and following suit, locking the door. 

The corridor of his floor is dark except for the light at the end of the hall, making the building look somewhat eerie despite its modern architecture and decor. 

“Would you like a ride to your dorm?” He asks, breaking the silence between you as you head to the elevators. “I’ve kept you quite a while and I’d want to be sure you make it back safe.”

“It’s only a short walk from here, Professor.” You smile at his kindness. “Thank you though.”

“Alright. You’ll also tell me what method would work for you best?” Another question and the elevator doors part, Professor Shade holding the doors back as you take a step inside. “The video call or the library?” He clarifies. 

“I will.” You agree. “But so far, the library seems like the better option. I have a roommate and she can be quite a nuisance,” You don’t tell him that she likes to bring random boys into your dorm and can hear them through the thin walls. “I might not be able to focus on our lessons.”

“Very well.” The lift descends after he presses the button for the lobby and you end up staring at his reflection through the metal barrier. “I can book one of the study rooms in advance though would the same time still be feasible for you?”

“Mhmm, though I wouldn’t want to take too much of your time, professor.”

“Nonsense.” He chuckles. “I have nowhere else to be nor anyone to go home to.” 

The ding of the elevator signals your arrival and you step outside, Professor Shade catching up with your stride before going ahead, his swiftness taking you by surprise when he opens the door for you. 

“You’ll message me when you’ve decided?” He asks again as you both stand in front of the building, wrapping your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the chill. And for a moment, you feel a bit disoriented by his question. He chuckles, probably from seeing your confusion. “About the meeting place. The library or my office again?”

“Oh right.” You give an awkward smile. “I will.” 

“You have my number, right?” You nod. “And my email?” Another nod. “Perfect. I’ll see you next week then, or around campus.” He says as he takes a step closer, your body shivering when the evening wind blows. 

He seems to notice your discomfort. He puts down his bag on the concrete steps and to your surprise, drapes his coat over your shoulders. Your face is hot and you look down at your feet to avoid his eyes as his hands tug gently on the lapels of the jacket, pulling it snug around you. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride to your dorm, darling? It’s really no trouble.” 

You shake your head fast, knowing all too well that your face has already turned red from the pet name and his actions. Not trusting that you won’t make a fool out of yourself when you dare meet his eyes. 

“I’m fine. Really.” You mumble and blink when his thumb and forefinger pinch your chin, tipping your head up to face him. 

“Very well.” His voice is soft and you feel yourself being hypnotized by the way his eyes stare at you, how the glow of the moon makes his sapphires shine. “But let me tell you a secret before we part ways.”

“W-what is i-it?” You stammer. 

He takes a deep breath and releases your chin, his hands taking hold of the coat once more. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else. All this tutoring and whatnot.” 

You can feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest as he inches closer, feeling the tips of his shoes brush against yours.

“What do you m-mean?”

“I’m only doing this for you.” He breathes. “Just you.”

[xfilesfanficexchange]

Hi uh I’ve been a xfiles fan since it OG aired , I was 10 , now 39 I never got into fan fic other than shipping them real hard . My Q is where do you suggest I start btw I did recently read The Airport Aka Chillies fanfic that’s what got me wanting more !!!

I try to like whatever one I see on here but I get a little frustrated with some of them being sequential & out of order !!!

Like ok, I should have read this one before that !

Is there a place to go to read them in order or find out if one you red has a sequel or prequel?

Would really love the help !!!

Oh my god, how exciting! You have so many exciting worlds to explore! Welcome, welcome! There are various places to because of how well fans have maintained different archives over the years, but I'll recommend some places to start!

Below I'm going in semi-chronological order. I've included a lot of archive sites that you can explore, and then I've included some of my personal favorite specialized sites (with the exception of the Nursery Files, that's not really my genre but I know others like it. This is definitely not all-encompassing, the more general sites can help you find what your favorite genres are!)

The Gossamer Project

A classic, here you can search different keywords, search different episode tags, etc. The original Gossamer Archive was opened on May 4, 1995 by Vincent Juodvalkis after mirroring files from all the older FTP sites which collected stories from alt.tv.x-files.creative (ATXC) Usenet newsgroup. The last update of the site was in September of 2012.

X-Files Fan-Fiction Alphabetized Archives

Here is, as it states, an alphabetized list of various X-Files Fan Fiction archives. Pretty much-specialized archives of anything you can think of. This also extends beyond just fan fiction, as there are archives for author's webpages, fan art, etc.

Under the Covers Specialized Archive

This archive is a collection of MSR stories in which our favorite FBI agents go undercover... and find each other in the process.

The "I" in FBI Specialized Archive

The purpose of this archive is to showcase stories that feature a casefile or Mulder working as a profiler. This includes both pre-XF stories from Mulder's BSU days and XF time-line stories wherein Mulder and/or Scully are loaned out or assigned to a case.

Two Close For Comfort Specialized Archive

What is Stuck!Fic, you ask? Any story in which two (or more!) people are forced to stay in a certain place by circumstances beyond their control. Whether they're sharing motel rooms, surviving camping trips gone awry, dealing with bad weather, trapped in closets, locked up by bad guys, or even <gasp> going under cover as a married couple--they're stuck.

The Nursery Files Specialized Archive

Each fic archived here has one thing in common: a character within it is a baby, child or teenager. Many of these fics feature Mulder and Scully with children, but Doggett, Reyes, Skinner and other characters have children here too. A few fics include slash pairings as well(any fic listed in blue is a slash one). 

Whispers of X Specialized Archive

But the number one thing on our minds...the main reason we are here is for (drum roll please) "THE SMUT". Yep, ladies and gentlemen, that is why I am here. If you're here for anything else, I would have to say you may be in the wrong place. 

Agents in Peril Specialized Archive

Here you will find stories that deal with Mulder, or Scully (or both), or even some other series or original character getting stalked, kidnapped, or held hostage. 

X-Plicit Disclosures Specialized Archive

This archive contains a wide variety of fan fiction writing styles, content, and character exploration. Primarily it is a MULDER/SCULLY experience (tho' NOT exclusively)...open to the many different interpretations of their relationship that fan fiction has envisioned. These story choices tell, in my humble opinion, honest tales...(Of course let us not forget the redeeming social value of a very well written smut biscuit.)

xphilefic

Another place where you can look at various specialized archives. If you delete the "/archives.htm" in the URL, it will take you to the main page of the site. I don't think you can click the individual listings, but you can click the main three boxes that say "Authors, Archives, Stories"

Live Journal

Live Journal is a Russian-owned social networking service where users can keep a blog, journal, or diary. American programmer Brad Fitzpatrick started LiveJournal on April 15, 1999, as a way of keeping his high school friends updated on his activities.

I, personally, fundamentally do not understand how it works. I find it confusing. I don't even know what I linked here because I can't decipher a consisted method of archiving or categorization on the site. Some people like it I guess, but I don't think people use it anymore. (I would say it was most popular from the mid aughts to mif twentyteens).

I feel the same about Wattpad, a similar site.

FanFiction.net (FFN)

In 1998, Xing Li, a software designer, created FanFiction.Net. The site was created as a repository for fan-created stories that revolved around characters from popular literature, television, comics, or real-world celebrities. Apparently, the site prohibits NC-17 stories (and controversially mass deleted explicit stories when this was implemented), however, this rule is not really enforced.

This was very popular in the aughts, but is seemingly being phased out in favor of AO3. Nowadays there are ads in the middle of stories and the site seems to be deteriorating (in my opinion). This site was quite popular for X-Files fic after the series ended. The search engine is a bit finicky, and there aren't many methods of filtering the fic you want.

Archive of Our Own (Ao3)

Ah, Ao3. Our constant, our touchstone.

In 2007, a site called FanLib was created with the goal of monetizing fanfiction. Fanfiction was authored primarily by women, and FanLib, which was run entirely by men, drew criticism. This ultimately led to the creation of the nonprofit Organization for Transformative Works (OTW) which sought to record and archive fan cultures and works. OTW created Archive of Our Own (abbreviated AO3) in October 2008. The site's name was derived from a blog post by the writer Naomi Novik who, responding to FanLib's lack of interest in fostering a fannish community, called for the creation of "An Archive of One's Own." The name is inspired by the essay A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf, in which Woolf said that a writer needed space, time, and resources in order to create. AO3 defines itself primarily as an archive and not an online community.

An archivist's wet dream. You can search for fic with the ability to include and exclude certain tags. Hopefully authors are tagging their fics appropriately. This means including what they should and avoiding over-tagging for the purposes of getting more hits. (Just because Mulder thinks of his time on the boat in Triangle once in the length of a 42 chapter fic does not mean Triangle needs to be tagged for example).

Fanlore also here

Also run by the Organization of Transformative Works, this site has great fandom history and links to various works (especially 'classics' in the fandom).

X-Libris

This archive is currently being updated and in very reminiscent of the older archives! Great tagging system and organization. The creator also makes dust jackets!

X-Files Fan Fiction Exchange

Obviously you know about this one haha, but I would be remiss if I didn't hype this up. This is a bi-monthly event where authors write for each other (ala secret Santa) under a different theme. I made a website, but it is grossly out of date, so here are all the Ao3 Collections of the past exchanges!

@anniexami 's Spreadsheet

Annie has been carefully cataloguing the fanfic she's read with detailed tags and warnings, and it's a great resource for trying to find a story to read!

Tumblr

As you know, tumblr is a great place to find fanfic! Though, as you mention, it can be hard to navigate just because the format of the site is more social media-focused than archivally driven. It's all in the author's hands if they link things and tag things appropriately (which can be tricky on their end too). One recommendation I would have, is if you find an author that tickles you, search "authors name" and "masterpost". A lot of people keep an ongoing list of their stories, and I think the posts are a bit more easy to navigate.

Facebook

I hear your disbelief already, but there is a really good fanfiction group on Facebook called "The X-Files Fanfic Writer's Guild" where people promoted their stories, ask for recommendations, and can talk about fic. If the link doesn't work, just facebook search "x files fanfic" on Facebook, go to groups, and it should be there. The Fanfic Exchange also has a group page and a few other of the X-Files themed groups will chat about fanfic from time to time.

Podcasts about X-Files Fanfiction

You can listen to other fans discuss fan fiction, sometimes specific works, other times thematized talks or author interviews. The audiofanficpodcast in particular is available if you'd like to listen, rather than read, fanfiction!

@audiofanficpod @darkesttimeline

Other X-Files Fanfiction Related Blogs that I think are good for finding recs/stories

@lilydalexf @today-in-fic @xfilespornbattle

I hope this gave you a place to start! There are so many amazing stories out there, and I hope you have a ton of fun exploring the worlds that fans have created! I apologize that I can't give you specific recommendations, since I run a fan event, I never want to appear to have a bias or exclude anyone. But if anyone reading this has any recommendations or things I excluded anything important, please comment your thoughts so OP has more to read!

-- xoxo, Nicole

[pinnedangel]

you can call me angel, i am a switch vers. this is approximately one half hard kink blog, one half place for me to make posts for the sake of saying words in varying orders with varying levels of comprehensibility. more than incidental home to sfw empty spaces posting, as many intriguing concepts around dolls and angels end up being as much of a sex thing as they aren't. my icon is real bird taxidermy. i do not content tag posts that are not my own, except for cnc-related posts explicitly mentioning rape, which are tagged #rapekink. blog runs on untagged queue, random flurries of activity, and occasional periods of total abandonment. mutuals are welcome to send me a dm or ask about whether i have any of their old blogs' posts, i will always enjoy trawling the archives. my personal tag is #saintly thoughts.

as an advertisement and warning, on this blog you may see posts about:

-consensual nonconsent, including content that directly refers to rape

-dubious consent, including intoxication and somnophilia

-corruption, mindbreaking, manipulation, gaslighting, and abusive dynamics

-experimentation (in the scientific sense) and medical play

-fearplay & snuff, including kidnapping/captivity, gratuitous bodily harm, and threats of death.

-gender play, in the sense of non-detransition related forced feminization and masculinization

-primal, predator/prey, and petplay

-monsterfucking, oviposition, egg pregnancy and laying

-size difference and object insertion

-fauxcest, heirophilia, dollification, hypnosis, overstimulation and edging, exhibitionism, impact play, knifeplay, gunplay, general bdsm dynamics, and more.

these are some of the more regular topics, but this is not an exhaustive list. i've got a strange and fluctuous relationship to sexual desire and fantasy (who here doesn't), and oftentimes these concepts are entirely abstracted and fully nonrepresentational of the kinds of dynamics i enjoy in real life. but just as often they're not, and i'm very interested in playing them out in scene. only way to know is to ask.

soft limits:

gore, necrophilia, age regression, boot licking/humping, violence that involves losing teeth, & scarification/tattooing

these are things you might see posts about occasionally but i’d prefer not to be engaged with on.

hard limits/filtered tags:

pregnancy/birth, lactation, hucow, piss, scat, vomit, abdl, armpits, detransition, misgendering, feeding/feederism, beastiality, feet, needles/piercing, amputation, castration, extreme body modification

i’m not going to block you if you follow me and post about any of my hard limits. i follow plenty of people who post about some of them but post about other stuff i like, that’s why i have the tags filtered. i just might not follow you back if that’s your main focus. i pass no judgements on kinks as long as they’re between consenting parties and you’re not trying to put your kink content on the posts of people who don’t want it there.

i block ageless blogs and cishets who follow me, as well as those who post from a place of minority hatred, such as transmisogyny and fatphobia. use your common sense here. i'm not making a dni because they're largely pointless. there is no nonsexual posting (outside of aforementioned empty spaces and occasionally my own thoughts) on this blog, and that is a firm rule i keep.

if you see me tagging posts with #🎥 don't worry about it. i have two guys i made up in my head for the purpose of putting each other through physical and emotional hell in the form of a long term relationship and sometimes i see things that make me think of their brand of excessively unethical freak sex.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

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