#Carrying a Lantern in Daylight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ghoulphile · 7 months ago

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wish you'd make me cry | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.3k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, dom!cooper, frottage, sitting missionary, dirty talk, degradation kink, pet names, teasing, dacryphilia, bareback, drug/chem use (jet), shotgunning, high sex ➥ summary | "You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c ➥ notes | drabble (that's no longer a drabble lol) request for @tearueful, thank you bby!! this one really got away from me... i had to stop myself from writing lol. un-beta'd atm. masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Setting up camp for the night in an abandoned warehouse, you and Cooper wait out a radstorm that blows in off the horizon. Because while he loves sitting outside with a smoke, soaking in the rads until he’s buzzing with frenetic energy, you don’t feel like hunting down RadAway tomorrow.

It’s quiet apart from the distant sound of super mutants and ferals roaming the city, the sporadic roar of thunder, and rain tinging off the sheet metal roof. There’s still hours left until daylight, and it doesn’t seem like the volatile weather will break soon.

Unfortunately, you’ve read all the Grognak comics you could get your grubby hands on three times over, and there’s not much else to pass the time besides scuff your boot along the concrete floor, and pluck at a stray thread hanging off your tattered sleeping bag.

Meanwhile, Cooper lounges on his side, unbothered. His hand - bare for once - props up his head, the unscarred skin of a commandeered digit stark against angry rad burns and ropey scars. Between the knuckles of his other hand, he rolls a vial of chem over and over in a mesmerizing flick of deft fingers.

A lantern sputters between you as the old battery struggles to keep it lit. Its jaundiced glow banishes the thick darkness; a fuzzy halo of light that elongates shadows and deepens the cuts of his face.

You kiss your teeth, and say, “Hey, you got any more Jet?”

Lazy eyes slide towards you. A hairless brow quirks. “And if I did,” he asks, the vial pausing between his fingers, “why you wanna know?”

“Dunno, I’m bored… wanna get high?”

“Well, shit,” he whistles, bares his teeth. A low, crackling laugh rumbles from his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask sooner.”

You shrug and crack a knuckle.

To be honest, the idea hadn’t occurred to you at first. Now that it has, anticipation curls low in your belly. Not only has it been a long, long time since you last got high (the sensation a hazy, half-remembered dream of fuzzy warmth and whirling thoughts), you know Cooper always carries a top-notch stash.

The little chem fiend, you think fondly.

“So,” you prompt. “Wanna get high together or what?”

“Sure as shit, darlin’. Let’s party.”

He settles against the pockmarked wall beside you with a soft grunt, the grit of concrete digging into his back. Thigh to thigh, his body is a rad warm line of heat. A bloom of suffocating heat in the otherwise biting chill of a wasteland night. Gunpowder and smoke tickle your nose when he leans over to rifle through his bag, leather creaking.

Muted, mellow; everything fades into a silent companionship as you pass the red inhaler between you. With every puff, whorls of smoke curl from your mouths until a murky gray cloud hovers in the air; defining the edges of your crafted universe.

The acrid vapor of chem burns its way through your lungs and into your bloodstream. A bitter taste coats your fattened tongue, lips tingling as your palm smothers little coughs. A flood of static rushes down your nerve endings, sends your head spinning.

As your vision blurs, the tension leeches from rounded shoulders with a bone weary sigh. And with every slow clicking blink, colors spark to life in a distorted kaleidoscope. Head lolling to the side, you watch through heavy eyes as Cooper rattles the inhaler and takes a shallow hit.

When he exhales, little tendrils of smoke caress the plains of his cheek. Dance along the hollow nasal ridge. “Almost out.” He grunts, your fingers brushing when he passes the cartridge back. “Go on, now. Finish it.”

The kind gesture (for him) touches you.

Then a faraway thought flutters.

Snags - settles into a nebulous desire.

And before you can second guess yourself, a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Wipes away the last of your common sense, and reservations. After all, why not? He was nice enough to share. You can too.

To his credit, Cooper doesn’t startle when you slink into his lap - not that you expect him to, even without being chem-addled. He tracks your movements from beneath a heavy brow bone, the dark Nuka Cola of his eyes glittering like shattered glass in the wane light.

“Heh, this that kinda party then, darlin’?” he asks once you settle, your thighs draped over his hips and your ass flush with his crotch. “‘Cuz you’ll be wanting ta extricate yourself if it ain’t.”

—Before I do it for you.

Humming, you dip forward until your breasts brush over the wide expanse of his chest. Interest flickers to life behind your navel; cinders cracking and popping along your spine. While you’d never considered Cooper a sexual availability beforehand (what with his never-ending search for family), the laden weight of his gaze as it pauses on your chin before dropping lower sings through your blood.

Kickstarts your heart into a galloping stutter that thuds against your ribcage as longing hooks behind your navel, tugs sudden and sharp. The world spins.

Maybe, you think, peering at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Maybe…

“Pervert,” you murmur, biting down on a small smile.

The knife-sharp smirk falls from his lips faster than a comedown from Psycho when your fingertips ghost over the curve of his jaw, turning his head towards you. Like this, you share breath, the scant space between you thrumming with energy.

So close you can see flecks of gold in the amber whiskey of his eyes.

Your forehead brushes over his; the rough drag of gnarled skin sending a shiver through your limbs. “Let’s share the last hit. S’only fair.”

Pausing, he considers you for several long moments.

His gaze bounces from yours to the playful curve of your mouth and back. A small eternity passes like this. And then - when you’re about to crawl away to lick your wounded pride - the most imperceptible of nods grants his assent.

There’s a hiss of aerosol, a lung burning inhale, and then you’re exhaling into the open gash of his mouth.

Wisps of smoke dance off your tongue onto his, the bow of your lips glancing off the swell of his top lip as you squirm closer. You feed him chem in a slow, steady stream until all the air has left you.

He groans - a wounded, low-throated sound.

Your eyes flutter open to find him already staring, his iris a thin ring around the Blackhole of his wide blown pupils. Hooded, hungry: a caged predator. You lick your lips, and in doing so, flick your tongue over his.

Your stomach swoops, “I --”

“You’re such a needy fuckin’ brat, y’know that, sweetheart?”

Whether it was an apology or some other retort stuck to the back of your teeth like hard candy, you’ll never know because in the next moment a rough hand knocks the Jet out of your hand. The inhaler cracks against the concrete with a plastic smack before skidding off into the darkness.

A burning palm curls around your wrist, calloused fingers digging into your fluttering pulse point. “Hey — hngg!”

He yanks you close, and you taste the violence in his kiss.

Harsh lips map out the softness of yours as teeth pinch and roll until your mouth is a swollen mess of tender flesh and smeared spit. Keeping up with the frenzied scrape of his tongue and the deep pulls of his kisses is like trying to weather a hurricane or fight off a Yao Guai with a single bullet.

“W-Wait,” you gasp, fingers twined through the lapels of his duster. “I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Cooper growls, worrying the swell of your bottom lip until a bead of blood bubbles to the surface. He sucks it away with a stifled moan, his hips kicking up against the plush of your ass.

“Shut the fuck up right now. You know what you was doing - trying ta act innocent when you’ve been gaggin’ for it.”

Flustered, you pull back, “No, that’s not true!”

It’s hard to keep your balance with chem pumping through your veins, and you sway to the side. The only thing keeping you upright is the bruising grip Cooper has on your wrist. “I haven’t been — you’re wr-rong.”

He spits out a mean spirited chuckle. “If that’s what you need ta tell yourself, sweetheart.” A critical eye drags down the pathetic sight you make, crumbled as you are in his lap. “But I know the truth. I felt you looking - pantin’ after me like a bitch in heat.”

“...”

Panic grips you by the throat, your pulse thundering against the thumb he strokes along the curve of your shoulder. You should’ve known better.

Of course, he’d notice.

He was The Ghoul after all - best bounty hunter from this coast to the next. It was his job to perceive everything around him, sus out friend from foe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

What else can you say?

He brought you along (for whatever reason, fuck if you know why), and you’ve caused nothing but trouble every step of the way. It’s a wasteland miracle he hasn’t kicked your ass and left you bleeding in the dirt by now.

I have to fix this. Whatever it takes.

“I ain’t wanting you sorry.”

Gulping, you will away the sting of tears, and say, “Please, don’t kick me out.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think it’s a miracle you survived this long at all.”

“You don’t have to be so rude about it…”

“Listen good and well, sugar,” he says with a roll of his eyes, that tender hand brushing over your neck turning into a collar as he drags you close. His lips whisper over yours with every word. “I didn’t go through all of this bullshit just ta get rid of you. Now--”

Hips rut up into you, dragging the firm line of his growing erection along the soft globes of your ass. “Stop teasin’ and make yourself useful,” he says. “Or you will be sorry.”

Everything after that flicks in and out of focus like a zoetrope: the burning clasp of hands, the slick glide of hungry mouths, the frantic rock of your hips as you both chase after dry friction with a desperation that borders on madness.

Your hands don’t know where to settle, fluttering from the nape of his neck to the breadth of his shoulders to the rippling muscle of his stomach as he rocks into you. Bites at any exposed skin that he can until his teeth leave marks you’ll carry for days.

All the while the hard edges of his body crash into your softness like waves against an eroding shore. Liquid fire blazes in your belly like a raging wildfire, scorching you from the inside out until you’re dumb and dripping.

The chem snaking through your body enhances the littlest of sensations until you feel like one giant exposed nerve. Slick drenched and sweaty, you moan weakly and rest your forehead against his cheek.

“Please,” you slur, thighs trembling where they squeeze at his live-wire hips. “S’not enough - need more. Wanna cum. Please, please, please. Make me cum.”

Cooper bites out a curse, his fingers biting into the fat of your ass. “Yeah, s’that right, sweetheart - d’you think you deserve it for bein’ such a lil brat?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’ll do anything. Just - hhahh, fuck!”

The fabric of your panties clings to your folds, and your pants chafe.

Your clit throbs with every thud of your heartbeat, every firm grind of his cock and low husk of his voice. Want him seated so deep inside you choke - your poor pussy struggling to take his cock as he rides you so hard you cry.

“Anything?” he asks with a breathless chuckle.

The devilish gleam of his eyes rattles your bones, shivers of electric anticipation fizzing through your veins like Quantum.

“Well, shit. Don’t come cryin’ ta me when you regret it. Now, take off those fucking pants and ride my cock like a good girl.”

And when he bullies his way inside, those thick ridges dragging along gummy walls, you almost swallow your tongue. He’s so big - the biggest you’ve ever had.

Every inch is a struggle, a victory. He’s not patient, he’s not kind. You don’t want it any other way, spread so wide your pussy flutters pathetically, trying to push him out.

Then the fat head grazes past the rough patch of your g-spot, sliding home to kiss your cervix. Your knees lock around his ribs, your head tossing back as a high-pitched whine punches its way out of your throat.

“A-Ah! I can’t — oh shit — you’re so,” you babble. “Too much!”

An ache spears deep, roots behind your navel.

“Heh, you asked for it, sweetheart. Look at me.” A scarred thumb wicks away a tear as you peel your eyes open with a sniffle. “That’s it. Shit, you look s’pretty when you cry.”

He licks his skin clean, uses his wet thumb to reach between you and roll the pad over your abused clit. You jump, sliding up on his shaft only for gravity to drag you back down with a solid smack of skin, your limbs jello soft.

The motion slams him deeper and slick drips from you in a sticky gush to soak his balls. You cry out, reedy thin.

Cooper grunts, warns, “You keep doing that and we’re not stoppin’ til you’re dripping cum.”

Though the thick haze of chem and syrupy sweet pleasure, you cobble together a grin and lick your way into his mouth. Tangle your tongues and suck as your hips arch into his. “Please, ruin me,” you breathe.

A possessive greed glints at you from the depths of his hangman eyes.

“Don’t go sayin’ I didn’t warn you, sweetheart,” he promises.

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard smut #the ghoul smut #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout smut #fallout fanfic

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wandasaura · 9 months ago

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BURNING BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

summary — the annual maximoff memorial day barbecue has finally come, but so has a softer side of your dominants

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, mentions of dom/sub dynamics, this is 90% fluff, shower sex, quickie, fingering, oral, nipple stimulation, hickies, its relatively tame in comparison to what lives in this au, domestic fluff, mentions of pietro being dead as fuck, men/minors dni

authors note — remember when i said i was taking a little break? yeah i lied and im not sorry about it!

you are in love universe

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff

The warmth and promise of sunshine had quickly taken hold of Westview, days of long darkness and snow storms came to be just a memory, thawed out by butterflies and the occasional white dove that pecked at the birdfeeder on the back porch of the Maximoff residence. You couldn’t understand how the sky was so much brighter in warmer weather, but as you sat beside Natasha on the cusp of solid Earth, you thought it looked bluer than usual. The crashing waves before you licked at your feet and dampened the shorts you wore when the tide dared to try and swallow you whole, but like changing seasons, it never stayed quick.

Sunrise had barely hit its peak and already the traces of pink and orange were just another mental memory for the big scrapbook of moments you never wanted to forget. The sand was coarse beneath the fingers that hours earlier had been dug into soft blankets, but refreshing and welcomed despite how small granules crept beneath your nails when you picked it up the wrong way. Natasha hummed an old lullaby beneath her breath, eyes closed and face tilted toward the sun like a lonely flower that had managed to grow in an abandoned field. You knew much about the woman's past, but not enough to understand her connection to the star that brought you light each new day. Now wasn’t the time to ask, but you knew that eventually you’d come to know the reason for her methods of relief in hard times.

The first weekend of break had come on quick, and the barbeque that Wanda and Natasha had frantically tried to tidy the house for before your attitude interrupted them was merely hours away. Despite the plans and the people coming over, time had been taken out of the day to devote just to you. In this moment, sitting on the edge of solid ground beneath rays of sun that attempted to burn you, you couldn’t even explain how truly loved you felt.

The beach was empty, void of the presence of others and quiet for your enjoyment, save for the seagulls who squawked over scraps and the waves that crashed against man made piers and naturally jagged rocks. Your toes were coated in sand, your fingers in the same state, but you didn’t care to think about the messy things at that moment, you only wanted to focus on the good. The good was Natasha’s arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close like a stray wave might succeed in carrying you out to sea. The good was Wanda’s perfume that lingered around the collar of your stolen shirt like the scent was woven into the cotton. The good was being here, being free and alive. The good was knowing Natasha. The good was having Wanda. The good was knowing love and having love.

You laid your head down on the woman’s shoulder, noting how her hair seemed to glow beneath the sunlight. In this moment, it wasn’t auburn with scuffs of brown thrown in at the roots, it was orange like fire made by those long before lights and lanterns existed. She was ethereal, sat out beneath the early daylight, bearing her freckles for the sky to adore. You’d attempted to count them earlier, your gaze stuck on her naked face with blemishes and beauty marks sporadically thrown into the mix, but somewhere after thirty they all blended together and you settled for simply looking at them, admiring how you were somehow allowed to see them.

You were happier in spring, happiest in summer, but recently, you have found those seasons in people. Wanda was like the early days of May, where weather was warm but also cold, and sunlight was soft but somehow harsh. Natasha was like summer, late July if you thought about a specific moment. Like the air she was sweet, but like the people she was calm, and like the night she was chaos wrapped up in laughter and loved company. They weren’t perfect, you would never call them such, but they were as close to it as people could get.

A soft smile graced your features, and though you squinted to lessen the sting of sunlight, Natasha thought you looked stunning. When her eyes reopened and her head tilted downward to look at you, there was only affection smeared across her face. Her eyes that were so meticulously different shades of green had a spark within them that could only speak of the happiness she felt. How words had existed for so long and still there wasn’t one to describe the intense feelings that rushed through the both of you, you didn’t know, but you were content enough to rest against her with the knowledge that even if you couldn’t say it, you were both feeling it.

“We’ve gotta head back soon.” Your beautiful moment was ripped into tiny pieces of paper that got caught in the breeze before they made it into the recycling can, and the smile that had turned your lips upward quickly worked in the opposite direction. You shook your head, digging your heels into the sand like the simple action might change her mind and make her forget about the barbeque that was starting at noon. “Not now. I need a couple more minutes of this.”

You giggled softly when she nuzzled into your head, her wild curls tickling your nose because she hadn’t bothered to straighten them yesterday. You reached up, taking one of her curls between your fingers and pulling it taught, letting go to watch it bounce back into place and laid against her forehead with frizzy edges. You sighed in content, running your fingers through her wild hair that couldn’t be tamed in this state. “I like your natural hair.”

Natasha crinkled her nose at your genuine admission. She puckered her lips and let them rest against your finger that was still in front of her face as you softly brushed strands of hair away from her eyes. “My natural hair is blonde.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” You rolled your eyes fondly, snuggling even further into her side despite how hot you felt beneath the sun. No matter the weather you wanted to be pressed up into her, and it was clear that she wanted the same, her arm around your waist squeezed you tight, almost daring you to try and pull away prematurely. “When you met Wanda did she have red hair?”

“No, the red is pretty new. It was brown, a little bit longer than she keeps it now. She was really leaning into the whole emo phase. We could never go out together if she didn’t have red lipstick and eyeliner, she always said it completed her look.” Natasha smiled fondly at the memories that came to mind when she thought about the beginning stages of their relationship, and you felt your own heart warm in your chest as you thought about the young couple they had been. You wondered what kind of odds had been stacked against them, but you didn’t question it, happy to just live in this happy moment.

You let your hand fall back into the sand, rubbing circles that slowly became hearts into the malleable surface. The beach would always be one of your favorite places, but sitting beside Natasha made it better, sweeter. “How long have you been together now?”

“Fourteen years.” Natasha laughed, her own hand reaching out to collect handfuls of sand that she let run between her fingers until only a few granules were left in her palm, and then you watched her repeat the process over again. “Sometimes it feels like it was only a couple of weeks ago, and other times it feels like I’ve never lived without her.”

“I never hated her.” You admitted, though you had the slightest inkling that Natasha already knew that. She just had a way of knowing things before you did. There was no possible way anyone could hate Wanda Maximoff, and if you somehow stumbled upon the only person in the world who did, you didn’t doubt they’d meet a quick and painful demise.

“I know, moya kroshka.” Natasha laughs softly, so softly the sounds of the waves almost drown her out completely, but you still heard her. You’d always hear her. “It’s coming up on a full year since we started this whole thing, have any ideas about what you want to do?”

You shrugged your shoulders, reaching for Natasha’s hand when she lost interest in the sand. She’d taken her rings off last night and with the early wake-up call hadn’t put them back on. The slightest tan kissed her features around where they usually sat, and gently you brushed the pads of your fingers against the pale skin. “I just want to spend it with you both.”

“We can definitely make that happen.” Natasha hummed softly, laying a gentle kiss on the top of your head where sunlight had kissed your hair. Your roots were warm, hot against her lips, but Natasha didn’t flinch away. You knew this moment was coming to an end, but you could appreciate it for the few seconds longer that it lasted. “Wanda probably has breakfast ready, milaya. We’ve gotta start heading back now.”

“Can we come back?” You questioned softly, not wanting to speak too loud as if it could ruin the quiet atmosphere around you. As you stood, dusting sand off the back of your legs, you winced at the ache in your back when you finally found your feet and steadied yourself on them. Natasha did the same, a quiet groan slipping past her lips when she reached down to collect your abandoned sets of flip flops. With one hand occupied, she reached the other out to you.

“We’ll find a day.” She promised with a nod of affirmation. Your hand fits easily in the palm of hers, your fingers curl around her scarred knuckles while hers lay flat against your unbroken ones. Together you’re a perfect balance. Delicate definitely, but not entirely harmless.

Westview sits on the edge of New Jersey, the air tinged with the permanent lingrance of salt and sand. The farther you walk, the less prominent it becomes, but if you know what you’re looking for, the scent of the shore still remains. Houses closest to the water are painted soft colors that linger in the summer sunrises, vacation homes that are only occupied for a handful of months throughout the year, but the deeper you walk the more mundane it becomes. The town is a muted palette of browns and beiges, fences of white and cars of greyscale. It’s perfectly coherent, acceptably mature, but the Maximoff residence remains the outlier. In the blandness of tans and creams, the two-story house is a soft green color with vibrant red shutters. The cars are normal, though elaborate. Unlike the Hondas and Toyotas that occupy driveways and road space, Natasha’s sleek Corvette Stingray sits beside Wanda’s Audi R8 in the driveway, the only flex of their wealth that’s apparent. You like it though, like how they’re so different from everyone else.

You make sure to kick the sand still clinging to your heels off before you step into the house, and immediately you’re met with the aroma of sweet sugar and maple. Natasha hums at the change of scent, leaving behind the traces of salt that had tickled her nose the entire walk back to the house in favor of discovering what Wanda had prepared for breakfast. She drags her hand across your back as she passes you, seeking out the presence of her wife.

You're slower to follow, taking your time to meticulously stack your flip flops with the rest of the shoes in the entryway. They don’t match the aesthetic of Valentino loafers and Prada heels, but you smile at the sight anyways. Your favorite pair of white converse sit beside the shoes Wanda wears into the office every work day, and your balled up pink socks are tucked into Natasha’s running shoes for some reason, but the little traces of your place here makes you feel at home. You’re not so different from the shore that lingers through Westview in the winter, but unlike the water that’s abandoned when snow falls, they’ll never forget about you when the seasons inevitably change.

“Where did you leave the stray?” You just barely catch the end of whatever conversation has led to that question when you finally appear in the kitchen. The sunlight is golden now, no longer soft with pink and orange, but it falls over Wanda like the perfect blanket anyways. She’s wrapped up in Natasha’s arms, pinned to the stovetop where bacon rests in a hot pan. The only indication that this moment is less than perfect is the hot grease that pops and splatters every other second when Wanda neglects it for too long.

“You know, you should really be nice to me before I start biting your ankles like a real stray.” You hum, your voice carrying through the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, though it’s not a response derived from annoyance like it would have been only weeks ago. Rather, your words are layered with fond exasperation that Wanda finds herself laughing at.

Natasha kisses the lawyer's shoulder, squeezes her waist tightly, whispers something in Russian that’s not entirely audible from how far away you stand, before she pulls away entirely and walks toward the refrigerator. You pout when she pulls out the near empty pitcher of orange juice, setting it down on the island to be poured into glasses when breakfast is ready. It seems you could’ve spent a few more minutes beneath the sun, but you don’t complain. This is just as nice, just different.

“That’s my job.” You sulk, letting your naked feet slap against the hardwood floors as you approach with sadness written across your expression. “Wanda, your wife took my job.”

Natasha only narrows her eyes at you, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips that she doesn’t even attempt to school. “It was my job first.”

“Well it’s my job now!” You stuck your tongue out at her, sulking your way over to Wanda who lets you wrap your body around hers like a baby koala. With your front pressed up against hers, you have to crane your head backward to catch a glimpse of her face, but you're pleased to know she’s already looking down at you. You pout your lips up at her, grinning in victory when she kisses your frown away with a sigh of faux exasperation. “Can I have a new job?”

Wanda laughs at your question, her fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts to sit on the skin of your ass that’s still marked from days prior. You sighed in relief at the contact, leaning heavily into her chest when she rubs away the lingering ache that truthfully doesn’t bother you much anymore. It doesn’t last long, there’s still much to be done before noon rolls around, but you soak up every ounce of domesticity this morning has offered. “Sit on the counter and look pretty for me while I finish up with the bacon.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” You giggle after saluting her, wiggling out of her arms and sliding your way up onto the countertop that’s practically become your designated spot since she stopped reprimanding you about sitting up here. Natasha crosses the little space between the edge of the island to where you’re perched watching Wanda cook, and you hum in pleasure when she leans forward to connect your lips.

Your hands wrap around her shoulders and fingers tangle into the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. You smile into the kiss, beyond content with the little bubble that’s existed around you since being roused from sleep at five in the morning. A shriek of surprised laughter fills the kitchen when Natasha pulls away from your lips and buries her face in the crock of your neck, a raspberry tickling the sensitive skin as she blows against it. You squirm away from the sensation, but your arms still keep her locked in place.

“Hi, Natty.” You giggle, tugging gently at the loose curls that your fingers are twisted between. She smiles at your happiness, pecking your lips a handful of times before she pulls away and whispers back the same greeting. “You smell like the beach.” You point out, giggling at Natasha’s extravagant eye roll.

“You both smell like the beach and will be taking a shower after breakfast.” Wanda chimed into the conversation, tapping your thigh in warning as she opened the cabinet just beside your head. It had become routine at this point for her to simply work around you, so the clattering of plates beside your ear didn’t bother you much.

When she turned around to grab the serving plate of belgian waffles on the island, your hand shot out to slap her ass, all thoughts of controlling your limbs forgotten. But really, who could blame you when she was wearing the shortest cotton shorts that had ever been sold in stores? Natasha had to bury her face in your neck to muffle her laughter, and you could feel her wide grin against your skin as you smirked innocently back at Wanda who set a firm glare in your direction.

“Behave yourself.” She warned half-heartedly, absolutely no bite to her warning as you’d all just accepted the natural occurrence of the day, your roles as dominant and submissive forgotten about. You liked this exchange, not because you felt any less their equal when they bossed you around and set expectations upon your shoulders, but because it was the faintest glimpse at what life could be if they weren’t married and you were really their girlfriend. “Don’t even think about it, Natalia.” Wanda warned, already knowing Natasha was about to do the same thing you had been bold enough to accomplish.

The redhead merely smirked and shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence as she pulled away from your embrace and brought the drink glasses and pitcher into the dining room. You hopped off the counter the same as you always do, mimicking Natasha’s shrug when Wanda winced at the action. You grabbed the platter of bacon from her hands and followed after the lawyer who had already exited, eager to see where the day ended up, surrounded by the Maximoff’s closest friends and family members.

The shower water was hot enough to create a thick fog on the glass doors and surrounding mirrors in the en-suite master bathroom, but still it felt cold as you joined Natasha beneath the heavy and unrelenting spray. You shivered despite the heat, reaching for the handle and turning it up even hotter, ignoring the Russian’s protests that her skin was actively melting off her bones. You liked hot showers, but you hated hot baths, and somehow you had yet to find a happy medium that worked for the both of you. Typically you’d compromise and switch off between who melted and who froze, and although it was admittedly your turn to freeze, today was not a day where you were willing to sacrifice feeling in your appendages.

You silenced her whines with a desperate kiss, not even attempting to hide your need for her as you backed her up against the cold tile walls and pinned her hands to her sides. Your tongue was unrelenting as it licked and sucked at hers, tasting the minty toothpaste that she had rinsed from her mouth only minutes before you’d sought out her presence. When your teeth bit down on her tongue, just hard enough to send a shock of excitement down to her core, Natasha decided that being pliant in your hold wasn’t working for her.

You shrieked in surprise when your position switched easily, the hands that had been firmly holding her wrists against the wall now pinned at your sides in the same way. You arched away from the cold tiles, effectively smashing your chests and eager nipples together as you attempted to run away from the cold wall.

“Fuck!” You shivered, your lips ghosting over hers. “You have a fucking Stingray and you still haven’t discovered heated walls?! What’s the point of having money if you don’t use it for good things!” Your words were quickly replaced by breathy moans as Natasha attached her mouth to your chest and greedily sucked a mark into your untouched skin; a mark that wouldn’t be easily hidden, especially not with the swimsuit you had been intending on wearing for the party. “Fuck, Nat–” You pushed her head away, hoping you’d acted quick enough for the damage to be only minimal. The smirk on her lips told you that you hadn’t succeeded, and you slapped at her shoulder in exasperation. “Your sister is literally going to be here in two hours, can you contain your vampire impulses until she leaves?!”

“My sister has fucked her girlfriend in my guest bedroom. A hickey should be the least of her worries.” Natasha threw back at you, attacking her mouth to your nipple with purpose. You had ten minutes to sort yourselves out before Wanda came stomping up the stairs and pulling you out of the shower, orgasms or not. You did not want to spend the entire afternoon and evening hot and bothered because you got pussy blocked by a scary Sokovian.

Natasha’s teeth pulled at your nipple, allowing the skin to sting for only a second before she soothed the pain with quick flicks of her tongue. Your other nipple was not privy to the same treatment, but her stumbling fingers attempted to make up for the neglect as she rolled and pinched at the pebbled bud. You shoved her head away from your chest, forcing her down onto her knees and in the direction of where you needed her most. It occurred to you briefly that you should wash her hair as she ate you out, kill two birds with one stone or whatever the saying was, but you quickly backtracked on that idea when her tongue sought out your clit with no lack of drive. Your knees wobbled, your breath got caught in your throat, and desperately your fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her closer. Your hips grinded against her face as she licked and sucked at your nerve with a passion, and you're certain that had the droplets of liquid fire not been falling over her face in a manner that was less than pretty, her chin would’ve glistened with your arousal.

You arched into her touch as your orgasm approached, and Natasha had used the new position of your body as the perfect moment to bury two fingers knuckles deep in your cunt. You gasped in pleasure at the brief sting that came from her actions, crying out her name in pure bliss as she worked you over the edge so quickly you deserved an award for fastest achieved orgasm.

She pulled away with dilated pupils, her own lust not forgotten about. You sank to your knees before her, pushing at her shoulders until she complied with your silent request and was laid out on the shower floor. Unlike you, she didn’t attempt to wiggle away from the flush of cold against her back, and unlike her, you didn’t waste time toying with her nipples. You dove straight into her cunt, lifting one of her legs until it was high enough to drop onto your shoulder. She tasted like she always did, but something about this situation made her more addictive. The spray of the water fell onto her belly, harsh droplets of water tinting the skin pink from not only the temperature but the pressure. One of these days, you’re going to get around to finding out the true pleasure of the detachable shower head, but today was not that day. You didn’t tease, much more intent at working her up and pushing her over before Wanda came to interrupt. Her clit throbbed beneath your tongue as you licked at her, and her walls clenched around your fingers as she pleaded for more.

“Faster.” She moaned, her head thrown back against the white shower floors. The messy sprawl of her red hair was perfectly angelic, but you had no time to dwell on the sight of her as the minutes ticked down to none. Your fingers set into her at a punishing pace, curling into the sweet spot she loved so much until it was just a symphony of your name that rolled off her tongue in breathy whines and moans. You eased her off of the cliff with a practiced ease, giggling softly when she pushed your head away and subsequently caused water to spray in all directions as it bounced off her wrist. “N-Never letting you talk me into a shower quickie again. I think there’s an entire lake in my ears.” She panted, splaying a hand across her belly until she had managed to catch her breath.

“I mean, technically I didn’t talk you into anything. I mouthed you into this.” You giggled, helping her stand and replacing your rough touch with something tender and sweet. You reached for Wanda’s shampoo, not caring that Natasha had her own right beside it. Wanda’s smelled sweeter, and if you were going to be the one to wash the woman’s hair, it would be you who picked the scene she bore for the rest of the day.

You rubbed at her scalp, lathered until it bubbled, and eased your fingers through the knotted locks when it was time to wash it out. Wanda’s conditioner sat in her hair when the process was repeated on your head, and you sighed in relief when Natasha scratched her nails against the nape of your neck before trailing her hands down to your shoulders. Her thumbs worked on the soft muscles between your shoulder blades, and you melted into the firm attention.

“How long can we stay in here before she breaks down the door?” You questioned, your eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself relax completely. Even if you hadn’t said it, you were beyond nervous to be meeting their family and friends. Some of the people attending their barbeque were big names in the security world, namely Kate Bishop, and you intended on making the best first impression if you were to ever have a career in the same field.

“Three minutes.” Natasha chuckled gently, guiding you under the stream of water so she could rinse the soap from your hair. She conditioned you right after, twisting the strands of your hair between her fingers as she worked out the knots and kinks toward the ends. You rinsed her hair when she was done, dragged a loofa across her skin afterward, and then were rewarded with the same loving treatment. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Everyone coming knows how much you mean to us. They’re all excited to meet you.” Natasha kissed your shoulder before she turned the water off and squeegeed the door clean of droplets and steam, stepping out into the cold first before she offered you a towel.

“I know.” You sighed, drying your body as you tried to force your feelings into words. “I just want to make a good impression. These are your friends. It’s your sister. They matter to you and Wanda.”

“And you matter to me and Wanda just as much. If you’re worried about Yelena, there’s no reason to be. She’s going to act like she hates you because she thinks it's her duty as my little sister to vet whoever I choose to spend my time with, but by the end of the night she’s going to have you trapped by the firepit showing you pictures of her dog. When she met Wanda for the first time, she insulted her in Russian because she thought she wouldn’t understand.” Natasha snorted at the memory, and you couldn’t help but grin bashfully at the admission. “You’re going to get along fine, and honestly that worries me. I can barely handle you by yourself.”

“Hey!” You slapped at her side, but couldn’t help the wide smile that threatened to split your lips in half as you stared up at her. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”

“I don’t doubt that, утенок.” Natasha leaned forward to kiss your lips, and you returned the gesture though a crinkle of confusion settled across your brows.

You asked once she pulled away, wrapping the towel tightly around your torso so that you could make a break for the guest bedroom where your outfit for the day remained. “What does that one mean?”

“Duckling.” She laughed, and you groaned knowing that it was going to stick around, at least for a little while. You’d been quite privy to Wanda in recent days, call it making up for lost time if you really had to explain your reasonings, and both the Russian and Sokovian had chalked up your clinginess as acts of a duckling blindly following its mother. If Wanda was anywhere in the house, you were right behind her. Yesterday you had genuinely pouted at the bathroom door when she forbade you from coming in with her when she needed to pee, and unluckily enough for you, Natasha had come into the bedroom at just the right time to watch the scene unfold. “Go get dressed. Yelena said she’s arriving at twelve which really means she’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

You nodded quickly, bolting out of the master bathroom and into your claimed bedroom without a moment of hesitance, not wanting Yelena to arrive before you were dressed. The door wasn’t even fully closed before you were dropping your towel and scrambling to find your bathing suit bottoms in the pile of messy clothes stacked on the dresser.

Droplets of chlorinated water lingered on touches of skin that had yet to be dried by the slowly slipping Spring sun; still a ripple of motion in the pool that hadn’t yet gone completely still with the fresh absence of bodies in the water. The crack of wood submitting to controlled flames accompanied the music of laughter and conversation that happened around you. The evening was long ahead of you, eternal more hours of company promised, but you didn’t feel any obligation to join in on jokes and memories as you fell into Wanda’s lap and snuggled in close, seeking her warmth and comfort as a chill set overtop of you. You’d been drinking all afternoon, being handed hard seltzers and beers whenever anyone noticed your hands were empty. You’d finished a handful of Wanda and Natasha’s chosen drinks, taking it upon yourself to try at least one of every flavor they had laying around the backyard. The flush on your cheeks was near permanent at this point, and though the heat in your ears would be gone by morning and replaced with a headache only Advil and sleep could soothe, the kiss on your cheeks would last days before it settled into darkened skin.

As promised, Yelena had kept you pinned to the edge of the pool when the sun was still at its highest peak in the sky, showing you pictures and videos of the two dogs she took great pride in caring for. Kate had watched for a while, draped across her girlfriend's shoulder as the three of you laughed at a particular video of Fanny and Lucky dressed up in bowties zooming around their daylight drenched kitchen, but she had excused herself to the bathroom before the end was in sight. Maria Hill had been your savior, though you were content with Yelena’s easy presence not to mind your trapped position much while it had lasted. The early hours of the afternoon had been filled with conversation and the act of acquainting, but the later hours had told a different story; a wild one. It was the story of how you had come to find this state of mind, far past the point of being tipsy and well on your way to true drunkness.

You hummed when Wanda laid her palm flat over your belly, keeping you close and safe in her lap. The soft pad of her thumb tickled your belly button as she adjusted slowly, sinking further down into the lounge chair she sprawled across. The sloppy smile on your face was the truest indication of your contentment, and Wanda, though she wondered who had been the one to feed you so much alcohol without her realizing, returned the grin.

Natasha and Yelena were noticeably missing from the circle, but the silhouettes of their wild hair and toned shoulders were figures or darkness in the kitchen that promised a quick return. Natasha, though only an inch or so taller than her sister, wore her curls in a messy bun that slipped lower and lower down her head as the hours carried on. She was easiest to spot from a distance, the shadow of her presence known perfectly to you. Wanda didn’t pay you much attention other than the firm hand on your belly, but you were content to just be with her as she laughed and caught up with the blonde woman sat beside her; Carol Danvers.

“They put up a new plaque for Pietro today.” Carol laughed at the inkling of information she had forgotten to share earlier in the afternoon, and Wanda craned her head in hopeful willingness that Carol would share more. “He would’ve loved it. He’s the only bastard on the squad that was dumb enough to have a catch phrase.”

As if that mentioned catch phrase had been sitting on the lips of every person gathered around the fire, it fell from soft tongues without a moment of hesitation. Messy, not at all in tune, but seemingly perfect to Wanda who smiled when horrible Sokovian accents caught up to her ears and the words her brother had made his slogan lived on when even he didn’t, “You didn’t see that coming.”

Memorial day has never held much significance to you. It had been just another holiday that sat on the start of summer, sometimes warm enough for gatherings like these, and sometimes not. Until you realized that the American flag folded in militant perfection in the master bedroom was a symbol of remembrance, you hadn’t thought it held much significance to the CEO’s either. Even though you hadn’t known Pietro, his life ending years before your path had crossed with the Maximoff’s, you smiled. His name had lingered in conversations throughout the day, and you didn’t question how loved he still was after years of absence.

Wanda’s lips were heavy on the crown of your head when she leaned down to kiss you. You leaned into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed for the briefest second before they opened and found Natasha admiring the sight of you. Two beers retrieved from the cooler near the pool sat in her hands, one cracked open and extended in your direction.

“She doesn’t need anymore.” Wanda rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop you from grabbing the long necked bottle Natasha offered and adjusting yourself in her lap so that you could sip on it easily, having already spilled one drink down the front of you. With your back against her chest, and your legs situated between hers, you had to crane your neck to catch even the slightest glimpse of her face, but her arms around your torso were the physical assurance of her presence. She rubbed at the skin of your belly that had grown pink and warm beneath the sun, not yet tan, but it would come soon. The hickey on your chest had long since been forgotten, though Yelena had posed many questions of its origin before Kate slapped her shoulder and changed the topic. You’d been accepted without question, and you found that while some of their friends were painfully intimidating, Maria and Carol, they were truly sweethearts who had the same tendencies of protection as your dominants.

When your beer had grown warm, and your cheeks had grown flusher, having been in no hurry to finish it off and replenish it like Yelena was doing, you passed the near empty bottle off to Natasha who had taken it not without an exasperated roll of her eyes and a mumbled sentence along the lines of being nothing but your servant. You had giggled, shrugged your shoulders, and curled further into Wanda who didn’t seem to even flinch at your elbow digging into her ribs.

Despite your determination to remain awake, sleep won over you just as quickly as drunkenness had. Wanda merely rubbed your back in encouragement, being the single factor that had forced you into soft unconsciousness when conversations still buzzed around you. With your eyes closed and your breathing even, no chance of being woken even by the harshest storm, conversation had naturally flowed away from Pietro and onto you, but both Wanda and Natasha welcomed the new topic if it meant having the welcomed opportunity to boast about just how truly sweet you are.

“I see you played the long game, Maximoff.” Maria winked at the Sokovian, her icy blue eyes admiring your innocent form as you attempted to wiggle closer to the auburn haired women who held you tightly. If you could find a way to burrow yourself beneath her skin, she knew that you would’ve done so already.

“Patience rewards those who have it.” Wanda merely smirked in response, running her pruney fingers from hours of holding sweating cans and bottles through your chlorine stiff hair. “She just needed a little encouragement.”

“She wasn’t the only one.” Natasha rolled her eyes, sipping slowly on her beer that despite the warmth, still brought a piece of home over her longing heart. Russians may drink vodka, but Melina Vostokoff had always preferred a beer.

Wanda shrugged, knowing that despite her persistently cold demeanor, she had never truly doubted how her heart yearned for you. “It’s not my fault you brought home a brat.”

“If I remember correctly, you said the same thing when you met Natasha.” Carol smirked over the lip of her can, her eyes burning holes into the side of Natasha’s face, though the Russian pointedly ignored her stare.

“Watch it, Danvers.” She warned, but surrendered to the teasing she had missed in recent months. Life was busy, but they’d always find a reason to come back together.

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theoxenfree · 2 months ago

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OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 2.6k | 18+

you're the child of a monastery groundskeeper and come to find out that one of the senior clergy, father marius, was brutally maimed in his chambers overnight. you're approached by the monastery's new recruit: father shaw; who claims he had witnessed the scene of the crime and invites you to his chambers to tell the tale.

warnings; dark content bc of descriptions of gore and violence towards the end, obsessive behaviors, theological themes, probs inaccurate representation of monastery life lmao, outdated + deragatory mention of psychiatric care to fit the narrative, very brief mention of animal death, classism (mc getting shit on for being poor and coming from an "uneducated" family), kinda honestly cheesy if you think about it, roughly proofread, vampires are monsters y'all—that's the only way I write them

shouldn't have to say it, but: none of this is indicative of my personal viewpoints. it's just fiction, folks.

second prompt fulfilled for my lil' october writing project! this won the second poll! please reblog + leave feedback to be kind and help a sister out 🥹💕

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their hard, dense gossip. They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, grinding sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice, mysterious; give them time, they'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father, neurotic and prone to throwing things about the cottage interior, that caused you to pay some mind to what he told you.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well,” you hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” You said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice; fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with herbs of the season. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?”

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith,” he cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space, sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened.

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”

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dietpitt · 2 months ago

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💚🎃Green Is Definitely Your Color🎃💚

Stan Pines x AFAB!Reader Explicit | 2.8k words Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader, Reader wears a dress, Halloween Costumes, Trick-or-Treating, Sexual Roleplay, Cunnilingus, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, Stan is a Leg Man, Body Worship, Marking Kink, Reader Plays Bride of Frankenstein

In which body paint and Stan's mouth save the day (but ruin a perfectly good costume).

{Read on AO3}

Author's Note: Originally posted 2020 on AO3, but I wanted to give it a proper tumblr post. I'm very proud of this one except I didn't know how to end it and it shows lol

Thankfully, there are only a few things you and your boyfriend don’t see eye-to-eye on. Stan takes his coffee black (old habit from the days of shoddy motels and a life on the run), while your own brew of choice is iced (lasts longer and doesn’t get cold since it already is). He thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to scare a baby every now and then, and proceed to laugh in their pudgy little tear-streaked face. You? You told him he’d be the one bawling if you ever caught him pulling that in your periphery again.

Tonight, though? Tonight is the perfect example of just how good you two are together. Because tonight, you weren’t scaring babies. Tonight, on Halloween, you were scaring kids. And that was worlds apart from wreaking havoc in the grocery store, which happened the majority of the remaining 363 days of the year.

Sure, Stan always goes all-out for his beloved Summerween, but October 31st is when his freak flag really flies. It makes sense-- Fall brings less tourists than usual, and shorter daylight hours means fewer parents letting their kids come out to the woods to trick or treat, making every opportunity for a scare count.

With the Mystery Shack trading its typical kitsch for spooky ephemera-- fully decked out in giant spiderwebs, ghoulish figures, and angry jack-o-lanterns-- it’ll truly be a dramatic sight to behold.

But, for all the elaborate planning, special effects to make the eyes pop out of his skull and the bolts on his neck to spark and smoke, Stan still manages to miss a few spots needing body paint.

“Alright, alright, I think y’got it,” Franken-Stan fake-grumbles up at you from his seat in front of the full-length mirror.

“Will you relax? You’re gonna sweat, and I’ll have to do your makeup all over again,” you scold, though your painted lips curl into a fond grin despite yourself.

Though the kids will start coming any minute, you’re set on completing the finishing touches, if for no other reason than to keep Stan from further grumbling later.

… And most certainly not because you also love the opportunity to dote, holding him close in ways he’d otherwise be too shy about. Not at all.

“Are you going to wear your glasses?” You ask, getting his ears nice and green with the sponge brush.

He gives it some thought. “As much as it hurts the spook factor, I can’t really scare anybody if I fall on my face.”

Another, final once-over at your work and you’re satisfied, stepping back and raising your arms in the air triumphantly to steal yourself for your best mad-scientist cackle. “My creation! It’s aliiiive!”

Stan laughs, quickly standing and caging you with his arms against the wall. “Damn right. Alive as ever.”

You shoo both him and the remark away, looking over your white “dress” (old sheet) to check for any green that may have made its way onto your costume. “I thought you were in a hurry, hmm? There’s no time for a touch-up. Now, be a good ‘husband’ and carry the train.”

Stan’s eyes roll as he lifts the gown, following your lead downstairs. “Yes, honey.”

Trying very carefully not to trip, Stan helps you down the stairs. “I still think it’s dumb that The Bride of Frankenstein doesn’t get a name, though. Sure, she’s in it for all of three minutes, but she gets the movie named after her and doesn’t even get a line?”

“Nah, she just screams,” Stan laughs, dropping your dress as you meet the front door. “Like it hurts to exist.” He swings the door open and the both of you speak in unison.

“She gets it.”

You share a small laughing fit at that, making your way outside into the crisp autumn air, giddy to begin the festivities. A few to last-minute adjustments and tech checks, and The Shack will be ready.

“Seriously though-- why can’t she be, like, Victoria or something?”

Over by the skeleton crawling out from under the porch, Stan snorts. “Victoria? Why?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

“Touche.”

It’s finally the tail-end of the second hour, and you’re in position behind the semi-trapdoor mechanism on the porch, hidden behind a dark and stormy castle standee. You’re high on the energy so far, after making some kids scream-squeal in delight. Although, you did manage to terrify a toddler on accident without even trying-- the poor thing burst into tears at the mere sight of you walking out normally from the porch.

Maybe it was the semi-realistic stitches on your flesh? Who knows. All that’s clear is you felt awful, but Stan was very clearly amused-- and jealous, you’d wager.

But now that it’s past bedtime for most little ones, it’s time to up the ante with some added special effects-- and the fast-approaching gaggle of baby teens seem to be the first that’ll enjoy them.

Always on top of it, Stan lets out a Frankenstein-like groan, marching further from the end of the porch, arms raised in cheesy classic style. The kids stop in their tracks as he clears his throat roughly to give the spiel he’s practiced all night, an extra ~spooky~ lilt to his otherwise mostly-normal voice:

“Foolish humans! You daaaare demand gifts, when your hubris created me from cursed flesh, and your hatred ensured my demise?!” He’s truly in his element as his neck bolts flicker for emphasis, making most of the middle schoolers jump and gasp.

The one at the front of the pack though, doesn’t budge, instead holding their pumpkin bucket out with an overall look of disinterest. “Yeah, duh. Trick-or-treat, old man. Hand over the candy.”

“Rude little shit,” you frown, not even needing to see Stan’s face to know he’s going to enjoy this particular scare very much.

“Hold it, kid, ” Stan sneers, continuing his introduction, “if you want anything good to eat, you’ll need to ask the most blood-curdling-- ”

You flip the switch for the fog machine, and bellows of grey creep in around the Shack--

“--The most SPINE-TINGLING, repulsive monster of us all--!”

You quickly step on the nearby button, and lightning flashes across the house as thunder sounds--

“ --MY WIFE! ”

At his signal, your spring forward, eyes crazed as a horrendous banshee screech leaves your throat and white tendrils wave in the wind.

The rude kid screams-- and while Stan bursts out laughing and you smile evilly, you miss them reflexively reach into their bucket, pull something out, and chuck it right at you before scampering away.

With a dull thud, the projectile lands on your head with a muffled thud, sending you off balance and toppling off the platform in a second. You hear Stan’s barks at the hoodlum, but soon he’s up the porch at your side, just as surprised as you are.

“The hell-- you alright, babe?”

Stan helps you up as you glance around for the offending object that’s left your head and the arm that broke your fall aching. “I-- what the fuck was that?!”

A large, off-white sphere rolls along a groove in the deck, moved by your shifted weight. It hits the edge of your shoe, and you pick it up to find it’s…

A popcorn ball.

A really fucking heavy, rock-hard popcorn ball.

With a splotch of white from your forehead smeared across it.

Stan’s bursts out laughing, though he doesn’t let his supposedly helpful grip on your waist go. “Who the hell gave that thing out?? They must’ve been saving it for last century-- ”

It’s funny. Like, really funny. Comedy freaking gold.

But your head hurts and you fell, and shit, your wig’s messed up…

Your own laughter breaks suddenly, and before you even know it you’re tearing up.

Franken-Stan blanches the soon as it hits him. “H-hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry-- are you alright?”

The comforting hands on your shoulder, the concern in his voice breaks the dam, tears spilling out despite your mind knowing better, and wanting to continue laughing it off like you should-- like you want to.

“I’m fine Stan, I’m fine, I-- I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying, I really don’t,” you laugh, dabbing at your eyes with a bandage-covered hand. “That was too perfect.”

“Don’t apologize, that kid’s an asshole.”

“An asshole with a hell of a pitch,” You laugh, finally meeting Stan’s eye.

“Wanna go inside? It’s gettin’ late anyway,”

“No! No, are you kidding? We just got started with the lightning! I’m fine, I promise--”

He raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Really, I am. I’m the most horrifying creature of them all, right?”

“Hah! Sure are, sweet thing, sure are.”

“Then let’s get back to scaring. I’ll be ready to duck this time.” You laugh, elbowing Stan before getting back into place, and Stan follows.

11:27pm

There hasn’t been a kid in nearly 30 minutes, and with another hour under your belt, the pair of you are content to turn in for the night for some movies and the Halloween goodie bags left behind by scared trick-or-treaters.

Flopping down on the bed, your tired body practically sings. “Goddd, that kid really got me good.” The hands on your face muffle your words, but Stan gets the idea.

Taking pity on you, he pulls up the nearby chair and starts unlacing one of your boots for you. “Happens in the line of duty sometimes. Shoulda seen what one fairy princess threw at me one year-- actually, I don’t even wanna know what it was.” He jokes(?), tossing the shoe aside and beginning on the other.

“Knocked me down at the top of my game…” you mutter, twiddling with the end of a splayed-out strip of your garment.

“Hey,” Stan drops the other boot to the floor with a thud, quickly peeling off the striped sock that lay underneath. “Don’t forget, you scared the absolute shit out of that brat.”

You let out a hum, then chuckle. “Triggered his fight and flight.”

"Exactly,” he replies definitely, sling-shotting the second sock in the air. It lands on your chest, but you quickly toss it over to nowhere in particular.

“I don’t know if I can even get back up. Just let me die here,” you groan, only half-joking as the strenuous activities of the day catch up to you. “I’ll be a corpse for next Halloween.”

“Well, yer already halfway there in that getup,” Stan shrugs off the jacket of his costume and lets it fall on the chair. A glance across your form reminds him of the “bolts” attached to his neck, which he peels off with a wince. “And I’m not far behind ya.”

“I’ll be lucky if I look this good when I’m dead,” you laugh, adjusting to get more comfortable and fully prepared to just pass out, wig and all.

Stan’s eye catches on the bare skin of your leg that’s revealed when you shift, the stark white of your gown falling to the side as it bends at the knee and the other still hangs off the bed uselessly. He hums, appreciative of the sensual view of you before him: limbs draped out, black eye makeup smudged...

Your eyes fly open at the feeling of Stan’s large hand on your knee, and you’re met with a familiar mischievous grin on Stan’s still-green face. “Mmm, you’re already bewitching, babe.”

That look always manages to send a pang through your gut. “Oh, stop it…”

This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined the night ending, but don’t mind all that much if it’s headed where you think it’s headed.

“‘M serious,” Stan chuckles. “Yer right about The Bride too… never appreciated enough,” His thumb rubs a circle on the soft flesh on the inside of your knee, and you can’t help but sigh at the nice pressure.

Your stomach nearly flips when he slides to his own knees, grip moving down your calf and lifting your leg to place a playful kiss to your ankle. His name falls from your lips in a whine, equal parts warning and pleading, for exactly what you can’t decide. You’re answered nonetheless by another peck just above the previous, then another with the slightest bit of teeth that makes you gasp and prop up onto your elbows.

The sight is absolutely ridiculous -- Frankenstein’s monster himself between your legs, smiling dumbly as he nips at the neglected one before he pushes excessive fabric up and off to reveal more of your form. “Stan, we-- oh my god--”

It’s when he pulls you forward on the bed that you see it: the splotches of deep green coloring the trail Stan is continuing up your thigh with a knowing look.

You laugh at first, starting to push him away so you can properly remove your dress, but he tuts, gripping your hips instead and curling an arm around your thigh, slinging it over his shoulder with an in-character groan: "You go nowhere.

You’re torn between teasing him about the fact that he’s really roleplaying as fucking Frankenstein right now, and the shudder that rolls through you as Stan noses your center through the cotton, saying: “Mine .”

“Oh,” is all you manage to say when his mouth meets between your thighs, teasing your folds through the fabric with a brazen tongue. You let yourself go then, leaning into the anticipation as after a moment Stan tugs the garment down and off, though it catches on your foot and is left dangling there uselessly.

“You’ll be screamin’ for me, don’t you worry,” he says, breath ghosting over your core before fully tucking in.

There’s no energy left in you to scream, but the needy whimpers and moans that escape as he ushers you up towards pleasure are melodic, a siren song that urges Stan to keep delving into your cunt, to hold your thighs open with a possessive grip.

“F-fuck,” you cry, reaching down and threading your fingers through his mop of black-sprayed hair between your legs. He groans mid-lap at your clit, and you gasp as his hands join in on the ministrations, caressing and petting from your hips to your stomach.

It’s when he starts sucking that you start to really writhe, tugging roughly at his locks to push him deeper. He slurps your arousal right up, the sound mortifying yet helping thrust you closer to the fast-approaching peak.

“C’mon, honey,” Stan says, thumb maintaining a rhythm on your clit. “Come for me, darling.”

The foreign pet name does it, sending a rolling orgasm that hits you in waves, crying out Stan’s name and other sweet nothings before going limp.

After a moment he sits back, more than proud as he wipes his mouth and watches you twitch and moan through the lingering pulses.

“Wow-- what was that all about?” You manage to pant out, made curious again as Stan stands suddenly, walking over to the mirror on the far-side of the room.

“Check it out,” he says, bringing the mirror to the edge of the bed and leaning against it with a self-satisfied grin.

Sitting up, your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and glowing-- with a prominent mess of green smeared along your skin, practically outlining each and every touch that made you come undone. A few complete hand prints are even visible, on the backs of your knees, on your hip-- even a comically clear outline against the stark white of your covered chest.

Your face burns hot as you can’t help but laugh in disbelief, both at what you see and the unexpected thrill of it; it’s delightful, and silly, and sexy, and overall just an image you think won’t leave your head for a while.

Stan chuckles at your reaction, pleased. “S’a good look on ya-- damn near electrifyin’ , some might say.”

“Come here,” you ask, arms out to beckon him forward. He does, and you don’t miss the prominent bulge in his trousers as he walks over.

Pulling him down by his shirt, you lock him into an appreciative kiss, raking your nails across his scalp and practically pulling him on top of you to continue the makeout, bed size be damned.

Needing air, you finally break away, glancing back at the mirror to see green now decorating your mouth and cheeks. “You’d missed a spot,” you inform Stan, pointing to the new addition to your face.

He hums, ducking down to nip at your neck and clavicle, painting them just the same. “Could think of a few more spots needin’ a touch-up,” he growls, rolling his hips.

Snaking your hand into the band of his pants, Stan lets out another groan at your touch and when you say lightly into his ear:

“Looks like you could use some white with that green, hmm?”

Happy Spooky Season!! 🎃💚🎃

[Masterlist]

dividers by @strangergraphics and @firefly-graphics

#my writing #stan pines x reader #grunkle stan x reader #stanley pines x reader #stan pines #grunkle stan #stanley pines #gravity falls reader insert #gravity falls

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despazito · 10 months ago

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carrying a lantern through the forum in daylight looking for a man with a productive opinion on ai

#it has turned to drivel #the conversation sucks

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mumms-the-word · 4 months ago

Text

Resolve

Characters: Rolan, Tav, mentions of Cal, Lia, Alfira, and the thieflings; slight Rolan x fem!Tav (Fawn) Summary: Rolan is drowning his sorrows with wine to try and dull the memories of the attack that cost him Cal and Lia. Fawn's arrival isn't helping. A/N: A gift for the talented @orangekittyenergy for the BG3 Anniversary!!!

“You go save the world, or your own arse, or whatever it is you do. I’ll fix this.”

Those were the last words he’d fired off to Fawn in a drunken fit before he’d turned away, lifting his mug to his lips and tilting it back to get every last drop of century-old, acrid wine. The taste had long ceased to matter to him. He wasn’t drinking for taste. He was drinking to keep his mind from replaying the last few days in an endless loop of torment.

It wasn’t working.

Every time he closed his eyes or let his mind settle, it just brought back the memories of the attack. The chaos of the ambush. The sight of Lia and Cal rushing headlong into battle like a pair of idiots, only to be dragged away, screaming, into the darkness.

The screams...

He grit his teeth, tightening his hold on his mug. What was he still doing here? While they were out there, gods knew where, either trapped in the darkness or in the bowels of Moonrise Towers? They could be hurt. They could be—

No. He refused to finish that thought. They were strong. They could make it through anything.

But that didn’t mean they didn’t need his help.

He should be out there, looking for them, not drinking himself into a stupor. Even now he wanted to rally support and find a way to storm the towers, but he knew no one would follow him. Those damn cultists had taken their best fighters, Cal and Lia included, or killed off anyone who seemed capable enough of holding a blade. He wouldn't find any reliable allies among the surviving refugees, that was for certain.

Which left the Harpers and the Flaming Fists, but what was the point of asking them? He'd already tried.

He’d hoped the Harpers or those useless soldiers would show him a way to Moonrise—they had all the maps and all the scouts—but all he got was the same empty words whenever he bothered to ask.

You need to stay here. Let us handle this. It’s too dangerous out there. You've done enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

And now Fawn, the glorious Fawn, the heroic savior of the Emerald Grove Fawn, the annoying-as-all-hells sanctimonious prick Fawn was here and she was saying all the same things.

I’m sorry.

Well he wasn’t here for sorry. Not from the Harpers or Fists, not from anyone, and especially not from Fawn. He wasn't interested in Fawn's half-baked offer of help, either. Why the hells did she get to saunter around and plan a rescue mission into Moonrise while he had to sit on his arse watching a handful of ungrateful brats? He wasn't some child playing at magic, he was Lorroakan's apprentice. He had already crafted his own unique spells dammit! And Fawn knew that!

He needed to stop thinking about her.

No, he needed to save his family. But it was clear that no one was willing to help him. They were all too scared of the wretched darkness outside.

Cowards. What was darkness to the magic at his fingertips?

A daylight spell, conjured with half a thought. It illuminated the area with brilliant, natural light, only to be snuffed out by the darkness like a candle flame in a storm. This was no mere darkness.

He set his mug heavily on the bar counter as the last of the dull burning from his wine lingered in his throat and settled in his churning stomach. Flashes of the attack came again to him, consuming his thoughts, almost as visceral now as it had been when it happened.

The darkness enveloping them, only scarcely pushed back by the torches half of them carried. It was quiet and still, unnatural, until it wasn’t. A sudden shout, and then they found themselves surrounded by dark-clad cultist freaks illuminated with strange silvery light from creaking metal lanterns.

He screwed his eyes shut, but the memory was relentless. He watched, for the hundredth time, in yet another drunken haze, as the cultists jeered and mocked them, as Zevlor stepped forward with both hands in the air, his blade tossed aside, begging surrender. He watched again as Cal and Lia bristled, as they whispered to each other under their breath as the cultists lined them up.

He couldn’t relive this again.

He forced his eyes open and leaned over the counter, slapping his hand flat against the surface. “Well? Where’s my wine, dammit!”

The lavender-tinted tiefling frowned up at him from across the bar. “But Mr. Rolan—”

“Get the bottle, hand me the bottle,” he snapped. “It’s not that hard.”

The kid frowned more deeply at him and turned away, ignoring him. Rolan swore a string of infernal oaths under his breath, pushing away from the counter and walking unsteadily, heavily, toward the back wine rack. He had to do godsdamned everything around here.

“Hey!”

He ignored the kid and yanked another bottle from the rack. As he did, a shower of dust puffed out with the bottle, causing him to cough and stumble back. All at once he was back in the memory again, choking on the shadows as the cultists doused several of their torches and laughed at them when the cold touch of the shadows frightened them.

You know where you infernal shits go when these shadows take you? Back to the Nine Hells where you belong.

Older memories warred with the newer ones until he tasted the brimstone and ash of the hells on his tongue while the icy cold of the shadows clung to his skin. He shook his head harshly to clear his mind of the memory and uncorked the wine with his teeth, spitting out the dry-rotted, crumbling cork. He brought the mouth of the bottle up and took several large swigs.

It might as well be vinegar, for all he could tell, but it didn’t taste like brimstone and the burn was enough to chase away the cold. Enough to dull the memories. He carried it back to the bar and filled his mug with it, bleary-eyed and grim.

How much wine did it take to finally stop seeing the attack? How much wine did it take to forget?

His hand paused as he set the bottle down. Forget…

No…no, he didn’t want to forget. Not if it meant forgetting Cal and Lia. Not if forgetting them meant leaving them to die.

He stared down at the wine in his mug, feeling suddenly ill. What the hells was he doing?

He wanted out of this hellhole. He wanted his family back. He just wanted to be in Baldur’s Gate already, safe and sound, with his brother and sister. Why was he still here, drowning in wine, instead of out there? What was stopping him, really?

He pressed a thumb and finger against his eyes, fighting the headache that had reared its ugly head hours ago and continued to pound against his skull with every traitorous heartbeat. He should be dead. Or captured, alongside Lia and Cal. But by some stupid twist of fate, he wasn’t.

Screams. A cacophony of noise as the cultists dragged Asharak out from the line of refugees and forced him to his knees. With a grin that glinted in the silvery lantern lights, one of them set the tip of their dagger against Asharak’s eye and dug in slowly.

First one eye, then the next, and then as he screamed they cut out his tongue, while the rest of the tieflings began to push back, terrified or angry or panicked, against the circle of cultists that had been closing in, trying to keep them in line.

Rolan squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, but he couldn’t escape the memory.

Cal and Lia rushing forward together to force an opening in the cultist line, their simple blades swinging, while Rolan flung out his arms to shield Alfira and the kids and attempt to keep them all together.

Chaos. Pure chaos. Screams and pushing and the flash of blades and blood.

The memory dissolved into swirling black shadows and flashes of light, of glimpses of his own spells to repel the cultists and give everyone a chance to run. He watched several of the refugees get cut down as they resisted the cultists while others ran, disappearing into the darkness.

But not Cal and Lia. They continued to fight. Rolan turned his back for one moment, one fatal moment, to make sure Alfira was taking the kids and running, and when he turned back, Cal and Lia were being dragged away, kicking and screaming but held tight in the grip of several cultists. He tried to rush forward, to get to them, but the cultists were closing in, their blades sharp and slick with blood.

“No!” Lia screamed. “Run!”

“Get out of here, Rolan!”

“I’ll find you!” he yelled at them, taking several cowardly steps back as the cultists drew closer to him. “I swear I’ll save you!”

“Just run you mad bastard! Go!”

Gods, he was a damn coward. It should have been him, not Cal and Lia. It was his job to protect them and give them a good life in Baldur’s Gate. But at every turn, he couldn’t do a single godsdamned thing right. If he’d just convinced them to leave the grove, to go with him rather than stay behind with the other refugees, this would never have happened.

But they hadn’t listened to him. They’d listened to her.

He opened his eyes, his hand still shielding his face, and watched her through the veil of his fingers as she spoke quietly with Alfira. Something the young bard said made her eyes widen. She glanced over at him, their eyes briefly meeting. Something in her expression softened.

He growled softly under his breath and turned his face away, shifting so that his back was to her as he leaned heavily against the bar. He couldn’t stand to look at her.

All of this was her fault. And she’d had the audacity to act confused, even hurt when he’d snapped at her.

Sod off. I’m only here because you ‘helped’ me and my family. I was ready to cut and run back at the grove, but you had other ideas. Cal and Lia were taken in by your crap! You convinced them to play hero, and now they’re gone.

Maybe he had been taken in too, for a time. The thought of playing hero back at the grove had seemed more appealing with her at the lead, preparing the grove to resist an attack by the goblin horde and come out the other side as victors. If it had been anyone else, he would have left, no matter what they’d tried to say.

But it hadn't been anyone else. It had been Fawn. And that made all the difference.

He recalled all too easily the way she had walked from one end of the grove to the next, trying to find anything of use for the fight at the wall, and the way she had stopped, dappled sunlight streaming down over her as she regarded him with serious earnestness, despite overhearing his bitter complaints about the upcoming attack and his bickering with his siblings.

You ready? Those gates won’t hold forever, and if they get past us, they’re heading straight to you. If we fail, you’re the only thing keeping the other tieflings safe.

The determination in her eyes had been almost as distracting as the concern. Who was she to care about them? Or believe in them? They were strangers to her. But Cal and Lia had both nodded, looking up to her. The way they used to look up to him, back before they all got too old and too jaded and too opinionated and every conversation turned to bickering, playful or otherwise.

Cal, Lia, keep Rolan at the back, where he has time to cast. You two are his shield.

His shield. For all the good it had done in the grove, where barely any goblins had gotten past Fawn and her companions. But it was as though his siblings had taken it to heart beyond that fight. Would they have ever considered leaving him behind and rushing ahead if Fawn had never shown up? Rushing into the fight without him, yelling at him to run while he could?

Fucking Fawn. Everything came back to Fawn. Fawn and her sheer, insane determination to stick her nose in everyone’s business. Fawn and her absolute refusal to stand idly by and let people live their lives without butting in with heroic bullshit. Fawn and her insatiable need to play the savior.

He could feel her eyes on him even now, but he refused to look. He didn’t want to see her pity or whatever else she might be thinking. He’d had enough of thinking of her, wondering what foolishness she might be getting into while they had traveled on with the other refugees. He didn’t want to recall the way she had looked, smiling beneath the colored lights he kept conjuring for Cal and Lia at that simple little party at her camp, or the think about how she had sought him out in the early morning hours as he and his siblings were leaving the party to wish them safe travels.

We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it.

He wished she’d never said it. It was as though she’d called down this calamity with those words, tempting fate to lash out at them with all its cruel, vindictive capriciousness.

Yet he couldn't deny that at the time, some small part of him hoped her words would come true. That they would meet again in Baldur's Gate, where he could show her the true extent of his talents and impress her with his connections, his importance.

So much for that. Now all she could see was his incompetence.

Hells, he was drunk. Drunk and stupid and feeling sorry for himself. He hated it.

What was he doing?

He banged his fist on the bar, rattling all the bottles that sat scattered on the surface. Cal and Lia were out there somewhere, suffering from the shadow curse or trapped in Moonrise, and he was doing nothing. Fucking nothing.

No more.

He refused to wait on someone to do his job for him. Cal and Lia were his family, his responsibility, and he was tired of letting others convince him to wait. He cast a sour look at the half-filled mug of wine in front of him and pushed himself away from the bar, stumbling a step or two back.

He knew what he was going to do. He was going to take a torch and walk out into the shadows and keep walking until he reached those godsdamned towers. Then he was going to kill every cultist he saw until he clapped eyes on Cal and Lia again. And then he was going to bring them safely back to Last Light for one—one—night of rest before they all continued to Baldur’s Gate.

Alone.

Away from the other refugees. Away from these pretentious Harpers and Flaming Fists. Away from that infuriating woman and her piercing gaze that invaded his dreams at the worst possible moments. They would just start walking and not stop until they reached Baldur’s Gate and he finally started his apprenticeship.

He could do it. He was Rolan of Elturel, apprentice to Master Lorroakan, the Archmage of Baldur's Gate. What were a few shadows compared to him?

Fuck doing nothing. Fuck staying here and waiting for someone else to rescue his family. He didn't care that Fawn was already planning to launch a rescue—he didn't need her. He would brave the shadows alone, find Cal and Lia, and bring them back safely without anyone's help.

And no one, not even Fawn, was going to stop him.

Maybe then Fawn would stop looking at him like he was incompetent and foolish.

His mind made up, he forced one foot in front of the other, trying to clear his drunk-addled mind, and made his way out of the inn. He moved through the courtyard filled with the soldiers and scouts who had refused to help him, ignoring them as he passed. He continued over the bridge to the boundary of the moon-magic barrier, where the darkness swirled beyond. Step after step, he kept going, his gaze set straight ahead.

The moment the shadows clung again to his skin, just a step outside the magic barrier, his mind sharpened into focus. He could do this. He could save them.

He would save them.

He took an icy, shadow-tainted breath, grabbed a torch from the nearby brazier, and walked out into the darkness.

#hope you love it babe #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #rolan #holy rolan empire #my fic

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ohnococo · 8 months ago

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Under the Stars | Ijichi x Reader

Ijichi plans a perfect date, ending in a picnic under the stars.

✦ WC: 1.8k

✦ Warnings: female bodied reader (no pronouns used), established relationship, hiking, bird watching, picnic, alcohol use, kissing, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie

Ijichi loves a plan. It helps him feel relaxed, prepared, excited - even if it was for something that had previously been a source of anxiety for him. So, whenever possible, he makes a plan. Researching, making sure every box is ticked, considering any deviations that might be necessary. By extension, it means that leaving dates up to him is actually an incredibly good idea.

He’s thorough and, as you’d discovered in your time with your sweet lovesick Ijichi, quite romantic at heart.

You shouldn’t really be surprised that he’d planned your date so thoroughly too. You’d known you were going on a hike for weeks, he’d made sure you had everything you needed. Appropriate shoes and clothes, a bag to hold all the things you’d need for a day in the wilderness, and he’d checked the weather report about a hundred times before the day arrived. When your alarm goes off you still don’t quite expect to wake up and find a detailed and laminated itinerary for the day carefully propped up on your bedside table.

First, is breakfast, although you don't need to see the menu he’d carefully typed out in front of you to smell Ijichi’s cooking wafting through the air. Breakfast is a curation of things that will be both filling, and give you the energy for the next item on the itinerary: a hike.

When you begin your journey, it’s just as he’d promised over breakfast - more of a walk than a hike, where he’d made sure the path was both scenic and easy to traverse. Your first stop is a cozy little spot within the trees, with a large oak to settle yourselves by as you enjoy listening to the sound of the birds around you. Ijichi quietly flips through a well-worn book, pointing to each of the birds you can hear in your surroundings. He even pulls out his binoculars, locating them in the trees and letting you take a look.

You didn’t know bird watching could be quite so fun, but Ijichi’s enthusiasm, and his soft hands on yours as he makes sure you’re pointing the binoculars in the right direction, makes it more thrilling than you ever thought such a thing could be.

As the day continues on you can’t help feeling like you and Ijichi were in the midst of forming some very important memories between the two of you. His gentle encouragement as you hop along rocks to cross the stream cutting though the path, holding your breath with wide eyes as a deer and it’s fawn move past the clearing you’d chosen as a resting spot, watching the dragonflies overhead as you dip your feet in the cool waters of the lake before moving along.

It all culminates with the most difficult part of the journey so far as Ijichi helps guide you up a rocky hill, taking a winding path to avoid the steeper inclines. It’s only a few minutes of effort, with the setting sun at your back and the stillness of the coming night already in the air, and then you’re brought to a flat space overlooking much of the forest you’d spent the day in.

Here, he finally unloads the last items stashed deep in the bottom of his backpack. Now, you understand why he’d been carrying a bag much more suited for camping rather than a simple hike, and as he lays things out one by one you find yourself impressed at not just his planning but his strength to have carried all of this. A blanket, snacks, a small lantern to make up for the light lost with the setting sun, and finally a bottle of wine and two collapsible cups.

As you eat you can’t stop thinking of how today was romantic in a soft and considerate way that is so very Kiyotaka Ijichi. Whether it’s the wine the two of you slowly sip at while enjoying the last of the fleeting daylight or the loving heat blossoming in your chest, you begin to feel a little dizzy as your heart starts beating a little faster.

You watch as he peels an apple with his pocket knife. Moments like this are precious to you, when Ijichi’s hands are steady, his mind at ease, knowing everything happening was something he’s fully capable of handling. You alternate eating carefully cut slices, Ijichi always handing you one slightly larger than the pieces he cuts off for himself, before making your way slowly through the rest of the food, and the rest of the small bottle of wine until you’ve both regained some energy.

By now the sun has set long ago, and the fleece jackets that had been tied around your waists come in handy as a little chill sets in with the arrival of early evening. You take the opportunity to scoot closer to Ijichi, moving empty containers aside, letting your legs press to his as you two trade a little warmth.

“Did you have fun?” Ijichi’s voice is hopeful, though it contains a small hint of worry that the answer just might be no.

It only makes your response more enthusiastic, assuring him that it was as perfect as all of his plans were with you. “Yes, so much fun.”

His shoulders relax, as he wraps his arms around his knees, smiling. “I’m glad.”

He looks at you for a moment, or you assume he does as his glasses reflect the moonlight, before he’s turning back to the view below, pointing into the mid-distance. “We’ve gone in a semi-circle.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, see?” He points to a distance not too far away from where you were now. “We started along there then went right the way around,” he moves his arm slowly as he points out the path you’d taken, obscured by the treetops, “so we only have a short distance back out once we get down from here. In case you’re tired.”

The way Ijichi is always so considerate like this has you beaming, looking up at the stars as you sigh happily, “I’m not tired just yet.”

He lets out a little chuckle, gaze following yours then turning back towards you as he looks up at the moon behind you. “Then I’ve planned everything well.”

“Of course you did, Kiyo.” It’s said with a warmth and confidence in his abilities that makes his breath catch just a little, before he’s letting out another chuckle - this time it’s one much more breathy than the last.

You lean back, until the moonlight is no longer reflecting off of Ijichi’s glasses and obscuring his eyes, and see that he’s not looking at the sky as you’d thought. He’s looking at you.

Even in the dark of the night, you can see a blush spread across his cheeks at having been caught staring, but he pushes past that as he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your lips. The way he enters every kiss with a slight hesitancy has always felt so endearing to you, but now you feel as though your full unhindered affections had been more than earned. You press into him further, deepening the kiss as your lips part and you bring a hand to the back of his neck as you wait for his mouth to do the same.

Once he’s reciprocating his restraint is set aside, tongue slipping into your mouth as well as a soft moan while his hands grip at your sides as though holding you tight would ground him. Your noses brush and his glasses are pushed further up until his lashes are smushed against the lenses, but he doesn’t care. His only move is to lean back, pulling you with him until you’re both laying on your sides and holding each other tightly as you kiss and sigh and run your hands over your bodies.

It’s hasty, and clumsy, and perfect in every way as only the necessary clothes are undone and pushed aside to keep the chill off of your skin while keeping the heat growing between you. You kiss at Ijichi’s neck, skin salty from sweat, as his fingers dip into your warmth, sliding and stroking and touching you in the ways he’s come to know you love until you’re shoving your pants down a little further and rolling onto your other side with your back to him. He takes his place close behind you as you arch your back and spread your thighs enough for him to press his cock into you slowly. Your bodies barely part from there as he no longer needs his hand to guide his length, instead wrapping his arm around you to squeeze at your chest. His motion is more of a slow rock than a thrust, the underside of his length sliding against your sweet spot with perfect pressure as your legs are clamped tightly together.

You twist your head round as Ijichi leans up onto his elbow, trying his best to kiss you as he keeps himself deep inside of you, moaning into your mouth at the first touch of your tongue against his in this position. With the two of you feeling like the only people on this earth, or in these woods at least, it’s as if your panting and moaning was the only thing filling the night air. Eventually, the wet sound of your lovemaking is met with Ijichi’s hips slapping against your ass as he finally starts pulling back enough to slide back in with more power.

His moans turn to whimpers as you reach behind your joined bodies, gripping his tensing ass tightly as your rock back into his thrusts. It forces him to tear his eyes off of your face for the first time since he’d slid inside of you, watching your ass ripple slightly with the force of your movements. As your moans get higher he whines in frustration as his gaze flickers from where the two of you meet to your face - your lips parted and eyes closed as you’re lost in pleasure. He wants to see all of you at once, but as you both grow close he decides on your face, pressing wet kisses to your cheek and open mouth.

Choked breaths meet with your moans as Ijichi tries his hardest to keep his pace despite the clenching in his stomach and the pull of his balls below. Once a pressure of your own has built to its peak and you start to clench around him he cries out with both relief and pleasure as you cream around his length. His thrusts are deep, sloppy, stuttering as he fills you with his cum, opened mouthed kisses meeting your cheek as he pulls you close to him.

His hips keep rocking as if on their own accord despite your orgasms subsiding, thrusts shallow and without rhythm, until your hand on his hip and a kiss to the tip of his nose steadies him. He nuzzles at your neck, catching his breath, holding you close, staying inside of you as long as he can just as he always does.

Ijichi smiles and his breaths ease as his cock softens inside of you. “We should stay here for a while, so we can miss the traffic on the way back to the city.”

You return his smile tenfold, “Sounds like a plan.”

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #my writing #ijichi x you #kiyotaka ijichi x reader #ijichi x reader #Ijichi x y/n #Kiyotaka Ijichi x you #ijichi kiyotaka x reader

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mxtxfanatic · 1 month ago

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Spooky Book of the Week: Carrying a Lantern in Daylight

Author: Li Qing Ran (黎青燃)

Genre: ancient setting, war, horror, supernatural, josei

Rating: T for tellingly-placed teeth marks

My Synopsis: When goth-girl-of-your-dreams He Simu walked into a slaughtered city looking for a meal, she wasn't expecting to be entangled in the lives of mortals, changing the trajectory of her isolated immortal life. When Duan Xu saw the girl holding a head amidst corpses, he wasn't expecting to be caught up in a romance with the Ghost King, changing the trajectory of his frighteningly mortal life. However, somewhere out there, this is all according to somebody's plan.

My Review: Girlie enters the plot by eating some small child's father and then getting caught surrounded by crows while holding a severed head in her hands. From there, it's all downhill north to reconquer lands and go on “dates” in the city of the dead! I love He Simu to bits. I love Duan Xu to bits. I love Chenying to bits. I love—alright, you get the point lol. I said in my review of Married Thrice... that knowing exactly what was gonna happen in the story just from the title and synopsis didn't help to stop me from crying when I actually read it, and that's how I felt here. I was supposed to finish this in 2 days and it got extended to 3 cause the suspense and drama gave me such anxiety despite knowing what I was gonna read and that it has a happy ending. The bullshit emotional rollercoaster this novel had me on 🙃 I would not call this novel a light read, as even though it starts off relatively lighthearted and comedic, it starts to develop into something more serious and somber as the story progresses. On that note, the romance is absolutely sweet and heartwrenching, wish I could read it again for the first time.

This isn't really a content warning but a general one: He Simu has an obsession with skulls that sounds a little uncomfortably close to phrenology, but that gets explained later. The translation is fine, but fair warning that "Nomad" is the translator, so when you see a paragraph that starts with "Nomad:" know that it is not part of the story. Spent one too many chapters confused about wtf was going on with those bits because there's absolutely no indication that those are translator interjections.

Translation: complete

#human promotes #carrying a lantern in daylight #this novel was soooooo gooooooood #i have nothing but praise #...that is other than the fact that the last 20 chapters starts racking up body count #like it needed to meet some horror/war genre requirement #the pain in my heart #once again: it’s fuck the emperor at all times #also that ‘dates’ part is a joke #i don’t think this cp goes on a single normal date in this entire novel

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gaykarstaagforever · 11 months ago

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1969

Jim Shooter wrote this, so it is significantly less idiotic than most of these.

That said...

Most of the plot - Superman and the Flash having amnesia and thinking each is the other one - hinges on the fact that they are identical men, except with different hair. Which seems implausible, since one is a magical alien with super-strength from the Sun, and the other is a nerd who was near exploding go-fast chemicals. But I guess it at least acknowledges how DC artists could only draw one muscley man over and over again in different skin-tight unitards. Fair enough, Jim.

We also get the weirdest random explanation for where Superman stores his Clark Kent clothes:

Clark Kent and Barry Allen spend most of the story running back and forth from Central City to Metropolis, desperately trying to find each-other to figure out what the hell is happening. Barry uses makeup to look like Clark Kent and gets almost-fired by Perry White for being bad at reporting on weddings. Because while this comic takes time to remind us Barry is a "police scientist," Perry also says he writes like a child.

Which...I mean, seems kind of rude to me, especially coming from someone who writes superhero comics for 8 year olds for a living. But I don't solve murders with science. So if you do, please confirm if you and your colleagues don't know how to write.

Eventually, Clark and Barry accidentally meet clandestinely on a Metropolis park bench. But Barry is dressed like Raphael from the Ninja Turtles, so they still don't figure it out:

...Why does this look like something someone drew from a picture they took from a bush? Is that just me? That might just be me.

This, however, is 100% exactly what it looks like:

They finally meet in an abandoned train tunnel and figure out each is the other, and trade clothes.

So it is canon in DC comics that Clark Kent and Barry Allen have been nude together in a train station, at least once. And then traded underpants.

Clark suddenly remembers what happened to them (possibly from the shock of being naked with Barry Allen; the comic breezes over this). There is giant space seed flying towards Earth, carrying the spore of a monster space plant that will grow to consume all life. Superman saw it and summoned the JLA to help him, but only the Flash showed up, because "Green Lantern is off helping Hawkman," and...I guess Jim forgot who else was in the JLA at the time.

Good on Barry for showing up, but how exactly is he going to help Superman stop a threat that is still in Space?

Answer: he is not. But Superman came up with a plan where he and Barry changed outfits to confuse the space seed (yes, really), and then Barry put on a helmet and Clark flew them both into it.

...At which point he suddenly realized it had kryptonite in it. He and Barry fell to Earth, unharmed but with amnesia.

But now that they're inexplicably cured by re-switching pants, it is time to hurry up and actually stop the space seed. Superman draws Barry a helpful diagram of his plan:

...Thanks, Kal-El. Totally worth the time it took to do that.

Assuming, like me, you have no goddamn idea what his plan is, think of the absolute dumbest way Superman could save the Earth from a giant kernel of space-corn. And that is exactly what he does:

He temporarily stops the Earth by making the ground really hard (specifically in Brazil, for some reason), and then repeatedly doing flying elbow drops onto it. Which, I won't lie, is exactly the awesome way all problems would be solved if we lived in a better universe where wrestling was real, and wrestlers were Superman.

...I still assume this probably killed at least a few people. Or fish, at least, on the daylight side where the Sun suddenly boiled an entire ocean.

Also, note how this "new" Superman plan ALSO DIDN'T INVOLVE THE FLASH WHATSOEVER. Except that he came along and narrated it for our benefit, while Superman was repeatedly smashing himself into Brazil.

The story ends with Barry hugging his wife and Clark musing to himself how he and Barry can trust each-other with their secret identities from now on, because their balls sweat into the same Spandex for like a week.

Implying that, what, the members of the JLA go into that WITHOUT knowing who each-other are? I mean, I of course see Batman pulling shit like that. But Wonder Woman and Hawkman barely have secret identities to begin with.

But I guess if Clark and Barry have exactly the same proportions and faces, maybe it doesn't really matter either way.

This issue also features the following ad for jeans:

I don't know if cattle-rustling was still such a huge problem in the West by 1969. But if you are a teen boy keen to take it upon yourself to stop it, I suppose it makes sense you should make sure your butt looks good while doing it.

Also, if you need more cheap plastic armies in your house,

#superman #silver age comics #comic book cover #1969 #dc comics #gay

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leahnardo-da-veggie · 7 months ago

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False-Moon

So the publishers rejected my short story, but I figured yall might like it haha! Here:

The shining spectre of the holy sun dipped behind the clouds, and I watched it go. When the last ember of gold was dashed, I sparked my lantern and raised it up on its stick, twelve and a half men high.

Night bloomed around me, darkness without the respite of a moon. Ours had fallen many springs ago, when the Dryads warred with the Harpies, who stole the moon to spite us. The gods had punished them, and there are no Harpies now, but no man nor god had been able to find the moon again. So we made do with my lantern.

Its post was carved living birch, taken from the corpses of fallen Dryad Warriors, each strip from a different corpse, held together by metal inlay. Under the flickering lamp-light, its runes were more serpent than silver, glinting and shifting slyly. It was a comfort, a stave against the weight on my duty.

The wind was bitter on the moors tonight, tall grass whipping at my ankles, chilling me through the layers of bark I bore. It would not hurt me, any more than the winter could kill an ancient oak, but I hated it all the same, for I had not the fortitude of my sleeping siblings, and it meant the night would be an even more unpleasant one.

I walked through the moor, lantern held high. it illuminated me in a too-small circle of gold. I was but a little sapling when the moon fell, of course, but I remembered the moon's blessing on me. It felt nothing like the thin lantern-light.

The light had been silver, like my mother's greying hair, like the wolves that guarded our forest, like safety and wisdom. All I felt here was exhaustion. That, and fear. We did not venture out of the forest at night, and nothing separated me from the endless darkness. Nothing, except my false-moon.

I stopped in the middle of the field and looked up. I was not quite sure why I did as such, for there was nothing up there. I remembered a story my grandmother's grandmother told me, of a time when her grandmother had been a little girl, when there were stars in the sky, little shining dots like the freckles on a Human's skin, and when night was but an icy day, so perhaps it was a ghost of a memory. It was all gone now, in any case.

I wondered how long it would be ‘til the sun was gone too.

My steady feet carried me to the edge of the moor. Water rushed there, slick pebbles hard against the wood of my soles. I stepped into the stream, letting the flow part itself around my calves as I moved. My hands never faltered, never dropped low. They were aching, now, just a little.

Under my golden lantern, the river might well have been blood, the blood of all the wars we had held over the millennia. I could only catch the faintest glimpses of silver amidst the dark river, and that could have just been the moon's blood.

I crossed the stream with no fuss, and stood on the ancient battlefield. Charred ground crumbled beneath my feet, a steady path made by my predecessors leading me forth. From within the tiny circle of illumination, I saw stumps of torrefied wood, my sleeping siblings dead from an agonising blaze. The elders had called it their due, for the dead-wood had sheltered our mortal enemies. I could only call it a sham, a shame, a horrible thing out of my nightmares. Treason, my elders would remind me, but true nonetheless.

The very air itself resisted my movements, as though the darkness did not want to be lit here, that the horrors that had occurred should not be revealed. In the daylight, perhaps, it would not have been quite so grim. The sun would have warmed the dead dirt, and I could have pretended not to feel the life-destroying salt beneath me.

Closing my eyes, I shook the unease off. It would find no mantle within me. Five years I had trained for this day, to do my people proud, to set the night alight. Yet, here I was, on the boundary between my people and our long-dead enemy, and I felt nothing but loss.

The ground was not burnt here, not yet. Grass still poked up between my toes, friendly and curious. My sleeping siblings, great oaks, smiled down at me, in the way they had done at home. I looked up at my little sphere of fire. It danced and gleamed within its cage of metal and glass, eager to unmake.

I should have done what all my predecessors did, and broke that sphere, letting our wrath blaze, sending the Harpy-forest alight. It would please my elders, and brighten the endless darkness, returning that which the Harpies took from us for a brief night.

I could have done what a few did, and walked away, returning my lantern unbroken and the forest unburnt. It would make the elders rage, and they would cast me out of their ranks, but at least I would not be a part of this travesty.

I did not do either of those things.

Instead, I set my stick firmly into the growing grass, where it stood tall. I got on one knee before my people's nemesis, and I bowed, the way I would have done at home, before my forest and my gods. My nose brushed against the dark earth, and I inhaled it. The scent was strange, with its char, yet familiar. It had once been a part of our forest too, once.

I knelt there, and I whispered a prayer. “Great old ones, my fallen brethren, my people's old enemies, hear me. I bring an apology. Forgive us, for our senseless violence. Forgive us, for making a farce of the moon's light with our fire. Forgive us, for we must end this cycle. The stars have all fallen. The moon is spirited away. When the sun is lost too, what hope will there be for any of our peoples? So— I take the first step and make amends. I am Entarai, daughter of warriors Jerai and Ilkoi, who were felled in the same battle that took your lives. I offer this lantern, and the fire within, and I beg you, with all my heart, forgive us and return our moon,” I said, not expecting a response.

There was none, of course. I had not the sensitivity of a druid, to hear the whispers of the dead, nor the skills of a necromancer to call them to me, so even if they had reached out, I would never know.

I got up, brushed the dirt out of the cracks on my bark. I pressed my cheekbones in a final orison, then turned and began the walk home. My miniature moon, the little lantern on its stick, disappeared behind me as I left the woods behind.

Strangely, the darkness did not hold the same terror it once did.

My path back was marked by the indents of my feet, the path walked by me and every other lantern bearer for a hundred thousand moonless nights. Blind as I was, I could follow it back to my lands. I navigated the riverbank through its pebbles, my feet feeling blindly for the smooth slippery stone and the water that would follow. Whence I found it, I crawled on my hands and knees through the river, its coolness washing over me, soaking me to the core.

Perhaps it was just a trick of my mind, but the stream no longer felt like blood.

#writeblr #my writing #writing #creative writing #writerscommunity #writing community #spilled ink #fantasy #short story #Honestly it wasn't that great #I'm gonna keep trying tho #:)

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historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year ago

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Is it too much to ask Matt has a good time of it for once 😭

It might! The cringe below might finally manage to kill me but I had a rum so enjoy if at all humanly possible I fucking guess lmao. No trigger warnings in this!

Liverpool, 1780s.

Alasdair didn't like Liverpool. Alasdair didn't enjoy anywhere below the borderlands if he was honest. The further south he went, the more English the accents and attitudes got. But his personal accounts and the Scottish economy were all bound up in Arthur's and England's. The city was an important center of commerce and shipping, but Christ was a hellscape to navigate. A massive barrel of what God only knew nearly flattened him as he ducked between burly stevedores carrying rolls of hammered copper and herring casks. Not ten paces later, he was doubling over to avoid decapitation and not by the preferred broad sword, but bolts of silk heaped over someone's shoulder that swung out like a branch a rider wouldn't see in the dark.

Eventually, the long solid jetty ran nearly half a mile with smaller wharves and docks jutting from it like teeth set in the skull of England. Barges, barques and brigantines floated both at their berths and sailed up the mouth of the harbour and down the throat of the River Mersey. The whole bloody circus acting as if it were the opening of Arthur's mouth, goods being swallowed into the belly of Britain.

He steered himself through the mob of elbows and shoulders, shading his eyes with a hand now and then to read the raised, painted letters on various sterns and bows until he found the ship he was looking for. HMS Triton was emblazoned in yellow. Loaded with cod and wheat for the warehouses, Arthur would be making land at any time and would want to know the state of their finances immediately. He would want to be bent over the tables, figures, and ship manifests and reports. He was always in a foul mood when he had to get off the ship and the profitable year would set his ire to rest before it came to blows at least. He found a post jutting up from the water hung with lanterns unused in the daylight and leaned against it, waiting for his ill-tempered brother to make his appearance.

A quarter of an hour later, they were finally lowering the gangplank. It scraped to a halt as two heaving sailors maneuvered into place. The planks were still skittering on the dock as he was assaulted by the smell of unwashed sailor, tar, fish and a knot of sharp elbows and joints that suddenly hung around his neck. Curses rose into his mouth, and then he was aware of the distinctly sweet smell of polar wind and pine wood. The rush of fondness that came was unconscious, automatic and as human as they ever felt.

"Holy Christ," He pinched limbs snaking around his neck and flung them off, gripping the slender creature giving him the world's most gentle, affectionate mauling and holding him at arm's length.

"Matthew?"

"Hello, Uncle Alasdair!" Matthew wriggled and looked overjoyed, stuck in an awkward shrug with all his weight hanging from Alasdair's hands under his armpits. Alasdair stared. Getting taller but still small for his age, he dangled there for a long moment as Alasdair stared. He was lighter than Alasdair could remember. Then, all at once, his brain started up again.

"What in hell d'ye think you're doing here?"

"Father's arranged it!" He said, chipper but increasingly nervous. He twitched in the awkward hold. "Did... Did Father not write and tell you?"

"He didn't!" Alasdair exclaimed, annoyed at his brother. He'd have words when the boy was in bed. Really, could Arthur not inform him of the basics? "Christ, Matthew, but you're a surprise!"

"An unwelcome one?" Matthew said a little sadly, and Alasdair recognized all at once that his hold must have been painful; Matthew had interpreted from Alasdair's tone that his presence was an annoyance as it was so often with Arthur.

Alasdair hugged him drawing his nephew and godson to his chest and shifting his insubstantial weight, so he sat on one arm, all affection for him overriding any annoyance for Arthur. "Not at all, wee one,"

He lost track of time momentarily, the curly-haired sprite hugging his neck taking up all the world. The boy's clothes were stiff with salt, but he was so sweet a sight for sore eyes; Alasdair didn't mind if any of the white chalky residues got on his second-best coat.

"How was your voyage? Your ships three weeks late, I half thought the Nuckelavee had gotten themselves a particularly poor meal of bony Englishmen and snapped a wee tender Canadian up for desert,"

"Oh no, just rough seas," Matthew said, looking back at Alasdair. He was smiling but a stone thinner than Alasdair remembered. "We spent a week off the coast of Ireland to let it pass. And made several stops since we weren't transporting anything important,"

Alasdair snorted. "Except your father I suppose,"

"Oh, did father arrive already?"

"I'm sure he'll be along in a moment," Alasdair said, more focused on shifting the weight to one arm and getting out of the way as cargo was unloaded. Activity was up, sailors busier now that the bottle neck of the gangplanks we're down. Alasdair sighed. Arthur could take a year and a bloody day to disembarque he so preferred being at sea sometimes.

Matthew's head popped up, wide-eyed and overjoyed and Alasdair lifted a hand to the head of salt-stiff hair and nudge him out of the way. But the question still came, vibrating with excitement. "Father came with you? To fetch me? Really?"

Alasdair frowned. "With me? Nay. Isn't he with ya, lad?"

The boy's enthusiasm sagged from him and he buried his face into Alasdair's shoulder. "No, sir,"

Alasdair sighed. Of course, he wouldn't spend that much time in close quarters. Sassenach bampot always preferred his own cabin, if not his own ship. He lifted Matthew's weight to his hands so he could be safely deposited onto his own two feet; he asked, "Where's your governess then?"

"Governess?" Matthew asked as Alasdair set him down.

"Aye,"

"Why would I have a governess?" He asked. His big blue eyes proved Alasdair's point. He was likely young enough in human terms to still have one.

"A tutor then?" The wind was picking up now.

Matthew looked at his feet. Alasdair sighed.

"Well, who minded you on the way over?"

"I suppose that'd be the captain. He never spoke to me but no one said ill of him." Matthew said. "I think Lord Kirkland said I should start learning the ropes without being coddled,"

Alasdair snorted. As if Arthur had ever coddled Matthew. Matthew shrank, narrow shoulders inching around his ears as he interpreted Alasdair's incredulity as criticism.

"I tried to do what I told," Matthew said quietly.

"I’m sure you did." Alasdair replied gently. "It's all right. Do you need to fetch anything?"

"No sir." Matthew responded, but he hesitated.

"What is it?"

"The bosun said he would tell father I've done well. Would you speak to him? And tell father? Please? If it's not a bother."

"Aye, of course," Alasdair said. "I don't think you could do anything less even if you’d tried. Let's get you out of the weather before it turns foul,"

"Shouldn't I help unload?" Matthew glanced back nervously

"No, I think you've done enough work," Alasdair bounced Matthew up so his weight sat comfortably on the flat of his forearm.

After a talk with the first mate and bosun, who reported Matthew's work on glowing terms, they returned to the house. Relatively new, it shared its northern wall with the warehouses but had its own water pump and a big copper tub he set the maids to fill with hot water. Peeling Matthew out of his salt-crusted clothes was an ordeal. The boy seemed to be covered in a salt rash from his narrow shoulders down, and his hands were practically in shreds, rope burns and salt welts everywhere on both sides. His ribs showed under his skin.

"Christ almighty, I'm going to clap your father into a stockade," Alasdair muttered as he gently tried to sponge the raw skin clean of salt. "What was he thinking?"

Matthew shrugged, stifling another wince as the sponge touched was looked like a particularly painful place of angry irritation.

"Sorry," Alasdair said. "We'll get something on these, but the salt—"

"I'm like salt-packed green beans."

Alasdair snorted. "And the beanpole. Honestly, did they forget to feed you?"

"Only sometimes!" Matt said chipperly, blowing at the suds and shaping peaks like merengue out of the bubbles. It was strange, sometimes, that even after a century and a half, children remained like their physical age. "I didn't have a friend to bring me anything when it was my turn on watch duty like the other lads, so I had to wait for breakfast a lot."

Alasdair sighed, filling the pitcher and telling Matthew to close his eyes as he dumped more water over his soapy hair and shoulders.

"What do you want for your first decent meal on land?"

Matthew looked up, a little uncertain. He hated requesting things, even when he was asked. Alasdair combed his fingers through the curls and despaired to find them still salt stiff.

"We can have whatever you like," Alasdair said, trying to reassure.

"I don't mind whatever you were going to have." He said quietly, patting absently at a particularly angry-looking patch of skin on the back of his hand. He looked like he wanted to say more, the slightly sad face that consistently predicted being told no even when he built up the courage for something.

"I'm asking what would you like?"

"Is there any fruit?" He asked, all in a rush, looking a little terrified. "Is that all right? Actually no, sorry. Whatever's being cooked is fantastic, I'm sorry."

"Matthew." Alasdair repositioned himself to the side of the tub instead of the back. The lad was still slight for his age and dwarfed by all the suds in the tub long enough for Alasdair to stretch out. For a bizarre moment, he recalled Arthur, even younger, even smaller, with terrified eyes in the waters at Aqua Sulis when he'd been playing and lost track of their mother. "Grapes or apples? Or there are some plums if you'd like those. Won't do to have you keeling over of scurvy on land."

That got him a surprised look.

"Both?" Alasdair asked.

A shy smile appeared, flickering like a candle before the flame found it's footing on the wick. "Thank you,"

"You're welcome. Now eyes shut, need to give you another rinse."

It took four water changes before he was rinsed as thoroughly as Alasdair wanted, and his short cropped curls were soft again. He ate exactly what Alasdair put in front of him, only took the plums Alasdair put on his plate and didn't ask for more but took them, slice by slice. He was a sweet boy. Alasdair put another sliced apple in front of him until it was plain the lad could barely keep his eyes open, properly fed and clothed.

Matthew, fed and sluggish, hung on for a long moment when given what Alasdair meant as a hug good night before he sent him to bed. Alasdair glanced down.

"Sorry." Matthew dropped his gaze to the floor. "Thank you."

Alasdair scooped him up. It's after sundown; the fire burned low when Matthew rolled over in the trundle they'd pulled out from under the primary bed. He was buried in blankets and three household eiderdowns, bundled snug against the night but not yet asleep. There was something stiff in the way he held himself, Alasdair decided as he rolled onto his back and sighed.

"What's on your mind?"

A long, inefficient pause. Not inefficient, Alasdair thought, but nervous.

"Whatever it is I won't be angry."

"Can I ask something of you?"

"You know you can, a bhobain."

"Would you please warn me if Lord Kirkland wanted to... exchange me?"

Alasdair went cold just thinking about it. Without thinking, he'd leaned towards the trundle and scooped the boy, blankets and all, to cuddle him close. In the light of the mostly banked fire, he was shocked to see Matthew wasn't upset.

"Your father wants you,"

Matthew snuggled in his blankets, wriggling until he was perfectly tight between Alasdair's arms.

"He doesn't mind me now so much. But... you'd warn me, right? Please?"

He thumbed Francis' curls off a sharp face that was too like Arthur's as a boy, with eyes as large as they were clever. It was strange how a child made of so much of the two great sources of disquiet in Alasdair's life could be so endearing.

"Listen to me. You belong to the British Empire. That means I get just as much a say as your sassenach bastard of a father, should he change his mind." He didn't want to test that particular statement anytime soon but it felt true enough, saying it. "And I'll never give you up, do you understand me? It's my name you bear and my name you'll keep, understand?"

He got a very fervent nod against his chest.

"No one will ever give you up if I have a say in it," Alasdair said, closing his eyes against the dampness suddenly there. History had taken his mother and all the sweetness Arthur ever had. He kissed Matthew’s forehead. "I can promise you that. You have my name."

"It's just... I had Lord Bonnefoy's too." Matthew said very quietly. "I was part of New France. Now I'm... Not."

Alasdair exhaled the urge to smash Francis' face into one of mother's standing stones and thumbed Matthew's face.

"I stood as your godfather when you were born. Did you know that?"

Matthew shook his head.

"You were too little to remember." Alasdair held him tighter. "But I am. And François... He's always had the gentler climate. Fair weather. Do you understand what I mean?"

"That I'm too cold." Matthew shivered, and Alasdair rubbed a circle in his back like he had when the lad was tiny, not that he was much larger now.

"No. That he can be a fair weather friend. We Scots are made of sterner stuff. You and I." He thumbed an idle curl, pondering the boy. Matthew glanced up, eyes wide and watery. Alasdair looked him in the eye, in what little light was left and repeated himself for emphasis. "You and I, both."

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #matthew || my country is winter #alasdair || my heart's in the highlands #Alasdair and Matt || is mig amharc le dicheall

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kaylarenee98 · 2 months ago

Text

Before Dawn by Kayla Renee

In midnights quiet, a figure glides

a presence felt instead of emptiness inside

His eyes- like lanterns, softly gleam

lighting the edges of the dream

We wander through the uncharted night

In uncharted realms where shadows take flight

A dance of our thoughts- tender and rare

an unspoken bond that hangs in the air

With dawn, the vision slips away

a fleeting whisper- a gentle decay

But in my heart- his essence stays

a quiet knowing that the light betrays

Though daylight rips me from his embrace

I carry the warmth of his touch- his taste

In the dreamland where we entwine

he lingers softly- forever mine

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bettyshoweduptotheparty · 1 year ago

Text

Midnights vs Daylight

Thoughts on TS Midnights title and promotion (This will tie into my ‘Thoughts on the Eras tour’ theories)

I think we can all agree that folklore and evermore were pandemic products. If there had been no pandemic, it stands to reason that Lover would have led directly into Midnights (especially with the way the re-recording process has inspired this album). And that’s interesting because Lover was originally meant to be titled Daylight.

So instead of getting an album called Daylight, we now have an album called Midnights, the polar opposite. Could that be because daylight never came after all and she’s stuck in an eternal night?

Midnights announcement and visuals

In the midnights announcement on socials, we got two images: the cover of Taylor holding the lighter, and the image under the announcement text from the promo photo shoot. Immediately, these two do not look like they are front and back of the same album. The cover image on white background has a modern classy but glamourous tone to it, and the announcement photo has a depressed 70s vibe. So the duality here is not hidden, and that confused me at first, but I do think this is deliberate and once we got the Anti Hero mv, it became clear why:

Midnights is about hiding your true self in favour of protecting a beloved public image and Taylor has perfected this to such a degree that her public and private personas have become two separate entities battling each other until they finally learn to co-exist, as we see in the two Taylors in the mv. One is the quiet contemplative one, the other is the loud party girl. One writes the songs, the other is the performer. One is the trusting people pleaser, the other knows that everyone will betray her. These two Taylors and their differences are the overarching theme of the video, and that theme carries over into the dichotomy of the midnights album style: Private vs public

Front: She’s wearing her glittery stage make up here so while we can’t see her outfit, I do think this is meant to be the performer Taylor. She’s holding the lighter open and looking at the flame, which to me feels a bit threatening, like she’s poured the fuel and is about to drop a match into it. And what did performance Taylor do this year on tour? Ah yes…burn the Lover house. (More on that HERE if you haven’t read my lover house theory). We should have seen it coming 😊

Back: The second image has even more to unpack, both in the photo and the text. I wasn’t a gaylor on the internet back in 2022 so forgive me if I’m repeating what other people have already pointed out. Taylor is inside with the curtains drawn, blocking out the outside world, looking hopeless with her head in her hand and phone in the other. The old phone could be a reference to the one she uses in the Anti Hero mv to call for help, so maybe she’s trying to call for help here and no one is answering. Or it could be a nod to the red phone from MMWM which many have pointed out could be a reference to the ‘red telephone’ Moscow-Washington hotline during Soviet times, which was used to deliver encoded messages. I like this interpretation, because the way she’s holding the receiver looking so devastated really gives me the vibe of someone who’s been on the phone with a person for ages who is just not getting the message. Almost like someone whose constant flags and encoded messages are falling on deaf ears (to a large majority)… I’ve also noticed that there is a framed photo of two people on the table in this house where she supposedly paces the floors alone at night, but can’t really make out enough to say anything more than that.

Now for the text: I’m by no means the first person to point out that the ‘lanterns lit… out searching’ is from one of Emily Dickinson’s letters to her lover Sue which seems a fitting comparison for Taylor, the writer of many lyrical love letters to her muse and lover. But what really gets me is the sentence

‘Just maybe, when the clock strikes twelve … we’ll meet ourselves.’ Why the ellipse? The sentence would have made perfect sense without this, so why add that deliberate suspense? What happens when the clock strikes 12? In the following months we also got the ‘it’s a clock’ video announcing that the four midnights vinyl covers together make a clock, and then the Eras tour literally starts with a countdown to midnight. Clocks ticking down to 12 are also in both the Bejewelled and Karma mv, so safe to say this means something. The obvious one is the Cinderella connection, which was probably an Easter egg for the Bejewelled mv, but if that’s all it was then it could have stopped after the video was out. Notably also, Cinderella’s party ends at midnight, whereas Taylor’s starts both in the mv and on tour. Midnight is the first minute of a new day, so this seems a lot more about new beginnings for me, than eternal darkness. I’ve pointed out in a previous post that Taylor references the song ‘Naughty’ from Matilda the musical in her Eras tour performance of Anti Hero. That song not only references Cinderella heavily, it also includes the lyrics ‘Every day starts with a tick of a clock/ All escapes start with the click of a lock.’ So… interesting that the announcement post mentions both ticking clocks and cages. Is she escaping from her self-made cage at the strike of midnight? Which brings us to the final, but very loaded, sentence of the announcement.

Meet ME! At Midnight

Before you come at me, yes I know, that’s not how it’s written. It’s meet me, not ME!, but that would be first and foremost, way too obvious, wouldn’t it. I still think that this is where she is taking us with this sentence, back to the beginning of the Lover era, the dawn of daylight, if you will. If you need a reminder, ME! was the first single off of Lover and kickstarted the sunshine and rainbows parade that was meant to be her coming out with the glorious ME! OUT NOW post on Lesbian Visibility Day in April 2019. This whole summer has felt strangely similar to that, with cruel summer becoming a single and playing endlessly on the radio, Taylor being unashamedly queer in public and surrounding herself with other queer artists, gaylor discourse in mainstream media outlets, and then of course, Karlie Kloss of all people showing up to the last LA show. The congratulatory comments under GLAAD’s instagram post from the VMAs felt much the same to me as the ones under TN’s post of the ‘proud’ bracelet back in 2019. The people that get it, get it. We are officially in the soft launch period.

So, is there going to be a hard launch? Maybe. With all this open queerness I could totally see her just gradually turning it up until she gets photographed kissing a woman in public one day and it’ll just be a case of ‘deadass thought I made it obvious’… But the lesson from the 2019 (not so soft) soft launch was that a lot of people would still rather default to accusations of queerbaiting than assume that she is queer herself (as shown by what happened to Kit Connor last year), and I’m sure she wouldn’t want that again. For that reason, and the fact that she did have a plan to explicitly come out in the past, I think she may have another go in the future, whatever form that may take. One thing I will say, as it ties into this midnights to daylight theme, is this:

With all this clock/countdown imagery, it is notable that the three different versions we have so far of the midnights album are all chronological on a clock. Starting at the top, we have midnights, then the 3am edition, then ‘dawn’ which is around 6am, so to complete the circle we’d need a 9am (or near enough) version. I know that seems unlikely, as 9am is definitely morning and not night anymore, but maybe that’s the point, that at the end of midnights we have a daylight version. ‘You’re loosing me’ is still not officially out on streaming so there is a glimmer of hope that maybe one more version is coming.

What era are we actually in…?

It’s hard to remember that we are actually still in the midnights era with all the re-releases stealing the show and the throwback to lover with cruel summer. But given that the masters heist foiled her plans to come out and made Daylight into Lover, it makes total sense that the 'midnights to daylight' era is the one that includes those important re-releases to further this journey.

She has made so many positive changes and additions to these ‘Taylor’s versions’ that I think it’s just as much about owning her work, as it is about owning the narrative she puts out there. And on that note, it may not be a coincidence that the titles that Taylor has left to reclaim now are her birth year, her name and her reputation, all things that are intrinsically linked to her, and she has arguably never been more authentically queer out in the open. I’m not saying these next three re-releases are suddenly going to have she/her pronouns, but they may have vault tracks that would never have made the cut back in the day. And if we thought the 2017 version of rep was already unbelievably gay… I won’t make any predictions for the tv, but I have high hopes.😊 And I still think that if we end with debut (tv) in June 2024 (Pride month), then ‘TAYLOR SWIFT OUT NOW’ isn’t looking too far-fetched. And I recon if I was putting out something called MY version of MY name, I'd want to make sure that it absolutely reflects who I am. It did surprise me initially that debut wasn't the first album to be re-released and it's in fact now looking likely to be the last one, but it makes sense if she is using it as an opportunity to go back to the beginning and re-write the story. What a boss move that would be: ‘My version of ME, OUT NOW’ and maybe she really means it this time.

My prediction is, that the end of the midnights era will also be the end of the re-releases (some time next year) and with the final one we end the night and step into the daylight. ☀🌈

#taylor swift #gaylor #taylor's version #ts midnights #midnights to daylight theory

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