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ghoulphile · 5 months ago

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no use cryin' over spilled milk | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.8 k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, frottage, lactation kink, pregnant!reader, fingerfucking, praise kink, breast play, the ghoul calls reader pretty mama, he's a pervert who wants to lend a 'helping' hand ➥ summary | based off this ask; oops being an experiment from vault 4 where you may be the first rad resistant human pregnant with a possibly rad resistant baby, and you come across the ghoul who helps you get to a safe place but then he gets attached with you and the baby 🥺 (this is just me trying to insert a lactation kink somewhere i'm sorry) ➥ notes | uhhhh pls let me know if i missed anything, my brain is dribbling out my ears (its 3:44 am and i have work at 8 am rip) but the parasites persist. i'll do the tag list when i wake up ❤️ masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Going topside wasn’t an easy decision.

In fact, bile bitter regret often lingers in the back of your throat - a lump that stifled the air in your lungs.

And while you might’ve been bioengineered to survive better under these harsh wasteland conditions, every time you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you're catapulted headlong into paralyzing self doubt; alone and rudderless.

No one lives in the vaults - not truly.

Birdie (and the others) warned you of what awaited beyond those lead-lined walls. But you couldn’t abide spending the rest of your life trapped in a cage, albeit a gilded one.

Not anymore.

Oh no, you wanted to feel a real breeze instead of air pumped through the HVAC. Experience the sun baking warm into your skin like fresh bread instead of the artificial heat of the UV lamp used for mandatory light therapy sessions. Complain about the chafe of sand in your shoes and hear the crunch of dirt under foot instead of a hollow clunk of sterile metal.

To witness first hand all the sights, sounds, and smells this world offers.

Only… you didn’t expect it to be this hard.

Nor did you expect to be pregnant when setting off into the great unknown on your own (a definite oversight on your part [you really shouldn’t have had one last hurrah before hitting the road]).

Through trial and error, motion sicknesses that swing into crippling nausea as manic energy - your first taste of true freedom! - dwindled into dragging fatigue, you found a happy medium. None of which would have been possible had it not been for the most unlikely of companions.

Ghouls; who knew, huh?

Sure, you’d heard of them from the rotating door of visitors that found themselves at Vault 4, but you’d never seen them. While you grew up surrounded by visible mutations, seeing the battlefield of his body was off putting; how a person could survive a patina of burns and patchwork slices without unraveling at the seams was beyond you.

And kind of frightening.

But he took it in stride, introducing himself as Ghoul. Refused to divulge anything else of substance no matter how much you poked and prodded. His life pre-bomb was a complete mystery filled with plot holes and unanswered questions (which is exactly what he preferred).

You learned to be comfortable with his meandering conversations, and all the words he spoke that said much of nothing. And what you did glean, you did so through observation alone.

He was alone - had been for a very long time.

He was very old - one of the last of his kind.

And he was, in his own way, very kind - at least by wasteland standards.

“The fuck you doin’?”

Pausing, you stop mid push and hover awkwardly on your hands and knees. The vault suit pulls taut across your hips, pinching behind your knees uncomfortably. Your toes squeak in your shoes, socks thoroughly soaked through with sweat.

It’s been unseasonably hot (or it’s the hormones). Whatever the case, this is the first semi-decent lodging you’ve camped in for weeks, and you’re not about to miss an opportunity to freshen up.

And maybe find a way to soothe the building ache in your tits - flesh swollen tender and nipples rubbed raw.

“I’m just, uh, gonna,” you motion towards the back of the house, the askew bathroom door clinging to its hinges by a corner, “y’know, f-freshen up. See if they don’t still have some water.”

The Ghoul scans you up and down, gimlet-eyed. “S’that so?”

You huff, your knees starting to ache.

Being five months pregnant throws your center of gravity for a loop, the atmosphere weighing extra heavy on your bones. It doesn’t help that the baby’s decided sitting directly on your bladder with a foot tucked under your ribs is the best position.

“Didn’t know I needed permission to take a piss now,” you snipe. Usually, you try to reign in the hormones but the day’s been too long and you’re in pain. Anyone would be a little snippy (right?). “Can I do that on my own or do you need to watch, Mr. Ghoul?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze glinting from beneath the rim of his hat as he tips his head. “Better watch it, sweetheart,” he says. “Otherwise, I might have’ta wash your mouth out with soap.”

Pushing yourself up with a grunt, you determinedly ignore the raspy chuckle that follows as you waddle towards the bathroom. Cussing him out all the while in your mind.

While he’s been ‘nicer’ today - stopping for extra breaks, even packing it in several hours earlier than usual because he noticed how weary you looked - he’s still an asshole.

The toilet’s gone, the tub’s tipped sideways, the linoleum’s cracked, and closing the door sounds like a pack of howling mole rats but its functional. When you catch your reflection in the spider web fractures of the mirror, you grimace.

The wastes have certainly left their mark on you. Gone is the prim-and-proper vault dweller, replaced by a gremlin of a woman Overseer Benjamin would surely scowl at.

A true ‘surfie’ now.

“Great,” you groan, scrubbing a palm over your face. “Just - ugh!”

You’re caked in grime, a steak of dirt smeared across the bridge of your nose. Mysterious stains darken the blue fabric, the golden stripes of your suit an off-putting grey.

Your hair clumps in greasy chunks. You’re glossy with sweat, and while your curves have plumped up over the last few months, you didn’t realize just how much until now.

The vault suit’s always been tight - now it clings and creases in unflattering places. And there’s nothing you can do about it, unless the Ghoul is willing to spare a sewing kit.

You could let the waist out some…

What the hell am I gonna do if he won’t? There’s no way I’ll fit if this baby gets any bigger. Shit, I look like a fucking sausage. Your hand cradles the side of your stomach, stroking over the bump with a frown. This is all your fault, you little parasite.

“You better be so fucking cute - the cutest goddamn baby in the wasteland. Or I will riot.”

Tugging down the zipper over your breasts is heaven, the swollen flesh spilling out of the parting fabric, no longer compressed. It’s almost enough to make you cry as you struggle to tug the lycra off your shoulders, the fabric putting up a fight.

After some awkward contortions that pull uncomfortably at the muscles of your shoulder blades, you manage to wrangle yourself free.

The temptation to burn the stupid goddamn suit is almost too much to resist, but then you’d really be traipsing around the wasteland in the nude and just… no.

Peeling off your undershirt is another story altogether, the soft cotton feeling like sandpaper as it scrapes over sensitive skin. Your nerves tingle with awareness, bolts of pain shooting through your nipples with every shift.

Quick like a bandaid, you think, taking a steadying inhale.

It’s a miracle you don’t scream.

Tears cling to your lashes, your nose running as you toss the shirt to the side with one hand and cradle your chest with the other. Sure, you’ve had tenderness with your period but this kind of pain? A whole new level.

You almost don’t know what to do with yourself.

How is this fair - aren’t you suffering enough?

Sniffling, you peer down at your tits and gingerly cup them with your palms. Swollen hard and warm to the touch; a heavy weight crushing your ribs.

Do I really have to milk myself like a fucking brahmin? Another bolt of lightning crackles through your nerve endings as if in response. Fine. God, this is embarrassing.

Only any attempt at touching your nipples produces pure agony, shards of glass biting into delicate skin.

No matter how slight your touch, no matter how gentle your fingers - it doesn’t work. Leaves you more distraught and in pain than when you began as inflamed nerve endings crackle and burn.

And when the tears truly start, the dam breaks. It’s not long before they drip down your cheeks in fat rivulets, your breath hitching from you in pathetic little exhales.

Your fist shoves against your mouth in an attempt to smother the sounds, teeth sinking into your knuckle until you leave sore indents.

But you should know better, not only does the Ghoul have heightened senses (he’s taunted you constantly with this fact like the asshole he is), but he’s uncannily perceptive in a very annoying way.

You don’t hear the squeal of the door, but you do sense his presence behind you; the rad warm burn of his body as he stops a scant few inches away. You feel his breath against the nape of your neck, the barest brush of his chest as he inhales.

“You ready ta stop bein’ stubborn?” he hums. “I thought I told you not ta wait s’long.”

Your voice warbles from you, “G’way.” You curl into yourself, shoulders hunching as you hang your head. “Don’t need your help.”

The Ghoul snorts. “Cuz you doin’ so well on your own, huh?”

“I resent that.” You shoot him a weak glare, the animosity ruined by the crumble of your lips. “I really, really do.”

You hate always having to rely on him, so desperate to prove that you can take care of yourself only to have every effort to do so thrown back in your face.

Shit, you hate how right Birdie was, “Honey, you won’t last five minutes on your own. Please stay here with us where it’s safe.”

“Well, maybe so. But pickers can’t be choosers, sweetheart,” he shrugs with a languid roll of the shoulders. “Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk. C’mon, the longer you wait, the worse it’s gon be.”

“I just - you don’t understand…”

He reaches around you to set his hat on the sink, the dwindling light of twilight creeping in through the holes in the roof to bathe him in its bloody light.

He looks like a grotesque demon that clawed its way from the depths of hell. It gets your pulse thudding, electric awareness an unwelcome visitor as it roosts behind your navel.

“I understand plenty. Now, let me.”

Not an offer - not really.

More akin to a demand, one wrapped up pretty like a gift. You’ve been here many times before, and while the Ghoul proffers his help under the guise of not wanting to hear your bitching and moaning, the hungry gleam of his eyes as they rake over your face say otherwise.

If it’s one thing you’ve learned in your travels with him, it’s this: he is entirely self-serving. He offers because he wants to suck on a set of pretty tits. If you happen to cream your panties while he does, well, he counts it as a win-win.

Quid pro quo.

And what you hate more than how utterly correct everyone is about life on the surface, is how needy he makes you. How desperate and dumb and dripping he’s got you by the end, drunk off the flick of his tongue and the rasp of his touch.

Because it’s so hard to be strong in the face of pain when the solution is right there; open-palmed.

“...Fine, just don’t - don’t leave marks this time, okay?”

A slow waking smile creaks across his face, and he says, “I ain’t makin’ any promises, sweetheart.”

Your stomach swoops, and your thighs clench.

Shit.

Scarred lips work over tender flesh as a talented tongue flicks and swirls over the bumps of your areola, the tip digging into your nipple and drawing the swollen nub into a hot mouth. You whimper, arms tossed over the Ghoul’s broad shoulders.

Cold ceramic digs into the base of your spine, your body crowded back against the sink as he plasters himself to your front. Cuts off any escape routes and refuses to let you squirm away from the overwhelming sensations as he suckles.

Heavy palms grope at the plush curves of your hips, fingertips digging into the fat.

His lips pop off your nipple with a sticky smack. “Always taste s’fucking good,” he groans against your sternum. “Got the prettiest set a tits in the wasteland.”

“Hnn! N-Not so hard.”

While you say that, you don’t mean it - not really. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, clit swollen and aching for friction. Your inner thighs are a mess of slick, your vault suit caught around your knees.

He never touches you below the waist directly (some boundaries still exist between you two), but at this point in your pregnancy, you’re so sensitive a gentle breeze could set you off.

“Heh, ain’t you know lyin’s a sin?” he says.

A scarred cheek drags over the swell of your breast, the rasp of rad burn alighting your nerves. Bolts of desire ricochet down your spine, fizzle like Nuka Cola on your tongue. He presses an open mouth kiss to your nipple, his tongue flicking out to massage the tender bud.

At the taste of your skin, his cock twitches where its grinding against your thigh. You feel him through his ragged pinstripe slacks, his shaft a thick line of heat.

It’s probably the hormones (you refuse to admit its anything else) but just the thought of touching him, of sinking down onto his erection - feeling how fucking good he’d stretch you out and fill you up - makes you dizzy.

You pant, your voice distinctly whiny when you say, “Please, d-do something. It still hurts.”

His grin reminds you of the mongrels roaming the wastelands. “Sh,” he hushes you. “I got you, sweetheart.”

The tips of his fingers brush along the side of your swollen stomach. Your heart flips in your chest, your breath catching as he follows the contours of your body, reaching down to brush over the skin of your mound. This is new, he’s never done this before. It’s simultaneously as arousing as it is terrifying.

“Can smell how wet you are for me,” he says, tone low and gruff. “You gonna be a good girl for me, ain’t you?”

“I-”

Then his mouth is slurping at your tit, his teeth biting down on your nipple gently as those strong fingers dip between your thighs. Blunt nails scratch through your pubic hair, a calloused pad swirling circles around your slippery clit. Your hips jump, your head rolling back between your shoulders as a loud moan rips itself from your throat.

You arch back so far your belly presses against the Ghoul’s, your tits smothering his face.

You think, half deliriously, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a nose otherwise you might’ve broken it.

“Shit, that’s so - oh, fuck, please, please, please!’

Your legs widen to make room for his hand as yours fly up to grab his biceps, nails biting into the rough leather of his duster.

His tongue flutters across your areola. “C’mon, pretty mama, give it ta me.”

“Oh.” Sparks dance behind your eyes, your knees shaking as the Ghoul strokes over your folds, tests your wetness and the give of your cunt as he plays with your entrance. “Right there,” you gasp. “I’m gonna…”

He grunts, tugging on your nipple with his teeth.

The sharp bite of pain shoots through you, deepens the kindling warmth behind your navel that steadily builds and builds and builds. You feel on the very edge, nerves plucked like the keys of a piano.

So close you can taste it.

Then a tingling starts in the tips of your fingers.

Burns its way up your arms to settle in the weight of your chest, pins and needles pricking across the skin of your tits, lancing through the swollen buds of your nipples.

You tremble, the relief bringing tears to your eyes as tears the heaviness releases in a warm flood, your milk letting down to flow into the Ghoul’s eagerly pulling mouth.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he moans, chasing after the taste by nuzzling into your chest. His cock ruts against you. “Took you’re sweet damn time, didn’t you, darlin’?”

Your head spins, hazy thoughts scattering like confetti.

Endorphins simmer through your veins as you float on a cloud of cotton softness. Reality seems worlds away, your vision blurry as you focus on the points of contact between your bodies. The stretch of his fingers plunging into your pussy to stroke over the front wall.

Mouth slack, your hands creep up the Ghoul’s arms to trace over the sides of his neck, watch the dance of your fingers over his skin. “It feels s’good,” you slur. “Please don’t stop - wanna cum just like this.”

“Heh, wouldn’t dream of it.”

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

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dailyadventureprompts · 8 months ago

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Villain: The Knights of St. Kazvarin

There's pious and selfless devotion, and then there's whatever these weirdos have going on

Riding forth from their brooding fortress-abbey to do the will of a long dead holy man, these inscrutable warriors have long been the subject of rumour and suspicion. It's not an undeserved reputation, as apart from looting tombs for ancient relics or ominously observing the goings on of the common folk these forboding knights are most often acting as the hired muscle for unscrupulous nobles who have no regard for the legality or virtue of the orders they enforce.

Far more than mercenaries with a patina of piousness, the Knights use these contracts to fund a secret and sinister endeavour that they have undertaken for centuries.

Adventure Hooks:

While delving through a dungeon the party follow a trail of slain monsters to a gravely injured knight and his thoroughly overwhelmed young squire. The boy will introduce them as Tilaen and Ser Darrik respectively and ask for their aid in tending to his master's injuries, before the dour Knight chides him for speaking on his behalf and tells the party to be about their way. Ser Darrik wants no help from "the faithless" and is willing to use the last of his strength to get violent about it. If cooler heads prevail, the party will learn that the two were after a rare manuscript hidden somewhere within the dungeon, and the offer of collaboration might be explored. If the party don't help, they'll find the squire waiting for them at the dungeon's entrance, requesting their help to bury his master and guide him back to their order's abbey. It's only after a few days of travelling together will realize that Squire Tilaen is muchabused by his sect, and that steering the boy away or outright adopting him might be the real kindness.

Acting as a stern and imposing shadow to whatever asshole noble or callous merchant the party have recently pissed off, the towering and always helmed Ser Gelceiras has "Bossfight" written all over him. However when the adventure's final confrontation looms the party find him cleaning off his massive axe, his employer's head in a bloodsoaked bag waiting to be delivered to them. "We got what we wanted from him" he rumbles as he exits, " you can have what's left. no hard feelings."

Just a new threat encroaches on the settlement, a mace wielding bruiser in burnished armour rides up and pledges to fight alongside the party in its defence. Ser Portia's skill as a fighter is sorely needed, perhaps enough to overlook whatever agenda it is that drew her to the settlement in the first place. Shortly after the final battle is fought and the dust clears, the party will realize Portia is nowhere to be seen... having escaped sometime during the aftermath after inexplicably kidnapping one of the locals.

Background: Before he was a sacred corpse, Saint Kazvarin was a necromancer of great talent, having dedicated his life to the study of thanatology and the many loopholes around death. This earned him great renown and wealth in his day, amazing the masses with seances while charging the powerful dearly for cut-rate resurrections. He amassed generous patrons and fanatical followers, only to have it all fall apart when the Raven Queen took an interest.

Kazvarin had and constructed his own bootleg afterlife, a place where his most loyal followers would rest forever in glory before being called back in time of greatest need. Atleast that was the sales pitch, in reality the "saint" had stopped just short of lichdom delving into the shadow to create a demiplane where his own soul would reside undeminished after death, sustained by the faith of his followers as the realm hollowed them out.

Such villainy inevitably created it's own downfall in the form of a young woman who's family were taken in and exploited by Kazvarin's cult. Though her name was not recorded by history, she was marked by the Duskmaven for greatness when she swore to tear down the saint who would conquer death, years later succeeding along with some allies in not only killing the necromancer but cursing him with a most ironic fate. Denying him the afterlife he had so meticulously constructed, the raven queen cursed Kazvarin with reincarnation, forcing his soul to live out a new life where it would forget all he knew and be remade.

It would have been a perfect punishment had the Saint's followers not been so fanatical. Though their organization had been shattered by their "benevolent" leader's apparent assassination, the most loyal of his inner circle poured through his research, finding the spells nessisary to seek out his soul in its new vessel. Thereafter they engaged in a grim hunt, crossing the realms to ritually sacrifice the youth their leader had grown into and pulling free his undigested soul. This is the cycle Kazvarin's followers have been following for generations, spending decades hunting for signs of their leader's return before using murder and necromancy to forcibly deincarnate him. Thereafter Kazvarin has a few months or years to act freely before he is swallowed back up by the tide of souls and the hunt begins again

Future Adventures:

Though they begin as a comparatively minor oddity, the knights become a true threat to the campaign as soon as they figure out who Kazvarin's current incarnation is and manage to wrest his soul out. Ideally this should be someone the party knows, to make it all the more tragic that they were sacrificed to bring about the villain's return.

Though it is much deminished, Kazvarin's demiplane (called the Howling Basilica) still traps the souls of those who have sworn their lives to him, acting as a vault from which he can pull rank upon rank of shadow-maddened spirits to his bidding. His most loyal retainers are allowed to keep their skills and individuality while being deprived of their will, meaning he has a backlog of highly skilled Knights just waiting for new bodies to possess no matter how many times the party defeat them on the field. What's worse is that the saint still remembers how to manipulate people with the offer of offbrand immortality, and will likely begin reaching out to powerful individuals shorty after his return.

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#necromancer #knight #villain #villain cleric #villain necromancer #villain noble #camp follower #mid level #undead #lich

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ladykailitha · 8 months ago

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Icarus Part 5

And here we arrive at the second post today. I'm just trying to move through my backlog so that I'm down to my preferred three ahead. Glitters is at the rut, so only a chapter or two left to write, so that's almost done. Soulmates is to filling the gaps in the "In Media Res" scene and is nearing its end, too. Which means with any luck, I'll be down to just three WIP at the end of the month: Moonlight, Boy w/a Bat, and this one.

In this chapter, we have Eddie being a menace and giving Steve and Robin the fright of their lives. And because my Steddie never take anything slow, they kiss about it.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

****

The last spot on The Fallen’s American tour was Pasadena just to flip Dustin’s shit now that he was in Hawkin’s, Eddie was sure.

Eddie bought nose bleed seats because he didn’t want to throw Steve off of his playing. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass him and take the spotlight off their music.

He tucked his signature locks under a hat, removed his face piercings, and made sure all his tattoos were covered. He wore an Abbadon hoodie over his regular clothes and got into place in his seat.

He watched the whole show with great enthusiasm, banging along to his favorite songs.

Eddie was most of the way through the show when the twelve year old boy next to him clocked him for who he really is.

He put his finger up to his lips and winked. The boy nodded solemnly and he turned back to spectacle in front of them, like he hadn’t seen the frontman for the biggest metal band in the world sitting in the nose bleed seats for The Fallen.

Eddie lucked out on that one. Boys that age were of two schools of thought regarding secrets, either everyone knew or no one did. He stumbled on the latter.

Thank god!

He really didn’t want this to blow up on him before he got a chance to surprise Steve.

The concert was even more amazing than the one in Indy and Eddie’s skin was just thrumming with excitement as he paid off a member of stadium staff to send the flowers to the dressing room.

They let him wait in the wings without telling anyone who he was. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for Steve to get his flowers. But he wasn’t bored. He watched the roadies and techs scramble about breaking down the set pieces.

He saw two of them carrying Astraeus’s wings and they were even cooler close up. He could that they weren’t just glittery blue, but actual galaxies and constellations.

He was about to ask if he could touch them when a woman in a stylish, black pant suit and sunglasses came storming over to him in a panic.

“Eddie Munson?” she hissed. “Come with me, now!”

Eddie grinned. “Right with you, darlin’.”

He followed her all the way to the dressing room, hands in his back pockets and a skip in his step.

****

Steve was tired. Fuck he was so tired. He scrubbed his face trying to get the sweat off.

The dressing room was heavily guarded so that he could get out his getup to shower and get the patina of being on stage off of his skin.

He would get back into Abbadon before he walked out, but he just needed to be him for a moment.

He stepped out of the shower and looked around at the gifts from fans. The management had put in the ones they thought he would want to see the most.

In the pile was the most striking blue roses he had ever seen. They were almost a midnight blue. His favorite color and his favorite flower. He walked over to them slowly as he dried himself off with the towel.

There was a simple note.

“I know your secret, sweetheart.

But don’t worry, it’s safe with me.”

Steve’s hand shook as he read the note over and over again. He made a dive for his phone, towel forgotten on the floor.

He sent off a quick text to Robin.

-Find Eddie Munson, now!

He got a message back with just one word.

-How!

He replied.

-He’s here

Steve dressed and then sat down on the sofa, settling in to wait. Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and he put the mask up to his face while the door was open, intending to lower it again. But seeing Eddie standing there with a feral grin on his face.

He wavered, unsure.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said, his grin never leaving his face. “Did you like the flowers?”

The woman looked back and forth between them in confusion. “What’s going on?”

Eddie turned to her. “You see, Robin, I figured out that Stevie here is the lead singer of an up and coming metal band. And that you two have been keeping secrets.”

Steve dropped the mask in shock, revealing his face. “How?”

Robin took off her sunglasses. “Who told? Who the fuck do I have to sue?”

Eddie smirked. “No one.”

“You’re trying to tell me,” she said with a scoff, “that Mr Double Super Senior figured out something that had been so closely guarded for the last couple of years?”

“Yup!”

Steve stood up and threw the mask on the sofa. He walked carefully over to the man he closely regarded as his best friend, the high heels of his costume clicking on the wood floor.

“How’d you do it, Eds?” he whispered when he got close enough. “How did you figure it out before the press, before our friends who are literal geniuses, before my own fucking parents?”

Eddie lifted up Steve’s jaw up with his fingers and then tapped on the two moles on the side of his neck. The ones Eddie always thought of as love bites.

“My moles?” Steve asked, unsure.

“I noticed them when I went to the concert with Dustin in Indy,” Eddie said softly. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

“Have you got some obsession with moles or something?” Robin sneered.

He shook his head. “Just Stevie.”

Steve gasped. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Robin repeated. “I’m still going to have to make you sign an NDA. I’m sorry. I know you won’t tell, but I have to be sure.”

Eddie nodded. “Send it to my lawyers.”

She nodded and slipped out of the door, barely opening it wide enough for her to exit. She put the glasses back on and decided she needed a drink. A big one. Maybe three.

****

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Eddie cooed. “I know how exhausting shows can be and you did it in high heels.”

Steve let out a watery chuckle but did as he was told.

“I never thought that someone would figure it out,” he said shakily. “I’m so scared right now.”

Eddie wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. “Oh, Stevie. I didn’t think it would frighten you, otherwise I would have just kept my mouth shut.”

Steve looked him in the eyes. “I’m not frightened of you or that you would tell. It’s just that old adage of if you want to keep a secret between two people–”

“You kill one,” Eddie finished grimly. “I know, baby.”

After a few months of silence Steve whispered, “So you’re obsessed with me?”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Yeah. Have been for years.”

“How long?” Steve asked biting his lip and playing with the sleeve of his hooded coat. He looked away not sure he really wanted the answer. Was this new, because he was in a metal band? Was it recent, with Steve not being as readily available as he was before?

“Since high school.”

Steve’s head snapped up and he looked at up at him in awe. “Holy shit, Eds, that’s forever.”

A soft, fond smile spread out over Eddie’s face, his dimples deepening to sharp lines on his cheeks.

It was Steve’s favorite smile of his. And one he was learning might just be for him and him alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie breathed, “I know.”

They were so close, their breath mingled together, their noses brushed and Steve’s eyelashes fanned out, almost touching Eddie’s cheek.

Steve let out a gasp and Eddie closed the distance. Their lips met and Steve would swear for years to come that there were god damned fireworks. There had to be. Nothing and no one had ever felt like this. It was warm and soft and hot and sexy and bright and dark all at once. Every nerve ending lit up where just their lips touched.

And then Eddie cupped the back of his head and whatever thoughts that were in Steve’s head flew out the window. Every fear, every anxiety, every doubt went running for the hills. All he needed in this very moment was Eddie.

Until the end of time.

“Wow,” Eddie breathed when he finally managed to pull away.

Steve could only agree. “Um...can you meet me at my hotel?”

Eddie licked his lips. He wanted to take Stevie apart right then right there. But it would put Steve in danger of being discovered.

And that could not happen.

Now that he knew Steve’s secret, now that Steve was letting him in. Like all the way in, he would do anything to protect him.

“Yeah, baby,” he agreed. “I’ll meet you there. Message Celeste,” he winked, “and let her know to sneak me in.”

Steve relaxed that final increment. He kissed him fiercely. “Thanks for understanding, Eds. I love you so much.”

Eddie blushed, shoving a strand of hair into his mouth to hide his face. “Ah, sweetheart. There’s nothing to thank me for. I’d burn the world down for you if you asked.”

Steve kissed him again. “I think it’s best if I go out first and then message you when the coast is clear.”

Eddie nodded.

He was still in disguise. Only four people knew who he was. The kid, Robin and Steve, and the dude he paid to get the flowers in Steve’s dressing room.

Which Eddie would send his own team of lawyers to make sure the man didn’t so much as breathe the wrong direction.

He would then, of course meet with “Celeste” and “Abbadon” to construct the perfect cover story for Steve being on the tour with Corroded Coffin. Provided Steve said yes.

Twenty minutes later, Eddie emerged from the dressing room to see only a couple of roadies still milling around.

He blinked at one of them for a moment, but then the guy disappeared around a corner and he couldn’t be sure.

He would swear later it looked like Simon Olsen. Steve’s friend. But that couldn’t be right? Couldn’t it?

He shook himself off. He had a hotel to get to and paparazzi to dodge.

Eddie slipped into his old middle school persona. The one from before he moved in with his uncle, Wayne. The one where he could shrink in on himself.

Become... not invisible, per se. Not important enough to be worth a look at.

He removed the hoodie and handed it to fan lingering outside. He roughed up his hair, untied the shoelaces on his boots, rubbed dirt on his knees and hands.

Once his new disguise was in place, he shambled down the street and people moved right through him as if he wasn’t there.

Eddie had to fight down a grin. People were eaten up with curiosity on how he could avoid getting papped no matter where he went. And this right here was his secret. Appear homeless and no one would give a damn.

He got into position and texted ‘Celeste’ he had arrived. He took the time to smooth out his hair and stretch out his spine. Walking hunched over like that hurt as he kicked and screamed into his late twenties. Something he never thought he would reach.

He texted Jeff to let him know he wouldn’t be back to night and settled in to wait.

Soon enough he was led up through the back way and then into Steve’s hotel room.

As soon as the door closed, Steve was on him.

“Are you okay? Did anyone see you?” And then, “Why are you so dirty?”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Just a little thing I learned from dear ole dad about walking about unseen. So just let me clean up a bit and I’m all yours.”

Steve bit his lip and nodded nervously.

Eddie chuckled. “Unless you wanted to join me in the shower?” he said over his shoulder.

Steve perked right up and followed Eddie into the en suite bathroom, kicking the door closed with a grin.

****

Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25

Tag List: @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @danili666 @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @val-from-lawrence @goodolefashionedloverboi @i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @vecnuthy @irregular-child @yikes-a-bee @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @eyehartart @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #rockstar steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar au

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hometoursandotherstuff · 4 months ago

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Very attractively done 1883 Victorian farmhouse in Kintnersville, PA. 5bds, 2.5ba, $575K.

This is stunning. I love the blue and white with the dark wood.

I'm not sure if a wall was taken down, but it may have been, b/c of the columns.

I don't care for all the little doodads they have around, it takes away from the stunning color scheme.

The open kitchen is very nice. The cabinets match the style of the house.

There's a spacious dining area and wainscoting on the walls.

Homey, warm feel to this room.

Steps down to the family room that's open to a music/game room. Interesting how they left the ceiling seemingly uneven and patched.

The main floor 1/2 bath has a vintage country look.

Going up to the 2nd fl.

There's a narrow hallway.

The primary bedroom has an unusual built-in with shelving and an open closet. I wonder how it got the worn patina.

Bedroom #2 is plain.

Bedroom #3 is cute, though.

The 3 pc. bath is a little bigger than the usual 3 pc. It has a nice pedestal sink and vintage tile floor.

This is different. The ladder appears to be going up to a loft or attic space. I don't know where the stairs on the left are going.

Maybe the stairs lead to this room. It's nice up here.

And, then, there's this large room, that looks like it may be in a newer addition.

And, this room has its own bath, as well.

I don't know what part of the house this is, but it's ancient. Apparently, the original part of the house was built in the 1700s, so this must be an old cooking hearth. This is great.

On the back of the house there's a small deck.

Cute little building.

This is going to require a lot of clean-up.

There's a lot of land, 12.65 Acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/9754-Easton-Rd-Kintnersville-PA-18930/9063811_zpid/

#victorian farmhouse #victorian homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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Glass Cuts Deepest (1)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of trauma and violence ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She remembered exactly the one sunny afternoon when, still being a small child, she walked with her father into an old, gigantic Gothic church that seemed to her to be so high that it reached up to the sky.

As they stepped inside they were struck by the distinctive smell of incense, dampness and a strange, disturbing echo with each of their steps, as if reminding them that they were in the House of God.

She remembered clearly the narrow, long windows filled with figures of saints, shimmering with various colours of glass, as if they were really looking at her from the heavens themselves. The rays of the sun shone through them like the glory of God himself, and she thought then that she wanted to learn more about them.

She quickly began to draw. At first it was just her favourite cartoon characters, but as she got older she began to take an interest in art and paintings − on all her school trips she would look curiously at the works of the old masters in art galleries and then read about them at home.

When she managed to get into a painting department at a state university, it seemed like the happiest day of her life. One of the specialisations she could choose after the first year was that of stained glass, and it made her face flush all the more because she knew who taught there.

Although there were as many as three professors in the stained glass department, only one, the youngest of them, namely Professor Targaryen was so spectacularly successful internationally, to which he also owed his quick habilitation being only six years older than her.

For all she knew his talent had already been recognised during his studies and he was now carrying out gigantic commissions for new churches built by the richest archbishops.

She had seen his work in one of the churches in her town and had to admit that he was one of the best stained glass artists of their generation.

The holy figures in his works seemed light and halting, partly Baroque and partly Mannerist, their faces expressing some kind of heavenly anticipation, wonder or melancholy, the colours of the glass he chose contrasting wonderfully under the sunlight, creating a breathtaking composition.

He was a genius.

During her first year at university, she saw him fleetingly several times during a class on the basics of stained glass design, where everyone, no matter what specialisation they wanted to choose afterwards, learned how to cut glass with diamond blades, paint it and apply patina.

They were then taught by his assistant professor, Cregan Stark, and Professor Lannister's doctoral student, Meera. Both were very warm and patient – she took great joy in these lessons and stayed after hours to complete her work.

One day Cregan stood over her and seeing her painting her saint's face for the third time, this time with satisfying results, he nodded his head in approval.

"You are very hardworking and you are doing well. You should choose stained glass as a speciality." He said softly. She blushed all over and hopped up in her chair, happy.

"I am so pleased to hear that. I would love to study in your workshop under Professor Targaryen." She said quickly with excitement in her voice, and he raised his eyebrows and laughed. She blinked, confused.

"Forget about it, I advise you well. You're a good girl and you don't deserve what would happen to you there." He said, scratching his chin, looking at her apologetically, as if he resented himself for getting her hopes up. She felt a tightness in her throat not understanding what he was implying.

"What do you mean, sir?" She asked uncertainly and he sighed heavily.

"Ask your fellow students."

His words kept her awake and made her feel very uncomfortable – she had heard that Professor Lannister sometimes liked to flirt with his female students.

Was Professor Targaryen the same way?

Or worse?

Reflecting on this, she realised as she walked past the room where his students worked that she had never seen any women.

She asked this out loud the next day to her female colleagues, who looked at her surprised.

"Didn't you hear about that incident two years ago? He slapped one female student in the face during class. And she wasn't even his student! It landed him on the rug with the rector himself and he almost didn't get fired from the university. He owes his position only to his achievements and that thanks to him our university keeps getting new assignments from the curia." Said Ellyn, and she swallowed loudly, shocked by her words.

"Is it known why he did it?" She asked uncertainly. Lysa shrugged her shoulders.

"Apparently it enraged the rector the most. He didn't explain why he did it, he just said that she deserved it and that no whore – he probably meant woman – would cross the threshold of his workshop. He has one artificial eye and a huge scar, maybe because no woman wants him he behaves this way."

She lowered her gaze, heartbroken, feeling the cold sweat on the back of her neck, her heart pounding like mad.

What kind of man was this?

Now she wasn't surprised why Cregan had told her to let it go.

However, the closer she got to choosing a speciality and a workshop, the more she felt the need to fight for what she wanted.

Maybe if she stayed away from him and just worked hard he would give her a break?

Maybe he was annoyed by the way the girls dressed or behaved?

She decided to give it a try.

Despite everyone warning her not to do so, she submitted the papers, writing his name as her supervisor, whose workshop she applied to.

She had a feeling that it would lead to some kind of earthquake, but in the field of stained glass she wanted to be like him.

She thought through how she would dress – she decided that since she didn't like women, she would try to look as neutral and bland as possible.

She put on a large black hoodie from under which neither her breasts nor her buttocks were visible, tight black trousers and trainers. She tied her hair up in an elaborate braid to keep it out of her face, applied only foundation and no other make-up.

Dressed like this, she came to the first meeting of the new semester, where students found out what classes they had and met their lecturers.

She entered the room full of men and complete silence fell; she saw that the professor wasn't there yet, so she sat down with her notepad and pen at the very end of the table to just disappear. One of the boys with dark, curly hair turned to her.

"You're brave, but I already feel sorry for you. He'll kick you the fuck out of here." He said amused, several of the other boys laughed nervously.

She lowered her gaze, horrified, beginning to regret doing this instead of going to another professor who would have welcomed her applications with open arms.

When the door suddenly opened she curled into herself, not looking in that direction, resting her chin on her hand, swallowing loudly. She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back and someone sighing, then the rustling of pages.

"I'll start by reading out the list and welcoming the new students." She heard a cold, indifferent, stern voice that sent shivers through her, felt her breath get stuck in her throat with fear.

"Allan Baratheon."

"Mark Arryn."

"Royce Hightower."

"Matthias Martell."

"Well. I welcome you and will get straight to the task ahead of you this term." He said calmly, putting down the sheet of paper – she felt the stares of all the students on her.

He hadn't read her out.

She was sure she was on the list.

She pressed her lips together lifting her gaze to the boy who had spoken to her earlier – he just raised his eyebrows with a shrug of his shoulders in an I told you so gesture.

For a moment she wondered what she should do, feeling tears of helplessness under her eyelids – still not looking at him she raised her trembling hand slowly upwards. She heard him fall silent for a moment, but then he continued as if nothing had happened.

"− I have decided to hold a competition for the best design for three window quarters with a representation of the Virgin Mary surrounded by saints. The design will be chosen by me and the bishop, who will pay for the whole order, and then the whole workshop will work together to make this chosen design. Cregan will send you by e-mail the dimensions of each window and which specific saints are to be depicted. That's all."

He said and simply stood up, taking his papers and coffee and left, not paying any attention to her or her hand. Her classmates looked at her in shock.

"Oh fuck, that was horrible. He completely pounced on you. I'm so sorry." Her year mate said, patting her on the back, and she burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands.

"Don't cry. This is not about you. Go to Lannister and don't spoil your nerves." Said one of the older students and everyone slowly began to leave the room.

She looked blankly at her notebook and decided that she would try one last time.

She would try to talk to him.

She left and approached the locked room where a placard with his name on it was posted. She heard two voices coming from it, in one she recognised Cregan.

"− she's not like that, Aemond. Really. She focuses on her work, she's diligent. Three times I made her start the same face over and she did it without saying a word. She is humble and learns quickly. It's a shame to give her up to waste to Jason or Floris −" She heard Stark's voice and felt warm in her heart at the thought of him trying to defend her. For a moment he was answered by silence.

"No. There are always problems with them sooner or later. She was almost crying by now. I don't want any weepy scenes in my workshop. I −"

He didn't finish because of the loud knock on their door. She heard someone stand up inside, then the door opened and she saw Cregan standing in front of her. He shook his head quickly letting her know that this was a very bad idea, but she had already made up her mind.

She wanted to look him in the face before she gave up completely.

"Please, find five minutes for me, Professor." She directed her words to him rather than Cregan.

He sighed heavily, stepping back and it was only then that she noticed a fair-haired man with his short hair pulled back in black turtleneck, looking at her as if he had never seen a more disgusting thing on earth.

His artificial eye was cold and lifeless, his nostrils moving restlessly, his jaw clenched tight – she thought he looked more like a sculpture rather than a human being.

He seemed empty to her, created from stone rather than flesh.

He was silent for a long time and then rolled his eyes, sighing heavily and hummed under his breath, pulling out his phone, turning on the stopwatch.

"Five minutes." He said lowly, and Cregan quickly walked out, leaving them alone, closing the door behind him. She wanted to come closer, but his voice stopped her.

"Don't come up, just stand there and talk. You're running out of time." He burst out coolly, still facing her in profile, tapping his fingers impatiently on his armrest. She swallowed loudly, feeling her throat dry up, and opened her mouth to tell him all that she was holding inside.

"I know what rules you have set in your workshop and I wish very much now that I had been born a man, but unfortunately I am not." She said with difficulty hearing her voice tremble. She glanced at him and saw that he was still listening to her, so she continued.

"I saw your artworks while I was still in high school at St. John's Cathedral, and having always dreamed of creating stained glass for churches, I wanted to be taught by someone who is such an accomplished specialist in the field as you are, sir. I know how difficult the job is and I promise to do what you tell me to do without a shadow of dissatisfaction. I will not approach you except to revise my designs or projects. I will always work at the furthest table and sit in the last seat as far away from you as possible, dressing in such a way that you do not notice me and forget my existence on a daily basis. Please." She whispered the last word weakly – she saw his adam's apple waving as he swallowed loudly, tense.

He remained silent.

"Just because you're a fan of my works doesn't make you a talented person. What good is it to me that you work in silence if none of your pieces will be at least satisfactory and your colleagues will have to correct your mistakes?" He asked dryly, lifting his stern gaze to her – she swallowed loudly, feeling small, feeling like a nobody.

She did not bring her designs with her.

"Well. All I have with myself now are quick sketches in my notebook. They're portraits of people I see travelling on the bus to my classes." She said quickly and he sighed heavily, frustrated, and ran his hand over his face.

"So you are unprepared." He summarised, and she furrowed her brow, shaking her head.

"None of my colleagues had to −" She began, but he threw her a sharp, annoyed look and she realised at once that she had to back off, had to humble herself.

"− I − yes, I'm unprepared. I'm very sorry." She mumbled, fiddling with her notebook in her hands, her lips tightening.

He turned his head away from her, but extended his hand towards her in a movement full of impatience. She approached him uncertainly, handing him her sketchbook without touching his skin. He sighed and began to look quickly through what was inside without interest.

She saw that he had stopped at a few drawings, depicting a young woman with a child on her lap, an old man wearing a large black cap and winter scarf, and a stooped man asleep leaning his temple against the glass.

She saw him massaging his forehead and closing his eyes, clearly fighting with himself internally. He closed her notebook and waved it in his hand.

"Three of your fifteen sketches I would consider good. Do you think that's enough?" He asked dryly, without even looking at her. She felt a squeeze in her heart and a wave of disappointment knowing what he meant to say.

"No. It's not enough."

He hummed under his breath agreeing with her opinion, and then with a light flick of his hand, he tossed her notebook into the bin that stood by his desk. He glanced at her reaction and she gasped.

He wanted her to cry, to run out hurt and humiliated, to leave him alone.

No.

"So I'll do 200 sketches, 40 of which will be good. Or 300 of which 60 will be good. I will do as many of them as you see fit, Professor." She said with an effort, trying with all her might not to cry again.

He looked at her coldly in silence, the bell on his phone ringing out like something final. She felt cold sweat on the back of her neck as he reached over and muted his app, turning his profile back to her again.

"400 sketches. And they're all supposed to be good. Without them, don't even show yourself to me. Anything else?" He asked, and she shook her head.

"No. Thank you for the chance, Professor." She muttered and just walked out, closing the door behind her, feeling her whole body tremble.

He wasn't a man, but a walking monster breathing fire.

Cregan walked up to her, looking at her in horror, clearly seeing how pale she was.

"Did he agree?" He asked in a whisper, as if he was afraid he would hear them.

"He told me to bring him 400 good sketches and not to show my face to him without it." She mumbled apprehensively, wondering how long it would take her and how she would decide which were good and which were not. Stark looked at her in disbelief.

"I know it's no consolation, but you've just achieved the impossible." He said with some kind of admiration, and she sidestepped him, not knowing if she could call it that herself.

When she got home she started searching the gossip portals in the hope of finding out something about the incident from a few years ago, guessing that it must have been a big scandal and she was not disappointed.

Admittedly, she couldn't find his statement anywhere, and the student he slapped gave a wide-ranging explanation.

Professor Targaryen showed an unhealthy interest in me from the beginning and was also unpleasant and disrespectful. When we were left alone and I went to him to ask him to proofread my work, as my professor was on sick leave at the time and I wanted to move on with my job, he rose with anger and slapped me on the cheek shouting that I had no right to enter his workshop and invade his privacy. I believe this stems from his complexes and fear of women, and I regret that no justice reached him for this. Unfortunately, in this university everyone cleans each other's hands.

She read this, and she decided that she needed to be wary of him and keep her distance, not to approach him or frustrate him.

She spent the next week from morning to night sketching, sitting in the park and looking at people passing by, but she wasn't satisfied with her results.

She recalled her sketches he had stopped at and wondered what they had in common. She thought that as well as a study of the body there was a kind of melancholy and lightness in them, a snapshot of some fragment of life and situation.

She decided to go to church.

She made sketches of figures from the paintings in prayerful exultation, sculptures facing the heavens with outstretched hands, close-ups of their faces.

She thought he meant a character study like Leonardo da Vinci did, who caught facial expressions and gestures on the fly, making the viewer of his drawings go through a thrill of excitement.

She went round all the temples in her city and ended up with 500 sketches, from which she selected the agreed 400. She decided for her own satisfaction to bring him 401 drawings, which she managed to pack into two big folders.

She did not find him in his office so she set off towards his workshop where his senior students and her year mates were gathered. However, she didn't cross its threshold but knocked on the doorframe, eager to get his attention, to get permission to cross that magic line.

He was just leaning over another student's projects and glanced at her with a sharp, disgruntled look, clearly hoping he would never see her again. She lifted up her folders showing that she had brought what he wanted – he sighed heavily and moved towards her, avoiding her by a wide margin.

"Follow me." He said dryly, so she went straight after him. They entered a room with illuminated tables on which glass was usually cut and painted.

"Lay them out here. Show me the top 40." He said impatiently, and she swallowed loudly, wondering what she should show him. Her hesitation frustrated him.

"Can't you judge which of your works are suitable to be shown to me?" He growled and she shook her head, quickly searching for the works that were most memorable to her.

The woman turning to her over her shoulder with an enigmatic smile, the angel looking up to the heavens with his lips parted, the distraught Mother of God looking at her suffering son, Mary Magdalene humbly bent over in prayer, the nun covering her face with her hand, leaning over in thought.

She put down sheet after sheet, counting in her head, but then she lost track, stood up, trying to count them all over again, her heart pounding like mad.

"That's enough." He commanded coolly and walked over to the table, this time looking at each of her works in turn.

She stood at a great distance from him, not daring to come close, his face thoughtful, sharp and tense, his brow furrowed.

She was afraid he was about to humiliate her again, start crumpling up sheet after sheet and throwing them in the dustbin. He picked up a few, however, taking a closer look at them.

"Is that a figure from the church of St Michael the Archangel?" He asked indifferently, and she nodded quickly. He hummed under his breath and added nothing, putting the piece of paper down, watching further, his hands entwined at his back.

It seemed to her that his silence lasted for ages.

"A month. For a trial. If you disappoint me, I'll kick you out." He said low and unenthusiastic, turned and walked out, simply leaving her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hiding her face in her hands, and burst into sobs.

She had made it.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

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windvexer · 3 months ago

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Hello!

I've seen you talk a few times about the dangers of over-warding, which I can certainly see the sense in; at the same time, wards can also certainly be useful things. I'd like to ask you: in your opinion, what is the most sensible amount of wards to have? Does it make sense to ward (oneself, one's home, whatever) at all if you don't have a reason to expect attacks or infringements?

Good morning!

We're at least in reference to this post.

The silly answer is, but I promise to explain it so that it's useful, the most sensible amount of wards to have is however many cover your needs.

I think the topic of warding is often framed in relation to attacks and retaliation, which it certainly relates to. But I think that also gives it a bit of a crusty patina, if you will: "I don't have main character syndrome; I'm not one of those witches who's so paranoid that everyone is going to attack them, and I don't mess around with spirits, so warding isn't for people like me."

Which is all well and good, but the idea of warding in and of itself is that it's just a barrier that stops things from coming through.

Wards can hypothetically block out anything: malifica and spirits, sure, but also unwanted guests, solicitors, debts, poverty, stress, illness, spam phone calls, and spiders.

"Attacks" may not be common, but tangles of unhelpful energy, the Evil Eye, and blustery storms of ill-effect aren't all that rare. Just because someone didn't aim at you and pull the trigger doesn't mean that your life will remain void of deleterious energies.

Spirits living their lives will infringe on you, not because you're the main character or because they're malicious, but because the two of you live in the same reality and sometimes your lives intersect in unwanted ways.

And you can accidentally infringe, and then spirits can be offended and decided to make it your problem.

So in a certain sense, not having wards because you don't expect attacks or infringements is like not having house rules because you don't expect your room mates to ever do anything upsetting:

On the one hand, it's perfectly fine to wait until something is happening before you deal with it.

On the other hand, some people prefer to say, "welcome to the house! Please don't invite your friends to stay the night without checking with us first."

Another confounding factor is whether or not you tend to draw spirits to you, as some people do; and whether or not you live in an area with very high spiritual activity. If you live in a paranormal activity desert, baseline wards might not be useful at all, whereas someone who has sensitive psychic perception and lives in an old converted mortuary might need lots of baseline protection just to feel comfortable.

But perhaps the most important deciding factor is whether or not you want to deal with it.

Early on in my education I heard a witch of great experience say, "the more experienced you get, the less wards you need. You get to a point where you can just deal with things as they arise instead of needing to stay walled in all the time."

Which is technically true. However they may manifest on the astral plane, the functional effect of a ward is like a bug screen: it's likely to stop or mitigate whatever it's meant to hold out.

The real question then becomes, what things would you prefer to never deal with, and what things are you comfortable dealing with as they arise?

Wards should be for that - the things that you would just like to not ever have to deal with, even if you don't particularly expect them to darken your doorstep.

Wards can be useful because they are proactive and preventative. A ward to stop bad energies and stress from your workplace following you home can help reduce the need for more regular spiritual hygiene. A ward against uninvited spirits can help stop you from getting distracted from the magical work you actually want to be doing.

So a ward is like a wall. Does it make sense to build a wall around your farm, even if you never expect a raid from the neighbors?

I don't expect raids from my neighbors. I still build walls.

#answered

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bridenore · 10 months ago

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HD fic recs : Career - Aurors (part 1)

Here are a few recs where both Harry and Draco are Aurors. This is part one of three and focuses on shorter fics (up to 20k). Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

but first, we fight by @nv-md [8k]

Fighting with Draco Malfoy has never been quite this thrilling…or this frustrating. Harry’s always horny, Draco’s in denial, and there simply isn’t enough time in the day to fight crime and watch your ex-archnemesis wash his arse. Or what it’s like to be in love with Draco Malfoy and have to see him naked in the goddamn shower.

Christmas With Draco by @dracogotgame [9k]

Harry tries to give a two year old Draco the best Christmas ever.

Dark Places by @bixgirl1 [8k]

Harry and Draco have been Auror partners and even friends for the last few years–damn good ones, at that–which is why Harry’s never tried to change their relationship despite his feelings. Until, of course, they’re on assignment and get locked in a wardrobe together. Remix of Leontina’s “Pure Imagination”

Draco L Malfoy (the L stands for legs) by @starquestingfordrarry [1k]

Harry could spend the rest of his life in the embrace of Draco Malfoy’s legs. If he was lucky, he would.

Fall on the Earth by @dodgerkedavra [15k]

Harry Potter hates being separated from Draco Malfoy. Not because he’s in love with him, for Merlin’s sake! Because they’re Auror Partners. One time is all it takes for Draco to be attacked with an illicit potion. Until it wears off, Harry’s job is taking care of his partner. Harry thinks the effects of the potion can’t possibly be as serious as Robards says. He thinks wrong.

Feeling Everything (from lust to truth) by badjujuboo [7k]

The one thing Draco wanted from Harry was the one thing Harry wouldn’t give. But the sex was great

Fool rushes in by oldenuf2nb / @dianacopland [15k]

In a burst of unexplained magic, Harry Potter’s Auror partner Draco Malfoy has simply disappeared. Frantic with worry, terrified that something really terrible has happened to the other man, Harry realizes that what he feels for him just might be more than friendship.

The Great Magic Sex Mushroom Fiasco by @magnolia822 [6k]

Lost in the Siberian wilderness without food, Aurors Potter and Malfoy are forced to improvise, with unexpected consequences …

A House on Fire by @p1013 [5k]

For the last five years, Auror Draco Malfoy has walked into his office with hardly a glance at the illusioned window taking up the back wall. It looks out over an imagined London, a perfectly bright and brilliant view of the city that hides the smog and rain and dirt that clings to the city like a patina of time that can never be worn away. It's always a perfect summer's day with soft, white clouds that float through the painfully bright blue sky like a dream. He likes to imagine the gentle breeze that ripples the surface of the Thames brushing across his skin, since he'll never be able to actually feel it. After all, his office is located on the second floor and is, therefore, underground. Or at least that's what he did before the seventh of October, 2009.

if i could never give you peace by @poisonivy206 [17k]

There are all these bruises on Harry’s memory. A blond boy with a hand outstretched. On a broom. Walking the halls of Hogwarts like a ghost. Climbing up to the Astronomy Tower. On and on, the moments in which Draco Malfoy has cut into him, buried himself in him, until what held Harry together were all the ways in which he wanted to take Draco apart. And now his skin is so close, burning hot, his grip like a vice on Harry’s bicep, on the back of his neck. He smells like the forest, like ashes, like sweat and memories. Eleven years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Aurors Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are forcibly brought together by a new case that’s bound to reopen old wounds. Enter a Firewhisky problem, prejudices that never really go away, and an obsession as old as time.

Is This Love? by @phd-mama [3k]

Draco wouldn’t call himself a tender man. He fights the forces of evil for a living, trying his best to pay penance for the evil he’s done. He’s fought and killed in the name of duty, and when he’s not on duty, he tends either to play hard or retreat alone. He doesn’t lean on anyone, and he knows he’s not the first person anyone goes to when they need care. Comfort. That all changes tonight.

It Came Without A Warning by @p1013 [5k]

The locker room door had opened, not surprising considering how many other Aurors were involved in the sting, and there was a set of footsteps, ones Harry had learned to recognise over the last three months. “Malfoy?” he yelled. “Is that you?” “Piss off, Potter,” was the exhausted response, and though Harry knew his recalcitrant partner wouldn’t be able to see it, he smiled.

Little Talks by @femmequixotic and @noeeon [11k]

Draco’s been shagging the Head Auror for months now, and he’s sure it’s just a fling. Until Harry asks him to a Quidditch match, that is, and things go horribly wrong.

Observations by penguin474 [17k]

When his new Auror partner turns out to be Draco Malfoy, Harry isn’t pleased, but there are surprises waiting.

Pinky Promises Are Powerful Magic by megyal [12k]

Ickle Harry wants to stay with his newest hero.

The Safe House by @emmagrant01 [10k]

Aurors Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are forced to spend Christmas together in a safe house. Bet you can guess what happens. ;-)

Special Magic by lauren3210 [7k]

Harry was seriously considering the fact that his partner might be completely insane.

Summer Place by @wolfpants [14k]

Draco has the perfect life: a perfect house on a perfect street with his perfect husband. It’s all he’s ever wanted. So why does something still feel wrong?

That which hurts (and is desired) by @shealwaysreads ( onereader ) [19k]

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. He hadn’t moved in two days. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse in his throat from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, furious. There is nothing Harry wouldn’t do for the people he cares about. As it turns out, that might bring him everything he’s ever wanted.

Title of Their Sex Tape by @cibeewastaken [12k]

What are the Wizarding world’s most elite law enforcers doing when they aren’t catching criminals? It seems Auror Malfoy is often caught throwing food into Auror Potter’s mouth when he’s mid-yawn. This story isn’t about Draco throwing food at Harry. What it does have is: Undercover! Heists! Draco pining for Harry! Harry being oblivious, but also can’t help noticing how good Draco smells! Banters and jokes! That’s about it.

To Be Out of Your Own (and consumed by another) by @cassiaratheslytherpuff [18k]

By now even Harry recognises the pattern; he’d be an idiot not to. He’ll have sex, and in the moment it’ll be amazing. In the moment he simply is, he feels without thinking. Good, bad, pleasure and pain, he can just let go and feel he isn’t the one in charge. Then he wakes up the next morning feeling disgusting and worthless and swears to never do it again. Still, it helps him forget about his stress, his anxiety and his hopeless crush on his Auror partner so he keeps going back.

What Real Thing? by @l0vegl0wsinthedark [12k]

They don’t cuddle, they don’t talk about their relationship (or lack thereof) and they certainly never fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The Way You Say My Name by InnerLilith [5k]

In which Malfoy calls Harry pet names to get him flustered and riled up, and Harry gets flustered and riled up because he secretly likes it. The problem is that Malfoy is only teasing…or is he?

When the Fallout Comes by @maesterchill [7k]

Draco Malfoy, hard-as-nails Hit Wizard, has a secret obsession. Well two of them. Or ten, depending how far that metaphor can stretch. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly when it tipped from the occasional off-hand observation into something more gripping, but suffice to say it’s now getting a touch out-of-hand. Hands. It’s Potter’s hands. He’s obsessed with Potter’s hands.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

#my recs #drarry #drarry recs #theme rec

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