#TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!

[fricc-darn]

Halloween double trouble (＃ﾟДﾟ) !!

(its never too late for halloween)

[rainbowboom]

[redwayfarers]

house of grief and sunlight

fandom: wayfarer ship: cassander/aisanne characters: cassander inteus, aisanne bjornsdottir rating: gen words: 1625 note: this is my entry for @idrellegames' three year anniversary event! prompt i'd chosen is paramour - expected of me, i know - but i've hardly written about cass' bisexuality and i felt like it needed to be written about! excuse the ya-sounding title lmao i could not resist also, aisanne is a gw2 oc that i've ported to wayfarer. she lives over on @i-mybrunettelady most of the time :) divider credit

I am tired of grief.  I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of it. It’s summer, though, and a part of me feels like the sun will chase it away, if only for a day or two. Our house needs the sun right now. Grief hangs over it like a veil, and we don’t speak of it, but maybe the rays that come through our window each morning help. 

Or so I hope. Hope’s a stupid thing by and large, because every time I hope something happens it decidedly doesn’t, as if the gods above or whoever sits and watches this farce of an existence keeps laughing at me and says, “Add more!” But I can’t help but wish, in my heart of hearts, that sometimes, maybe one day in this lifespan that’s entirely too long for one guy, I don’t feel like a tossed out, crapped on kitten on the streets. 

It’s summer. That feels important to repeat to self. I am feeling a little less grief. The room around me is loud and messy and sounds jump from one place to another like rabbits, in a cacophony ruled over by the harmonious noise of music. Sanne’s the one behind the harp, golden under the candlelight, and if she was a different woman, she’d be singing in a Meissandic temple. 

She cares little for the traditional rites, though. She cares little for the chants I’d attended once or twice when I was a kid. She looked at me all confused when I told her how courtly, Vestran services happen, and said, in a strange tone, “I don’t understand how people like that.” I don’t understand either, and thank fuck I’m not a Vestran aristocrat anymore. 

Her place is telling stories of heroes and events long gone, to be a musical wayfarer. She’s doing that tonight. I was drunk when we first met here and she had to hold my hair while I was throwing up, apparently. Can’t say I remember that attractive trait about myself. I’m not drunk right now, however, sitting near the small wooden stage, taking small sips of my cider. The drink is irrelevant; she captures my attention more than any alcohol could. 

She’s radiant and shiny, half covered in shadows, which makes her golden crest stand out. The bright sheen of her golden hair disappears and reappears after the movements of her head. I can’t see her freckles clearly from here, but I can see the ink on her neck, the roundness of her full lips, an occasional yellow in the blues of her eyes when the candlelight reflects off them. I’m not blind to beauty, but there’s beauty in a way a finely made building is beautiful, and a way a person is beautiful. 

You don’t wanna fuck buildings, do you? And if you do, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Others are looking at her too. That doesn’t matter, because it’s my bed who she comes to tonight. Or is it me coming to hers? Not fucking important. 

These feelings are new. For most of my life, interest like this fell to men. Part of me wonders if I’m just that desperate for any kind of tenderness in my life that my head would start making up attraction; but the way this feels can’t be anything but a solid fucking reality. Women were always beautiful the way buildings were, but now they’re flesh and bone and soul and personality and there’s something so weirdly appealing about that that it catches me off guard. 

Not all women are your mother, you dumb fuck. 

I know, but women have never been.. This. I think about Sanne when she’s away. I watch her practice for the performances, mesmerized. There’s peace and blood rushing to my face when we’re laughing in bed, or making lunch, or eating, or just existing in the same space. My insides get all twisted up, like I’m a kid again crushing on older Wayfarers. It’s like Senna again, and I simply forgot how it feels like to be crushing on someone this bad. 

Nothing will ever happen between us, however. It would be so crappy to prey on a widow’s feelings. She rarely speaks of her dead husband, but he’s not even that cold as far as dead people go; maybe a little more than us Wayfarers, but not by much. Our living together is a result of loneliness, desperation, not a desire to find a partner again. But I was dumb enough to pretend I didn't see it. 

She’s cooking, some days after her performance. Sun is shining through the window, leaving her figure in semi-shadows and catching on the ends of her shiny, metallic hair. She’s not as glamorous as she was at the show; right here is a Sanne that’s more down to earth, more solid, dressed comfortably, not worried about how she’s perceived. I’m folding clothes nearby and doing a half-assed job of it, too. It’s hard to concentrate some days over the deafening noise of all this fucking attraction confusion business. 

Every so often she turns back to look at me with a strange smile on her face. “That’s what I wore to Kiaran’s funeral,” she says suddenly. I jerk and drop my gaze to the dress in my hands. Sunlight washes away its dark color in places. There are little holes in it that I want to sew shut, but I don’t have her consent to. She’s weirdly sentimental about it. 

My Spire didn’t have a funeral, and us survivors only have ashes as funerary garb. 

“What’s this stain again?” I ask, raising the dress and jerking my head in the direction of the big, grayish blob on the skirt. “I keep forgetting!” 

She sighs and throws a full, peeled onion at me. It hits me right in the forehead and the poor plant, already under threat, pricks my eyes. “You’re horrible,” I say in mock offense. “You don’t want your dress to stink, do you?” 

“I’m not burying anyone anytime soon,” she says lowly, in a tone that implies I’m hitting a boundary. I wince and put the dress down, careful of the location of the onion. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I approach, gently placing the vegetable on the table. She gives me a hard look. “I shouldn’t have joked about the dress. It means a lot to you and I tend to joke around, right, about the things that I’m sensitive about so people don’t attack me for it first? Offense is the best defense kinda thing? And I forget that sometimes - a lot of the time - people don’t function the way my fucked up head does?”

Shut up, Cassander. You’re making it worse.

Something tightens my throat, like hands choking me from the inside out. I grip the table and swallow thickly. My stomach twists up, and the smell and feel of onion fills the kitchen and I can only focus on the dents in the dark wood beneath my fingers and the uneven pattern freckles of my hand. 

“Cassander,” Sanne says. Her tone is too much for me to analyze right now, try as I might. “Cass.” 

“What?” 

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” 

“Picking at your scar. Stop it.” 

I lower my hand from my face and grip the edges of my tunic. The edges of my braid - I need to take care of those ugly fucking ends one of these days - tickles my hand. You’re scaring people. Enjoy your lifetime of solitude, whether you’re actually into women or not. Who would want someone as shaky and deranged as you are? 

Vestra should’ve killed you, if you were so determined to go back. 

“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my feet. 

“I’m not angry. If you pushed, I would’ve been, greatly so. But you didn’t. Stop shaking like a leaf.” There’s something in her tone that feels like cold water to the face. I breathe out and blink away a small selection of tears. Saltiest one always drops first! I’m imagining a little tear race now, little tear spectators cheering the racers on, tear savants testing the levels of salt in each one. The thought makes me giggle and I bury my head in my hands as I laugh. 

“I’m not angry with you,” she repeats, gentler than before. Her voice is still as steely, though. “Go finish the laundry while I make lunch.”

Without a word, I retreat to my location at the corner of the room, where still wet clothes wait to be sorted and hung to dry. I put the dress to the side and continue sorting through the clothes; sometimes, I look at her, her back turned to me, and the shaking of my hands grows for a split second. 

I try my best not to cry. Better save that energy for the worst of the shitshow that I know is yet to come.

I’ve forgotten that this is a house of grief and no sunlight can fix it. And I’ve walked over her grief in the same way I would walk over my own, but where I’m used to it, she isn’t. And even when we go to the same bed that night, seemingly forgetting what happened, and even when the sun rises the morning after, this is still a place where two grieving people decided to seek comfort because being broken together is somehow better than being broken alone. 

No summer nor new kinds of sex can fix the holes in your heart. 

I am tired of grief.  I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s everloving and everlasting sake, I’m so tired of it.

[citriarchive]

idt i did SotD yesterday but whether i did or not. you're getting two. /threat

AYYY WE GOT THE FIRST GHOST (LIKE THE BAND) SONG POG and it's one of my favorites bc i'm basic but listen sometimes i need tobias forge to tell me my soul isn't tainted even though i've been told so, okay

And the other one is actually relatively new to my life, it came on my Spotify DJ for Wrapped 2023, BAD LUCK! by Jhariah

this is a fucking bop and i need to listen to it more and find a playlist or seven for it

[percki]

‘why would zuko do that’ he is sixteen years old. ‘i don’t understand zuko’ are you or have you been sixteen years old. ‘zuko just makes bad decisions’ he is sixteen years old. ‘zuko burned down kyoshi island’ he’s literally sixteen years old. ‘zuko kidnapped a twelve year old and dragged him through the snow for hours’ yeah sure but he was sixteen years old. ‘zuko hired an assassin to capture aang, and said assassin went rogue and attempted to kill everyone’ yeah well he’s not good at critical thinking. he’s sixteen years old

[stil-lindigo]

PALESTINIAN ESCAPE FUNDS (TRY TO DONATE AT LEAST $5 TO EACH)

1. Help Renad & Her Family Evacuate Gaza - £4,090 / 25,000 2. Help little children of Gaza stay safe and alive! - $1,278 / 35,000 3. Help Evacuate My Family from Gaza to Safety - €6,235 / 70,000 4. Urgent Appeal: Save Little Yusuf and His Family Amidst Gaza - €€30,901 / 85,000 5. Help Marah reunite with her family and save them - €7,994 / 55,000

[best-polish-words]

jodła - /jɔdwa/ & jadło - /jadwɔ/

pwn & pwn | follow for more Polish words!

[designatedloveinterest]

The thing that's great about the Astarion romance is that it combines the quick-to-fuck slow-to-intimacy of both Zevran and Fenris's romance arcs with puppy eyes and the bone structure of a Czechian ossuary

I know plenty of people have talked about the similarities between Astarion and Fenris but overall they’re very different characters with one of the biggest differences being how they react to their trauma especially in regards to sex and relationships.

Fenris is someone who takes a long time to open up to their SO and he has a lot of walls that need to come down before he feels close to someone. It takes a lot for Fenris to start getting physical with a romanced Hawke. And even after their first night together Fenris is still afraid of physical affection and breaks up with Hawke. Sexual intimacy is still a lot of work with Fenris throughout his romance.

With the way his romance is written so far, Astarion’s attitude towards intimacy is the complete opposite. He’s very open to flirtying, with Tav, with Gale, with Shadowheart, Lae’zel can even get into bed with him if you don’t romance either of them. There are also mentions of Astarion going out and regularly seducing Cazador’s future victims. Astarion cope with his abuse by throwing himself into sexuality, as if to prove to himself that what Cazador did to him hasn’t affected him. 

The notable thing about his romance as it stands in act 1 is that where it’s a very sexual and flirtatious relationship, Astarion doesn’t give himself over emotionally. You don’t see him opening up about his feelings and his trauma the way Fenriz does with Hawke. Where Fenris needs emotions before he can open up to sex in a relationship, Astarion prefers to keep things purely sexual and to keep his emotions to himself.

It’s interesting to see how Astarion’s romance will go when the full game is released, at the moment it’s like Fenris’s romance arc backwards.

[erwinsvow]

price is your neighbor, has been for a while but you’ve just never been able to properly introduce yourself. he’s gone often and you used to work too early for anyone else to be awake. but now he’s home and your schedule is a little better, so you decide that some cookies and an introduction are probably a good idea. (he’s handsome and you’re kind of lonely—one of the other older neighbors said something about him and how he’s a real man and they don’t have many of those anymore, and you can’t stop thinking about it)

so cookies—on a cute plate, covered in saran wrap and presented with a smile. he laughs, it’s kind of gruff, that soft, sort of surprised laugh like he wasn’t expecting you. he smiles back and you were right—he’s very handsome and the approving nature of his reaction makes your head rush. you two chat for a little bit, you want to go inside and eat a cookie with him but your nerves get in the way. you go back home and think about when you’ll get to see him again—maybe when he returns your plate.

but price is not like guys your age. he’s not clueless, he’s not slow to react. he’s actually traditional, and he thinks you coming over with cookies is an invitation. a girl your age—maybe a little too young for him but he doesn’t dwell on that for long—being as nice as you were deserves to be taken care of. and he fully intends on doing so, starting now.

which is why you end up really confused when your older neighbor tells you that she’s so pleased you and john are together now! and when price comes over to return your plate he starts fixing up random things in your place—a leaky faucet that caught his eye, a flickering light bulb, the squeaky door hinge he always hears, talking about the wedding he’s attending in a few months and if you’d like to match your dress to his tie…

[laswells-ashtray]

Soap can outdrink Ghost and Gaz. No doubt.

He can match Price pretty well but more often than not he can outdrink Price.

He tries to outdrink Alejandro and Rudy once. Manages to outdo Alejandro. He blacks out and wakes up several hours later and Rudy is still drinking.

He tries to outdrink Nikolai one occasion that they dub the incident, never once does he even think about it because it's been months and he still gags at the smell of anything vaguely alcoholic.

But these instances lead him to his best plan yet, get Rudy and Nikolai in the same place for a night and see who can outdrink the other.

[squuote]

could i see..... some kinda parable guy...... of your choosing..... i love em all

i immediately drew stanley without thinking and felt so predictable so i added a mariella for flavor

[gothghostiie]

pussy torture with one of the boys??

cw: pussy torture (slapping, light punches, squeezing, biting), ambiguous partner, afab!gn!reader

he's tying you down, ankles tied to the headboard of the bed behind you, fully exposing your wet, precious folds to the cool air. sitting in front of you, thick fingers mindlessly tracing every curve, every nook and crevice of your chubby pussy before suddenly coming down on it harshly:(( you yelp, the slap sounding through the otherwise quiet room, followed by a low chuckle from him. he does it a few times, hand growing heavier as your lips heat and swell, your chest rising and falling quicker. another harsh slap, but this time his hand stays on your cunt - just to dig his fingers in and squeeze, grip slowly growing tighter. he release when he draws a whine from your throat, just to immediately squeeze again, much, much harder.

you can barely move in your binds, barely able to squirm, let alone escape from his cruel hands. he doesn't go as hard as he can - he doesn't fully wanna destroy your poor cunt. not just yet anyway. when he lets up you finally breathe in again, already trembling, you want nothing more than for him to finally play with your clit or your hole at least; but those dreams are quickly destroyed when he rubs his knuckles over your sticky outer lips. you watch intently, pressure increasing, the bumps giving you a weird sense of pleasure - until he lifts his fist and brings it down. its more of a firm tap really, but the surprise makes you gasp nonetheless. he chuckles again, shaking his head and raining down a few more light blows, trying to see how hard he can go - testing the waters for another time, he says.

you're wincing and squirming, begging for him to finally touch you properly, to give you anything, he smiles. "poor thing, so impatient, aren't you?" he grins, dipping his head. your eyes light up, relief washing over you at the mere thought of his tongue running over your swollen clit - all the hope just vanishes when you suddenly feel teeth on your sensitive cunt. he nibbles, placing love bites all over your cunt, some more gentle, others leaving teeth marks. you writhe and whine, tears pricking at your eyes, the sight makes his hard cock twitch in his pants.

he straightens up, putting both his hands on your sex, thumbs spreading your sticky lips apart to reveal your aching clit and drooling hole, you swear can see his cock harden just a bit more. you think youll finally get the release you want, getting fucked stupid on his cock; little do you know what you're in for now.

[grif-hawaiian-rolls]

this is my natural blond wash propaganda

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price kisses his daughter, Victoria's boo boo during an intermission backstage of his performance in Peter Pan (1964)

A little backstory...Victoria's mother took her to see her father in a production of Peter Pan and Vincent was captain Hook. When Victoria saw her father on-stage, with a hook for a hand, she says she threw an "audible" fit. So her mother, Mary Price took her backstage during the intermission to see that he's still her father. He showed her his hook and proved to her that it's only a clothes hanger and she felt better.

@citizenkampbell

[nekrosmos]

Wanting to spend some time with your man VS immediately falling asleep against his shoulder because you just came back from an op, a John Price story ✌️

Lineart version under the "keep reading" as a little bonus because it slaps

[rocketbirdie]

Cloud Strife

1 in 3 chance for each played 7 to create a Planet card when scored.