#and many of them excited to enact it themselves

[izzy-b-hands]

Instead of making a vent post abt my stupid fucking brain and mental health and the things that i absolutely have time to do/don't need to be done now bearing down on me yesterday and today like an old school cartoon train deadset on running over the main character of the piece, while the rest of my brain marinates in a soup made of every horrific thing happening in the world rn-

I'm going to go searching on ebay for stuff for my grandad for father's day (so i maybe, fucking maybe, can get a gift out on time for once in my fucking life) and try not to think abt my work shift in like. an hour and a half

[yandere-sins]

You know how, irl, people get fascinated and turned on by the IDEA Of a yandere? And how a yandere, ofc, stalks and learns as much as they can about their darling? I just imagine the Yandere using that to their advantage and to their Darling's horror. "Oh, but you like this don't you? You've read so many smutty tumblr stories about being taken and taken and held hostage. You reblogged so many headcanons about a character killing your bully or that co-worker you hate. I know all your questionable porn tastes. I know all your deep, dark secrets. I know your violent vent posts that I got to enact for you, Darling! I've given you everything you've ever fantasized about, so of course you'll love me. <3" And of course, the yandere fails to realize that any of those behaviors or actions in real life is absolutely, gut-wrenchingly horrifying. But they think they're giving their darling everything they could ever want, and they'll continue to do so until they stop playing hard to get.

Ngl, probably one of my worst fears for the future, but thanks for requesting because it makes good yandere content :'D

I'm imagining a really smug yandere, you know? One that thinks they are doing you such a big favor and give you all their love by expressing it this way. But in reality, they don't even realize how messed up it is.

They were just breaking into your home after you went to bed to admire their darling from afar for a little bit. They are not daring to stir you from your sleep when they can stand beside you and watch. It is enough; they won't be greedy. But they couldn't have known they'd find the holy grail of smut and depravity on your bookshelf when they started browsing as their curiosity got the better of them. They are almost appalled by their darling, if not for the fact that when they browse through the pages of a random book, the words kidnapping, stalking, love, murder, and quite a few more seem like a temptation made for them especially.

So, you actually like that kind of stuff, huh?

Someone following you on a dark street, their steps noticeable but their face masked as they are always just five steps behind you. You run, they run. There's a red rose on your windowsill the next day. It scares you, but they know now that you are just pretending. That your heart is beating faster now, elated by the chase and the promise of love it brings. The fact that you have your own mad person excites you. The yan continues to borrow one book after the other, annotates them, and takes notes for themselves before putting them back onto your shelf for you to find one day, horrified to see lots of "I'd love to do this to you," "How about I kill the coworker you hate—would that make you love me?" and "Love this, love you, always you" in them.

They thought being a silent observer, loving you from afar, was the way to be with you. But they can't help but masturbate to the sex scenes, thinking about how they'd reenact them with you. Your books will be devastatingly ruined by stains and tears in the pages as they have either ripped out a scene to save for later or bit into the book as they've hit their orgasm. Your bookshelf was a collection of dark romance before, but now it is literally the remnant of a massacre of the once neat collection.

But of course, they won't stop there.

Everyone gets sick of reading books someday, even though it's been nice doing it sitting next to you—part of the yan hoping you might wake up and they get to act out some of the scenes you read about. However, there are more things to uncover and learn from. Your public social media they've stalked so far was nice and dandy, but the favorites and posts you hide on your private computer have so much potential to learn from.

The yan can learn about all these little desires of yours. The masks you like, how you want to be taken, cared for, and loved forever. You seem to believe in soulmates—crazy! They do, too! If the yan is delusional enough, it turns out that you two are so similar to each other—a perfect match. Even the kinks they didn't share with you before can be arranged with enough dedication to you. They'll make preparations so you'll be able to ease into these depraved things that you kept hidden from them. You might have been afraid to act on your desires, but the yan is ready to let you live them out to the fullest.

Never mind that you cry after being chased home, it's what you wanted, right? It doesn't matter how you actually feel when they harass and stalk you, leave you little notes and flowers everywhere, because they are just doing what your book-partners would do (it worked for them, after all). You wanted the yan to be possessive over you; why are you sad that no one wants to be your friend when the yan went to the trouble of making sure everyone would be too scared to approach you? And really, aren't you grateful for the yan taking care of your coworker problem? Was sending you their pinky not enough proof of their love?

How come you don't love them yet? When will you love them like the protagonists of your books?

Haven't they done enough? Are you seriously saying you don't like their gifts and dedication to you? Or perhaps you are just trying to play hard to get... of course! That must be it. You are so lovely; you must know that you deserve to be desired immensely. Only they can desire you as much as to go to such lengths, but perhaps it hasn't been enough yet. You deserve more. You are waiting for the yan to prove their undying, absolute love for you. It must be something big, something extraordinary. Something that will show you just how much they care about your interests and especially you.

They will take you and give you the life you want—you deserve.

Even if you hate them for it.

[ominoose]

𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐚𝐜 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫'𝐬 𝐀𝐬 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬

Characters: Steven Grant, Nathan Bateman, Llewyn Davis, Jake Lockley, Blue Jones Summary: Oscar Characters characters teaching subjects at school. Warnings: None WC: 1.7k

𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘁 - 𝗛𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆

His natural passion and accidental ability to hyper-fixate on things means he can teach all the required topics with ridiculous detail, but we all know which subject he dominates best.

The vast majority of the students adore him. Mr Grant’s lessons are always fun, he lets the class make posters (that include all nine members of the Ennead), do Kahoot quizzes, create live re-enactments of historical events. Even when he’s just talking off a power point, his voice, mannerisms and tendency to act things out has the children engrossed and giggling. 

The classroom walls are absolutely littered with posters, some bought and some done by students. There's inspiring quotes, positivity kittens and Egyptian puns.

Not only is he a good teacher, but a good mentor. Being autistic himself, he notices any neurodivergent or “othered” kids and makes it a point to find what they’re passionate about and working it into their curriculum. If someones struggling he’ll arrange one-on-one time, asking them what they’re strengths are not just to help figure out how to work with them, but to remind them they have strengths.

While most students do love him, the few troublemakers know he’s not the strictest and thus will absolutely take the piss. Feigning ignorance and struggles as an excuse to why they missed a deadline or didn’t do the homework. Steven, the optimist he is, is always happy to give second, third and fourth chances. It does take that long for him to realise they’re not genuine, and yet he’ll still try, convincing himself that he’ll be able to turn them straight with the magic of friendship.

𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗕𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗻 - 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗦𝗰𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲

It would be like finding a needle in a haystack trying to find a single student in the many years Nathan had been teaching that didn’t, at least at one point, absolutely despise him. Mr Bateman was far from the friendliest, lax teacher to his students, bordering on a bit of an asshole really. He had an absolute zero tolerance policy for time wasting, messing around and not giving 100%. All students were expected to keep up, get the work done on time and spend time studying and completing exercises at home. If you didn’t do that, you weren’t trying hard enough.

The common conception of a hard-ass wasn’t ill fitting, but it wasn’t without reason. Mr Bateman was a hard-ass because he wanted his students to grasp every opportunity at their disposal and stretch their potential. Some people were born smarter, some learned quicker from a young age but every single person could better themselves regardless of whether they started at Level 10 or Level 0. 

It also shouldn’t be said that he wanted students that simply obeyed. It was a story passed down to students about the time a student, in a fit of frustration and defiance to the teacher that always pushed them, completely disregarded the set code structure and wrote their own entirely new one that completed the aim function. While everyone would expect them to be given weeks worth of detention and a reaming, but Mr Bateman simply smiled, said well done and moved on with the lesson. Apparently the kid managed to get a full paid scholarship into top university, but that was just hearsay. Rumour has it his middle name is Hamlet too, snickering students will whisper.

Besides his rigid teaching style, not much is known about him. The classroom is minimalist, only a coffee flask and a pot of three black ballpoints sit on his desk. The walls are sparse beyond a handful of posters about common coding knowledge.

𝗟𝗹𝗲𝘄𝘆𝗻 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝘀 - 𝗠𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰

The beginning of every new school year followed the same routine. Kids would hear their music teacher was a published artist, get insanely excited, go to class then realise published was not synonymous with success and wither with disappointment. Mr Davis gave up caring years ago, at least he finally had a steady gig, albeit at the cost of his soul.

Classes were average. Sometimes students were treated to his natural singing voice, something that always sparked smiles and attention from the kids, but usually lessons were Llewyn bearing through kids bashing piano keys and drum pads as he wandered around and did his best to tutor them through it.

To kids that were required to take the class, it was alright. Mr Davis wasn’t a hard ass, although it did drain his soul to see kids blind to the brilliance and potential of music. His homework mostly consisted of practicing at home or listening to different genres. To kids that genuinely enjoyed music, it was bliss. Mr Davis was no dream mentor for sure, he was quite stubborn about what he thought “good music” sounded like, but when he sat with someone he could share the passion with, the kid would feel like an equal. 

The classroom was always open to kids that wanted time to practice, he knew what an escape music could be, and would never hesitate to sit and work out a song or even add his guitar to whatever a student was playing.

The room was a riot on a good day. All sorts of instruments littered and surrounded the desks, posters of musicians and notes and the different types of brass instruments lined the walls and there was always something playing in the background. A basket of fruit and cereal bars was always sat fully stocked next to the door, with a “Help Yourself” sign stuck to it. No one knew why, and no one ever thought to question it.

𝗝𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲𝘆 - 𝗦𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵

Spanish was always a full class, no matter what year or whether the students actually cared about Spanish. Students either swooned over him or wanted to be his friend. Mr Lockley knew, although had no clue why, but who cares as long as he was able to spread some Spanish around. The point is, Mr Lockley had no enemies at school.

Like a typical Spanish teacher, the register was taken in Spanish, if you wanted to ask to go to the toilet it had to be Spanish and if you wanted to pass notes in class they had better be in Spanish. He wasn’t the most forgiving, the man expected homework to be in on time and god help you if it was google translate. Mr Lockley would call you out, make you re-do it in his class at lunch or give detention to repeat offenders.

If students had been doing reasonably well he’d bring in some traditional Latin American foods for students to try, turn on a Spanish movie or even treat them to a little story about his past. Remember the Chef in Ratatouille that killed a guy with one thumb? That's the type of nonsense he talked about, albeit a bit more kid friendly. Most of the stories were embellished tales of him saving a grannies purse from being stolen, but some students always wondered about that hardened, broody looking teacher.

Mr Lockley prefers to keep his help to class time, long past learning his lesson about the very obvious students that came to him giggling and blushing behind their hands. On a rare occasion however, he will accept a student that comes knocking, overly apologetic and pleading for just a little help on their assignment, especially if the student is a quiet one. His lunch is set aside and he gestures for the student to take a seat before going over it with them, helping them with pronunciation, never shaming them or getting annoyed if they make a basic mistake. At the end he’ll even teach them how to say shit in Spanish, if they can keep it a little secret.

The classroom has posters of different Latin American countries, verbs and nouns, the different gendered terms. His desk was a little cluttered, a ‘Mejor Profesor’ mug, papers half marked and some drawings done by students hung nearby.

𝗕𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗝𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 - 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘆

No one's favourite teacher but everyone knew him and had something to say. If a student had him later in the day they’d need to pray the morning classes were well behaved or pray they knew someone in said classes that could give a heads up on his moods. It didn’t matter either way, you could walk in one him sucking on his lower lip and glaring the entire class down and walk away with him smiling and patting backs. It was every student for themselves in that class. The only consistency was the white lab coat he wore. 

There were obvious favourites, usually people who found a good balance of kissing his ass but not too overtly, asking for help while still expressing basic knowledge. If you asked too many questions, he would openly sigh or ignore you for someone else. If you gave an answer he thought was stupid, he wouldn’t hide the hands raking over his face in annoyance. If you were quiet and kept to yourself, you’d skirt by okay until one day in the middle of a lesson he calls your name with a faux chirp, predatory smile and ask a question. Answer correctly and you can rest assured he'll (probably) leave you alone for the next few lessons, answer wrong and enjoy doing exam questions as practice.

Detention for even a hint of a Breaking Bad reference. Openly hated a student named Jessie. Weirdly, students notice it's not the chemistry part that annoys him, it's the inaccurate portrayal of drug transactions and the costs. No one has dared ask why he knows so much about that.

Mr Jones’ door is usually locked at lunch and after class, he'll blatantly ignore any student that knocks and continue eating. On the stray chance a rare student manages to find him outside the class and has the balls to stop him, with his trademark sigh he'll begrudgingly set up a day and time to help them. It'll be a one-on-one session filled with eyerolls and being talked down to, but you'll get lots of extra knowledge and he'll even throw some of his old textbooks at you for free. Weirdly, he won't bother you in class anymore, just giving you a little smile out the corner of his eye.

The classroom has old periodic table posters from the teacher that retired years before him, and classroom rules about remembering to wear goggles or you'll go blind. The only thing on his desk besides several piles of paper is teacher mugs with variations of chemistry puns he pretends to hate.

[cain-speaks]

❣ 𝘾𝙍𝙐𝙎𝙃 ❣ || Wukong x Reader Oneshot

» crush (ethel cain) « 0:21 ─〇───── 3:20

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ One day I'll decide how I wanna format shit lmao. ➤ This is a oneshot. ➤ This is romantic. ➤ Reader is gender neutral (except for one use of "maiden" in reference to you). ➤ This oneshot includes Dragonhead/Triad!Wukong, who is apart of the Triad AU belonging to @skittlescripts! ➤ This oneshot in based off @dumplingsjinson's 4th unrequited-but-not-actually-unrequited-love prompt!! I originally had it here but decided to delete it incase you'd like to go into this kinda blind lol. ➤ If this is dumb I'm sorry I haven't had a genuine crush since like 2nd grade /gen. Also romance is NOT my strongsuit despite how much I read LMAO. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, denial of feelings, avoidance, lying, self-deprecation, angst, and crying. ➤ Word count: 4,300

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

❝ Camo jacket, robbing corner stores; hard odds to beat when you're on all fours .❞

You didn't want this.

You didn't want this.

It started off innocently enough—a blush when you caught the Great Sage's eye, a bit of a tremble to your voice or your knees when his hand brushed yours, squealing into your pillows when he gave you gifts. Embarrassing reactions, yes, but not surprising. Afterall, whole gods have found themselves swooning for the Monkey King even if they've a snowball's chance in hell at actually gaining his affections—what chance did your mortal self stand against the demon's wicked charm? But surely your little... celebrity crush didn't mean anything significant.

Except it did.

You barely ever had crushes growing up, much less attractions so passionate you could call them love. But with Wukong, it came far too easily. You loved the way he spoke, the way he held himself, the way he managed to create a community of loyal allies despite his many enemies. But then you also loved the simple things—his real laugh, the one that made him clutch his stomach and cackle until tears were dripping from his eyes; the way his tail swayed like a dog's and curled into a heart when he was excited; the way he smelt of peaches and flowers, as if he was a whole world just for you to—

No!

No, no, no!

This is how the greatest friendships crashed and burned. An insistent crush and a hopeful heart and a two-timing brain poisoning you with sweet what-ifs and flowery dreams is all it takes for you to make one irreversible, permanent step; for you to pour your heart out only to hear we can still be friends! and watch him drift away.

Well, not you. You weren't going to risk breaking your heart nor your and Wukong's friendship over a crush, no matter how serious. So after many sleepless nights of brainstorming (and daydreaming... goddamnit, brain!), you finally devised a plan to squash your feelings for the Monkey King.

1.) Create distance physically.

You tap your fingers against your thigh anxiously, fighting the urge to scratch angry red blotches into the skin while you wait for Wukong to pick up your call. You thought this method would be easiest for enacting Step 1, hoping Wukong and Macaque wouldn't be able to pick out any lies over the phone, but with how long it's taking him to answer, maybe it'd be easier to avoid him the hard way—

"Hey, peaches!" Wukong's cheery voice greets over the line, making you huff in relief. "What's up? You're not calling to ask if you can come up, right? Because you know I've told you you can just come, riiighttt?"

Your heart swoons ridiculously, and you have to aggressively remind yourself that hanging out with Wukong is the exact opposite of what you want to achieve.

"Yessss, I remember," you force out in a nasally, cracking voice that you pray sounds convincing. "But no, that's not why I'm calling."

"Oh, peaches, are you sick?" Wukong asks worriedly, and you can feel his furrowed eyebrows through the phone.

"No," you snark, and then you force out some rough-sounding coughs, grimacing at the way your throat stings. "This happens every year. Sometime near spring I get super sick for like a month—might be the pollen or something, I dunno."

"I never noticed," Wukong replies softly. "I'm sorry, peaches. I woulda helped you before if I'd realized."

Your heart flips again and you lean away from the phone to form a silent scream before returning. "It's—cough—fine. I'm a big girl, a little springtime bug isn't going to kill me. But it is gonna keep me in my house for a few weeks."

"In that case, why don't I let Macaque handle things for a bit and come over—"

"No!" You snap out, your hand immediately smacking over your mouth at the outburst. Fuck! You think, mind racing to recover from your fumble. You let out a series of coughs as you think, then lick your lips. "S-Sorry... while it means a lot that you'd do that for me, when I get like this... it's just easier to handle it alone. I don't really have the energy to be around people or have them around me."

You cross your fingers, your opposite hand gripping your clothes in a white-knuckle grip as a few beats of silence pass. God, let him believe me so I can hang up—

"Alright, peaches," Wukong replies softly, and you have to lean back so he won't hear the relieved huff of air you let out. You're so busy rejoicing you nearly miss what he says next. "But I'm still going to drop food off to you, alright?" Seeming to sense a coming argument from you, he adds, "I'll just drop it off at your door and send you a message."

You sigh, a small smile forcing it's way on to your face despite the situation still not being as perfect as you'd hoped for. "Guess I can't stop you, sunshine."

"Nope!" Wukong laughs, popping the p. "Get well soon! Who knows what mischief I'll be up to without my angel to keep me on the path of grace?" He cooes with a subtle purr to his words. A wild blush blooms on your face, burning your ear tips as you soak in what he said.

"You're supposed to be able to do that on your own, Great Sage," you croak out, burying your flushed face in your unused hand even though the cheeky monkey isn't here to see it.

"What's the fun in that?" Wukong snickers. Then his voice softens, squeezing your heart. "But seriously, take care of yourself, peaches. If you need space, that's fine, but if you need help, ask. There's nothing you could do that would chase me away."

What he says is sweet, so sweet, and dream-like. His words make you think of a fairytale, with you a fair maiden and him a brave, persistent, dragon-slaying knight.

But life's not a fairytale, and things won't go your way just because you wish on a star.

"Will do, Wuks," you say quietly. "Bye."

"Bye, peaches."

Beep-beep.

Step 1... achieved.

2.) Create distance emotionally.

You couldn't just get rid of your crush (well, you probably could, but that'd entail some magical mumbo jumbo you're not quite desperate enough for yet), but maybe you could weaken it by limiting how much exposure you had to Wukong. Hard, considering how popular he was, but surely not impossible!

So, to start off easy, you got rid of your merch. You were able to sell most of it online, but the more stuff you got rid of, the more... upset you felt. Which made sense, sure—it was stuff you loved, of course, and if you hadn't fallen in love with one of your best friends, you'd never part with it—, but your thoughts felt... insane. You found yourself wondering if people would take care of it, if they'd love it and find the same joy in it that you did.

The idea of someone doing anything less made your skin crawl, and for a few brief moments, you considered doing full deep dives on buyers to make sure the merch was going to a good home. Then you reasoned you sounded absolutely obnoxious, like some creepy fangirl and not a close friend of Sun Wukong, and gave the rest away without any further hesitance.

Goddamn, did it sting though.

True to his word, Wukong stopped by your house once every few days with food and medicine. At first, you were worried he'd try to talk to you or ask to come in, but the only way you even knew he'd been there was when he alerted you with a message. You were grateful for it, but words couldn't describe the relief you had that he left no gifts in the bags.

If he had, that might have set you right back to square one.

Your house felt... empty without Wukong's memorabilia, but you chopped it up to your distaste for change. Obviously the nearly crippling discomfort in your own home was because of the now-barren walls (no way it was because you'd just given away dozens of priceless items...), so you bought some pretty posters of bands, artists, and games you liked and hung them on the wall. It wasn't the same, but you supposed that within time, it'd become your new normal.

You decided to ignore the way that settled on your body like gloomy fog.

Now... for the harder part.

Aside from merch, Wukong had gotten you plenty of personal items. Clothes, jewelry, perfumes, cooking utensils you'd been eyeing, plushies, that sort of thing. You knew just by looking at it that it was expensive, probably things that would land you in debt for life if you'd bought it yourself, and rare, too. Likely some one-of-a-kind stuff, knowing Wukong.

You spent three nights despairing over what to do with them. Giving them away to the masses felt disrespectful to say the least, and with the way your heart shrieked, you decided to listen. Throwing them out didn't feel much better, neither did burying them (yeah... you were thinking of everything)... but you couldn't keep them. No, no, no, it'd just encourage your stupid crush if you caved and kept anything, especially the personal stuff!

So you did the only thing you could think of: give it to your family.

It still didn't feel great either way, but at least you knew they were being cared for. And if Wukong happened to ask for any of it back, it'd be easy to retrieve.

You expect to feel relieved at having found a solution, but it only fills you with dread.

All that's left are the notes.

You keep them in a pretty box in your desk. It's a deep red covered in bright splashes of color meant to resemble fireworks, with bright iron hinges on the back so it could open and close. It's perfectly pristine without so much a speck of dust upon it, its well-cared-for appearance taunting you as you lift it out of its drawer and sit on your bed.

You know you shouldn't look at them, but it's not like it'll change anything—you already have them memorized by heart, anyway.

Dear (name), "Sunshine", huh? Can't say it reflects much of who I am as an infamous, invincible god, but I'll take it over "simian" anyday! I think I'll call you "peaches" in return. It has a nice ring, doesn't it? Sunshine and peaches. Like two peas in a pod. Anyway. I hope you like the clothes!

You laugh softly as you read the note. This had been after you mistakenly let your unspoken nickname for him slip after one of his meetings, flustering both you and the unprepared Dragonhead. Despite your furious blush and profuse apologies, Wukong had made you explain your reasoning behind the nickname (which was mostly Macaque's fault—damn him and his "sun and moon" bullshit). You were mortified, thinking you'd set your and Wukong's relationship way back, but when he started calling you peaches...

Sunshine stuck, and you two really did become peas in a pod.

You've torn through the whole box of notes by the time you realize there are tears running down your cheeks. When realization hits, you bend over and press your hands to your face, open-mouthed sobs wracking your body.

Why'd it have to be him? You could've fallen hopelessly in love with anyone, and your heart chose him?

Wukong isn't the problem. No, not at all. Next to you, the Monkey King seems wild, volatile, too much. But that's only because you're a, well, mortal, incapable of shining even half as brightly as he does. Wukong's a god, an immortal king, a being who'd felled thousands in mere moments—your best friend deserves someone who could meet him at his level, not force him into some domestic role.

Someone better than you.

The thought sends a sharp wave rocking through your chest, but with it comes some rush of desperation—you don't know if it's to fight for or against something, but it leads you to pluck one of the notes from its place on the bed,

turn it over so you can't see the words,

and fucking shred it.

That night, as you lie amongst the torn pieces of paper, you can't help but feel like a sole survivor among a ruined city.

Step 2 is done.

3.) Find somebody else.

You have to admit, Step 3 was definitely a desperate plan B if nothing else worked, and, well...

Nothing else was working.

Your "sick" month had passed, and you were now three months into cold-turkeying Wukong. You were honestly surprised the Monkey King hadn't broken into your house yet, but based on some demon conflicts you'd seen on the news, you figured he was busy.

But that wasn't the problem. What was the problem was your crush hadn't waned in the slightest! In fact, your attempts to get rid of it had only made you want to run further into Wukong's arms, where you'd be drowned in the scent of peaches and flowers and the feeling of soft fur and a strong body against yours and—

Goddamnit!

Part of you felt... tired; sick of what you perceived as dramatic and begging for a break from the heartache. It whispered to you, questioning how good Wukong was to keep around if he would cut you loose just for a crush—even saying that it'd be good for you! Save you the trouble and put you on the path of healing before it got real bad... whatever that meant.

But the other half of you fought and it fought hard. You wanted Wukong, even if it meant you could only have him as a friend. He made you feel good and you'd die before giving that up—that was why you'd started this whole mess in the first place!

Besides. You were a mortal, temporary and simple. And adaptable and well-aged as he was, Wukong was still a several-millennium old god. Rules, unspoken or otherwise, were bound to look different for various relationships, and as far as you were concerned, falling head-over-heels, squealing-into-your-pillows and feet-kicking in love with one you called your best friend was written in big red letters right under no.

So you're here at a café (far away from Wukong's headquarters, you made sure), sitting across from... your date.

They're gorgeous. With fawn-colored skin, soft brown eyes, and blonde, orange dipped wavy hair, they make you think of summer, of singing birds and beach days and ice cream in the park. And they're sweet, easily cracking jokes with you and complimenting you without overwhelming you.

But they're not Wukong, and the way you remain acutely aware of that as you share sweet treats with them destroys any hope you had of growing out of this crush.

You're trying to think of ways to let them down gently when you hear the door chime go off. A new customer isn't earth-shattering (it's a public establishment, after all), but a chorus of sharp gasps and your date's frightened stare looking past you makes you turn.

And, god, you wish you hadn't.

Wukong walks into the café calmly, his face unreadable as he scans the booths. You're fairly certain you already know why he's here, but when his eyes meet yours you just know you're fucked.

The café owner bee-lines to Wukong. "G-Great Sage!" They greet, bowing low. "What brings you here?"

Wukong doesn't break eye contact with you. "Nothing to do with you," he answers smoothly before approaching you in long strides.

You can do nothing but watch as he approaches, pinning your tongue between your teeth as you hold the intensity of his stare. Your date, seemingly noticing the tension between you two, reaches out to grasp your hand, but you gently pull away with a shake of your head.

"I'm sorry," you whisper sincerely, sliding enough money for the meal towards them just before Wukong reaches your booth.

The monkey eyes your date, unblinking. If this was any other situation (one where you hadn't avoided him for three months), you'd give him a gentle kick to the leg or something so he'd knock it off. But the situation is too tense, his presence too damning, and you're grateful for the few seconds you get from out beneath the demon's fiery gaze.

"Peaches," he finally murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "We need to talk."

Fuck.

You get up without a word, placing your purse over your shoulder and heading towards the front door with your eyes on your feet. You can feel everyone's eyes on you—or rather, the two of you, as Wukong walks beside you until you reach the door, which he opens for you. Then he follows you out, staying just far enough behind you that he doesn't step on your heels.

Neither of you speak until you get to a bridge, void of people and surrounded by cherry blossom trees. Wukong stops beside you as you peer over the edge.

"Peaches," he says, his voice still soft. "What's going on?"

Fuck.

You immediately deflect. "How did you find me?"

You hear him suck in a breath.

"How?" You hiss out, glaring up at him.

He stares at you in silence for a moment, then turns on his phone. As he presses a button, your phone vibrates in your hand.

"You tracked my phone?" You ask, blinking owlishly.

"You weren't answering me," replies Wukong simply, pocketing his phone again.

Your face flushes in frustration. "I was out—"

"For three months?"

That makes you go silent. Your phone vibrates again, making the screen light up. You can see Wukong's name in your notifications, but you dare not look to see how many there are, lest it condemn you further.

"You know, I went to your house," Wukong carries on, his voice thickening. "All the stuff I got you is gone."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

"Yeah," you mumble, your gaze falling to the ground.

"Why? Did you not like it?"

You're torn between honesty and further denial. In the end, Wukong speaks before you can make a choice.

"You didn't throw out the notes."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"It took—" his voice chokes out for a second. Your body tenses, your hands turning to white-knuckled fists at your sides. You don't look up. "It took a lot to put them together, surprisingly. Were really dedicated when you tore 'em up, huh?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Did you lie about being sick? Did you... were you just trying to get away from me?"

"It's not like that," you say, rushed, and you know as soon as the words leave your lips that you shouldn't have spoken.

"Then what is it like?" Wukong chokes out in a thick voice, but you still refuse to look him in the eye.

"I... needed alone time," you mumble.

"Why couldn't you say that?" Wukong replies, a bit of sharpness to his tone, and you can't help but feel like you've opened up the floodgates. "Do I make you feel so unsafe that you'll lie to get away from me?"

"Don't assume things about me," you snap hotly, your eyes flickering to his. They glow with a subtle red color, fixated on you, a testament to his growing emotion in the situation. But that's not what gets you.

It's the tears collecting in his eyes.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

"What else am I supposed to do?" He grits out. "You ignored me for three months. You didn't even text back to say if you were still sick, or if you just wanted me to stop contacting you—"

"Wukong, I—" you try, taking a step backward when the monkey flings his arms.

"And you didn't answer MK or Macaque, either!"

"Wukong—"

"You scared the shit out of me, peaches!"

"And I'm sorry for that," you bite out, managing to shut him up for a minute. You gulp, your grip on your purse tightening. "But I had... I have a problem I have to fix—"

"What is it? If you would just tell me I could help!" Wukong exclaims, reaching towards you.

"No!" You shout, twisting away from him. "You can't help, Wukong!"

"You don't know that!"

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

"I do! I do know that!"

"How?! How could—"

"BECAUSE HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA FIX ME LOVING YOU?"

Wukong falls silent. Still. Your hands slap over your mouth.

The two of you stand in silence for what feels like forever. The river feels deathly silent, and not even the wind blows. Finally, you remove your hands.

"I-I mean, I can fix it, don't worry," you say quickly, the words spilling from your lips like water. "T-These feelings are temporary, I promise. They're just, uh, a b-bit more stubborn than I was expecting, y-y'know? But they're nothing serious, I swear! I-I know I've been difficult these past few months, I know, I'm sorry, just, please, Wukong, don't leav—"

"They're what?" is all Wukong utters, his stare burning through you.

You startle for a second, hands dropping to your chest. "T-They're temporary," you repeat. "Not serious, I swear. Nothing has to change."

Wukong doesn't reply at first. Then:

"What if I want them to be serious?"

Your heart nearly stops in your chest at the force of your surprise. "What?" is all you can get out, staring owlishly at the demon.

"I said," he speaks slowly, stepping towards you. "What if I want them to be serious? To be permanent? What if I want you to be head over heels for me, hm?"

You shiver as he stands before you, hands ghosting over your hips.

"What if I want it all to change, peaches?"

Your heart thumps in your chest, your mind desperately trying to make sense of what he's saying.

Surely he's not... he doesn't mean...

"I don't understand," you whisper, your hands hesitantly pressing against his chest.

"Oh, peaches," he cooes softly, leaning in until his forehead rests against your's and all you can see are his eyes.

"Wu—"

"I love you, (name)."

Your breath catches in your throat, your mouth falling open in shock. Your entire body freezes, your thoughts halted as you process his words...

and then your heart soars.

"Me?" You crack out, a blush warming your skin exponentially. It's a bit overwhelming, the mix of love, surprise, and unfiltered relief. So much so that you can't stop the tears from building up in your eyes and slipping out as you stare up at him. "You love me?"

"Of course," Wukong says softly, his fingers reaching up to brush your tears away. "How couldn't I?"

A sob leaves your mouth at the question. "'C-Cause you're... I'm—"

"Simple?" Wukong ventures, frowning at your nod. He huffs, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "Peaches, you are anything but simple. You're brilliant and talented and witty and a quick-learner. You keep me guessing even now, and I've been around for a while," he soothes sweetly, a breath of laughter to his voice.

You can't help but laugh a little with him, your heart swelling at his compliments. Your hands slide up his chest and his neck, feeling the soft fur slide through your fingers, and settle on his cheeks. You mirror him then, your thumbs petting his cheek bones and brushing away the wetness in his eyes. Another wave of fresh tears overcomes you when he leans into your hands.

"You're the closest thing to perfection I've ever seen," Wukong murmurs emotionally, one of his hands retracting to engulf one of your's. "You're my girl. My peach. My qíng rén."

A sob breaks free of your lips again as you pull Wukong against you, hiding your face in his chest as you cry. The Dragonhead curls around you, as if shielding you from the outside world, which you're thankful for.

Damn. All of this to find out the great Monkey King loves you back? You're not complaining, god no! Despite your tears, your heart is doing tricks, somersaults and great leaps and cartwheels. It's just...

You definitely have some communication skills to work on, you think.

That can wait, though, you think then, your crying finally tapering out. You manage to tilt your head enough to see Wukong's face, the demon smiling down sweetly at you. Your fingers fiddle with his tie for a moment before drifting upwards and holding his face again.

"Peaches," Wukong calls softly, holding your gaze. "What're you thinking?"

You pause before answering. "I... I want to kiss you," you admit, watching the monkey's face turn a red hue similar to your's. "Can I?"

His ears wiggle, his nose twitches, and then he nods, and you can feel his tail wagging by your legs.

The time for picking on his adorable monkey mannerisms will come later, because right now all you're focused on is bringing Wukong's lips to yours and finally knowing how it feels to kiss the Great Sage.

It's done at an awkward angle since Wukong didn't let you go, the both of you straining a bit to meet each other in the middle, and you break away fast, but it's perfect to you. Maybe not how you imagined a requited crush kiss going, but it's your greatest wish come true in spite of that.

"I love you," he breathes.

Your breath catches again, your heart still flipping ecstatically. "Say it again."

Wukong grins, fangs peeking out of his smile. "I love you, qíng rén."

As you bring the Dragonhead into another kiss, you think of one thing.

Maybe fairytales do exist after all.

❝ Good men die too, so I'd rather be with you .❞

[imagineitdearies]

Do you have any writing tips when it comes to building tension?

You are so good at it! I see the happy ending tag, I know the happy ending is coming and yet I've never been so stressed out.

Hi anon! What a great but complicated question 😂

Tension is intrinsically tied to so many other aspects of a story. For instance, you have to spend time on character development--if your readers don't care about the character all this is happening to, why would it matter what they're facing?

Another big one is to develop a conflict that continues to raise the stakes--in Perfect Slaughter, Tyrus starts out with the conflict of Cazador forcing eternal slavery on him, right? But that's only the beginning. Tension rises as he develops a relationship, because then the antagonist can also threaten the one source of joy/love he has, which is arguably even more important. Giving your protagonist more to lose throughout a story really heightens the stakes!

I'll cover just a couple more: foreshadowing and pacing.

Foreshadowing is a huge tool, because how else would the reader know what to fear/anticipate? I like to create conflict even in my foreshadowing, too. In Perfect Slaughter, there's all kinds of story beats and scenes where having hope and doing good increases love/happiness (at a cost), and succumbing to corruption and evil helps you gain power (at a cost). These two different truths battle each other a lot and sit in conflict with each other, building up the tension as readers wait in anticipation for which truth the narrative will follow and which cost is worth it. Sidenote: when you have two threads of foreshadowing that seem irreconcilable, having a third, more subtle truth that trumps them both at the end really pays off the tension in an exciting way.

When it comes to pacing, you can add tension if you vary the fast action scenes and the slow, contemplative scenes, because readers can always be anticipating a change (when it's slow, it's about to ramp up; when it's fast, they can reward themselves with a cooldown if they keep reading). If it was high stakes all the time, that would get boring pretty quick.

And one more thing about endgame pacing--keep a "rule of three" when it comes to failures in building up tension for the final conflict, though I would personally say "at least three," haha. And if it's a long story, you can mitigate that by having overarching failures as well as failures in the climax itself. (spoiler warning for recent events below!!)

Some overarching failures in Perfect Slaughter include but are not limited to: 1) Tyrus forms an alliance with Ulma, but it goes nowhere, 2) When he tries to slow down the Ascension, Cazador quickly learns and intervenes, and 3) When he starts enacting his plan, the other people involved in it change things up!

Failures in the climax: 1) Lady Amanita, 2) Cazador coerces Tyrus into drinking the sick victim, 3+) **Pending** lol.

These should be broken up by successes, of course, like Tyrus learning how to control Chatterteeth, allying with Lady Incognita, marrying the Ascension rite and Perfect Slaughter rite together, etc. Basically crafting a "Will they, won't they?" of the highest order with your main conflict!

There's so much to story crafting, so others can feel free to add commentary/advice! But I hope this was helpful 💙

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Astarion's plans go awry when confronted with his own past.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 12: Hunt*

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.6k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Smut, Vaginal Sex, CPTSD episode during sex, Cazador, Blood & Violence, Act 1 Spoilers

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Vampires are some of the deadliest monsters we may contend with. I do not relish my current mission to seek out the spawn, Astarion. But, he may be the only way we can ever see our children again. I am plagued by visions of them being carried away by these blood hungry creatures. Plagued even more by their screams that fill my mind in the most quiet of hours. Full blooded vampires become consumed with whatever they set their eyes upon. But spawns—I have to wonder—if they were to escape their masters, would they be able to redeem themselves if they took the road less traveled?

— Gandrel of the Gur Tribe, journal entry 567

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

“I suppose I should, yet again, count myself lucky: the bastard is alone,” Astarion smirked, picking a few stray leaves from his clothes. He had just returned from a lengthy scouting trip assessing the hunter they may parley with.

It had been several days of traversing rocky footpaths until they arrived in the Sunlit Wetlands. Several days of anxious nights wondering if Cazador sent more pawns to retrieve him. Several days of nothing more than forlorn glances exchanged with the elven songstress.

Wyll crossed his arms, concentrating on Astarion’s face. “That at least bodes well. Did he look familiar to you?”

“Not at all. Though I have met a lot of the city’s miscreants over the years, it’s possible he’s a scorned lover of a lover that Cazador convinced to seek vengeance. He had a lot of connections in the city—so it’s hard to say.”

“Let’s fucking goooo,” Karlach roared as her axe split apart a piece of log. She swiped away wood dustings from her brow, turning to the vampire. “What makes you think this is Cazador’s doing, fancy boy?”

“Oh, how could I forget that it must be one of my many adoring fans, come to shake my hand out in the middle of blasted nowhere,” Astarion replied with a sneer. “Tell me: who else could it be?!”

Of course it had to be his former master! Cazador Szarr would do anything to ensure his spawns stayed forever reliant upon him. For them to know that survival without him wasn’t possible. Astarion knew deep down that no matter how he repeatedly longed for freedom, if he showed up, without question the vampire spawn would still feel betrothed as a slave to enact his heinous mandates. Compelled or not, the attachment to him remained.

The fiery tiefling teetered her axe over her shoulder, ready to swing downward again. “Alright. Alright. As much as I’m always raring to go, I just want to be sure we aren’t getting caught in a trap, yea?”

She had a point. Cazador, reclusive as he was, commandeered powers that most were unaware. Their group was mighty, but could they defeat a vampire lord? It would be nearly impossible, but the fraction of a percentage that they could end his life for good, ignited an invaluable resolve inside of the spawn.

Astarion debonairly examined his nails. “Well, darlings, I’m sure I can go about this on my own if you’re not up for a bit of potential excitement.”

“I have every bit of faith you can handle this by yourself, but I think it goes without saying that hunters are all too well-versed in regions such as these. There may be something we don’t know from what you’ve investigated,” Wyll interjected.

“Why Wyll, the famed monster hunter is going to help protect a monster?! I could kiss you! Or bite you—if that is your preference,” the vampire giddily responded, clasping his hands together as he flashed the tip of his fang.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves Astarion,” Wyll chuckled, uncrossing his arms to gesture a stop signal with his hand. “Shall we say around morrow’s noon we head down to speak with the stranger?”

“I’d prefer to stab first, but if you insist, who am I to deny such a handsome face?” Astarion flirtatiously bowed his head.

Karlach visibly shrugged her shoulders, breathing out a long sigh. “Ugh, finnnne. Let’s get this good and over with before something awful happens to your pretty face and you break someone’s fucking heart.”

“My dearest Karlach, are you saying you wouldn’t miss me?”

“I’m saying that our leader wouldn’t be all too happy with any of us if we just let you sod off on your own,” she clarified firmly. “By the way, you may want to speak with Tav about our plans.”

The vampire fisted his hand near his mouth, pretending to cough. “Ahem, well, I’m sure she’s been far too busy entertaining our newest druidic hunk we’ve adopted to camp. They’ve been practically braiding each other's hair since the party.”

“Gods, you don’t sound jealous at all,” she teased. “And look who it is! Mornin’ to you soldier!”

And there she was. Trailing into camp on melodies she sang under her breath. Lavender and vanilla invisibly suffocating him with its whorls of scent around his neck.

Wyll waved in her direction. “Tav! Could we trouble you for a moment?”

Tav quietly nodded, giving him a subtle smile out of the corner of her mouth.

“Astarion just returned back from surveying the bog and it would seem that this hunter is currently alone. Few weapons, but I reckon he has the good sense to protect himself with other means.”

“The three of us are heading down to speak with him come highsun tomorrow. But, if shit goes bad, we’ll be armed,” Karlach added, flexing her arm high in the air. “Hey, are you okay? You look awful.”

“There is nothing to worry about, Karlach. Personal matters.” The bard tried to peer behind the tiefling, staring at the elven man that was clearly avoiding her. “Astarion, did you approve of this?”

He raised his head, the state of her startling him. The skin around her eyes was swollen, a glaze of wetness having long filmed over her sclera. It was evident she had been crying on and off since their last encounter. She was lacking her usual demure aura, visibly rundown.

Astarion cocked a bleary eyebrow at her. “I did.”

“Then, I trust you to handle this to the best of your abilities.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

In the middle of the night’s air, Astarion stood outside of Tav’s tent entrance, overwrought with a queasiness burning the walls in his stomach.

After their argument several days ago, he left in a panicked state to hide under the forest canopy bordering their camp. The illusion of hyperventilation attacked his lungs—a memory of it really—as he held onto the bulwarked trunk of a tree. And then, blood spewed from his mouth. He leaned over, coughing and vomiting up a mouthful of the bear’s crimson he consumed earlier that evening.

He had charmed and manipulated Tav enough times to create the image that would steal her away like a rogue in the night. And she craved it. She wanted him to fill the role of her abductor, appearing from behind the curtains in her bedroom, to entice her with cool lips on her knuckles and sworn covenants of intimacy with his bite. Urging her to just let go.

Yet, his plan kept hitting snags.

Without a doubt, he knew his instinctual techniques were all in order. When there had been a few mishaps, he quickly adapted and switched his tactics. But, what he didn’t account for—what he had little to no proficiency in—was dealing with these people’s bygone histories for this length of time. Try as he might to reluctantly focus on the lamentable surface details of the bard and the kettle of vultures—their companions—that circled the hearth of their campfire, piles of their shit kept unearthing themselves like the carcasses of burying beetles.

And he didn’t fucking care.

Why should he? He didn’t know them. Oh, they were a formidable bunch, each having inherited an adeptness for physical or magical strength. He extended his belief in them about as far as relying on them in battle would allow him. But what had they truly done for him otherwise? It wasn’t them that offered mercy upon his vampiric existence and allowed him to stay within their group. It wasn’t them that made sure he was properly fed, baptizing him in their blood.

No, the only person he owed a speckle of his acknowledgement to was the songbird with the voice of singing jewels. Though she challenged him at every nook and cranny of their time together, she was the only one to judge him in such a way that seemed fairly balanced.

Until now.

Tav with her saintly observations, was becoming aware of his methodical ministries. Perhaps not in the sense that she could pinpoint exactly what his strategy was, but gods, her cursed awareness and the cloistered tale of her former life, filled him with enough discomfort he almost considered forgoing his plan entirely.

She knew something was amiss with him. She knew he had to be embellishing everytime he damn near spoke to her about anything other than his wretched past. So, why didn’t she make more of an effort to single him out and put him on trial? Had she been waiting for him to tell her otherwise? To correct her misgivings she was having about him.

It made him uneasy to not know. He could poke around in her mind with their worms, but that certainly wouldn’t bode well if she was unreceptive to the notion.

What an absolute shitshow, Astarion chastised when a strained laugh cut silently through his teeth.

Not to mention the realization that it was not only the façade of her companionship and intimacy he would have to contend with. This foe was clever—more so than he. It had been in her life years before him. Knew her in ways he had yet to scour. And when she tried to disobey it, it had a way of enticing her back into the comfort of its everlasting punishment.

And the name of such a formidable nemesis? Her past.

He couldn’t afford to lose her—not yet. It was too soon and far too late to humor his whims on another camp occupant. Nay, he would see this through to the end. Tav’s or anyone else’s lives be damned!

“I can smell the bergamot in your oils,” a meek voice breathed out. “You can come in whenever you’re ready.”

Astarion deeply inhaled, preparing himself to face her, knowing he may have to use his body for another nightfall to convince her not to forsake him. His performance hinged on being immaculate tonight—to be everything she wanted.

Another transaction: imitated comfort for the reinstated troth of her loyalty.

He lowered himself to his knees and opened the flap of her tent to enter. Tav sat with the used lute on her lap, twisting and tuning the pegs on her bare thighs. She struck a chord, listening intently as the sounds vibrated off the walls of blue linen, then adjusted further or moved onto the next string.

She lifted her head to acknowledge him. With the candlelight casting a golden glow across her face, Astarion thought this may have been one of the few times she possessed such a delicate lethargy.

“Is something the matter?”

“I—no,” he paused. What would be the right thing to say in this situation? “I thought it would be in my good nature to check in on you. But if now isn’t a good time, I can come back later.”

Tav blinked at him several times, then gestured for him to come further in with a nod. He scooted closer to her on his knees, allowing the flap of the tent to cascade off his back like a discarded blanket.

“I'm not a fan of this lute, especially the strings on it, but some things can’t be helped right now. I should be grateful Alfira could even find one available for me,” she spoke softly as if he wasn’t there. “Hopefully, when we make it to a different area or even the city, I can buy a new one.”

The vampire cleared his throat, resting his sweating palms on his thighs. “There’s differences between them? I mean, of course the details are not the same, but what of the sound?”

A shallow smile formed at the corner of her mouth as she continued fiddling with the tune. “Lutes, flutes, drums, violins—any musical instrument really—sounds different depending on several factors. The material used. Strings. Weight. Length. It all determines the sound produced.”

“What type of wood do you prefer for your lutes?”

The messy bun pinned on top of her head bobbed as she popped her head up to stare at him. “Spruce. Always spruce. It has the brightest sound—perfect for ballads.” She pushed her bangs to the side as an afterthought, placing the instrument by her side. “I appreciate you coming here tonight, but you don’t need to pretend you’re actually interested in a music lesson.”

“My dear, I have quite the appreciation for the arts of all kinds,” he grinned. “However, since your perception precedes you, I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then I realized that the whole thinking part was actually a worry.” He covered his lies by slowly lifting his eyes under a refuge furled lashes to peer at her.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Tav stated, pursing her lips.

“I’ll have you know, that I could be sinking my fangs into a deer al fresco right about now, but instead I choose to be here. Now, let’s forego this game of hopscotch and chat.”

She ran the pads of her fingers along the edging of her nightshirt. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to revisit parts of our disagreement from a few days ago—if you’re willing to talk about it with me.”

He wasn’t willing, but what choice did he have if he wanted to keep up this charade with her?

Astarion cocked his head to the side to nod, flaring his nostrils with a practiced breath. “If it's truly that bothersome to you, then I suppose I could pencil you in right this very second to listen.”

He could hear the strums of her pulse trembling. She was nervous.

Blood rushed to her lips, coloring them in roses. He saw tears welling up, threatening to spill over her lower lids. She could no longer hold it in. “First of all: I’m so so sorry, Astarion. What you said about ‘power’ reminded me so much of…I…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like I did. You are your own person, not some reanimated villain of my tragedies.”

Ah, so she wished to focus on her reactions instead of the subject he hastily broached during his blood drunken stupor. How very like her to satisfy her own accountability. This could work in his favor.

Astarion would not press. Should she circle back to his unfavorable comments, well, he could always blame it on the mind flayer tadpole having deceptively influenced his mind after their encounter with other ‘true souls.’ In case he needed to change routes in the moment to suit her thoughts and actions, he made a mental note to be considerably more deliberate in reading her facial expressions.

Finding out just how much power these worms wielded, delighted the vamp. Of course they would be valuable in advancing his fight against Cazador, but directing those around him to do as he pleased? Gods.

The positions he could seat! The material wealth he could own! The liberty to indulge in all manners of debauchery and authority!

A future living side by side with an illithid creation suddenly didn’t sound so horrible.

“May I ask who he is?” he questioned, trying to inflict his tone to a more polite wisp.

She shied away from looking at him directly, guilt-ridden and hiccuping. Tav’s lips trembled, shaking her head to refuse him while she continued to weep.

It intrigued Astarion to see the normally strong-hearted woman bearing this unknown man’s crown of thorns with the pith of his blackened blood dripping from her eyes like melted candles. Days ago, during their night’s quarrel, the soul mark behind his ear hammered rapidly to the point of searing pain when she mentioned him. This man—this incubus—still choked her with his malignant hands, even though he was probably leagues away.

The hells cracked open, And he was reborn. With evil tongues spoken, Her scrawled promises would not be mourned.

While bewitching the bard had been as ordinary to Astarion as any everyday routine, she was hiding the flotsam of her personal dogmas sundered by this same mortal, making his task all the more difficult. A heretic to her own emotions.

They were both slaves to their pasts and towed the weighted cold night visions where escape seemed nothing more than mere fantasy. And he felt something by this acknowledgment. A blink of connection to her in the form of empathy.

Empathy?

Hells, it had been so long since he knew any emotion except anger, terror, and numbness. But, empathy held dire consequences. One of the last times he felt any ounce of said emotion, cost him a year of starvation inside of that derelict burial place. The memory still seemed so fresh in comparison to the ages he’d lived. If he let himself know empathy once more, it would mean allowing himself to be in a position of the same weakness he had been in for centuries.

“You don’t understand how awful I feel for how I reacted,” Tav managed to squeeze out of her throat.

He moved further within the tent to sit cross-legged in front of her, angling his head downwards to grab her attention. “Silly creature, of course I understand how awful you feel. Your heart is literally an open wound gushing onto everyone it passes. If someone ran into you, YOU would be the one to apologize.

“We’re still alive, aren’t we? Well, you are at least, but I do have the advantage of being ravishing forever,” he added with a quip.

The bard laughed as her body shook with sobs. Hands flew to her face, catching the falling tears with dabs of her fingertips.

“Darling.” He reached out to her with his palm up. “Come here. I can’t leave you blubbering like some muppet begging for scraps.”

Taking a hesitant breath, Tav placed her hand gingerly into the inviting salve he offered, holding onto it tightly. “A moment longer. I have more to say.”

Astarion’s mind filled with dread. If she terminated their agreement, that would be it—his protection would cease. The possibility of Cazador dragging him off screaming into the shadows, felt more real than it ever had been. Swiftly, his brain sprang into action. He would use whatever methods possible to adapt.

Touch. Comfort. Sex. Promises. Encouragement. Which would she need?

“Don’t keep me in suspense now, my sweet. You know how I hate to wait,” he smirked in his typical silvery tone.

“I’m trying to word this as not to sound like a psychotic lover here,” she laughed anxiously. “But, I have run ’us’ through my mind more times than I can count and I keep wondering if it would be best if we end whatever this is between us. Casual distractions would be much easier if we didn’t see each other everyday, but we don’t have that luxury and—

“Do you even like me?” Tav questioned wearily. It was apparent such ideas had been consuming her.

No.

“Do I like you? I mean, you definitely have a certain set of allures about you,” he answered slowly. He wasn’t lying about her qualities—if that’s what people choose to call them—but, no, he did not care for her.

A grimace settled on her expression as she removed her hand from his.

“Were you expecting a more defined answer?”

The bard chewed at her lip lightly with her front tooth. “I’m expecting something that doesn’t feel like you’re acting on stage,” she replied stiffly. “You seem so versed in saying all the right things, but there is a pit in my stomach warning me it’s not all true. I don’t want you to force yourself with me.”

Oh, but he would force himself. His survival depended on it.

The spawn ran his hand through his curls, flashing a glib smile she didn’t detect. “Ha! Could that be your own insecurities speaking? Or shall I get down on my knees and recite a sonnet of my undying affections for you? Would you believe me then?”

Turning away, she looked past him towards the ground. “Is it so wrong for me to desire something real, Astarion?”

Hope.

She wanted hope.

He could perform hope.

The vampire enclosed her ruddy cheek with his hand, thumbing a gentle swipe across the roundest point. She shut her eyelids lazily, microscopic tears still adhering on her lashes like diamond dust.

“Don’t turn away from me, Tavelle,” he commanded her gently. “A woman that has as much to offer as you, deserves to hold her head up high and be worshiped.”

As if to confirm her yearning for him, her eyes roamed half-opened to search his face. She fisted the ruffling of his shift tightly, pulling herself taut against his chest to crash her lips fervently against his with a tight gasp.

The kiss was urgent. Delivered as if they’d both turn into smoke in an instant. Like she’ll lose me someday, Astarion thought.

He could hear her heartbeat stepping out of its darkness, begging, begging, begging him to cradle her adorations for him.

Kneading his pale lips on hers instinctually, she tangled a free hand into waves of silvery-white earning her a low hum from the deepest reaches of his voice box. “Star…" she incanted into his mouth.

Fluidly, he reached up to unpin her hair, allowing her tresses to fall over her shoulders. He decorated his lithe digits with her silken strands, tugging her head gently backwards to drop fervid pecks down her throat. She cried out, sputtering lilting syllables of his name everytime he idly rearranged his hold on her hair.

Tav held onto his arms as he worked his tongue in circles. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me,” she pleaded, clawing at his clothes.

Releasing her hair, he pulled Tav back in to seam their mouths together. She sucked tenderly on his upper lip, grazing her tongue horizontally across it, before she finally nipped at it playfully.

He pushed his nose into her cheek, abruptly stopping them. She was short of breath, heaving in anticipation for him to kiss her again.

Grabbing her chin firmly, Astarion’s eyes flitted down to her lips as he spoke mere centimeters from them. ”You’ve slowly been driving me insane,” he roughly asserted, avoiding her want for affirmations.

She snuck her fingers up the length of him, lacing them behind his neck. Her lips parted, a husky reply threatening to swallow them whole. “What do you mean to do with me then?”

A lukewarm thumb found safety pressed against her lips. The tip of her tongue tunneled through the gap of her mouth and licked a teasing small patch of skin on the inside of it. Debauched images of him drawing blood from her tongue filled his mind. Biting and biting every inch of her supple flesh until he had his fill of her essence settling like a fine wine in his veins. He panted maddeningly at the thought, his shaft hardening immediately.

Then, the minx slinkingly shifted onto his lap, encircling her legs on either side of his hips. She undulated on the length of his bulge compressed in the middle of her soaked smalls and his trousers. Insolently, she yanked a handful of his hair. He hissed at the delicious pain now aching through his cock and the back of his head.

Pallid dexterous hands ripped the front of her shirt open, cutting buttons loose to fly into the air. The strength of his paw found her breast hiding behind the torn fabric and he squeezed it considerably, pinching an erect nipple. She moaned his name, trying to keep her body upright.

Sharp teeth nibbled a sliver of flesh near the corner of her lips. “Is this what you need? For me to take you as I please?”

Tav nodded innocently, her whole body turning flush with desire.

And then something feral snapped inside of Astarion. That spine-tingling rapacious trait that was half vampire and half carnal man. He could have her if he wanted her; whenever he wanted. Fill him with her blood just to sate him. Her life belonged to him, if he so chose to take it.

“You can follow instructions properly, can’t you sweetheart?” Astarion grumbled as he tucked strands of her hair behind her ear. A strangled noise squeaked from her mouth as she shook her head. “Good. Now listen closely: I want you to unlace my pants, push your smalls to the side, and slide my cock inside that very wet slit of yours.”

The songstress whimpered, whilst she untied the bindings of his fly. “I want to be good for you, Astarion.”

Fuck, his name sounded like the filthiest sin coming from her mouth.

He peeled back the material of her shirt from her heaving bosom, exposing her soft milkiness. Humming around one of her pink buds that popped into his mouth, he felt her remove him from his pants with a few precursory strokes. Instinctively, his gaze feasted on the light bluish veins spreading across her breasts. Just a single bite couldn’t hurt?

“Hells,” he groaned as she sunk the crown of his cock into her clenching heat. “You like being this drenched for me, don’t you?”

“Only you…gods…make me like this,” Tav sang out, holding the back of his head while she adjusted to him inside her.

Her wetness dripped down his length as she stuffed him further into her, trickling down to settle on his testicles. A howling wail started from the middle of Tav’s diaphragm up through her windpipe when she glided up his erect prick once and came back down to his hilt. Astarion chased her mouth with his, muffling her frenzy with open-mouthed kisses.

“Shhh. Shh, songbird,” he hushed in a chuckle. “We are about to wake the lot of this camp soon.”

“I’m sorry. Just love…having you…inside of me,” she giggled lowly, kissing him with blistering ardor between her words.

Surprising the bard by grabbing under her ass, Astarion cajoled her to ride the stiff hardness in his lap. Tav hooked herself onto his shoulders, using them for support while she bounced upon him. Her tits brushed against his shirt with her movements, causing her swollen buds to stay hardened.

My prodigal son, what do we have here?

Master.

Ah, of course. Tonight would belong to the echoes of Cazador. There would be no need for the paralysis that enthralled the spawn’s body to take over, not when his master’s commands needed to be minded.

The vampire busied his fingertips by pressing them further into her flesh, focusing on her slickness encompassing all those nerves at the tip of his cock. He pushed her all the way down to his base, relishing the swaddling of her warmth around him.

A bard, hmm? Bring her to me.

Yes, master.

He reached a hand down in between them to swipe his thumb through her folds, caressing her clit in gentle circles. Tav’s mouth formed into a small “o.”

Look at her—enjoying your flesh like a whore. She’s exactly like all the others. You are only meant to satisfy her needs as a means to fulfill my hunger.

I won’t disobey you master.

“My sweet, turn around and let me fuck you from behind,” he urged mildly, trying to maintain his composure.

Astarion couldn’t let her see. He was steadily losing his grip on their surroundings, disappearing into the quilted stars of the night sky he summoned as he disconnected. If she saw he wasn’t present again, she would send him away.

Tav didn’t respond, continuing to pump his shaft with her tight cunt at a steady pace. She opened and closed her mouth in silent moans, replaced by heady breaths. Did she not hear him? He placed his hands on her waist attempting to settle her motions.

Would you like to hear her sing, Astarion? How do you think she’ll sound with her blood gurgling in her throat as I feed from her?

“Turn around,” he demanded firmly.

Body slowing to a near halt, she cupped his cheeks with a litany of fingers rasping the sharpness of his bones. She pressed a peck to his lips. “Lover, I want to look into your eyes while I’m on top.”

He bucked his hips maneuvering his legs to lift her off of him enough to push her down onto her bedroll. Spreading her legs open, he swiftly settled in between her thighs, and brashly reentered her with a concrete plunge. The bard yelped in shock, clutching his biceps tightly.

Soulmates? Tsk. Did my beloved spawn forget that he is not allowed to be connected to anything except me? Get rid of her mark.

I wish to please you master. Allow me to show my fealty to you.

His vision rapidly moved from side to side until he arched Tav into him to rest his forehead onto her soulmate mark, hiding, endeavoring it to disappear on its own so he wouldn’t have to hurt her. He thrust up into her hurriedly, trying to chase her to the banks of her climax to end his delusions.

“Wait,” she uttered as he drove into her.

Astarion ignored her, opening his mouth to frame his teeth around her soul mark. He must dispose of it.

“Astarion, no. Don’t bite there,” Tav ordered, snaring his curls at the root. “Look at me. Please.”

He’s everywhere. He knows where I am. He’s already taken everything from me. I’ll never be free, Astarion screamed inwardly in anguish.

His fangs pricked the first layer of her epidermis, pellets of crimson gathering around the invasion. The bard severely yanked his head to detach him, dribbles of her blood coating his lips. “I said no! GET OFF OF ME,” she shrieked, thrashing her body under him.

They became motionless. Her face had morphed into thousands upon thousands of blurry conquests. Voices: high and low, moaning, whispering their pleasures. Luring each of them in the dead of night to their death eternal. And Astarion, bound to the scaffold with a noose around his neck, forever being led back into Cazador’s arms.

And then her eyes were suddenly there in focus. Afraid and sorrowful. Full of tears. For her. For him. Rainy storm clouds floating across the earth. Tav with her inquisitor view, leading him on a pilgrimage away from the haunts of his deadened soul.

She covered her nakedness, pulling her ripped shirt over her breasts. Two pin prick spots of blood seeped through the fabric, reminding him of his violation. He was disgusted with himself.

What had he done?

“Tav, I’m sor—” Astarion proclaimed hoarsely, loosening his brace on her waist.

Tav reached up to place a hand on his cheek. “Leave,” her voice whispered sternly.

He couldn’t wash this away and escape what he was made into.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Burning iron-vine powder levitated in a cloudy haze around them.

A Gur?! A godsdamned bloody Gur. Cazador’s cruel humor never seemed to fail; he must have sent him.

His mind started to race. Astarion’s safety may be coming to an end. It was a misjudgement to ever presume that he could disappear without facing the repercussions of his former master. Would he ever have somewhere to land from all this falling?

“You’re Astarion?!” The monster hunter loudly said in surprise. “Apologies to your companions, but you’ll need to come with me.”

“Gandrel, was it? I’m not going anywhere.” Astarion removed the blade from his back, pointing it towards the man.

“Fuck! This is bad,” Karlach muttered to Wyll.

“Then, I’m afraid I have no choice but to take you by force,” Gandrel declared, shooting an ‘Ensnaring Strike’ spell at both the vampire and fiery woman.

Thorny vines raised up around their legs, holding them in place. Astarion sliced at them, trying to wriggle free, but the bindings only reinforced their seizure. “Uh, a little help?!”

He was too distracted to fight. Flooded by the memory of how Tav’s tears flowed like blown stars living their final moments. But, he could still feel her hands upon his cheeks. Her hands where flowers bloomed in the dark; flowers that emerged wherever she appeared.

Karlach swung her axe in a criss-cross pattern. “I can’t move! Wyll, you’ll need to repel him!”

Wyll lunged forward casting an Eldritch Blast that narrowly missed the hunter’s cheek. “Damn!”

Gandrel placed another arrow in his crossbow, aiming it at the spawn as he approached. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’re needed else—”

The hunter suddenly collapsed onto one knee, a spray of blood ejecting from his mouth. He looked down at the arrow protruding out of his right side, then looked past the spawn.

Astarion followed his gaze, mouth wide open in shock when he reached his destination. “Songbird? But why?! I don't—”

Tav threw down her bow, reaching to unsheathe her rapier. “You’re a beacon of trouble, ‘Star.”

[sellouttoyourself]

There’s this part in Giovanni’s Room where David describes trans women/crossdressers he sees at a gay bar as “grotesque” and compares his disgust towards them to the disgust of watching a monkey eat it’s own feces because, as he puts it, the grossest part of the latter is seeing something human (like you) behave in a disgusting manner. I’m trying to get better at reparative readings and set aside paranoid readings, so let’s unpack this for a second. David is the epitome of a self-hating gay man, and the novel itself is plainly about how society teaches gay people to hate themselves. So what he finds so grotesque about trans people isn’t trans people in an of themselves but what they remind David about himself. Trans people are this funhouse mirror to David, a warped reflection of what he’s terrified he actually is. He sees trans people as visible mockery of his own failure to perform the masculinity demanded by his overbearing father and society at large, that if he’s in this club with people like *that* it must mean he is *of* them and similarly absurd in their aesthetic.  David takes the disgust and rage he feels about himself and his own sexuality and enacts it against these trans women as emblems of everything he despises about himself. Which is strange, because so many DL men do that to the gay men and trans women in their lives. Trans women are most likely to be killed by a domestic partner--someone they had a pre-existing relationship with. I’ve read enough testimonies from men put on trial for murders of trans women to know they usually took out their fear on these women. Not the fear of “gay panic” upon learning the woman they suspected was cis was actually trans; more often than not they knew their victim was trans and likely sought them out as a romantic partner or sex worker because of it. What often precedes the murder is a fear of *other people* learning their partner was trans or they were partners with a trans person. Their violence is an embodiment of their own shame for wanting what society tells them they should never want, and the trans woman herself becomes a threat to their masculinity even when desired for their femininity. Violence, as gendered violence so often does, then becomes the means of recapturing the masculinity they feel is at risk.  When I first read David’s derisive description of these trans people, my instict was to shelve the book and decry Baldwin as yet another great author who gave into their worst impulses and failed to learn their own lessons when it came to trans people. But the more I thought about it. the more I saw the value in these expressions of David’s insecurity.  This vision of transphobia--visceral disgust at the appearance of a trans person--is harder to come by than it must have been in 1954, but it remains the atomic unit of transphobia. The impulse to erase us from public life is based in this gut-level rejection that David puts forward, one which rejects not transness per se but what transness reveals about the observer.  For most, what we reveal is a sense of instability to a world they thought they knew. Gender is baked into the rules so many build their lives around. The cringey couple throwing a gender reveal party isn’t doing so because they hate trans people; they’re doing it because they’re excited about this little life they’re bringing into the world and are eager to “learn” more about them and what to expect. Whether the cake contains pink or blue batter reveals, to their eye, a lot about who their child will and can be. That’s no small matter! Trans people, by virtue of our very existence, destabilize the certainty that surrounds that joy. Truly, we destabilize the certainty that surrounds a lot of misery as well--misogyny, gender roles gendered violence, and much more. But people, generally speaking, abhor freedom, most of all that freedom that leads to uncertainty in an area where they could previously sleep soundly. The impulse to deride us is learned, surely, but not simply by poor representation of trans people as people. It is learned by making people dependent on the gender binary--a constructed, fragile mess to which people are nonetheless loyal as hell. I knew this. What I’d considered less often was how frequently trans people represent for cis people their own failures to live up to the gendered expectations they navigate. David has a deep-seated fear of being feminized, of losing his own masculinity to the love he feels for other men. Instead of seeing the potential in trans lives to separate masculinity from sexuality, he sees us as sad reminders of how he fails the former because of how the latter manifests for himself.  I don’t think this kind of fear is limited, however, to closet cases like David. I think lots and lots of cis, straight people reject trans people because of how we amplify their own failures to perform their gender identity “correctly” and the absurd, even grotesque, steps they take to avoid that failure. A few weeks ago some cis female writer went on Tucker Carlson and mocked Dylan Mulvaney, calling her performance of femininity a kind of minstrelsy--”womanface” as akin to blackface. This was odd to me, since she was literally on cable news while saying this, so was almost certainly plastered in a full face of makeup. She was donning more artifice than Dylan was, most likely, but shaming Dylan for how hers was made more apparent when contrasted with her assigned male gender. The disgust she was voicing is not terribly different from the disgust David expresses in Giovanni’s Room, one of anger at what Dylan reveals about herself as a woman--the effort and performance and costume and habits. Consciously or no, she sees herself in Dylan--even if it’s a kind of joyful embrace of femininity she killed long ago or to which she feels entitled by virtue of her biology and gender assignment. 

[moonpool-system]

How's system travel work? Like, what's your& process for performing it, or for performing astral travel? How might one learn to do something like that themselves?

I'd also like to know more about the experiences you've had that corroborate your belief in system travel. For full transparency: The concept of systemhopping does sound very unbelievable to me, but I'm always curious to learn more and be proven wrong.

Excited to learn more ^_^/) !

Hi, thank you so much for the ask! (re: this post) Infodumping ahead!

Disclaimer: This is our belief and our method! This doesn't reflect the view of all astral travelers

Our process for performing system travel ties deeply into both our belief in chaos magick via the collective subconscious and our own hyperphantasia & synesthesia. Chaos magick generally hypothesizes that the living subconscious as a plane of existence is a well of energy, from which manifestations spring forth upon intense belief in or focus on them. For example, a single person hypothesizes a deity; this person believes in the deity deeply and spreads the concept to other people, whom then begin to believe in the deity deeply as well. The devotion of time and energy allows the deity to manifest within the collective subconscious, gain a sort of consciousness if this is how they're believed in, and communicate with/enact on the physical realm around them. This is how both a lot of "collective thoughtforms" work, and how most pop culture paganism works, plus some string theory a la fictionsourced past lives or soulbonding. It's also the basis for both spiritual and psychological(check out Jungian theory) shadow work. (yes this is where Persona™ came from) (this is also why we consider our tulpamancy metaphysical but thats a WHOLE nother post)

So stemming off of this concept of manifestation based on intense thought & belief, we personally work with those in our headspaces that used to have outerworld powers in their past life memories. Many of them can still use these powers to an extent within headspace, and luckily for us, our partner system has many members that utilize a magic realm known as the "Warp", a perfectly useful representation of a physical manifestation of the collective subconscious. This is ideal because it means my dearest friend Magnus is used to working with a tangible representation of metaphysical sub/conscious energy- exactly what we'd need. To locate us, he hones in on the bonds we share, similarly to how a soulbonder connects with their soulbond. (This is made easier due to the fact a few of us across the system are canonmates, not just sourcemates) Once he's got the connection established, he opens up a shortcut for other members to travel through. This takes a lot of the work of learning astral travel off of every individual member, instead letting someone skilled act as a sort of manager and "flight" attendant. We know someone has either left or arrived due to our synesthesia, since the colors and other sensations we experience when the member leaves/arrives will disappear/reappear. Since then though, we've also transferred back and forth metaphysical artifacts that perform the complicated part for us so we can initiate travel as well. We have a couple members that perform astral travel outside the system often for other reasons also, so it's not like we're relying completely on our partner system's skills or anything. The connection goes both ways.

Since I know I'm gonna get a follow-up ask about this from someone: yes we have tried to communicate with people that've left, halfway just for shits and giggles and half because we have a bunch of scientists in this system. What happens is essentially an "impression" is left behind- it's kinda like an NPC, where you can sorta communicate with them on a set list of dialogue but there's no real conscious will behind it. It kind of feels like communicating with an old, broken record player or tape deck. It keeps skipping back, moving tracks, repeating the same things over and over again, warped and out of tune. It's pretty unsettling and creepy so we don't usually do it, especially because if we were to accidentally form someone new and then the original person came back, that'd be uh. A Unique Problem™

We're run by a logically minded system manager, so of course we're always looking for things to support and substantiate our spiritual beliefs. Our goal is not necessarily to have a proveable theory for how metaphysics works, but at least something that doesn't starkly contrast reality and science as we know it. (That's why we often cite string theory, the theory of ten dimensions, and Jungian psychological concepts in our spirituality) As such, we look for evidence to believe our travel has actually occurred, and the brain is not just creating long lasting phantoms while the original member goes uncontactable. What we've seen here are throughlines and consistencies lining up with how members' memories seem to grow muddled when they've either been in back for too long or when recalling exomemories. If something doesn't happen in front, we often have trouble telling the details of exactly what happened- it takes focusing pretty hard and going through to piece things back together to get a solid picture. However, we know that things Do Actually Happen in headspace out of front, because we've had members corroborate each other separately on manners such as the layout of headspace, personal relationships, etc. Similarly, we've seen the same thing happen with system travel, including: two members getting into a relationship while they traveled and then acting romantically with each other upon returning without needed to affirm to each other what had happened, members recalling the product of physical training with their mindforms taught by another outside the system, one member pranking us by dumping a bunch of stuff through without telling us first and us receiving them before we were informed in the outerworld, and more.

There does tend to be one problem though, and it's something we've dubbed "the Missing Word problem". It's something that happens with our past life memories too. (This is presumably partly because our memory retention and processing problems affect names and other proper nouns extremely intensely, but it affects our partner system too in reference to system hopping.) Essentially, the Missing Word problem arises when a member goes to say a word they're aware they know, are certain they know - however since the brain doesn't, they can't speak it clearly, and all that comes out is the vague shape of a word. This is the biggest problem when it comes to information transfer- most memory is stored in, y'know, the Brain, and spiritual memories can be hard to hold onto. (If they weren't, knowing about your past lives might be commonplace!) Along the same vein, we've had members with fictionsourced past lives predict canon in uncanny and obscure ways with their memories, but they're always more broken and fragmented unless they have canon to gague themselves off of.

- in conclusion/TLDR: We rely heavily on visualization and shared mental costructs in order to establish connection and send people through. We base our metaphysics on Chaos Magick as a base metaphysical system. We've seen our headmates corroborate emotions and concepts separately as well as experience travel effects without front being notified first, and while it's not perfect, it's okay for us. System travel is no more shocking or different than a long-distance or visiting soulbond, it's just that people become way more aware of the unproven nature of spirituality once you involve multiple bodies on this Earth engaging in the practice.

[everybodyshusband]

Lemme in that cocoon of dark/sad ghoul thoughts.... It's even better if it's sad dark regressed ghouls thoughts (in my opinion) bc those are the ones that really hurt 😭

no sad regressed ghoul thoughts unfortunately, but uhm, i do have thoughts about whatever this is... O_O

cw for eating disorders/calorie counting and obsessive counting under the cut. it's quite a lot, please do not read this if you think it will trigger you. also, a gentle reminder that i am by no means attempting to glorify or encourage eating disorders. i am not promoting aeon's behaviour nor trying to put it in a positive light.

the cocoon is basically filled with thoughts about how aeon accidentally developed an eating disorder O_O

think about it, he's new topside and so intrigued by everything !! especially numbers and counting !! like, WOAH, he can count so many things and keep track of numbers and woah, he couldn't do that in the pit, there wasn't anything to count, so this is incredibly cool !!! buuuut... as he's topside and around the abbey for longer, he's no longer quite so happy about everything anymore. slowly, other thoughts and feelings start to creep in, or at least, they begin to present themselves more entirely now he's no longer too busy being fascinated by life in the abbey.

he likes counting, he's discovered. aether buys him a watch that counts his steps and the from the first day he wears it, he's in love. he doesn't have to count his steps in his head anymore, it's a revelation !! but now he's no longer caught up with counting his steps, he starts to count other things. he starts counting the number of doors he walks through, the amount of letters in words he sees, and he especially likes creating counting patterns that he can't help but enact every time he sees something he can count.

but something he's especially intrigued by is the little nutrition information on the back of food packets; there are so many numbers and statistics he can look at and try to make sense of !! and naturally, he's drawn to a number he can keep track of: calories.

at first, it's not necessarily a bad thing. the ghouls are kind of aware of it, but he's not trying to restrict his intake in any way, so they let him be; he enjoys counting things, and as long as he isn't doing himself any harm by restricting his diet, then it's fine, right ? well. it would be, except for the fact that one fateful internet rabbit hole sends him headfirst into some extremely harmful ideologies (in his defence, he didn't think finding a community of people who also counted calories would mean they're counting to the lowest number they could eat rather than just counting for fun like he is).

he becomes obsessed, discovering the recommended daily calorie intake and flips his little notebook open to look at his counted calories within the past few weeks and... he's been at the "right" amount mostly; a couple of days here and there he's been over or under depending on illness and energy, as is fairly normal. but now he's realised that he can count to a limit, he wants to try that. it's almost like a challenge for him. a competition with himself that he eventually begins to find joy and excitement in, unaware of how harmful this newfound ideology is.

he starts by trying to stay under the limit every day for a week, always keeping track of the calories he's eaten in a little book he keeps under his mattress. once he's managed that, he sets a new goal, and then another, and another. and by the time the ghouls realise what's happening (he somehow manages to hide it from them for quite a while), he's already too deep in his obsession with counting his calories for them to ease him out of it gently, so despite how they want to help him in the kindest manner possible, they know kindness won't work. they're going to have to help him against his will and it's not going to be pretty.

...fuck that's a lot of writing O_O

[sparkarrestor]

Troublesome Coaches Part 1: James’s Special

Written By: SparkArrester

James the Red Engine wouldn’t stop being a nuisance. He was growing discontented with his goods trains and local passenger runs, and wanted to do more “important work”. He made the other engines very clear on his frustrations.

“I’m sick of these slow trains!”, He would say, “I want to fly down the line with a prestigious service. It's been far too long since I pulled the express, and how can I be admired when I’m stuck hauling silly trucks?”.

Gordon, who was trying to sleep, was fed up with James’ constant moaning. He suddenly had a devious plan to pay him out.

“Well James, if you're so desperately wanting an important train…”, He trailed off as he caught James’ attention, “You can take Godred’s Morning Glory tomorrow.” James smiled happily. “A Boat Train, and an all-Pullman one at that!”, He exclaimed, “That would be lovely! I ought to get rested for tomorrow!”. Without another word, he promptly fell asleep. Gordon merely chuckled and looked forward to the morning off.

Godred’s Morning Glory was a very important train indeed. It was a boat train, starting at the Big Station and ran non-stop to the mainland.  It was full of important people who traveled from other places far away, and the return train, The Tidmouth Belle, was just as, if not more important, as it had to connect with the ocean liner, and it couldn’t afford to wait. Better still, the train used the very fancy, lavish Pullman coaches. They were built, ran, and maintained to the highest order, and were the cream of crop, and even got a special livery compared to other Pullmans. Sadly, however, this would have an effect on many of them for the worse, as James would soon find out! Duck was busy elsewhere, so James had to shunt the train and take it to the liner terminal himself. He was so excited, he didn’t mind, but his mood changed when he saw the coaches eye him with malice.

“You must be delusional if you think that you’re taking us out”, Spat the Observation Coach, as the others murmured in agreement, “We Pullman’s require only the best, not some pretender goods engine…”

“Oi, now see here-!”

“I think that is my job”, Cut in the Observation Coach, “I am the Observation Coach, I observe all, and I can tell that you are not fit for us, now go back to that field where you belong and get a better engine to take us out! Oh, and by the way, you may refer to me as Oleander, now chop chop!”.

James grew crosser and crosser and wanted to bump the coaches, but he knew that the Fat Controller and the Pullman Car Company would be angry, so he simply shunted the coaches towards the Liner Terminal. The Pullman’s simply muttered to themselves, and made a plan.

The run started well at first. The passengers were very taken by him, the rails were dry and clear, and people waved at him when he passed. He was enjoying himself immensely, but that was soon to change. The coaches began to heckle him and make the run very difficult. Eventually, they got to Gordon Hill, and the coaches enacted their plan. James slipped and strained, but the train came to a halt halfway up the train.

“We told you that you couldn’t pull us!”, laughed the coaches, while Oleander simply smirked. James just gnashed his teeth and seethed. Edward was sent to assist.

“Good luck James!”, He called as the train crested the hill.

“I’m going to need more than luck…”, Grumbled James, as he picked up speed and tried to make up for lost time.

They arrived at the big station on the mainland 5 minutes late, though the passengers seemed too caught up in their own business to even notice. James quickly went to the sheds as the coaches were taken away, grumbling all the while.

“Silly coaches, silly train, you’d think they would be more behaved…”, muttered James as he got prepared for the return train. The run was hardly better than the first, and the coaches were still bent on making James’s life harder than it already was. At last, he arrived back to the Big Station, on time, but thoroughly worn out. He said nothing as he uncoupled and went to the sheds, and he angrily fell asleep as soon as his fire was dropped. Gordon could only chuckle. 

“Better him than me…”, He murmured, as he also fell asleep. 

[nokingsonlyfooles]

Courting the White Nationalist Vote

Wow! Which President who cranks out policy that the ACLU needs to sue over do you want to vote for? I'm so excited for democracy!

I've been watching this with my fingernails digging into my chair, and it went through. Of course it did. They may not be able to enforce it, but they're gonna try.

If too many people flee the violence the US is helping create, and legally present themselves for processing like they are supposed to do, the US will stop granting asylum to anyone at the southern border until the numbers fall below 2020 levels. Pretty sure we're violating international law, here, but that's never stopped us before. Trump has also used the little loophole that says, "Actually, if it's in the national interest, we don't owe refugees anything." The national interest in this case seems to be vacuuming up the votes of the more moderate white nationalists and the folks who are willing to excuse their behaviour. Please, this is politically expedient. We must compromise!

We must also include an exception for unaccompanied minors, because what we could really use is an excuse to put more children in cages. That'll knock those scary numbers of people-begging-for-help down to 2020 levels! We've been through this. Parents care more about getting their children somewhere safe than about keeping their children. If the children have a better chance alone, they'll send the children. But if it becomes obvious that the children are not safe, they'll reconsider. So step one is manufacture a crisis of unaccompanied minors, and step two is torture them. Obama did it first, and I believed him when he said it wasn't on purpose. That level of naivete is no longer available, I no longer respond to snappy suits and eloquence, and Biden doesn't even have those. I will not get up and dance to his crappy remix.

There is an entire voting bloc of people who have been so abused and neglected that all they know how to do is harm others. Many of them are involved in fundamentalist religions that punish them for assuming the slightest level of agency and independence. They are a gun to be aimed and they will be pointed at various outgroups indiscriminately. Instead of trying to help them, both political parties are going to have a fight over who gets to use them as a power source, even though the Democrats should know by now that the Republicans will ALWAYS set the bar lower and slither under it.

So we're racing to the bottom, and Democrats will always look a little bit saner because they're a few steps behind. But we're all headed to the same place, the place where all the problems are caused by bad people it's OK to kill. We can keep manufacturing bad people and killing them forever! And everything else can stay as broken as it already is, or get even worse, because we're already doing the right thing to fix it - killing our enemies. Forever.

What really hurts my soul is knowing more people would stand up and fight this if Trump were doing it. If it's a Democrat, our objections might get an unhinged Republican elected, so we quiet down. Yeah. That means it's in the Dems' best interest to go up against the scariest, craziest Reps available. Can't beat Trump! Republicans tried and failed! 34 felonies, wow! I don't know what happens when there's no more Trump to be had, but both sides will be groping around for the worst replacement they can find. That works for them.

And it doesn't really matter how many people die to make it work. As long as they're bad!

[theblogghoulette]

New Year’s Meeting (Cardinal Copia x Reader)

Happy New Year! I really appreciate everyone's love this year for my writing. I haven't written much in the last few years and even though I have gotten rusty, you still enjoy when I write and I am so happy about that! This one is probably really cliché and maybe ever a little cringe, but I found it sweet nonetheless! That being said, please enjoy!

Words: 2428

AO3 link: here

The New Year’s celebration was never taken less than seriously and every song and activity was planned and picked carefully. The entire day before was to decorate the main hall for the large gathering, splashes of gold and silver thrown around the walls and on tables running down the length of them, there to hold the food and drink that was then being made in the kitchen. Nobody was free from pitching in, including you. You had helped hang decorations and dress the multitude of tables, which took longer than it seemed like it would. And now, finally, it was time to enact the biggest party of the year at the Ministry.

Dress code wasn’t necessary for this gathering so you dressed casually, but with a little flare to make the outfit seem slightly fancier. You adjusted your clothing in your room’s full body mirror, checking to make sure everything looked perfect. With a smile you sat on the edge of your bed to put your shoes on, excited to get out and see the hard work you’ve done pay off. Walking out of your room and down the hall, the sound of people talking and laughing was loud and you knew there would be a big crowd. You round the corner and enter the main hall, eyes scanning the large swarm of people eating, drinking, and mingling to themselves.

Towards the head of the hall, you could vaguely make out the Upper Clergy members enjoying some food and drink together. Papa Emeritus III had returned from touring just a week before, and anyone who knows him knows he loves a good party. Papa Nihil was trying to talk to Sister Imperator, who was trying to talk to The Third, who was trying to tell a story to The First and Second. You shook your head with a smile, admiring how dysfunctional their little “family” was. It was honestly sweet to see them in the same place again after so many months.

At last, you spot your friends and approach them, one of your fellow siblings instantly handing you a drink. “It’s about time you got here! We’ve been waiting for an hour,” one of them said playfully, eying you up and down, “Although, I can forgive you this once. You look great!” You smile, taking a sip of your drink, “Thank you. I’m starving- is there any food left?” you asked. They informed you that there was plenty of food left, half of the people were too busy chatting and drinking to eat. Upon hearing that, you make yourself a plate and return to your friends. Your group enjoys friendly conversation while you snack to your stomach’s content, soon replacing your plate with another drink.

What was once background music had now become louder as empty tables were cleared out of the hall and the crowd began dancing to the beat. You found yourself letting go as you started to join along, swaying at first and then slowly gaining the confidence to have fun with it. Drink after drink, you and your friends danced for hours before you decided to take a seat, another conversation blossoming as you all took your place at an empty table. Admittedly, you weren’t ready for the incoming dialogue.

“So, who visited with family for the holidays?” asked one of your friends, the rest chiming in with ‘I did!’ but you remained quiet. It went unnoticed as they all exchanged details of their visits with family members. You slowly rose from your seat, steadying your swaying body with your hands on the table. “I’m going to the bathroom,” you announced, turning and stumbling away when they acknowledged this. However, the bathroom was not your true destination. You needed air, and to be honest you could stand to sober up just a little. You went upstairs, still hearing the buzz of the crowd and music beneath you, making your way to your favorite spot in the ministry- a beautiful balcony that overlooked the gardens. 

The location you expected to be empty, however, had a figure standing directly in the middle of it, looking out into the night with a soft expression. It was none other than Cardinal Copia, one of the most esteemed members of the upper clergy, holding a glass of champagne and looking out to the landscape. A small part of your mind told you to turn around and find another place to spend your alone time, but the larger and inebriated part of your mind let your feet continue in his direction. He didn’t notice you until you were nearly standing beside him, taking off his biretta and pressing it to his chest as he gave you a respectful bow, and you to him.

“Ah, hello, ” he spoke, his voice as soft as ever as he straightened up from his bow. When you tried to do the same, dizziness hit you for a moment and you stumbled, the Cardinal reaching out to grab your elbow and keep you upright. Once you were stable enough, you gripped the railing for the balcony and leaned up against it, looking out at the vast amount of foliage illuminated by the moon’s glow. It was stunning and you were lost in its beauty, forgetting to respond to the Cardinal completely. A smile formed on your face as you observed every little detail of the garden. The feeling of eyes piercing through you drew you out of your daze, causing you to look over at the man who was observing you.

“Oh, m’sorry. Hi, Cardinal,” you smile at him, your heavy head tilting to the side slightly. He gave you a knowing grin, returning his gaze to look outside before he spoke again. “I see you’ve been to the party downstairs, why did you leave?” You sighed and looked back out, this time up at the moon. You had nearly forgotten what made you leave the event early before it was mentioned. Shaking your head, you gave him a dismissive reply, “I uh, just wanted to go, eh, get some air.” Something in the air told you he didn’t believe a word. But he didn’t push, he just nodded.

“I see,” he said. You look back over at him, examining his side profile. His nose was the feature that stuck out the most- positively, of course. You’d never really observed the Cardinal, especially from this close. Of course, it was common knowledge that he was attractive, but your tipsy (drunken) state somewhat enhanced his beauty. He looked over at you, catching you staring at him. Before he could ask anything else, you quickly asked, “Why are you here instead of the- at the party? The rest of the upper clergy is there.” He thought only for a few seconds before replying.

“I don’t like being in crowds like that, all stuck together. It’s very uncomfortable, yes?” You nodded in agreement, understanding what he meant. “So, I came here. It’s a beautiful sight, is it not? Especially with the moon casting her light everywhere,” he looked enamored with the scenery, motioning to it with his hands. “Yes,” you said, “it’s really nice here. I like to come here to think.” Copia looked over at you, cocking one of his eyebrows up. “So that’s why you’re here, then? To think?” he asked. Mentally kicking yourself for saying what you were thinking out loud, you nodded your head.

The Cardinal put a comforting hand on your shoulder, rubbing it with his thumb. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I am willing to listen,” he said and smiled softly. The tiny voice in your head tried to stop you from oversharing but his invitation to speak made you feel safe and, truth be told, you needed to talk about it. You took a deep breath and prepared to spill your feelings out to a near stranger. “Well, the conversation that blossomed before I left was about visiting family for the holidays,” you started, “and I didn’t. Everyone else did, so I just felt kinda… left out.”

“Do you not have any family?” he asked, immediately stammering to take it back, “Oh! I’m sorry, that is maybe too personal of a question.” He rubbed the back of his head, his ears turning a deep shade of red. A giggle meant to escape your lips at his reaction, but it came out louder than you expected… in the form of a snort. Embarrassment flooded your features as you hid your face with your hands, now laughing at yourself. Copia tried to hold his laughter in but ultimately failed, joining you. The two of you drowned out the thumping of the music downstairs and when your laughter subsided, you caught your breath and grasped the railing to steady your dizzy mind.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind the answer- ah, question. I don’t mind the question,” you said, wiping a tear that fell out of your eye as a result of your hard laughter. The Cardinal steadied his breath and looked at you with attentive eyes. “I don’t have family anymore,” you started, “they weren’t very happy with my life choices, so they cut me off.” Your eyes looked at the floor, suddenly feeling the effects of your feelings mixed with the drinks. “I am sorry to hear that, it is their loss,” he said, putting his empty glass on the ground and laying a hand on your shoulder. The current mood was so different from the previous one from a few moments ago. 

Tears welled in your eyes as you spoke again, “It’s alright. I normally don’t care but it’s a little difficult around the holidays.” Copia’s thumb rubbed your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you, offering you an understanding nod. “I know what you mean, it is difficult to be alone during this season.” You looked up at him, a sympathetic look on his face as he motioned to the tears flowing down your cheeks. “May I?” he asked, you nodding in reply. He held your face in his hands, wiping the tears away gently with his thumbs. The feeling of his gloves on your skin was oddly comforting. You found your head leaning into his touch and he kept his hands where they were.

“Aren’t the Upper Clergy like family to you? It seems like you never spend a day alone,” you mumbled the last part, not meaning to sound rude. The two of you held eye contact and though his face didn’t show it, there was sadness in his eyes. “While it is true I rarely have time to myself, inside I feel very lonely,“ he gave you a small smile before he continued, “and while they are kind to me in most regards, a real family is something I have always lacked.” Your hands reach up to his two that rested on your face, pulling them down and holding them. “I’ll tell you what, Cardinal,” you begin your proposal, smiling at the man in front of you, “we aren’t alone tonight. Please, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

His face lit up upon hearing your words, immediately taking the opportunity to inform you on everything he had been doing lately. From silly things his rats did that week to stressful situations he had to deal with keeping the Ministry afloat behind the scenes. You were never fully aware of how much his job had consisted of until now. He went on for at least an hour and you paid close attention the whole time, making sure to ask questions that he happily answered. By the end of the conversation, the humming of the music downstairs was drowned out once again by your laughter.

‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,” Copia said with a bright smile, “tell me about you.” You opened your mouth to talk but the sound underneath you subsided and a voice erupted from the speakers. “We’re going to slow it down before we ring in the new year- grab a partner for this next one,” the voice boomed, followed by the sound of a slow beat of a song beginning. You and Copia smiled sheepishly at each other as he held his hand out, bowing slightly. “May I have this dance?” he asked, stifling a laugh as you giggled and took his hand. He straightened himself and your arms found their way around his neck as he moved to hold your hips lightly.

“I still want to hear more about you,“ he said softly, his breath traveling the distance and brushing against your face. “Well,” you began, “I spent the last week mentally preparing myself for yesterday. And after I was done decorating for the party, I decided to unwind with a good book I’ve been reading.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly invested in what you were telling him. “And which book would that be?” he questioned. “Dracula. I’ve read it a few times, actually, but I always come back to it when I want to relax.” You thought your answer might bore him, but it was quite the opposite. His eyes gleamed as he excitedly told you it was one of his favorites.

Over the next three minutes, the two of you discussed Dracula and shared your opinions on the characters, soon being interrupted yet again by the booming voice from downstairs. “Get ready! The countdown is starting!” The horde of people in the main hall then began chanting numbers. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…

5

Copia smiled at you, averting his gaze back out to the balcony when he saw the way you were looking at him.

4

You lifted your hand to his cheek and moved his eyes back to yours, taking a lungful of breath.

3

“May I?” he asked, the red in his ears now traveling across his face.

2

“You may,” you said, leaning into his hand as he placed it on your cheek.

1

His lips crashed into yours as cheering echoed throughout the ministry. The kiss only lasted a short moment, but it felt like time had frozen for at least thirty minutes. When the two of you pulled away, you caressed his cheek and leaned in to hug him.

“Happy New Year, Cardinal.”

He returned your hug, rubbing circles into your back.

“A very Happy New Year, indeed. I would like to spend more time with you, if that’s alright.”

“I would love that,” you said with a smile. You had a feeling you wouldn’t be alone this year.

Have a great 2023! <3

[gardeningbythemoon]

In addition to teaching this weekend, I’m also *taking* a class—apple grafting from Seed Savers Exchange. I’m interested in growing multiple varieties on a single tree (my garden is so small and I love so many apples!) so I’ve wanted to get into grafting for a long time.

When the heirloom scions arrived with the rest of the kit earlier this week, I was really excited to see that one of the varieties goes back to 1850 in Granby, NY, which is just around the corner from where Maxx grew up and a half hour drive from where we live right now.

I got to thinking, I know where the apple tree’s ancestors were, but where were my ancestors during that time? I asked Maxx as well and between us, our ancestors were in Holland, Sweden, Ireland, Ohio, California, Quebec, the Catskills, and we each had ancestors in central New York.

In 1850, Granby had been settled for 58 years. It had been 71 years since George Washington wrote to John Sullivan, ordering him & his troops to destroy as many Haudenosaunee towns as possible, fields and villages included, with the explicit goal of destroying their foodways and sovereignty.

I love the rural areas of upstate New York, and I love the small towns here, and I know many of them were settled in those decades, that my ancestors moved in in the wake of bloodshed and destruction, or may have participated in the annihilation themselves. It’s impossible to separate our own ancestral stories, foodways, and the history of the land we live on. It’s not easy to think of our forebears enacting violence and even harder to of them suffering it—but, I think, the only way to deal with these histories is to meet them eyes open, even when it’s painful.

From Indigenous orchards being razed and replaced by European cattle, to the Irish potato famine, to the wars fought for the oil that fertilizes & ships produce, to contemporary famines & landgrabs, the basic human need for food has often been twisted towards profit and atrocity. If we want to build a truly healthy food system, we will need to address not only the invasive species in our gardens and the poisons in our soils, but the histories that have left them there.

[made-some-ki-points]

Fantasy Culture Table: Local Celebrations

Your party walks into a new town and something exciting is happening. Something they may have never heard of and certainly didn’t know what was going on. Use this list as a random table or an idea list!

A new sorcerer has been born to a family in town, and local customs call it a cause for celebration of the child and all things magic, perhaps including a party member.

A military unit is due to come home this day, and the town is over the moon to welcome them back. Will it stay a time of celebration or will the party walk into a moment of extreme grief?

An auction is being held, selling the estate of a strange rich man on the edge of town. The rumors the party hears are tantalizing, and perhaps even relevant to their current quest.

A new detachment of clerics or paladins leaves the local temple for the first time, and is greeted with fanfare. Perhaps one has graduate with similar (or directly opposite) goals to your party’s.

A local monster has just been correctly appeased, and the village celebrates their temporary safety. It begs the question: What or who did they sacrifice to keep themselves safe, and more importantly, what are they trying to keep happy?

A local woman of status celebrates a public baby shower, with many excited for the new addition. As the party looks around though they cannot help but realize that some worry for the baby, whether it be that her partner is not the father, or the baby may be born having some form of unwanted magical influence.

A festival celebrating a seemingly inconsequential item such as the local water buckets or gardening hoes. As comical as it seems, the people take it very seriously, and delight in showing the party members their “odd” traditions.

A day of somber remembrance for the local soldiers who died in a larger conflict. Dissatisfied with the widespread remembrance day, locals will tell you they’ve moved it to the birthday of one of the fallen.

A day dedicated to the large, play-style re-enactment of a group of adventurers’ deeds, perhaps even the current party’s. A feast will follow, and all are more than welcome.

A town wide resurrection ritual that seems to take the full day. Immediately, the locals enlist the party to help.

A harvest festival of proportions the party have never seen before. There’s massive street parties, revelry of all kinds and even some brawls simply because the crops did well this year. Locals claim it’s their favorite day of the year near universally.

A fair with vendors from a different plane, one with an entrance very close to this town. It’s a chance for the party to get incredibly rare goods at a great price, and get a peek into planes they may soon venture into.

A local brewery has finally finished their new batch for this season, and though it’s not a formal celebration, the locals seem to be having a great time regardless.

An organized, several hours long anything goes bar brawl. It’s in a remarkably non-violent village historically speaking, but everyone seems immensely excited to begin the fight.

An elaborate, rather joyful funeral procession for a young woman who appears to have died from a magical illness. Though it becomes clear to the party that this is odd, even mysterious, the locals seem to only want to celebrate her life, not investigate her death.

An adoption ceremony for a very emotional teenager, seeming in disbelief that the community cares this much. It is a largely emotional display, and some may express that they see the party as intrusive.

A bardic competition sponsored by the local college. There’s betting, magical showcases, even rabid fans, and if your party has a bard, the townsfolk become thrilled at the concept of a new competitor.

The transportation of massive amounts of expensive goods to a local beloved dragon to add to its hoard. When the festivities are over, the party may be contracted to guard the caravan from bandits, and perhaps even meet the dragon they’ve heard so much about.

A monastic temple is having an open house for new students that has captured a lot of attention. They welcome the party to learn their ways, if they wish.

The people claim a god is visiting this evening. That can’t be disproven, but the implications are beyond disturbing.

[stampgwifeyera]

Wolfpire introduction/timeline:

Introduction:

Uhhhhh idk how to introduce things i barely got a C in english but the idea behind wolfpire is like a dark fantasy au of community. the big changes are:

This all takes place in and around Aberystwyth(A-buh-rist-wuth),wales because I'm welsh and also america perplexes me.

Troy is now a werewolf,he lives in his family's pack (it's like a small village in the countryside) after his mom died he was made the leader against his will by his dad since he wanted Troy to grow up faster and become more responsible. Oh and troys ftm now because ik him better then harmon.(also ill be referring to younger troy as troy i wont be giving him a deadname or anything like that because i think thats kinda weird tbh)

Abed is a half vampire, his mom is a human and his dad is a vampire,his mom left (i've said before that she died but i’m changing that) due to similar reasons in the show, abed was always alone since he was home-schooled (as a protective measure), and since he couldn't go to the movies (overstimulation makes it impossible to hide his vampiric side) abed reads screenplays and re-enacts/draws scenes he thinks would be cool. also Since he didn't go to Greendale he instead works at his dads cafe which doubles as a normal cafe but also has a V.I.P area for any other monsters in town who need a place to go and don't need to hide themselves.

Annie wasn't able to go to rehab due to her parents, she's constantly tired from all nighters she has to pull for her straight A+’s (or else her parents will kick her out) it doesn't help that she doesn't have a study group to help her.

Other characters pending….

Greendale community college is now ‘greendale paranormal investigators’ a (not so successful) agency that investigates,documents and “takes care of” any paranormal/supernatural activity, it also has a trainee/apprenticeship program.

My best attempt at a timeline of events(this'll be short for now because i don't have too many events “planned” in my head):

Troy and abed first met when they're younger like 5-7, Abed was in his backyard re-enacting a scene from a screenplay with some pebble/rock statues he made, when troy who got lost on a field trip with his family and found abed playing in his backyard and got excited to see another kid his age so he jumped into his backyard and thats when they first met, they talked for hours and hours troy was happy to finally have a person who didn't judge or criticize him and abed was happy to have someone to talk to who wasn't “too busy” to listen to him. I also feel like abed did that speech thing with jeff in ep1 but with troy.

Periodically when he can troy would sneak away and visit abed at least once a week after a while abed starts baking snacks he thinks troy will like, introducing him to Gobi who was worried for troy but also happy that his son had someone to talk and specificity looking for screenplays he knows troy will like so they can re-enact them together. After about 5-6months of this happening though abed notices that troys coming less and less and eventually he stops coming at all… Yeah thats kinda it  😅 i don't actually have much of any other ideas bouncing strong enough around my head sadly :(  if you cant tell already this is still a very massive work in progress.

Where the idea came from:

basically back in October i got a an idea after watching Danny in dywtsadb and wanted to relate that to community so i made abed a vampire (instead of a cannibal but i mean those are basically the same anyway) and i also wanted troy to be a sexy monster but i didn't want him to also be a vamp and the next thing my brain thought of was a werewolf, i feel like that tells you a lot about who i am as a person. link to google doc with all this

[slaanxsh]

Pleasure Slaves

Pleasure Slaves are used for the obvious reasons that I don't feel I need to get into, but their utilization is perhaps more varied than expects. While they exist at and for the pleasure of whatever mortal or monster that has them enthralled, this doesn't necessarily mean their own pleasure is ignored. At least, not in the case of a daemon master as slaaneshi daemons can sense emotions as well as feed from them. A slave may be exposed to a myriad of new things, such as new foods or drinks, new narcotics, new fabrics on (or in) the skin, grand and glorious artistic pieces (often the master's own creations) to see and hear that all elicit physical or emotional sensations. Many slaves are artistic pieces themselves; living breathing canvases that their masters enact their will upon, with brush or blade. The Daemon Lord feeds on these and to the casual observer this may look like a mutualistic symbiotic relationship.

However, thralldom is still thralldom and the interaction is one that is longer-term and predacious. You will eat the food offered to you, you will wear the fabrics you are given, you will submit to whatever the Slaaneshi wishes to grace your skin with. You may enjoy it, you may not, but at the end of the day it's not a choice.

But most Slaaneshi eventually grow bored of their toys and the thrall that no longer fails to excite is killed, or worse, abandoned. Being discarded may seem like a kinder fate, but once ones senses have grown acclimated to the company of Slaaneshi daemons, returning to a normal life leaves the overwhelmed senses of Slaaneshi discardees in a state of permanent understimulation.