#be free and find your target audience

[the-mother-of-lions]

darkness, leonard cohen (x)

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

Nooooo Lickimat!!!! Why are you associating yourself with Southend? Extremely outdated and aversive trainers that flood social feeds with misinformation about dog behaviour and training? Really?

Say psyche right now 😭

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

THE BOY IS MINE ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩ ariana grande — the boy is mine ♩

pairing: mayor!rafe x catwoman!reader.

cw: supernatural abilities, hybrid!reader, a whip, leather, violence, drugging, sexual content, dubious consent.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day one.

mayor rafe cameron was a fascination.

he had a way of captivating an audience, without necessarily being smooth speaking and self assured. there was something… off about him. confident in himself, dare you even say arrogant — but with each press conference his eyes dart around, pupils enlarged, tongue poking out to lick his lips and he would often grow passionate and jump over his words. each night when you’d tune into his speeches on the television, claw grazing the static of the screen you would wonder — how could someone so untouchable seem so… human?

“and uh, to target this rat infestation across the city… we will be releasing the stray cats.” he speaks into the podium microphone, illuminated by the flashes of the paparazzi and press.

“yes, you will.” you whisper, face so close to the screen you could hear the buzzing of the electrics. he was just perfect.

you’d always figured ‘love potions’ were a little phony. how could a feeling induced by oxytocin and noroadrenaline be replicated with a drug? how could it replace the feeling of first locking eyes, or the warm tingling feeling in your stomach when you hear their laugh? desperation costed you sleepless nights in your apartment, failed scientific concoctions upon failed scientific concoctions until you reached a breakthrough. perhaps it wasn’t to be so phony after all, but you had one perfectly crafted dose — and there was only one way to find out.

you don’t like to waste time, so the next thing you know you’re standing in the pouring rain, suited up in skintight black, feeling free. you’d let your true self take its form, fangs glimmering in the city lights and twitching ears perfectly cupped by your suit hood. what was the point in hiding? if all went to plan, rafe cameron would love you for you.

leaping across the skyline, you travel to what can only be described as the most luxurious penthouse in new york city — the perfect place for the man of your dreams to rest his head. you figured it would be harder to find his address, but for someone who could create a love potion from scratch — it was child’s play. you wondered if you could see this place being your home too, resting your head on the pillow beside him, perhaps curling up on the windowsill.

the large window looking into his warmly lit apartment allows you perfect access. your heart pounds so fast with excitement that you think you might pass out as you squat over the view, large pupils darting about the room until they fall onto him. the mayor, in the flesh, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

he wouldn’t think to look up and see you there, watching him. of course not — what human being would be able to scale a building just to gaze through his window? he should have been perfectly safe.

should have been. it was a good thing you weren’t human. not fully, anyways.

you gaze over him as he goes about his nightly business, blazer removed and top button undone now as he looks over papers and sips at his drink. you take a moment to groom yourself, tongue rolling over the back of your knuckles to lay down the fur on the back of your ears over your hood out of habit as you practically salivate over him. rafe cameron was even more gorgeous in person, especially candidly, more relaxed, when he thought no one was watching.

he wanders off to the bathroom, and you take your opportunity, slithering in through the window he’d left open. he always did like the sound of the pouring rain, there wasn’t so much of that back in the outerbanks, where he was originally from (according to his wikipedia page, anyway.)

it had been a rough day for rafe, dropping his glass down on the sink counter as he leans against it — staring down his visage in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. he wasn’t always sure if he was cut out for mayor. really, releasing the stray cats to tackle the rat infestation problem? there was a myriad of reasons that could potentially create more problems, bring disease and an even dirtier appearance to new york city — but he was lost on what to do. times like this, he wondered if this was what he truly wanted to do rather than what he knows his father wished for him.

he cups his hands beneath the running water, leaning down to flush his face with the cool liquid. another problem for another day, he decides. for now, he could clear his racing mind with none other than the beloved white powder he told himself he was quitting. who cares, today was a special occasion.

rafe stands up straight, and before he can bother to fix his messy curtain bangs, now a mess and haphazardly stuck to his wet forehead — he could have sworn he’d seen a dark black mass lurking by the doorway. it disappears as quickly as he’d spied it, and he blinks the droplets out his eyes as he stares through the mirror. he couldn’t tell you what he saw, its appearance too quick for him to comprehend — but it had unmistakably existed.

“hey…” he drawls, wiping his dripping chin with the back of his wrist as he edges towards the door. one footstep, another, he continually creeps through the hallway until he’s back to his large, luxurious bedroom — now the scene at which you sit, ever so casually on his bed. just… smiling. “wh— who the hell are you, huh?” his voice trembles. he’s even more gorgeous close up.

“you shouldn’t leave your window open, mayor cameron. might let in a stray.” you practically pur,

he looked like his soul left his body. you expected that, expected some pushback — it’s why you had the dosage ready, the syringe of abnormal pink potion sucked up and ready to deploy into his delectable veins.

“alright look, i’ve got security armed to the god damn teeth downstairs okay so — so i suggest you get the hell out.” he licks his lips, irritation that you’d even try to invade his space crawling up the back of his neck in a wave of frightened heat. your clawed hand curls around the whip tucked into your side, tilting your head with a mischievous smile. he’s too busy taking in… you to notice, and just as he does you take action — cracking it right at him, the leather coil curling forcefully around his ankle and with a yank, he’s falling.

“jesus— the hell do you want?” he hollers as you drag him closer, closer. you’re walking to meet him halfway now and his eyes just won’t leave you. everything about you is so feline, down to the way you walk— hips practically rolling in a hypnotising fashion side to side. if he wasn’t so frightened, well — he just might fall in love organically.

“c’mon mr mayor cameron, be nice t’me. i wanna play.” you pout, and his struggles stop in awe once you lower himself over him to straddle him, his big body encased by your leather clad thighs. in all honesty, he was too confused and entranced to fight harder. rafe always had that weak spot with women. “hands by your sides or i’ll slice you open, handsome.”

he reluctantly does as you say, but when you present the syringe, he starts to struggle again — so you tighten your legs around him. “hey, hey— wh—what is that?” he raises his voice and you furrow your brows, a clawed finger pressing to his lips, surprisingly silencing him.

“shhhhh, shhhh.” you hush, before your finger slides down to his chin, grazing the skin with your claw. it slides lower and he daren’t move now, the extension of you so sharp that he fears it could slit him if he wasn’t careful.

“think you’re gonna get away with this, huh? breaking in like this?” as your claw slides directly down to his chest you smile, so casually — not a care in the world. you rip his shirt open, buttons clattering against smooth wooden flooring and his eyes widen, just so you can access the skin over the hard planes of his chest.

“you wouldn’t turn me in.” you tell him confidently, and he actually huffs out a laugh of disbelief, jaw tense and eyes wild.

“oh i wouldn’t huh? alright uh— and why the hell not? who the hell are you?”

you pierce his skin with the needle and his jaw drops, injecting the potion directly into his heart.

“the love of your life.”

rafe cameron’s eyes flutter shut, and it’s only a few hours later when he comes to— laying in the centre of his bed.

“hu—huh wait uh—” he croaks the second his eyes flutter open, only to be silenced by a claw over his flushed lips just like before. it was dark now, all artificial lights cut — you always preferred the light of the moon anyway. his eyes hadn’t adjusted and yet he knew it was you, felt your familiarity, your warmth all around. he pants, and you shush him.

“shhhhh, shh shh shh.” its like dragging your fingernail along velvet — soft, addictive, feeling each tiny feathery bristle caress the vulnerable skin beneath your nail. he stares, wide eyed and parted lipped, somewhat aware of the fact his hair is a mess. he doesn’t care to fix it.

you’re straddling him, all of your body weight and yet somehow you’re feather light — knees pointed upwards, the leather of your suit glowing and catching the light.

“you’re finally awake.” you hum, a vibration behind your voice, a true purr — like the hum of an engine. something below ignites, his crotch heats.

he’s overly aware of the fact he doesn’t mind you there, wishing nothing but to observe you for the moment. you lean back, bone coloured claw hooking into the zip at your neck as you drag it down, lower and lower — revealing the glow of soft skin beneath. rafe can’t look away, you’re like nothing he’s ever seen before. you’re beautiful. you’re… beautiful? the woman who trespassed onto his property? he urges himself, with everything in him to fight — and suddenly he’s catching you off guard, gripping your neck and flipping you onto your back.

you seem taken aback, a break in the confident routine as you blink up at him, the colour of your eye no longer visible, overtaken by inky black pupil. as your back hits the mattress, your plush tits bounce with the movement, now nearly completely exposed by your unzipped catsuit, cool metal zip below your belly button. at the sight of this, rafe winces — overcome by his desires and can’t help but press his erection harshly against the mound between your legs.

“the hell is goin’ on, alright — who — what did you do?” he emphasises with a hard squeeze to your neck making your eyes flutter, and yet your smile — all curled and deranged and your canines glimmer in the low light, the purring sound only getting louder.

“dont fight it, mr cameron. just do what feels good.” it comes out strained from the way he’s squeezing your neck and he lets go, sitting up on his knees but making no move to leave. dragging a hand down his jaw, he results back to staring. “cat got your tongue?” you whisper, sweetly amused. he licks his lips instinctually, moving to choke you again, stop you, but his hand rests there lightly — the two of you locking eyes. angrily, he leans down and kisses you, wet and sloppy.

you take the opportunity to lock your legs back round his waist and flip him back onto his back, grinding your crotch down onto his, making him groan.

“thats better, can’t have you trying to kill me again.” you tease before pushing his ripped shirt open to touch his skin. he winces, irritated and overwhelmed when you drag claws down his chest hard enough to leave chemtrails of pink skin down the muscled planes.

“yeah? thought you cats had nine lives?” he grumbles, gripping your hips and grinding you harder on his lap, causing you to mewl — digging your mouth into his shoulder and sinking his teeth in. “jesus— okay.” he squirms, unsure if you bit hard enough to draw blood.

he decided he didn’t care if you did. what was he so mad about again anyway?

[hotvintagepoll]

Trying to get more into old movies because of this blog (I only know about half of these people and feel like a poser) do you have good recommendations on where to start or is it just a situation where you watch stuff and find what you like as you go?

you are not a poser <3 i myself am just here for the hotties.

here is my quick and dirty list of fun films to start with if you're new to old movies. and of course if you like one of these, do try to find more stuff as you go! there's no bad way to try out old movies.

(this list is not official and is SUPER quick. i'm tagging for content warnings where I can, but if I forgot something let me know.)

"I want to watch something SILLY!"

The Court Jester (Danny Kaye, Angela Lansbury, Glynis Johns, Basil Rathbone)—everyone in this movie is hot. everyone is in fancy medieval dress, which makes them hotter. everyone here is very silly. You can stream this on Hoopla, last time i checked, so you might be able to stream it through your library!

Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang (Dick Van Dyke, Sally Ann Howes, Lionel Jeffries, Gert Frobe)—some people hate this movie and to them I say What Is Wrong With You. dick van dyke is a hot absent minded inventor who lives in a windmill with his two adorable children, his gorgeous sheepdog, and a grandfather who is categorically useless. it feels like the two films mary poppins (1964) and willy wonka (1971) had a baby and that baby was born on roller skates singing an old broadway showtune. this one has been showing up in some odd places lately—I think you can catch it on Tubi or Hoopla? It's definitely around.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (Jane Powell, Julie Newmar, Howard Keel, Russ Tamblyn)—my problematic fave. everytime i watch this i change my mind whether it's a sexist pile of garbage or a feminist paean, and fellas, today we're on the feminist paean bandwagon!! jane powell's millie is truly the star of the movie, she is the hero she drives the plot the narrative is on her side, and besides all that there are seven very hot men dancing next to her and six beautiful ladies making me bisexual. (on Tubi last I checked.)

The Duke Is Tops (Lena Horne, Laurence Criner)—I get a huge kick out of watching Laurence Criner and Ralph Cooper swindle everybody while also trying to put on a show; there's just something silly and sincere here, plus you get a ~musical extravaganza~ at the end when all is right as rain again. Free on YouTube I think?

"I want to watch something DRAMATIC that may make me FEEL SOMETHING."

Witness for the Prosecution (Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power, Elsa Lanchester)—I love a campy twisty turny mystery, don't you? :) I'm not going to talk about this one much because it's better to go in blind, but if you like Agatha Christie stories you'll probably like this.

To Be Or Not To Be (Carole Lombard, Jack Benny)—always relevant, always makes me laugh, also makes me cry. this takes place in poland during wwii so big tw for nazi imagery and mentions. (don't worry. this movie fucking hates nazis.)

Seven Samurai (Toshiro Mifune)—this one is Great Cinema™™™™™™™™™™™ for a goddamned reason

"I want to watch some stuff with the scrungles in it!"

Mr. Washington Goes to Town (Mantan Moreland)—I've been checking out more of Mantan Moreland's stuff because every time I see him in something I think he's delightful, and I really enjoyed this silly-spooky comedy. Does this story have a brain cell? No. Are the special effects and goofy slapstick fun? Yes. This is a fun example of an all-Black cast in a film that was made for Black audiences, and is a striking counterpoint to the stereotypical representation Black actors were given in white-targeted films, showing the enormous amount of talent and artistry the racist studios missed out on by excluding these actors. This is not A Great Film™ but it's still A Fun Time,™ with a goofy Laurel and Hardy type vibe. (It's free on Youtube.)

The Red Shoes (Robert Helpmann, Leonide Massine, Marius Goring)—hey kid, you wanna watch something fucked up? This movie is so fucked up. It's about ballet, it's about art, it's about technicolor, it's about dance and toxic relationships and making theatre and nightmares and ambition and death. A lot of these recs tend on the silly side (because I tend on the silly side) but this one is actually Serious Film and will definitely help you chat up Martin Scorsese should you ever meet him. Big content warning if you can't handle dark themes right now—this movie's pretty dark, not in the gore way but in the Haunting Creepy Image way. (it's also free on Tubi and Kanopy most of the time.)

The Invisible Man (Claude Rains)—my favorite of the vintage horror flicks and a great introduction to Most Dunked On Hot Vintage Man of All Time, Claude Rains. (it helps that you barely ever see him!) Very very silly but the special effects are just plain fun. (I think this is on Internet Archive in full?)

"Can I just get more hot people please?"

Flower Drum Song (James Shigeta, Nancy Kwan, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo)—there are so many unbelievably hot people in this movie which is somehow very good (thanks to its cast) and also incredibly, horrifically bad (thanks to its white team of writers, directors, and producers). on the one hand, it's a mostly Asian cast in a big budget, beautifully designed MGM style musical! there's dream sequences, lots of fun dancing, crooning Rogers & Hammerstein cabaret moments, and just charm galore. it is also freighted with so. many orientalist assumptions and stereotypes, absolutely ridiculous shit that the writers ABSOLUTELY should have known better about in the 60s and nonetheless carried into this. this is a hard one to recommend because I loved this cast, and I loved seeing them in a context beyond the usual stereotypical bit parts so many of them frequently were limited to—yet the movie itself perpetuates so many stereotypes on its own it can be a hard one to watch, and I totally understand if it does not work for most people. tl;dr watch for Shigeta, Kwan, Umeki, and the others, but content warnings galore for one (really bad) case of yellowface casting, orientalist tropes, extremely stereotypical character types, etc. (On Tubi/Kanopy last I checked.)

Charade (Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, James Coburn)—this movie feels like a Hitchcock movie except I had a ton of fun watching it, which I can't always say for a Hitch film. (I told you my taste was bad.) This one is free on YouTube and thank god because Audrey wears a lot of Givenchy, Cary Grant wears spectacles and keeps almost dying, it's very exciting and thrilling and funny and sexy. I don't think there are any content warnings but it's been a minute since I watched it. (I should go watch it right now.)

The Big Sleep (Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall)—they're so hot askjdljhjghladkghjksahkhgslkahgshskjhgsalhgsahgjh. i like this one a lot :)

[this is NOT A FULL LIST of all the hot vintage movies to start with but it might give you some starting places! i banged this out as quick as I could at 2 am, so apologies that it's sloppy and not perfect.]

[boringbones]

A Letter to Talented Creators

I've been part of this community for 20 years, watching artists rise, fall, leave for new journeys, or simply stop playing or creating. We've received amazing content, but we've also missed out on much.

I wonder how many of these artists could still be creating extraordinary content if they had the support of their communities. It’s common to encounter cliques of creators who vilify anyone considering making a living doing what they love. They’ll use every trick to convince you that not only do you NOT deserve it, but that pursuing it somehow taints you.

With every new friend and artist I meet, my first advice is always: FIND a way to monetize what you do. I believe that if you have the chance to make a living doing what you love, you gain MORE TIME to do what you're great at and, especially, what others love.

Besides, you don’t need everyone’s support—just those who, like me and many other players, are willing to contribute to ensure you have the time you need to keep producing and delivering something only you can create. There are ideas that haven’t been thought of and projects that haven’t been started. Life brings unexpected situations, and we never truly know what goes on behind the scenes for each person who shares their art with the world.

Let me tell you, people are willing to support you. In reality, there are more people willing to support a creator than those who aren't. The difference is that those who are willing don’t make as much noise, but they genuinely enjoy helping an artist who continually exceeds expectations.

I know some people think, “If I make money from this, I’ll have to commit to a level I’m not willing to.” And if that’s the case, that’s fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. However, I see this commitment as something positive, but I respect those who disagree. As an artist, you want a certain level of "healthy" pressure. After all, art requires it—not too much pressure, but not too little, either.

Criquette, for instance, is one of the best creators for The Sims 2 in my view. He made incredible things that nearly every player has used. He was ambitious on a level I’ve rarely seen. But he’s been inactive for years. I wonder how much more he could have created if he’d been able to monetize his work—cover household bills, put food in the fridge, or handle basic expenses. How much more time he might have had to create and share? How many brilliant things we could have today in The Sims if he were still here? But he wasn’t monetized, and maybe he was never interested in it, and that’s okay!

For every artist who monetizes, there are many who prefer to do it as a hobby. And that’s wonderful. There are many runners who do it for well-being, pleasure, social connections, or the benefits it brings to life. However, there are those who run professionally. They commit to a level an “amateur” NEVER would. They undergo training that a casual or hobbyist runner would NEVER endure. They maintain diets that others would NEVER tolerate. But the fact that some monetize running and turn it into a career doesn’t prevent others from running for love, fun, or enjoyment.

So, what I’m trying to say is: it’s all okay. If you believe monetizing your talent would give you more QUALITY time to sit and produce what you love, give you the chance to take someone you love to a special restaurant simply because you can, or allow you to be BETTER at what you do because it frees you from worrying about adult responsibilities—then do it!

Be prepared for the noise others will make, but remember that those people aren’t your target audience. Even if they make noise, they don’t consume what you produce. And if they do, they might do so in secret—because attacking a creator and consuming that creator’s work is contradictory. But believe me, there’s often more inconsistency than consistency in this world. And that’s okay!

Remember that on the other side, there are many kind people who don’t mind contributing a small, medium, or even significant amount to support a creator they love, appreciate, and benefit from. Keep this in mind when considering monetization, no matter which version of The Sims you create for. If there’s even one person willing to support you, that’s all you need to start.

I am sure that with this, you’ll have more time, more quality of life, more joy, and a healthy commitment to push yourself in a positive way to give back to your audience for the support and love they have for what you create.

If I have time to create and contribute today, it’s because of these people. They’ve changed my life, shown me that I have the chance to live the life I genuinely want for myself rather than the life circumstances might have dictated. They show me daily that I can LOVE what I do and make a living from it, and that monetizing it doesn’t take away my love for it—instead, it enhances it. I hope you consider my words.

In the end, remember this phrase: “Beyond daily life and what others think of you, what do you think of yourself?” Your value is something only you define. People will respect you to the extent that you respect yourself. If anyone says you don’t have a place “here,” remember, we’re always speaking about ourselves.

We can only give to others what we have, what we are. Trust in your talent and find a way to monetize it, whatever it may be—whether it’s making jarred cakes, selling pudding door-to-door, or creating content for The Sims. I’ve done all these things, and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that our circumstances change according to our sense of worth. When we recognize that every job has value and that there’s nothing wrong with making a living if you’re providing benefits to others with what you have to offer... So follow your heart. Take risks, give it your all, and be the artist you want to be, because there are people ready to support you. You deserve it, and you will succeed. I hope this letter reminds you of your worth.

Never forget that each of your creations is a unique expression, something only you can bring to the world. May that value and uniqueness always guide you and give you the confidence to keep doing what you love.

[luluxa]

'we don't want better production for money, we want powerpoints for free'

You know what your reaction should be when you realize the content isn't what you want and isn't made how you want it to be made? It's 'well, then I'm not the target audience, this content isn't made for me, I should find something else for my entertainment'.

NOT 'it means people who make this content are vile and should be harassed and accused of every sin known to mankind'.

[ravenstargames]

Forced mouse movement is not okay. Ever. Uninstalled and unfollowed. Never do that again.

I want to assume this ask was sent to express discomfort over a feature of the game with somewhat of a good intention. However, it doesn't feel that way.

We weren't going to reply to this initially, but after checking this is not an accessibility issue, we want to use this as a way of reminding people that small developers are not faceless corporations with endless patience and no will to respond to rudeness.

I'd like for you all to keep in mind the way you word things. There's a line between "feedback", "expressing discomfort / disagreement" and whatever this is.

No, you don't get to tell a small creator, artist, developer, how to use their tools. You can express your opinion. You can make suggestions. Small developers want to take care of their audience, because their audience is what allows them to keep working on their games. I'd like to believe every indie developer appreciates and values their audience, and wants to listen to their wants and needs.

However, you don't get to have a say in every little aspect happening in the media you consume. You are absolutely free to have your opinions, express them, have a conversation, and move on. This is not what's happening here.

There was absolutely no need to come to our ask box to say using a narrative element, a tool provided by the engine we use, is "never okay" and to "never do that again". You don't get to decide that. We don't know what response or reaction you were expecting. There is obviously no desire for improvement or dialogue here.

Our demo is free, the content warnings are clear, and the "dark fantasy" and "horror" tags are there. If there's a need to add more content warnings, everyone following us knows they are welcome to inform us about it. I think we've made sure everyone feels comfortable reaching out to us with their opinions since we started publicly working on LiL. Our ask box and our DMs are always open for everyone.

But there will be spooky elements. Agency will be taken away from you. You will feel happy, loved, frustrated, angry, and sad. That's the game we want to make. You can try out the demo, find out you are not comfortable with whatever elements are in it, and decide not to engage any further with it. You will always be free to stop supporting us and our game any time and for whatever reason.

The use of this tool, the forced mouse movement, is justified and adds to the storytelling. We didn't use it deliberately just for the funsies. It shows that there's a higher power trying to control you, and it prepares you for the fact that sometimes this power will be greater than you.

Again, you are absolutely free to uninstall and unfollow, but I advise you not to go to another dev with this much entitlement telling them what to do or how to tell their story this way. You don't like it. It is not made for you. You are not the target audience, and that's completely fine. Curate your space and give some love to the small developers of your favorite games.

[merakiui]

long-distance love.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, phone sex, obsession, power imbalance, kidnapping, implied (cyber)stalking, non-con touching, characters written as 18+ note - sea witch, the magicord mod you've had intimate online relations with, is closer than you thought.

Sea Witch is a busy man.

His weekly schedules are almost always packed to bursting, each event meticulously arranged into open slots as if aiming to form a perfect puzzle. Times never conflict; he’s particular about how he spends his hours, and very rarely does he allow himself a break. It has always been work, work, work. He’s one of the city’s most affluent, eligible bachelors and yet he’s married to his business. Those who lust after him think it’s a wasteful shame. Azul finds it to be a relief far greater than any he’s ever known. He will never compromise the enterprise he’s built from the ground up just because of some flimsy, fickle feelings.

Originally, he had no interest in Magicord, a messaging platform that grants people from all over the world the chance to congregate on specific servers for mutual interests like anime and gaming. He only downloaded it because Idia Shroud, a fellow friend and business partner, lived and breathed the app, his online presence so profound it was almost like a second home. He’d swipe away notifications from his actual messaging app, too busy in a voice call with his group of dungeon raiders to bother answering important calls.

So he resolved to get on Idia’s level in hopes of improving communication. Although Idia’s level, as Azul often noted, was not exactly a place he wanted to be. While Magicord could be used for business purposes, that wasn’t what drew people in. Azul of all people knew very well which target audiences were being reached with apps like Magicord, and he was not one of them.

“To think I’d stoop as low as this,” Azul had once groused over a phone call with Idia, who was giving him quite a lengthy, not-very-needed-but-also-very-much-needed rundown on Magicord’s inner workings. “I hardly have time to play games, let alone socialize on this…app.”

“Aren’t you always going on about how adaptable you are?” Idia sniped back, not in the mood for normie criticism. The sound of clacking keys could be heard on his end. “And you’re the one who asked. Kinda defeats the purpose of learning if you’re just gonna complain.”

Azul rolled his eyes. “I fail to see the logic in downloading another app just to ensure my messages reach you. Honestly, you ought to start checking your email. Or, at the very least, go through your missed call and text logs.”

Alas, Idia had been stubbornly adamant about his preferences and so, much to his displeasure, Azul was forced to undergo something of a Magicord Training Camp until he emerged a pro. And being a pro meant knowing how to navigate his own profile and toggle between that and Idia’s, which was really the only tip he needed because that was all he’d use the app for.

But Azul has always had an innate itch for wanting to know something from top to bottom, inside-out, and the idea of not knowing every little detail about Magicord drove him insane. If there was an opportunity he could capitalize on, why should he risk squandering it with his elementary-level knowledge? So he spent his rare slivers of free time playing around in there, creating a server and wondering who could ever become so attached to an app when the world beyond the screen was filled with just as many, if not more, social encounters.

His introverted side understood the appeal. In fact, he loved the idea of hiding behind a manufactured persona online. He didn’t have to be Azul Ashengrotto on Magicord. Rather, he could rid himself of his dislikable traits and become an entity—an idea or a concept—rather than a flawed man who others might scrutinize ruthlessly.

So he became Sea Witch, and within just a week he’d constructed quite the comfortable server. The invite link was spread throughout the various branches of Mostro. It would provide employees with an online sanctuary, where they could easily connect should doing so in person prove complicated (as had been the case regarding Idia, which was the sole reason he’d even poured so much time into this effort). Most of all, it gave Azul the chance to keep watch from afar, silently sitting in wait and curating a collection of mostly unimportant intel. Mere gossip, if anything.

But gossip is just as good as the next scandal. He likes to be prepared, a razored edge on all sides.

As far as the company was concerned, no one knew who this Sea Witch character was and no one knew who spread the link. And as far as individual employees knew, this was likely just some overworked intern’s labor of love—a well-crafted server intended to function as a digital gathering place for those exhausted after a long day. And that was mostly true, but all of the potential blackmail he could gather, the information he could glean, and even the people he could keep a closer eye on in an online setting—all of that paled in comparison to the real prize he’d attained. This was of great importance. It was something that altered the course of his life, opened his eyes to the brilliant beauty of a first love.

It was there in that undersea-themed haven where he met you, the one who would add flavorful spice to the once bland, boring meal that was his life. And just after a few weeks of simple, cordial conversation, he realized a single taste of your kind companionship wouldn’t be enough to sate him.

Greedy to a fault, Azul wanted you in your entirety.

Which brings him to the present, where he’s currently leaning back into the expensive leather of his driver’s seat. He’s parked on a silent strip of road, in a more residential part of the city. It’s not very busy here, and his windows are tinted to avoid immediate recognition. Rush hour won’t hit until later, and he’s not due for any conferences. He has time. Plenty of it to spare on this little excursion.

“I wanna meet you, Sea Witch,” you admit, nearly whining through the phone. “Where’re you from? Maybe we’re in the same area.”

Azul smiles at your impatience. You just can’t get enough of him, can you?

Every weekend, you hop into a VC with him and chat for hours on end. At first he simply provided a listening ear when you wished to rant through text or call. You’d voice all sorts of complaints. Azul filed them away in the event that they might be useful in the future, initially intending to use such information to ruin you should you prove to be someone worth ruining. But the more he spent listening and scrawling notes on blank paper, the more he realized you were just overworked and struggling financially.

Upon making these connections and learning all sorts of facts from you regarding your life beyond Magicord, he felt compelled to help. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course, ever the benevolent saint. And you weren’t complaining when he offered to pay you for your time. In exchange for two hours of conversation, he’d provide you with the funds you needed to afford your necessities.

Somehow, throughout many months of give and take—with his giving being on the jaw-droppingly exorbitant side, always one to top his own ludicrous generosity—your hours-long conversations would sink beneath the surface of mere companionship. It was one-sided intimacy. Azul was careful with what he shared, building a mostly secretive profile for himself. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing your fondness for Sea Witch by sharing details that felt more like Azul and less like the effortlessly funny, charming, and eloquent Magicord mod you’d originally made contact with.

You didn’t seem to worry about compromising your own privacy, easily divulging a variety of fun tidbits about your life. You’d share the tiniest of details and he’d eat it up every time, hungering for more than just crumbs. That time you sent him a photo of the octopus macarons you’d bought from a local bakery because you were thinking of him? He remembers it well, and he’s constantly reminded of it when you text him about things you did over the weekend or hobbies you basked in. Sending photos of your houseplants, asking him for his opinion on clothes you were hoping to buy (which he was always more than willing to sponsor; all you needed to do was send the link and he’d purchase it), and even trusting him enough to fall asleep in the VC with him (arguably one of his favorite things about your unique relationship).

And he called it unique not because it was a bad sort of strange. Rather, it was unique in the refreshing sense. He’d never had an online friend before, let alone someone who would so willingly and readily indulge him. Granted, this willingness stemmed from the deal he’d cut with you and so you were really only doing these things for your own gain. But then so was he. It was a relationship built upon necessity. You needed money to survive, and he needed you.

So it was okay to fall into sleazy fantasies. It was all an act anyway, and it wasn’t like you judged him or his preferences. At least, not outright. If you did, it was silent. You were considerate and sweet; and you really did consider him a friend. Or so he hoped. If your casual conversations were any proof, it was obvious there was some sort of enjoyment and trust there.

Friendship or something more, he would have you. Whether that meant in the safety of his pocket, enclosed within his mobile phone forever, or in his penthouse, tucked away in his bedroom—he’d have you.

“I’m from a city, yes,” he answers, purposely cryptic.

“Obviously. Come onnn, Witchy. Don’t you wanna meet me, too?”

“I do, and one day we’ll meet. I promise.”

He listens to your irritated groan and his cock twitches in his slacks. Good god, your voice is a blessing—more heavenly than a cherubic choir.

“One day isn’t today, though.”

“Perhaps not.” He speaks to distract you from the rustling fabric of his pressed suit as his hand strays further. He spies his reflection in the rearview mirror, notes the flash in his irises. If only you were here, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. If only he could slide his own seat as far back as it would go, lie still and serene, and let you climb into his lap to spear yourself on his erection. Genuine leather be damned. He wanted your scent, your essence, your everything engraved into the very interior. “Humor me—if we were to meet right now, what would you like to do?”

“Mm, I’d want to get a good look at the man I’ve been talking to for nine months now.”

“Oh, you’ve kept track?”

“You haven’t?” Your laughter is fluffy and light—authentic amusement. “And I’d want to memorize your face so that I’ll never forget it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m so curious! You know what I look like—”

“Not entirely,” he interjects, sly and silver-tongued. “You’re a portrait half-finished in my mind. Not yet sketched to completion.”

And it’s true. From your shoulders down, you are a faceless beauty. He’s seen you nearly naked and fully clothed, in frills and lace, in latex and ribbons, in satin and chiffon. And yet, for all of the skin you’ve shown, he can’t place a face (or a real name, for that matter) to your body.

“Okay, poet,” you tease, and he’s already palming himself through the fine fabric of his trousers. “But I’ve still never seen an inch of you. You’ve never even sent a dick pic.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Can I have one now?”

“Nice try.”

“Asshole!” you gripe, clicking your tongue in disappointment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” he hums, squeezing himself, his breath coming out faint and haggard.

Yeah, he’s the worst. But then you’re the best at eliciting these sorts of reactions from him. The effect you have on him is utterly enthralling. Your ability to reduce him to a pliable puddle in just a few words—a mere few lighthearted, hollow insults—is truly impressive. He’d feel ashamed of himself if it wasn’t so good.

“You’re probably not even that big.”

“Would you like an exact measurement?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to measure it in person? See how many inches I could fit inside. I’ve been practicing with that dildo you sent me—the one shaped like a tentacle,” you purr, frustratingly coy. He wants your sinful lips wrapped around his dick right now—wants to fuck your throat sore and raw. Wants nothing more than to spill heavy and hot on your tongue so you’ll taste him for days. “If we met up, we could make that happen. Sooo, where’s my Sea Witch from? What part of the world?”

“Patience, angelfish.”

Even though he says so, he’s practically vibrating with excitement as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Soon. So soon. Very, very soon.

And then…

He imagines you rolling your eyes with your next words. “Fine, fine. I’ll be patient. But that’s not gonna stop me from fantasizing.”

“Well, what do you think I look like?”

“Now isn’t that a fun question?” You mull it over. He can tell because you mutter a variety of ums and hmms in that soft, sweet voice of yours. “I think you’re tall and you have a handsome face that matches your equally handsome voice.”

“Yeah?” he encourages, undoing the belt, button, and zip on his pants one-handed. “What else?”

Your giggles filter into his ears, seeming closer than they actually are due to the wireless earbuds he’s wearing. “From what I’ve gathered, you seem to have expensive tastes.”

Sitting in his lavish, one-of-a-kind, custom-made sports car, Azul thinks you would be correct.

“I wonder what gave it away…” he drawls, his voice creeping an octave lower.

He places his phone in the cup holder, reaching to open the glove compartment and retrieving a tiny bottle of lube. Squirting a scant amount on his palm, he fishes himself, throbbing and pathetically hard, out of his boxers. His slick hand is a warm, welcome embrace around his silky-smooth shaft. He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Mhm, I wonder. It’s not the fact that you told me I should just buy a designer bag for work when I asked for recommendations. And it’s certainly not your ability to get me lots of nice gifts as if it’s nothing. So maybe it’s just your excessive generosity that makes you seem so rich?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“Speaking of that, what do you do for a living?”

“Guess.”

“Okay, Mr. Mysterious… Um… Hm. I think you’re a pilot.”

The whiplash that assumption brings is so seismically jarring he thinks he might go flaccid. Gripping himself with renewed vigor, he slides his fist along his length, slow and perfunctory, picturing you under his desk, your mouth open wide to receive him…

“A pilot… Mm, no, not quite.”

“Aw. My second guess was gonna be a contract killer. They make lots of money.”

“You have quite the wild imagination, angelfish. Even if I was one, do you think I’d admit that to you?”

“Maybe,” you tease. He pictures your smirk as it twists your perfect, pretty lips into something wicked. “For the right price, yeah?”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

Please. Please keep going. Don’t stop talking. I need to hear you, closer, louder, clearer… More.

“What sort of price would I have to pay to get Sea Witch to spill his secrets?” you muse, your voice a tantalizing curl of syllables, but he suspects you already know the answer to your hypothetical. “I can’t offer you money, so you’d have to settle for something a little more…physical.”

He shivers, nodding his agreement even though you can’t see it. “Physical’s good,” he mumbles, foregoing eloquence in favor of filth. “Much better than—mm—than money…”

“Yeah? All right. Let’s see… You’re well-off and you might or might not be a contract killer. Do you wear suits?”

“I do.”

“Ooh, so you’re one of those contract killers.”

Azul can’t help it; he laughs, the sound tumbling out in a breathy gasp. “I prefer looking nice at all times.”

Languidly, his hand continues its idle pumping. He cracks his eyes open to peer at the pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Even if you’re just going to get messy?”

“Explicate the situation that’s leading me to soil my clothes. Details, angelfish.”

“Well, if you’re a killer who wears suits, you wouldn’t like even the smallest stain. It ruins your image, but if it was me…” You pause, probably for effect, and it works. His back arches with anticipation, fingers closing tighter. “You’d make an exception.”

“I would,” he admits far too quickly. “Always.”

“So you really would out yourself as a killer if I spread my legs for you?”

“No, but I’d let you dirty my suits.”

“Good. They’ll look better on the floor anyway.”

His breath hitches. Fuck, your every word is a siren’s song, leading him deeper into mist-clouded waters. He’d keep you pinned on his cock all day if he could. Why should you continue to work your mundane job when you could spend your precious hours with him instead? He’ll be your job. Seven days a week, during each of the breaks he’ll pencil into his schedules, you can visit him and he can empty all of his stress into you. And you’ll take it because you’re such an obedient sweetheart for him, always so ready to please your master.

He prays you can’t hear the salacious squelch of skin on skin as he works himself towards the edge, but a nastier part of him wants you to listen in so you’ll be reminded that this is your fault. No one else can possibly make him this messy. No one else is capable of rendering him a clumsy, lovestruck fool. You’re probably well aware of these facts, having brought him to this same edge numerous times in the past. Sometimes you would reach that tipping point alongside him, your gasps and groans joining his in an obscene duet.

Neither of you decided upon today’s development, but he thinks—knows—you’re intentionally stringing him along. You want this as much as he does.

“So was I right? You’re totally a contract killer?”

“I’m a businessman, angelfish,” he corrects, a silly, drunken smile softening his jaw. You make him feel so stupid, so warm and fond.

“So basically the same thing. Just as ruthless, no?”

“Please, you wound me. I’m always kind.”

“Ah, so there are others who get this treatment? And I thought I was the only one…”

“You are. No one could ever compare to you.”

He intends to tack my love onto the sentence’s end, but he stops himself. You’re not his love. Not really. You’re his angelfish, sure, but that’s different. That’s just a pet name befitting the aquatic theme he masquerades behind. And you’re not really Azul’s. You’re Sea Witch’s.

It’s Sea Witch you know and love. Beyond that, Azul is just Azul. And he’s nothing like the ideal he’s cultivated on Magicord.

He sighs and forces himself out of the turbulent trenches of his withering self-esteem. Now is not the time to contemplate which version of himself you’d be more preferential to.

You’ll have no choice but to love the real him. Soon.

“Really? I feel so special.” Impressed, you whistle and add, “I’ve gotta make you feel special, too.”

“You already have—”

“Not inside the VC. Come on, Sea Witch, don’t you wanna meet me?”

“I do. I really do,” he babbles dumbly, grinding his thumb into his slit and smearing pre-cum. He grits his teeth and tamps down a colorful word. How he yearns for this to be your hand wrapped around his length, tugging him to that far-off finish line. “I want nothing more than to—t-than to see you, all of you, in person…”

“So what’s stopping you? I could do a lot more in person than I can over the phone.” He has a smart reply for that, but it sticks in his throat. Pitifully, like the rightful debauched mess he is, he groans, low and guttural. “Let me turn the question on you, Sea Witch. If we were to meet today, what would you like to do to me?”

So many things, he thinks, a litany of smutty imagery flickering through his head.

But Sea Witch is classy (most days) and today is one of those instances. Or at least he’s going to make an attempt, however weak it may be.

“Take you to dinner,” he mumbles, executing jerky, quick motions in a daze, his cock weeping for release. He throws his head back, peers up at the interior roof of his car, and inhales sharply. “Take you all over the city if it pleases… I’d spoil you with so much finery—dress you up and then tear every article off…”

“And then?”

“And—god, fuck—wanna be inside you, angelfish… So badly—need you so badly. I wanna feel you and kiss you and hold you.”

He’s unraveling, strings pulled taut and fraying to extremity. Azul bucks into his hand and imagines it’s you, tight and warm, a sweet, snug embrace. He opens and closes his mouth, intending to beg you for more, but all that slips out are the tiniest huffs and grunts. He’s so wrapped up in his own ardor that he almost misses your quiet pants, every breath squeezed out of you as if you’re struggling to withhold your gratuitous moans. And it’s deplorable, really, the way his ears prick at these muffled sounds, the way his cock stands rigidly at attention, the way he’s falling through fragments of filthy fantasies, each one so close and yet impossibly far.

“I want you, too,” you mewl, tone wavering between shameless thrill and some sort of seventh heaven.

He wonders what you’re using to pleasure yourself. Are your fingers, slick and curled, rubbing up against those perfect, pretty spots that have you seeing stars? Or are you using the toys he purchased for your enjoyment? Maybe you’re lowering yourself onto the dildo right now, gummy walls clenching around girthy silicone. And maybe you’re tugging at your nipples, massaging them between the pads of your fingers, or maybe you’ve swapped skin-to-skin for a bullet vibrator instead.

Maybe—just maybe—it’s the mere thought of him that sets your flesh aflame with an intoxicating desire.

“And I want you—” you gasp, and his mind travels to all of the risqué photos you’ve sent, each one saved in a password-protected album on his phone— “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I want you to show me that no one else can compare to you. I want you to—mmh, hah—to hold me down in bed and fuck me until my legs are sore and I can’t walk.”

I will, he thinks, lashes fluttering on his cheekbones. He strokes himself quickly, chest heaving, tongue near-lolling out of his mouth as he pants like a hound in heat. I’ll do all of that and so much more. I’ll fuck every coherent thought out of your pretty head, keep you just smart enough to rely on me, turn you into the prettiest sea flower who’ll only blossom for me.

“I promise, angelfish. I promise I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he vows, his nerves alight with lustful delight, “and you’ll never know misfortune again.”

“I—oh! I’m close, so close! Please, Sea Witch! Please don’t stop. Please fill me up and make me yours!”

The sheer vulgarity twined through amatory vehemence, coupled with his own hurried pace, has him tumbling down the slope, arousal peaking and spilling over in thick, creamy spurts. He has half a mind to catch his spend before it can ruin the pristine interior of his car, and he blinks down at the semen sullying his palm. Idly, he rubs his fingers together to test the viscosity, wondering how his fluids would look on your face, your stomach, your ass—or even pooling out of your hole in plentiful amounts.

That fantasy is enough to send blood rushing right back to his softening cock, and he wills those thoughts away with logic—complex calculations and the financial forecast for Mostro. There will be plenty of time to indulge in sexual cravings later. He reminds himself of this while he tamps down his zeal, his heart relaxing in his ribs as he sits with the slowly ebbing aftershocks of orgasm.

You seem to be doing much the same, for you’ve gone perfectly quiet.

“Everything all right, angelfish?” he whispers after a few minutes, his breath now evened out.

“Mm, yeah. All good over here. Messy, but good.”

“I’m comforted knowing we’re in the same boat.” He chuckles while fumbling to dig a cotton handkerchief from the depths of his suit jacket. He cleans the cum and residual lube from off his hands and dick before neatly tucking himself away. Soon, there will be no need for this charade. Soon, he can adore all of you from beyond the screen. “Angelfish, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

“What’s up?” you murmur, your own voice settling into its usual cheery cadence. He suspects you’re just putting on an act to sound happier. That will change when you’re reunited in person because it will be real. Because there will be no point in pretending through the phone.

“Well…” Azul smiles, folds and unfolds the sodden handkerchief, and then straightens his posture. He should be on his way now. “Ah, it’s nothing. Never mind it. I’ll tell you later.”

“Whaaat? But you’ve made me so curious now. Don’t just leave me in suspense!”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in that suspense indefinitely.”

“Ugh. You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He knows you don’t mean that.

“I’ll tell you soon, angelfish. Exercise a little patience. There’s no rush.”

“Easy for you to say. You know what it is.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, considering his next words. “Would it help if I left you with a word of advice?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

“Um. Okay, sure. Hit me. What’s your advice?”

Azul buckles himself in, starting his car via push button. It rumbles to life, smooth and steady. “Don’t fight so much, my dear.”

“Don’t what? Sea Witch, what are you talking—”

Your words are interrupted with a startled yelp. Azul listens to the struggle as if it’s a podcast enjoyed at sunrise. Things are toppled in the chaos; something shatters. He catches the beginnings of a blood-curdling shriek before it’s swiftly silenced. There’s more muffled scuffling before, eventually, absolute peace.

It’s broken by Floyd’s petulant whine. “Maaan, Shrimpy was so difficult. Thought you said they were easy, Azul.”

“Understandably so,” comes Jade’s astute reply. “We did catch them when they were most vulnerable.”

Floyd hums his agreement. “Y’know, Jade, Shrimpy’s kinda cute…”

“They are, aren’t they, Floyd?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, perish it right now,” Azul hisses, features twisting into something dark. “Keep your slimy mitts off of my angelfish.”

There’s an unsettling silence. Azul rolls his eyes. They’re fishing for a reaction he refuses to give.

“Clean up whatever mess you’ve made.” He takes his car out of park and eases into drive. “And don’t let anyone see you. It’ll be a hell of a pain if neighbors make unnecessary reports.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard ya loud and clear.”

“Very well. Farewell for now.”

The call is cut. Azul grips the steering wheel, smug.

Soon waits for him on the horizon. He will not be a minute late.

You wake on a bed, in a spacious bedroom with exquisite floor-to-ceiling windows, many stories up in the clouds. A brightly lit cityscape sprawls beyond the confines of this room, illuminated with the deceptive shine of promise and success. At first it looks foreign. But then you recognize notable buildings, each standing tall and proud amidst the rest, and it occurs to you that you’re in a stranger’s home, in the heart of the big city.

The room itself is plainly colored; it reminds you of a hotel or a room you might find in a real estate catalogue. Perplexed, you sit up and take pause as your unfamiliar surroundings prove to be more frightful than your own confusion.

Pasted to the walls are various printed screenshots from Magicord, each one detailing a conversation of sorts. You stare at the wall behind you, the one in which the bed is currently pushed against, and peer closer at the contents of these messages.

They’re all from you.

Endearing terms you’ve called him in passing. Gentle insults. Lewd flirts. Vents and rants. Photos you’ve sent of very insignificant things—houseplants, meals, clothes. And then there are the photos of your body in skimpy lingerie and cosplay, all taped to the wall like this is some abstract museum of the digital you. The you who, despite being honest most of the time, took solace in the world of Magicord. The you who’d grown close with the mod from that whimsical ocean-themed server. The you who is now trapped, your ankle enclosed in a cuff. There’s a lead that only allows you to meander into the attached bathroom if you so please, and you suspect it’ll pull taut if you try to leave the room.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, your stomach twisting with disgust.

You look down at your clothes—you’re in someone’s collared shirt, intentionally designed to be oversized so that it drapes like a nightgown—and horror prickles your skin.

And then he arrives.

He’s dressed casually in black slacks and a simple white dress shirt, primly tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. You stare for a long moment, studying his features as his familiarity dawns. Your mouth falls open in a muted scream.

He smiles sweetly, stepping further into the amber glow from the bedside lamps. “It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Sea Witch.”

But that’s not what’s shocking about this. The real shock—the thing that has your brain stumbling in an effort to put the pieces together before the picture can crumble—is far more jarring than the kidnapping and the captivity. You find your voice then, and before you can stop yourself the words are falling out in a hurry.

“CEO Ashengrotto?!”

Sea Witch—CEO Ashengrotto—stiffens, his brows furrowing immediately. He gives you a sharp, dangerous look. A look that seems to radiate one unspoken question: Where did you hear that name?

“You… You’re A-Azul Ashengrotto,” you continue, swallowing thick trepidation. “CEO of Mostro. You opened a new restaurant last year—Crave, right? And the menu features celebrity favorites—celebrities like Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanche.”

He laughs his disbelief, carding a hand through soft, silvery locks. “How…do you know this?”

“I work there. You visited once with your secretary for quality checks. We even crossed paths.”

Azul gawks, realizes he’s gawking, and clears his throat. “I… I see. Well.” He inhales, holds his breath for three seconds, and exhales. “This makes things rather…awkward.”

“When you said businessman, I didn’t think… I mean, how was I supposed to know? Your voice sounds so different over call than it does in interviews.”

“Of course it does! I never use the same inflection for those things.”

This cannot be real, you think, watching him flounder anxiously. Azul Ashengrotto is Sea Witch. This whole time… Nine entire months… I was talking to the CEO—to the city’s most popular bachelor—and I didn’t even know it. They write articles about this guy! He’s all over the TV! How did I never realize?

And then a very mortifying thought worms its way in: Oh my God. We both know each other’s preferences. He saw so much of me—more than I’d ever want him to see—and I heard too many private things during our calls…

“Let’s just…” You rub circles into your temples to quell the incoming migraine. “Let’s never talk about this again. You can buy my silence and I’ll move on with my life. I’ll even forget all of…” You glance at the Magicord conversations stuck to the wall and then the chain binding your ankle. “All of this…stuff. We’ll agree to call it a misunderstanding and life will be good, yeah?”

The bargain doesn’t seem to reach him. He continues to stare at you, his eyes glazed with an emotion you can’t place. Whatever it is, it’s stormy and dark. You don’t like it, and you shrink away when he steps closer.

“All this time you were right under my nose…”

Azul climbs onto the bed with you, the mattress depressing under the additional weight. Framed by the hypnotic radiance of the skyscrapers climbing heavenward, he’s certainly earned his place in every celebrity gossip magazine you’ve ever read. Articles debating whether he’s secretly committed to a relationship. Articles theorizing what his life plans may have in store for him. Articles discussing whether he’ll ever get married, if he’ll remain single for the rest of his life, if he’ll ever open his heart to the many people who hope to earn his romantic affections.

No one knows it—how could they when he’s so tight-lipped with the paparazzi?—but you are the secret variable the articles have yet to discover. You are the covert partner, the one who has won his heart, the one who now sits shackled on his bed.

What sort of tabloid journalist could ever spin this story?

You scoot further up the bed, your back pressing against the ornately extravagant headboard. Your knees are pulled into your chest, a futile attempt at protection.

“All this time you were so close to me…” He marvels at this, his baby blue hues locked permanently on you. “And neither of us knew. I could’ve had you much sooner had I just realized…”

You blink at him, your heart sinking with every passing second. “Mr. Ashengrotto, what do you mean by that?”

A pout tugs at perfect, pretty lips. “Why so formal, angelfish? We’re much closer than that, surely.” His hands settle upon your knees, gently pulling them apart. Your blood curdles with fear. “There’s no need to be so tense. It’s only me.”

“No… Please wait. Hold on!”

“Hm? If I’m not mistaken, this is what you want. You were rather vocal about your desires. You’ve always been. So why are you looking at me like that? I’m not scary, am I?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please let me go…”

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, his tone patient despite the subject. “You know I can’t do that.”

“But you… You kidnapped me! Y-You had those guys hiding in my home and they…” You shake your head, unable to describe the sheer terror that had overwhelmed you when those creepy twins descended. Hopeless, you open your eyes to give him your most despairing look. Tears brim in your eyes, threatening to fall at the slightest prodding.

“Oh, my dear, did they scare you? They’re brutes who know nothing of how to treat a person with adequate care. You needn’t worry anymore. I’m here for you.” He cups your face in a fond hold, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your cheek. “Don’t cry, angelfish. You’re in good hands—my hands. And have they not been the most generous?”

“You’re crazy. Obsessed! How can you think any of this is okay? Look around at the walls! You’ve pasted our conversations everywhere—they’re practically the wallpaper!”

“What of it?” His hand slides down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet him at eye level. “I love you. I have for months now. And if those are the ways you choose to classify my care, so be it.”

Tear trails trace down your face. He leans in to kiss the rivers away, but they morph into the saltiest of seas.

“You may not approve of my affections right this very moment. You may hate me, think I’m monstrous, a culmination of all things foul, but you will love me. In due time, my dear. And when you do, the world will open and the chain will come off and you will know freedom under my roof.”

He has the gall to worship you with a loving smile. It poisons you with newly brewing abhorrence.

“So cry your heart out. Scream and kick up a fit. Do what you must. And when the floods subside, we can learn to love one another. Both at our best and our worst, within and beyond Magicord.”

[thewriteblrlibrary]

A Step-by-Step Marketing Guide so we can spite traditional publishers (and make people cry).

~ This is a guide specific for fiction/writeblr. All of this is for free and there is little social media posting/ads involved (unless you want to venture into that). ~

Within the writeblr spheres, there's this underlying hope that our stories will find their audience. Perhaps we'll have a fandom full of fanart and video essays, or maybe we'll be an instant classic and sit on collectors' beloved bookshelves. Our stories could sit within the deepest corners of someone's heart and maybe they never tell a soul about what's so special to them. Maybe our stories become those 'underrated masterpieces'.

Or we just want to see people ugly cry over our writing.

Whatever your hope may be, marketing is an important path to venture on (especially because traditional publishers are rejecting diverse books in favor of ones that are already famous + the whole sub-par machine thing they seem obsessed with.)

And thus, my childhood marketing obsession will hopefully be of use to you. This is all for free (unless you want to spend money) and you don't need to figure out social media platforms (unless you want to, and this guide works if you decide to take that route too.)

Step One: Characters

Marketing spheres will define these fictious people as 'avatars' or 'the target audience'. You could also call them characters. Because that's what they are: fictional people.

For this step, you shall create characters that would love your story.

And here's some great news: You've already done this.

Perhaps you wrote your story to comfort a prior version of yourself. Perhaps each character in your story holds an aspect of your personality. Perhaps you were ridiculously self-indulgent and made the story you would've loved to read. These are all possible characters you can reuse for marketing.

Write down 2-4 quick archetypes for these characters. You'll chose an aspect of your story (characters, themes, or the younger-self that you wrote it for) and write a thumbnail sketch. (Main issue, fears, wants, personality traits if they relate to the main issue.)

I'll do it for my story (the Land of the Fallen Fairies) down below:

Anuli-like (my MC): Overthinking and aloof. Wants a happy ending but thinks their current personality/character isn't good enough for one. The present stales in comparison to the past/the childhood they lost. The 'gifted theater kids'. Kamari-like (side character): Postpones happiness in favor of creating a perfect schedule/getting accomplishments. Heavy masking. Creative but doesn't create anymore. Promises themself they'll enjoy themselves later, when they've earned it. Workaholics. My younger self: Wanting a fantasy escapism to embody the traits they wish they had in real life. Dissatisfied and worried about reality. Perfectionists. Self-indulgent: People who love plants and forests and fantasy worlds far away from reality/humanity.

Great! Now it's time to find these characters.

Step Two: Setting.

(Let's assume you're using the internet for your marketing. But a similar method works for real life too.)

Where do the characters live?

In order to figure that out, we need to discover the characters' interests, what they watch to solve their problems, and who they find #relatable.

(You can do this for each character or for all the characters at once.)

For example:

Anuli-like -

interests: Stories. Analysis videos. Fantasy escapism. Things that remind them of their childhood. (so nature, warmth, comfort, play, imagination and the times they would actually enjoy learning.)

Places to look: Nature quotes, ambience videos, children's shows and fairytales (comfort shows). Fandom culture - fanfic video essays, fan art.

Solving problems (the problem being wanting a 'happy ending' but feeling that their personality/lifestyle/characteristics aren't right for one): Mindfulness things. Self-healing. Quotes and meditations and candles galore. Slow living. Nature vlogs. Self care. All that 'live in the moment' culture.

Places to look: Slow living. Nature vlogs. The 'softer self-help' (spirituality stuff. Magic/ overnight answers). Witchcraft. 'aesthetic nature' places. Guided meditations.

#relatable: Burnt out gifted kids. People who think so much that their life passes them by. Storytellers and creative who create to make sense of the world. People who like dark, gory things in spite of who they want to be. People who don't like reality.

Places to look: Those 'learn better and remember everything' places. (The 'burnt-out gifted kid' recovery places.) Stop overthinking spots. Those quotes on Pinterest from poetic people who think too much /aff. Storyteller places. Dark academia. Classical music. One off quotes/ poetry.

Okie dokie. Once you have this, find channels, social media accounts, blogs, songs, books, etc. that fit with the categories you wrote down. (They should appeal to the characters) You can search up some of the terms you listed into searches and see who pops up. Bonus points if you find people that overlap with multiple sections.

I know I didn't include booktube or booktok in here. You can if you want too. But those can be a bit... 'consume these 500 books'. You also want to find other places where people who would like you story live, even if they don't follow booktube or booktok.

Congrats! Now you know where your characters live!

Step Three: the scary part

Take everyone you found on your search for the settings and write them down a list. Make sure you get an email/contact info. (they usually list them somewhere under 'for business inquires') Also feel free to watch their content and get to know what attributes these settings have.

And now... we talk to them. about our stories. You can do it. I believe in you.

This called 'pitching your product' in marketing spheres. But you can be informal about it.

I know it can be difficult to talk about your work, so here's a tone to have:

'I made this thing I like and I think you'll like it too'.

What you'll do is send an email (or dm) that goes like this (inspired by Creative Hive on youtube):

Hi [name],

[Genuine compliment]

[Quick sentence or two about your story. Include the themes and who it appeals to. If you have a logline/sentence summary, include that. But I find that the underlying themes and 'who's it's for' is more engaging.

For my story, I might say something like.

I've written a story you might enjoy, since you like [interest]. It's called the Land of the Fallen Fairies. It's a nature-themed commentary on the pursuit of happiness and fixing yourself to deserve that happiness, told by an overthinking, unreliable, houseplant narrator. It was supposed to comfort me when I got frustrated with myself and my happiness chasing, and I hope it can comfort others too.

(That's probably a bit long and I can trim it down a bit.)

You can phrase it like a gift if you want too.]

[Call to action.

'If you like it, I'd appreciate a mention on your [platform].

I know this part may be difficult to mention (imposter syndrome is not fun.) But I promise that if they do like it, they'll be happy to mention it.]

If they don't respond within... four-ish days? (A week at most). then you can include a follow up. For this you can include a template with info about your story. This way it's easy for them to talk about your story.

The template:

title

genre

blurb

Author

where to find the book

Bonus points if you have an additional, physical thing to send them.

Congrats! Now do this pitching process a few times until you've covered most of your bases. (Pitch to as many people as you can. It will get more comfortable as you do it. Play your favorite song and don't let yourself think too hard about it.)

----------

The benefits of this process are that you find people that are already interested in the themes and vibes of your story (in comparison to to ads, which get shoved in everyone's faces.). Someone your audience already trusts will talk about it, which means you don't need to do all this trial and error to find your audience and make content for them.

It's basically a bunch of people talking about something they like!

AND you diversify your audience across niches, but with an underlying theme/interests. Booktok/booktube must appeal to everyone, so it's a hit or miss for recommendations. (Unless there is someone that specifically does one genre/type of story.)

From here you can do fun little things to build up hype and make the book launch feel like this fun event. (I love it when that happens so here's my thoughts about trying to create an event with your story... although that may require another post entirely.)

preorder goals

charity goals

Arg's and puzzles

fund with side plushies and trinkets

Book blog tour

book boxes

as many memes as you can make

rewards (like bookmarks or posters or smth) that people can get for supporting

Talk about the process of creating your story. I know this one channel called 'Dead Sound' that creates 'making of' videos for his short films and they are some of the best videos on youtube.

Okay dear storyteller! Now go forth and share your story with the world!

Additional resources:

Creative Hive <-- a youtube channel that goes through the pitching process.

This video is also very good <-- Haven't watched the rest of the channel but I assume it's also good.

One of the best marketing channels on the internet (the videos are actually entertianing to watch.

Seth Goldin <-- I read his book and took the parts I liked and modified for storytelling marketing.

Dead Sound <-- propaganda to watch the short film series he has (he did the whole 2-d 3-d style wayyyy before spiderverse did... and he's one person making these. One person. It's amazing.

Glitch <--- If someone can figure out how The Amazing Digital Circus was marketed then I will pay you money. It seems to be a lot of memes and funny things.

[deception-united]

I HATE YOUR WRITING TIPS, ONE MORE POST AND SCREW IT, IM BLOCKING *AND* REPORTING YOUR PAGE. IM FED UP WITH THESE INEFFECTUAL WRITING TIPS. HOW DO YOU THINK EDGAR ALLEN POE, AND EVEN SHAKESPEARE WROTE? THEY DIDNT HAVE TUMBLR AND NO 'cute little writing tips for your help!' I DEEM EVERY MODERN DAY WRITER A CHEAT AND I HOPE WHATEVER YOU'RE WRITING FAILS. YOU IMBECILE OF A WRITER.

Hi, thanks for asking! Writers like Edgar Allen Poe and Shakespeare used many techniques in their writing which might help you out. Here are a few tips:

Use metaphors: Employing figurative language can help paint vivid images in the readers' minds and facilitate the comprehension of more complex themes and ideas. For example, in Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare compares love to a rose—while it is lovely to the eye, its thorns can cut deep.

Choice of impression: Know what you want the desired effect of your writing to be in advance. Having decided the impression you want to leave on your readers before you start can help when figuring out the tone and conflicts throughout the story. Poe, for instance, focused mostly on the gothic genre with themes of death that inspired feelings of terror, despair, and suspense.

Know your audience: Who are you targeting? Determining factors such as the age range your work is for and what message you want to leave them with is crucial so that readers find your writing relatable and engaging.

Choose the setting wisely: In Poe's own words, "a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident." Though the setting—of the entire book and for each scene—is often viewed as trivial, or at least of secondary importance, it is important to know why you're putting the characters where you are.

Use soliloquies: A soliloquy is a dramatic monologue in which a character speaks their thoughts aloud, typically while alone on stage, revealing their inner feelings to the audience. This can often be seen in Shakespeare's works, such as in Hamlet, where the title character begins with "To be, or not to be: that is the question," contemplating life and death.

Thank you for voicing your concerns! I wholeheartedly agree that I am not a real writer, merely an illusion. This is the last you'll see of me, I'm afraid. Feel free to ask any more questions, and thanks for 1800 followers—almost to two thousand! Love you all ❤

Previous | Next

[2soulscollide]

tips to level up your writing skills

1. read, read, read

okay, I know, everyone keeps saying it... but it's true, and I truly believe the more you read, the better you write, because you come across different writing styles, different voices, new characters, and worlds. This applies to every writer, from amateur to professional.

2. practice makes perfect

another cliché, right.

but hear me out: I feel so much more confident about my writing skills when I write daily, rather than when I write a bit occasionally. you get lots of work done, see your book coming to life, and get better at it.

3. create an outline before you start writing

guysss, I know many people like to go with the flow, but I would recommend planning your novel before writing it, especially if it is one of your first projects.

when I started, I refused to plot my novel because I thought it was a waste of time, and I couldn't plan it all ahead. turns out that I could never finish my novels, because I started to get lost in the plot. as most of you may know, I LOVEEE to plot now!

4. use active voice instead of passive voice

passive voice is alright sometimes. I like to use it, too. but to create an immersive experience for the reader, you should go for the active voice since it creates more impact.

see something like this:

"the letter was written by Marcus who had tears in his eyes." VS "Marcus wrote the letter with tears in his eyes."

such a basic example (don't judge me!!)... but can you notice the difference? it seems so much more expressive.

5. avoid using overly complex language

repeat it after me: short. sentences. are. valid.

don't overcomplicate it! I know it's tempting to write huge sentences sometimes and make your book seem more complex and professional, but sometimes it just doesn't come out as expected, and we end up exhausting our readers.

6. don't just for yourself

this can be a polemic topic. it's quite common to see people saying you should write for yourself, but let's be honest here: if you're trying to get your book published, you should have your target public in mind while developing your book. knowing your audience to know what works and what doesn't work is extremely important. but hey, you must also enjoy what you're writing!

7. use dialogue!!!

I find dialogue so important, and I love it so much! ensure you develop a distinctive voice for your characters to make them seem real to the reader. also, if possible, read the dialogue out loud and imagine if it would work out in real life.

8. don't be afraid to use metaphors

metaphors will turn a "basic" work into something more sophisticated when applied in the right places. you might want to avoid overusing it because it can ruin the experience, but it's something up to you, and what feels better to you.

9. research your topic before writing

okay, this is pretty self-explanatory. if you're writing about a topic or a location you don't know much about, avoid making assumptions or clichés. instead, do some research, take notes, or even ask chatgpt questions to help you.

10. don't be afraid to experiment and try new things

I was a fanfiction writer for a long time and was so scared to try original fiction because it seemed so much different from what I was accustomed to doing. however, once I decided to try something new, I discovered I liked to do it more than fanfiction. you'll never know until you try it!

11. never give up on your writing, keep practicing and learning to improve your skills

it takes time to acquire new skills, so if you're new to writing, please don't give up! It's fun and a long path, and I promise you'll love it, even more, the more you write!

I hope this was helpful! <3 have a nice day

also, i just released a new freebie!!! it's a free workbook for writers with over 90 pages to guide you through the process of plotting a novel. you might be interested in checking it out!! :D click here

[theblackfemininesociety]

The Realities of Leading a Soft Girl Lifestyle.

(no luxury materials, riches, or social status needed)

The concept of leading a "soft life" has gained immense popularity on social media. From the emergence of the "soft life" to the adoption of "soft girl era," individuals are striving to embrace and protray this lifestyle.

The merging of the "Soft Life" and "Black Women in Luxury" trends promotes an indulgent and opulent way of living. However, the problem arises when the boundaries between these two trends become blurred, as the Soft Life has become inundated with extravagant and unattainable daily routines and lifestyles, especially during times of economic decline and the widespread influence of social media.

A Life of Ease 🌹

The term "soft life" originated from Nigerian influencers, and it means rejecting the idea of constantly working hard and instead choosing to live without struggle and stress. This concept has gained popularity among individuals who believe in prioritizing self-care, relaxation, and enjoying the pleasures of life. Embracing the soft life means acknowledging that life is not solely about hustling and grinding, but also about finding balance and taking time to recharge.

In a society that often glorifies busyness and equates success with non-stop productivity, the soft life offers a refreshing perspective. It encourages individuals to slow down and appreciate the little joys in life, such as spending quality time with loved ones, indulging in hobbies, or simply taking a leisurely walk in nature. It emphasizes the importance of self-care practices, such as getting enough sleep, engaging in regular exercise, and nourishing oneself with healthy, delicious meals.

Living the soft life does not mean completely shirking responsibilities or neglecting one's ambitions. It is about finding a healthy equilibrium between work and leisure, and recognizing that constant stress and burnout are not sustainable in the long run. By prioritizing self-care and setting boundaries, individuals can maintain their well-being and find fulfillment in both their personal and professional lives.

The Marketing Scheme 📈

Due to the widespread fascination with living a comfortable and luxurious lifestyle, as well as the growing trend of promoting businesses highlighting affluent Black women, companies have cleverly targeted their audience and capitalized on this interest.

Their approach has transformed the concept of a relaxed and efficient lifestyle into a profitable strategy, enticing consumers to indulge in products endorsed by their beloved social media influencers or ones that are beyond the reach of the average individual's income.

📌 What We Want You To Focus On:

Strive for a balanced and stress-free lifestyle that fits your budget! We want to make it clear that you don't have to give up on things like a $300 facial or $100 yoga pants. We encourage everyone to pursue the life they want. What we're saying is, don't feel pressured or inferior if you choose to do an at-home manicure, light your favorite Target candles, and enjoy a glass of wine in your bathtub at home. The true essence of a fulfilling life is finding a balance between increasing your savings and reducing stress throughout the day. It doesn't require a specific price tag on the items used to do so.

Yes, Two Things Can Be True At Once.

Indeed, the well-known concept of "black women in luxury" is a way of leading a comfortable life, but the context of this aesthetic is solely dependent on financial means.

However, Living a stress-free life is primarily determined by an individual's behaviors and mindset rather than their financial status.

Life Tip: Having the right mindset leads to a luxurious lifestyle, but a luxurious lifestyle without a well-balanced mindset can lead to destruction.

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Follow us on INSTAGRAM | FACEBOOK 🫶🏽

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 8: Free Fall

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Pet spawn?

Unrestrained laughter erupts from your lips at Elowyn’s overt taunting. This snake has made the doltish mistake of thinking that she can manipulate you through her callous words. She believes you to be a blind fool, but you see her goading for what it is, and you will not be baited as if you’re a starving animal being offered food on a silver platter.

She’s been trying to exploit my weakness for Astarion all along.

Elowyn’s face deforms into a bewildered mess that makes her usually gossamer features vanish. She smooths down her silky green dress with a restless hand. Those beaming sapphire eyes try to drill through your unyielding gaze, and she doubles down on her efforts to spur you on.

“Sugar doesn’t believe she’s your pet, Astarion,” she throws her head back with mocking, frosted laughter echoing into the night, “How adorable.”

“I know what you’re doing, Sugar,” you giggle, pulling your hand out of Astarion’s, who watches you with a cocked brow, his mouth slightly agape in astonishment, “It will not work on me.”

Your palms heat as you stalk steadily around her and Astarion. Running up and down the length of her svelte frame, your eyes analyze Elowyn with an iron gaze. She really is quite stunning, with her pouty lips polished with a red-hued stain, but she can’t conceal that conniving, duplicitous flare in her eyes from you.

“I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, spawn,” Elowyn croons innocently, “Astarion, dear, your toy is frightening me. She needs her Master to give her leash a yank.”

Astarion chuckles, bitter and biting, “I warned you to watch yourself,” he purrs, shoving her away from him, “Did I not?”

The blue flare of lightning erupts across her fingers, and you’re momentarily confused. You’re too away for her to cast Shocking Hands against you. It doesn’t dawn on you until it’s too late that her target is Astarion. You cast quickly and pitch her into the air with Telekinesis, sending her hurtling across the paved ground.

It’s too late, and you watch Astarion’s eyes flicker between the deathly spiritless frost and the vivid cardinal red. He shudders with a bellowing roar as the lighting courses through him. Seeing him in pain causes your intrinsic sorcery to surge in a torrent, along with the ardour of your rage. Fire detonates to life from your palm in a molten, oscillating sphere burning so hot it would put the very Hells themselves to shame.

You prepare to bombard Elowyn with the draconic firestorm, but Astarion’s strained voice makes you pause, “Don’t,” he grimaces as the aftershocks course through his body, making him twitch and jerk.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Astarion?” you snap, your body trembling with the sheer amount of power brimming inside you.

“I will explain everything,” Astarion’s eyes dance between ice and fire as the conflict inside him sieges his mind, “but right now, I need you. I cannot afford to lose control.”

You look between him and Elowyn, who remains unstirring on the rigid ground. You could kill her effortlessly right now and wipe her miserable soul from existence, but you would almost surely cause Astarion to lose the fragment of control he is hardly clinging to.

Elowyn or Astarion? 

The choice is obvious, but it still vexes you. “Fuck!” you scream into the sky, struggling to rein in your rampaging temper. The fireball in your palm ebbs as you try to douse it, “Tell me what you need.”

“Kiss me,” he commands.

You glance once more between Elowyn and Astarion, gods-fucking-damn it, you think, before sprinting towards Astarion. You drive yourself into his outstretched arms and take his lips in yours. He crushes you against him with such strength that you wonder if your ribs may splinter and break.

You slide your tongue over the sharp tip of your fang and let the metallic sharpness flood your mouth. You entice his lips to part, and a groan rumbles in his chest as your taste drags him back from the brink of oblivion.

The clattering of unsteady footsteps resounds, and Astarion breaks the kiss, glancing behind you. Elowyn is wobbling on shaky legs as she attempts to stagger away. The bright vermillion hue of blood streaks her face and drips from her cheek onto her soiled dress.

“She must not get away,” Astarion says with a voice bathed in malice.

You untangle yourself from him and cast Hold Person. A purple glyph renders on the ground under Elowyn, and she halts, mid-stride, dead in her tracks, as the blockade encompasses her. Glimmering chalky tendrils cavort around her, keeping her statuesque and speechless.

“Go back to the manor,” Astarion orders with a sharp edge, “I will return when I have dealt with this.”

He wants me to leave?

You can’t help yourself, and you grit your teeth as you try to bite back raw jealousy, “Are you taking her back to the palace,” you spit harshly, “to entertain her?”

“No, you adorable, envious thing,” he chuckles, “Most certainly not.”

“Then why do I have to leave,” you cross your arms over obstinately.

I do not take orders.

“I do not wish you to see what I’m about to do to her,” his eyes bore into you.

“You’re not going to kill her, or you would have let me do it,” your eyes tunnel into Astarion, scrutinizing him, “What do you not wish me to see?”

He sighs, running his hands through his hair, “How long will the spell hold?”

“It will dissipate with time, or I can end it at my whim, but you are avoiding the question.”

“Fine,” he growls. His hand rests at the back of his neck, and he shakes his head slightly, "If you wish to stay, then stay, but keep behind me and do not look into my eyes.”

Your brow cocks in confusion, “Why?”

Astarion runs his fingers lightly down your arm with that practiced scheming smile, “Do as I ask, please.”

He’s trying to manipulate me.

“I’m staying.”

“Bloody Hells, you’re stubborn,” he groans as his face twists between an angry scowl and an amused grin. Astarion takes several steps forward before turning back to you, “You should take heed of my instructions at times, you know. I’m trying to protect you, and you’re making it exceptionally difficult.”

Protect me from what? From the feeble, sad sack of flesh stuck in my cage?

Astarion disperses and becomes flesh again at the other end of the street in front of the imprisoned Elowyn with his arms crossed, regarding her with low, pinched brows.

Show off.

Casting Misty Step, you vanish and appear beside him. Elowyn’s eyes flicker between you, but that’s all she can move. You stare at her acutely with a smug smile. The wound on her forehead still weeps, and blood dribbles down her face, slow and syrupy.

“How long until she’s free?”

“I can let her free if you wish,” you say while walking a lap around the suspended woman, trying to figure out what is so off about her that makes your hair stand on end, “or you can wait for the spell to wane.”

Astarion’s eyes cast skyward, “It will be dawn soon. Get behind me, let her go, but do not look into my eyes. Do you understand?”

You press your back against Astarion’s as you stare off in the opposite direction, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Do it.”

Gripping the Weave, you allow the spell to unravel and give Elowyn her freedom. The scent of her blood on the air is heavy this close, and you feel like you’re frothing at the mouth, trying to bulldoze your profane urges down. Astarion’s hand turns and folds over yours, giving you something to concentrate on.

“Astarion,” Elowyn gasps, finally able to speak, “You don’t have to do this. I overstepped. Master, please be merciful.”

She calls him Master? HA!

“Elowyn, darling,” Astarion’s voice is wrapped up in the velvety tone of manipulation you remember so well, making you wince, “You must learn your place, or I will be forced to replace you.”

“Master,” she sobs, “please.”

“Be a very good girl and look into my eyes, Elowyn,” Astarion coos, “You will go home tonight, crawl into your bed and fall into a deep sleep. When you awaken, this will all be but a dream.”

Elowyn’s voice is emotionless and blank when she answers again, and you can’t help but spin around. Staring into her eyes, you recognize the compulsion from the guards at Cazador’s. Threads of red rays are weaving around her as she stares at Astarion, unwavering.

Gods, she doesn’t even blink.

There’s nothing but a vast emptiness in those sapphire eyes now, almost as if you were looking into the eyes of a corpse. Her pupils are blown wide, obscuring much of the colour of her irises. This should delight you, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t a little, but you wonder how often he’s made you forget. How many times has he made you go home and think something was simply a dream?

No wonder he didn’t want me to witness this. Can I not even trust my memories?

At Astarion’s command, Elowyn walks away in a rigid and jerky motion as if her limbs are carved from wood. They lurch stiffly, and you can hear her repeating, “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream,” as she marches wherever she goes.

You watch Elowyn disappear into a dark alley, repeating those words in a hollow voice, “What did you do to her, Astarion?"

You already know, but you must hear him admit it.

“Probably precisely what you think,” Astarion says with a stiff back, standing exceptionally tall and intimidating, “I compelled her.”

A tremble runs through you, “How long does that last?”

“Until my commands are completed,” he looks at you, and you watch an ominous glow recede slowly from his eyes, “As far as I can tell.”

How many times has he done this to me? Another thing I must be alert for.

The walk back to the manor is tainted with an awkward silence. Flaming Fists patrolling the streets nod to Astarion as if they are acquainted, but they give you careful, often fearful, looks and even change their paths to keep their distance from you. You are tempted to scream “BOO!” at them to see if they jump.

Astarion walks casually beside you and, oddly enough, slows his pace to yours. In your peripheral vision, you catch his eyes repeatedly snapping toward you. You pretend not to notice his peculiar behaviour, but apprehension claws at you, ruffling your nerves. Usually, it was hard to get Astarion to shut up, but right now, you wish he would say anything to dispel the cumbersome stillness.

Casting your eyes heavenward, you stare into the sky, not a cloud to be seen. All those little pinpoints of twinkling lights are starting to dwindle as the moon prepares to yield to the sun, “Astarion, are you still yourself?"

“Yes,” he crosses his arms and cocks his brow, “I am still myself, more or less. Why?”

You pivot on him quickly, grabbing his arms with a bright smile, “Can we watch the sunrise?”

Astarion halts, eye round and brows raised so high they seem to be trying to climb onto his scalp, “You wish to watch the sunrise with me?”

“If you promise you won’t let the sun burn me.”

“Never, my sweet. I would be honoured,” Astarion grins boyishly, his fangs in plain view, “I know a perfect place. This way.”

Astarion twists you through the upper city streets until you reach the newly rebuilt High Hall. The palace towers into the sky and construction continues on a few additions and extra wings stretching outward.

Several grand spires topped with parapets sit atop an elaborate multistory estate with elegant windows. It is protected by an outer wall with several rather large round towers. The central courtyard boasts lush gardens, expertly manicured with crisscrossing walkways lined with benches.

“Astarion,” you say while looking around at the extensive scenery, “where in the Hells are you taking me?”

He points to the tallest rounded tower with a flat top, “Up there.”

Glancing at it, you cross your arms and stare at him with knitted brows, “I can’t get up there. I can’t see where I’m going.”

He chuckles with a sly smile and shrugs, “I guess I will be the only one watching the sunrise then because I can fly up there.”

Sometimes, you can’t tell when he’s joking, and you stare at him petulantly with pursed lips.

“Oh, you are adorable when you’re being sour,” an endearing crooked half smile draws up the corners of his mouth, “No tricks needed. We are just going to walk right in.”

Walk right into High Hall?

Astarion strides through the grounds with you on his heels. He’s familiar with the property and knows what paths to take and where to turn. With dawn approaching, the groundskeepers are starting their rounds of watering and pruning the various plants. They all greet him with a bow and a respectful “Saer” before continuing their routines.

Gods. They know him. What the fuck has he been up to?

He lets himself into a tower where a couple of guards are playing cards or dozing in their chairs. They jump to attention as soon as they see him. Some pop up so abruptly that their rickety wood chairs and stools capsize with a rattle.

“Master Ancunin,” they greet him with their heads bowed in respect.

“At ease,” Astarion instructs, “Wigmund, I will be at the top. No one is to disturb me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master Ancunin, as you say,” the burly man rasps.

You duck down slightly to try and look at their eyes. You can hear hearts beating, but you wonder if one or more of these poor souls are Astarion’s spawn.

How else would he have such command over them?

Astarion crosses his arms and cocks a brow at you, “Heads and eyes up, all of you,” he barks before motioning to you with his hand in a dramatic gesture, “Take a good look, my dear.”

The men snap their heads up with wild eyes. You stare at Astarion, observing his eyes to ensure you haven’t upset him. He stands casually, aloof and quite clearly bored but with a lopsided grin. You stare into the eyes of all the men, browns, blues, and greens, but none are sanguine red.

“Finished your inspection of my men?” Astarion tuts, “We will miss the sunrise if you take much longer looking for things that aren’t there.”

“I’m going to have questions for you later, Astarion,” you taunt with a wry smile.

“You are exceptionally nosy these days,” he admonishes playfully, bounding up the twisting staircase as you follow, “It seems we have much to discuss.”

Astarion motions to the ladder leading the hatch that will open to the top of the tower, “Ladies first.”

“Are you angry?”

He sighs with a theatrical flair, “Why? Because you inspected the guards to see if any of them were my spawn instead of simply asking me?”

“You’re not answering the question.”

Astarion’s fingers slide down your arm, “I’m not angry in the slightest. You may inspect as many guards as you want. I care not.”

You point at the ladder, “You go up first.”

He bows, “As you wish.”

Climbing onto the top of the tower, your eyes are met with a breathtaking view of the Chionthar and lower city. Large and small boats slice through the otherwise still waters as the first dim wisps of light creep up on the horizon.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful up here.”

“It is,” he smiles one of the most beautiful smiles you’ve ever seen on him, “Come. Sit with me. Sunrise is not far off now.”

You crawl onto the flat stone top and let your legs hang over the edge precariously. Looking down, you shrink away as anxiety tightens in your stomach. You were never a big fan of heights. It’s been established that you are not the most graceful being to walk this land, and part of you fears you might topple right over the edge.

Astarion watches you intently before shaking his head and giggling at you, well aware of this phobia, “Heights still trouble you?” he looks down and cocks his head, “The fall wouldn’t kill you, but it would be painful.”

“Wow,” you scoff at him dryly, “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

“Come here, little love,” he chuckles as he grabs you by the waist and moves so you’re sitting comfortably between his legs, “I’ll protect you from your woeful clumsiness.”

The first swell of the sun ascends over the horizon, and you lurch back further into Astarion, gritting your teeth in a knee-jerk reaction. You know you’re safe with him, or at least you hope so, but logic succumbs to panic. Burying your face into Astarion’s chest and closing your eyes, you grip tight handfuls of his shirt.

Please, please, don’t hurt me.

“It’s alright,” Astarion pushes the hair out of your face, and his fingers sweep up and down your arm, “I’ve got you. Open your eyes.”

You open one of your eyes in a narrow slit and peek out of it, looking toward the horizon. The golden sphere climbs slowly, casting outstanding, sharp oranges and pale yellows into the sky. The radiant light frisks over your pale skin, and you smile.

Astarion lights up when he sees you smiling. His arms pull you closer, and he rests his head against yours and whispers, “This is nice.”

It is.

You relax in Astarion’s arms as you both watch the birth of a new day.

Standing in the long hallway, you stretch with a yawn. The heavy drapes cover the windows, smothering the manor in shadow, which means Astarion has gone out. On your way to the library, you pass a large mirror with a delicate silver trim. You peer into the reflective surface. Unsurprisingly, the mirror remains empty and void of your image. You let the pads of your fingers slink down the smooth finish. It used to make you sad, this lack of reflection, but somewhere along the way, you became anesthetized to it.

You look down the hall at Astarion’s bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, and you can’t help but take a peek inside.

I shouldn’t.

Despite your better judgment, you push further into his room, letting your fingers trace over the baroque tables and wardrobes fashioned from deep plum-stained wood. Papers and ledgers are strewn on his desk, various contracts and purchase agreements with notes and signatures in his immaculate hand.

A rectangular black leatherbound notebook lays on his bedside table. Picking it up, you sit on the bed and let your fingers meander over the smooth cover. You know you shouldn’t open it; you shouldn’t be here in the first place, but curiosity was always your downfall. Your fingers undo the ties, keeping the oddly shaped notebook closed, and you flip it open.

Your face stares back at you from the page, and you gasp as your eyes pine over the beautifully detailed sketch. Gods, you haven’t seen yourself in so long, and you wonder if it’s even you for a moment. Your fingers shake as they hover over the drawing. You fill page after page countlessly as you flip through them.

Every single one.

You hear the creak of the manor door open, the resounding thump of Astarion’s heartbeat and footsteps as he ascends the staircase. You should leave, but your eyes are fixed on the image of your eyes before you. At least, you think it’s your eyes as they appear now, but you’ve never seen them, so you can’t be sure. It’s the only sketch in colour. Red veils most of the irises, but there are splotches, cracks and slivers where another colour emerges against the vivid scarlet.

Astarion leans against the doorframe. His arms crossed, “Snooping, are you?”

“I didn’t know you draw.”

“My dear, I’m 200 years old, with much of that time spent hiding away during the day,” he tuts with a low chuckle, “I am a man of many talents.”

“These,” your voice drifts as you swallow hard and turn another page, “These are all...”

“You,” he cuts you off, “Yes. Observant, as always.”

Finally prying your eyes away from the page, you stare at him bewildered, “Why?”

Astarion sits beside you on the bed, “I could never get you out of my head,” he shifts the notebook out of your hands and stares down at the page, “For awhile, these were all I had left of you.”

“I-I,” you spring off the bed, intending to leave, “I’m sorry. I should not have been in your room.”

“I did say I could be convinced to call it our room,” Astarion grabs your arm, a sly grin quirking up the corners of his lips, “You’re welcome in here, even if it’s just to rummage through my things, you delinquent.”

Our room. It sounds so good.

No. I cannot let myself get caught in this trap.

“Is that what my eyes look like now?”

Astarion turns the page and cocks his head, examining it, and then back at you scrutinizingly. Walking to the window, he pulls the curtains back, allowing sunlight to splash over the room and beckons you closer with his finger.

“Look at me,” he angles your face so the sun washes over it, “Hm, close, but I could do better.”

Astarion almost rips the page out, and you grasp at his hands with a yelp, “What are you doing!?”

He giggles with a smirk, “Don’t fret,” his thumb caresses your cheek, “I will sketch it again.”

“If you’re just going to tear it out and throw it away, can I keep it?”

He cocks a brow at you and looks at the page. Smiling, he tears it out carefully and hands it to you, “It’s all yours, beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you say breathlessly, staring at it, mesmerized.

“If you’re done poking about now,” he sighs while closing the notepad, “I believe we have matters we must discuss.”

Elowyn. Fuck.

A discussion topic you would rather avoid. You’re not ready to hear whatever he has to say, and truthfully, you don’t want to know what kind of relationship he has with her. She already told you more than you care to know.

You look at him, crestfallen, “You want to discuss Elowyn.”

He nods, “You did well to avoid an altercation with her,” Astarion praises, taking your hand, but you pull away from him.

“I’m not an idiot. She was trying to bait me,” you scoff, clenching your jaw with a frown, “I have used the same tactic many times. She knows what you are, Astarion, and about whatever is wrong with you. She tried to get you mad on purpose. You realize that, right?”

“Yes, that’s quite clear after her little performance,” Astarion’s fingers cradle his chin, “Her motives for such a demonstration still elude me, though.”

You toss your head back and laugh steely and sarcastic, “She wants me out of the way. I suppose she’s not happy to share you,” Astarion’s mouth opens to speak, but you trample over him, “I don’t want to know what she is to you,” your eyes shine, wet with unshed tears, “Please. Spare me that pain.”

“Sweetheart…” he mewls with a timbre of candied gloss.

“I said no, Astarion,” you say, sharper than any dagger ever could be. Your hands shake as you place the drawing on a table, careful not to crease the delicate parchment.

“Why do you evade this?” he roars coarsely while tearing off his coat as if it’s suffocating him, throwing it aside, “Why does this upset you so much? You abandoned me!”

“If you don’t know why this upsets me, then you are being intentionally ignorant, Astarion!” you scream as the tears finally spill out of your eyes, “I thought… I thought...”

I thought you loved me.

You wrap your arms around yourself to stifle your sobbing, “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Leaning your back against the wall, you hope it might help steady you. Sometimes, you miss the all-consuming numbness that has been slowly unthawing, leaving you this walking emotional catastrophe. Your knees feel like jelly as sobs you’re trying to keep suffocated wrack your body.

“Elowyn means nothing to me,” he whispers in a velvet dulcet, “She is simply a means to an end.”

I guess we are doing this.

“If she means nothing to you, why didn’t you let me end her,” you wipe the tears staining your cheeks, “Why did you protect her? It’s hardly like you to be against murder.”

“She is still useful to me. She is a rather keen alchemist and a proxy for that vile Drow merchant.”

Drow merchant? No… It couldn’t possibly be.

“I’m sorry. What?”

His fingers wrack through his hair fitfully, messing the perfected style, “I’ve contracted the blood merchant to do some,” he pauses, “assessments for me. Elowyn is her assistant.”

Did I just hear him correctly?

Exploding, you scream at him. Leaping forward, grabbing his shirt, you shake him, “Please tell me you are not talking about Araj Oblodra?”

“The very one.”

“What in the fuck are you doing cavorting with her,” you scold him, flushed with helpless rage, “you hate her!”

“I do, most fervently,” he retorts harshly, “which is why Elowyn takes care of the dirty work.”

“Assessments?” you cringe, the word tasting sour on your tongue, “Please tell me you are not giving her access to your blood.”

He won’t even give me his blood.

“If I tell you that it would be a lie, and I’m no liar,” he says in a crystalline tone, “The ritual changed the composition of my blood. I’d rather like to know why and if it has anything to do with my… ailment.”

He’s gone completely mad.

“You godsdamned idiot! How could you be so careless? You have no idea what your blood is capable of!”

“Oh, come now,” he scoffs with a serrated click of his tongue, “Don’t be dramatic, darling. It’s only a minuscule amount. They could hardly do anything with it.”

“Fuck,” you rage on, and all the candles in the room alight at once with long, skinny flames twirling like tornados unnaturally, “I can’t believe you would be so fucking brainless.”

He glances at the candles and shrugs with a clever glint in his eye, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he waves dismissively, “and all that.”

“Close is one thing, but taking her to your bed?” you give him another vigorous shake as if you might be able to physically shake sense back into him, “What in the nine Hells are you thinking!”

“Take her to my bed,” his brows pinch together, “whatever are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me,” you rasp, tears freefalling from your eyes, “She told me about your relationship, and you implied it the night she showed up, and you told me it was none of my business! A long night entertaining your guest, remember?”

His forehead creases, and his eyes shift as if trying to recall memories, “Ah,” he looks suddenly abashed, “Yes, I suggested that. I, uh, may have embellished… a little.”

“Why? What was the point?”

“I asked you to stay that day, remember? I asked you to stay with me in the palace, and you declined. I may have, perhaps, a trifle childishly lashed out.”

“But Elowyn,” you finally let him go and start pacing the room, “she told me!”

“I’m curious,” Astarion straightens his shirt where your unyielding grip rumpled it, “What exactly did she tell you?”

“She said you two were having a lot of fun. I believe her exact words were, “Sex, sweetness, sex,” you bristle while trying to quell the nauseating wave that unfurls and tickles your throat, “She made sure the clarify that for me as if I were some fucking halfwit.”

Astarion throws his head back and laughs loudly, “Gods. She wishes,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Elowyn has never graced my sheets. That is not to say she did not try, of course, but can you blame her? I am terribly charming.”

“You’ve,” you blunder. Your tongue feels numb, and you can’t get it to form the question, “Never?” you ask, finally managing to nudge it out clumsily.

“Absolutely not!” Astarion exclaims, clicking his tongue in disapproval, sticking his nose pompously in the air, “I do not fraternize with my underlings.”

Was that why he wouldn’t touch me? Did he consider me his underling?

“Why,” you stammer, swallowing hard, “why would she tell me that? What would she gain from it?”

“You did say she was trying to goad you,” he shrugs, “As for her motivations, I do not know, but I intend to find out.”

“I’m still going to fucking kill her one day,” you growl with a devilish smirk, relishing the vivid unpardonable visions racing through your head, “after I discover what she is up to.”

“Still murderous,” he grins wickedly handsome, “I’m impressed. When the time comes, she’s all yours, my love.”

My love.

You giggle at his approval, but it fades as you stare into those engrossing ruby-red eyes. You crash into him, wrapping your arms around him, taking his lips in yours, primal and uninhibited. Astarion groans, and his tongue darts into your mouth, desperate to savour you as if he is a drought and you are the first droplets of rain in centuries.

Gods, your hands ache to roam the silk ivory of his skin, and you tug at his shirt. He pulls it off in one swift motion before his lips crash into yours again, his hand cradling your cheek. You start to undo the metal clasps of your shirt. Apparently, too slowly, and he tears it from your body, tossing it aside uncharacteristically carelessly, the usual requirement for order and tidiness slain by his untamed need for you.

“You’re beautiful,” he drawls, “So Godsdamned beautiful.”

Your rationality is eclipsed by infernal, white-hot desire. You pull him close, letting your searing hands pour over the contours of his flawless body. You are slipping, tumbling down an icy hill you will never be able to ascend again, but at this moment, you barely recognize yourself nosediving to your demise.

His hands burn trails of vitality into your lifeless skin. A deprived whimper escapes your mouth, and you can feel the smug smile spread across his lips. He knows, he always knows you won’t fight him, won’t spar with these feelings, even when you should.

Gripping the back of your thighs, Astarion pulls you off your feet, just as he did that night in the forest. Your legs straddle his waist, and in a couple of fluid, silent steps, he pins you between himself and the lofty mattress with his hips. He grinds his erection against you, eliciting unconstrained sighs from you against his starved, urging mouth.

His hand pushes past the waistband of your trousers to find you slick with arousal, and a moan rumbles deep in his chest. A feverous tension coalesces in your abdomen. Fuck, you should stop him, you should, but you don’t. He has poisoned you and made himself the antidote, leaving you helpless against him.

“What do you want, darling,” he coos with a voice like a warm spring day, “Tell me what you want, and I will make it yours.”

Astarion’s dexterous fingers sweep gently over your swollen clit in flawless execution. He remembers you, remembers your body and remembers exactly how to drive you to unadulterated senselessness, which is exactly where he wants you. Isn’t it? Senseless and begging, pleading, beseeching him for his touch, his love, his acceptance.

Hells, you know better than to let him overwhelm you, but being with him is like second nature in the same way breathing had once been. Even after all this time, despite everything he’s done, you cannot fathom how not to love him.

“I want-” you murmur as his finger glides magnificently around the pulsing bundle of nerves, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out at the decadent sensation, “Fuck, Astarion. I want you.”

“And I want you, only you,” he articulates in an assertive, sultry inflection, carefully pronouncing every word as if his very life depended on getting the message across, “Forever, until the world falls down.”

Astarion’s fingers crook in your waistband, and he pulls on it lightly in a silent query for permission. You’re in a tailspin, spiralling into the depths of your desires, and you feel yourself nod before you have even really had time to consider the request.

Astarion strips you, and you’re bared to him entirely. His crimson eyes gorge themselves on the banquet of your pristine snowy skin with such intensity you can feel them dancing across your flesh.

Astarion leans over you, lowering himself in a torturously slow progression, and his lips wrap around your nipple. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, and you writhe against him in a hopeless attempt to curb the pang between your legs.

His warm mouth brushes down your stomach, over your belly button, his breath hot and humid. Your body produces heat no longer, but Gods, you feel feverish as if he’s breathing new life into you.

Astarion lifts your leg, trailing chaste kisses down the delicate skin of your inner thigh as he places it over his shoulder. You lurch forward, nearly bounding completely upright, when his tongue laps at your swollen clit. Astarion holds you down, steadfast and unwavering, while he states his fervent hunger with the taste of you. Those eyes look at you through thick lashes full of covetous eroticism that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

His eyes close, and his lips wrap around your sensitive bud, driving you further into bliss. You tangle your fingers in his hair as your body jerks with every sweep and flick of his tongue.

Astarion’s fingers tease your entrance, and he relinquishes his foray of sensation on your swollen flesh. You groan in displeasure at his retreat, and he chuckles deeply, which results in an impetuous scowl from you.

“Oh, don’t be cross, love,” he taunts with a sly smile before he sucks on his fingers, that captivating crimson gaze never letting your eyes retreat. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd pop, “When have I ever left you wanting?”

His tongue delves, parting your sex as his fingers sink into you in a slow progression, allowing your body time to adjust. A vulgar and indecent growl resonates from him as he eases in until he’s knuckle-deep.

He twitches the pads of his fingers upward as he starts languid thrusts, hitting your G-spot. Your back arches and hips jerk as he escalates his tempo to harmonize with your breathy whimpers.

He must feel the traction of your release begin because he moans deeply against your tender pearl, and that sound, the embodiment of passion and longing, sends you spiralling overboard. Astarion doesn’t stop the delicious onslaught of sensation until he’s coaxed every splintering pulse out of you. His name cries from your lips in a sonorous, majestic recitation.

Your vision has barely started to clear when his lips catch yours, and you can taste yourself on his breath, driving your desire to new heights while your fingers grapple with the border of his breeches.

“Say you are mine,” he instructs, in a husky tone with those blood-red eyes digging into you, hooded and affectionate, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m yours. Please. Gods, please,” you whine in shattered breaths.

In a split second, before you even have time to perceive his movements,  Astarion crawls up the bed, his knee hooking yours, spreading your legs wider. His hard cock slides through your folds with a lazy roll of his hip, covering himself in your arousal with a yearning quivering pant.

His swollen head pushes against your entrance. Astarion pushes the stray strands of hair out of your face with a tenderness you haven’t seen since he Ascended, “I will be gentle,” his eyes search yours for hesitation, “Are you ready?”

Ready?

Gods, you have far surpassed simply being ready. You crave him. No, you covet him, selfish and mandatory, and there is nothing that can stop you from drinking him in, “Fuck me, Astarion.”

“Fuck you?” he giggles, “How utterly vulgar,” he teases, “No, darling, I will make love to you unless you have objections, of course…” he trails off.

If you didn’t know better, you would say he was almost unsure of himself.

Make love?

Is it a trick? You can’t tell anymore, you don’t want to tell, and you drive the thoughts out of your mind, blurred by burning lust. You press your lips against him in wordless approval. Panting moans leave his mouth as you stretch to accommodate his girth.

He sputters, his chest heaving and breath snagging, “Hells, love, you’re tight,��� he rasps low, clenching his teeth. He immerses his hard length into your wet heat gradually until he’s filled you, claimed you.

The throbbing in your centre bursts anew as he angles himself perfectly, and your nails dig harshly into the silken bed linens. The pads of his fingers find the pulsing collection that swells between your thighs as he starts to pump into you, careful and attentive, raptly watching you for any signs of discomfort.

“I want to hear my name cried from your lips,” he taunts, all provocation and suede baritone, “You will fall apart around my cock, won’t you?”

You know you will. The tension in your muscles is already ballooning with every snap of his hips. Astarion’s fangs drag delicately over your skin. The mix of pain and pleasure is too much, and you mewl in desperation.

“Astarion,” you stammer as your pleasure expands through your limbs, and your core clenches, gripping him, “Fuck, Astarion!”

He gasps, “I can feel you fluttering around my cock,” he stutters, breath hitching in his throat, “Dissolve into rapturous ecstasy around me. Fuck,” he groans, “With me, my love.”

You crest over the pinnacle of your pleasure as ordered, and the shockwaves rocket through you, violent and so brutally you wonder if your heart might have stopped if the grip of death had not already stilled it.

His name rips from your throat poetically, just as yours does from his, and he spills into you with a final, powerful thrust.

Both of you wrest unneeded air into your lungs, chests surging, rising and falling fruitlessly. You’ve let your attachment to him muddle your rationale, but Hells, does it ever feel brilliant.

“Good girl,” he purrs triumphantly.

He expected this all along. You can tell by the saccharine intonation, but you’re too spent to give a damn.

His lips faint over your ear and he whispers, “Hold on me.”

His arm glides around your waist as you wrap yourself around his neck, and he lays down, settling your head on his chest with your leg laced over his.

Astarion exhales a contented breath, and his fingers sweep up and down your arm tenderly, “You are unharmed, yes?”

There is genuine concern drenched in his voice that makes you think of a chapter of your life long gone, and you wince, “I’m alright,” you manage to stammer out, but your voice is as dry as yesterday’s dust.

Astarion jerks as if you’ve struck him at your intonation and uses his hand to cast your eyes toward his. His brows are furrowed as his eyes shift, trying to identify the nuisance parching your sun-baked voice.

“Did I hurt you?” his hand and eyes skim down your body as if looking for an injury or wound that might provide the explanation you’re not giving him.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” you sigh, bony-weary and forlorn.

“Little love,” he coos, scarlet eyes bleeding into you, threatening to swallow you whole, “tell me, whatever is the matter?”

Before he can interrogate you further, his eyes harden and wrench away, bitter and unkind. Punitive, strident banging rattles the estate’s prodigious door on its hinges.

Astarion groans, trawling his hand across his face, “It’s for you,” he murmurs, irritated.

Your brows scrunch, and your body laments as you sit up with Astarion’s assistance, “How do you know?”

Astarion stares at you cold as a winter pond, “It’s the wizard.”

Gale? No, no, no! Fuck, not now, not here.  

I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to read/kudos/comment, etc. It gives me the confidence to keep the story going, and I hope you enjoy reading it as it unfolds!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

Small Notes: - Well, Astarion has been exceptionally pleasant for a little while, but how will he react to Gale showing up and how will poor Tav deal with it? - Tav learned some new things in this chapter. Looks like we have a lot of different things we have to explore! - The Blood Merchant... Really, Astarion?

[cripplecharacters]

Feel free not to answer this question as it's more a research-type question, I'm just not sure how to go about finding what I need: do you happen to know any fiction books with portrayals of medium to high support autistic people that are considered realistic and positive? All I can find is rep of low support autistic ppl (unless it's in semi-educational children's books) and it's making it harder to figure out how to write medium to high support autistic ppl myself.

Hello!

When I was diagnosed, it was before the levels were used (Or at least before they were used where I lived). I suspect that I would be considered 'level one autistic' today but would likely have been 'level two', bridging into 'level three' as a child. This is all just to explain my perspective with this.

That being said, here are some of my recommendations:

A Step Toward Falling by Cammie McGovern

I just finished this book earlier today and while it isn't specifically about autistic characters, it does feature several autistic characters with high support needs as well as other disabled characters. The book is written from the perspective of two characters, one of which is developmentally disabled (Belinda). Although her disability is never specified, I do see a lot of autistic traits in Belinda. The premise of this book is a bit heavy. It's about two characters (Who are not disabled) who end up volunteering at a centre for adults with developmental disabilities. One of the things I appreciated about this book was how well rounded the characters are. Each of them has their own stories, interests, and ideas. I also like how it discussed sex and relationships in the context of people with developmental disabilities. Something to note is that this does have some sensitive topics such as ableism, sexual assault, and bullying. It is also written by a parent of an autistic child but, as far as I'm aware, the author herself is abled. I did have some conflicted feelings about specific parts of it but I'll leave that for you to make your own decisions about. Target Audience: Young Adult

How to Speak Dolphin by Ginny Rorby

I also read this book recently and I personally really disliked it. There were several scenes that made me feel very gross and I found that the autistic character was dehumanized very often. One line that stuck with me was another character about a blind character, essentially saying, "I thought she was going to drown herself. If I was blind, that's what I would do." Although the character does get to know the blind character and changes her mind, it really felt awful to read and seemed so unnecessary -- especially given the target audience. The way it talks about blindness in general bugs me. That being said, I have seen several autistic people recommending the book (Which was why I read it in the first place) so I'll include it here anyways since my opinion seems to be in the minority around this book. Target Audience: Elementary/Middle Schoolers This is a brief review from another autistic person. [Link]

Planet Earth is Blue by Nicole Panteleakos

This book centers around Nova, a young autistic girl with high support needs. Nova is a foster child who is missing her older sister and the story is told through a mix of narrative, letters to Nova's sister, and flashbacks. It's been a while since I've read this book but I remember really enjoying it (And maybe crying a little bit too). The author is autistic herself and also consulted many other autistic people with a variety of experiences, which I appreciated. Target Audience: Middle Schoolers This is a more in-depth review on the book from a reader who (I believe) is also autistic. [Link]

These are also a couple books that I've seen recommended but can't personally recommend as I haven't read them myself yet:

Real by Carol Cujec

Remember Dippy by Shirley Reva Vernick

I know it's not very much but hopefully it's enough to get you started! If anyone has any recommendations for anon, feel free to mention them in the notes.

Cheers,

~ Mod Icarus

[uniquexusposts]

A cafe, a newspaper and Carlos

Summary: Y/N and meets Carlos in a cafe and they bond over a newspaper and a book. Genre: fluff Read the full story here

Y/N was on her way to the nearest city in Spain. It was sunny, it was warm, and it was not like her home country. She had been in Spain for three months now. Y/N was glad to leave the house for a day. She tried to get out of the house at least once a week for a whole day, but that rather failed than worked. Once a week became once every two weeks. Renovating a house was more challenging than you would think. Y/N would say she underestimated it.

After twenty minutes, she arrived in the city. The first thing she did was visit the supermarket to buy a newspaper from her home country and a local newspaper. Y/N was young; you wouldn't say that she belonged to the target audience for reading newspapers. She was a journalist, she had to keep up with the news. Y/N and her dad tried to get the newspaper delivered to their house, but that didn't work. They had to buy it every morning now - which wasn't bad at all.

Tourists were strolling around on this beautiful day. Y/N agreed with them. Because Y/N began to know this village more, she knew the best hotspots by now. There was a new coffee shop hidden in one of the alleys, it was her go-to spot. It was one of the hidden gems and there were a few people who knew about it, they hoped it would stay this small and unknown. How did Y/N find this? She was kinda friends with one of the baristas: Maria. Maria used to work at a cafe that fired her for no particular reason. So the 'savage'? Stealing customers.

Y/N entered the cafe. The amazing thing that made this cafe unique? It was on a rooftop. It wasn't a chic cafe. The cafe reminded her of one of her favourite places back in her home country; warm, open, happy. Y/N walked up the stairs.

"Hola, Y/N," Maria said as soon as she saw the young lady.

Y/N smiled. "Hola," she said. "¿Cómo va todo?"

"I'm fine, today is a busy day," the woman smiled. "What can I get you? I will bring it to you."

"I would love to have a coffee," Y/N said. "With a yogurt bowl and a glass of water."

"The usual," Maria warmly smiled. "We only have free chairs inside, but I think a few people leave in a bit. It's up to you what you will do."

The eyes of Y/N were gliding over the people on the terrace. "I will just look around," she smiled. "But thanks."

"Anytime, girl."

Y/N walked outside, it was indeed filled with people. However, she had spotted a free chair. But every table was occupied. Could she just ask one of the people to sit at their table? That would be rude. She was here to enjoy the day and the sun... And if you don't ask it, you don't know it. Besides, everyone in The Netherlands - Amsterdam - would share a table if everything was occupied.

She bit her lip and walked towards the free chair. Her eyes fell on the man who sat on the other side of the table, he was enjoying a cup of coffee and reading a book. Could she bother him?

"Hi," Y/N politely said. When the man looked up, she pressed a smile on her face. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

The corners of the man's mouth curled up. "No, have a seat," he said.

"Gracias," she said and turned around the chair to face the sun and view, not the man. Y/N placed her leg over her knee and grabbed the newspaper from her bag. This was the ultimate moment to enjoy the warm bursts of sunshine.

Five minutes later, Maria walked to Y/N. "Found a free chair, I see," she smirked and put the coffee, glass of water and yoghurt on the table with whom Y/N shared a table. "How are you?"

"Thanks, Maria. And I'm fine, finally a day off."

"I already thought so. I haven't seen you in a while."

"It's so busy," Y/N breathed and closed the newspaper. "But I missed this; I had to make time to drink a coffee at yours."

Maria widely smiled. "Things I love to hear," she said and looked at the man behind Y/N. "Can I get you anything?"

The man looked up from his book. "No, thanks, I'm fine."

"Also perfect. And for your information, for both of you, everything is on one bill. I couldn't split it. So when one of you is leaving, we will split the bill for your own consumption. Just to let you know when it's unclear when you will pay," Maria explained to both of them. The man and Y/N nodded. "I will speak to you later, yes?" She said to Y/N.

"Absolutely. Good luck," Y/N smiled. "Thanks, by the way."

"No need to thank me." And Maria walked away.

Y/N opened the newspaper again and continued reading. She took some sips from the cappuccino and ate the yoghurt. It was still morning, well, late in the morning. A few people were enjoying a morning off, others were working, and some were only here for a cup of coffee in their break.

One thing Y/N enjoyed about this, was that she could read and look up after a while, watching the surroundings and the people. If you didn't feel like reading for a couple of minutes, there were enough other things to fill the time.

Hours passed. The newspaper made place for a book, and the coffee made room for a refreshing juice. A lot of the same people were still present, a few left and a couple of new faces came in return.

"Excuse me," the man behind Y/N said.

She looked over her shoulder, locking her eyes with the man's. Now she noticed the afternoon was coming to an end. And she could feel it, a soft breeze flowed through her hair. "Hi."

"Hey, I'm leaving. I accidentally paid for us both..."

"Oh," Y/N softly said. Actually, she forgot that they were sharing a bill. And the man just has been too. "How much is it?"

The man looked at the bill. "13,20 euros," he said.

She nodded and grabbed her wallet. She gave him a bill of 5 and 10 euros. "You can keep the change."

The man got something from his pocket. "Here do you have two euros," he said and placed it on the table. "You can keep the 20 cents," he softly chuckled.

"Oh, eh, thank you." Y/N politely smiled.

"It was a good day," the man continued. He looked around with a satisfied look on his face.

"It was a good day," she agreed with him. Y/N closed the book she was reading and took a sip from her juice. "We all needed it. People somehow seem nicer." Her eyes fell on the time; she didn't have to be somewhere next, but perhaps it was also time to go home.

The man looked down and smirked. He nodded and looked up again. "They somehow do. I saw how you enjoyed the sun. It's somehow amazing to see how much people can enjoy the warmth and sun."

"People are desperately in need of the sun and the summer." She looked at him. "Thank you for letting me sit here."

"Yeah, no problem. The chair was doing nothing anyway," he replied. He noticed the smile on her face; she looked grateful. "What are you reading?" His eyes fell on the book.

Y/N got up and turned around her chair. "Sorry, my neck begins to hurt," she mentioned. The man nodded and was wearing a smile. "But The Secret History by Donna Tartt. My grandma recommended it, and I have to say... I'm impressed. It's a good story so far."

"I never heard of it before," he honestly mentioned. Y/N gave the book to him, so he could read the back - luckily this was the English version. She figured he might get interested in it. His eyes scanned the words on the back. "It looks good," he said and gave back the book.

"It is." Her eyes fell on his book, but she didn't say anything of it.

"Grand Hotel Europe," he mentioned. "By Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer?" He looked doubtful when he pronounced his name. "I'm not sure what to think of it, to be honest. I got it from a friend, but I'm not quite sure whether I like it or not." He slid the book to Y/N. His brown eyes were scanning the woman in front of her. She didn't even read the back, she just smiled and nodded. It made him curious why that was her reaction.

"I think it's brilliantly written. It's tough to read it, but I like it."

"You have read it?" The man looked perplexed when Y/N nodded. "Wow. No offence, but you're the first person I know who read it." He smiled. "I'm Carlos, by the way."

"Y/N."

Carlos nodded. "Y/N... Nice to meet you."

"A pleasure to meet you too," Y/N replied. Of course, she knew the man in front of her was Carlos. Carlos Sainz Jr.

The small kept resting on his face. However, his eyes fell on the two newspapers on the table. Carlos knew one of them. But one of them was in a language he couldn't make sentences of. "What language is this?" He looked at Y/N. "Sorry for looking into your stuff, but since the moment you finished reading it, I've been trying to figure out what language it is."

"It's just a newspaper, Carlos," she amusingly said. Y/N folded the Dutch newspaper open. "It's Dutch, de Volkskrant, the newspaper for the people."

He nodded impressively. "Makes sense now."

"Don't you have to go? I don't want to bother you, you already paid..." Y/N knew it was direct, but in her experience, they were leaving when someone paid.

He looked at his watch. "Nah, I don't have to go anywhere, actually," Carlos said. "Unless you want me to leave you alone."

"No, no, I mean, you already paid, so I assumed you had to go," she softly mentioned and looked away. Sometimes being Dutch in a foreign country was quite...different.

"I have the day off," Carlos mentioned, also making sure he didn't give her the wrong intentions. "But since that newspaper is from the Netherlands... I assume you're Dutch?"

Y/N nodded.

"Holiday or..?" Carlos raised his eyebrow, sharing a questionable look.

Y/N looked around and doubted what she could call this. "I would say it's an adventure," she replied. "Also, a little bit of a vacation."

"An adventure sounds exciting," he warmly smiled. "What kind of adventure, if I may ask?"

She bit her lip and made eye contact again. "Building a new home."

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos@crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess

[midnightsilver]

What is a Bang?🤔😄

➡️ Never done a bang before but curious about joining in?

Here’s everything you need to know about what a bang is and how they work.

⭐️ Bangs are creative fandom events run by fans for fans, and they are based around a theme: a favourite character, pairing, setting or concept. So there is a bang that is for works all about Crowley, or works centred around wincest or destiel, works with a horror twist can include any spn character, or works in an historical setting, or works inspired by classic movies or song lyrics. The list goes on. There are many different flavours of bangs to choose from.

⭐️ There are 2 main types of bang. Regular and Reverse. In a regular Bang authors sign up to write a story around the advertised theme and they are given a deadline by which they must complete a good chunk of their story. Once the deadline arrives and they are about 80% completed writing (variable depending on the bang) authors submit a synopsis of their story to the bang moderators. This is an overview of the plot, any warnings and the story rating. All the story summaries are then displayed anonymously to the artists who signed up to the bang. It’s anonymous so that artists will choose a story just based on a plot or ideas that interest them, not on who the writer is. On Claims Day the artists submit a list of their top 3 (or 5 etc depending on the bang) choices. The moderators pair up the artists with an author on a first come first served basis, by order of their top choice. This process is repeated (and maybe opened to public claims from artists not already signed up to the bang) until every author in the bang has been assigned an artist who is interested in their story. After that the artist and the author pair are given a posting date and they work together to create art for the story. Some authors still have more writing to do and might take creative input from their artist as they start talking over what art is to be drawn for the story. Some authors are finished writing by claims and it’s more a case of giving the artist the draft and waiting for a picture. It’s up to individual pairs how much collaboration they want to do and how much back and forth they have. So if you are looking to make new friends this can be a great way to meet people but if you are more of an introvert that’s okay too, you can just write or draw and keep your partner advised of your progress. On posting day the author and the artist both post their works and links to their partners works. The bang moderators also post adverts for the works on the bang page.

➡️ The benefit of a bang for an author is that they get free art 😄. The artist might get collaborative input but it’s not guaranteed, but they do get to read a new story about a favourite topic before anyone else 😁. And both benefit from each partner advertising the others work come posting day. Plus the event organiser should also do extensive advertising for each artwork and fic submitted. Bangs often have followings of readers who enjoy the bang theme will check out several of the works from the event - so by being in a bang you have a ready made target audience for your works 😄.

➡️ Cons of being in a bang: you need to work to a deadline. For some people this is good motivation, for others it’s just added pressure. You can withdraw from a bang if an irl issue comes up but you need to keep your bang partner and the moderators informed, not just ghost. The other con is that you need to work with a partner which might not be easy if you are an introvert, but mostly in a bang you are working with people who enjoy the same topic as you do, so while it’s still a bit of a lottery who you end up paired with it’s likely that you at least have some things in common. The moderators are also there to help if you aren’t getting on with your partner. They can find Pinch Hitters to step in and take over if someone has to drop out for any reason. And finally the other hard part of a bang is that even if you get all your work done early you still have to wait for your assigned posting date! No instant gratification here unfortunately, but on the plus side there will be plenty of other bang followers who are also eagerly awaiting your posting date! 😁

⭐️ So thats bangs! 😄 and I mentioned that there are also Reverse Bangs out there. In those the artists start off by drawing a picture for the theme of the bang. The artist adds a short synopsis of the idea that led to their art, plus any personal do-not-want’s that they have and the artwork is displayed anonymously in a claims gallery. Then on claims day the authors choose a picture to write a story for by submitting their top choices on a first come first served basis. The moderators pair up the artists and authors that way. Then both partners post their works on the given posting day, same as in a regular bang. Many of the bangs out there alternate between doing regular bangs then reverse bangs, so it’s up to you which style of bang you wanna try.

➡️ if you haven’t tried a bang before I’d definitely advise every creative person to give it a go. Bangs are for all levels of writers and artists and are a good way to get more involved in fandom with likeminded people.

Resources for finding a bang for you:

⭐️⭐️ The Events and Challenges page in the Spn Fanart Community - this is aimed at artists but gives links to bang pages that authors can follow for next time if the author deadline has already passed,

⭐️⭐️ The Spn Bang Calendar - a calendar view display of many upcoming bangs

⭐️⭐️ The Big Bang Blog Project - @thebigbangblogproject is a multifandom page that promotes all sorts of various bangs, events and creative challenges.