#beholden to a dark god? check

[floweroflaurelin]

I’mma sing you a sacred psalm

On your knees, pray along…

—

We did a Hatchetfield marathon recently and my decade-long on-again off-again Starkid obsession came ROARING back!! Grace Chasity was designed to appeal to everything I love to paint, so naturally here I am ✨

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Mafia!Price

No Content Warnings

There are many things to appreciate about your boss, but one of them is his respect for routine. You’ve gotten him on a schedule and now he seems happily beholden to it; appreciates your promptness with tea and pastries and morning “briefings” each day.

He’ll happily sit back in his big leather chair and listen to you chatter out his itinerary for the day. Meetings, reports, phone calls. Trips to the dock, now, bless him.

You try not to stare between glances at your tablet. For a rich bastard, he is unfairly handsome. Good taste in just about everything, classy and luxurious without being ostentatious. Old money vibes, for sure, though you know better than to do more than idly wonder. Helps that he’s also remarkably gentlemanly with you. You’re not one to buy into old stereotypes or gender roles, even the ones that benefit you — but you’ll take a chivalrous boss over your old one any day.

Besides, it’s not like he’s spouting off about what women should and shouldn’t be doing. Or trying to use you as an example of an “acceptable” working woman. So, yeah, you’ll indulge in the door-holding and offered arms.

“Alright, best for last — your reservation for Muse is tomorrow. The restaurant is twenty minutes from your penthouse, so Simon will be downstairs by 7:30.”

You check that off your to-do list as you continue speaking.

“Do you have a suit picked out yet, or should I order something? Green is in season and it would go nicely with your eyes.”

He hums; you glance up. Leaning back, one arm lax on the arm of his chair, black watch gleaming. The other is propped to press his index finger against his lips. Like he’s telling you to keep a secret. The corners of his mouth are tilted up.

Your tablet dings and thankfully distracts you from staring.

Oh, for the love of— the only person more inconsiderate than Philip Graves is his damn assistant.

“Is that the color you’re wearing, then?”

Will need to call later today — as if!

“Hm?” You ask, not having caught it.

He arches his eyebrows; ah, you must have been making a face again.

“Are you wearing green tomorrow?” He repeats.

You blink. Are you what?

“Tomorrow, sir?”

He nods, once. “To Muse, luv.”

When you continue to stare with pleasant obliviousness, his eyebrows furrow a bit.

“You do know one of those seats is for you, yeah?”

You press your lips together for a moment. Well… shit. You take it back. You take it all back. John Price is a terrible, horrible, awful man who is so rude.

“I do now.”

Across the office, you make wide eye contact with Gaz. He grimaces in sympathy and ducks his head, though it’s clearly just to hide his traitorous laughter.

“Of course you’re coming along.”

“Sir,” you say, pleasant and sweet, “remember when I first started here? And I told you that I’m not a mind reader?”

“Of course,” he answers. “You threatened to spit in my tea in the same breath.”

“Only if you told me to fetch it for you,” you correct, before continuing, “I feel you may need a reminder: I cannot read your mind. How was I supposed to know you wanted me to go with you?”

“‘S your job, isnit?” He replies. You give him a dark look; he puts his hands up with a chuckle. “My apologies love, I thought you’d be in my pocket next to my handkerchief. Like always.”

You set your hand on your hip, proper cross now.

“It’s outside usual working hours, sir. How could I have possible expected to be invited to your fancy man party?”

“‘Fancy man party’?”

“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow.”

You’re already tapping madly at your tablet, looking up a salon willing to do your hair and makeup. God knows what kind of meltdown you’ll have if you can’t get your eyeliner symmetrical.

“Do whatever you need to do, luv,” Price soothes, standing. “I really am sorry for the short notice.”

You wave him off, then pat his arm as he gently guides you towards the door. Absently, you comply, more focused on getting appointments set and rearranging your own schedule for tomorrow.

“I’ll make it work,” you promise, “I always do.”

You let him bring you all the way to your desk, lower yourself into your ergonomic rolling chair.

“I’ll let you know what color I’m wearing by… one o’clock. Yes?”

“Sounds great, luv.”

You glance at the clock. “Also you have a call with the KorTac Group in ten.”

He chuckles and taps your chin. “Cheers, luv.”

—

Simon is the one to pick you up Friday evening. You both pause in the lobby of your apartment complex, staring.

“You look lovely,” he says at the same time you ask, aghast, “what happened to your face?”

He’s got a dark bruises discoloring the skin around one eye. Clearly some ice has already been applied because the swelling is down, but it must be fresh because he didn’t have it yesterday.

He snorts. “My job happened.”

You tut. “I’ve got something for that but we need to get moving. Mr. Price said he needs some help with his suit.”

You grab his arm without hesitation, habit from any of your escorts or drivers always offering it to you. Usually you accept out of politeness, but tonight you could use the extra stability in your heels. Simon doesn’t seem to mind even though this is the first time you’ve done this.

He walks you to the car, holds the door for you. Sleek and spotless, a black Jaguar — your choice for the evening. You hum in delight at the warm interior as Simon slides into the front seat.

“Oh, thank you for the compliment, by the way,” you add as he pulls into traffic. “You look quite smart as well.”

He grunts, but you notice a bit of color to his ears in the passing streetlights. You smile to yourself and busy yourself with your tablet. Double checking the reservation confirmation, answering messages from Farah and Gaz, updating Price on your ETA.

The car stops at a luxury high rise just at 7. You hop out before Simon can get the door and receive a sharp look. He holds up a reprimanding finger; blink in surprise at the sternness of it.

“You pull that shite again and I’ll handcuff you to the door handle, miss.” He warns. “Making me look bad.”

You huff, amused, and take his arm again. “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Riley, I’m meaner.”

But you squeeze his thick bicep good-naturedly as he leads you into Price’s building. Your boss lives in the penthouse at the very top; Simon has to swipe a card for access. He’s also got a key to let you both in the door, holds it so you can enter first.

It’s all sleek and modern; not at all what you would expect of your boss’s more classical style. His office has a sort of 20s Hollywood vibe (gangster, you teased once) but clearly some interior designer was paid far too much for something out of a drab minimalist catalogue.

You don’t linger long, heels clicking on the polished floors.

“Sir?” you call.

“In here, luv.”

You grimace at the flight of stairs between you and the loft, but force yourself up them. The whole floor is the mater bedroom and it’s the size of your entire apartment. Walk-in closet, sectioned off lounge with a desk. His bathroom door is open, mirror fogged. It smells like soap.

“Bedroom to your right,” he calls.

You tip-tap in and your mouth instantly dries. Price is standing in the middle of the room, half dressed. Nothing unprofessional, no. He’s wearing slacks, a belt. But he’s also in socks, a white undershirt. No watch or rings or anything yet.

It feels oddly more intimate than it should. Your face warms despite yourself.

“E-evening, sir.”

He turns and you’re utterly unprepared for just how handsome he really is. Freshly groomed, hair trimmed and gelled, eyes bright.

“Well, aren’t you just a dream,” he rasps. “You’re stunning.”

You clear your throat, know that all the makeup in the world can’t hide how brightly you’re flushing. It’s pure politeness, he’s not looking at you with anything more than friendly appreciation. Mind out of the gutter, now.

“All the flattery in the world won’t save you if we’re late,” you manage, shaking yourself back into work mode. “So let’s see what we’ve got.”

You pick his shirt, a pocket hanky, his shoes. Tell him to get into those while calling Simon up the stairs. He’s there so fast you blink in surprise, then gesture him over. Sit him on an ottoman and extract the little bottle of makeup you’ve started keeping on hand for situations like this.

“Bullshite you had that in your purse,” he scoffs.

“You remember two weeks ago, when Soap came in with that bruise on his jaw?”

They told you it was a “disagreement” at the docks. You didn’t ask further, figuring it was some sort of bar brawl in that part of town. Rowdy boys.

“Ever since, I keep a couple minis on hand for you all.”

They’re so small that you just keep them in a pocket of your purse with the rest of your makeup and the tampons. Good for emergencies like this.

“You sure you’re not a mind reader?” Simon grumbles as you gently dab it over his face.

“How would being a mind reader even help in this situation,” you scoff, patting at it with your middle finger.

Price steps out of the closet with arms out. He’s picked a waistcoat as well that you hum in approval at.

“Which cufflinks are you wearing?” you ask, turning back to Simon. He’s sitting remarkably still and stoic — reminds you of a big dog trying to maintain some dignity while getting fawned over.

“The silver and diamond.”

You make a noise of disagreement. “The gold and onyx would go better.”

A pause. You sneak a glance and are relieved to see him smirking. “I’ll wear those then. Any opinion on a watch?”

You hum again, carding through your mental catalogue. “Oh! The Bulova you wore during that meeting with Kate Laswell. You remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He disappears into his closet again while you lightly blend in the last touches of Simon’s coverup.

“There we are, good as new!” You declare. “Oh, and here.”

You set a couple of ibuprofen in his palm as he stands. “For the inflammation. Take with water.”

“Yes, mum,” he mumbles.

You wince. “Sorry! I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”

He blinks, then puts a hand up. “No, no. That wasnt — I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

You don’t entirely believe him. Know that you can be a bit much when you’re on a time crunch. Especially for something like this — an important business meeting over fancy dinner. You feel like everyone’s appearance is riding on you; this is your job after all. One thing out of place and everything will fall apart and it’ll be your fault.

“Simon, go take those,” Price orders from behind.

You turn as he approaches, a similar apology all set on your tongue. Instead, he gives you a sheepish smile and offers the cufflinks.

“Bloody useless with these,” he explains. “So unless you want to spend fifteen minutes losing respect for me…”

You laugh, amused by the idea of your hyper-capable boss struggling with a bit of jewelry that cost as much as a week of work. You step in close to thread them through his sleeves, fingers nimble and sure.

“You’re not wearing cologne?” You ask, surprised.

Don’t even realize how that might sound until he arches an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you might have an opinion on that too,” he replies. “And you haven’t steered me wrong, yet.”

He shows you his modest, but impressive collection of colognes. You pluck up one, sniff, and make a face, eyes watering a bit. It’s mostly full; clearly one he doesn’t wear often and you’re grateful for it.

“That bad, eh?”

“Sir, why?” You lament, putting it back.

“Gift from an ex,” he explains.

You store that tidbit of information away for further examination. The idea of your boss in a romance. Right now you’ve got a task to focus on.

“Did they hate you that entire time?” You wonder.

He snorts. “Maybe.”

You shake your head and pick a different one. Blink in surprise and sniff again. Feel your stomach flip.

“That one?” He asks when he notices you hesitate.

“No,” you say a little too quickly, setting it down. This is a business meeting, you can’t afford to be distracted by how he’ll smell with that on his skin.

You settle on one that doesn’t make your head dizzy and your panties shamefully damp. Still feel a bit like you’re shooting yourself in the foot, though. He’s going to smell sinfully good regardless.

You leave Price to his finishing touches and have Simon help you down the stairs. Check through the notes you hurriedly collected when you realized you’d be attending this dinner.

Price comes down too soon for your poor, stupid heart. Looks like something out of a magazine or a novel or a movie or… just too good to be real, really.

“Pass inspection?” He asks.

“Barely,” you tease.

His eyes do that thing where they smile more than his mouth; how you know it’s genuine. You try not to fluster, zero in on his tie, a little crooked and loose.

“Goodness, sir,” you murmur, stepping in close. Yeah, you were right. That cologne is going to be a personal challenge all night. “How did you get along before me?”

“With bad cologne and shitty ties, apparently,” he chuckles.

You grin despite yourself, getting it secure and centered, before smoothing his vest over it. Give him a once over. Feel your stomach flip again.

“If I may say, sir, you look handsome,” you offer quietly.

“Should hope so,” he replies, voice dipping in a way that’s detrimental to the state of your panties. “You dressed me.”

You hum, reach for your usual dry, sharp humor. “I have great taste.”

Instead of scoffing, he hums in agreement. Something flickers through his eyes that you don’t dare allow yourself to daydream on.

Simon, bless him, clears his throat and draws your attention. You check the clock above the stove.

“Ah, we need to get going. I can’t walk fast in these heels.”

You slip your arm automatically into Price’s and try not to obsess over how well you two fit together.

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Masterlist

[notthatmultifandomwhore]

Finding Leopold *request from @boomveronika

Warnings: stranger in apartment (do NOT let strangers into your apartment), fluff

It was a peaceful, dark night. Well, so peaceful as it can be in the middle of New York City. I was walking in the middle of Central Park, my usual routine on week nights. The lights of surrounding building lit up the park, and the crowd of angry New Yorkers pasting by added a flavor to my day that was unique to New York. 

I usually head home around this time, but something was telling me to keep walking. So I did. I kept walking around until I sensed something strange. Usually I don't pay much attention to the people around me unless I'm in danger, but I noticed a tall man who was wearing an outfit of royalty, which was obviously very out of place in New York, which was rare to see since, well, it's New York. I tried to not pay him any mind, but he looked as confused as a paperclip in a produce aisle. I headed to head in his direction, and noticed he kept asking people something, but everyone ignored him. As I walked past him, he put his hand on my shoulder, trying to grab someone's attention, and that's when I made eye contact with him. And as I did, it seemed like the world stopped.

Even though this man was giving off a strange vibe, his eyes seemed so soft. He had a beautiful pair of hazel eyes that I have only seen in a dream. They were breath taking. A second later, the world kept spinning.

"I beg your pardon, madame. May I ask what year it is?" He asked frantically.

"It's 2024." I replied, still in awe. He grew pale as if he had seen a ghost, but I also got a sense that he felt the same spark as I did. But he still seemed confused.

"No no no, this can't be." He walked away in the opposite direction as I was going, but something told me to follow him. So I did. 

His legs were much longer as mine, but I tried my best to keep up. A few minutes later, I found him stopped him at a cross walked. He continued to cross as a car almost hit him, but the driver slammed on his brakes.

"I beg your pardon." The man says to the driver. He then came back to the end of the crosswalk where I stood. He saw me again and came up to me and grabbed my arms in his big, warm hands. 

"Madame, I must request assistance. I have no idea where I am." He says. Once again, I'm in awe. I never feel the need to listen to a complete stranger, let alone someone who may be drunk, high, crazy, or all of the above, yet something about this man was different. 

"What is your name?" I asked the man.

"Leopold Alexis Elijah Walker Thomas Gareth Mountbatten." He responded. Even though the answer didn't really convince me that he wasnt crazy, the fact that he didn't slur or burp while saying his name was impressive to me. 

"Leopold. That's a very interesting name." I said.

"Yes, I was named after my father. But as I previously stated, I am in need of assistance! I must find a telegraph."

"I have a old phone at my apartment. I would let you use my cell phone, but it's dead." As I said it, his face grew with more confusion. 

"What is a cell phone?" In my mind, I thought that this man may actually be crazy if he didn't know what a cell phone is. But once again, something told me to help him, so I did.

"We'll get you help sir. Come on, Ill let you use my phone." I took his hand so I can guide him through the crazy streets of New York to my crappy apartment. His hand was so warm and tender. I grew nervous this very attractive, crazy man. Thank God I cleaned up early today, so else I'd be horrified.

We went up the stairs of my apartment building cause the elevator was broken. Once we got there, the man seemed less nervous, but he still seemed very confused. As we entered my apartment, he checked out everything. I know I shouldn't have strangers in my apartment, but he seemed...safe.

"I must say, I am beholden by your act of kindness." He says as he looks through your apartment.

"It's no problem. You seem very confused. Where are you from?"

"England, I am the 3rd Duke of Albany." I looked at him with shared confusion. 

"Right. Well, the phone is over there." I pointed to the wall. He walked up in it, and picked up the receiver. It looked he didn't know how to use it.

"Marvelous. Is this Bell's talking telegram? I have seen a prototype at last year's fair." He said.

"Wow. Well, feel free to use it and I will be making something to eat in the kitchen." I walked away even more confused. Why am I helping this man? And why am I so attracted to him?! 

I went into the kitchen to heat up a frozen meal, when I noticed him following me. 

"May I ask why you are alone in this mansion?" He asked. I giggled.

"I wish this was a mansion. This is just an apartment. A bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom."

"Well, no matter what this is considered, I still wonder why a lady like yourself is alone in this... apartment."

"Well, I don't what a boyfriend and I don't expect to have one anytime soon."

"I see. I am truly sorry if I have offended you in anyway." He came closer to me as he apologized. 

"It's alright. Well, I think it would be good for you to find your way home."

"Well, that's the thing, madame, I simply can't. My home is in a different year."

"I see. And what year would that be, Leopold?" I asked, playing along.

"1876." He stated. All of a sudden, I got goosebumps. As crazy as it sounds, I kind of believed him. I have seen countless movies like Back To The Future where people time travel, I just thought it was a myth. I stood there in awe as I absorbed my thoughts. And all of a sudden, I asked.

"Do you need a place to sleep tonight? I only have a bed that we'd share, but I don't think it's safe for you to wonder around tonight."

"I'd be honored." 

"Ok, stay here. Don't move!" I ran to my bedroom to make sure it looked okay and to move anything embarrassing into my closet. Then, I went into the kitchen to see him fiddling with my air fryer. 

"I have never seen anything like this before." He shared. I giggled at his cluelessness.

"Come on, you should get some rest and I'll tell you about everything tomorrow." I once again grabbed his hand and led him to my room. At this point, I am using any excuse to hold his hand. I opened the bedroom door, and led him inside.

"Sorry it's a little messy"

"Quite the contrary." I blushed a little and I'm not sure why. 

"Um, I don't know if you have other clothes, but I have some old men's clothes from a old friend of mine that you can wear. They should fit." I went to my closet to grab a T-shirt and sweatpants for him. I came back to him admiring my art on the wall.

"This is astonishing." He said. He looked in my eyes and I felt a feeling I have never felt. Like I wanted to kiss him and be in his arms. But I tried to keep my composure. 

"Oh thanks. Um, here's your clothes. The bathrooms that way."

"Thank you." He walked out to the bathroom. I ran quickly to my vanity to make sure I didn't look wild. I fixed my hair and made sure there was nothing in my face. A few minutes later, he came back in the clothes with his clothes folded ever so neated in his arms. He set them down on a chair in my room, and stood as if he didn't know what to do.

"Well, I would like to retire on the floor to prioritize your comfort." He said.

"Oh no, it's fine. There's plenty of room in my bed. Plus, it's super comfortable." I say as I lay down in the bed, shaking in my boots by the fact that an attractive man is in my room.

"Very well." He then goes on the other side of my bed and unfolded the comforter and laid in the bed and placed the comforter on him neatly. He laid on his back and closed his eyes. "Goodnight"

"Goodnight" I say back as I climb under the comforter and lay on my side. I'm so nervous as I feel the heat of his body behind me. It makes me feel things I've never felt before. Girls in my high school would always talk about crushs, but this feels like more than a crush. I then feel him move to his side behind me. It feels as if I turn around, we'd be face to face. I wait a few minutes, and pretend as if I'm asleep, and turn around to see if I'm right. Sure enough, we were face to face, and his eyes were open, looking straight into mine. I freeze.

"I must say, I must give you something in return for your kind gesture." I feel a moment of boldness.

"How about a kiss?" I say, half joking.

"Very well." He then slowly places his hand on the side of my face, brushing of strands of hair that were covering part of my face, and slowly leaned forward. I stayed frozen, still in shock that a man is in my bed, let alone about to kiss me. Suddenly, our lips connect. And it wasn't just a peck or anything too ranchy. It was perfect. His lips slowly moved with mine and sent tiny shocks within me, as if our souls were connecting. It felt magical. The kiss lasted a few minutes, then he pulled away. He then looked into my eyes. 

"I must say, I thought from the very second I saw you that we were soulmates. And I think this kiss has just proved my theory." He then kissed my forehead ever so softly. "Goodnight." 

I stayed frozen, wondering what the hell just happened. "Goodnight."

I turned on my side again, and he wrapped his arms around me from behind. I know I should've have let him into my apartment, but maybe he's right. Maybe we are meant to be.

[eclecticmiasma]

Down Comes the Claw Ch. 1 (Raphael x GN!Reader)

Doomed, detected, and caught.

SFW (For now)

[Warnings/tags: gn!reader, not much in this chapter for warnings just general Raphael scariness, noncon/dubcon, ownership, imprisonment]

[Ch. 2]

Artist credit: @wrroniec on twitter

The Archivist’s curiosity isn’t well hidden underneath his thin veil of distrust. A mortal, alone, simply wandering the halls of one of the Hells’ most powerful Cambions because they wanted to...peruse his private collection of artifacts? Even a troll would smell treachery miles away.

Were it any other being, the Archivist would have had you sent screaming to holding cells until the master of the house could decide what plane of torment to shuttle you to next, but Korilla had been rather forceful in her instructions not to intervene.

“He’s got a plan for this one,” She’d grinned, the gleam in her dark eyes devilish in its own right, “Let them play while they can.”

Your lips are split from worrying them between your teeth. As if the Hells aren’t hot enough, the Archivist’s gaze has you sweating buckets. He alone could rip your throat to shreds with those fangs the minute your presence has been deemed unsavory, you’re sure of it. As a gleaming ruby locket catches your eye, you try to regard it coolly. You are nothing more than a purveyor of incredibly rare goods, and not at all trying to make your way toward the glittering contract sat front and center of Raphael’s trophy room. The phrase is a mantra you desperately wish to believe.

“Worn by Lumi, a cleric beholden to twilight…” Gods, is your voice trembling? You repeat the name again as if you’re trying to search your vast religious knowledge for the origin of this treasure. Not a single snippet of information comes to mind. Internally, you brace for the house itself to eat you alive.

Instead, Korilla barks out for the Archivist’s attention. Something about another contract ready to be sorted. The man regards you with a final furl of his brows before turning his back to you and attending to his duties. Adrenaline floods your veins and your fingers flex with anticipation. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out.

Hope herself appears out of thin air and parrots your thoughts giddly, “Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out!” before nipping out of existence once again.

You don’t give yourself another chance to think. Without a sound, you prowl towards the center of the grand room and beeline straight for the contract. This is why they agreed to send you alone- Karlach, Shadowheart, the others. Years of prowling the streets of Baldur’s Gate made you nearly undetectable when you wanted to be, so much so that you had even startled Astarion for a laugh on long boring treks. Sure, Gale and Lae’zel nearly came to brawl over the decision, but after two days of quarrels the answer was final.

It could only be you.

The contract before you almost hums with power. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach as you check it over thrice for traps. Nothing. It seems wrong, somehow. A piece of parchment that potentially dictates the fate of Faerûn itself guarded by nothing but a few words. Something tells you to leave it and run, perhaps remnants of the Emperor’s hold on your psyche. Images of your companions, the Hammer, Hope’s face quickly override your doubts and you close your eyes, prepared.

“Give me my heart’s desire,” The words fall from your lips with ease, but nagging trepidation constricts around your heart. Without a sound, the glittering sphere surrounding your contract dissolves away. Before the Archivist can sense what has occurred, before you can convince yourself to turn heel and dash away from all of this, you snatch the page and tear it in two.

Everything plunges into silence. The eternal screams of the damned beyond the gilded walls, cries and whimpers and babbling of long-gone debtors, Korilla’s nagging- all of it gone in an instant. The air around you becomes oppressive, constricting, increasing degree by degree. Ashes fall from your fingertips as the shreds of your contract disintegrate. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, get out. You repeat it again and again in your head until your mantra is a scream, but your legs will not move.

“Fools...fools...how hard you have fought,” A familiar baritone echoes out across the empty archive accompanied by slow clapping. It can’t be, you want to shriek. Hope said he was planes away, that you had time.

“Brave, brave, but it's all been...for naught,” You can’t tell from where his voice is coming. It sounds both far and near, across the hall and right in your ears all at once. Even his footsteps, slow and commanding, don’t betray his location.

“True Souls that couldn't be bought,” He’s mocking you now, a gleeful lilt in his otherwise menacing tone. True Souls...the faces of your companions flip through your mind’s eye like pages of a tome. This isn’t how it’s all supposed to end, is it? Your lungs start to burn, unable to expand or contract to the fullest.

“Doomed...” Raphael himself is in the room now, you feel it. As he takes his sweet time sauntering up to you from behind, the magic that holds your limbs in place begins to be revealed. A holding spell, tendrils wrapped around your legs and snaked up your torso through your fingertips. It pulsates with a blinding purple glow. Sweat drips down your temples as the heat of the Hells becomes sweltering, as fear settles in your bones.

“...detected…” Gods, you will. Tyr, Mystra, Shar for Hells’ sake, you pray to every last one. Anything to bid your body run. As the screams of the damned filter back in, growing louder and louder with each step Raphael takes, it becomes devastatingly clear that not a single deity can hear you.

Raphael’s hands land on your shoulders. His fingertips, though gently splayed, might as well be digging into your skin. If you could move an inch, you would have jumped ten feet in the air. Instead you tremble like a rabbit held in the canines of a much larger beast. He leans down and aligns his lips with your ear, breath ghosting across your flesh, “...and caught.” If you could sob you would, but the fear won’t allow it. Instinct of prey that’s well and truly done for. Instead you tense, bracing for the impending pain of retribution.

“So,” the Devil muses, mile wide grin easily detected through the undercurrent of excitement in his tone, “this is the path you have chosen. Anything you and your group of sorry souls could have wanted would have been yours. Your names would have gone down in history as the heroes that saved Faerûn. Yet, you squandered it with a flick of your wrist. What do you have to say for yourself, oh fallen hero?”

Your mouth opens, but not a sound escapes. Nothing that surfaces in your reeling mind feels like it could ever be enough to reverse the tide of ruin you’ve brought upon yourself. Raphael waits patiently as you flounder. Your terror is a wine finer than any bought, and he has all of eternity to savor it.

“Please…” The pitiful, squeaking word escapes your throat more so than it coming out on purpose. Raphael chuckles darkly and moves to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, I do so love to hear you beg, little mouse. However, I think we can both agree that ‘please’ isn’t an answer. Perhaps if I tell you a story, you’ll be more inclined to...talk.”

Raphael pulls away from you and steps lithely to your front. With a snap of his fingers and a puff of flame, he transports the two of you to his dining room. Roaring flames lick the inside of the fireplace before you, silhouetting the Devil as he prepares to speak. The holding spell wraps tighter.

“You see, the Devil is a rather busy man. When I’m not gracing your merry band with my presence, I’m often attending long meetings with prospective clients, or checking up on those that have already promised me their souls. Perhaps I’m even doling out a punishment or two to a cheeky human that thinks it’s found a loophole. It’s all very important work, and requires quite a bit of cunning and concentration.”

The oppressive heat is getting to you. Raphael’s deep voice sounds like it’s ringing in your head, almost akin to the Emperor’s presence. He paces back and forth before you, gesturing his arms in theatrical movements as if performing a monologue. Each word sends your psyche farther into disarray.

“Hero,” Raphael claps loudly, bringing your attention back to him, “Since my tales seem to bore you, I’ll get straight to the point. I had a fairly important event to attend right before your flagrant disregard for our agreement. Now, imagine my surprise when right in the middle of securing a rather rare and valuable contract, I feel a...shudder, wrack my entire body.”

Glowing eyes level with yours as he leans in close. His brows are furrowed now, genuine anger contorting his features, “My skin began to feel hot, clammy. My concentration waned. Before I realized what was happening sheer ecstasy pooled in my abdomen and then-” He’s so close to you that you hear his breath catch, “It became apparent that someone was using my body.”

Your heart drops. It was the only way. The Archivist had given you access to Raphael’s bedroom with a little cunning, and the only thing standing between you and the contract was a rather familiar looking incubus. What harm could there have been in trading your body for the fate of your companions, your home? The incubus had warned you, though, in its own way. If everything it did with your form meant you would feel it on a different plane, it should have been obvious that Raphael’s form would feel it too.

“I...I didn’t-”

“I knew you would betray our agreement,” Raphael spits, lips hovering just in front of your own, “I knew that eventually I would find you here in my home, remnants of your misdeed in hand. Korilla and I machinated thousands of ways to tear you asunder, to torment you for breaking my one, most cardinal rule,” Raphael catches himself in his rage, and pulls back. He looks to the fire, light reflected in his eyes. Inhale, exhale. When his gaze meets yours again, all remnants of fury are gone.

“I was ready to kill you in an infinite number of ways. But I should have known better. The moment I met you, I knew you were...special. Of course you would throw a wrench in my plans, and do so beautifully. I almost commend you.”

As he smiles, your skin crawls. He moves in circles around you, thinking, plotting. After some time he comes to a stop, once again behind you.

“So, I propose a better solution. I’ve decided that I rather...enjoyed indulging in your body,” You swallow a protest as his chin rests in the crook of your neck, his left hand sliding down the curve of your waist and along the front of your thigh, “Form a new contract. Submit to me, and I won’t touch a hair on your companions’ heads. As much as I would love to take the place of that poor spawn’s master, I can control myself- for you.”

He squeezes your thigh and drags his lips across the straining muscles in your neck. Your sweat slicked skin sticks to his own, and you feel a deep rumble at your back as he revels in the sensation, “For all they know, the contract is still intact. I’ve captured you here,” He kisses your neck and you squirm, fighting back a gasp, “and their only option is to use the hammer,” another kiss, “or you perish.”

“No…I won't...” The answer comes as a piteous whimper. Raphael cackles against your skin, squeezes your body tight to his own, and tuts like he’s caught a naughty child with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Wrong answer, little mouse.”

[Chapter 2]

*do not post elsewhere without explicit permission. please consider reblogging, as Tumblr tends to hide more mature content!

[RULES] [MASTERLISTS] [AO3] [KO-FI]

[polniaczek]

What are some episodes of The Facts of Life that give off the most gayest vibes to you?

Well you have your gay episodes aka episodes where they seemingly have no self-awareness and all their focus is on each other, and then you have your episodes where gay things happen but are otherwise typical.

I've skimmed the titles to make a list but if I miss any it's because I haven't actually watched them in a while.

Gay Episodes

S2 The New Girl

S2 Double Standard

S2 Teenage Marriage

S3 The Four Musketeers

S3 New York, New York

S4 Ain't Miss Beholden

S4 Magnificent Obsession

S5 I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can

S6 Dear Apple

S6 The Last Drive-In

S6 Sisters. Don't judge me, it just is.

S7 3, 2, 1

S7 The Apartment

S8 Another Room

S8 This Is Only a Test

S8 Rights of Passage

S8 Rights of Passage Too. That hug kills me.

Episodes Where Gay Things Happen

S2 Free Spirit. It's just a look but I swear to god you'll know it when you see it.

S3 Kids Can Be Cruel. Jo unabashedly tries to get out of dating any guy at all in an auction and then bids on herself.

S4 Take My Finals, Please. When they're talking in the dark.

S5 Brave New World. The dorm room scenes. lol

S5 Advanced Placement. The only thing I really remember about this episode is the scene where Natalie is telling Jo and Blair's college friends about how someone tried to set Jo up with someone else's sister because people thought she was a guy. lmao

S5 The Christmas Show. The gayest episode in the series for the final scene alone. now-kith.jpg

S5 Big Fish, Little Fish. The scene upstairs always gets to me more than the puppet scene everyone loves that follows.

S5 Star at Langley. Not an obvious choice but Jo is so so butch in comparison to the other women in this ep and we don't talk enough about her feeling like it's her place to protect Blair's heart from the possibility of Cliff cheating.

S5 The Way We Were. It's a recap ep but there are a few bits between the recaps and the last one is so domestic. Jo's lil smirk!! I love.

S6 Cruisin'. A couple of 🤔🤔 lines of dialogue for sure.

S6 The Rich Aren't Different. There's a nice little scene for relationship growth at the end. <3

S6 Edna Garrett On Campus. I think this is the ep where they share a book? I just remember it looking really cute.

S6 Jazzbeau. This is one of the eps where they're quietly background!married the entire time.

S6 With a Little Help from My Friends. Jo gets all protective in this one and makes Blair's business her business.

S6 The Interview Show. They really talked about each other in their interviews and never wanted each other to find out, and the self-sacrificial part about Blair bowling is sooo something.

S7 Out of the Fire. "A brand new Mr. Frog!" :')

S7 Ballroom Dance. Blair and Jo are lowkey kind of flirting at one point.

S7 Atlantic City. It's so unserious but all of their scenes are together and Blair gives Jo a really nice compliment.

S8 The Little Chill. Ignoring that their friendship has little to do with the plot, they have a couple of sweet moments.

S8 A Winter's Tale. Jo is so unfazed by men in this ep. lol

S8 Cupid's Revenge. Really cute final scene.

S9 Rumor Has It. Jo's reality check pep talk for Blair is why they're perfect for each other.

S9 Something In Common. Jo and Rick both in drag going to a "reverse costume party" that Blair wasn't invited to!!! They're bearding!

S9 Less Than Perfect. There are two scenes that make me lose my mind. Something about Jo appreciating Blair when Blair isn't around to hear it... And then the part where she's in the room with Blair in the dark. A weirdly intimate ep for them.

[zorlok-if]

"So... Adam."

Detective Park's head turns to the side. Not fully, his eyes remain trained on the papers spread across his desk. More than that, you feel like he's making a point of not looking at you. He's not the type to give you the satisfaction of his full attention. At least, not when you want it.

"That's a powerful name," you tease. "Leaves you with some big shoes to fill. Did your mummy and daddy have grand plans for you? See their precious, pious little boy as first among men?"

A look you can't fully comprehend flits across Adam's face. He shakes his head once and snorts a short laugh. You can't tell if he's laughing at what you said or just at you in general. Both possibilities are equally likely.

After a moment, he spins around, leaning against the desk with his arms pulled tight across his chest. For a moment his muscles flex and the sleeves of his white button-up are tested at the seams. "No," he replies, his voice clear and unwavering. "Not at all." Without thinking, you lean forward slightly, intrigued. He must note your engagement because he looks even further to the side—his body facing you while his face is almost in profile. "No one gave me this name. I chose Adam myself."

You're surprised. You hadn't realized humans would do that—just choose their own names, refusing the ones assigned to them. Not that you have any problems with that. You're actually a big fan of tossing aside names that are unwillingly bestowed upon you. You just hadn't realized Adam would do the same. You always assumed a tight ass like him would be a stickler for rules, for tradition, et cetera.

"Well then." You lean back, rhythmically tapping the handcuffs with your long nails. "Why Adam?"

Adam's gaze drifts to the floor. He takes a deep breath. Without warning his dark eyes hit yours, his stare piercing through your façade.

"I've never accepted that we're stuck with the things we're given. In fact, I hate that so many people are made to feel beholden to whatever they're given at birth. So, as a kind of 'fuck you' to the idea of Creation and the concept of 'God given', I adopted the name Adam." Your lips twist into a smile. You've never heard Adam swear before. "I wasn't born Adam," he continues, "because I wasn't blessed enough to be given a name or a body that fit who I was." Adam returns to his papers, but as he looks away there isn't a hint of shame or embarrassment in his eyes. Adam is confident and collected as he says, "No one made me who I am. I am Adam. I've always been Adam. But I had to remold myself from clay."

Please enjoy this sketch of Adam courtesy of the lovely and incredible Vin (@fooltofancy). I cannot recommend working with them enough. Definitely go check out her other work (like this one of Eve or this one of Dev).

[mumms-the-word]

In Your Name

Day 20 of the BG3 Fic February Challenge

I am kind of obsessed with this little fic. I haven't actually gotten to the end of the game with Freyr yet, but I've seen videos of the Minthara romance (I think before patch 5? certainly before patch 6) and I've always rather loved the line she gives about abandoning her house for Tav/Durge's house.

The catch, of course, is what if the Durge doesn't have a last name?

CW: slightly nsfw, but not graphic

Check out my masterlist of BG3 fics!

---

20. Tav/Durge gets a proposal (any kind) from their LI

---

“My name belongs to my mother, so our House will have a new name—your name—and the world will learn to fear it.”

She said the words so plainly, so confidently, smirking as she sat with her arms around Freyr’s neck, straddling his lap. They’d refused to budge from their bed after falling into it, indulging in one another’s bodies as if they’d never gotten the chance to before. Freyr had woken the next morning to her hands on his chest and her lips at his ear, the rasp of her voice coaxing him out of slumber. Now, having taken their pleasure again, he sat with his back against the headboard and his beloved in his lap, admiring the fall of her pearl white hair and the way the tips of her elfin ears peeked through the snowy locks.

They’d turned to matters of the future next, discussing quietly while their hands wandered and their lips met between words, kisses punctuating their sentences. He said little, content to listen, his half-lidded gaze lingering on the little dimple nestled in the center of her bottom lip. The conquering of cities, of Baldur’s Gate and Menzoberranzan and Waterdeep, came as casually as the topic of breakfast and the weather outside. Freyr couldn’t help but smile to listen to Minthara plot war while her orchid skin was still flushed lavender-pink with the pleasure he had given her. 

At the mention of his name, however, he paused. He repeated her words in his head, making sure he’d understood correctly.

Our house will have a new name—your name.

Their house, his name. Not the name of Baenre, but something else. Their own.

He should be elated, he sensed. Proud. The thought of their own house, a powerful house, a bloodthirsty house, a house founded by the two of them without ties to any other house, it should have filled him with a sense of ambitious regal authority. But instead, his thoughts snagged on the name. His name.

He didn’t have any name to offer.

“Do you mean…House Freyr?” he asked softly, feeling foolish. He knew first names did not make house names. But what name was he supposed to suggest?

Certainly not the name of the foster family that took him in. His first victims, his first murders. They were worthless. He was no more beholden to them for his birth or formative years than any other people in the world.

But neither did he seek to lay claim to the heritage of Bhaal either. Perhaps once, he would have chosen to do so. Once, he was proud of being not just Bhaalspawn, but the Chosen of Bhaal, handpicked, selected to rule. How tempting it had been to infuse himself with the dark power of the god of murder, to single-handedly wrench control of the Netherbrain from Gortash’s weak, pathetic grip, to sit on the throne of complete domination with Minthara at his side as his dark queen. 

It was Minthara who had pulled him from that path. Minthara who had regarded Freyr as more than a puppet of a dark god. Minthara who had stood in Bhaal’s temple with the gore of Orin at her feet and challenged Freyr to take power for himself. Not as the puppet-child of a god, not as a spawn or an heir of some dark inheritance, not resting on the laurels of the gifts of a black divine, but seizing power through his own strength.

In another life he would have ignored her, but in this one…how could he resist? Even faced with the might of the blood-drenched power of Bhaal, the image she had painted, the vision he saw in her words, was beyond compelling. As a Bhaalspawn he was powerful, but unreliable, dangerous, and ultimately beholden to a force other than himself. If he rejected his heritage, then he could seize his goals through other means, in control of his own strength, as an equal to Minthara. No longer her Slayer, but perhaps, somehow, capable of becoming more.

So he had resisted. Rejected Bhaal and suffered the consequences, his soul banished to the Fugue Plane until the withered hand of the Last Scribe had reached out and plucked him back into the material world. 

No, claiming the house of Bhaal was not what he desired. But that left him with no other name to claim.

Minthara chuckled softly at his suggestion of House Freyr and shook her head. “No. Another name.”

“I don’t have another name,” he said. “Unless you want me to claim Sceleritas Fel’s name.”

“Freyr Fel, hm?” She considered it for the briefest moment before grimacing and dismissing the idea immediately. “No. We are at last rid of that tiresome butler. The last thing we should do is resurrect him again, even in name only.”

Freyr said nothing. He’d grown somewhat fond of his strange little butler and found himself missing the little fellow from time to time. But even so, Minthara was right about one thing. There were better names than Fel.

“If not Fel, then what else?” he asked.

“I confess, I do not know. I did not anticipate you not claiming a name for your own.” She smoothed the pad of her thumb against the rough bristles of his beard, her eyes lingering there before meeting his gaze again, crimson to crimson. “We must think of one. A new name for us both. Fitting, don’t you think?”

Freyr’s response was to lean in for a kiss, a silent affirmation of her suggestion. Her proposal.

“A drow name,” he murmured against her lips, his hands smoothing up her back. “Worthy of a drow matron.”

She chuckled, her teeth catching his bottom lip just briefly before she pulled away. “A drow name, you say? Fitting of a noble house, ruled by the two of us. Very well. Let me consider…”

She studied him, her scarlet gaze roving over his features, playing idly with the metal skull-shaped stud in his ear as she thought. With the tadpoles gone, he could no longer enter into her thoughts and see them for himself. It was one of many things he missed about the power of the tadpoles, though he was glad now to be rid of the threat of ceremorphosis. But to join in her mind again, to communicate his thoughts perfectly, to see himself through her eyes again, show her how he saw her again, perfect and regal and exquisite…

The ability was lost to them, for now. So instead he remained silent and watched. He watched her expression shift subtly from a soft fondness to light thoughtfulness and finally, eventually, to a little smirk that hinted at some cleverness she had just landed on. He smoothed his hands back down her back and rested them in the dips of her slender waist, waiting for her verdict.

“Elgg-hor,” she murmured. “Duk-tak. You are my slayer still, but even these names are not befitting of one such as you, one who will stand by my side as we conquer all that our hearts desire. You are my champion, Freyr. My blade on the battlefields to come, and I, your shield. Together, we will forge a world anew, united under our banner. We will dominate this city, and the next, and the next, until all come under our power. If I were to name you, I would name you Daeviir, champion of domination.”

“House Daeviir,” he said quietly. He tilted his head. He had no real understanding of the drow language, with its nuance and intricacy, but he rather liked the sound of the name. Especially when she said it, her lips curled in a pleased smirk. 

He trailed his fingertips up along her sides and back down, watching her only barely suppress a shiver at his touch. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers, soft, tender, his fingers skimming down her thighs and dragging back up, nails gentle on her skin.

“Minthara Daeviir,” he murmured against her lips. The name lingered on his tongue, honey-smooth and acidic, just like Minthara herself and her poison kisses. He smiled. “Mm. It suits you.”

He felt her smile against his own as she encircled his neck with her arms, bringing her body closer to his. “Freyr Daeviir. A name worthy of a king.” 

Was it her words or her touch, the feel of her skin on his, that rekindled a fire in his core, his body responding unbidden? He didn’t know and ultimately didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around her and held her flush against his chest as he deepened their kiss, his tongue seeking more of her taste. He wanted to sheathe himself in her once more, show her in more than words what her proposal meant to him.

His name with their new house name had awakened something in him. Some fierce sense of pride, a pride that need not be bound up in his rejected identity as an heir to Bhaal. He was no longer Freyr, the Scion of Bhaal, the Chosen, Bhaal’s Slayer, the Dark Prince. He had abandoned that inheritance, that family, for someone far more worthy. Someone who, entirely of her own accord, offered him a new kind of family, a new house with a new destiny that they would forge together. No more gods or monsters, as she had said before. No devils or demons to manipulate their fate. Just the two of them and the empire they would build together under the banner of House Daeviir.

He has never loved her more than he did in that moment. Never wanted her so fiercely as he did now.

She pulled back to look at him, holding his face in her hands. For a moment she gazed softly, a gentle smile on her lips, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes when she noticed the heat of his gaze. Then her smile grew deliciously wicked, her scarlet gaze sharpening with a look of ambitious, loving pride. She reached for one of his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, her eyes never leaving his.

“You, my love, will be a beautiful king.”

[jennyandvastraflint]

Aaand Xena reactions S1Ep7!

Is Xena gonna rob the guys

Ohhh, she knows him?

I love muscular women beating up men

I looove Gabrielle's hairstyle

RIDES OFF WITHOUT GF DBFBDHJSDJHD

Maybe don't go into the dark cave...

Priests? (Pretty woman)

GABRIELLE SMART BABYGIRL

Did she... Just awaken titans... Yuuuuup

"This virgin" Gabrielle like HOW DARE YOU ASSUME THAT

Are they beholden to her

"SACRED GODDESS"

Xena like O_o the entire time

Gabrielle I feel like you should say please and thank you...... 😅

"May I speak with you for one moment, o sacred one?" Xenaaa

Oop the Titans don't like itttt... Who could've seen that coming

"You're just being too cynical" hhhj

Xena is VERY worried for her gf

"I'm the sacred one's protector" GAY LOVE. LESBIANS.

She stabbed thru his foot

Wow, rude, mr Titan son

Templeee

Ohhh, titan brother Cronus

Titan threesome when

Second chant? Hell nah

Uh oh.

"You're both a couple of idiots" shdhdhdh

OF COURSE THE KIDS HAVE A HOLY FIELD TRIP.

I draw the line at eating/hurting children

BRO THE PRIEST DID NOT TAKE HIS EDUCATOR ROLE SERIOUSLY. He just RUNS AWAY without checking on the kids.

"Saves us trouble later on" 😅

Titan fight... CHILDREN RUNNNN

Xena <3

"Nooo, please" STAB. rude.

At least the kids are safe

..... Ffs stupid men.

OUCH

FREES HERSELF WHOOOOP

haha, Hession you loser

"Going against the gods" ah, the old story

"After you've been around for a while you come to expect these things" Gabrielle trying to hide her relief. Lesbianism

Xena like NERDSSSSS...

"Forget it, Gabrielle" She just wants to keep her gf from harm

Platonic spooning, Xena is being a heartbroken lesbian about it

OH GODS THE LESBIANS ARE FIGHTING

Running off alone? Recklessss. Stupidly brave.

She was captured in a lil cave

"I don't know this language" shdhdbd

"She's trying to prove herself to me..." girlfriends

If anyone can stall it's Gabrielle so true

"I'm no longer a virgin😊" yes because you keep having lesbian sex with Xena

"There's a piece missing" "There's a piece- missing" :D :/

Morphs hand into stone

"She saved the day. As usual."

BWAHAHA GABRIELLE REJECTING THE STRAIGHTNESS

"I could never hate you, your heart's always in the right place" 🥺🥰

Gayyyyy! I'm fully invested now, suckers, get ready for Xena reactions for a few weeks

[desos-records]

Chapter 11: On The River Thames

First | Prev / Next

Ghost possession doesn't happen often, but fatality rates are high. Even if an agent does survive, there are the aftereffects to worry about.

After surviving a possession, Lucy Carlyle struggles with recovery, delving ever deeper into the memories of Visitors and, in the process, stumbling into the world of blackmarket Sources.

Meanwhile, George Karim races to learn the truth behind ghost possession in order to protect Lucy and save future agents.

And Anthony Lockwood must face his own past with the London underworld if he wants to save his friends and himself.

-

Lockwood would be lying if he said he didn't miss aspects of his old life. He chafed under DEPRAC's rules on the best of days, all the paperwork required of cases and the idiotic clients. And, sometimes, he even missed being beholden to no one. No one to rail at him for being careless or question his decisions.

But then, no one to help stitch up his wounds either or keep him grounded to the living world. No one to fill up his big, empty house, echoing with his memories. Those feelings of nostalgia, strong as they could be, were brief and near-instantly regrettable.

He never regretted missing Flo Bones though. One of London's best relic hunters and one of his only friends back in those days. They didn't see much of each other anymore, ever since he'd taken up the straight and narrow. Not by his choice. He hadn't minded the risk, but she wouldn't have it.

"I'd never pass up a free breakfast, mind you," she said, sitting across from him at one of those floating diners she loved so much and talking through her eggs.

She'd told him to get lost when he found her along the Thames mudflats just before dawn, threatening to dispatch him with her oyster knife if he didn't, until he'd offered to buy her a meal wherever she wanted. He liked that about Flo. Everything was a transaction and transactions made sense.

"But I know you didn't come down here to be friendly," she continued. "Out with it, Locky."

Lockwood stirred his tea. "I got a visit from some old friends last night."

Flo took a large bite of her hashbrowns and raised an eyebrow at him, disappearing into her dark, coily hair. "Did you?"

"They trashed my house looking for a Source they shouldn't even know about." He clicked his tongue. "Any thoughts as to why?"

"How should I know?"

"Just because I don't run with you anymore, doesn't mean I've forgotten," he said, smiling with a rapier's edge. "If anyone so much as breathes the idea of a half-inch, you know about it."

She snorted. "You know what I haven't forgotten? How stupid you sound when you try to talk rhyme in that accent of yours. It's insulting."

The mask of his former self dropped from his face. He really ought to have learned by now that it didn't work on her. "Flo, I mean it. They put my agents in danger and I need to know why before something worse happens."

"Telling you would be something worse. For once in your life, leave off out of it." 

A chill of dread settled in his stomach. She hid her tells better than anyone, but Lockwood had known her long enough to spot them—watching the door, glancing out windows, using the reflection in her fork to check behind her. Few things in this world unsettled Flo Bones.

"Flo…"

She held up a hand. "Don't, Locky. If not for yourself, then as a favor. God knows, you owe me."

"Is the Archive open again?" he asked evenly. "Is that why?"

Flo set down her fork and scowled at him, gesturing with her hands in a bristly flourish. Lockwood swore under his breath.

"Then we're all in trouble," he said.

"Do you even try to listen when I talk?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I should talk with Winkman. Get him to convince the others to leave Lockwood & Co alone."

"Winkman will kill you," Flo said, laughing in a sharp way that meant she found nothing funny about it. "I'd hoped you left the death wish behind when you got out."

"I've got enough dirt on him to bury his whole operation. If I die, those records are released straight to the press. He wouldn't dare."

"There are worse fates than death, Locky. Winkman's creative."

He crossed his arms and rested them on the table to lean in closer. "Then what do you suggest I do, Flo? Roll over? If the Archive is buying again, every hunter from here to Manchester will be desperate for whatever they can get their hands on. You remember last time, it'll be war on the bloody streets. No agent will be safe. They already shook down Kipps."

"Heard about that, did you?" she said lightly.

Lockwood narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you still in touch with him?"

"We're friendly. He's worried about you."

"And I already told him, I'll handle it."

"Going to Winkman is not handling it. Why can't you just bunker down and weather the storm like the rest of us?"

"Hard to bunker down when the storm hates you in particular. Like you said, fates worse than death." Then he let his flippant expression drop. "And it's not just me anymore, Flo. I have people living under my roof, working under my name. People that shouldn't have to pay for my mistakes."

She sighed heavily, poking at her eggs with the fork. "You'll have to sell your way out. Find something right powerful and nasty that they'll want more than your head on a pike."

"I don't suppose the ring of a murdered celebrity would do the trick?"

"You know it won't." She scratched her nose and tapped the fork against her plate for a moment, the metal making a steady ping. Then she stopped and stared him down, her eyes darker and deeper than the bottom of the Thames. "Look… if I were maybe to stumble upon some Source or other too dangerous to handle all on my lonesome… I might be convinced to send it your way." She pointed at him fiercely. "But that's all you'll get from me, you hear me?"

He grinned. "Flo, you're an ace. I owe you one."

"You owe me more than that, you maggot. And you can start with making sure it's never your sorry bones that I find buried in the mud."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He waved her off. "I'll be on my best behavior."

"Liar."

He shrugged, feeling like his ribs pressed too tight against his heart. "You said it, not me."

[bylerschmyler]

Vecna - The Warlock

I'm currrently diving a little bit into D&D because me and some friends are currently preparing for our first campaign. So while I was browsing through the classes on https://www.dndbeyond.com/ I noticed some intersting connections to some characters from Stranger Things.

Obviously I am not an expert in D&D nor its lore and I firmly believe their were others before me who found those parallels. Everything I present to you in this post I found simply by going through the class and spell descriptions and doing some background info checks here and there.

I will try to explain other characters and their probably not so obvious undertones from time but I wanna start with Vecna. Why? Well I browsed the Warlock Class description today and was pretty suprised how much of it I saw represented by our behated S4 villain.

Vecna never gets called a warlock in the show. This simply due to the fact, that warlocks weren't introduced before 2004. So Dustin and Eddie calling him a dark wizard or spellcaster still resembles the warlock trope.

Just for the start here is the general description dndbeyond give us on warlocks:

Warlock Class Details

With a pseudodragon curled on his shoulder, a young elf in golden robes smiles warmly, weaving a magical charm into his honeyed words and bending the palace sentinel to his will.

As flames spring to life in her hands, a wizened human whispers the secret name of her demonic patron, infusing her spell with fiendish magic.

Shifting his gaze between a battered tome and the odd alignment of the stars overhead, a wild-eyed tiefling chants the mystic ritual that will open a doorway to a distant world.

Warlocks are seekers of the knowledge that lies hidden in the fabric of the multiverse. Through pacts made with mysterious beings of supernatural power, warlocks unlock magical effects both subtle and spectacular. Drawing on the ancient knowledge of beings such as fey nobles, demons, devils, hags, and alien entities of the Far Realm, warlocks piece together arcane secrets to bolster their own power.

The Pseudodragon: It's funny how the first thing mentioned here is the pseudodragon because their desciriptions reminded me of demobats.

Keen senses relate to how Vecna uses them as spies (S4E7 - the bat on the lamp when the teen drive to Eddie's trailer). Limited Telepathy basically a reference to the hive mind. That they have a biting attack and potentitally posinous sting attack (Steves rabies) makes it even funnier.

Odd alignment of the stars: Stranger Things has so many references of stars. In S4 specificially there are the stars on Jason's and Patrick's jackets. S3 Will had robes with stars during the campaign and the show literally starts with the star filled sky in S1.

open a doorway to a distant world.: Do we really have to talk about that? I mean the not marked reference about chanting a mythic ritual is even more fitting. Vecna used ritualistic sacrifices to open the gates in S4.

seekers of the knowledge: Vecna describes himself as adventurer when he taunts El before he trie to kill Max. He also searched for ways to open the gates and found his answer in El. Thats why he stole her powers (The bite in S3). He also seeks for knowledge to tourment his victims. Going through their memories to reveal their bigest secrets.

alien entities of the Far Realm: Demogorgons and Mind Flayer we see in his flashbacks.

warlocks piece together arcane secrets to bolster their own power: Also ties to the adventurer thing Vecna mentioned himself. The whole consuming the other numbers to grow stronger himself is also bound to this description.

Sworn and Beholden

A warlock is defined by a pact with an otherworldly being. Sometimes the relationship between warlock and patron is like that of a cleric and a deity, though the beings that serve as patrons for warlocks are not gods. A warlock might lead a cult dedicated to a demon prince, an archdevil, or an utterly alien entity—beings not typically served by clerics. More often, though, the arrangement is similar to that between a master and an apprentice. The warlock learns and grows in power, at the cost of occasional services performed on the patron’s behalf.

The magic bestowed on a warlock ranges from minor but lasting alterations to the warlock’s being (such as the ability to see in darkness or to read any language) to access to powerful spells. Unlike bookish wizards, warlocks supplement their magic with some facility at hand-to-hand combat. They are comfortable in light armor and know how to use simple weapons.

Pact: I don't want to start a discussion about who is the big bad. Imo it's clearly Vecna. But I still think that Vecna has made a pact to the Upside down itself. I don't if he just controls it by I think he draws some power of it and that's why he gets hooked up to the vines.

Cult: The mention of a cult is so S4 vibes. But a cult specifically dedicated to an alien entity was exactly what happened with the flayed in S3.

Alterations: His creepy claw hand and his kind of blinded eyes as well as the ability to communicate/command the UD creatures.

Spells: Also a reference to how the Vines in the UD give him the power to target and kill the teens in S4.

Delvers into Secrets

Warlocks are driven by an insatiable need for knowledge and power, which compels them into their pacts and shapes their lives. This thirst drives warlocks into their pacts and shapes their later careers as well.

Stories of warlocks binding themselves to fiends are widely known. But many warlocks serve patrons that are not fiendish. Sometimes a traveler in the wilds comes to a strangely beautiful tower, meets its fey lord or lady, and stumbles into a pact without being fully aware of it. And sometimes, while poring over tomes of forbidden lore, a brilliant but crazed student’s mind is opened to realities beyond the material world and to the alien beings that dwell in the outer void.

Once a pact is made, a warlock’s thirst for knowledge and power can’t be slaked with mere study and research. No one makes a pact with such a mighty patron if he or she doesn’t intend to use the power thus gained. Rather, the vast majority of warlocks spend their days in active pursuit of their goals, which typically means some kind of adventuring. Furthermore, the demands of their patrons drive warlocks toward adventure.

Secrets: Seeking other people secrets to use it against them.

Drive: Vecna want his very own world how he sees fit and that's why wants to become more powerfull. He also sees himself superior to other humans.

Forbidden: He consumes people. That's why Brenner controled him through the soteria chip.

Alien: Yet again something you can connect to the Upside Down.

Goals: Ties in to Drive. Also supported by his own explanation how he waited for a door to open ("I just needed someone to open the door")

Adventuring: I repeat myself here. He sees himself as an adventurer.

Now that we have a good overview about what a warlock is in general let's take a look into what he can do.

So one of his first perks is this:

Armor of Shadows and the use of Mage Amor. This could he relate in how Vecna was able to survive Nancy's shots and the burning.

He basically uses Ascendant Step everytime he gets hooked up to Vines.

Basically the way he is able to hold up the mirror.

Exchange Monsters with scared teens and we have the final stage of his curse.

This is how he is able to sense El when she is searching for Billy in the void. And if Will has powers, this is how he found out he had them.

Another possible explanation to his survival.

Gaze of two Minds is the reason he is not able to block Nancy, Steve and Robin when they enter the attic.

Lifedrinker sound to me like the curse. They take damage through the symtoms.

This what he does with Max's mom.

This is partly why he looks like he looks (not human anymore).

Maybe that is why the demogorgon in S1 just sometimes (diss)appears.

So if we look at Max having music from a DnD angle that would mean music is giving you an huge advantage. She basically saves herself with a Wisdom save.

Screaming Hive Mind.

There are a lot more spells that a tied to a warlock. Many of which are basically how he attacks. But this post is long enough anyway so I won't dive down that rabbit hole too.

To the end here just another funny connection to Stranger Things:

The Fiend

You have made a pact with a fiend from the lower planes of existence, a being whose aims are evil, even if you strive against those aims. Such beings desire the corruption or destruction of all things, ultimately including you. Fiends powerful enough to forge a pact include demon lords such as Demogorgon, Orcus, Fraz’Urb-luu, and Baphomet; archdevils such as Asmodeus, Dispater, Mephistopheles, and Belial; pit fiends and balors that are especially mighty; and ultroloths and other lords of the yugoloths.

AND (Screaming Will in S2)

That should be it for now. If you have thought about this or ideas how other warlock stuff is connected to Vecna please share! I do want to know everything there is.

Next up will be Mike.

[ivymarquis]

4, 25, 27 - writers ask game <3

4. How many WIPs do you have right now?

I have 10 that have at least *something* written down. Some are more concrete and I just need to finish them (like the Price-miscommunication one I basically need to transition to the smut and then that’ll be finished), others I have outlines done or a few paragraphs written out.

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing?

Yes. I push my own boundaries as a writer sometimes and while the majority of the COD stuff I have written hasn’t been particularly dark, I have written a number of dark OW or FC5 fics and even in RPs Ive gotten myself worked up over what I’ve written. Although I do have some dark concepts that will be coming up weeee

There’s also like 1 or 2 of the kinktober prompts that Im already like “God forgive me” lmao they’re not even actual kinks I have, I just wanna tackle the concept and say Ive written something for it.

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?

Not recently although I was nervous to post Movie Night and Apex Predator lmao

Movie Night is unabashed lactation kink fodder which is probably one of my weirder kinks that I absolutely adore (that said, it’s prevalent enough in the COD fandom I probably wont shy from writing it when it comes time for me to write the ideas I have including that particular kink 👀)

And Apex Predator has CC beholden to video game mechanics like check points so she dies a lot lmfao which is……. Kinda toeing the line on what’s chill especially when Jacob is the cause of a handful of her deaths. Course I need to actually write more of it to get to that part but just the having her die happened enough in what Ive written.

Lowkey for as long as Ive been doing this, and as much dark/off the wall shit as I’ve written, Im kinda surprised Ive never got anon hate. It’s a milestone Ive yet to achieve as a fandom participant 😂

[ghostcultmagazine]

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[thewickedkat]

did they do what they did out of love? yes.

did they do what they did out of monumental, towering arrogance? also yes.

Patia loves knowledge. she is the Keeper, She Who Holds the Keys. and when her friend comes to her, pleading, she knows of a possibility. old magic, yes, something scorned in their modern glittering Age, but--

wouldn't it be amazing if she could accomplish this? someone with no tether to the divine, but only a deep and abiding yearning for knowledge?

(and what is yearning but formless love)

and when that same friend begs, later, to forget, she obliges him. someone must keep the secrets, after all.

even later, when there is visible danger, a clear and present threat, Patia does not move to arrest it or stop it. she reaches out to the Tree. because someone must know, and she is the most qualified.

Cerrit loves the City. it represents all that is possible with learning and seeking and education. Cerrit loves truth, the act of divining for it, plucking at one string and seeing how far the vibrations travel. power needs to be checked, certainly, and he does his best to be a good custodian. to see with eyes unclouded.

but Cerrit loves his family more. he tells his son to gather his sister, to remember what was planned. Cerrit has seen truth, and had already planned accordingly.

Loquatius loves Laerryn. so much that he hides the truth Cerrit seeks from the public, hides it from Zerxus. he hides it from Laerryn herself, in recording the crystal in which he paints her as the lone voice of reason in the dark. he hides it from Zerxus, who arguably had a right to know what happened to Evandrin.

he does this so they do not see Laerryn as a monster in spite of her motives. so the public does not turn on her and pillory her in the street. in the end, all they have are the stories they leave behind, and Loquatius is keenly aware of this.

Nydas loves magic, maybe even more than Patia or Laerryn. magic is possibility made manifest, something that even the most common street urchin can use to rise above a life of poverty and ignorance and an existence on the margins. he is the very definition of bootstrapping oneself upward, and it was magic that enabled his current lifestyle and all the amenities he enjoys. why shouldn't others have access to this? why shouldn't they all be able to gaze into the raw bloodstream of aether with wonder? it is beautiful!

Laerryn loves her work, what it allows her to do: to see and shape, to make the formlessness of the universe bend to her will. she is the Architect, the Builder. it is so satisfying to see disparate components and sweat and toil and hours of sleeplessness finally come to cohesion and say i did that, look upon the wonders i have wrought. i did this for us.

she does not understand why some of her friends--surely those who would appreciate it--do not wholly share her enthusiasm. why are they not aflame with curiosity and possibility in looking further? why are they saying 'caution?' the knowledge is right there, the building blocks of the Universe itself, waiting to be picked up!

Zerxus loves Evandrin. despite hating Avalir and all its indolent trappings and decadent way of life, he also loves it because Evandrin loved it. Zerxus loves the notion of being free and unfettered, beholden to no god, and finding power in that freedom. he aids those who need it out of that same love and compassion, and when the Devil comes calling wearing his husband's beautiful face, of course he gives succour. how could he not? he knows it isn't his husband, he knows it is a Lie, but--

wouldn't it be amazing if he could make the Devil feel love, if only for a moment? surely that is good. surely he, Zerxus, could make the Father of Lies himself feel the goodness of a mortal for one brief second.

hubris is the end point. it is where 'i can fix this' is uttered repeatedly, futilely.

love is the road that gets them all there.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words. 

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off. 

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Hero and villain falling into a river together. Villain is unconscious or hurt or something so hero gets them both outta the water. They then have to figure out how to heal villain and survive in the woods.

This has the tiniest bit of angst but is mostly some fluff! This is a super interesting prompt, I hope I did it justice.

Also I’ve never seen Lost in my life.

CW//Car accidents, very unsafe driving, driving off a bridge, blood, broken legs

Nobody liked backseat drivers.

As removed from the life of a normal civilian as they were, Hero still knew that fact quite well. Powers or not, they had had plenty of experience with know-it-all acquaintances and overbearing relatives who had decided that their driving abilities could use improvement in one way or another.

Yes, backseat driving was bothersome. But that was all it was. It wasn’t dangerous.

Having two front seat drivers at once, however? Yeah, that was dangerous.

“Let go!” Villain cried out, wrenching the steering wheel to the right, threatening to throw the vehicle into a tailspin. Their position was as awkward as it was uncomfortable, kneeling in the passenger’s seat, stretched out over the center console, shoulders forcing Hero against the driver’s side door.

“You’re gonna make us crash, you daft idiot!” The hero protested, quite literally butting heads with their adversary. They, by all accounts, had the right to the steering wheel, considering the fact that they were quite literally sitting in the driver’s seat. Yet, their arms were locked in a furious tangle with Villain’s, struggling with white-hued knuckles to simply grip the damn wheel.

“You’re going to make us crash!”

“No, you are!”

“Let go of the damn wheel!”

“No!”

The two jerked the steering back and forth, back and forth, sending the car lurching back and forth like a bucking bronco.

Hero’s panicked gaze flickered in between their nemesis and the world outside the windshield. Alarms howled and metal crunched as traffic veered out of the way of the oncoming vehicle, shuddering as it was as its tires were jerked from ninety degree angle to ninety degree angle, back and forth and back and forth.

“You’re gonna kill someone!” Villain’s mouth was close enough to the hero’s face that they could feel their hot breath on their cheek.

“You do that all the time!”

“Do not!”

Despite the less-than-ideal technique with which it was being driven, the car was moving, and moving quickly. It screeched down the city’s central highway, striking traffic cones and trash cans and curbs, all in equal measure, in its rampage.

“Left!”

“Right!”

The car continued straight as both ‘drivers’ exerted as much force as they could manage onto its wheel. A pedestrian dove out of the way of the oncoming, trundling brick of metal and rubber, narrowly missing a terrible fate beneath its wheels.

For a split second, the vehicle was rendered airborne as it struck a particularly large bump in the asphalt.

“You’re going to get us both killed!” Villain snapped.

“No, you are!”

“You don’t even know-”

“What don’t I know?!”

“What street the fucking drawbridge is on, dumbass!”

Within Hero’s chest, fury was replaced by freezing, liquid cold.

“If you would have just turned left-”

“We needed to go right!”

And, yet, the car continued forwards.

It seemed as though local traffic had gotten the memo regarding the occurrence, as the street before them seemed almost suspiciously clear of vehicles.

“Come on.” Hero insisted. “There’s no way its gonna open now, right? What are the chances?”

“What are the chances that you’re an idiot who can’t see bright flashing warning lights?!”

Now that they thought about it... They had assumed the flashes to simply be from another vehicle, but-

“Shit.”

“You did this!”

“If you would’ve just let me drive-”

The duo of nemeses had their petty argument abruptly cut off by something far, far more important. To be more specific, their argument was interrupted by being in a vehicle, speeding down a road-- a road that had decided, at that very moment, to split in two. At the drawbridge’s side, a massive ferry boat honked its disapproval.

“We have to turn around, shit!” Villain hissed.

Before them, the solid, grey asphalt cracked to reveal the dark, murky depths below.

“We can’t turn around, dumbass! There’s no time!”

The villain jerked the wheel to the side, but was quickly countered. Regardless of the struggles of either side, the vehicle was staying on its path.

“Stop the car!” Villain’s foot lurched out, but missed the brake on account of its awkward position. Hero gritted their teeth-- their nemesis was practically laying on top of them!

“There’s no time!”

“Of course there’s time! What are you talking about!”

The gap was growing wider.

“We’re going too fast, we’ll never make it. We need to jump!”

“You’re insane!”

“You’re insane!”

“Slow down!”

“Speed up!”

“Stop it!”

“Keep going!”

The car stayed at the exact same speed as the knot of limbs fought amongst itself. The accelerator was struck, then the brakes, then the gas, then the pedal.

And neither driver got their way.

With a pair of screaming fools inside, the car jumped the gap, and plunged into the river below.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Its easy to see cars as unstoppable, unbeatable things. Able to crush and destroy with a driver’s slight wrong twitch. Hunks of contorted, twisted metal, more than willing to maim.

And, on land, perhaps those things were true. But underwater?

The car screeched as its hood slammed into the riverbed, crumpling to a tin can with the impact alone. Contorted into a far smaller form, the river’s current swept the metal brick alone with far greater ease.

Above, the world rushed by at a million miles an hour.

Below the river’s surface, it crept along in slow motion, because Villain was not moving.

Oh, god, they weren’t moving.

Hero couldn’t care less about the alarms, the screeching lights that surrounded them. Every safety precaution had been long forgotten, they were far, far past the point of precaution.

Their nemesis was thrown around the passenger’s seat, no seatbelt or consciousness to aid in keeping them in place. The hero struggled to move closer to them, but found themself just as much beholden to the vehicle’s whims.

The car slammed once more into something, a spiderwebbing crack launching across the windshield. Water began to hiss through the fissures.

They couldn’t stay in here. The car would do more to harm them than protect them. The red, sticky fluid staining the back of Villain’s head made that fact more than apparent.

Hero sucked in an anxious breath.

They spent every day of their existence saving lives, but this was different. This was Villain.

But, letting harm come to them was out of the question.

Their nemesis was surprisingly light-- though that could have been just the adrenaline talking. With one arm, they drug the unconscious villain to their lap, holding them firmly to their chest, trying to ignore the red trickling down their neck, and the way their leg didn’t seem to quite be moving right.’

Another breath, this one deep and shuddering.

Their life as a hero would do nothing for them, here. Desperately, they struggled for civilian knowledge. An old PSA came to mind. As a kid watching it on TV it had always seemed ridiculous, but-

Wait till the car is completely submerged. That was already well taken care of.

Aid unconscious passengers. Check.

Undo or cut all seatbelts. They had been too stupid to wear any.

Then... Then open the door, and swim to the surface.

Open the door.

Open the door.

Just do it! Okay, on three.

1...

2...

3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Villain was soaking wet.

It was the first thing they managed to notice as they struggled to jolt upright, only to find that they were already positioned in such a way.

Before their eyes were even fully open, a new instinct wracked them: The intense desire to cough. It was not an urge they could resist, and, soon, their chest was wracked as they struggled to...

Water. Water, coughing from their lungs.

They blinked, managing to open their eyes on the second attempt. Though, almost immediately, they closed them once more. They stung terribly, stinging with...

Smoke?

It was confusion that allowed them to try a thrice time, squinting to protect their eyes.

Yes, it was smoke! Grey and heavy, twisting through the air. The fire presented itself just as quickly-- small and contained, to their good fortune. An equally fortunate wind turned the singing smoke from their face, allowing them to fully see the world around them.

Trees and dirt-- a thick wood, all tangled in on its own biomass, hardly allowing them to see the dark, heavy sky hanging above.

Oh, and Hero was there.

Villain blinked, then, once their mind remembered what surprise was, yelped.

“Um...”

“Morning.” Hero lifted a hand, waving from where they sat, on the ground, behind the campfire.

“I didn’t realize you were a boy scout.”

“I’m not.”

“Then...”

“I just watched a lot of Lost.”

The hero’s gaze drifted downwards, to Villain’s legs, outstretched before them. Their own gaze followed.

A stick. On the side of their leg, secured with taut vines, was a big ass stick.

“You...”

“They did it on Lost!”

“Where are... Where are we?”

“No clue.” Hero shook their head. “But, you’re in no condition to go anywhere with that leg.”

“Then... why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your legs are fine.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re hurt.”

“You hate me.”

“Really?” Hero raised a brow. “No one told me.”

[coldwall-collective]

Fallen Revelry

"Come on, Sula! You're going to miss it!"

The sin'dorei woman checked her hair, a brief comb of her fingers through the dark locks to assure some semblance of control. In truth, she had all but given up on her efforts to tame her appearances after that last dance. The scent of burning candles and gunpowder fireworks lingered with the aroma of ambrosia. Decadence she was unfamiliar with.

The woman settled into a stride, each drop of her pointed heels to the floor displaying a click that carried despite the music. It issued a certain authority, a presence that she embraced to allow herself this night of importance. She felt like -someone- among this crowd, signed and assured when she caught the glances from passing faces.

The elf illuminated her features in the glow of a nearby crystal, a beautiful allure of yellow and azure that flattered her pale skin. She met her hand with the one who had called her, the man lifting the hand offered toward the sky and drawing her to an all too natural twirl.

This all felt so right to her. Perhaps in her common blood lay the lines of something more. A somebody awaiting their chance to shine and catch the gaze with illuminated, blooming petals. She smiled to herself, an innuendo laying in that analogy despite her efforts to maintain her poise. She met her hand once more with his, venturing to entwine her fingers with his own and pause their sway to meet eye to eye.

"I'd not miss it for the world." She muttered, mentally beating herself for what may be the most cliche line. Yet it drew his lips to a smile, pausing her rising heartbeat and assuring her she had landed her sentiment. She turned, letting her arms snake around the man's torso and her hands to clasp upon his far side.

"Don't worry, you'll be okay." His voice was distant yet soft, a comfort that she had not known was becoming a craving. She turned her head, pressing face to his shirt and drawing in the deep scent of his cologne. He smelled of burning candles.

"I trust you. And honestly, I'm excited." She replied with no uncertain tone.

"Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be." She replied without hesitation.

His hand wrapped her, resting to the back of her head. The music was loud, her mind was quiet. She was safe here. She belonged. She was precisely where she was always meant to be.

His shirt smelled like burning candles. May this night last forever.

His hand released, letting the woman stumble away. Her once vibrant eyes now haunted with the dim glow of Azerite presenting a falsehood to her perception. Her shaved head was marked with the dried cuts from the brief claiming of her identity. Despite her tattered garb, she smiled to him with a deliriously manic expression.

"What a beautiful thing it is." He muttered, tracing his hand along her jaw that held to several stages of bruising. She turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. "To serve so effortlessly. To be beholden to nothing but the Shattered God."

The sin'dorei turned away, moving with a dancing step as her bare feet pattered to cold stone. The music played, the candles burned down, the sky above dashed with stars. As though made from a thousand pieces from a broken moon.

With a smile, the man turned, and returned to the party that awaited him.