#come join the soup cult

[redroomroaving]

Another Donnick appreciator joins the front.

Soup! Soooooup!

(but, for real, I've been writing about this lovely Ilmatari and his complicated relationship with the priest of Ilmater's sworn enemy, Abdirak, for a little while now, and I'm obsessed.)

Brother Donnick appreciation post.... Do you want soup?

[kwanisms]

Kinktober 「10:28」 — k.soonyoung

» seventeen menu | hoshi menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ weretiger!Soonyoung × fem!Reader wc: 3.3k summary: Normally during his heat, Soonyoung stays as far away from his girlfriend as he can for fear of scaring her away but he can’t help himself when she comes by to drop some soup off seeing as he told her he’s sick. genres/themes/au: smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, supernatural and horror themes, mentions of: food consumption, cat anatomy; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is CLOSED! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you.  MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: sorry for skipping two days in a row. I will be tacking those on at the end of Kinktober just like the others I missed so don’t worry. Jisung’s I just lost track of time and Christian’s fell on game day and I didn’t even realize it. I’ll get them done and added to the end of Kinktober, I promise lol anyway, here is our resident cult leader, Soonie and his tiger agenda. Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you thought and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), heat cycles, rough sex, unprotected sex (just don’t do this. Use protection lol), non-human genitalia (like yunho, Soon’s got a barbed d!ck because cat. Don’t like it, don’t read it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idc), scent marking (f receiving), biting (f receiving), use of pet names (hers: baby, kitten, beautiful, etc.; his: babe, Soonie, baby, etc.), I think i got all of them but let me know if I missed any! kinks: heat cycles + rough sex dialogue prompt: ❛❛ You heard me. Take. It. Off. Now. ❜❜

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“Kwon Soonyoung, I know you're home! Let me in, damn it!”

Soonyoung raised his head as he sat with his back against the door. He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting there while you stood outside his apartment door, knocking, ringing the bell, demanding to be let in. He'd lost track of how many times he'd almost given.

Almost.

It's not that he didn't want to see you, he did. He wanted to see you more than anything, but he knew if he let you into his apartment, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from jumping you. Especially now that he could smell you.

It was always a rough time for him when he went into heat. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't just female animals that went into heat, males also went into heat too and as a weretiger, Soonyoung was no exception. He'd spent most of his formative years dealing with it on his own and for a long time, he avoided being intimate with anyone because of the weird physiological changes to his body.

Unlike many werecreatures, Soonyoung's curse was a generational one and he was not bitten or scratched. His was passed from father to son and inherited by blood. The changes lay dormant until a boy started to go through puberty. By the time he was 18, Soonyoung had gone through just under two hundred and thirty full moon transformations.

And now, at twenty eight years of age, he'd been through over three hundred and fifty transformations. His heat always came the week leading up to the full moon. He was always consumed with an insatiable need to fuck something and he was very good at holding himself back.

Until you came along.

The sweet, caring, and unsuspecting girl who lived across the courtyard from him in the same apartment as him but on the other side of the complex. From his balcony, Soonyoung could see your balcony and the windows that looked into your apartment. 

You kept an assortment of potted plants on your balcony and had installed some sort of netting or mesh to sort of close in the area which made sense because as soon as it went up, he saw an orange tabby cat lounging at the top of a cat tree.

Know you liked cats gave Soonyoung the drive to talk to you the next time he saw you in the courtyard with what he thought was little success but his poorly executed joke still managed to make you laugh and get him your number.

From then on, he was hooked and the moment you invited him over for dinner, he was a goner. One date turned into two and then three and soon, he had the privilege of calling you his girlfriend.

You both maintained separate spaces in the building and he found it kind of cute, his girlfriend living across the courtyard from him. Your cats, which he learned there were actually two, were the sweetest creatures on earth and absolutely adored him. The girl, a white one with orange markings and long fur, was named Pad Thai and the boy, the short hair orange tabby, was named Cheezit. 

Soonyoung had taken to calling them his children and joked with his friends that you had full custody and he got visitations. It was a joke you took in stride and accepted fully, sending silly videos of the cats pretending to use your phone and making silly voices for them, speaking to their dad. It often made his day all that much brighter when he couldn’t come visit you.

Soonyoung had yet to tell you about his condition, only mentioning that he wasn’t like most guys, urging that he wasn’t just saying that and that it was a thousand percent true. He just hadn’t found the right time to tell you exactly how different he was. How does one even go about telling their partner that they’re a weretiger?

It was a conversation Soonyoung knew needed to happen but it just hadn’t yet. Which is why he was stuck in this situation now with you pounding on the door to be let in.

Soonyoung had started telling you that his once a month disappearance was just him coming down with something. He started with the usual excuses, the flu, the cold, stomach flu, even covid but he was starting to run out of excuses. He also hated using illness as an excuse because your immediate response was to offer to bring him medicine and food, usually in the form of soup, stew, or broth. He always gave the same excuse for not opening the door.

He didn’t want to get you sick.

At first, you took it as your boyfriend being cautious and caring but soon, you started to get suspicious and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade much longer. He was going to have to come clean and tell you the truth much sooner rather than later.

A conversation he had been dreading ever since asking you to be his girlfriend.

The wood behind him shook as another series of loud knocks rang out, no doubt you beating your fist against the door. “Kwon Soonyoung!” you shouted. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut, as if it might make you leave faster. He felt awful. He hated ignoring you but in his mind, it was for the best when he was in heat. He couldn’t risk scaring you off and losing you.

Another series of knocks shook the door, which was surprising given your somewhat smaller stature. For one so little, you sure were strong. And loud. “Kwon Soonyoung! If you do not open this door right now, we are done!” 

Soonyoung’s eyes opened quickly and he turned his head to look back at the door. ‘She wouldn’t…’ he thought to himself. “I mean it, Soonyoung! If you don’t open this door, consider us through!” Something in your tone made him scramble up to his feet, hastily pulling at the locks separating you from him. He could tell you weren’t kidding.

He kept the chain on, opening the door only a few inches as he looked out into the hall at you. He held his breath as he took in your frame. You’d showered recently, he could smell the scent of your shampoo and body wash, mixing with your natural scent and making his cock twitch in his pants.

On your face was a furious expression and his heart sank immediately. If he had cat ears, this is where they would flatten back against his head in fear. You were terrifying when you were mad. He’d never been on the receiving end of your anger before nor had he really seen it in action.

“H-hey,” he stammered. His eyes dipped down to see the thermos in your hand that no doubt held a homemade soup, stew, or broth of some kind but he couldn’t be sure with how tightly the lid was screwed on nor with how overpowering your scent was.

“Don’t you hey me,” you said, your eyes narrowing at him. “Open the door and let me in.” Soonyoung grimaced. He wanted more than anything to let you in but he knew if he did, there was no telling how he’d react to having you so close when he was aching, burning, to be touched. It wasn’t a good idea on many levels.

“I don’t wanna get you sick,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. You scoffed, placing a hand on your hip and looking every bit the sassy girlfriend he knew and loved. “Don’t try that bullshit with me,” you snapped. “I know you aren’t sick,” you added. Soonyoung’s eyes widened as he looked up from the thermos in your hand to meet your hardened gaze. “Wh-what?” he breathed. 

“I spoke to Jihoon,” you started to explain. “He told me the truth.” Soonyoung’s stomach sank as the realization that his best friend had outed him to you. ‘Well fuck,’ he thought. It looked like he was going to have to have a talk with Jihoon.

“So let me in. We need to talk.” Soonyoung sighed and closed the door, undoing the chain before pulling the door open for you to enter his apartment. He shut the door behind you and prepared for the storm.

You didn’t unload on him immediately, instead sliding your shoes off and walking towards the kitchen where you set the thermos down. He followed, hands tucked in his pockets as he watched you move around his kitchen, pulling out a bowl and a spoon from their resting places.

You placed the bowl down next to the thermos and unscrewed the lid silently, pouring out a very hearty looking stew. It smelled amazing, the scent of meat, herbs, and potatoes invading his senses. “Jihoon said you aren’t exactly sick. Just that during this time, you don’t feel well,” you said as you finished pouring the hot stew into the bowl, setting the thermos down and pushing the bowl towards your boyfriend, holding out the spoon.

Soonyoung glanced at the spoon and the bowl before looking at you. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” you said leaning over the counter. Soonyoung’s eyes dipped down to your chest, the curve of your breast visible down your shirt from where he stood. “You’re going to take the damn spoon and eat while I talk. Sound good?” 

Soonyoung nodded, moving to sit at the kitchen island and grabbing the spoon from your hand. The moment your skin met, electricity and heat spread throughout his body, the urge to pounce on you from across the counter trying to take the reins but he managed to push it down and simply started eating.

You watched him take a few bites before speaking.

“I know you’re a weretiger,” you said softly, drawing his attention as he looked up at you, his mouth full of bits of beef and potatoes. “Jihoon told me everything. I will admit I’m a little shocked you didn’t tell me all of this but I can’t imagine it’s an easy subject to bring up so I’ll give you a pass there,” you explained. “That being said, I wish you would have just told me the truth. Did you think I would judge you? Did you think I would leave or break up with you?” 

Soonyoung swallowed the food in his mouth before speaking. “I didn’t know what to expect, actually,” he answered truthfully. “I was less scared about you finding out about me being a weretiger and more scared that I—” he hesitated, looking down at his bowl of food. You followed his gaze. “Finish eating,” you told him. “I have more to say anyway.

By the time Soonyoung had finished his bowl of stew and ate another at your insistence, you were sitting on the couch, Soonyoung resting over your legs as he hugged around your waist, his face buried in your stomach, a deep rumbling emanating from his chest as he purred happily. You stroked his hair, massaging his scalp with your finger tips.

“This is nice,” you said softly as you combed your fingers through his hair. “Mhm,” Soonyoung hummed. Silence fell over the two of you for a few minutes before you couldn’t stop yourself from asking a question that was at the forefront of your mind.

“Soonie,” you said softly, gently tugging at his hair. “Hmm?” he asked, not lifting his head or opening his eyes. “Can I ask you what you meant earlier about being scared?” You felt him stiffen under your touch before he finally lifted his head, looking up at you. “Wh-what about it?” he asked.

You brushed his hair back from his forehead, cupping his cheek at the same time. “What are you scared of, babe?” Soonyoung took a deep breath before pulling himself up to sit. “I’m scared of frightening you,” he finally answered, glancing at your hand before reaching over to take it in his.

“Of frightening me? How would you frighten me?” you asked, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. Soonyoung looked down at your joined hands before speaking. “You know how when we’re intimate?” he asked softly, not looking up as you nodded. “Yes,” you replied, a small smile on your lips. “Well, when the week of the full moon approaches, I start to… change,” he continued.

“My body starts to change.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes as your smile spread. “Is this about your heat?” you asked nonchalantly. Soonyoung’s eyes widened as his gaze snapped up to meet yours. “Y-you know about that?” he asked incredulously. You nodded, your smile only growing. “You think I’m going to learn that my boyfriend is a weretiger and not look up what all of that entails? I know everything, baby. Your heat, your transformation cycle, all of it. I also know your curse is familial and not transferred by bites or scratches. Jihoon told me that part though,” you said, reaching up to brush his hair back again.

“And I already know what happens to your cock, so there’s no need to explain that to me.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widened comically. “I learned that on my own by reading. Jihoon did not inform me of that part,” you added, reaching up to bop the end of his nose with the tip of your finger. “I know all about the sexual changes, the heat cycle, the penile spines, copulation, all of it. I know everything.”

Soonyoung wasn’t sure whether he should be impressed, alarmed, or relieved. He felt a mixture of all three as he sat there on his couch with you. “Do you also know about the insatiable urge I have to be buried inside you whenever you’re around?” he asked, noticing how your eyes widened slightly. “No,” you answered softly before a smirk started to form.

“But now I do.”

Soonyoung could feel heat creeping up his neck towards his face at the same time heat settled in the pit of his stomach. A new smell invaded his nostrils. The smell of arousal but it wasn’t his own. He glanced down quickly before looking back up. “Can you smell me?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, the smirk still present on your face. He nodded slowly, holding your gaze.

You leaned back against the arm of the couch, spreading your legs slightly. Soonyoung’s eyes fluttered shut as the scent hit him stronger. He could feel his cock painfully hard in his pants. “Baby,” Soonyoung said softly as a shiver ran up his spine, that insatiable need to bury his cock inside your warm cunt starting to take over. “If you don’t stop me,” he continued, opening his eyes to meet your gaze.

“I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll…” he trailed off as your hands moved, sliding down your body. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said, swallowing thickly as his eyes followed your hands. “Maybe that’s what I want,” you said softly. “Maybe I want you to pounce on me.”

Soonyoung turned his head, averting his gaze as he tried to steady his erratic breathing. He felt the couch move and then your hand under his chin, turning his head to face you. “Don’t look away from me,” you said in a low voice. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Soonyoung whispered, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I promise you won’t,” you replied, leaning into his touch.

“I want you to let it take control. You need this,” you continued, taking one of his hands and guiding it between your thighs, pressing his fingers against your cloth covered crotch. “Pin me down, Soonie. Fuck me like I know you want to.”

Soonyoung let out a sound between a moan and a growl as he closed the distance,  the hand on your cheek sliding to the back of your neck to pull you into a bruising kiss, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth. You moaned as he pushed you back onto the couch, pinning you down with his weight alone. 

You could feel his erection in his pants press against you, rutting slightly. “I don’t think I can wait,” he murmured against your lips, hands moving to pull at your shorts. “Then don’t,” you urged as he pulled back, fingers working to undo the tie of your shorts. He made quick work of them, pulling them and your panties off. “Shirt off,” he grumbled as he pulled his own off.

You watched him instead as he undid his pants. He glanced up at you. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his hands stilling. “I’m watching you,” you replied. “He glanced down at your shirt. “Shirt. Off,” he repeated. “What?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “You heard me,” Soonyoung growled as he stared you down. “Take. It. Off. Now.” 

You let out a giggle before complying, pulling your shirt off as he resumed undoing his pants and pushing them down, kicking them off before leaning over you, lips kissing a path up your chest to your neck. “Turn over,” he whispered in your ear.

You did as he asked, rolling over onto your stomach as he leaned over your back. You felt him rub his cheek against your shoulder. “What are you doing?” you asked with a chuckle. “Marking you,” he replied simply. “Don’t worry about it,” he added as he grabbed one of the pillows and guided you to lift your hips, placing the pillow under you.

With your hips raised, he guided the head of his cock to your slit, gathering your arousal on the tip before starting to push into you with a guttural moan. You gasped as he stretched you, the spines on his cock creating a rough but not entirely unpleasant texture as he bottomed out.

“Oh shit,” you gasped as he pulled back, the spikes raking your walls slightly. He thrusted into you harshly and you cried out. Soonyoung leaned over your back, covering your mouth with his hand. “The neighbors will complain, kitten,” he whispered in your ear. “You have to be quiet.”

He gave you another harsh thrust, slamming into you roughly as he set a brutal and unrelenting pace. “Is it too much?” he asked breathlessly. You shook your head, biting into your bottom lip to keep from screaming out in pleasure. You couldn’t hold back when you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder. “Fuck, sorry baby,” he panted as he pounded into you.

“S’okay,” you gasped, walls spasming around him as he send you hurtling towards your orgasm which hit you, the strength making your legs shake as he continued to fuck you through it. “Are you okay?” he groaned as your cunt continued to flutter around his cock. You nodded in response. “Y-yes,” you gasped. “I’m – ah! – M’fine — oh god, Soonyoung!”

A second orgasm washed over you and still he kept thrusting, not showing any signs of slowing down. You knew by the end of it you were going to be a bruised, panting, sticky mess but you couldn’t be bothered to care now that he wasn’t holding back and showing you a new side to him you’d never experienced. As he sent you toppling over the edge of your third orgasm, he finally came without warning as he sank his teeth into your shoulder again as his load exploded inside you, painting your walls in his sticky white essence.

“Fuck!” he growled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “Sorry,” he murmured, pressing wet kissing against your skin. “Didn’t mean to yell in your ear.” You merely chuckled as you shook your head. “It’s fine, babe,” you replied. “Was I too rough?” he asked suddenly and again you answered with a shake of your head. “No,” you answered. “That was great. In fact,” you said as you lifted your head.

“I’m coming over more often to help with your heat if it means you’ll fuck me like that.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

[jumalanpelko]

Afterlife? Well yeah, kinda

I just realized that I havent talked about how afterlife works in this world. It isnt really a spoiler since i dont think it is something that comes up in the story but i'll hide the "what the actual afterlife is" in case someone doesnt want to know if it ever comes up in the comic.

But first, what does the cult believe happens after death?

Cult thinks that dead cats join Her and become a part of Her, suncats being the most important. Now how do cats interpret this varys like how people think of heaven. Some think that you just kinda get to hang out with Her, some that you literally just become part of Her.

And what actually happens

So what happens to the dead in this world is that their essence (soul, if you will) returns to earth and nature and gets to rest/reborn in other living beings.

Or thats what would happen, but cats in the cult are different case.

She eats them. The god eats their soul.

So like yeah they do become part of Her. In a way. I guess.

Their soul won't return to the earth. She just legit eats it.

Good soup.

Shes not Herself when Shes hungry.

Girl dinner.

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which Zevlor and Tav arrive in Baldur's Gate, and spend 10,000 words not confessing how they feel (then 1,000 finally doing so).

Part 7 of 10

Warnings: Implied, non-graphic sexual situations

Word Count: ~11.1k

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

Lakrissa is not wrong. The more of her peace offering Zevlor puts away, the lighter he finds his mood, and the swifter and easier his answers come. Alfira, too, is a world more cheerful, though she’s consumed little of her own pudding, too busy hastening in her new subject like a long-awaited guest.

“So, how did you get to the city? When did you get to the city? Before or after Tav? I mean, we left as soon as there was sunlight, same as she and the others did, but we made it to the Gate before them somehow. I never understood that.”

“Well, they were slower,” Zevlor explains between forkfuls of pudding. “There were more of them at that point. They had a great deal of equipment to carry. And they stopped to take out any regiments of cultists they met along the way.”

“But you weren’t with them?”

“No. I learned all that later. I left sometime after they did — joined a group of those unfortunates displaced by the cult’s attacks also heading for Baldur’s Gate. By the time I arrived, Tav and her party had already made quite a name for themselves.”

“Did you stay in the refugee camp in Rivington?”

But Alfira’s dubious tone convinces Zevlor she knows the answer.

“No,” he says with only the slightest wince. “I did not imagine a warm welcome waited for me there.”

He swallows the last mouthful of syrupy slice and reaches for his tankard. His hand is steadier now; the ale’s taste similarly improved. The complaints of his body quieted, Zevlor finds it possible to reflect on, rather than relive, that first day in Baldur's Gate: dragging himself, half-starved and wholly exhausted, through its southernmost district's overcrowded and inhospitable streets.

“In spite of everything,” he muses, “I couldn’t stand to sit idle. My only thought at the time was to make myself useful, somehow. But there was little I was fit to do. I had no trade experience, and I was in no state to join the border militia. There was the circus, of course, but” — he nods at Alfira’s notes - “I wasn’t sure who I might run into there. Still, I hadn't ruled it out. Then I spotted Ilmater’s temple.”

It was a poor replacement for the holy houses of Zevlor’s memory. The entire building, complete with single, modest bell tower, would have fit easily within one wing of Elturel’s High Hall. Tall, weedy purple flowers and presumptuous vines had overtaken its stone facade, toppled bricks huddled in piles just past its open entrance, and, once inside, odd pockets of sunlight cut through the reverent dim, courtesy of the roof’s missing slats. Zevlor, who had not felt properly warm since the heat he’d blithely cursed at the Emerald Grove, limped to one of these. The sound of his footsteps caught the attention of two temple attendants, seated at a table crowded with alchemical apparatus. They frowned at the sight of him.

“You’re too early for supper and too late for healing,” snapped one, some variety of elf. “Potions are doled out in the morning and soup’s distributed an hour before dusk until we run dry. First come, first served.”

All in all, an inauspicious introduction to the Crying God’s flock.

“Bill, please.” Wood scraped stone as the other robed attendant, a harassed-sounding dwarf, pushed back his chair and got to his feet, addressing Zevlor more politely: "Welcome to Ilmater's house, my friend. We are limited in our resources, but we’ll help however we can."

He cast a wary gaze up Zevlor, who supposed his own first impression left as much to be desired: hair unkempt, skin unwashed, his neglected armor filthy and rusting and hanging off him where hunger had eaten away any excess flesh. All that could be said for him was, in spite of his obvious infernal traits, he hardly looked a threat; except for the short sword tucked through his belt — Tav's, which Zevlor had refused to part with on the road for any sum of money no matter how hungry he'd become. He dropped his arms to his sides to obscure it, but it was not the weapon the dwarf wrinkled his brow at: it was Zevlor’s hands.

“Why, you're shaking fit to shatter, my friend. What ails you?”

A voice from behind him, high and quavery with age, spared Zevlor the trial of cobbling together an answer he did not have.

“Combat fatigue,” it sighed, and the halfling woman who matched it shuffled around Zevlor’s exhausted legs. She lifted her chin to look up at him and shook her head sadly, new lines erupting over her face’s well-established wrinkles. “All this bloody fighting, if you will excuse my language, spreads it like the plague, it does. Brother Clements, fetch some clean clothes from the spare box. Brother Bill, put the kettle on — a hot drink’s the thing. Do come through, sir, and we’ll see what the Broken God’s grace can do for you.”

“Little, as it turned out,” Zevlor sums up succinctly. “A health potion repaired the minor scrapes, and the drink did at least help me find my tongue enough to explain who I was, or had been. Whatever ailed my hands, however, was beyond the aid of magic or medicine. Sister Yannis could not heal the tremors. But she was kind enough to permit me a bunk in the temple infirmary in exchange for what labour I could provide.”

“You were lucky,” comments Alfira. “When we got here, the temple was refusing anyone any help at all. There had been a—”

“A murder, yes. The Sister explained. Apparently, it had done a number on the temple’s reputation. Even after it had been solved and services re-instated, Ilmater's regular followers were much slower to return than the refugees. The temple was overrun with demands for assistance. I believe that’s the main reason I was allowed to stay.”

Alfira cocks her head, a smile creeping up the side of her face like one of the temple's intrepid vines.

“And did the Sister tell you who solved the murder?”

“Of course.”

“That lovely horned lass,” explained the rector in her tremulous soprano, sliding a second bowl along the kitchen's scrubbed wood table after Zevlor’s hands had toppled the first. “You see her about regular in town, now, only I can’t remember the name. Tail like they’ve all got, though the horns were a bit smaller than most. Eyes were different too; very blue. Load of dark hair looked like it could eat the teeth off a comb. What was her name…”

Zevlor, navigating his spoon with a weak and wobbling fist, asked, “Might it have been Tav?” before gulping down what soup survived the shaky journey to his mouth. It tasted of potato, seasoned only by the name his tongue had not had an excuse to say for days.

A few of the wrinkles adorning Sister Yannis’ world-weary forehead unwound as she smiled.

“Oh, that’s the job! I expect you’ll know her, then?”

“Not all the tieflings in the Gate know each other, Sister, anymore than all the halflings or all the dwarves.” Brother Clements’ gentle admonishment drifted towards them as he sidled through a side door into the temple’s warm, sunlit kitchen. “That name’s appeared in every issue of the Mouth since she got here, and half the mouths in town, too. They say she and her camp are all that stand between us and that cult. They’ve set themselves up just beyond the hill. You’ll have seen her on your way in, I reckon?” the dwarf adds to Zevlor, tipping a bundle of clean, if well worn, robes the same dusty blue as his and the Sister’s onto the bench beside him, and avoiding Zevlor’s tail, which shivered in imitation of his hands as he replied ruefully:

“Something like that.”

“He wasn’t wrong, either. Tav’s local adventures made up most of the table-talk among the refugees who came for the temple’s daily meal. By the end of that first night, I’d heard at least a half-dozen fantastic rumours about what she and her companions had got up to in the tenday since they arrived: foiled a plot to blow up refugee children, discovered a ring of shape shifters, stopped a serial killer, killed a clown at the circus, who might also have been a shapeshifter or a cultist or both — accounts disagreed.”

Zevlor chuckles softly into his tankard, still held aloft — memories of struggling to transport similar pewter mugs and laden bowls to tables and benches inspiring a renewed appreciation for the reliable use of his hands.

“I wouldn’t have believed a word of it of anyone else,” he continued, “but it was Tav.”

But such paltry exploits of Tav’s are old news to Alfira. Her quillpen has ceased its frantic scratching and hovers, impatient, over her parchment.

“Right. So, when did you finally go see her?”

Zevlor raises his brows at the overeager bard.

“I didn’t.”

Not that the idea didn’t tempt him as, at long last, Zevlor eased himself onto his allotted infirmary bunk, horns tucked carefully around a stack of pillows and back giving glory to Ilmater for the blessing that was the lumpy goose-feather mattress beneath it. With such long-absent luxuries, sleep ought to have claimed him at once. But the knowledge Tav’s camp was less than a mile away, that he could reach it in minutes if he chose, fluttered in his chest like some trapped, winged insect he lacked the energy to squash flat.

Was she there now? What was she doing? Bedding down for the night herself, or refusing to rest, using the quiet hours to plan the downfall of cults and killers and false gods, instead? Zevlor closed his eyes, picturing Tav in the cast-off dress he’d seen so often at the grove, dark coils of hair loose and wild around her face as she bent her head to pore over notes by the light of a dying fire. And there, on the cusp of sleep, all the longing and regret the march to the Gate had held at bay welled up through the cracks in Zevlor’s resolve to keep himself, and the burden he'd become, from Tav. He envisioned scenarios, every bit as fantastic as the stories the refugees told: of wandering into her camp on some pretext — an apology for the way he had left? returning her sword, perhaps? — and her leaner face — or was she eating better now? — glancing up at him, the fire’s red embers illuminating her surprise and delight — or would it be disappointment and fury, at last? Had his unceremonious departure sealed the fate of their friendship, and whatever else it might have been, or could she still possibly want—

Only it did not matter what either of them wanted, Zevlor was cogent enough to remember the next day. The facts had not changed. He was no use to Tav, or her quest against the Absolute; nor was he worthy of her friendship, let alone anything else, anymore — truths driven repeatedly home with each successive dish and precious potion bottle his treacherous hands refused to hold.

Sister Yannis bore these almost hourly crashes with saintly understanding, but, by the end of his second day in Ilmater’s service, Zevlor had been relegated to less breakable, more menial tasks: he spent hours in the temple’s pitiful courtyards pulling up weeds and pulling down vines, washed an endless river of laundry, scrubbed tables and benches and swept and mopped floors twice daily soiled by an army of uncleaned hands and feet. And if any of it felt beneath him, Zevlor reminded himself of the bodies buried at Last Light. The humilities of domestic labour seemed a fitting penance, and the proper prison for his pride, and prevented him indulging further fantasies of Tav — at any rate, during the day.

Which meant he was entirely unprepared to enter the kitchen one late afternoon, a burlap sack of vegetables carefully hoisted in his arms, and hear her voice echoing up through the temple’s floor.

“… just hate to leave them there like that.”

“They’re dead! They don’t care!”

“Well, I care!”

Zevlor froze. The sack sagged in his arms. Unless he had gone abruptly mad — a possibility which could not be ruled out — he knew that voice, and the voice she argued with. And the third that interjected:

“We can always come back for them another day when we’ve got more time. Astarion’s right, it takes longer to prepare for an event like this than you might think, especially when you’ve been living rough for so long.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, I know exactly how long it takes to complete one’s toilette.”

The trap door set into the kitchen's floor banged open and Zevlor jumped, the sack tumbling from his slack arms with a series of squashy thuds. Potatoes and onions spilled from its burlap mouth and rolled across flagged stone. He barely noticed. He had eyes only for Tav: her wild, dark hair defying its plaits, pale tail swishing behind her as she hoisted herself from the ground, armor shining in the waning sunlight wafting through the kitchen windows as she clambered slowly to her feet, her face upturned to his, blue eyes impossibly wide…

“A day’s wage plus tips says she threw herself at you the second she saw you,” interrupts Lakrissa in a saccharine sing-song as she rips the privacy curtain aside and begins scooping up the pudding bowls.

Zevlor clicks his tongue in mock reproof.

“I’d take it easy on the wagers, Lakrissa. You’re on an unlucky streak, I’m afraid.”

Hands full of dishes, and calls for ale coming from the table behind her, Lakrissa can do no more than roll her eyes extravagantly and groan in disgust, “Ugh — you and Tav, honestly. Call me back you’ve got over yourselves, and we’re on to some proper action again,” before turning on her heel and flouncing away.

Alfira’s stretches out a colourful boot to kick the privacy curtain more fully closed — her only acknowledgement her partner was ever there — and asks, “You mean she wasn’t glad to see you?” in tones of such rapt attention, Zevlor isn’t sure whether or not to laugh. He sips his ale and waits for Lakrissa’s footsteps to fade back into the Elfsong’s ambient noise before admitting, “Well, not right away.”

“Odd, running into each other like this,” were Tav’s first words: cool and cutting in a way Zevlor had never heard directed at him, “considering how we parted last. You’ll remember that, of course.”

“Yes. Of-of course.”

Zevlor’s tongue tripped thickly over the words, his stomach plummeting as he made the shift from impossible dream to dreaded nightmare: Tav was here, before him, as he’d pictured more times than he liked to admit over the last few days, but her face was flat, her eyes dark and guarded as though curtains had been drawn behind cobalt stained glass. At her side, the pale elf, Astarion, let one hand drift to the hilt of a cruel-looking dagger, while behind them the Blade of Frontiers, arms occupied by a wrapped, bulky something wafting a fetid scent into the room, regarded Zevlor with undisguised consternation.

It hurt to look at them. Zevlor addressed his clumsy apology to the burlap sack at his feet instead.

“I … I am sorry for how we — how I left things. It was unconscionable of me to leave like that. I thought it for the best at the time, but…” He shook his head at the ground. “That’s no excuse. You deserved an explanation and a proper goodbye. You always gave one — but the once.” He chanced a glance at Tav. Her face might have been carved from wisteria marble. Cursing himself for the mess he was making of what should have been a simple admission of guilt, Zevlor fell back on the one feeble restitution he had: “I have your sword. I’ve kept it in … well, relatively good condition. I’ve meant to return it. I - I’ll get it for you.”

But he had not taken more than two cautious steps around the vegetable minefield when a wall of cool, unyielding mail hit his chest with enough force to knock him back against the kitchen table.

“Oh gods, it’s you. It is you. It’s really you,” Tav repeated in a voice as unsteady as Zevlor’s hands — currently trapped at his sides by her arms wrapped around him so tight he could feel every dip and groove of her armor. “I’m sorry, but I had to check. Gods, I was terrified �� I thought she’d found you first,” and if her words meant nothing to Zevlor, the way she breathed them against his robe's high collar seemed to indicate she was not unhappy with him, which was all that mattered right now.

He had only seconds, however, to savour the relief of this realisation, and the warmth of Tav’s lips tantalisingly close to the skin of his throat, before she was pulling away, pelting him with rapid-fire questions as she anxiously inspected his face.

“But where did you go? I looked for you on the road and in the camps and couldn’t find anyone who’d seen you, I’ve been so worried. When did you get here?”

“Just a few days ago,” Zevlor managed to insert into her quick inhale before Tav was plunging on.

“And you've already joined the temple of Ilmater?”

“Not joined exactly, no. But the acting rector, Sister Yannis, has been kind enough to allow me to stay and help their order. They’re short-handed at present.”

“I suppose they would be after what happened. Oh, thank every god you weren’t here for all that!” Tav’s eyes darted towards the trapdoor, and a violent shudder rattled her armor. She touched Zevlor’s arm again as if reassuring herself he was still there, then drew a deep breath and continued, “But I’m glad the temple’s helping people again. I didn’t realise they’d been allowed.”

“Yes, well,” — the feel of her nails absently grazing his skin through the thin sleeve of his robe turned Zevlor’s head giddy and light — “I hear you’re to thank for that. Or, as the Sister put it, that lovely horned lass — I assumed you were who she meant.”

Tav laughed: an eruption of mirth far beyond what his weak, delirious flirtation deserved, and with a stale note threaded through it, that made Zevlor think it might have been some time since she'd last attempted the sound. He understood. He felt almost capable of smiling himself. For one sunlit moment, the past and every awful thing in it was a distant fever dream, dissipating in the light of Tav’s merry face beaming up at him and the bright, unbelievable joy of being together in Baldur’s Gate.

Then a door on the other side of the kitchen opened, and reality fell across them like a shadow.

“Ilmater’s patience, what’s happened? What’s all this?”

Alfira groans in abject disappointment and slumps back in her seat.

“It might have been worse,” Zevlor says, purposefully misinterpreting this display. “Nearly all the food was salvageable, and it was Brother Donnick who entered — he was the younger and more kindly of the temple’s two half-elves and, coincidentally, the one most fond of discussing Rivington’s resident heroes. So, he was thrilled to see Tav, and willing to forgive her any small sins such as distracting the temple’s kitchen hands before the supper rush. And, of course, when Tav discovered this , and the queue already lined up outside, and offered to stay and help,” — the over-invested bard makes a noise of approval and wriggles back up in her chair; Zevlor ignores this as well — “he was elated. Perhaps, the only one who was.”

Alfira’s excitement freezes on her face.

“Wait. You mean you weren’t?”

“Absolutely not. Saving peoples’ lives is one thing, but I draw the line at charitable good works.”

“Tav, you know I’d rather stay and help, but we really are pressed for time.”

“Then go,” was Tav’s answer to her companions’ protests, removing her fingerless gloves at them deliberately. “Drop Dribbles off at the circus on your way back to camp, then you can get started on whatever lengthy ablutions gentlemen need to prepare for posh events, and I’ll take my turn when I’m finished here.”

“Yes, that’s all very well for us, but what about you, Miss Nobody-Goes-Anywhere-Alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tav assured the petulant elf, throwing a glowing look at Zevlor. “I’m not alone.”

And Zevlor’s stomach roiled in delight and disquiet…

…which unlikely cocktail continued to ferment within him over the next few hours; prompting Brother Donnick to comment more than once on how ill he looked and wouldn’t he rather go have a quiet lie-down. Zevlor ought to have agreed; removed himself entirely from temptation. He did not think his will strong enough at present to resist further persuasions on Tav’s part to join her camp — the reason he assumed she had stayed — but nor could he bear to leave. His heart felt lighter, his hands steadier than they'd been since he arrived, at the familiar sight of her making the rounds through the refugees crowding the refectory, extending smiles and encouragements along with bowls of soup and mugs of mead. Better sense could not rip his eyes from her. Its only hope was time. By the stories told of her, and her companions’ complaints, it was obvious Tav had a world of more important things awaiting her attention. She surely could not put them off for long.

But the sunset peeking through the high, small windows and the gaps in the ceiling faded slowly to black, the soup ran out, and the sated refugees migrated from the temple in clumps and swathes, until only a handful of bodies lingered at tables nursing dregs of mead. And still Tav wandered among them, collecting dishes and carting them to the kitchen in careful stacks. It was on her way back from one of these trips she finally paused to catch Zevlor’s eyes. He dropped his at once to the rag he was running over an empty table, but he could already hear the telltale padding of her boots across the temple’s smooth stone. The table shifted under his hand as she leaned against it.

“You know, I must admit: this is not what I pictured you doing in Baldur’s Gate.”

Tav’s low murmur near his ear — and the thought of her picturing him doing anything at all — sent a frisson of pleasure singing down Zevlor’s spine. His tail strained against his robe, not made for tieflings, and the question was out of his mouth before he could think twice:

“What had you pictured?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly.” Her nails tapped a thoughtful rhythm into the wood. “Combat training for the Watch, maybe? Knocking some order into the Flaming Fist? Or maybe I’m just not used to seeing you out of your armor.”

Her fingers stilled abruptly on the table, as if this last remark surprised even her. As Zevlor lifted his gaze, Tav swung hers over her shoulder, towards the pool at the temple’s centre. She spent a few seconds in presumed appreciation of its holy aesthetic before turning back, a flush the colour of thunderstorms still on her cheeks.

“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s worthwhile work. I wish I had more time for things like this — actually helping people, not just killing things. I just wouldn’t have thought you” — she met Zevlor’s eyes — “would enjoy a … quiet, temple life.”

Zevlor let the rag he was passing mindlessly across the tabletop rest. He glanced around. Brother Donnick was still in the kitchen and Brother Bill hovering near the temple’s entrance, clearing his throat pointedly at the last refugee to remain seated. Zevlor lowered his voice, nevertheless.

“To be honest, of the Triad, the Crying God was never the one I gave the most obeisance. There are no paladins of Ilmater. His followers abide by a strictly passive creed: forgiveness and mercy to all, even the worst of criminals, the cruellest of enemies. Never tenents that sat well with me.”

“So, this isn’t what you originally intended to do when you got to the city, then?”

“None of this is what I intended,” Zevlor admitted. Tav’s tail perked up behind her. He grimaced — the pain of disappointing her a twisted knife in his gut — and finished, “But I believe it is the best place for me now.”

Tav opened her mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. With the room lit only by scattered tallow candles and the moonlight spilling from the holes overhead, Zevlor could not interpret her expression, but her tail drooped sadly. Her eyes wandered to the next table over. A mug, several bowls and a few spoons lay scattered across it. A jerk of her head towards them and a perfunctory twitch of her lips at Zevlor evidenced Tav’s intention; then, she was walking away. As she approached the other table, she passed through a pool of moonlight, and Zevlor was viscerally reminded of their last night in the forest together: the tentative plans he had dreamed up when he had been a more worthy person; when the possibility of a new life, perhaps even better than the one he had lost, had seemed within his grasp.

Melancholy filled Zevlor's veins. He felt like a battered cask of soured wine as he returned to the table and the rag, abruptly aware of the renewed trembling of his fingers, the sting at the base of his tail where stiff cloth rubbed sensitive skin. He bent his aching back to wipe down the chairs, suppressing his grimace when he heard Tav's footsteps padding back.

“You know,” she said, her voice higher-pitched than usual in her effort to sound light and off-hand, “my offer’s still good. You’re always welcome to join our camp. If you prefer to remain a pacifist now, we’ve got plenty of this sort of work that needs doing, too. We’ve collected so many new people, we’re overrun with chores — I don’t know how you always kept your camp so organised. I could certainly use an expert.”

Zevlor did his best to imitate Tav’s teasing tone —“You wouldn't want the help of an old, unreliable traitor,” — but even he could hear the bitterness that leaked through.

“Not especially, no,” she replied, her own sangfroid cracking. “I was thinking more the help of an experienced leader and a paladin.”

“I am neither of those things anymore.”

“Fine, then. A friend.”

The rag slipped between Zevlor’s suddenly quaking fingers. He snatched for it, hit a leg of the table instead, and the stack of dishes Tav had perched there while she talked toppled to the floor. The resultant clatter resonated through the temple like sparring swords on shields. Wincing at the noise, the humiliation, the strain on his aching bones as he got to his knees, Zevlor reached for the mug, and nearly knocked horns with Tav who had also stooped to help clean up. By the time they were both upright and the dishes — blessedly unbroken — spirited safely off to the kitchen by an indignantly muttering Brother Bill, Zevlor’s face was a bonfire of shame and frustration, but his voice was stronger, his resolve more firm than either had been since Tav arrived.

“Even if my will could be trusted, my body could not,” he told her. “I can barely hold a pen anymore, let alone a bow or a sword. You need allies you can rely on, with skills that will further your cause. You deserve—”

But what Tav deserved died on Zevlor's lips as she grabbed one of his trembling hands in hers. She brought it close to her face, examining it like a piece of faulty weaponry; apparently, unable to feel his racing pulse.

“Doesn’t this place have a healer?” she asked.

“Yes,” Zevlor managed after a few false starts, “but it isn’t Ilmater’s will to heal this affliction. Or so says Sister Yannis.” Tav raised an eyebrow at him; it matched the ironic twist of Zevlor’s lips. “She recommends reducing stress and maintaining a restful state of mind.”

Tav snorted biting laughter from her nose like dragonfire.

“Well, good thing the world’s not ending all around us, then.”

She dropped his hand but held his gaze; hers melting from sarcastic to thoughtful as she inspected Zevlor's face. He averted his eyes from her familiar intent, almost reverent stare; he would not let it derail him. At last, he heard her exhale — a slow, resigned sigh — and say more softly, “Zevlor, I’m not a healer, but … this last year … everything you’ve been through … I really do think it would be more concerning if you weren’t showing some signs of strain. You’ve endured enough to drive a lesser person mad. Maybe staying out of the fray for a bit isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe this is the right place for you. For now.”

Zevlor blinked, unseated. He had steeled himself for a verbal spar — more of Tav’s infuriatingly reasonable persuasions or inarguable rhetoric, not a meek concession. And certainly not for what she threw at him next:

"But, you wouldn't happen to know anything useful about fighting vampires?”

“Vampires,” Zevlor repeated, positive he had misheard, but—

“Vampires,” Tav confirmed. “I’m planning a … well, a siege, I suppose, or an invasion, of a vampire lord’s lair. You mentioned Elturel’s history with them in passing once. I know it was before your time, but I thought you might have some ideas for me. Something that could help me plan.”

Zevlor’s brain was slow to adjust to this new, entirely unforeseen track.

“What do vampires have to do with the Cult of the Absolute?” he asked.

Tav’s smile was small, but no less triumphant for it.

“That's a story best told over a drink.”

“Before you ask,” Zevlor interjects into his own reminiscence, “the drink was tea and the talk was purely business, with Brother Donnick as audience and chaperone. So, that’s all it was.”

“Oh for…” Alfira’s exclamation trails into an indignant huff. She grabs her tankard, swigs down ale, and stops just short of slamming it back to the table; then decides: “Lakrissa’s not far wrong about you two. I never imagined it took this long! And, for the record,” she adds with uncharacteristic venom, “I think you were being incredibly stupid. There was absolutely no good reason for you not to go with Tav. It was pure stubbornness.”

Zevlor regards his own dwindling ale supply with a sort of sheepish gloom.

“I won’t argue,” he says. “But I will warn you: that’s going to get worse before it gets any better.”

Alfira’s ochre eyes narrow.

“What is ‘worse’?”

The very question that kept Zevlor from sleep after Tav had finally left, with the ominous promise to him and a delighted Brother Donnick to return and help with the temple’s supper again the next chance she had. And what was worse: to see her, or not to see her? To tease his resolve with more encounters like this, or cut himself off from Tav completely?

Zevlor lifted his neck, snaked a hand behind his horns to unfasten his hair, then let his head fall back against the stacked pillows, and ran his calloused fingers across the fraying edges of the small, embroidered band. Tav’s — which, like her sword, she had given him without hesitation and had never asked him to return. It was her signature, her greatest gift and her fatal flaw, and what he loved most about her, he decided there in the honest dark: the way she gave of herself unreservedly to every lost and pointless cause. He clenched an impotent fist around her band. What wouldn’t he give to have anything to give her... But he was less than useless to Tav now. And which was crueller: to let himself drain even more of her time and resources and affection knowing he had absolutely nothing worthwhile to offer her in return, or end the companionship Tav clearly hoped to rekindle in one quick, if painful, stroke…

The night passed fitful and fruitless, and Zevlor still had no answer by the time he dragged himself from his bunk. But with a bit of luck, he decided as he slogged sleepily through the day’s chores, he would not have to choose anytime soon. Yesterday had surely been a once-off. Tav had the demands of a whole city on her shoulders. Whatever she promised, she couldn’t possibly carve out hours of her time to volunteer at Ilmater’s temple every day.

Had he been less exhausted, Zevlor might have remembered the goddess of luck had rarely been on his side.

The kitchen door swung open. The clatter and chatter of a supper in full swing drifted in from the refectory, then faded as the door was closed, replaced by the clicking of unfamiliar shoes. Zevlor took a moment to finish his painstaking ladling of soup into bowls before looking up — and was very glad he’d done so in that order. The spasm of white-hot shock, excitement, consternation, and pure, primal arousal that rattled from the base of his horns to the tip of his trapped tail would have capsized the entire laden tray.

Tav was almost unrecognisable. Almost. Beneath the upswept knot of sleek, raven hair and the colourful paints shading her lips and cheeks were cobalt eyes Zevlor would know anywhere; and parting the heavy length of embroidered purple velvet clinging to her frame were the bare, wisteria legs he had seen once before and would never forget. She swept past him on silver sandals whose ties crawled up her calves, unfastened a small reticule of matching embroidery from her skirt and deposited it on the kitchen’s scrubbed wood table, then turned and met Zevlor’s eyes. For one second of extraordinary hubris, he wondered if he was the reason for this glamorous transformation. But—

“Bloody Gortash’s coronation,” Tav grumbled as she slid the tray of bowls from under Zevlor’s shaking hands and marched for the door again in a cloud of heady perfume.

The full tale, however, had to wait until supper was finished and Tav settled in the kitchen helping Zevlor take his turn at the washing up. He did his very best to listen as she spoke. But even with the washbasin, then the table piled with dishes to be dried, kept safely between them, the sight of Tav’s bare legs — close enough he could make out the delicate pattern of infernal ridges decorating her knees and the exposed jut of her hips — had unlinked some important chain in Zevlor’s brain. His dilemma of the day was a distant, foreign land; Tav’s words, too, reached his ears as if from far away. By the end of her story, the only bits he had retained were that she and a few of her companions had attended the coronation of Baldur’s Gate’s first Archduke, and that among the man’s many, many hidden crimes was landing Karlach — Tav’s other tiefling friend — in Avernus.

“It took Wyll and I both to hold her back,” Tav concluded. “Literally. We took an arm each and dragged her out. And you’ve seen her — even in sensible shoes, that’s no easy task. I felt bad, but, honestly, there was no chance of us winning a fight. We’d no weapons, there were at least two of those Steel Watch monsters in the room, plus more at the exits. Not to mention the regular guard and a whole crowd of civilians.”

She added another bowl to her clean, dried stack and paused for Zevlor’s verdict.

“That’s good,” he murmured vaguely, eyes still on Tav’s lips — he did not know the name of the deep shade of red they were painted, but had grown to appreciate it over the last hour, nonetheless. Then her silence, and the words proceeding it, caught up to him. He cleared his throat roughly and corrected, “Good of you to keep her from causing an incident.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one upside to all this.” Tav gestured down her dress with the drying rag, drops of water marring the deep, plum velvet. “I don’t know that we could have kept her punching his smug face in if she weren’t ‘trussed up in a posh straitjacket’ as she put it.”

Her chirp of laughter did intriguing things to the bodice of her gown as she scooped up the stack of bowls and carried them across the kitchen to the open cupboard. Zevlor paused in drying a tin spoon to watch her walk away. His eyes wandered instinctively south of her swaying tail before darting back up, a rogue thought occurring.

“You must have had this commissioned,” he said out loud. “The dress.”

“What?” Tav stopped, bowls balanced in her arms, and glanced down, as if to check what she was wearing. “No, it’s ready-to-wear. Astarion picked it all out from a shop in town and did everyone’s alterations. Except the fitting for my tail. I did that myself. I’m getting rather good.” She gave a little proud half-twirl, demonstrating her tail’s range of motion — and introducing Zevlor to the backs of her thighs — then returned to the cupboard. “Mind you,” she said over her shoulder, “it cost nearly as much as bespoke, all told. Cleaned us out of almost half of everything I’ve saved.”

The silver laces of her sandals clung to her calves as Tav stretched to push bowls onto the topmost shelf. Zevlor’s fingers itched with envy. Something gave beneath them, and he looked down to find the tin spoon in his hand slightly bent. He set it aside in bemusement, picked up another and kept his eyes fixed firmly upon it as he remarked wryly, “I had no idea being a hero paid so well.”

“Better than you might think.” There was a hint of a smile in Tav’s voice. “But most of our current good fortune comes courtesy of one Arfur of Rivington. He graciously donated his entire estate, including his not insignificant coffers, to our cause soon after we arrived. I’m actually thinking of setting his house up as a sort of inn for refugees with families, get some of the children out of the tents before the cold comes. If I ever have a few days to work up a proper plan. In the meantime” — Zevlor heard more of the swish of her skirts and the click of her sandals heralding her return than he did of Tav’s words —“I like to think we’ve put his gold to better use, new clothes notwithstanding. Although…”

Her sudden hush ought to have been his first warning, but there was a fog around Zevlor’s mind. The only thing it felt currently worthy of note was that Tav’s body waited somewhere close behind him. It urged his eyes to find her. He fought them. Then the sound of her shoes resumed.

“I don’t know that you can really put a price on clothes that fit properly,” Tav continued, and the strange undercurrent to her casual prattle was Zevlor’s second unheeded sign. “It’s more a necessity than a luxury, especially for tieflings. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he agreed absently, unwittingly sealing his fate.

“Good. Glad that’s settled then.”

Reason told Zevlor there was something strange about this response. But reason had been demoted to his brain’s reserve ranks; its frontline focused solely on following Tav's movements without looking up. She stood beside him now. He could smell the clean scent of her hair underneath the perfume, feel the soft velvet of her dress brush his arm as she reached for something on the table’s far side. Unidentifiable rattles and clinks won his eyes. He glanced at her hands. She was rifling through her embroidered reticule, producing a series of random objects: a miniature pair of scissors, a minute spool of purple thread, a folded patch of leather with what looked like two silver needles stuck through. And even were his mental faculties at full strength, it might still have taken Zevlor, untrained in any tailoring arts, a minute to interpret their purpose. As things stood, he was lost.

“Turn around,” Tav instructed.

Zevlor’s bewildered gaze climbed to her face. Cobalt excitement twinkled in her eyes, and triumph twitched playfully across her deep-red and enticing lips.

“Go on. Turn.” She illustrated the motion with a finger in case he’d forgotten how. “It won’t take long.”

“What won’t take long?” Zevlor croaked even as he shuffled obediently in place — his throat was strangely dry, his heart pounding; his body aware of what was about to happen before his brain could put it into words.

“Just a necessity.”

A split second of breathless anticipation passed. Then Tav’s shoes clicked forward once, her skirts swished as she sank to her knees, and Zevlor understood her intention at the same time he felt her warm hand just above the base of his tail…

“She didn’t!”

“She did.”

“But … she had to know what she was doing? She has a tail! She knows what that feels like!”

“Well, you must remember, Tav hadn’t known many tieflings. Knowledge you and I think of as implicit was still largely foreign to her then. She didn’t realise that can feel so...”

Stimulating. Agonising. An impossible marriage of bliss and torture. Tav’s fingers were quick, purposeful, careful not to linger as she measured out the hole she planned to cut. But Zevlor could not remember the last time such sensitive parts of him had been so gently touched. It was going to break him.

“Tav…” His voice was just shy of an open groan, his eyes on the verge of rolling back. “This is … this isn’t—”

“Zevlor, please.” And his name in Tav’s pleading voice made his already pressing problem impossibly harder. “You can’t keep this up. I could see it yesterday. It’s agony having your tail trapped like this, I know, and certainly not conducive to a restful mental state. And, really, it won’t take long at all, I swear. Like I said, I’m quite good at it now.”

No doubt Tav meant her dulcet babble to distract him from what she read as discomfort. She kept up a steady stream of it over minutes that dragged on like years, but her words might have been a different language for all Zevlor understood of them.

Fire blazed in his blood and pooled in his core; and when she parted the split fabric to let his tail spring through and her bare hand brushed his exposed skin, he was positive it would burn him both alive. How Tav did not feel it was beyond him. She was already stitching fabric back together beneath his tail, neglecting the placement of her hands in her haste, and even through a layer of starched cloth, ripples of molten pleasure coursed through him at every accidental touch. Zevlor gritted his sharp teeth against it. He tasted blood on his tongue. He let the pain ground him. He squeezed his eyes shut and sent up a slew of silent prayers to every god he’d ever known: Torm for strength, Tyr for courage, Ilmater for forbearance…

The rest of the ordeal passed in a blur. Afterwards, Zevlor wasn’t sure how he survived it; or how it had ended exactly, except that it definitely wasn’t how his imagination wanted: on his knees at Tav’s silver-lined feet, lips worshipping the flawless skin of her legs between entreaties for her to touch every other unworthy part of him, to fix everything else in his body that ached. Instead, he had a hazy impression of Tav’s satisfied smile, fading as she peered into his face, asking him if he felt ill. He thought he might have agreed. He hoped he’d said something in the way of thanks or at least farewell before fleeing, but couldn’t be sure. His next clear memory came as he lay, panting and spent, above blankets, his newly altered robes sticky and stained and his horns caught in the posts of his bunk, mortified at his lack of control and hoping against all hope Tav had left the temple before he’d cried her name.

It was another long night of wretched introspection. By the end of it, Zevlor’s body and soul felt as wrecked as if he’d done pitched battle. And looked it, too, if Sister Yannis’ reaction when he reported to the refectory for morning chores was an accurate mirror. Her wrinkled face erupted into worried lines. She had him crouch where she could feel his forehead, declared him fevered, and sent him straight back to the infirmary to rest — which suited Zevlor fine.

Because he knew his mission, now; and knew he was too weak to execute it without resorting to low tactics. But any soldier who thought warfare always honourable had never truly fought for their lives or the lives of those they loved. And Zevlor refused to let Tav waste any more of hers on him, whatever it cost him, whatever it took...

...be it a fever, or a pretense of one, that lasted that day into the next, and a request of Sister Yannis to inform any guests who might ask after him he was not to be disturbed; then, when he could not lie still a day longer, a strategic retreat outdoors, where he spent all waking hours — including the supper ones — at groundskeeping and where he had could watch Rivington's main road, and hide himself away again whenever he spied any dark-haired, blue-eyed tieflings headed the temple's way.

It pained him — a slow, sharp, nauseating throb, like a stab to the gut, and one that did not heal even as the days passed and Zevlor’s sightings of Tav became infrequent, then stopped altogether. Anxiety only built in the absence of these fleeting glimpses, like infection over an untreated wound. It was Brother Dannis, who followed accounts of Tav and her companions almost as religiously as the god he served, who eventually explained: Rivington’s resident heroes had moved house. Though they’d left some behind to maintain their camp, Tav and most of her companions had secured rooms in the lower city where the work was largely based place. And while this knowledge eased some of Zevlor’s worry after Tav’s wellbeing, it brought him no real peace. He wondered bleakly if anything ever would; if time would teach him to accept this tense, joyless, but necessary existence with better grace.

It did not. But it did bring, a tenday later, the 101st issue of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette.

“I remember that!” gasps Alfira, clapping a hand to her face — the first time her quill has stilled in full minutes. “I couldn’t believe it when I read it! I mean quite literally, I didn’t believe one word, but it was awful all the same. I thought she must have pissed off Estra Stir, or—”

“Enver Gortash,” Zevlor growls. “Retaliation for destroying his Steel Watch.”

“Ohh…” Comprehension blooms in Alfira’s voice. “I never put those two together … but that makes sense! Everyone just - just turned on her. Alan couldn’t even let her in the Elfsong that day, afraid of what it would do for business. She had to leave her friends and go back to their camp in Rivington. All of it sort of died away on its own after that final fight, but it was scary there for a while. I remember I was so upset people would think those things about her after all she'd done!”

Zevlor considers the beginning of that most pivotal day in his head: Brother Donnick, who’d hero-worshipped Tav for so long, quoting the article incessantly at him until he’d lost the run of himself and punched the half-elf in the jaw.

“So was I.”

He was exiled to groundswork again after that. Hardly a punishment — Zevlor was glad for an excuse to vent some of his righteous anger at something, even if it was only the temple’s tenacious vines.

The baseless accusations, the outright lies, the unfair and unexpected turning of an entire populace on those who had saved them… the parallels with Elturel disturbed him. And the thought of Tav out there, somewhere in the city, enduring the same injustices he had suffered shook Zevlor to his core. He tore bare-handed at the brambles climbing the idol of Ilmater guarding the temple’s front, hardly aware of their prickling thorns; hardly aware of anything — the dip of the sun into shadow, the evening breeze rippling the back of his hair, the slurry of footsteps and shouting from the street below him — until he heard a familiar whistle of air.

Zevlor ducked without thinking. Tall weeds and torn brambles hit his face. He disregarded them, his senses strained for signs of further projectiles. But all that came was a sickening splat, followed by a swell of hateful laughter. He pushed to his feet, hackles raised, and searched the buildings opposite, then the street below for evidence of attack…

…and found a nightmare come to life: Tav — slumped in the dirt at the centre of a jeering mob, one hand pressed to the side of her head, a river of bright red running through her fingers.

Panic wiped all thought from Zevlor’s mind. He was a creature of action and instinct. He leapt the temple railing, landed on his feet, and was running flat out down the road in the space of seconds, knocking gawkers and catcallers from his path. A strain in his throat, and the turn of startled heads, told him he was yelling, but whether it was words or a simple roar of rage he did not stop to discover. His unrestrained tail whipped shrieking faces and evaded grabbing hands as he pushed and shoved his way to the centre of the crowd.

Tav was still on the ground. She had struggled to her knees, but froze at the sight of Zevlor. A sign her wound would likely keep until they reached safety, he recognised, even if the red oozing down her cheek and into her gaping mouth made his stomach cramp. He forced it down. There would be time to assess the damage later. The next step was getting Tav away from danger.

He crouched at her side.

“Can you walk?” he asked, and, at her nod, threaded an arm under hers and slid her weight onto his shoulder to hoist her to her feet.

“And there’s another one!” called a harsh voice over the rabble's raucous din. “All these bleedin’ foulbloods, that’s where it all comes from! The Archduke should have ‘em—”

“Enough!” Zevlor’s bark was the sort to call down silence on a trained brigade. It stopped the grey-haired human mid-word, and cast an uneasy hush over his audience’s cheers. Faces flicked from curling horns to fiery pupils engulfed in infernal black sclera, and, for once, Zevlor was glad to watch their eyes all shift nervously away. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!" he snarled at them, letting his tail lash threateningly behind him for good measure. “Every person in this damned city owes this woman their lives. Now, get out of the way!”

He took one, unassailable step forward, and the mob all around broke ranks. His slower trek back up the road towards the temple, half-dragging, half-supporting Tav, went uncontested — by any of the hastily retreating bystanders. Tav herself maintained a litany of murmured protests all the time Zevlor limped her up the stone steps and into the refectory’s sheltered shade. He ignored her: easy enough to do while they walked. On reaching the infirmary and transferring Tav into the nearest wooden chair, however, she twisted in his arms and gripped his face in both hands, demanding his eyes.

“Zevlor.” She said his name like a reveille: loud and distinct. “Zevlor, I’m not hurt. I’m fine. Look,” and released one hand to run a finger through the red stain clotting on her cheek, then popped it into her mouth before announcing: “Tomato.”

In the quiet that echoed after the word, Zevlor realised he was panting. Hard. He inhaled, trying to force his lungs to accept air and his brain this new, important fact. Blood still pumping in his ears, he scanned Tav for other injuries they might both have missed and found only dirty scuffs on the knees of her armor and what was clearly, now he was looking properly, seedy pulp dripping down her neck.

She brushed a blob of this to the threadbare rug and prompted, “You could still fetch me a towel?”

A concrete task. Zevlor’s brain re-engaged, and he set off for a familiar cupboard, returning with two of the infirmary’s least ragged many-purpose cloths. Rather than placing them in Tav’s outstretched hand, however, he dragged another of the fireside chairs closer to her, sat, and, adrenaline still animating his limbs, mopped the mess from her shoulder himself. He caught the subtle widening of her eyes, but kept his own on her sticky armour; then the stained skin of her throat as his cloth climbed.

After a few laden seconds in which he could hear only his heartbeat, Tav ventured cautiously, “Are… are you alright?”

This question had far too many layers for Zevlor to consider them all right now. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say. What came out was a gruff accusation.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be going anywhere alone?”

Tav’s face crinkled, tomato juice diverting into laugh lines, as she chuffed mirthlessly.

“I appreciate your concern, but that danger has mostly passed. Orin’s gone underground since we ended the murder tribunal — there’s been no signs of assassins or shapeshifters for days. And now Gortash’s toy soldiers are broken, the streets are relatively safe.”

“And the angry mobs?”

“Have tomatoes.” When this failed to ease any of Zevlor's pinched grimace, she sighed. “And they're nothing I can't deal with. Actually, I’m an old hand at this part — the name-calling and fruit-flinging and the torches-and-pitchfork brigade. It happens everywhere I go. I’m used to it by now. It really doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Zevlor snapped, throwing down the sodden, red-stained rag. It took a supreme effort of will to rein in his simmering anger — but he could hardly take out on Tav fury he felt on her behalf. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, then repeated, “It matters,” with more restraint, “because it's wrong. You've done nothing to deserve this.” He began pulling slimes of tomato peel from Tav’s tangle of gathered hair, flinging them to the floor with disgust. “Not one of those people would be alive if it weren’t for you. For them to treat you like that is beyond shameful. And none of that mindless rabble would have dared face you on their own. Cowards, every one!

“What?” he interrupted himself, his hand stilling against Tav’s ear, as a smile — a genuine smile — glowed across her face.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head — very slightly so as not to dislodge his hand. “It’s just…” She raised one of her own and laid it tentatively on his. “Your hands. They’re quite steady now,” she explained.

It took a moment for Zevlor to understand, then to understand Tav was right. His eyes flicked from her smile to his hand. There was the knot of veins he knew well, the callouses and thorn-pricks to be expected, the long nails that needed cutting, dirt ground underneath. But it was so still and secure in itself, it might have belonged to someone else. And with Tav’s pale, stained fingers resting lightly atop it, Zevlor thought of the man’s it might have been: the one who had not failed his people, had not let them die, but led them here; who had crafted a life in Baldur’s Gate he could have been proud of; who had something to share with the woman holding her breath before him, waiting on him to speak.

Zevlor wet his lips, but no words came. Whatever temporary reprieve adrenaline may have allowed his better sense — and, apparently, his tremors — nothing of substance had changed. He still had nothing to offer Tav. And it would be an injustice worse than one tomato to let either of them forget it.

He slid his hand from under hers, all his righteous rage deflating. And with it, any idea of what to say next. Yet even from this, Tav rescued him. Her chair whispered across the rug as she stood and pushed it back.

“I should … get going,” she said, sounding suddenly terribly weary. “Thank you for your help. It was … I…”

She trailed away, abandoning the thought in favour of a last look at Zevlor, eyes full of some deep cobalt emotion he could not translate. Then, she turned for the infirmary door. But the thought of her traversing Rivington’s hostile streets, alone and distracted by exhaustion, was too much for Zevlor to bear. And it occurred to him in a last, purposeful surge, he did, in fact, have one thing to offer her the rest of Baldur’s Gate currently would not.

“Wait,” he called, rising from his chair and ignoring the chiding of his better sense. “Let me walk you to your camp. You’ll need someone watching your back.”

It was a short, uneventful, uncommunicative journey. Zevlor led Tav out one of the temple’s side-doors, through the iron gates into the adjacent grounds co-opted by the Circus of the Last Days, then along Rivington's fringes and into its low foothills where Tav and her companions had re-appropriated a ruined farm for their base camp. Lights flickered between the boarded windows of the few derelict buildings, and the fence showed signs of recent repair, but Zevlor still recognised the tops of colourful scrap-fabric tents spread across the low-cut grass. He thought of the last time he’d seen them with a wistful pang.

“I’d ask you to stay a bit,” said Tav, speaking for the first time since they’d left the temple. “Eat with us or something, but ... I assume you have things to attend to. You’ve been so busy lately. You never have time to see me when I stop by.”

It was a statement of fact, but she put it to him like a question, a plea to understand. And Zevlor found he, too, was desperate for a cleaner air between them. He turned to face her fully.

“Why do you come to the temple?” he asked.

“To see you,” she admitted, unabashed.

“What are you hoping to see?”

This question seemed to stymy Tav. She cocked her head, regarding Zevlor in confusion for a moment. Then said simply, “You. Just … you. I like seeing you.” And, when this answer furrowed Zevlor's brow, burst with unexpected passion: “Zevlor, I like you! How is that not obvious?! I like talking with you, being with you! Getting to see you is what I look forward to the most about every day!”

Tav’s face contorted, her tail twisting in knots behind her, in earnest entreaty for Zevlor to understand.

“You make me think and make me laugh and - and hope and make me feel better about everything that’s happening, all of this… mess.” She waved her hands frantically at the world around them. “Every single day is harder than the last one right now, and I’m trying very hard to put a brave face on it for everyone else and not complain, but, honestly, sometimes I feel I might drown in all the things, all the people, I’m responsible for. And at the end of the day, just seeing you, even just for a minute … it makes me feel like I can take whatever fate throws at me next.”

Her storm of vehemence abated as abruptly as it had begun. Tav’s arms collapsed, her tail fell limply to her ankles. She took a shaky breath, teeth worrying at the corner of her lip, before saying, more softly, “But the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable or … or bother you. If you don’t want me to come by the temple anymore, I’ll stop. Only… wasn’t I supposed to look you up when I got here?” she added with self-conscious humour, wrapping her arms around herself, presumably to stave off the cool evening breeze. "Didn't ... didn’t you say I had family at the Gate?”

“That was … before.” Zevlor shook his head, less in any disagreement than in sheer wonder at the confession his brain was still struggling to absorb. “I had planned … mrag, I don’t know what I planned,” he groaned explosively, running both hands over his face. It burned, like his wounded pride. But Tav's raw honesty had unlocked his. He spoke, fast and thoughtless, into his hands. "Before meeting you, I don’t think my plans ever made it as far as Baldur’s Gate. I had hopes for the others, but none for myself. All that mattered was getting them here. And then… you….” He looked up as he said it: even sticky and red-stained and smelling strongly of tomato, Tav was still every bit the picture of divine aid she had been when he’d first seen her, perhaps even more so now. “You appeared. You saved us all. You saved me. And for the first time, I truly believed I might make it here and accomplish something worthwhile. Perhaps even have something to offer you when you arrived. But nothing has gone the way I wanted. I have less than before. I am less now. I’m not just oathbroken and exiled, I’m a traitor” — he spat the word from his mouth like a curse, voice rising — “who led my own people to their deaths! They would revile you for associating with me. I have nothing for you! I—”

“But I don’t need anything from you!" And Tav’s in contrast was little more than a fragile whisper, poured directly from her lips onto Zevlor's as she closed the space between them, her fingers inching delicately up his clenched jaw. “I don't need you to give me anything! The only thing I ever wanted from you was you. I didn’t love you on potential or because of what I thought you might accomplish or become, I fell in love with you exactly as you were when I met you. As you are right now.”

From somewhere around them, distantly familiar voices called, but Zevlor could not guess at directions or names.

“Why?”

The word left him in a weightless murmur. Tav would not have heard it, nor Zevlor her response — “So many reasons,” — were her mouth not already pressed to his. He felt her thumbs stroking the ridges of his cheeks, but nothing else. Which did not concern him unduly. This was surely a dream. Tav’s words, her love, -�� gentle, un-demanding kiss, did not belong to the hell that was this world, but some heaven Zevlor no longer deserved. And if it was a dream, there was no harm in enjoying it. He could let his own lips reply. He could revel in the taste of her: clean and refreshing as cool water, with a hint of tomato that did not matter; like it did not matter that it had been so long since he had done this, he’d almost forgotten how; or that there were footsteps perilously close by and a voice he knew calling Tav’s name—

“Tav, is that — oh!”

Then her lips were gone, replaced by cold, empty air. Zevlor blinked, his eyes adjusting to a dark that felt blinding to his bleary eyes.

“Just-just a minute, Wyll. I’ll be there in-in just a minute,” came Tav’s breathless voice, and a succession of noises — murmured voices, a stifled laugh, a thwack of a hand hitting leather, a yelp, footsteps tromping swiftly away through grass — punctured the dream-like bubble cushioning Zevlor’s mind…

…and he was panting, inches from Tav as they stood huddled together at the entrance to her camp, three figures retreating back inside its fence; one, the Blade of Frontiers, threw Zevlor what looked like an apologetic grin before shutting the gate behind him with a click. A quick assessment of the last minutes informed Zevlor he had, in fact, kissed Tav, or let her kiss him, and it had been interrupted by what looked like half her camp. Before fear or reason or better sense or mortification or anything else could take hold of him, however, Tav was there to save him from them all.

“Look,” she murmured, speaking into Zevlor's face again, if not quite as intimately close as before, “this isn’t exactly how I hoped things would be in Baldur’s Gate either, but… they won’t be this way forever, will they? I mean, the world can’t be ending forever. Things will get better. We'll get better. And we don’t have to make any important decisions now. We can take things slow. We have plenty of time.”

Her words vibrated with the same nerve-soothing, spirit-bolstering note Zevlor remembered from so many occasions. As always, it ignited hope. And, abandoning his reason, he clung to it. Reason might lead him astray, he decided, but Tav would not.

“Meanwhile..." Tav's eyes, the only light in the darkness, fluttered to his lips again as she asked, “May I keep coming by the temple? To see you?” and Zevlor's own low voice rang with surprising conviction as he promised her, “Anything you want.”

The return journey — or what little of it Zevlor accomplished — went by in a daze. His body felt buoyant, unburdened. His back and knees barely existed at all, let alone offered any complaint. The pinprick lights of the city in the distance guided his feet to Rivington’s main road, and he had just stepped onto it, amused at the spring in his own step, when a voice drifted towards him from behind; very like Tav’s, only —

“Oh, and Zevlor? One last thing…”

— only there was something indefinably off about it. And about the cobalt eyes that glittered at Zevlor as he swivelled round. And the wisteria face that possessed all of Tav’s exact features, except he had never seen Tav wear that sort of sharp, smug, self-possessed smile…

“So, you knew who it was right away?”

“Well, obviously I didn't. I only knew it wasn't Tav. Who — or what, I suppose — she really was I didn't know until it was too late.”

[redroomroaving]

Fic Masterlist & Geraldus Discord

Harper Prince Hamlet

First things first! You! Are you a fan of Harper Geraldus? Would you like to speak to other fans of the best Harper Prince?

Come join us in the Hamlet!

Masterlist of works:

Geraldus x Rolan

The Harper & The Tower: (E, Longfic) Geraldus & Rolan post game finding romance over books and healing, sugar, smut, good feelings, exploration of respective traumas and growing together.

Spring: (E, shortfic, WIP) Regency AU exploring Geraldus & Rolan, CW abuse, a huge amount of pining, forbidden romance, wet shirts etc

Don't burn alone in the dark: (T, what if, WIP) what if scenario exploring the game events with Geraldus at Last Light Inn, Rolan being a mess

H&T smut one shots:

The Habit of Perfection: poetry & smut, apologies to Gerard Manley Hopkins

A simple meal: cooking & smut, apologies to the Tower kitchen

Conjuring Majesty: balcony appreciation & Rolan feeling sorry for himself

A quiet retreat somewhere lovely dark & deep: cabin smut, apologies to Robert Frost

The aftershow: post opera smut, switching things up

Winter: Rolan failing at iceskating smut

Marked for prey: Spell battling sparring smut, apologies to most of the Ranger spell list

Donnick x Abdirak

Sufferer, I shall: (E, CW: BDSM, heavy themes, religious angst, COMPLETE) Loviatar & Ilmater stand in sworn opposition, and a badly injured Abdirak is recovering in the Temple of Ilmater. Exploration of contrasting gods of pain, romance & smut

Around willing whip, a rope bound: (E, CW: light BDSM, rope bondage, religious themes) Follow up and epilogue of sorts to Sufferer, I shall

To Suffer, to live: (E, CW: short smut, heresy, flagellation) continuation of S,IS & AWW, ARB

Small Sanctuary: (E) follow up, smut and fluff with some religious angst and soup cooking

Suffer well: (E, CW: voyeurism) short one-shot smut.

Kar'niss x Klaus

Trusting. Trusted. (E, CW: Lore accurate drider content) What if Kar'niss was part of the Circus? A one shot romance exploration with a lot of support and sadness.

Conductor, Ringmaster (E, CW: More lore accurate drider stuff) Follow up from Trusting, Trusted, following Klaus x Kar'niss on some dates across the planes with the touring circus.

Geraldus x Bor

A Harper Fell Here: (M WIP, CW: trauma, exploration of death and loss) Shortfic and Harper romance, two Harpers coping with trauma and loss as Harper Bor finds himself in the wrong place at the right time.

Working out some aches: (E) smut one shot, Bor offers Geraldus a massage and a bit of comfort as they build their hideout.

Stoke the fire: (E) smut one shot; Geraldus and Bor cuddle up by the campfire on a cold night whilst on the hunt for a creature.

Geraldus x He Who Was

Of my sin: (E WIP, CW: trauma, dacryphilia) Shortfic, takes place in Act 3 following the Bhaalist cult, exploration of troubled relationships with returning to service.

They asked for no pickles: (HWW x Geraldus, E modern restaurant AU, COMPLETE) A little short fic because He Who Was loves pans that spawned out of a fic prompt challenge.

An Extra Serving: (E, one shot) quick smut one shot follow up to They asked for no pickles.

Shadowheart x He Who Was

Communion of shadows: (E, CW: Trauma, COMPLETE) Shadowheart/Shadar-kai mystery solving squad, exploring a lot of Shar/Ravenqueen lore and two really evasive people driving eachother insane

Halsin x M!Durge

On nights without much sleep: (E,CW: Durge stuff, COMPLETE) heavy on Redemption Durge angst, Halsin x Durge finding a lot of healing, nobody getting any sleep,

Klaus x Lia

A Dash of Scarlet: (E, smut one shot) spun off from H&T, shameless happy smut for Lia and Circus Husband

AUs & assorted one shots:

The Red Harp: (HWWx Shadowheart, Rolan x Geraldus, E, Penny Dreadful AU) A monster hunting squad feat He Who Was, Shadowheart, Rugan, Geraldus, Jaheira, Minsc, Aradin and more to come.

Written in Glitter (or how we fell in love and took down a mega corporation along the way): (multi, Klaus x Kar'niss, Geraldus x HWW, Rolan x Haarlep, Abdirak x Donnick) modern au following the trials, tributions and loves of the roomates of 33 Rivington Place.

[lunadreamscaper]

VT/P.I.E. Headcanon list!!

This is all my personal takes and opinions, I guess also are canon in my “au”/spin off.

If there’s any you like from this you can take inspiration or adopt any of these if you like them I will not mind <3

But if you don’t like some of these (which is fine bc you don’t have to), please be kind, especially since some of these are based off/inspired by personal experiences as well as some of my Headmates experiences (that I got permission to use as headcanons 🙏🏻) I just hope people won’t find some of these upsetting? I don’t think they are upsetting but sometimes difference of opinions can be distressing so I understand 🫂

Anyways here goes:

Toast and Ghost have a queer platonic relationship (this one might be a hot take but also we need more rep like this Imo 🙏🏻)

The Level 25 demon from Spooker’s debut video is the one that turned Ghost into the Puppet. (And was probably the one who put those FNAF ghosts in Swift Taylor’s house lol)

Another lvl 25 demon one: I like to think it pulled “a Bipper” (Gravity Falls reference yes) and used Spooker’s body, that’s why you see Spooker as a “ghost” but then later on was normal/living again. Also why we see Spooker in the dimension where Housekeeper is trapped and later towards the end of the Puppet arc in the crypt where Ghost sees him. (Also watch the Haunted by Pennywise video 😭) I don’t think the demon lives in Spooker’s body like how people think demon!Jimmy does though.

Speaking of Jimmy, he’s a very traumatized alter (I’m a system in case anyone is concerned by that 😭🙏🏻 )

Ghost has some supernatural abilities? And is sensitive to dimensional shifts that happen (which happens a lot considering how unstable their world is) as well as understanding lower level paranormal entities, and sometimes visions of specific events (reference to Spooker’s debut video and “Johnny Ghost meets Freddy the dinosaur” video) and a few others that Jimmy also takes advantage of. Also dreams. He gets weird dreams sometimes.

Gavin Toast speaks in an American Accent sometimes, originally to separate himself from his twin.

I’ve already mentioned Ghost being intersex and demisexual I think but still adding it.

Dark Pit’s disappearance after joining P.I.E. In its early days has something to with Darth Calculus…

Ghost had a fear of umbrellas as a kid.

The Lvl 25 Demon and Stardust Sprinkleshine are a divorced couple/hsrs

Toast paid Josh to keep an eye on Ghost during his retirement arc (reference to my comic Heart Attack xD)

Timothy Casket and Chakalata Soup may have been business partners… before ending in disagreement.

Gavin maybe an Acalacam experiment that was only found out later by Darth Calculus (Gavin and Johnny T.’s father never learning that it actually sort of worked.)

Toast’s mother hates Ghost, except nowadays tries to hire people to kill him so he stops spending time with her son but ofc he keeps coming back like a damn revenant lmao

Spooker and Colon are boyfriends (sorry this is a ship but like they literally kissed in the 5 yr anniversary stream and I dreamt about it so I have to acknowledge it)

Spooker did used to have a crush on boyfailure Johnny Ghost though

The reason the VT world is so scuffed and has so many dimensions is bc they all live in the shattered remnants of a broken world.

My fan comic Supernatural Crossover, and Sherlock crossover on wattpad are technically canon to my spin off (except for the Gravity Falls one that one is retconned but fun fact Timothy Casket is in that one and I’m reusing the ideas from it for other things)

Timothy Casket totally wasn’t a serial killer and also totally didn’t get his kid(s) involved traumatizing them and changing the course of their lives forever.

Ghost has a twin brother but that’s mostly for Strive SMP shenanigans

Cardboard Friend is made up of many souls of children that possessed a cardboard toy creation made by Gregory…

There’s a cult out there somewhere with significant importance.

Johnny Ghost also has lead poisoning and some other issues bc of the old mansion’s condition (the one from the first Cardboard Friend video)

Johnny Ghost is also really pale because Cardboard Friend ate off his life force and sanity but got away probably in the Nick of time probably bc of some permanent effects?? (probably why that video made no fucking sense bc it was from Ghost/Gregory’s perspective)

It’s actually really traumatizing to separate twins from each other while they’re young. So if you take into consideration that Johnny Toast and Gavin were probably not allowed to interact and Ghost being separated from his twin too, that makes Ghost and Toast two twinless twins that trauma bonded to each other which is probably why they have a lot of separation issues.

Colon is a witchcraft practitioner (reference to “Moving didn’t go as Johnny planned” video)

I also used to believe Colon is a retired undercover cop or detective but also like ACAB and I barely remember why I came up with that so idk if I’ll keep it but I definitely need more Colon headcanons

Josh is also hired to babysit Woah for Spooker and Colon from time to time :3

Josh also makes really good pumpkin pie (since she was a pumpkin farmer) Ghost also really likes this pie.

Also Spooker is trans and pan while Colon is gay (these ones are special bc it was from a dream)

I’ll also add the universally accepted hc that Toast is bisexual (and demiromantic??)

Josh is also bi and polyamorous (maybe a demi girl but not sure yet)

Ghost is on the Spectrum, (most of pie probably is but the one I’m confident on is Ghost at least)

Sometimes paranormal entities can sort of fuse and/or mesh together to sometimes become stronger (but can separate… sometimes) *cough cough the paranormal tornado cough cough and CBF cough cough*

And lastly Ghost is 5’4, Toast is 6’6, Spooker is 5’7, and Colon is 6’1 (Gavin is the same height as J. Toast and Josh is either 5’3 or 5’5 I haven’t decided yet 😭)

Okay I’m gonna stop there for now but if I remember anything that’s important to me I’ll add them in like a reblog to this post.

Sorry it’s so long! Also had to keep some of these vague to avoid… spoilers ig?

If you’re curious about any of these tho feel free to ask and I can talk more about ‘em!! :3 <3

Maybe I’ll share some more Acachalla related headcanons but not today

[glazedwriter-mystery0014]

🍎🌿Mother Eve of All Humanities🌿🍎

“The Garden of Eden as one of them plead with her to joined them at the other side of the idyllic and eternal garden of Eden as Samuael disguised as a young and extended colorless fellow snake with a minor yet biggest blessing of a rare godly fruit otherwise called “Apple of Eden”, the eternal yet spiritual fruit from the sacred tree of Tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil as Samuael have pluck one of the godly apples from the age-long and sacred tree without being discovered. As one of them starts to tell her of about first rights and protections, and first wisdom she could have from eating the first divine fruit of Eden with greater desires & strong wishes as he’s became convinced Eve of his far-reaching dreams to bringing the world of existence with high aspirations and divine creations for all of humanity. She’s have made come to decision for a little while and then Eve accepted be the first of eat the sacred fruit of Eden before she’s gives to Adam as she’s started to believes in herself as well and then as she’s taking the first bite of Apple of Eden, it’s was a greatly different than rest of the mixed assortment of beneficial fruits as her eyes opening without enslavement from her new existence but at the end of the day..... Eve made primary mistake when she’s ate the first sacred divine fruit from the full-grown blessed turned into a cursed tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil, turned Apple of Eden into a “Forbidden Apple of Sodom”, the house of ill fame, the first generation of shadow and mortality in the creative state a the globe of the planet called earth was now covered in full of shadow and mortality, and forbidden transgressions along with chaotic destruction & disorganized ruin....”

“Like her previous husband, Adam, Eve has very own heavenly hosts and war maidens in her eternal utopian realms, otherwise called, “🪽⚔️The Divine Warriors of Limbo⚔️🪽” but then however, Eve also ruled modern ethereal world with a fresh realm & original kingdom in the other side of the afterlife dimensions called “The Utopian Territories” in Hazbin Hotel/Seven Sin Tribe AU.”

“She's main heroine & main protagonist as she's and her heavenly hosts and war maidens protects heaven and the earth from the unholy creatures, shadow spirits, and the sinister organization & diabolical cult better known as “The Heaven's Shadows”.”

“She's have a second high commander of The Divine Warriors of Limbo, “General Christian Sins”, Emily's love interest and major crush, they're the counterpart to Vaggie's and they're similar characteristics of Vaggie's; tough but has a heart of gold.”

“She's owning and creates several refreshed horticultural retreats & redesigned garden paradises in her own heavenly paradise along with new built school she’s have built, “Golden Apple Valley School” as being the headmistress & the full teacher, along with fruit gardens & apple estates, and mountainous regions. Also owns “The Praying Hunt Candy Store” & “The Expert Apple's Confectioneries”, “The Lucky Feather Bakehouse”, and “The Careful Temple MegaMarket”.”

“Has a adopted 19 y/o half-blooded nephilim daughter who is known as “Ann”. Ann is a mixed characteristic with Cherri Bomb & Vaggie. She's a full of mischievous, spirited, and enthusiastic! She's very fonds of her adopted mother who's taking care of her since she was a newly born infant.”

“Her favorite tasty meals & cherished sugary delights are apple related sweets & apple-filled pastries, mandarinate pork ribs, fruit pastries & fruit pies, ox bone soup, assorted chocolates, Turkish delights, old fashioned oxtail stew, traditional Jewish desserts, milk chocolates with pieces of hazelnut/or hazelnut spread fillings, sparkling apple cider, soul foods & southern cuisine dishes, Turkish dishes, southern charcuterie board, fresh fruit salad, refreshing homemade fruit smoothies, and honey lemon iced tea.”

“Her sexual orientation & gender is Demigirl/Bi-Curious, and Cis-Female.”

“In Pride Month 2024, Eve always spreading loves to every & each holy being and life form with their love and acceptance party & freedom parade as it's fused together in with pride theme wedding decorations, assorted pride flags, pastel rainbow wedding themes, whimsical garden wedding themes, and a dash of Diwali indian color festival, “Holi the Festival of Colours”.”

“Eve is also inspired by two of the goddesses, Demeter & Gaia; Eve has the role of being both an earth and mother goddess as well as the official deity of agriculture & harvest, presiding over crops, grains, food, and the fertility of the earth. Although she is mostly known as a grain goddess, she also appeared as a goddess of health, birth, and marriage, and had connections to the nether regions too. But she also has the third role of Persephone; a graceful and considerate person. Although seemingly innocent, she is not one to be toyed with as she holds the capability to stand up for herself and do what is right. But she also has characteristics of Demeter; a very maternal and is your typical motherly figure. Loving, nurturing, and very generous. But when someone crosses her, she can become revengeful and seek punishment.”

“From her apple estates & fresh orchards are symbolized of beauty, sweetness and the hope for prosperity, and the hardiness of the fruit and its durability represents strength and growth.”

“At her love and acceptance party & freedom parade, Eve serves them of her homemade mouthwatering delicacies & flavorful indulgences they've has made, and includes her very own refreshing alcohol free beverages, and best-selling effervescent apple beverages & non-alcoholic champagnes better known as “Sherry Mud”, “Cloudy Double”, “Unholy Petal”, “Balanced Bomb”, “Strawberry Sip” , “Passion Fruit Shot”, “Wonderous Seven”, “Pure Special”, “Perfect Breeze”, “Spirit Tea”, “White Walk”, “Drink Passion”, “Tea Ticker”, “Fruity Fury”, “Glowing Rumble”, and “Clouded Thrill”.”

“From each side of Madame Eve’s head, it has two sets of pairs of curled horns of the lamb on each side of their head symbolizes the embodiment of Christ's innocence and the sacrificial lamb offering redemption and atonement for humanity's sins.”

“Her divinely empowered weapon is the dualistic blessed battleaxes, and fighting skills are similar to Camilla Carmine's & Wonder Woman's mother, Queen Hippolyta in Hazbin Hotel/Seven Sin Tribe AU. She's also have a selfsame personality of Queen Hippolyta; extremely capable and skilled leader, as well as an equally courageous warrior queen.”

“Her color themes are Blush Pink; the color of blush pink color scheme represents youth, joy, and excitement. And the second color theme is the flower’s color of Carnation Pink; pink carnation flower meanings include gratitude and the concept of never forgetting someone. And representative of pure emotions and are associated with a Christian tale where they bloomed when Virgin Mary shed tears for Jesus while he bore the cross of crucifixion.”

“Every children and orphans seeing her as beloved mother and special grandmother as she's treated them as they're always adoring and protects the children from dark forces.”

“Her favorite animals are turtle doves, lambs & rams, piglets, cold-blooded albino snakes, and screech owls which is related to Demeter's sacred animals.”

Madame Eve of Humanities belongs to @gloomycherub-mysterious/ @sullenwriter-log /@glazedwriter-mystery0014

Hazbin Hotel/Seven Sin Tribe AU belongs to @bloodmoon24

[uldren-sov]

7 and 22 for aresia von valancius!! <3

TYTYYY tyty bb!! (no art....YET)

Ask meme here!

7. Was there a defining moment in their life that influenced their Conviction?

It's easier to talk about why she's not Dogmatic and Heretical versus why she is Iconoclast.

Heretical is somewhat of a given, Chaos is real and corruption, she's known it she's seen it, seen how corrupting it can be. It's a force that doesn't require faith to know is there. She's not so ambitious nor so selfless to sacrifice herself for the sake of power and despite her best attempts, she has not rid herself of all of the Imperium's dogma.

The harder question is why is she not dogmatic. Because on her Fortress world she was born and bred and drilled into fighting for the God-Emperor and the Imperium and it was a constant brainwashing since the moment she was born. For half of her life she was brought up in in this environment only to come to the conclusion that the only thing she should ever aspire to do - the only thing anyone ever expected of her - is to die.

She wanted more from her life than just that, so she defected, she joined up with a gang young. But the initial defection devastated her. Her military service was her faith and she just went against the plan that the God-Emperor had for her, so now who was she? Who could she be if not in the God-Emperor's light? It shook her faith and her purpose to her core. But she couldn't afford to lament over this, the lawless sectors in the Calixian sector are unforgiving and vicious, and she had to hit the ground running. So, that break from her faith never got a chance to heal properly, it festered and rotted, and now it's a kind of agnosticism - she defied the God-Emperor and made a life for herself, a life more fulfilling and whole than she could literally ever dream of before.

She's not about to kiss babies or volunteer at a soup kitchen but maybe all this dogmatic scripture isn't what the Imperium says it is.

22. Do they have any augmentations? Were these installed out of necessity, or as a cosmetic choice?

She does have augments! None of them were her choice but not all of them were necessary either.

Upon her maturity, I believe she underwent a series of surgeries to augment her physical capabilities and I feel like it may be ordained in this Fortress world she comes from. They are done so that she can be a better soldier, stronger and faster than the rest. Before she was around 5' 7" (170.2~) but after these procedures, she stood around 6' (183~). Most of these changes are internal but should someone get close enough to, they can certainly feel their way around her body and find where augments lurk underneath her skin.

Though I believe she is proficient in just about every gun and blade she has in her hands she was a far more prolific marksman. She has an extensive augment around her right eye that can display like, a targeting array and otherwise assists with her vision/aim. This was also done standard per her training.

She also did once get a lot of her skull shot off by a particularly nasty fight with a heretical cult. As a result, that eye/aim augment extends now to a more extensive array that is more fused to/replaces her skull. Though skin was grafted/grew around it and hair started to come back, its definitely sparse, and to hide the worse of it she braids those wisps together across that side of her head.

[jlilycorbie]

12, 20, and 40!

Describe your perfect writing space

I'd say somewhere quiet, maybe outside? I like going out to parks, and I like writing long hand, but I bought a small blue tooth keyboard that connects to my phone so I could have portable writing space. I really like the idea of hanging out at a cafe or coffee shop to write, except plague. Maybe someday?

But if I'm really honest about where I get the majority of my writing done...long hand at my desk in my office when I'm caught up and need to look busy.

How many WIPs and story ideas do you have?

I have absolutely no idea how to count these. Actual started WIPs? I'd say there's at least six active WIPs? The untitled fantasy WIP, the bad neighbors horror story, the near future cyberpunk story, the girl who escapes an anti-tech cult and goes to space, unionizing the asteroid belt, magic school dropouts...does The Cliffhanger count as a WIP? There's a lot of abandoned WIPs hanging around, too.

And ideas? I can't even keep track. I guess the doomsday prepper serial killer and his haunting is in the idea stage still. At least two cozy mystery series. Maybe three if the soup fairy ever turns into anything. As I think about it, more come back to me.

And I have a little cast iron cauldron filled with scraps of paper with ideas on them. I call it the plot pot. I'm not going near it to answer this question. And I'm going to call it answered enough, because if I think about it, I'm going to spend all night listing stuff.

It's probably good to pull them out to get a little air, though.

Share some backstory for one of your characters

I'm going to go with one of the characters for the story about unionizing the asteroid belt. I already wrote a story about her, and I think it's going to be the first chapter in the book when I get to it. You can check it out here if you want. I loathe the title. I've changed it many times. I'll probably keep changing it.

Anyway, Bryony was a super active kid, kind of a tomboy, and she loved tinkering with gadgets. She didn't do great in school, and could barely hold still most of the time. She was paralyzed in a hiking accident during a summer break while she was in high school, and she didn't handle it well.

One of her friends pointed her toward Project Hephaestus, an organization that ran independent communications in space that was run and staffed entirely be disabled people. If you join the project, they'll provide all the training you need and make any modifications and adaptations you need for your assigned location.

Bryony wasn't super into it, but she applied, and then she took her first training trip to the moon. She got an engineering degree with a linguistics minor, set off for space, and hasn't looked back.

She worked hard to get a chance manning a solo station, and she loves it.

Thank you for the ask!

[shioritsumi]

I guess I play Cult of the Lamb now so here's my Lamb and Goat!

Lamb: Affy!

-Lambs and sheep are typically named by their family after they pass a sort of probationary period that proves they'll survive to adulthood, but Affy's family was sacrificed before they could be named. They eventually had to name themselves according to lamb tradition, chosing some word that describes them personally. They went around the cult for days asking people to describe them, actual adjectives plz don't just praise them as the Great Leader.

They finally settled on the word Affable. "friendly, good-natured, easy to talk to"

-Affable "Affy" is very family and bond oriented. You join their cult, get prepared to have the clingiest cult leader ever they LOVE you and will do anything for you. Well, almost anything.

Goat: Azzy!

-In the goat's universe, the tradition of Azazel goats is still strong and pronounced; Azazel goats are cast into perdition to pay for the sins of others. The dog Narinder of Azzy's universe saw the goats, and loved them, and the other bishops sought to deny him his vessels. Azzy was the last Azazel goat. Imagine being cast out from all society, and then being killed for it. Their life was already suffering before a bunch of gods suddenly decided to kill you just because some giant dog god liked your kind.

-Much like Affy, clingy af. They believe everything will be taken from them and they'll be kicked out at any random moment so they cling to everything they have. They can be loud, abrupt, panicky, and will panic love people. Imprisoning cultists impulsively the moment they seem to be dissenting or secretly spies, researching funeral rites the moment a cultist reaches old age. If they have nothing to do they get very nervous. Constantly building decorations and things to make their cult happier. If you're unhappy, they will GIVE YOU THINGS.

-Affy's love language is acts of service, Azzy's is gifts

-Affy is aware they're the last lamb but tries not to think about it. With other people around, they find it kinda easy. Azzy has to keep doing things because they can't stop thinking about how they're the last Azazel goat and what if they eventually have to sacrifice themself for their cult and complete the ritual of Azazel...how many times must they be cast out?!?

-Both have trauma but Affy's more of the exhausted shut down type and Azzy gets manic.

Azzy: I like your name, how'd you get it? Affy: Lambs are named by their family, using a word that describes them as a person. My lamb family died before they could name me so I asked my followers and they helped me come up with Affable! What about yours? Azzy: oh cool, I'm the last of the Azazel goats; we're cast out of society when we're young for the sins of those around us, formed our own castaway society, and then the bishops cast us out from life. So I guess I don't actually HAVE a name.... Affy: .....................do-.....do you want soup? Azzy: I'd love soup, thank you Affable.

[praeyrp]

We are not a Cult

Okay maybe we are.

The People's Temple has been a long standing fixture, or at least it's congregation is. A popular place of worship for decades the little Catholic church burned down in an accidental fire eight years ago, leaving its Sunset district neighborhood and congregation without a place of worship. As times became more trying they'd all began to branch off to other churches, though this hole in their lives and in the community was never quite filled. Five years later and several failed attempts to fund-raise by an old tired minister and a secret investor would wipe their deficit and then some, clean. A new temple was built a block from the old, re-branded, renamed, and within its walls its people and their faith in a new youthful minister, grew.

Listen carefully to their words, What they ask, and preach and maybe you'll hear their warnings. Listen to what they ask, and know that your soul won't come out at the end of it.

Find the wanted ad here

Minister Morgan / TAKEN

The Minister: of the order Morgan is the most trusted, and also the face of everything, a puppet who's strings are pulled and yanked by Matthias himself. They've been together for centuries now and are, for people who are just bound by Hellish ties, carefully and wholly wrapped 'round each other. Their trust in one another is never questioned, nor is their seeming obsession with the other. They're no longer lovers but there's no doubt that where one goes, the other is likely looming nearby. Morgan's duties within the order are fairly simple, though also broad; he is quite literally their minister and thus he spreads the word of "God", while peppering prophetic doomsday narrative (that'll be escalated over time.) His flock are his own and he should be protective over them, while also caring little over their actual fate. What's his, is his, a point of fact he learned from his sire.

Sister Minerva / Caitriona Balfe

the social advocate; she's the face the people reach out for help, the one that they meet before they're allowed time with the busy minister. she runs their soup kitchen and schedules all their community outreach programs, as well as manages the other sisters. She is aware of what Matthias is, though she's the only of the sisters that do. Minerva, lovingly known as 'Minny', is the head of the sisters that help the temple. not true nuns, these women aren't sworn to God and they're not required to live chaste and holy lives. they're simply women dedicated to a cause. Minerva herself is the one who coined them as 'sisters' and that people have assumed them nuns, is their own business and one which Minny isn't so quick to correct or mind. Her loyalty is dictated by a sworn promise to make her one of Matthias' own, when the end dawns.

Sister Luci / Anya Taylor-Joy

The Sunday School Teacher; Lucinda (Luci) is an intense-eyed young woman who's as sweet and demure as people think her opposite. Often misunderstood she joined the clergy as their first Sunday school teacher and has thrived in the position to become director of education. She's as close to an actual nun as the sisters have but even she isn't wholly sworn to God, her faith has been wavering as of late and beneath the teachings of Morgan. Luci is not aware of Matthias is or what the order is, she's simply a pure soul looking to fit in and belong somewhere. Matthias himself, tends to dote on her for this and spends more time with her than he does some of the others. There's tension between Luci & Daphne due to this.

Sister Daphne / Samara Weaving

The Wild Child; A secondary Sunday school teacher, Daphne is also head of the choir and the ministry's own loose cannon. She's proven to be someone who easily ensnares those of her own age (wonder why) and easily convinces them to join rank. Daphne also heads a lot of the youth/teen activities within the community and has hosted several silent dances. Whether she was the one who spiked the punch or not, no one will ever know~ Daphne is not aware of what Matthias is, nor the order. She was sent to the church under her mother's demands and stayed after learning it was nothing like a church at all. Matthias and Daphne have a playful relationship in which he supports and encourages her wild, and she looks up to him as a father figure (of sorts). There's some tension between Daphne & Luci because of this.

Deacon Blaise / TAKEN

The Community Governor; a secondary minister, though not as widely accepted, Blaise is mostly and mainly known as the muscle of the group. The one who keeps an eye on the flock and keeps them in line when panic sets in. He's not the best at soothing said panic, but if people overstep, he's sure to be there. There's some playful rivalry between Blaise and Minerva, the sort that picks at one another endlessly, but is largely non-toxic. Blaise does know what and who Matthias is and is trusted among the inner circle, though he tends not to take anything serious enough to be on-par with Morgan. Respected nonetheless.

Director Natasha 

The Holy Ghost; not actually dead, this director is more a secretarial go-between for Matthias and Morgan. Their duty is primarily to watch over the church as a whole and report to Matthias, where Morgan generally only reports what needs to be, this ghost reports everything. A well rounded members of the ministry, they can fill any of the roles as needed, though most often they're back up for the deacon and silent support for the sisters. Respected within the ministry as a figurehead, they can optionally manage the books and the others (or take a more hands-off approach in this field), as well as the other cogs. They're not afraid to slap down or enforce rules, anymore than they are to support their fellow members. Their loyalty lies with Matthias, and can branch out to his other endeavors as well, as they do know who and what he is. His quiet and looming right hand that oils the wheels and makes sure they're all running smoothly for the others.

[bradyoil]

Undnyable Partner/Exec Creative Director Steve Williams Hacks Bland Advertising.

Steve Williams, Undnyable Partner/Exec Creative Director, joins me in an informative and entertaining chat about making commercials soup to nuts. (We've shot six fun spots for Kaiser Permanente, but we've never been on set together due to that pesky pandemic.) We discuss running the agency from concepting and strategy to shooting the spots. We cover the importance of being nimble with the ability to scale, and how to stay in one's lane. Great talk!

Steve is I’m an experienced and highly-awarded creative leader who believes that simple, disruptive ideas can drive brands and influence culture, no matter the medium or audience. I balance a strong point of view with a love of collaboration.

Check out the work Steve and his Undynable Partner Justin Hooper do here.

EVENTS LIMITED TIME ONLY! Summer Office Hours, a chance for one-on-one consultations to whip your career, spec, rough cut or mojo into high gear. Book now while spots are available.

SPEC SPOTS LIVE WORKSHOP. August 16th at 4pm live on zoom. Limit 15 filmmakers. I'll cover everything you want to know about making a fake commercial for your reel that doesn't look fake. Q&A following. Enrolling in course comes with free consultation to use before you shoot or during your edit. 

My next in-person Commercial Directing Bootcamp is Saturday, January 20th, 2024. Sign up soon or miss out.

Check out my Masterclass or Commercial Directing Shadow online courses. (Note this link to the Shadow course is the one I mention in the show.) All my courses come with a free 1:1 mentorship call with yours truly. Taking the Shadow course is the only way to win a chance to shadow me on a real shoot! DM for details.

How To Pitch Ad Agencies and Director’s Treatments Unmasked are now bundled together with a free filmmaker consultation call, just like my other courses. Serious about making spots? The Commercial Director Mega Bundle for serious one-on-one mentoring and career growth.

  Jeannette Godoy’s hilarious romcom “Diamond In The Rough” streams on the YouTube and has 72,000 views its forst week! Please support my wife filmmaker Jeannette Godoy’s romcom debut. It’s “Mean Girls” meets “Happy Gilmore” and crowds love it.

  Thanks,

  Jordan 

  This episode is 60 minutes.

My cult classic mockumentary, “Dill Scallion” is online so I’m giving 100% of the money to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. I’ve decided to donate the LIFETIME earnings every December, so the donation will grow and grow. Thank you.

Respect The Process podcast is brought to you by True Gentleman Industries, Inc. in partnership with Brady Oil Entertainment, Inc.

Check out this episode!

[basicallyahedgehog]

2022 In Fic

This is so late, but oh well! Big love and hugs to my faves @phoebe-delia (x) and @corvuscrowned (x) for the tags. Go and check theirs out too!

January

Harry’s Spiny Adventure (Wolfstar, toddler Harry)

“A ned-chog!” Harry was dancing on the spot now, unable to contain his excitement.

“Hedgehog, Harry,” Sirius sighed. So much for a normal day. “Why do you have a hedgehog in the house?”

Til The End Of The Night (Harry-centric, nil pairing)

Perhaps, he mused as he poured the boiling water into his mug, tremors causing the water to splash across the benchtop, the worst part wasn’t the words themselves, but the fact that the public was truly convinced of what they saw. All they could see was their Hero, their Saviour. The Boy Who Lived, who defeated the Dark Lord.

March

The Brightest Thing (drarry)

When I was young I expected my wedding to be stuffy, full of heavy vows. Yet here we are, your hands clasped in mine, giggling like two schoolboys.

April

The Evolution of Soup (Or, How Harry Learned To Be Loved) (Drarry)

As he succumbed once more to the ever-present fog at the edges of his brain, Harry felt a feather-light kiss in his hair, followed by another one on his temple. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, hand curling towards the one person who could make everything ok.

From The Shadows (Drarry)

I watch and I watch until one day; one day, I realise that you are watching back. How long, I wonder. How long were we watching each other without realising, caught in a never-ending dance?

May

Out Of The Darkness (Drarry)

I hate him, until he smiles. Before he smiles he is the saviour, he is the poster boy, he is the carrier of the weight of the world. But when he smiles he is Harry, my Harry.

With You Between My Arms (Drarry)

Trying to squash his hope - this isn’t what it looks like, he just wants to have a friendly dance, don’t be an idiot - Harry takes Draco’s hand, allowing himself to be led onto the dancefloor. He runs his free hand through his hair, trying in vain to tame his ever-messy curls.

“Don't,” Draco murmurs, grabbing Harry’s hand from his hair and placing it on his own shoulder. “The messy look suits you.”

The Strings That Weave Us (drarry)

The same tiny little shop where Draco worked.

Which is how Harry had found himself trying to make an appropriate amount of eye contact – look at his eyes, Harry, not his soft hair and just-right arms and the dimple in his left cheek and – as Draco explained how the thread worked.

June

Still Into You

They told me that it would fade, this feeling. That one day I would look at you and the butterflies wouldn’t come. But here you are, and here I am, joy bubbling in my stomach like champagne, hearts in my eyes.

All The Time In The World (drarry)

It was another week before Harry received the letter. Ginny was still screening his mail, but she was out with Luna. Besides, Harry knew that handwriting. He was sceptical as to whether Ginny would have let this letter through or not, but he knew that he definitely wanted to read it.

Why would Draco Malfoy be writing to him?

July

My Heart Was Unprepared (Darry)

My mind Healer told me to keep a journal, so here we are. I don’t see what the point is, really. Writing in this book isn’t going to magically erase the trauma of growing up in a cult, being forced to join said cult, having said cult live in your house… you get the picture.

I tried to point out that a diary actually caused quite a lot of trouble during the war, but Eugenia — my mind Healer — insisted. 

August

Like This, My Beloved (Drarry)

What I didn’t picture was you walking into the room that first day of Auror training, your face still pale from two months in Azkaban. I didn’t picture the quiet, “it’s ok, I can convert the old janitors closet to a bunk. I know no one wants me.”

I think I already knew, in that moment. I just didn’t know it yet.

September

The Love You Find (Drarry)

They never talked about it, but Harry took to crawling into Draco’s bed during the night, until they just pushed their two beds together. Harry wondered if they should discuss it, but he didn’t know how he’d handle it if Draco wanted to stop.

Mads (Drarry)

“What did I do to deserve you?” Draco whispered against Harry’s lips, tears coursing down their cheeks once more. 

“You don’t need to earn my love, Darling,” Harry said, pulling Draco against his chest. “It is freely given, for however long you want it. No matter what pronouns you use.”

October

I'll Be Loving You (Drarry)

“Loving someone doesn’t mean you endorse them,” Harry murmured, thinking of the hazy love for his aunt that had been squashed in his childhood, of the love he knew his mother had held for Snape even to her death, of the love he held for every version of the man in his arms, even the misguided teenager he had once been. Maybe especially that boy, fear a constant presence in his grey eyes.

November

The Threads That Bind Us (Drarry)

Every thought, they shared with each other. Every fear, every doubt, every self-recrimination. Every dream and hope and decision were shared and cradled and made together. 

It was their greatest strength, and Draco’s greatest joy.

December

Them (pre-slash)

Draco turned away with a little hum, contemplating his gingerbread man — person — with his head tilted first one way then the next. Harry held his breath, feeling like he was witnessing something important. 

Colour Outside The Lines (Harry-centric)

To be trans, Harry thinks, is to be alone in a crowded room. It’s learning a language too late, putting together a puzzle and discovering a missing piece.

The Brightest Star (pre-slash)

“Because I have a pretty awesome roommate,” Harry said. “And they just told me something about themself that I didn’t know, and I’m happy for them.” Draco shivered with each use of their pronouns, burying their face in Harry’s neck to hide their blush. 

Tagging anyone who hasn't done this yet who wants to :)

[kariachi]

Me: Wow, I have already managed to work myself into a lather over not only both the actions and inaction of the Plumbers during the Rooter’s Arc, but also the age-old attempts by UA to be dark and edgy without having any actual substance or lasting effects

My Brain: If they wanted to hit on more ‘mature’ topics they could’ve made The Flamekeepers’ Circle touch on cult recruitment tactics and homelessness- the first being understandable given the villains are literally a cult, and the second nicely tying into character backstories rather than just having a major character suddenly join a cult. Have Kevin grab the cousins to go investigate these people, either because they’ve been loitering around the city’s homeless shelters and soup kitchens or because they’re working on opening some and his ‘bullshit’ meter is going fucking haywire about it. You can even still have the ‘someone gets pissed at Ben for laughing at the representative’ bit, just make it Kevin getting pissed because he’s taking this Very Seriously and for a moment there it feels like Ben isn’t. Not only do you get to hit on serious topics, not only does it not have to take over the episode to do it, but you also get some added character depth from Kevin (to have noticed and come to such strong opinions about the situation clearly he’s keeping an eye out for these places at least). You could even specifically bring in Kevin’s backstory for newer viewers- I can 100% see him leaving particularly rough parts of his backstory out when telling Gwen about it, have her be surprised at just how serious he’s taking the concern that somebody might be taking advantage of people and Ben (for once the one of them who knows more about Kevin) quietly pulling her aside and mentioning that the guy was living in an abandoned subway station when they first met him.

It would have built on prior characters, touched on ‘dark’ topics like they seemed to want for that series, and both had substance and showed the lasting effects of the sort’ve shit these kids have been through.

[edibletrees2]

I would like to know more about your murder drone ocs if you dont me asking

*scurries over here with all of my oc’s* I will very gladly talk about all of them!

(Shit I posted it before it was ready- well here’s the edited version lol)

Serial Designation T

T was designed to be part of a project that used weird future technology to try and age a robot like a human. The physical experiment was stopped at about 7 years old, but her mind kept aging like an adult. She is possessed by a little human girl named Tiana, and has a haunted doll aesthetic. She also carries a little toy rabbit around.

Serial Designation T2 Y

Y was made as the second (and successful) attempt at T’s experiment of aging a robot up, however this time the company got Satanic stuff involved. She has some pastel goth aesthetic going on while she’s still developing her identity, and once she gets more comfortable with who she is, her aesthetic changes more towards a gothic cottagecore.

Serial Designation F

F was made as a mechanical soup of all the generations in this au (internecion, disassembly, and Assassination) and has otherworldly goddess stuff mixed into her system as well. Very fun. She’s the second mom figure of The Squad, she’s got a 1950’s aesthetic going on (Those pretty dresses and roller skates) and she is a very nice person.

Serial Designation A

A is just a regular Disassembly Drone with a traumatizing experience with his old squad. This past squad bullied him relentlessly and then left him to die in the sun, and he spent his days wandering around until he found The Squad, and they let him join their group. He’s the comedian, but is very insecure about everything under his persona of laughs and practical jokes.

Serial Designation W

W is a one-of-a-kind drone, built for cleaning up nuclear waste from the core explosion while also being a disassembly drone. He went through some experiments while he was still in training on Earth, which may have messed up his coding a bit and made him a little crazy. Actually a lot crazy. But it’s a good kind of crazy! He has moral standards and doesn’t want to kill everyone he sees on sight, so that’s good. He has a goblincore and cyberpunk aesthetic at the same time, so he very much is a funky dude and he is honestly one of my favorites.

Serial Designation 0

0 was the first Assassination drone ever made, and was originally the nicest guy you’d ever meet. That was, until 12 came along, and drove him insane. She made him into a cult-leader asshole who was also really weird and is the main villain for like half of the story, until he’s inevitably killed (twice, this fucker always comes back ok that was a bad fnaf joke) and 13 fixes his coding, and basically reverts his personality back to his nice self while keeping his memories. 0 becomes a part of The Squad, and is a nice addition to the cast once he’s redeemed.

Serial Designation 12

12 was made as a regular Assassination Drone, but quickly started a downwards spiral speedrun into insanity fueled by insecurities and a need to be a Girlboss. She drives 0 insane, and also does a bunch of other shit and is basically the invisible hand that coordinates a lot of the bad shit that happens to everyone. But she does get her ass kicked though and stops being such a bitch (kinda, not really, she just stops making bad things happen) to everyone. She’s also a hot lesbian.

Serial Designation 13

13 was originally the squad mechanic for 0’s squad, but once bad shit started happening he had a moral complex and realized he did not like what 0 had become and left. After some plot stuff he joins The Squad and becomes yet another dad, and also the medic because god damnit this group of teenagers and three adults keeps getting into trouble. He has a retro design, and just gives off good vibes in general.

Kat Gramson

Kat is my worker drone oc, who is non-binary and pretty chaotic. They are a total theater kid, and they have 4 siblings. Their entire family, except for their little brother, dies in the events of the pilot, and they have to make their life work after that. They have no specific aesthetic, but they are certainly a chaotic teenager with trauma.

Abaddon Myers

Abaddon is a worker drone from a bunker across the planet, who kills her dad and flees to kill murder drones elsewhere on the planet. She’s like Uzi’s evil counterpart, how she would’ve turned out if she didn’t have the emotional support to make her less aggressive. She’s modeled after Jinx from Arcane, too, so she gets style points.

Side Character Speedrun!

Serial Designation 10

-12’s girlfriend

-also a girlboss

-very violent

Serial Designation 2

-the “weak” one of 12’s squad of like 30 members

-knows how to sew

-could not hurt anyone if she tried

Serial Designation Z

-chill guy. Literally the nicest person ever.

-gives good life advice

-the only chill neighbor The Squad has

Ann Sierra

-a scientist at JC Jenson (in spaaaaaace)

-actually has fucking moral standards

-two kids, a husband, and she also trained W when he wasn’t involved in experiments.

Serial Designation 21

-can make herself appear invisible

-(not insane) 0’s girlfriend

-indie girl :)

Joey MacKensay

-only human left on the exoplanet

-paralyzed from the waist down

-F is basically her stand-in mom, considering her parents are now dead.

Connor Duron

-worker drone

-literally the only one who isn’t traumatized

-he gets along with everyone

Serial Designation H

-Internecion Drone

-X gave her the scarf :)

-a little short for an internecion drone

Janis Scarlet

-General Care Worker Drone

-Abaddon’s girlfriend

-spends her time waitressing and doing other work to pay off medical bills (she’s very tired)

Serial Designation 4

-Assassination Drone

-cryptid among worker drones, has stories told about her

-V thinks she’s cool :)

Serial Designation G

-Old man

-Archangel drone, meant to help stop squad wars

-possessed lmao

Serial Designation I

-Mechanical Soup

-Tiny :)

-T’s “twin”, very shy

Serial Designation U

-K and W’s brother

-Nuclear Waste Cleaning/Disassembly Drone

-strong

Serial Designation K

-Nuclear Waste Cleaning/Disassembly Drone

-U and W’s brother

-deaf

Serial Designation B

-disassembly drone

-total bitch for a while

-love her though

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Cozy Sweaters

Jackson Neill x Reader

Sequel to Cold Hands, requested by @detectivebarba​ & written for @storiesofsvu​’s Fall Bingo! 

Warnings: Angst. Angst. Angst. Fluff? 

Summary: Oh my god they were roommates.

3,350 words

September 8th

The living room of your apartment—what used to be your apartment—was abuzz with heated voices.

“We’re sorry, but you said you were moving out!”

“So you just gave away my room?! I’m allowed to change my mind!”

Your roommates glanced between each other, awkwardness thick in the air.

“Ed is moving here all the way from England on the promise that he would have a room. He already bought his plane ticket. We’d really be screwing him over.”

“But… where am I supposed to go?”

Jenny sighed and shook her head. “Listen, if this wasn’t so last-minute, I’d understand, but you were supposed to move in with your boyfriend next week. We already made plans to fill your spot…” She really was sorry, in other words, but you were stuck.

“Can’t you still move in with him?” Todd added, and Jenny shot daggers from her eyes.

“He cheated on me!”

“Yeah, but you said he didn’t want to break up, right? Just work things out.”

“I am not,” you hissed through gritted teeth, “ever taking him back after what he did.”

September 13th

Every one-bedroom apartment listing in the greater NYC area was out of your price range. You tapped your friend group, colleagues, and acquaintances for roommates and came back empty. You went on Craig’s List and met with a few strangers seeking roommates. The ones who weren’t terrifying never called you back.

Meanwhile, Jackson Neill had been blowing up your phone.

Well, not blowing up—the first night he got drunk and filled your inbox begging you to come back, sobbing and slurring into your voicemail, spamming indecipherable text messages. The next morning, a single text read: “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again.”

And it didn’t.

But he sent another message a few days later telling you he’d found some more of your stuff, if you’d like it back. That you were always welcome to talk if you wanted to. He wanted to be there for you. You didn’t message him back.

September 14th

It was a cold, rainy day on campus, so you risked taking a shortcut to the dining hall. You turned the corner of an old brick building, and there he was, walking out of the Department of Religious Studies, jacket collar pulled up over his neck because the forgetful fool could never remember his umbrella.

He froze at the same time you did.

All you could hear was your pulse drumming inside your skull like rain. You knew you’d run into him eventually, but you hadn’t decided how to react, and your body wasn’t offering any suggestions.

He gave you a pitiful smile and lifted his hand. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

One leaden foot shuffled in front of the other, and you kept walking. He nodded with a wan smile and sad eyes and didn’t chase you.

The outdoor seating was closed because of the weather, so the dining hall was crowded and buzzing. You snatched a small two-seat table just as another student left, brushing a stale French fry off it onto the floor. Sinking down to enjoy your cheap sandwich, you glanced around the crowd.

A middle-aged man with a soggy jacket and salt-and-pepper hair, who had no right to be so breathtakingly handsome, was searching desperately for a seat while precariously balancing a tray of soup and coffee.

He felt your gaze on him, and you were fixed with a beam of frozen green eyes.

You waved him over.

“I wasn’t following you, I swear.”

“I don’t know, eating lunch? At lunchtime? That can’t be a coincidence.”

The corner of his lip wanted to smile, but he didn’t seem entirely sure you were joking.

“Just sit down and eat,” you sighed. “There’s nowhere else.”

He sat.

Silence crackled between you like the sky before a thunderstorm as you ate your lunches.

“So,” Jackson started cautiously, “how have you been?”

You gave a dry snort. “Oh, just fucking peachy. I’m going to be homeless in two days, thanks to you.”

“What?!”

Jackson listened with a deepening frown as you told him about your roommate plight. Then he offered you a room at his house.

“Go to hell. I’m not going to move in with you like nothing ever happened!”

“No, it wouldn’t be like that. I have a spare bedroom. It’s a big house, and I could use help with the bills. Please—it’s the least I can do. Just until you get back on your feet.”

September 17th

It wasn’t like you had much choice.

You moved into Jackson’s house as originally planned, albeit under different circumstances. Instead of sharing his bed, he cleared out the spare room he’d been using, in theory, as a “gym,” and in practice as a storage closet. There was plenty of space, and with how late he always worked at the university, you’d barely see him anyway.

This might just work out.

September 20th

This was never going to work.

Your heart broke all over again every morning you walked downstairs and saw Jackson in the kitchen making pancakes, because every time, you had to fight the urge to come up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist like you used to do.

God, you wanted him back. If only you could erase the image of him with her from your mind.

October 7th

Jackson begged you to take him back.

One thing after another had gone wrong after he publicly confronted the Meyerist Movement. The cult pressured the publisher to pull his book. The university put him on leave while they investigated his alleged relationship with a student. You wandered into the living room that night and found him curled up on the couch, and his resolve broke.

There were tears in his eyes as he tried to pull you into a hug, and when you jerked away, they cascaded down his cheeks. He kept saying he was sorry over and over.

“Please. I need you. Everything is falling apart—if I could at least have you to hold onto… just one thing that wasn’t broken. Please, just tell me how to make it up to you. Haven’t I done enough? If I could take it all back, I would. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me? Please let me hold you?”

This was hard for you, too. Part of you wanted to give in, tell him it was all OK, let him kiss you, and see him smile. The worst part of all of this was that you still loved him, but you could never trust him again. He put on such a sweet, innocent act—he was a wonderful boyfriend—but now you knew he was a manipulative liar.

You should never have moved in.

“There’s no undoing the past. We both need to move forward, not back. I’m going to start looking for other places to live.”

October 8th

Morning brought a more sober Jackson knocking at your door. Dark circles hung under his eyes, but he hadn’t been crying recently.

“Please don’t feel like you have to leave. I can get my shit together. I’m calling a therapist today.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah.” He stared at his feet, shifting on the hardwood floor.

“Jackson… I’ll only hurt you if I stay. This is too hard on you.” For us. “Besides, I can’t freeload here forever.”

“You do pay rent, you know.”

“I know, but—”

“I only have the kids every other weekend, and it’s a big house. It gets lonely. You’re doing me a favor being here.”

November 10th

In the last month, Jackson convinced you there was no hurry to move out.

He was a great roommate. He cooked, cleaned, respected your boundaries. He was a truly decent man, if an unfaithful lover, but since you were just friends now, it didn’t matter who he fucked. The biggest concern was that he wanted you back, and living together was a constant source of emotional pain. But on that front, he finally seemed to be moving on.

Whenever the topic came up, he assured you that you were welcome to stay as long as you wanted.

“It’s just so hard to find a decent place in my price range.”

“I mean it,” Jackson reiterated, adding emphasis. “If you want to stay, I enjoy having a roommate.”

You searched for hidden motives in his voice, his expression. Was this part of a long game to get you back? But his tone was friendly and open. Knowing how quickly he jumped from his ex-wife to you to Sarah, there was no way he didn’t already have his eye on someone new. At this point, you were just roommates.

“You mean permanently? Isn’t living with an ex a recipe for disaster?”

He chuckled. “The last few years with my wife were much worse than this, trust me. We were trying to stay together until the kids went to college, but emotionally, we were already divorced. It was awful… sharing a room. Constant fighting.” His eyes took a dull, faraway look as he remembered.

Worry lines creased your brow. “Are you sure you want to put yourself through that again?”

He grinned, snapping out of it, and patted you on the head like you were one of his kids. “You are nothing like her. We’re friends.”

You liked the sound of that. Friends.

November 14th

The sound of screams greeted you as you opened the front door and hung your keys on their hook next to your jacket. Jackson was watching a scary movie marathon in the living room, apropos of the foggy autumn weather.

“Candyman. Care to join?” He patted the cushion beside him.

You stayed up past midnight in your pajamas, sharing popcorn, laughing, and hiding your eyes from the gory parts. Jackson remained on the opposite side of the couch, careful not to touch you.

November 19th

You caught Jackson having lunch with an attractive student. It made your blood freeze, then boil when he walked with her back to his office.

Alone.

Fists clenched, you pressed your ear to the closed door, and heard… an essay on the role of religion in perpetuating homophobia. He was helping her edit a paper. Like professors do.

You followed them all the way from the dining hall just for talking.

When did you become a crazy ex? Why would you care if he was schtupping a hot student? You wanted him to move on—you were glad he didn’t tear up every time you walked into the kitchen anymore. But you knew then that you weren’t over him yet.

If you saw him out with someone new, it would sting like he was betraying you all over again. So you tried hard to be the one to move on first.

November 30th

A car honked outside.

“Oh, that’s my date,” you apologized to Jackson. “Gotta go.”

You got a little rush of schadenfreude from the kicked-puppy look that flashed across his face as you left him mid-conversation, sitting at the kitchen table across from your abandoned teacup. It felt like a big fuck-you, letting him know you’d be fucking someone else. A dare: let’s see if you really meant it when you said we could be friends.

But the look had barely contorted his features when he swallowed it down and smiled, “Be safe.”

He was probably going on plenty of dates himself and just didn’t tell you out of consideration for your feelings. He didn’t want you to feel used, betrayed, and immediately replaced. You were both moving on.

After a string of Tinder hookups, you felt like Jackson was out of your system, romantically speaking.

December 17th

A light dusting of snow floated down through the pale morning air. Jackson woke up on the left side of the bed, as he did every morning, and as he did every morning, turned to his right hoping to find you there. The blankets were cold.

He shivered.

You had a date last night and didn’t come home. He waited up, but never heard your car in the driveway, your keys in the door. Since you weren’t there to see his red eyes, he allowed himself to cry.

February 14th

A dull, rhythmic thumping carried through the walls. The creaking of a mattress. You cried out a name, voice cracking as you came for the second time.

It was the same guy again.

Casual hookups he could handle, but it had been the same guy for weeks now. Jackson told himself he deserved this. This was what he did to you, only while you were together. When you trusted him not to. He deserved to hear the one he loved being taken by another man.

As much as he wanted you to be his, you weren’t. He had no right to feel burning bile rising in his stomach at each of your moans and gasps. You were doing nothing wrong.

“You live here. Of course you can have dates over. No, it’s not awkward. We’re friends.”

A hot tear slid from his eye as he buried his head in a pillow.

This guy better take care of you.

May 1st

He didn’t have a roommate anymore. Not really. You spent all your time at Rodney’s apartment.

Soon you would move out, and he’ll have lost you forever.

He wanted to warn you not to move so fast, but what right did he have to judge? He let you move at the same pace with him. Let you trust him, fall in love with him, have a spare toothbrush on his sink within a few months. All the while, he figured a little action on the side wouldn’t hurt. Did he think he could chase two of you at once and get to keep the winner?

Idiot.

Sinner. That’s what his mami would say.

The few times you were home, he didn’t express his concerns about your boyfriend. He would only sound jealous, and it would push you away. If he wanted to be someone you would still answer the phone for when you moved out, he had to be a good friend, not a jealous ex.

Fuck. He hoped it worked out between you and Rodney. He really did. He hoped you were happy.

October 2nd

You came home for the first time in weeks crying. Heavy tears rolled down your face, legs shaking as you crawled up the stairs to your bedroom. Jackson was off the couch in an instant, spring up to follow you.

“Hey… Hey, what’s wrong?” He gingerly touched your shoulder, palm spreading out to make comforting circles when you didn’t shake him off. “Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, sniffing as you slumped down onto your bed. Jackson sat beside you, worry etched into his features. He was so cute. After all this time, he still cared about you. You thought about all the times he’d begged for you back, in the beginning, desperate to hold you again. Fuck, you just wanted to feel that wanted again.

“Rodney and I broke up,” you mumbled.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear th—”

You gripped the hair at the back of his head and tugged him roughly into a kiss. Every muscle in his neck and shoulders tensed. A surprised noise was muted between your crushing lips. You could have sworn, for a moment, he started kissing you back, but then his big hands clamped like two vices on your shoulders, and he pushed you away.

“What are you doing?” His eyes were wide.

“What does it look like?” you purred, fingers clawing at the buttons of his cardigan. “I want you to take me, Jackson.”

His hands stopped you from leaning close again. “No. Stop it.”

“Come on, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“We can’t… I won’t take advantage of you like that. You’re just upset, and—”

“Fuck you! So you’ll fuck anyone and not give a shit—you’ll fuck around on me and break my heart, but you won’t fuck me when I’m asking you to?! The one time I just need you to be there, and now you’re on your high fucking horse, pretending to be a good guy?! I bet you’d screw Sarah! Fuck you. Fuck you!”

Your shoulders shook as your tirade broke down more and more into sobs. Deep down, you knew he was right. You’d regret it in the morning. But you couldn’t he just… want you?

“Why? Why not? Am I that… am I that unlovable?”

“Because you crying.” Tears were shimmering in his eyes as he said it, softly wiping a tear from your cheek. “You’re crying.”

With a gasp, you threw yourself down on the bed and buried your face in a pillow. You screamed into it, your own breath hot and wet against your face. Jackson’s weight shifted the mattress beside you, and your hand shot out in panic, blindly groping toward the movement. You felt pathetic. Needy. But you didn’t want to be alone.

“Don’t go.”

The mattress sank back down under him. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t take advantage of you, but if you want me to stay, I’ll stay. As long as you want.”

That was all you wanted to hear in that moment, to know someone wouldn’t abandon you. His warm hand rubbed your back in slow circles as you wept, patiently listening as you told him everything in disjointed, broken pieces. How you were just being paranoid—invading Rodney’s privacy when he left his phone unlocked. You were paranoid because your last boyfriend cheated. Then you found the lewd messages, and it didn’t seem real. Plans to meet at a bar downtown. You didn’t believe it until he was toweling off, telling you something came up with his mom, and he’d be out for a while. And you followed him down to the bar and saw them together.

“He was an asshole,” Jackson said.

“Am I doomed? Cursed? Why does everyone cheat on me? Is it my fault?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Shut up! You did it, too,” you snapped. “I’m just not special enough to hold anyone’s attention. I’ll never be enough.”

“No,” he growled with a ferocity that startled you, “You’re wonderful, and anyone would be lucky to have you. That guy was an asshole, and so was I for taking you for granted. You did nothing to deserve this. One day you’ll find someone who appreciates you… who learns to treat you the way you deserve to be treated before they lose the best thing to ever happen to them.”

You shifted to press yourself closer to him. The tears didn’t stop, but a warmth spread through your chest. Jackson felt like a cozy sweater—warm and familiar. Easy to cry into. His arms were surprisingly solid and thick, but gentle when they closed around you.

He was a comfortable old sweater you could slip back on after leaving it in the closet for a year.

***

Hours passed by, and you had no more tears left. No energy left to move. Jackson was still beside you, keeping watch, as promised. You were curled up with your head in his lap, his fingers in your hair.

When he was sure you were asleep, he carefully extracted himself from under you, gradually shifting your head onto the pillow so you wouldn’t wake up. He breathed, heart aching as he looked down at your sleeping form. You deserved better than tear-stained cheeks. He knew he had no right to be so angry, but he couldn’t stand seeing you hurt again.

You wouldn’t have been if he had just…

He let his tears fall silently. This was about you, and he didn’t want to make you console him, but you were asleep now. He could let go.

He ran his fingers through your hair one last time. Then, with a furtive glance, he bent and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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