#honey crypt fics

[honey-crypt]

alright hi hello me again with fanfiction request ??!! im in angst mood so hear me out

Elliott x farmer, where farmer comes back badly injured like,,, bleeding all over arm probably broken and Elliott freaks out he's just like 'you could have died!!!' and when farmer just laughs it off he just,, breaks down yk n cries for them bc he can't stand the thought of his love dying in the mines one day :((

anyway angst to comfort please 🫡

a/n: i'm not responsible for any emotional damage this fic causes :)

word count: 1.3k

warnings: graphic imagery, blood, elliott has a bit of a breakdown, farmer is really injured

summary: it was just another day in the mines, for you at least. not for elliott, though, as he finds you bloody and battered in the foyer of your home.

★ home is where the heart is - elliott x farmer ★

You staggered towards the farmhouse, as the fireflies and lamps lit your way to safety. High-pitched wheezes clawed their way out of your mouth and you struggled to conceal your heaving, labored breathing when entering the house. The door quickly shut behind you and you let out a sigh of relief. I’m home, I’m home.

The light suddenly switched on in the main room, “(Y/N)?” your husband’s voice called out to you. Shit, you thought to yourself, eye to eye with the redhead. Elliott hugged the sheer night robe close to his skin, his feet adorn with the bunny slippers you got him last month. Despite the pain, you managed to smile through it, “Hiya, hon.”

Elliott nearly fell to his knees at the sight of your bloody, damaged appearance. He walked towards you, legs almost jelly-like in their uncoordinated movement, and kneel before you, “(Y/N), oh (Y/N),” his voice was barely above a whisper, “What happened to you?”

You sniffled and promptly winced from the act, blood gushing backwards into your throat and making you stifle back a gagging sound from the sensation. Your nose was at an unnatural angle and your forehead was caked in a mixture of dry and fresh blood, as you bled the cut on your scalp. 

It was just supposed to be a quick expedition.

The sound of metal clashing against armor echoed through your ears. 

In and out, just in and out.

You sustained the first wound. 

I didn’t think there were gonna be so many. 

Then the next wound.

There were too many.

And the next.

Too many monsters.

And so on until you were battered and bruised, a walking corpse. 

“(Y/N),” your husband’s timid voice called out to you, “(Y/N), my love, what happened to you?” his voice wavered in and out. Every part of you hurt, from your head to your toes. You tried to adjust your position against the wall, but hissed lowly when a sickly ‘crunch!’ echoed from your arm. Shit, probably broken.

“I’m calling Dr. Harvey,” your husband leapt up to his feet and approached the telephone. You watched, as Elliott picked up the phone and dialed the doctor’s after hours number, but another episode of ringing in your ears made it impossible to decipher what he was saying. The vibrations and loud ‘boom!’ of explosive ammunition against slimes repeated in your mind. Probably still got some slime guts on me, too.

And you did, slime stained your shirt and pants in a putrid scent. No biggie, clothes are replaceable. Elliott returned to your side at just the right moment when the ringing subsided, “Darling, please,” he croaked, “What happened to you?”

“Just another day in the mines,” you mustered up a laugh, but the motion made your ribs ache. As gently as he could, Elliott scooped you off the ground and carried up the stairs to your shared bedroom. He carefully let you down on the bed, his robe now stained in slime and blood, and took a seat back to you, “Dr- Dr. Harvey will be here shortly,” the writer hiccuped, eyes glossy. 

“Thanks,” you hummed softly, relaxing into the soft mattress. Elliott turned his body towards you and stared, uncomfortably so. No words were exchanged over the next few minutes, the both of you unable to speak. Finally, Elliott took the initiative and whispered, “You could have died, (Y/N).”

You let out a series of wheezing, delirious laughs at his concern. That was all you could do, laugh. Elliott’s face shattered at the sight of you laughing, “I- I-” his bottom lip quivered. You held up your hand, the one attached to your functional arm, and answered, “Just another day in the mines, not my worst.”

Elliott fell silent and you attempted to fluff up the pillow underneath your head, “Don’t worry, hon. I can-” a sharp cry interrupted you, as your husband unleashed his tears. He hopped off the bed and onto his knees, burying his face into the satin sheets. You could only watch him wordlessly, as Elliott sobbed his heart out. 

“You could have died, (Y/N)! What part of that don’t you understand!?” he removed his face from the bed to yell. You winced at his volume, you never had witnessed Elliott in such a distraught state before. Elliott resumed his cries, “I could have lost you! You’re the- You’re the love of my fucking life and tonight, I could have lost you!”

Your eyes widened in surprise at the curse; Elliott rarely swore, he considered swearing to be a sign of ‘low intelligence’ that ‘one must resort to such profanity to convey a point’. Yet, here he was, cursing up a storm, “Do you not get how your actions impact others? Do you not understand how much you FUCKING mean to me, (Y/N)?!”

A knock on the door cut his rant short, most likely Dr. Harvey. Elliott rose from the floor and exited the bedroom, only to return with Dr. Harvey after a couple of minutes passed. The doctor let out a whistle at your injured form, “Oh, dear,” was all he could say, as Harvey initiated the treatment.

Elliott’s hands gripped onto the nearby vanity mirror while Dr. Harvey fixed you up, a few tears slipping out of his eyes and onto the oak wood. It felt like an eternity went by until the doctor finished up the last of your stitches and cleaned up the mess of bloody clothes and disinfectant, “Visit the clinic tomorrow for more pain medicine,” Harvey informed you before setting the blister pack on the nightstand, “And you’re on bed rest for at least a week.”

“Yes, doc,” you grumbled. Dr. Harvey gave Elliott one last nod and left your house, silence overtaking the atmosphere. You swore that the tense silence hurt more than your injuries, as you awaited Elliott to continue his yelling. 

Instead, your husband entered the en suite bathroom and the sound of water rushing filled the room. He then returned to your side with a cup of tap water in hand and grabbed the blister pack of pain medicine. Quietly, Elliott popped out two pills and held them out to you, “Open up.”

You sat up and opened your mouth, Elliott placed the pills on your tongue and held the water to your lips. With Elliott supporting the glass in one hand and your back in the other, you slowly drank the water and let it wash the pills down your throat; it left a bitter taste in your mouth. Elliott placed the unfinished cup of water next to the blister pack and crawled into bed with you.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to apologize to your husband. He sniffled a bit, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, but gave you a smile, “I love you, (Y/N). I- I don’t know what I would do if you died in such a way.”

“I’m sorry,” was all you could reply with. Elliott wiped away his remaining tears, “I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul,” his words shook with incoming sobs, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he recited the phrase like a prayer. 

“I love you,” you answered, “I will be more careful, hon.”

“Promise?” your husband looked at you with his wet, puppy-like eyes. 

“I promise,” You reached out to Elliott  and touched his hand. He intertwined his hand with yours and the two of you laid on the bed, basking in the peace of the night. Tonight, you were alive. Tonight, Elliott had you next to him. 

Yet, your backpack laid discarded on the floor by the bed, three or so bottles of squid ink nestled inside. Perhaps, you would gift Elliott those bottles another day.

[bunnis-monsters]

saw your bull and cow hybrid fic and found out you were doing an event!! would you be willing to tell us more about this au, no specific request i just want to know more about this, also congratulations on 5k!!!

Cow/Bull Hybrid Lore

I’m planning on making an entire post about the cow/bull hybrids but I’ll give y’all some snippets for now.

Cow and bull hybrids were created using the newest technology, crossing humans with cows and bulls. This was done to create beings that could produce milk without needing to be impregnated.

Though there are female cows and bulls, the males are the ones used for milk production the most since they can produce “milk” all year long.

Make bull/cow hybrid semen acts as a milk alternative, and is lactose free! It’s very creamy and sweet, and is very popular with women specifically.

A female farmhand is required to tend to the males, since they dislike male human hormones and charge at any males getting too close to their territory. There are male cow/bull hybrids that will form mating bonds with each other, but they aren’t likely to mate with a human male.

Each male cow/bull hybrid can produce 1-4 gallons of cum milk a day, depending on their build and species. Bulls are more likely to produce on the higher end.

Female cow hybrids are highly sought after by both cow and bull hybrid males. A heifer is seen as a rare treat, and everyone is eager to be the first to put a calf in her belly.

They have a preference for fat, chubby women. The closer you look to a heifer, the more they’re attracted. Once they’ve chosen a mate you’re screwed. You’re their breeding cow now.

Once a cow/bull hybrid gets you pregnant, he becomes very clingy and extra territorial, guarding the area you’re nesting in with his life. The bulls are eager to impale anyone that gets near, while the cows will stomp on any poor soul that tries to bother you.

You’ll be milked as if you’re an actual cow, and your baby is expected to start walking within a few days. Though, babies between humans and hybrids are rarely as strong as their hybrid parents, and are closer to their human parents in terms of their growth.

I’ll post more about them later~

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @screaming-crying-screamingagain @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @j3llyphisching @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljr @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @buckoothecow @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68

[beautifulbows924]

Common Ground

Act One!Astarion x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 650+

A/N: This fic is sort of a combination of a few of the (comparatively) similar requests I received, along with one particular scene that’s been running wild and ping ponging around in my brain for far too long. I somehow convinced my partner (who could not care less about fanfiction, but adores me) to proofread this for me. So any complaints should definitely be addressed to them—as I was, unfortunately, far too sleep deprived to read over this anymore than I already have. As always, I hope you enjoy—feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments, and happy reading! :)

Warnings: Angst, intentional allusions to past SA (the circumstances are left purposefully vague), concerning both Astarion and the Reader, writer will often suddenly break off into unexpected poetic tangents, a smidge of fluff—if you squint, & perhaps a bittersweet ending (depending on how you interpret it?)

“Darling”, Astarion carefully poses his words, “Are you certain that you’re quite alright?”

You’re terrified. He can see it. Your pulse is visibly thumping beneath your skin, and there’s a tremor to your hands he’s certain wasn’t there before.

But why now?

You’ve told him you trust him, demanded the others leave if they weren’t willing to accept the gift that is his company, and mere seconds ago offered yourself to him as a meal—to what you, with both intimate knowledge and first hand experience, know is a hungry vampire.

He would be questioning your sense of self preservation, or alternatively, your sanity. If he wasn’t awed by just how quickly you’ve managed to sway your companions' loyalty.

It takes a moment for you to notice he’s asked you a question. But once you have, you nod.

He sighs, clicking his tongue at you. That vacancy behind your eyes, it’s unnerving, too familiar. “Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit you. What is it?”

Your gaze shifts, opting to search for what must be a rather interesting spot somewhere behind him.

Two breaths in.

Two breaths out.

Astarion falters. That may have been harsh—if your continued silence is anything to go by. Perhaps, he should have left the lie to rest.

“Dearest”, he works to intentionally soften his tone, shoving past the honeyed lump that rises in his throat, thickly coated with syrup. This little manipulation won’t be ending in a hand naively held between his as he leads you down unassuming crypt steps.

He knows that.

“If you’ve suddenly changed your mind about”, he gestures vaguely between himself and your neck, “I’m sure I can make do with whatever animals find themselves unluckily situated in this part of the forest.”

Humble or selfless certainly isn’t his favorite role to play, but if he wants you to be his personal guard, it seems he may have to make an exception.

“No!” You blurt out, swallowing thickly at the raised brow he sends in your direction, mouth suddenly very dry, “I—It’s not that. I swear to you.”

He tuts, “Ah, but it is something. Hmm?”

You nod again, frustrated tears building in your eyes as each attempt at an explanation falls flat.

“No, it couldn’t—it”, Astarion makes a rather exaggerated motion with both of his hands, clutching his chest in theatrical shock, “Was it Gale?”

You huff, but it’s more exasperated than annoyed.

The left side of his lips lifts.

You drag your own roughly between your teeth.

“Earlier, you made a comment about being quiet, not wanting to disturb my rest”, unsteady hands bury themselves in the fabric of your pants, “Those words, the sudden realization that someone…anyone could have access to my body like that while I slept”, your head slumps forward, “The last time—I can’t.”

Two breaths in.

Two breaths out.

Astarion’s fingers slot into place beneath your chin, tilting it upwards to look at him.

And suddenly all you can see are the differences.

Everything he is appears less forced. No longer are you merely an audience and he an actor, but equals. Those that have found a common ground built upon the cruelty of others.

Far too accustomed to it.

There’s a raw familiarity held within your expression Astarion can’t quite discern.

Perhaps, in another life, someone cared for him. Once. To look at him with such fondness.

He wonders if he deserved it, then.

He allows the hold he has on you to become lighter and lighter, until his arm returns to hang at his side.

You hear a weary sigh, then, gently, “For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry.”

A small smile flutters across your lips, light and without expectation. It’s a kindness he hasn’t yet learned how to navigate—and certainly has not earned, but he yearns for it all the same.

“Thank you, Astarion.”

BG3 Taglist: None yet!

[eiluned]

Fic: Dangerous [BG3; Astarion/Tav, Explicit]

by eiluned

Read on AO3

Summary: It grows in his mind, the thought of coming inside her. What would it feel like to let go, to lose control in the sweet heat of her body?

Tags: Astarion/Tav, porn with feelings, mild CW for Astarion briefly thinking about his sexual trauma.

Notes: The continuing smutty adventures of Tavriel and Astarion. This one's set in act 1. Thanks to Amanda for the beta read!

If you're new to my stuff, Tavriel is my high elf bard, and I'm slowly writing up her romance with Astarion (and later, their romance with Halsin).

Comments encourage me to write faster. I'd love to hear what you think!

~

The first time he fucks Tavriel, he's shocked to find himself enjoying it.

He's fucked or been fucked by hundreds. Sex is rote, repetitive, something to tolerate, something he has to do so he won't have to be whipped or locked in a crypt or otherwise tortured. The physical pleasure is there sometimes, but it's usually not enough to overcome the distaste or revulsion or sheer boringness of it all.

But Tav is playful, teasing, seductive in a way he's not used to being on the receiving end of. And she's objectively attractive, with her beautiful face and striking green eyes and the soft curls of black hair streaked through with wine-purple, the surprising curves of her petite body and the fullness of her breasts. It's no real chore to sleep with her, to use sex to ingratiate himself with her, but he wasn't expecting to get swept up in the pleasure of it.

She rolls them over, spreading her legs so he can settle between them, and her moan as he drives his cock back into her makes pleasure twist up at the base of his spine. Her hips lift to meet his thrusts, and her hands slide up his chest, fingertips teasing his nipples. Her body is hot, and his own soaks up that warmth so that it feels a bit like standing in the sun when he presses himself against her fully.

With a smile that curls one side of her lush mouth, she lifts her chin, baring her neck in a blatant invitation. And how can he say no? She offers herself so sweetly, so fully, and he can't resist.

Her breath hitches in her throat when his fangs pierce her skin, and her cunt tightens around him as he draws blood from the little wounds into his mouth. Heat floods his body with the first taste of her, and oh, but she tastes different than the last time he drank from her, richer, more luscious. He knows she gets aroused when he bites her; he can hear her heartbeat change, smell it on the air, but he hadn't realized that he could taste it in her blood. It was sweet, the flavor of her desire, a smaller component of her taste before but now it overwhelms him, bursting on his tongue like honeyed wine.

She shudders, grinding against him with a cry as she suddenly comes, and just as suddenly, all the pleasure that had been coiling up inside him unwinds.

Gasping, he rises onto his knees, pulling out of her a split second before an orgasm rips through him. It's shocking how good it feels, especially when her warm hand wraps around his cock, stroking him as he spurts seed onto her belly and breasts.

He can't remember the last time he came so hard, the last time he let himself be overwhelmed like this. It feels dangerous, but it's too good for him to care in that moment.

--

"Couldn't get enough?"

Her voice is a purr, her clever hands unlacing his trousers, and she smirks at him when he arches into her touch.

He's supposed to be in control here, but his body responds to her without his brain's input. And that's dangerous, so he catches her wrists and puts them behind her back before kissing her hard.

He can't lose control again, not if he wants to keep the scales balanced in his favor.

But her body is warm and pliant, breasts molding to the shape of his hands, her cunt wet and hot. He fucks her on her hands and knees, working her clit with his fingers until she comes with a hoarse moan.

And he's there just as suddenly as the last time, pulling out and coming on her back.

It's dangerous, but it's so good that he doesn't want to stop. He wants more.

--

It grows in his mind, the thought of coming inside her. What would it feel like to let go, to lose control in the sweet heat of her body? To watch her walk back to camp and know his cum is soaking her underclothes? 

He's never come inside anyone, not that he can remember. He never wanted to; it would have felt like he was giving too much of himself. It was his one way of maintaining his sense of self while out doing Cazador's bidding.

But he isn't doing that bastard's bidding now. He is fucking Tavriel because he wants to. Because it will ensure that she will have his back when the time comes. Because it feels good, even muddled up with all the pain and guilt that he can't seem to escape. Because he wants her.

And he wants to know how it feels to come inside of her.

The thought becomes an obsession, one that he only entertains in the privacy of his tent, his cock in his hand and his eyes clenched shut, thinking of nothing but her: the heat of her body, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair. Her throaty gasps, the way she moans his name when she comes…

He remembers how it feels to sink into her cunt, how wet with desire she is, how wet she gets for him. The clenching, rippling feel of her climax, the way she clutches at his back or his arms or his ass as she writhes against him. He imagines how it would feel to drive his cock deep and let go, to spill inside the grasping, delicious heat of her body. 

He bites back a gasp and comes, hips bucking, heels digging into his bedroll, his seed splattering in ropes onto his chest. 

Emotions roil in his head, but he doesn't want to deal with them. He has a plan; he'll stick to it.

He wipes himself clean and stares at the ceiling of his tent.

—

She’s bent forward, hands gripping the cave wall, as he fucks her from behind. Her skin glows with a sheen of sweat in the lantern light, warm like sunlight in the depths of the Underdark, and he feels desire winding up tight in his body.

“Gods, yes,” she breathes, arching her back and thrusting against him. “Astarion…”

Her hand is working between her legs, and he can feel the tension building again in her body. He’s already made her come on his tongue–he tries to not think about how delicious she tastes when she loses control against his mouth–and it’s clear she wants to come on his cock, too. 

And gods, but he wants to come with her, to come inside her, to fill her up while she shudders around him. This isn’t part of his plan, but to the hells with the plan. He’s so wrapped up in her body, in her, in her pleasure and his own, that he forgets himself. 

Brushing her hand aside, he strokes her clit firmly, driving into her sweet cunt. “Fuck,” she gasps, pressing her back against his chest. “Yes…”

“I want to come inside you,” he groans against her ear, his hips snapping against her ass, one hand working her closer to her peak while his other arm snakes around her torso, grasping her breast. 

She makes a soft sound, a little “oh” of surprise. Her cunt starts to flutter around him, and gods, he’s so close, too. “Please, Tav,” he moans, grinding her body between his cock and his fingertips. “Please let me come inside you, please, please–“

“Yes,” she gasps, her hands clutching at his forearms.

She cries out as pleasure overwhelms her, shuddering in his arms, and he follows her into oblivion, his own body wracked with ecstasy the likes of which he hasn’t felt in centuries. His cock jerks, spilling his seed as deep inside of her as he can possibly go. Her cunt squeezes him, milking him, their bodies spasming together until every last drop of pleasure is wrung from them. 

They stay like that for a long moment, clutching and grasping at each other, until her legs start to shake with strain. She lets out a throaty little laugh as he pulls out, bracing herself against the rock as she catches her breath. “Fuck, Astarion,” she says breathlessly, giving him a sly grin over her shoulder. “That was incredible.”

He can see his cum starting to slide down the inside of her thighs, and it sends a jolt of desire through his already-sated body. And a strange feeling, too, one that’s unfamiliar but nearly overwhelming. Possessiveness?

He’s startled by the intensity of it, the way seeing his seed between her legs makes him want to yank her into his arms and never let her go, to take her over and over and listen to her cry out his name.

"You know," she says, turning to him, sweat gleaming on her naked body, "I like it when you say please."

"Oh gods," he groans with a roll of his eyes, embarrassed, but he can't turn away because she's sliding her hands up his chest, pressing her lips to his.

He sighs into her kiss, soaking in the warmth of her body as she insinuates herself into his arms. "You beg very nicely," she murmurs, a smirk curling her lips.

"If you ever tell anyone about that, I will knife you in your sleep," he murmurs back, taking two handfuls of her ass and pulling her against his swiftly reawakening erection, drowning in her kiss and her body and her teasing affection.

This is dangerous; he knows it, but somehow the sound of her laughter and the feel of her body are so good that he just doesn't care.

[midgardian-witch]

Potestas Nominum

I like the idea that all the Papas have actual normal human names just as much as the idea that Nihil was just like ‘Uh that’s one, two, three and the spare one.’ So this happened - I’m sure this is neither groundbreaking nor original but this was fun to write. Idk what to do with this headcanon drabble thingy but yeah. 

My first reader fic without a ship and it’s Ghost lore headcanon shenanigans - lovely 😂 

Reader could be a Sibling of Sin or a Ghoul or just a random person, feel free to imagine what suits you best.

tags: Sister Imperator being smug | gn!reader | hints of Papa Nihil's bad parenting (if you squint) | this is mainly me jazzing with the most shallow takes 😂

ships: none

word count: 0.8k

AO3

“I appreciate the history lesson but I don't quite follow.”

Sister Imperator nods in understanding, leaning back into her plush armchair.

“Names have power,” she explains calmly, “Titles have power too but only for the one holding them.”

You scrunch your nose in confusion. “But Primo still goes by Primo. Same as Secondo and Terzo. Only Cardi- well Copia - doesn't go by his name anymore.”

Sister Imperator snorts, her mocking laugh echoing through the small office. “Do you really think those are their actual names? Oh dear, you still have a lot to learn.” You huff, offended, and cross your arms. Sister shakes her head at your demeanor, bemused. “While I understand people are easily led to believe that Papa Nihil would name his children after the order they were born in,” she sighs like she had been suffering under Nihil’s antics for a long time, “Remember they still have mothers. They all have names, real names, but at this point only they still know them. And me, of course.” Her smug smile grates on your nerves but you take a moment to let her words sink in. And once you do it's all you can think about. 

You think of the various Papas, trying to figure out what name would suit them. 

For Primo something ancient; a name that makes you think of dark crypts and dusty tomes, of rituals performed in the dead of night, of secrets shared in darkness. One that invokes secret meetings in graveyards, the smell of incense and the echoes of choirs singing haunted hymns.

For Secondo something seductive; a name that conjures silk sheets and sleepless nights for all the right reasons, the temptation of the unknown; a name that makes you think of bodies drenched in sweat from the exhaustion of frantic fucking and the taste of only the most expensive wines.

For Terzo something awe inspiring; a name that will be idolized for centuries to come, that promises fame and fortune to those who follow it; whispering to you of all the things you could ever want, tempting you with words coated in the sweetest honey; a hand reaching out, eager to be held.

And Copia? If that is really not his name then you imagine one that nurtures loyalty. A name that makes you think of gentle words of comfort in the darkest night, of compassion for even the smallest and weakest creatures, of community. The name of a strong yet kind leader bringing the young and old, the weak and the strong together.

“I suppose you wouldn't tell me their names, right?” you ask, already knowing the answer. Sister Imperator only smiles at you sardonically. “Yeah, I figured,” you mumble dismissively. 

“So that's why they all go by Papa now? Because names have power?” you emphasize that last part with a mocking tone, “And what do you mean ‘titles only hold power for those that have them’?”

“I meant what I said. The power of a title can only be used by the person who holds that title. It elevates them to be more than just a normal human.”

“None of them are normal humans.”

She smiles again, nodding. There is a glint in her eyes like she's happy you're finally getting it, but maybe you're just imagining things.

“While true, that's besides the point,” she waves off your comment quickly, “Why do you think C goes by Cardi more than Copia? When he doesn't insist on being called Papa.” Her face looks funny as she refers to Copia as Papa, like she bit on a lemon while watching two raccoons fuck. 

“It's short for Cardinal, right?” you confirm, your brows furrowed. 

“Exactly. Which is?”

“...a title.”

“There we go. I knew you were a smart cookie.”

You didn't feel very smart, more confused than anything. But slowly everything snapped into place.

“Sister Imperator. Papa Emeritus. And the Ghouls,” you mumble mostly to yourself, since saying your thoughts out loud had always helped you to put things together in the past, “Nameless Ghouls. The Ghouls don't have any names either! Other than the nicknames Papa and the others give them.” Nobody at the Ministry keeps their names. It's all just titles.

You're having your ah-ha moment while Sister Imperator is watching your mind unravel with that smug smile she always wears in front of the Clergy. 

“That is all…a lot to take in,” you sigh, “Thank you, Sister Imperator. This was enlightening.” You rise from your chair and give a short bow. As you turn to leave the office space she stops you.

“Just remember: don't go digging for information you should not have. We trade in secrets here, yes, but some things are secret for good reason.”

Says the one knowing all the secrets, you think to yourself but nod at her, holding your head low in deference. “Of course, Sister Imperator.”

[azuremosquito]

Something to Drink

It's been a while since anything inspired me to write, but have a Baldur's Gate ficlet. My OC Shae, whom some of you may remember from my DA:I fics, has made a return. Hope you enjoy!

The air was chill and clammy inside the ancient mausoleum, the fetid stench of dust and decay filling the nostrils as their little party came to a weary halt in front of a sealed tomb. Oddly, it was the only tomb that appeared not to have been disturbed in any way, and commanded a position of honor in the very center of the Thorm family crypt. It was also the most recent, as far as they could tell, and Shadowheart squinted as she bent to wipe aside the dirt and grime to read the epitaph.

Before she could speak, however, a bored, faintly whining voice cut through the oppressive silence. “Bodies everywhere and not a drop to drink,” Astarion complained, gazing around the desecration with a look of annoyance. 

Shae couldn’t help himself. In spite of their solemn surroundings, he snickered. 

“Is that really all you can think of at a time like this?” Shadowheart demanded, clearly irritated with their companion. 

“I don’t know,” Karlach interrupted with a grin. “I could go for a drink right now. Might liven this place up a bit. Though,” she added with a glance at Astarion, “I don’t fancy what you’d be drinking.”

In the depths of his hood, Astarion’s red eyes crinkled above his mask. “More for me, then,” he quipped back. 

“All right, let’s take a break,” Shae spoke up before they could start bickering. He could see Shadowheart bristling and he held up one hand to forestall her complaints. “We’re all exhausted and this place is weighing heavily on all of us. There are traps everywhere. I don’t want one of us to lose a hand or worse because we were too tired to spot it in time.” 

The cleric deflated unhappily, but she didn’t argue, shooting a sullen glance further into the mausoleum. She clearly itched to delve deeper- the secrets of her Lady Shar were so close- but at last she turned away and nodded. “Just a short one, then,” she announced, chin lifted as she marched past the others back toward the foyer.

Shae caught Astarion looking at him, one pale eyebrow lifted in a hopeful arch and the elven sorcerer gave a subtle nod. “Astarion and I are going to scout around,” he said, ignoring Karlach’s knowing grin. “We’ll be back shortly.” 

The tiefling snorted, hefting her massive, two-handed ax over one shoulder and tossed Shae a casual, two-fingered salute. “Have fun, soldier.” She winked and sauntered off after Shadowheart, leaving the two elves alone.

Shae felt a presence at his back and a voice dripping with honey murmured in his ear. “Did you arrange this little break just for me?” Astarion looped an arm around the sorcerer’s waist and pulled Shae back against his chest.

“You know I did,” Shae retorted with a grin, turning his head to gaze into crimson eyes. He could get lost in those eyes and all the secrets they held but he shivered as Astarion’s free hand rose and brushed Shae’s dark hair away from neck, the leather gloves brushing tantalizingly across his sensitive skin. He could feel his own pulse quickening and knew Astarion could feel it, too, the vampire’s pupils blowing wide with lust. 

Filled with an aching need, Shae reached up to pull Astarion’s mask down but the elf was suddenly coy, drawing away and turning his face. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore, with that big, bull of a druid always hanging around camp these days,” he said, petulance coloring his tone. 

Shae snorted with laughter and tried to draw Astarion back into his arms. “What? Are you jealous?”

“Of course I am!” Astarion pouted, though he allowed Shae to pull him close again and lower his mask. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.” The pale elf’s bottom lip protruded slightly, and his eyes wavered, watching Shae with a thinly concealed fear. 

Shae’s laughter faded as he realized his lover was truly afraid and he reached up to caress the other man’s cool skin, stroking his cheek with a calloused thumb. “Of course I still like you.” There was another L word hovering around his lips that he daren’t give voice to just yet, but it hung heavily in the air just the same. “Just because I wouldn’t mind climbing that big ox like a tree, doesn’t change how I feel about you.” 

Scarlet eyes searched emerald for a long moment before a faint smirk curved up the corner of Astarion’s lips. “He is rather delectable, isn’t he?” The vampire gave an enticing little shimmy with his shoulders and draped his arms around Shae’s waist again. “Who knows,” his voice lowered to a sultry purr, “perhaps we can ask him to join us some time…” He nuzzled close and Shae stretched up to steal a long kiss, sensing the relief behind Astarion’s playful quip. 

Drawing back slightly, enclosed in the privacy of Astarion’s hood, Shae whispered, “Let’s get you that drink.”

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

overture to the sun sounds FIRE what is it about??

It's the Skyrim Dawnguard quest line with a very traumatized former Vigilant of Stendarr & an equally traumatized werewolf becoming Serana's new parents because her old ones suck. The title is probably cooler than the actual fic itself will be, but I have had brain worms ever since finding out about Sunforest & I couldn't not take inspiration from one of their songs.

Also this fic actually has some writing instead of just my plot notes so I can post a little! As a treat

She dismounted, one hand lingering on her steed as she took two steps forward; on the third step, her hand fell from the horse to her dagger, her long fingers curling around the leather-wrapped hilt. As she drew ever closer, he still looked on at the ruins of the Hall of the Vigilant. She stopped, now the same distance from the smoking rubble as the man but from the other direction.

“Hey!”

The man startled as she called out to him, his honey brown eyes wide with surprise and some kind of unidentifiable wildness. Ellanin raised her head slightly, looking down at him even more as she sniffed the air. Only horse and man and the lingering smell of burning bodies. Something different made this man look like she did upon her first full moon after the attack.

“What happened here?” He asked, his voice cracking and hoarse from either over or underuse. Ellanin came closer to him, trudging through the powdery snow as her hand slipped from her dagger and into the inner pocket of her green wool cloak. Engaged and identified as merely human, the man didn’t seem like much threat anymore.

“Burned down by vampires. Only one of them escaped to tell us about it.”

“Oh…oh divines.” The man crouched down in the snow, practically curling in on himself. His elbows came to rest on his knees as his hands, fingers spread as if he meant to claw at his own skin and rip out his beard, covered the lower half of his face. The edges of his cloak parted, revealing the sky blue surcoat he wore over a long tunic and mail. His clothes definitely looked foreign, stuffier and more formal than anything she’d purchased from the local Nords, but pendants looked the same everywhere, and she did not need to look at the emblem on the chain hanging about his neck. Even though it was obscured by his arms the man’s reaction told her what it held.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. You can see it yourself but…” Ellanin faltered, slightly, bright orange eyes darting from the crumpling Vigilant to the rubble, “hearing it is different. More real, I guess.”

“I was supposed to help them,” he croaked. Ellanin looked back at him, thin lips going tight as her front teeth clamped down over them, keeping them together.

In her silence, he continued. “I wasted so much time. If I’d been here, if I hadn’t…that godsforsaken city. I should have been here in time!”

“Tolan said there were a dozen of them. One extra set of hands wouldn’t have done much, I don’t think.”

He looked up at her, eyes conflicted as his mouth opened and closed over the words that wouldn’t leave his throat. Finally, the man averted his gaze and responded, “no, it wouldn’t have.”

She swallowed, gaze desperately going from the man, to the snowy ground. There were a couple of different things giving up like that could mean, Ellanin wanted to address neither. Not with herself or people she had ever been close to, and certainly not with a stranger. Still, she couldn’t just let him rot here in the snow.

“The survivor, Brother Tolan, he said he would meet me at some cave they’d been scoping out. Dimhollow Crypt. If you come with me, I’m sure he’d–”

“You would do that?” He asked, standing back up, “bring me with you to see…to do what I must?”

“I’ll bring you with me so he can go with you back to Fort Dawnguard…get you taken care of. How long have you been out here?”

[tinydooms]

I am so sorry to hear about your situation, I hope you are otherwise doing well. May I please request a prompt for Evie and Rick having a reading day (specifically set right after the first film, so they still are a little awkward around each other but still love and trust one another... I don't know, what ever you write, I love, so hopefully this gave you some inspiration but take it where you please :))

Thank you for your kind words! It's been a hell of a week, but I'm finally feeling better. Here is your fic: I hope you like it!

Cairo, October 1922

Evie woke up from her nap slowly, coming up out of deep sleep to find her Fort Brydon bedroom full of afternoon sunlight. The ceiling fan hummed overhead; the apartment was quiet save for the soft sound. Evie stretched, relishing the pull of her muscles and the softness of the bed beneath her. It was good to be back.

Her stomach gurgled and with a sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Time for tea. Hot tea, and lots of it, and maybe a sandwich or three. She was starving. There was nothing like roughing it in the desert to bring one’s attention to the blessings of home and a fully-stocked larder. Would the men be hungry? Probably. She had left Rick and Jonathan to their own devices after Dr. Wilkinson had looked them all over earlier that day; he had prescribed plenty of water and rest after their long, hot trek back from Hamunaptra. Opening her bedroom door, Evie looked around for the men. Jonathan’s bedroom door was closed; he was probably napping. Rick was where Evie had left him earlier, lying on his cot by the window with a couple of ice packs soothing his cracked ribs, head cushioned on a stack of pillows, a book in hand. He looked up as she came into the room.

“Hey,” Rick said, flashing her that sideways smile. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“Yes, thanks,” Evie said. “What are you reading?”

Rick waved the book at her. “Ah, Persuasion. I went through your bookshelf; I hope you don’t mind.”

Evie blinked. “You’re reading Persuasion?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s one of Austen’s best and I didn’t feel like reading anything related to ancient curses. I’d only read her other one--I don’t remember the title in English--Orgueil et préjugés--the one where they despise each other at first because her family is obnoxious and he’s really shy and arrogant.” Rick lifted an eyebrow at the look on Evie’s face. “I do know how to read, you know.”

She realized that she was gaping at him, open-mouthed. Shame boiled up in Evie; of course he knew how to read. “I’m sorry. I just meant, I didn’t have you down as the type to read social satire.”

She hadn’t had him down as the type to read, period, but then, Rick had mentioned liking Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes, hadn’t he? And there had been a couple of books in his suitcase last night, when she looked through it for clothes to lay out for him.

Rick grinned. "It’s okay, Evelyn. I know what I look like. We’re still getting to know each other.” He shifted, laying the book down on his stomach. “Actually, I really like reading. I’ve made it a point throughout my life to maintain membership at whatever public libraries are available.”

This was new and intriguing information. Evie sat down in the armchair and curled her legs under her.

“What sort of things do you like to read about?”

Rick cocked his head, thinking. “Honestly? I’ll read just about anything as long as I can understand it. I like detective novels and adventure stories, though I think I’m going to go off those for a while.” They grinned at each other. “I read a lot of art history books before the War, and I like a good popular history. I’m not educated; I only went to school through the eighth grade. Maybe if my mom hadn’t died, I’d have finished high school and gone to college, but, well…”

He shrugged. Life hadn’t worked out that way.

“But you read,” Evie said. “My mother used to say that anyone can learn anything they like if they are willing to read about it.”

Rick nodded. “My mom used to say something like that, too. She absolutely refused to let me quit school and get a job in a factory, even though it would have helped.” A shadow passed over his face; Evie saw him push it away. “Would you like something to eat?” he said, rising up on his elbows. “Your stomach is rumbling.”

“Oh! Yes, I’d come out for tea,” Evie said, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t get up; you’re supposed to be resting.”

Rick blinked. “I’ve been resting all day. It doesn’t hurt as bad as it did, you know.”

“Still.” Evie bustled off towards the kitchen. “You’ve looked after me so well these past weeks, it’s time for me to return the favor. Would you like a sandwich? How do you take your tea?”

Rick sat up, moving slowly. “Strong, with milk and a little honey, if you’ve got it. Thanks.”

Evie smiled at him; he smiled back. She bustled around the little kitchen, setting the kettle to boil and making up sandwiches, and when everything was ready she carried it through to the table and held out a hand to help Rick up. He took it, looking at her in a way that made her blush, and followed her to the table.

“Thank you,” he said, looking from the plate of sandwiches to Evie. “All this, I don’t-- Thank you.”

Evie smiled at him again; again, he smiled back, and for a moment they stood grinning foolishly at each other. It was all so new, this togetherness, this friendship. Funny how one could learn everything there was to know about a person’s character by their actions, and still know hardly anything about them as a person. Evie gestured for Rick to sit, and they fell on the sandwiches.

“So tell me,” Rick said after they had spent a few minutes quietly eating. “What’s your favorite book? Besides the Book of Amun-Ra. I’m sorry about that, by the way. Jonathan didn’t mean to drop it.”

“I know.” A pang flashed through Evie as she remembered the splash the book had made as it hit the water in the crypt’s brackish pool. “But we made it out with our lives, and we have all of the rubbings and sketches we made before we, er, raised him, so it’s not a complete loss. And as to your question…” She sipped her tea, thinking. “Do you mean favorite novel or favorite book? Because I’m not sure I can pick just one.”

“Top three, then.” Rick leaned on his elbow, watching her with the same interest he had shown at Hamunaptra. Evie felt herself blushing. She could get used to this.

“Well, then, I would probably have to say Professor Walter Emerson’s book on hieroglyphics, since it was a huge influence on me when I was a child; Flinders Petrie’s book Naukratis, and well, Persuasion.”

Rick grinned. “Which is why it was here, among all the books on Egyptology.”

“Quite.” Evie brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t bothered to pin her hair up. “What about you?”

Rick sat back, cradling his teacup in his big, strong hands. “I’d say my favorite book is Around the World in Eighty Days. I have a sentimental attachment to it; it was my favorite as a kid. I’ve read it in the original French, but I like the English translation better. But if I had a top three…” He paused to sip, thinking. “I don’t know, actually. I really like Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan and John Carter books, and I like Rudyard Kipling. I read a lot of Dickens after Gallipoli; they had his complete works at the hospital my regiment was sent to afterwards.”

“You were injured?”

“No.” A shadow passed through Rick’s eyes. “I mean, yes, I got shot in the side, but it was more a flesh wound than anything else. No, they sent us to rest and recuperate before going back to battle. It was a good break.”

He put the teacup down and reached for the pot. Evie hastened to lift it and refill. She brushed Rick’s hand as she scooted the milk jug towards him. He had such beautiful hands.

“I’ve never read Dickens,” she admitted, and he gave her a surprised look. “His writing never grabbed my attention,” she added. “I was much more interested in ancient stories than modern ones.”

“You don’t say.” Rick looked amused. “And you, a librarian. Is that what you got your degree in?”

“Library science? No, I did that afterwards. I, er, I studied Classics and Antiquity at university.”

Rick shifted his hands on the table, moving them close enough to tap the back of Evie’s hand. “Tell me.”

“You don’t mind that I went to university?”

The question leaped out before she could stop it, the tiny insecurity that Evie had always carried deep inside her and only rarely acknowledged. So many men were threatened by academic women. Rick looked astonished.

“Why would I mind that you went to university?” he asked. “Everybody should have the chance to go to university. I’d have loved to go to college. And anyway, of course you’re educated, I mean, look at you. With everything that’s happened the last few weeks, we’d all have died if you hadn’t known exactly what to do and how to read those hieroglyphs and all.”

“I know. It’s just...academic women are...frowned upon by society,” she said. “And I know we met in extraordinary circumstances, but I’ve never...You don’t think I’m ridiculous?”

Rick shook his head. “Nah, Evie, I’m crazy about you.”

And the little flame of her worry flickered and died. Evie smiled at him, folded her fingers around his. Rick squeezed her hand and raised it to his lips. They were going to be just fine.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

She Never Liked Flies

More Lady Dimitrescu fics! Because I love her very much now lol. 

Summary: A lonely Alcina only has flies for company and she hates them very much. And then she is given a Cadou to work with.

She never liked flies, they are pests. They are bothers. They seem to be drawn to her, especially on days that are sweltering. Days when the bodies she has stacked are festering and baking. She hasn’t gotten around to tasting their meat so the flies have begun to make work of them. She is content to leave them to it so long as they leave her be.

But they don’t seem to appreciate her mercy. They’d rather antagonize her; land on her and make her skin twitch and crawl. She snarls and swats them away; having more success with slapping herself than any of the vermin.

She plucks one from her dress and flicks it away with a scowl. She supposes that she should just be rid of the bodies that are attracting them in swarms. She can harvest the village for new, fresher ones anyhow. Alcina’s face bunches in disdain as she makes her way through a cloud of flies. Their buzzing is incessant and aggravating and--with so many of them--impossible to ignore. They hang greedily about the corpses. Her corpses. She thinks that they may have gotten more of a feast than she had. She waves them away with her hand only for them to drift right back into place as though to antagonize her specifically. She thinks to crush them all, but what a mess that would make and one that doesn’t suit her aesthetic quite as well as blood.

She stoops to pick up one of the bodies. Her hand only has to graze it for a swarm of flies to burst out of the corpse’s chest cavity and into her face. Her face contorts once more in agitation. She thinks that one of the teeny pests has made its way into her mouth. She hoists the body up and over her shoulder. One by one she collects them. One by one the swarm grows larger

A few more moments, she reassures herself. A few more moments and the bodies will be outside and out of mind. A few more moments and she will be mostly rid of this loathsome flies.

She puts it in her mind to never leave the corpses in her dining room for that long again. Their blood is a honey for the flies and the meat is an incubator for their maggots. They multiply at such a ridiculous rate in such optimal conditions.

She ducks under the door and pulls it shut behind her. If she never sees another fly again in her life that would do her just fine.

.oOo.

Alcina finds that the flies are her only company. She isn’t exactly sociable but she shouldn’t like to call herself a recluse. She likes to think herself a fine, well-mannered lady. The sort that worthy, powerful folks might seek kinship with. And yet she has no one at all.

No one who comes by her castle save for Heisenberg every now and then, but his company can be loathsome at the best of times. She thinks it beneath her and yet she can’t help but to crave companionship nearly as ravenously as she desires flesh and blood. She gracefully licks her fingers clean of it.

The girl she drinks from is a pretty thing; youthful and willowy, just older than fifteen. She has the face of innocence, though it is growing ashen and hollow. Sometimes it is hard for her to remember feelings. Sometimes she forgets that she still has them. For her forgetfulness, when emotion does work its way back in, it takes her by surprise. And with surprise comes intensity. Intensity that is almost too much for her to shoulder.

This time it creeps up on her. Slowly. Subtly. Undetectable until she is taken by emotion in full. This time it stirs within her in such a way that she feels almost human again. Weak.

It comes upon her as she stares at that youthful face. It comes under the guise of her yearning for companionship and intimacy. Alcina steps away from the girl’s body and takes to her bedroom, the feeling follows her. Whatever it is, she can’t quite name it. Can’t quite name it and can’t quite shake it. Neither can she understand it. And so she can’t process it.

Putting it aside is her best option. This emotion, like a single breeze through a long abandoned crypt, clings to her. She tries to bury it under the elegant hum of a cello. She perches near her bedroom window and slides the bow over its strings until her wrists start to cramp. And when the melancholy still refuses to leave her she tries to mask it beneath smoke. A drag from her kiseru does little at all. She thinks that she could smoke the night away and see little pay off.

And it comes to her what she is feeling. It is longing. Longing and mournful nostalgia. A touch of regret. And she remembers. Remembers something from very long ago. From what might as well be another life entirely.

She remembers children. It is distant now but she is almost certain that she had, had one. A small boy. A broken boy who didn’t last past his third winter before withering the same as a rose.

She remembers nights both long and short of trying to have herself another to replace the hollow left by the withered child. The child who became feed for the flies. Those hateful flies that have tasted her child on their maws.

She remembers babies who died before they lived. Two of them before she gave up.

Alcina craves company more than ever. The castle seems somehow too big even for her. The only company she has are the flies.

.oOo.

She plants three Cadous. And three Cadous are taken by three separate swarms.

Her lips curl back in resentment, nose crinkles with aggravation. They take her meals and now they tarnish her experiments. Loathsome little beasts. She will be rid of them somehow. She watches them flick and flit about, untroubled and ignorant of what she has in store for them.

They dodge the slap of her hand. Swirling around her as though she is of no concern at all. Her temper rouses. They fly higher as though they think that they can ever be out of her reach. And then they begin to take shape and color.

She very nearly slices them to ribbons and then she sees a face. A young and pretty face. A smiling face with soft doe eyes. The young woman reaches out, her fingers brush the fabric of Alcina’s dress. “Mother?”

She yanks her dress out of its grasp and swats at the thing. A pest, one giant, talking pest.

She hates the face it makes, that pitiful expression.

“Leave.”

It furrows it’s brows.

Perhaps it isn’t as sentient as she had initial thought. It is, afterall, only a cluster of flies. “Leave my castle.” She turns on her heel. Decidedly, she will destroy it if she comes back to find it still dwelling in the room.

.oOo.

She hadn’t expected to come back to two more of them. Surprise and outrage alone became their protectors. “Mother?” The eldest of them inquires again. It’s voice is soft and quiet. The way it looks at her…

It is only a bundle of flies and yet it looks at her with such warmth and love. They all look upon her with the sort of affection she hasn’t seen since her mutation. Something in her breaks. She hadn’t realized that she could still cry, not until she feels wetness on her cheeks.

“It’s okay mother.” Assures the one with the yellow pendant fixed around its neck.

“We’re here now.” Says the third, the youngest presumably.

They are just flies. So many flies. But the eldest steps forward and when Alcina stoops down, she wipes her tears away. Gently, tenderly. Just like a real child.

Hesitantly, Alcina takes her tiny hand. The fly child peers up at her with such adoration, a bright and eager smile.  “You’re going to be alright, mother.” Declares the middle child. “You have us now.”

“You won’t be alone.” Adds the youngest.

And she believes them. She believes her...her children. Absently she finds herself wrapping her arms around them. She can feel the beating of thousands of wings and if she squeezes too tightly some of the flies break off. She can’t help but make a reflexive cringe.

They are unperturbed. The nuzzle their faces against her chest. Her children. The company she had longed for; her human dream finally fulfilled and yet she is apprehensive. They are flies, just an assembly of flies.

.oOo.

She is thankful that she never found it in her to exterminate them. They love her. They look up to her. They give the castle an aura that it had needed. They each have their own quirks. Their own hobbies. Their own peeves and dislikes.

Bela is quiet; a young woman of academia who finds entertainment in discovery and literature. She is a poet and a linguist.

Cassandra is an artist of her own.  She can pick a body apart in ways that Alcina herself could have never dreamed up. The girl has a knack for knives and a sharp tongue to match.

And Daniela is unpredictable. A feral little thing. She is difficult to tame, prone to making a perfect mess of Castle Dimitrescu. Her interests change day to day.

They are a handful. A handful and a helpful. Harvesting the village is easier with their help. Mealtimes and glasses of fine wine are richer now that they are here to make conversation with her. When they laugh with her and inquire, “mother?”

Sometimes she lets them fall asleep leaning against her. Sometimes she reads to them. Reads the stories that she might have read to that little boy had he not wilted. A part of the woman she once loved is still ever present and that part of her loves her little darlings dearly, as though they were born of her own womb and not a Cadou and hundreds of eggs.

They are flies. They are her children. They are her Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela.

She never liked flies but she loves her children.

[honey-crypt]

elliott that sings his heart out while drunk asf x gn/m farmer? You know the drill :3

also saying that again, ur writing makes me giggle n kick my feet have a great day dude

a/n: i went all out if you couldn’t tell, only the best for the queen of elliott art herself!!! also attaching the drunk singing elliott art she posted for visualization reasons lol. this was a literal blast to write, i had to rewind somethin’ stupid like a hundred times to get the flow right. also follow @fuerrziah cuz her art is the best and she is da best <3 

word count: 2.1k

warnings: alcohol, drunk antics, suggestive ending

summary: you knew elliott got a bit silly and unfiltered when drunk, but you didn’t realize that the man could belt it like the best of them until you witness him sing frank sinatra's somethin’ stupid.

★ sinatra - elliott x farmer ★

The Stardrop Saloon was the heart of Pelican Town, a bar and restaurant full of laughter and chatter every night, as Gus brewed pretty cocktails and Emily bounced from room to room taking and delivering orders. To some, it was a place to unwind after a hard day or to spend time with friends while to others, it was a second home. 

Often, you frequented the saloon to treat yourself to a meal and a drink, and tonight was no different. You were too exhausted from harvesting melons, chasing after chickens, and so on to bother microwaving something, much less cooking an actual meal. With a heavy sigh, you plopped down at your usual spot and waved Emily over with a tired smile, “Hey Em.”

“(Y/N)!” the waitress greeted you with her usual sunshine demeanor, “Good to see you tonight!” she clicked her glitter pen and hovered it over her notebook, “The usual tonight?”

“You know me well,” you chuckled softly. Emily scribbled down a few lines and stated, “Should be ready in fifteen. Can I get you a drink beforehand?”

“Water with lemon,” you answered, your mouth drier than the Calico Desert from the summer heat. Emily nodded and went behind the bar, pouring you a tall glass of ice water with a lemon garnish. She returned to your table and set the drink down on the wooden coaster, “Drink up and have a good night.”

“You as well, Em,” you hummed, watching the blue haired woman disappear into the crowd of bar patrons. The walls of the saloon vibrated from the amount of noise produced in such a small space. You weren’t surprised at the amount of people present at the Stardrop Saloon; after all, it was Friday, the busiest night. At least, Emily and Gus will get some good tips. You down your water without care, as some of the liquid spilled from your lips and down your chin onto your overalls.

“Parched?” a deep but honey-like voice hummed. You looked up and locked eyes with your closest friend, Elliott, hovering next to you. Ink stained his strong calloused hands, presumably a remnant of a hours-long writing session. 

“Absolutely,” you exhaled, “It’s hotter than Hades’ taint.”

Elliott snorted, emerald eyes crinkling up while he smiled down upon you, “I can agree with you on that, my friend. I fear that if it gets any degree warmer, I must forgo my long sleeves.”

You side-eyed Eliott’s sleeved arms, as he borrowed the seat across from you, seeing the outline of toned muscle. You could take your suspenders off, too. you thought to yourself, waving a passing Emily over and requesting another water with lemon, For a beachfront Hemingway, you sure have the physique of a Greek God.

“How did your day on the farm go?” the writer asked, resting his elbows on the table. You plucked your glass off the table and pressed it against your forehead, “I shoulda taken today off, but the mayor just had to request two dozen melons for his outing with the governor,” you grumbled, annoyed at Mayor Lewis but more so at the sweltering heat that suddenly enveloped the room. 

“Rest days are always good,” the redhead let out a low hum of agreement, “Perhaps, you can do so tomorrow?”

“I doubt it. Shane ordered three dozen hot peppers,” you sent daggers to the man in question from across the room, as Shane drank his beer by Gus’s prized wooden bear statue. Elliott’s lips formed a frown, “The life of a farmer, one of never ending labor,” he laughed. 

Emily approached your table and set down another glass of water with lemon for you, “Here’s your usual,” she added before placing a plate of spaghetti by your water, “Want some parmesan?”

“What is this, the Gotoro Empire? Of course, I want some,” you jested. Emily giggled and handed you the shaker of parmesan, “Just let me know if you need more,” she then directed her attention to Elliott, “Hi Elliott! You looking for your usual tonight, too?”

“Yes, please, my dear,” he answered, adjusting his suspenders, “And a pale ale for my friend, as well.”

“Coming right!” the waitress skipped off to the back of the bar. You raised an eyebrow at Elliott while you drowned your spaghetti in heaps and heaps of parmesan, “What’s the occasion?”

“Can I not treat one of my closest friends to a nice drink after a hard day’s work?” the writer clutched his heart, “You wound me, (Y/N).”

“You’re so fucking cheesy,” you rolled your eyes with a playful twinkle in your eyes, “You know I don’t object to anything free, especially a free drink.”

Emily returned with Elliott’s usual, a pint of beer and a crab cake, as well as a pale ale for you, “Enjoy your meals!” she gave the two of you a thumbs up, “Wave me down if you need anything.”

You touched your lips to the cool glass and drank, the hot and ice sensation of alcohol coating your throat, “Shit,” you exhaled, “I needed that, thanks.”

“Of course,” your friend offered you a smile, that stupid smile you often saw on the cover of a romance novel, “How about a toast?” he held his beer up, “To friendship and a hard day’s work?”

“I’ll cheers to that,” you chuckled and clinked glasses together. As the night went on, one glass turned into two, then three, and so on. You tapped out after two glasses, as for Elliott, the Scot in him already finished four glasses of beer. His cheeks were flushed like the color of his hair, his eyes fluttering while he held back a hiccup, “Oh Yoba…” your friend tucked some loose hair behind his pierced ear, “I think… I think I went overboard.”

“You think?” you questioned. Emily returned with Elliott’s fifth glass of the night and you mouthed to her, “Cut him off for tonight,” to which she nodded in agreement. 

“You usually max out at three, is something on your mind?” your ears rang and your head throbbed from the noise of overlapping conversations around the saloon. Elliott finished his fourth glass of beer, a bit of foam smeared on the right corner of his lips, “Oh, (Y/N), I won’t bore you-” he hiccuped, “-with my woes. I’m simply a tortured artist destined to be consumed by my work.”

You grabbed a napkin and leaned down towards Elliott, “Hold still,” you whispered, as you dabbed away the foam from his lips. His face turned to a darker shade of red, “You’re so close,” he whispered back, eyes hazy. You pulled away and set the used napkin aside, “Sorry, you had foam on your face,” you mumbled, averting your gaze.

Behind you, Pam dragged herself towards the jukebox and slammed a quarter in its slot, grumbling to herself about hating the cheerful swing of the current song, “Shit,” you heard her curse, “Wrong button,” the atmosphere of the saloon abruptly switched from chaotic to sombre, as a light guitar riff filled the air. 

“Oh!” Elliott leapt to his feet, “I know,” he covered his mouth to hiccup, “I know this song!” he then approached the jukebox and leaned on it for support, swaying his index finger from side to side to the rhythm of the music. You smiled to yourself and sipped your water, only to choke on it like a Yoba damn fool the moment Elliott began to sing.

“I know I stand in line… Until you think you have the time… To spend an evening with me,” his voice was a neat match to the original singer, a light baritone, “And if we go someplace to dance… I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me…” 

Elliott unbuttoned a few notches on his sea blue dress shirt, exposing his defined collarbone and a bit of wispy chest hair, “Then afterwards we drop into a quiet place and have a drink or two…” he glazed over your face and body with a drunken smile, “And then I go and spoil it by saying somethin' stupid like I love you…” Elliott untied his ponytail, luscious locks free from their confinement and resting against his shoulders.

Your pupils dilated; no longer was the saloon filled with static chatter and the slamming of glasses, but instead everyone ogled silently at Elliott, his vocals amplified. He pushed himself off the jukebox and stumbled a bit, taking your hands in his, “I see it in your eyes, that you still despise the same old lies you heard the night before…” he touched one of his hands to your cheek and cupped it, “And though it’s just a line to you; for me, it’s true and never so right before…”

“Elliott?” your voice croaked, your blood rushing to your extremities and your heartbeat overwhelmingly rapid. He gave you a lopsided smile and continued to sing, “I practice every day to find some clever lines, to make the meaning come true…” 

No, no. He’s just singing the song. This doesn’t mean anything, you tried to reason with yourself, but it fell short, as Elliott serenaded the next few lyrics, “But then I think I’ll wait until evening gets late and I’m alone with you… The time is right, your perfume fills my head-” he leaned closer to you and inhaled your musk, “-The stars get red and, oh, the night’s so blue… And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like-” you could feel Elliott’s breath against the side of your neck, as he sang in your ear, “I love you…” 

You couldn’t move, you couldn’t breathe. The alcohol in your system, the summer heat, Elliott’s closeness, made your mind go foggy; you were hanging onto every single word that spilled from the redhead’s pretty little lips. Elliott passionately belted out the instrumental pause, trying his best not to laugh, earning a laugh from you, nonetheless. 

He stood back up and pulled you off your feet with him, repeating the chorus, “The time is right, your perfume fills my head,” he twirled you around, “The stars get red, and, oh, the night's so blue… And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like I love you…” even when intoxicated, Elliott was a true Casanova, holding onto you and swaying you side to side to the music.

“I love you…” 

You met his eyes, oh how they shined like gemstones.

“I love you…”

Your knees turned to jelly, you clung to your friend for dear life.

“I love you…”

Your surroundings vanished; no more saloon, no more patrons, just you and Elliott.

“I love you…”

You leaned closer, your chest against his.

“I love you…”

You pressed your lips against Elliott’s, savoring the aftertaste of beer and crab cakes, as the jukebox switched to the next song and the world around you returned to its original state. Elliott kissed you back, you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in control but Yoba, did he taste divine. Oh, to have the confidence of a drunken fool at all hours of the day, you grabbed at his hair and tugged on the strands, Elliott moaning against your wet lips. 

“Hey, you two!” Pam’s voice snapped you back into reality and broke the kiss, “Get a room!” Her words garnered a few similar statements from other bar patrons.

Through glossy eyes and clouded minds, you leaned your body against Elliott’s and asked, “Well… should we?” to which he pecked you on the lips, “That’s a splendid idea,” you tossed your own wallet on the table to pay for the two of you’s meals and interlocked arms with one another, supporting one another’s uncoordinated bodies. To the door and out you went, as you and Elliott roamed the streets of Pelican Town towards his cabin, exchanging laughs and kisses. 

…

…

…

bonus:

Back in the Stardrop Saloon, Pam plopped her ass back in her seat, relieved that the farmer and Elliott were finally gone. She gestured to Gus for another beer and commented aloud, “About time those two lovebirds figured it out.”

“Indeed,” answered Gus, as he dropped Pam a foamy beer, “They make a cute couple.”

“Oh, dear!” Emily walked up to Gus with the farmer’s wallet in hand, “They left their wallet here, should I run after them?”

Gus chuckled to himself and shook his head, “Put it in lost and found, I don’t think we should disturb those two tonight. 

[toixxx-ace]

open up your heart/like the gates of hell by nimpark

I'm feeling a huge mix of emotions because this is the first fic for the The Death of Jane Lawrence fandom tag on AO3. I am now posting this everywhere lol

open up your heart/like the gates of hell (541 words) READ ON AO3

Fandom: The Death of Jane Lawrence - Caitlin Starling | Pairing: Augustine Lawrence/Jane Lawrence | Summary:

you stay soft/get beaten/only natural to harden up/you stay soft/get eaten/only natural to harden up

After the dust has settled, Augustine finds himself feeling out of place. Unsure if he should talk to Jane. Unsure if he wants to talk to Jane, if his gut is correct about this. He doesn't know if it's easier to go with the flow and keep his thoughts buried. He doesn't know much of anything anymore.

You have nightmares every night since Lindridge Hall fell. When you wake, you never wake up scared. Not like your darling, determined wife. Not like Jane.

Every morning you wake up in a fog. Confused by what you saw. Like a distant memory, falling through your fingers like trickling water. You have trouble telling what is real and what is not.

It is always a crazed hunger. A piercing fear and loneliness. Shadows creeping in around your vision, one you can make out with shiny eyes red as blood. None of it scares you, but it confuses you greatly.

Some of these nightmares you find yourself in a darkness, a tunnel system you can't find your way out of. You stumble on statues of angels and headstones in these nightmares. It is a place you recognize as the crypt, the place you saved your Jane in, the place she breathed life's breath again. But you are hungrier than you have ever been, thirstier than you can fathom, and scared out of your mind.

You dare not bother Jane with these fanciful nightmares. Surely she's dreamt of far worse things. It's no use bothering her when she copes just fine.

In spite of this logic, you find yourself dwelling on these nightmares. Typically in the worst possible moments. Distracted during check ups on patients, while making dinner for yourself and Jane, in front of the apothecary's desk during your restock trips. Memories from these nightmares plague your waking days as well as your restful nights.

Dr. Nizamiev stares at you sometimes instead of speaking, after her talks with Jane. She makes it a habit to visit at least once a month. You mention to Jane that you don't think you've seen her so often since you lived in Camhurst but Jane just stops and says that she's been visiting like this since you've been married. It takes you aback. Every time the doctor stares at you, like there are words at the edge of her teeth, you want to grab her shoulders and demand answers. But you never do.

The worst of it is when you look at your wife. Really look at Jane. Her soft blonde curls like golden honey tucked up in pins. Her clear eyes. Her gentle hands, turning the pages in her books and assisting you with breakfast and their cool steadiness when she's helping you with a patient. You've never met a woman like Jane and you don't think you ever will. You never want to meet another woman like Jane. You love only Jane.

Though, sometimes you look at her and see a blank spot. A spot where someone else has been.

It is one of those moments when she turns and looks at you. Her eyes widen in something (fear? worry?) before she smiles serenely and presses her warm hand against your cheek.

"You keep staring, dear," she says. She's never done anything to make you assume otherwise, but you have a creeping suspicion that she's changed you. And you don't know if it's for the better. But she's here and she's all you ever wanted, so you clasp your hand over hers. You smile.

"I'm just so grateful to have you in my life."

[chelsfic]

Five Times Nandor Tried and Failed to Make a New Vampire, and One Time He Succeeded - Guillermo x Nandor fic (one-shot)

WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: Journey into Nandor’s past and discover the real reason he’s been so hesitant to turn Guillermo all these years...

A/N: I hope you enjoy this small offering!! If you like and comment that would make me a very happy little writer creature.

Warnings: Crack, Fluff, Smut, mentions of concubines in Nandor’s human past, Blood drinking...obviously

---

“Truth be told, I’m not feeling my usual plucky, intrepid self.”

  Nandor bares his fangs in a nervous smile. He’s sitting stiffly on the chaise in his crypt, fiddling with his rings as the documentary people question him about tonight’s...big event.

  The vampire lifts his eyes to the ceiling and exhales before continuing, “It’s just--and I don’t like talking about this, but Guillermo says I need to work on expressing my...feelings--it’s just that in the past I might not always have been... entirely successful in making new vampires.”

  There’s a beat of awkward silence during which Nandor casually picks at some lint on his sleeve.

  “I mean, there was my nineteenth wife…”

  ---

  Andrakis

  Nandor languished in the empty halls of his palace for a week after his thirty-seven wives left. But at a certain point there comes a time to stop moping and start acting. Plus he’d eaten all of the servants and he was a little alarmed by the crowd of peasants outside armed with pitchforks and torches. 

  So, his new vampiric form was a little problematic. He was now homeless, wifeless and--worst of all--horseless. Driven from his land, Nandor was forced to take refuge from the lethal light of day in whatever haphazard way he could. He snuck into wine cellars. He broke into catacombs. And, most shamefully, he even buried himself in the earth when no other shelter was available. But at least his new state gave him the means to solve one of his problems. 

  There was no reason that Nandor should have to walk the night alone. He thought he remembered enough of what transpired on the battlefield to be able to turn someone else into a vampire. And as soon as the thought occurred to him he knew there was only one person with whom he wished to share this cursed gift.

  Andrakis . His favorite wife. She was sweet and young, with a magnificent ample backside that Nandor loved to squeeze and slap. She had not yet bore him any children but perhaps that was for the best. No messy loose ends for her to leave behind. He knew she would agree for she, alone among his wives, had wept sorrowfully as they rode away. 

  Nandor used his new vampiric senses to find her. It took months, but eventually he tracked her back to her family home along the Euphrates. He walked through lands scorched and ruined by his own army and he thought about the first time he laid eyes on Andrakis. As he recalled, the town was on fire and his men were pillaging the wealthy houses for gold and jewels. They were also rounding up the attractive, young citizens for...reasons. Nandor took one look at his sweet Andrakis and said, “No! That one is for me and me only!”

  So romantic.

  He could have kept her as his concubine, but Nandor was infatuated with her sweet, soft spoken ways and her delicious round thighs. He gave her jewels and furs and when he finally returned from the campaign he made her one of his wives. All Nandor’s wives loved him, of course, because if they didn’t he would have their heads chopped off. But it was different with Andrakis. She seemed to truly care. She fretted when he went into battle, insisting that she be the one to help him don his armor. She cried real tears and begged him to be safe and return to her. It really moved him. Also, again, she had a fantastic ass.

  The night he, at last, found her, Nandor floated up to her window, scratching at the wooden shutters and calling to her softly. 

  “My sweet Andrakis! It is I, your husband, Nandor the Relentless! I’ve come to assert my claim on you, cherished one! Do you...want to, maybe, come to the window now and let me inside?”

  With his heightened abilities, he could hear her soft gasp and the rustle of fabric as she pushed back her bed coverings and slowly approached the window. Nandor heard her heart racing, the thundering gush of blood flowing through her veins and her trembling breath. He opened his mouth and his eyes rolled back with pleasure as he caught the smell of her blood just on the other side of those thin planks of wood.

  “Time to open up, sweet one!” Nandor singsonged, placing his hand on the shutter as if he could reach through and grab her.

  “Is it really you, my husband?” Her voice was as soft and sweet as he remembered. 

  “It is really, really me, Andrakis!”

  She unlatched the window and Nandor beamed at the sight of her pretty, round face. That may have been a mistake--he kept forgetting about the fangs--the poor woman took a quick step back and brought her hands to her chest in shock.

  “Oh, my Nandi! What has happened to you?” her eyes widened and she took a cautious step toward the window, peeking out over the sill, “You are flying, dear one!”

  “Isn’t it great?!” Nandor laughed, kicking his legs out merrily and doing a little twirl. “I thought you might want to join me. You know...with the flying and the eternal life and the--ehm--blood drinking.”

  She started to shake her head before he even finished and Nandor’s smile faltered. He rushed back to the window sill and placed his hands there, just on the outside edge of the invisible barrier protecting the home’s occupants. 

  “Andrakis...I am so lonely. And...and there is no one to help me with my armor or give me a massage when my head hurts. I think you liked being my wife, didn’t you?”

  The woman’s eyes flood with tears and she comes even closer, leaning onto the window sill and reaching out a shaking hand to press against his bearded cheek.

  “I love you, Nandi! And I am honored to be your wife, always. I will not take another husband, but… Nandor, I am frightened!”

  “My honey,” Nandor crooned, laying his forehead against hers as she leaned out the window, “There is nothing to fear. I will protect you forever if you will stay by side.”

  ---

  “...and then I ate her.”

  Nandor held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders, “What are you going to do? These things happen, right? No! I was very upset about it for the next eighty years or so. She trusted me to take care of her and I fucking ate her!”

  Nandor stares into space for a long moment. He’s had eight centuries to get over the loss of his favorite wife so it’s not grief that shows on his pinched face. It looks more like apprehension and self-doubt. The crew asks a muffled question and he starts as if they’ve woken him from a daydream.

  “No...no I do not think I would ever recover if I were to lose control with my Guillermo,” his hands clench into fists on his knees. “I will not lose control.”

  There’s more silence and one of the crew members suggests cutting the interview when Nandor continues as if he hasn’t heard them, “Guillermo is strong. He’s a cool, vampire killer guy now. He will be alright. He...he has to be alright.”

  ---

  “Nadja?” Nandor stands at the threshold to her and Laszlo’s crypt, anxiously plucking his fingers in the air. “May I speak with you about something in private? In the fancy room?”

  Nadja is braiding her dolly’s hair. There’s something really creepy about that thing that Nandor can’t quite put his finger on. Like it’s always watching him. Yeesh . Nadja rolls her eyes and snaps, “Can’t we talk in here? I’m going to tell Laszlo whatever pig-brained scheme you’re wanting to talk about anyway…”

  Nandor glances at Laszlo, hunched over and diddling the keys of his organ with a shit-eating grin, “That’s true, old chap. There are no secrets between me and my sweet mamtam…”

  Laszlo winks smarmily and Nandor rolls his eyes, “Please, Nadja! It is just a formality!”

  She shrieks in aggravation, accidentally yanking the doll’s hair and then cooing apologetically at the thing. Nandor grimaces uncomfortably.

  “Fine, you stupid ostrich. But this better be quick!”

  Once he’s properly secured the curtain and made sure to check for eavesdroppers, Nandor lays it out for Nadja. He speaks haltingly and without meeting her eyes. 

  “So...you see, now that Guillermo and I are...are...more than master and familiar, I am wanting to make him a vampire. But you may have noticed that my past attempts in this area have been a little shaky…”

  “Shaky! I think you mean totally fucked up the rotten asshole! Don’t forget you told me all about Babsy the Brainscrambled!”

  ---

  Babaius

  Babaius was a little guy he met a couple hundred years after the whole thing with Andrakis. He was a Wallachian painter’s apprentice and he had agreed to do a gratis portrait of Nandor for the practice. The portrait was flat and middling, but what did you want? It was the 16th century and the cool Renaissance shit hadn’t exactly reached the backwoods of Eastern Europe quite yet. More important was the fact that this cute painter guy had managed to ingratiate himself with the apex predator he had unwittingly invited into his home.

  Originally, Nandor’s plan was to kill him once the portrait was complete. But the longer he sat there, staring back at the man as he worked with that cute little half-smirk on his face, the longer Nandor had to appreciate his form. Babaius was not as curvy and sensuous as Andrakis. He was taller and leaner. But his lips were pleasantly plump and his fingers long and elegant. Again, Nandor felt the weight of eternal loneliness and he began to wonder.

  This time he made sure to feed beforehand. When he arrived at the human’s rooms he found him looking more excited than Nandor had ever seen him.

  “It’s complete!” he gushed, grabbing Nandor’s hand and pulling him over to the easel. “Come see!”

  Nandor stared at the clumsy, dour-faced rendering of himself and smiled politely. Is this really what I look like? Why is my head so small?

  He felt the weight of Babaius’s hopeful eyes on him and schooled his voice into false praise, “Wow! It’s...so...wow! You sure used a lot of...orange on my face, didn’t you? Bold choice…”

  “I’m so pleased that you like it, Nandor,” the human’s voice was slightly breathless and he looked up through his lashes coquettishly. Ah ha!

  “Yes, well, now that that’s done…” Nandor swept Babaius’s long hair off his shoulder and plucked at the collar of his thin shirt. “Perhaps we could discuss other things…”

  “ Oh, yes! ” Babaius trilled, launching himself into Nandor’s arms and frantically dropping kisses on his neck, chin and jaw. “I thought ...but I wasn’t certain… but yes, Nandor! Yes!”

  Nandor wrapped his arms around the man’s back and laughed a little at just how easy this was going to be. No mistakes this time. He was completely and totally in control.

  ---

  “Alright, Najda! I get it! I know you have to give them more than just one drop of blood now, okay?”

  Nadja nods somberly, “That poor man. Could not even remember his own name after you turned him. What happened to him again?”

  “I ripped off his head,” Nandor snaps, sinking into the couch cushions in a sulk. “It was the humane thing to do.”

  Nadja squints her eyes trying to remember something, “But wasn’t there someone else after…?”

  Nandor’s lips thin into a narrow line and he crosses his arms over his chest with a huff of annoyance, “I suppose you mean Aggy the Shrieker?”

  ---

  Agnes

  Agnes was something called a Quaker, which meant that she did not go about wearing a crucifix. She was also highly susceptible to hypnosis. Nandor didn’t think this had anything to do with her Quaking, it was just a nice bonus. She’d served him well for a number of years, procuring a very fine assortment of virgins for him night after night. The good lady was entirely ignorant to the fact that it was she who drew these young innocents to their doom. Nandor erased her memories each time before sending her away. She would hem and cluck along with the other Friends when news of a disappearance reached her ears.

  After a few decades, Nandor noticed that her face was starting to turn wrinkly and her movements were not as swift as they once were. The prospect of finding another familiar with a brain as soft and accepting as Agnes’s was a wearying thought. Enough so that he considered, once again, trying his hand at creating a new vampire. 

  This time it was a sure thing. Agnes appeared at his doorstep that night, like always. At her side was a fresh-faced boy whose blood positively shouted his innocence. Delicious . Nandor would feed first. Then he would just do a quick refresher of Agnes’s hypnosis so that the poor lady did not have a fright once she saw Nandor’s blood stained face. And then a quick nip and plenty of blood. Voila! A new wrinkly-faced vampire baby is born.

  The plan was faultless.

  ---

  “And no hypnosis! Alright. Seems nit-picky, but fine!” Nandor grumbles. He seems suddenly to remember that Nadja is helping him and his voice softens, “ Please, Nadja . No more walking on memory street. Just tell me what to do so that I do not hurt Guillermo. I cannot stand the thought of him becoming a shrieker .”

  “Nandor, you beautiful giant baby,” Nadja’s face gentles into genuine sympathy. “I’m going to tell you just what to do. Even you won’t be able to mess this up.”

  And she does. She tells him how to listen to his human’s heart and count the seconds in between beats, waiting until just the right moment to finish drinking. She advises him to prepare his blood ahead of time, decanting it into a vial or mug. He should not count on Guillermo being conscious enough to suckle from his wrist as he’d originally intended. Pour the blood down his throat if he has to. Once he drinks the blood the transition will begin, but Nandor’s work is not done. He must procure for his new vampire the most succulent of virgin feasts. He must care for him during the sickness. He must watch over him and make sure that the baby vampire does not do anything silly like run out into the sunlight or drink a gallon of holy water. 

  “You must be resolved and sure in your actions!” Nadja finally says, casting a skeptical glance at the immortal warrior. “You think you can handle all that?”

  Nandor sits there looking shell shocked for a moment before twitching his mouth into a forced smile and holding up two thumbs.

  “OK-A!”

  ---

  On his way back to his crypt Nandor glances into the camera and leans in conspiratorially.

  “She does not even know about Roger the Rocker or Benjy…” he whispers, his lips folding into an embarrassed frown.

  ---

  Roger

  During the 1970s Nandor went through a brief but intense love affair with punk rock. Disco would soon supplant the vampire’s fixation on studded leather and the Sex Pistols, but for a few fleeting years he was, truly, insufferable.

  “ Fucking goats’ balls ! Nandor! We are trying to have a blood feast in here! Will you turn off that unholy screeching!?” Nadja shouted, blood dripping down her chin as she drew back from the pathetically mewling woman sandwiched between herself and her husband. 

  Laszlo reared back with a lecherous grin on his bloody lips, “Did I hear you mention something about unholy screeching, my sweet dimplebottom?”

  “ Oh, Laszlo! ” Nadja giggled, leaning over the dying victim to latch onto her lover’s mouth. 

  Nandor slammed the door to his crypt and rolled his eyes, “Don’t mind them, Roger. They’re just a couple of sell-out perverts who don’t understand ay-narchy and non-conformationism.”

  Roger was a young human man with spiked green hair and a studded leather vest. He was the coolest familiar Nandor had ever had. He was also an alcoholic and a heavy drug user and half the time he didn’t even do what Nandor asked of him. But once he explained about “the man” and toppling “the system”...well, Nandor still didn’t get it but he was impressed! He felt that Roger would bring a certain rebellious youth to their cohort that might give them a cutting edge in these modern times. 

  The problem was that Nandor had never tried drug blood before. It didn’t hit him until Roger was half-drained but then the world spun off its axis. Nandor ripped his face away from Roger’s savaged neck, stumbling backward and falling down hard on his ass. The vampire exploded into a fit of giggles as the familiar twitched limply on the floor beside him.

  “Roger! I am ball tripping!” Nandor laughed, turning his head to look at his friend, “Whoopsie! Almost forgot! Time for a little drinky, Roger…”

  Nandor tore into his own wrist, ripping a jagged wound open with his fangs and smearing the gore over Roger’s lips and chin.

  “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Nandor cackled, falling back down and letting his wrist fall limp against the human’s mouth. He started singing softly under his breath, “Ayyyynarchy and the U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”

  In the end Nandor was so high he went to his slumber completely forgetting about the moaning, half-turned man on the floor of his crypt. He woke the next night to find Roger wandering around the front lawn, sun-burned and hideously deformed. He also had no memory of who Nandor was or anything at all about his human life.

  Nandor wouldn’t see him again until decades later when he caught the skeevy creep trying to take a bite out of Guillermo at the Sassy Cat Club. Nandor was so spooked to see the evidence of his past failure standing next to his most cherished human companion that he...perhaps handled the incident in a less-than-totally-gallant manner.

  ---

  Benjy

  Benjy...to be honest, Nandor isn’t entirely sure what came of the old clunker. He turned him and dumped him. Maybe not his finest moment but...Nandor had other things on his mind at the time…

  ---

  Guillermo

  The moment that Guillermo flew to their rescue at the Nouveau Théâtre des Vampires, Nandor felt something shift inside his chest. It was an actual physical sensation like a key turning in a lock. How many years had he spent building moats, walls and fortresses between himself and his handsome, caring, devoted, achingly good familiar in order to protect his sweet innocence from the poison that was Nandor the Relentless? And all along he’d been underestimating him! Nandor watched Guillermo twirl, kick, punch and stake his way through a theater full of angry vampires. In the end he stood alone on a mountain of conquered enemies, covered in blood and heaving with the adrenaline of battle. 

  Nandor had never been more aroused.

  He was silent and brooding on the drive home. He sat in the passenger seat and kept flicking his eyes in Guillermo’s direction, hoping to catch his gaze. But his ex-familiar kept his eyes fixed on the road, his face a storm cloud of some scary-looking emotion that Nandor couldn’t name. The vampire felt unease crawl up his spine. Was he planning to leave again as soon as he dropped them off at the house?

  Nandor cringed in embarrassment as he watched the look of disappointment cross Guillermo’s features at the sight of the wrecked foyer. Dead bodies littered the floor, candle wax and blood stained every surface. He was overcome with shame and humiliation that they had made such a mess of the home Guillermo had toiled to maintain for eleven years. 

  Guillermo stood awkwardly in the front doorway, not quite inside and not quite outside, hovering on the threshold of their home. It was their home , wasn’t it? Nandor’s eyes flicked to the sad, dirty mattress in the cupboard beneath the stairs and he silently cursed himself. It’s possible he may not have made this quite a happy home for Guillermo.

  “I’ll just...go now…” Guillermo’s voice was soft and uncertain again, as if he hadn’t just committed a bad ass massacre.

  “No!” the word strangled from Nandor’s throat and he lurched forward, raising his hand to stop the human. For a split second he was completely unguarded and the raw desperation in his voice and on his face froze Guillermo in his tracks. Then Nandor’s eyes shifted to his fellow vampires, feeling the weight of their stares and he continued in a closer approximation to his usual haughty authority, “I would speak with you a moment. In private.”

  Once the door to his crypt clicked shut Nandor rounded on Guillermo, taking him by the shoulders and pressing him into the heavy wooden door. He loomed over the human for a moment, fangs bared, breathing raggedly as he scented him. Guillermo’s intoxicating, virginal aroma was mixed with the tang of his enemies’ blood. The irresistible fragrance threatened to overcome the vampire and he let out a pitiful mewling cry as he pressed even closer. Nandor’s forehead thunked against the door and his body was flush with Guillermo’s. Now he would know . The hard, bulging evidence of Nandor’s arousal was pressed into the human’s soft thigh-- unmistakable . Nandor keened a sob and his body went boneless as he fell to his knees in supplication before the human.

  “Guillermo, please!” Nandor sobbed.

  Guillermo stood as if paralyzed, staring back at his former master with shocked, wide eyes. Nandor felt broken, like one of those colorful donkeys split open and pouring out his guts. He did not exactly know what it was he wanted. Everything about this moment was highly uncomfortable. For one thing, the floor was very hard and hurty on his knees. For another thing, his erection was straining painfully in his pants. Also, he was realizing for the first time in his long, long life that there existed a person whom Nandor loved more than himself. And he was desperately, mortally afraid that Guillermo would leave him again.

  “What is it, master?” Guillermo flinched at the slip up but he pressed on, his eyes burning with earnest intensity. “What do you want?”

  Nandor had known the answer to this question for eleven years. He knew it the first time he laid eyes on the sweet, plump mortal working the panini press at Panera Bread. He knew it the first time Guillermo graced him with his smile after Nandor showed him his fangs. He knew it when Guillermo came to live with them, hauling his rolly luggage case up the front steps and shaking with nerves and excitement. He knew it when he spent hours crafting his familiar’s sweet face from glitter. He knew it when Guillermo cried, silently begging Nandor to give him a reason to stay. He’d known it in a thousand different ways for a thousand different reasons and he’d keep knowing it for a thousand years, long after the flicker of Guillermo’s short human life extinguished.

  “You,” Nandor’s voice was a broken whisper. “I want you, Guillermo.”

  The air expelled from Guillermo’s lungs in a shaky gasp as he fell to his knees as well. He took the vampire’s face in his warm little hands and Nandor had to remind himself that those were hands capable of plunging a wooden stake through his heart. The very thought sent another wave of lust through him. 

  Guillermo’s lips trembled and his eyes flooded with tears as he spoke, “If you’re just saying that to manipulate me…”

  Nandor grabbed Guillermo’s wrists, circling them with his long fingers, keeping him from removing his hands from Nandor’s face. 

  “No, Guillermo. I--I have not been a good master to you…” Nandor gulped, fighting years of careful control in order to get the words out. “I’ve lied to you many, many times. Made you think that you were just a servant to me. I thought that I was protecting us both. But...really I was hurting you. When you left me I...I…”

  Nandor’s voice trailed off and Guillermo allowed it, not wanting to push his fragile vampire too far. 

  “If we’re going to do this, I need to know. I need to know what exactly you want from me, Nandor. Because I know what I want. I’ve known for eleven... fucking years,” Guillermo’s voice hardens toward the end and Nandor feels himself go weak. His little Guillermo...so forceful and strong!

  Suddenly the human was leaning in and brushing his lips over Nandor’s. It was the barest, gentlest hint of a kiss but it felt like a live wire touching his skin. Nandor’s eyes drifted closed and he saw stars as Guillermo pushed his tongue between his lips and plundered his mouth. Oh, why had he forced them to wait so long for this?

  Guillermo pulled back, the combination of his blushing cheeks and the splatter of blood along his jaw was a powerful image. Nandor whined, following Guillermo’s movement and pecking kisses to the man’s mouth.

  “Nandor, wait! Stop!” There was mirth in Guillermo’s eyes but a fragile uncertainty as well. “I need you to tell me this is what you want. That I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and find you pretending this never happened. Things have to change if we’re...if we’re going to do this.”

  Nandor nodded frantically, pawing at his human’s face as unmanly tears spilled from his eyes and rolled into the whiskers of his beard. 

  “Yes! Please! I want this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re brave and strong and cool and beautiful and I lo--” Nandor’s mouth snapped shut and his dark eyes widened in fear at the words that almost slipped out. But when he took in his human’s guarded yet hopeful expression he growled and forced them out. “I love you, Guillermo.”

  Guillermo choked on a sob and his face crumbled rather alarmingly. 

  “I love you so fucking much you stupid asshole,” he replied.

  Nandor scowled, “Hey! There’s no need for all that!”

  But before he could work himself up to being truly affronted, Guillermo launched himself at him, knocking Nandor over backwards and attacking his face with his mouth. 

  “Things are going to change,” Guillermo repeated between open-mouthed kisses along Nandor’s bearded jaw.

  “Yes!”

  “I’m not gonna dig graves for you anymore or polish your boots!”

  “...Alright.”

  “And,” Guillermo ripped open the fly of Nandor’s trousers, eliciting a delighted howl from the vampire, “you’re going to make me a vampire.”

  ---

  “So tonight is the night!” Nandor injects false levity into his voice as he strides down the hallway carrying a stack of towels on one arm. The camera shakes as the crew follows behind him. 

  “I’ve made all of the arrangements! We have a juicy virgin in the cell…”

  The camera peaks into a dimly lit closet where a young man is bound and gagged. Across his forehead giant block letters spell out: “DO NOT EAT! GUILLERMO’S VIRGIN FEAST!”

  “I’ve decanted plenty of my blood…”

  Nandor holds up a mason jar filled with thick, dark crimson liquid as he mounts the stairs.

  “I’ve got the towels and Guillermo has a first aid box ready…”

  He finally arrives at the door to the big, blue bedroom and turns around to face the camera with an apologetic smile.

  “ Vampires only! ” He slams the door in their faces.

  Once the door closes behind him Nandor lets out a long breath and his head falls back to hit the wood with a loud thunk. He lets the facade drop for just a second and the cloying anxiety and terror of what he is about to do rises to the surface. Then Guillermo looks up at him from where he’s sitting up on his big new bed and Nandor forces a cheery smile. 

  “Who’s ready for their unholy transformation?!” he warbles, shaking the jar of blood in his hand. 

  Guillermo grins, coming over to stand before him in all his warm, soft, human grandeur. Nandor drops his head and plucks at the sleeve of his ex-familiar’s thick, stripy sweater. He hopes that Guillermo will not think himself too cool to wear such garments once he is a vampire. He’s grown to love Guillermo’s simple human clothes.

  “Nandor…” Guillermo takes the jar and the towels from him, setting them down on his bureau next to the collection of wooden stakes and crucifixes. “You don’t have to pretend. I’m scared too.”

  The vampire lets out a breath and tugs his human into his chest, wrapping him in a fierce, suffocating hug. He lets his cheek rest on top of Guillermo’s dear head. Guillermo clings to the front of Nandor’s long tunic, pressing his face into the rich, embroidered fabric and wetting it with his tears. 

  “It’ll be okay,” Guillermo comforts Nandor, his voice trembling with emotion. In the short weeks since the incident at the theater and since their relationship took such a sharp turn in the right direction, Guillermo has been shocked and pleasantly surprised to find how dramatically the dynamic between them has changed. Guillermo isn’t just Nandor’s equal now. He’s his touchstone, his protector, and his deeply cherished lover. 

  “You don’t know that, Guillermo,” Nandor sniffles. “What if I brainscramble you like I did to Ba...Baba...Bambie?”

  “Babaius?” Guillermo prompts, pulling back from the embrace enough to lock eyes with the weepy vampire. Nandor has told him his whole sorry history of failures and abominations. It was Guillermo’s idea for Nandor to seek out Nadja’s guidance. And though he’s nervous and frightened about his transition...there is no one else in the world from whom Guillermo would accept this gift. “You won’t scramble my brains, Nandor. I trust you.”

  The soft cry that Nandor makes at those words cuts to Guillermo’s soul. 

  Nandor sniffs and attempts to pull himself back together. He speaks confidently, as if his words are an incantation that will somehow conjure success, “Well, of course you trust me, Guillermo. I’m a very strong, cool vampire. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to make another vampire when a freaky pervert like Nadja is doing it all over the place.”

  Guillermo snorts and pulls Nandor in for another quick squeeze before drawing away toward the bed, “Should we…?”

  “Yes...oh! Wait!” Nandor grabs the towels off the bureau, hissing when he accidentally grazes a crucifix with his hand. He hurries forward and starts laying them down on top of Guillermo’s thick comforter. “I don’t want your nice, new bed to get ruined.”

  Guillermo smiles warmly as he watches his ex-master’s efforts. 

  “Well...it’s not like I’ll be sleeping on it anymore after tonight…” he murmurs, causing Nandor to think about the shiny new coffin sitting next to his downstairs. 

  Nandor shrugs, “No...but we might--you know--do other things on the bed still…”

  He smooths his hands over the towels and retrieves the jaw of blood, placing it within easy reach on the nightstand before climbing onto the bed and stretching out in an unintentional come-hither pose. Nandor’s soft, long locks fall over his shoulders and his big, dark eyes look up at Guillermo with longing and terror. He pats the spot beside him on the bed.

  Guillermo clambors up after him, stretching out at his side and letting his head fall into the mountain of pillows that Nandor had insisted on purchasing for him after their...reconciliation. He smiles shyly and looks up at the vampire, his cheeks turning bright red.

  “Is it alright if we...do some of those ‘ other things ’ first?” he asks, dancing his fingers over Nandor’s tunic. “You know...my last time as a h-human?”

  The stutter in Guillermo’s voice interrupts Nandor’s contented perusal of his human’s delicious body and he meets the man’s eyes. Guillermo’s cheeks are irresistibly red and his lips are parted slightly with lust. But his eyebrows are all crinkled and there are still some tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Nandor can’t really relate to Guillermo’s fear. When he was turned he was in the middle of dying on the field of battle. He didn’t have a clue what was happening when the strange vampire descended upon him. What would it feel like to go into it knowingly? To place his life in the hands of the one that he loved knowing there was a chance that things might go terribly wrong?

  Guillermo is incredibly brave.

  “Yes, my Guillermo,” Nandor cries, leaning in and pressing their mouths together in a desperate kiss. “Anything you want.”

  They take their time with the kiss, lips and tongues sliding and probing as they clumsily undress each other. By the time they’re both naked the floor of Guillermo’s bedroom is littered with discarded items of clothing and the towels on the bed are askew. Guillermo throws his leg over Nandor’s thick waist and straddles the man, their aching erections rubbing together as he leans down to trail kisses across Nandor’s hairy chest. 

  Nandor throws his head back in the pillows, his hair tangling as he writhes underneath Guillermo. He will miss the feeling of his human’s impossible warmth. The way his kisses seem to sear a blazing path over Nandor’s cold skin. The way his silky smooth rod pulses with molten heat. The feeling of plunging inside Guillermo’s fiery, grasping tightness. Nandor curses himself, yet again, for not allowing them both to have this sooner. 

  Guillermo’s hips rise and fall as he strokes himself against Nandor. The air between them grows humid with their breath and the room fills with the sounds of whimpers and moans. Guillermo places a hand on Nandor’s chest for balance and he leans over to his nightstand to grab the small bottle of lube sitting there. 

  He holds it aloft and says, as if reading Nandor’s mind, “Do you want to feel me one last time before…?”

  Nandor’s lips split into a grin and he grabs the tube from his human’s hand, nodding fervently as he drips the liquid onto his fingers. He’s careful and gentle with his Guillermo, mindful of how new this still is for him. He reaches between his delicious thighs and slides his wet fingers around until he finds what he’s looking for, pressing gently and then more firmly as Guillermo opens up for him. 

  Guillermo’s breath escapes him and he presses down on Nandor’s fingers with a wanton cry, riding him needily. Once he’s ready, Nandor pours out more liquid, slicking his cock and grasping Guillermo’s hips to move him into position. 

  “Are you ready, Guillermo?” he asks and the words take on an added meaning with the knowledge of what’s to come hovering in the air between them. 

  Guillermo senses Nandor’s seriousness in the moment and he meets his eyes, smiling softly before replying, “Yes, Nandor. I’m ready. Really .”

  The sex is a revelation and a comfort. Falling into Guillermo is like coming home. It’s like finally finding the place he was always meant to be. Even 700 years ago when Nandor was a ruler in his prime, he never felt this level of peace and belonging. He watches his beautiful, strong, brave human fall apart on top of him. They take turns setting the pace. Guillermo bounces frantically in Nandor’s lap until the vampire grabs his hips and holds him still so he can thrust upward, slowly and tenderly. He penetrates deep until Guillermo is near tears and the human’s poor erection is leaking copiously onto Nandor’s soft belly.

  Nandor finally releases his hold on Guillermo’s hips and wraps his hand around his erection, pumping up and down quickly as he bounces the man on his own cock. 

  “I’m close, Guillermo,” he whispers, stroking the human rapidly to edge him along. “Come with me. Please!”

  They fall over the precipice together, panting and clinging as their bodies quake with the intensity of their love making. Guillermo collapses on Nandor’s chest and the vampire wraps his arms around him automatically, soothingly running his palms down his lover’s sweaty back as he twitches and catches his breath. 

  “You’re getting very good at that, Guillermo,” Nandor murmurs with a hint of teasing in his voice.

  Guillermo snorts, “Yeah, I think you’ve almost got the hang of it, too, Nandor.”

  Nandor laughs and smacks his behind playfully, “Do not be thinking that just because you’re going to be a vampire you can start being so cheeky with me! I’m still seven hundred and twenty-eight years older than you, mortal.”

  Guillermo grins and hums in response, pillowing his head into Nandor’s broad chest with a contented sigh. 

  After a little while, Nandor shifts Guillermo off of him and lays him down on the bed with a gentle reverence. He picks up one of the towels and uses it to carefully clean him, dabbing between his legs and swiping over his soft stomach. Nandor takes his time, his face turning dark and serious as he contemplates what comes next. 

  When he’s finally finished he says, almost shyly, “There’s just one more thing I want to do first…”

  Nandor stretches out at Guillermo’s side and rests his head over the human’s chest, directly over his beating heart. His hair fans out over Guillermo’s flushed skin and the human brings his fingers up to toy with it as Nandor listens. 

  Thump...thump...thump…

  How many nights has Nandor awoken in his coffin, still gripped by the horror of a half-remembered nightmare and listened for that comforting sound to lull him back to sleep? How often has he heard that steady rhythm interrupted when Nandor did something that particularly stirred his familiar’s illicit attraction? How many thousands of beats has he taken for granted over the years? Soon that steady tattoo will cease forever. Nandor feels panic grip him but he reminds himself that things will be different this time. Guillermo will come back to him as he always does. 

  He does not feel ready but the hours are ticking away and he’d like to finish this well before dawn. Nandor shuffles up the bed, leaning on an elbow and letting his hair cascade down around Guillermo’s face. He brushes his thumb over his lips, caresses his jaw line and the ridge of his brow. He’s memorizing the way his beloved looks right now, flushed with life. 

  “Guillermo, I want you to know that even if I do scramble your brains--which I won’t!--but even if I do, I will take care of you forever,” Nandor says, his eyes wide and earnest. “I’ll never abandon you or rip off your head. That’s a promise.”

  Guillermo should scoff or snort or roll his eyes but instead he sobs and beams up at Nandor as he answers, “I know, baby. I’ll never leave you or rip off your head either. I promise.”

  Nandor nods and his dark eyes shift to focus on the crook of Guillermo’s neck. His skin is still slicked with the cooling sweat of their coupling and Nandor can see his pulse jumping in his throat. He opens his mouth in a hungry leer and his fangs elongate slightly.

  “This will hurt, Guillermo,” his voice is dark and menacing, but also mournful. “I am sorry.”

  He snakes a hand behind Guillermo’s neck and cradles his head to the side as he lowers his mouth to his vulnerable throat. He hovers there for a moment and marvels at the way his lover’s body surrenders so sweetly to him. Guillermo is soft and loose in his arms, the perfect victim. Nandor banishes that word from his mind. Guillermo, sweet, sensitive, competent, strong, scary, loving, powerful Guillermo. He is not a victim. He plunges his fangs into his human’s soft neck and takes from him the sweetest gift Guillermo has ever given. 

  Nandor’s terror and anxiety melt away as the blood pours over his tongue and down his throat. He has always known that Guillermo would taste delicious but this is ridiculous. He tastes like the joy of riding John over an open plain, he tastes like the excitement of watching the Dream Team do battle on the basketball court, and, most of all, he tastes like Guillermo. Like fuzzy knit hats and secret smiles and quiet evenings playing chess. Like longing and hunger and wistful pain. Like strength and desire and the thrill of conquest. Nandor drinks deeply, memorizing the flavor as his lover goes more and more limp in his arms. 

  He listens, once more, to the beating of that heart, just as Nadja said to do. He waits like Guillermo used to do, listening to the pops while he was making his corn kernel snack in the multiwave machine. Once the rhythm begins to slow Nandor pulls back, licking his lips and scrambling for the jar of blood on the nightstand. 

  He gathers Guillermo into his arms and the human moans low in his throat. Nandor feels unadulterated joy at the sound. He is still here . But when he looks down at his human’s pale, ashen face, a sob tears free from his throat. His lustrous, brilliant Guillermo diminished to such a drab reflection… Nandor mentally slaps himself and unscrews the jar, bringing it to Guillermo’s pale lips. 

  “Time for your snack now, Guillermo,” Nandor’s voice shakes. He strokes his fingers through the human’s curly hair as he lifts his head and begins to tip the contents of the jar into his open mouth. 

  Nothing happens for a small eternity. Nandor watches the blood pool in his lover’s mouth and spill out the sides of his lips with a feeling of increasing helplessness. 

  “Guillermo? Can you still hear me? It’s time to start drinking so you can become a cool vampire just like me and your friend, Armand…”

  Guillermo’s eyes are closed and his body is unnaturally still.

  “Please drink, Guillermo! I’m going to be very cross with you if you do not!”

  His skin looks waxy and he feels heavier in Nandor’s arms. The vampire tugs him further into his lap and clutches him to his chest, tears falling onto the eerily calm face.

  “Guillermo, you said you wouldn’t leave me again, please! ”

  Guillermo swallows. Nandor watches with a giant, goofy grin on his face as the man’s throat bobs and the blood disappears from his mouth. He brings the jar back up to his lips and continues to hand feed him, taking comfort in the way Guillermo’s lips purse as he drinks down the vampire’s life-giving blood. 

  “That’s it, my cherished one,” Nandor says, slipping into endearments he used several lifetimes ago. “Drink, sweet honey. And don’t ever fucking scare me like that again !”

  Guillermo snorts as he drains the dredges from the jar, blood bubbles forming on his lips as they curve into a smile. Nandor watches, his eyes wide and wondering, as Guillermo’s eyes flutter open and he feels a sense of intense relief when he recognizes that smile as the same one he fell in love with eleven years ago. Only...you know...with the fangs and the blood stains…

---

  “So, I’d say it was a marked success!” Nandor shouts into the camera a few nights later. “Of course, there was a lot of vomiting and achy-pains in the beginning...but once that passed and he drank some human blood everything was OK-A! Isn’t that right, Guillermo?”

  The camera zooms out to include Guillermo in the shot. He’s sitting next to Nandor on the chaise, their hands clasped together between them. His skin tone is very much the same although without the lively blush that used to grace his cheeks. He’s noticeably in tact, no pointed ears or deformities and seemingly in full possession of his brains. 

  He smiles and the camera zooms in on his newly minted fangs.

  “ A-OK , Nandor,” he corrects in an affectionate tone. He leans over and kisses the immortal warrior on the cheek.

  Nandor, still unused to public displays of affection, smiles nervously and answers with a roll of his eyes, “As I said, Guillermo!”

[kg2hub]

Tagged by: @universalcarnival (thanks!! :’3c)

Tag 9 people that you’d like to get to know better / catch up with

Last song: honey i’m home - ghost

Last movie: broe i don’t remember what i last watched fuck,,,,,, knowing me it’s probably either, it chapter 2 or happy death day

Currently watching: crypt tv videos

Currently reading: a couple of cool hamefura au fics!! *holds isekai world swaps in my hands* i just think it’s neat

Currently craving: literally anything but doing homework rn save me

Tagging: aaaaaaaaa brain broke if you see this ur tagged, ur welcome

[adaineslittleguys]

Unaging Klaus

got inspired by a fic and Five in the comics. Went to write a short headcanon and my hand slipped. oops.

-Klaus stops aging at around 25. It happened when he died.

-He’s died a lot, from falling down the stairs to ODing to just dumb shit he does, he dies a lot. But most of the time he doesn’t cross the veil that much, a brush, enough that he only has a broken jaw or the paramedics can start his heart again.

-The time he stopped aging was when he gets high out of his mind and stumbles into a fight. Literally, he didn’t fight at all. He was just too high to really process the scene in front of him and suddenly he’s flying into a wall with a sick crack

-He still doesn’t pass enough to meet Little Girl God, but he is legally dead for four minutes. The doctors say that him surviving was a miracle, he’s still riding a high and doesn’t tune in to what they are saying. Even if he was sober, there are too many ghosts here to concentrate on what the doc said.

-Klaus forgets by the next hit he gets, not that he remembered a lot in the first place.

-Ben remembers with perfect clarity the four minutes where he had no earthly tether. He never tells Klaus, he knows Klaus will laugh it off or tell Ben he worries too much. But Ben knows, and he notices that he seems to stop aging.

-Klaus is honestly surprised by how good his body looks, he’s seen countless almost 30 year old’s who look as though they were years ahead of the clock.

-Ben knows it’s because of his death. Knows it changed Klaus in some way, he got paler, thinner but never older. Seeming to be stuck in his own corpse, his temperature drops, it was never warm after the crypt but it takes a nosedive after his most serious death.

-Klaus chalks it up to drugs and living on the streets. That his body learned to conserve energy to keep him warm by cooling off his hands and feet, that his lack of proper health is behind the pale skin and skinny body.

-He still looks nice though, the pale skin stays clear and free of wrinkles, his body still pleasing to the eye, even with the sharp bones.

-When Dad dies, Klaus goes to the house. He doesn’t want to but he knows it’ll look even worse if he doesn’t show up. He doesn’t particularly care what his family thinks of him, but he’d rather not deal with the shitstorm that would happen if he got high instead.

-Ben notices that the others aged. Luther gained lines in his face where he glared to much, Deigo has new scares and some smile lines. Allison has the least, Hollywood magic, but it doesn’t hide the crinkle in her eyes when she laughs. Vanya’s is the most drastic, her whole face looks like it has carried the weight of the world in stress. There are few smile lines but there are weary eyes and frown lines. Klaus hasn’t changed, his eyes are alight with fake cheer and his smile lines never set in before he stopped aging.

-It’s only when Klaus goes to Mom to patch him up after the whole Vietnam thing that he learns about it. Grace had been cleaning some of his blood when her parts automatically ran a test on it. She paused. ‘Honey, you seem to be biologically 25′ she had said after a moment. Klaus looked up, shrugged and tilted his head as he listened to Ben. ‘You died one night, you were high and I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But you were dead for four minutes and you never aged after that night’ Ben had whispered to him. Klaus told his mom that he had died at 25 and never aged a day after. She called Pogo to do more research. 

-Pogo was kind while he did it, Dad would’ve been cold and taking notes but Pogo just asked him to lie back as he ran a few tests on Klaus’s cells. His frowned at the results. ‘Your cells seemed to have stopped decaying but also stopped being produced, you, quite literally, haven’t aged in at least five years.’ Klaus made an uninterested noise. He was sober and at least three dead nannies were glaring at a wall. It was distracting, he thought they looked familiar.

-Klaus went back to his room after Pogo’s prodding and Mom’s patch up. He needed to sleep. Coming back from war and torture to learn he couldn’t, wouldn’t and hadn’t aged since 25 was enough to warrant a nap at three pm.

-Ben snorted at his brother. He watched as Klaus slipped into the realm of sleep and “sat” on his brother's bed. He reached out to move some hair out of Klaus’s face, he knew it wouldn’t work but it was a calming gesture for the both of them. He started when he saw his hand move Klaus’s hair. Sure Klaus had been sober for a while but it was surreal to think that he could touch his brother again. The option hadn’t been more than a dream for years, the wish to be able to give Klaus the hug he needed had been just that. A dream, a wish he hadn’t expected to be granted.

-Ben sat there, carding his hand through his brother’s hair for a while. He realized that he and Klaus were two sides of the same coin. He had realized this a while ago but it had a new meaning now. They were both terrified of their powers, one soft the other loud, one dead the other alive, and now, both unaging no a different side of the veil. He stifled a laugh, he didn’t want to wake up his sleep-deprived brother. 

[shirtlesssammy]

7x23: Survival of the Fittest

The Road So Far:

I just want to give a GIANT shoutout to everyone in fandom that survived this and stuck around. I know in my heart my interest would plummet without Cas. Season 7 was brutal.

Now:

We find Crowley and Dick Roman sharing a business Scotch and negotiating how they’re going to divvy up Earth once the Leviathan master the human race. Demons get Canada. Leviathan need America though. (“They’re so fat.”)

In return for this generous offer? Crowley must give “Frick and Frack” imposter blood (as part of the cocktail that will kill Dick Roman.) They agree, and because Dick Roman doesn’t “kiss on the mouth” to seal his deals, Crowley unfurls a standard writer that stretches 10 feet. Lol.

Sam and Dean, meanwhile, are on the road trying to locate a righteous bone. Sam suggests contacting Cas again. For the record, I believe when Dean says “Dude, on my car” he’s making an oath that Cas made an appearance naked and covered in bees, not that he showed up naked, covered in bees, on Dean’s car. Either way, Dean was there and Cas was naked. But there were bees.

The boys arrive at a nunnery crypt and find the perfect bone, Sister Mary Constant. “Let’s bone this nun.” Oh Dean, always a way with words.

Crowley and Roman finish their negotiations.

Sam and Dean perform a summoning spell for Crowley. (Ah, was it during Dean and Crowley’s summer of love that they finally got him on speed dial?) Crowley doesn’t show, but Meg does. And she has a friend along with her: Cas.

He’s currently jamming out to some serious emo soft rock in the car. 

(Sidenote: Cas and Jack wave the same way. My heart.)

Dean is showing very, very, very little patience for his dear, damaged friend, but I know he cares so I’ll let his posturing and toxic attitude slide for right now. Cas does have serious questions about monkeys and cosmetics. Indulge the angel, Dean.

Once inside, Cas continues to act and say strange things. In his own broken way, he lets the brothers know that the angel garrison protecting Kevin is gone. Dean, in his usual football coach aggression, scares Cas, who does not want to deal with conflict. (I do love Dean’s line “We’re worried.” His worry manifests itself through anger throughout the series.)

Meg notices the demon summoning spell materials and is about to ditch when Crowley finally makes his appearance.

Crowley is less than pleased to see the angel. Cas dives into a nice, rambling diatribe about insects and honey (and a THOUSAND Cas + bees fics were born.) There is meta out there about this but I just can’t find it right now. Sigh, it was really good. Crowley doesn’t want to torture Cas if he’s not all there, so he hands the boys his blood, or is it? He says it is, but also says not to trust anyone.

He then tells Meg that she can stay with Cas until they handle Dick Roman.

Meanwhile, Bobby in the body of a hotel maid, is well on his way to becoming a vengeful spirit.

Dick Roman makes plans in case Crowley double crosses him. It involves an arm.

We briefly check in with Kevin Tran at SucroCorp Headquarters. His allies aren’t the sharpest blades in the drawer.

The brothers soak the righteous bone in the blood.

Nothing happens so Sam and Dean have no idea if it worked. Cas flaps in (I miss his wings) to present the (I proofread that as “his”. Brb, weeping) brothers with sandwiches. (His monitoring of the ingredients and comforting the pig before slaughtering it? Don’t touch me.) 

And when Dick Roman asked for the arm, he meant a literal frozen arm, wristwatch still intact.

While Kevin awaits his fate, he’s presented with dinner, a Biggerson’s burger. “I’m a vegan.” Not for long, buddy. You’re going to be living off of hot dogs soon enough.  

Kevin escapes with the help of his purloined hairpins and overhears a board meeting fronted by Dick Roman. He's discussing business strategy, including how they're going to divide America up to perfect their plan of industrialized leviathan feeding. This is all delivered in a cheerfully upbeat business-speak manner as they enjoy sushi made from fresh orphan.

When Kevin's heard enough, he heads straight for the exit, but is confronted by Dick's assistant.

Dean and Sam sit in a car and tap into Sucrocorp's security cameras. (They thank Charlie for it and I smile just to hear her name mentioned.) To their dismay, they discover that Sucrocorp is now overrun with Dick Romans, or a bunch of dicks, as the show might phrase it.

In the boardroom, Dick has Polly take off her dress and draws attention to her slight build. (Gross) He injects her with a drug that will be targeted to all skinny Americans. As it takes effect in Polly, she begins to spasm and foam at the mouth. She collapses quickly to the floor.

Sam notices a truck pull up outside of Sucrocorp and recognizes the maid as she gets out of the truck. He sees ectoplasm dripping from her, puts two and two together, and bails on the stakeout so he can go retrieve Bobby. He confronts Bobby in a back alley as the security camera whirls around. Bobby brandishes the knife at Sam, telling him to leave. When Sam refuses, Bobby slams Sam against the side of the car and chokes him. It's only when Bobby sees his reflection in the side of the car that he withdraws, horrified.

Back at the cabin, we learn that the woman Bobby possessed is doing much better. Sam then switches over to talking about the leviathan hunt and reveals the multiple Dicks. Cas looks perturbed by the news. “Hey, Shifty, what's your problem?” Dean asks. DEAN

“Do we need a cat? Doesn't this place feel one species short?” Cas says, deflecting. (Me: But seriously, YES) He refuses to get involved since he destroyed everything.

“Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas. Clean up your mess,” Dean shouts. This causes Cas to flap off and Meg informs Dean that Cas is the only one who can recognize the real fake Dick. They need him.

Later, Sam and Dean spin their wheels trying to figure out how to tackle their Dick problem when Bobby appears. He tells them he's going vengeful now that he's in the Veil, and begs them to burn the flask. Cut to a little while later, standing around a bed of hot coals. It's all feelings and no hugs in this little funeral scene and Dean chucks Bobby's flask into the coals. As the flask burns, a light illuminates Sam's and Dean's face. And then...Bobby is gone.

Jump to later, where Cas is busily playing games when Dean approaches him for help. He's not asking for a soldier. Instead, he just needs a lift to get to his car. They flap into a little storage garage with a covered car. Cas muses on their approaching assault on Sucrocorp. If Sam and Dean die, they're heroes. But if Cas dies he's just doing what he can to fix his own stupidity. Although, he also entertains the possibility that he'll die and get brought back again. “It's a punishment,” he tells Dean about his last three resurrections. OUCH, man.  

Dean delivers his own brand of pep talk in reply. “I'd rather have you, cursed or not. Nut up, alright? We're all cursed. I seem like good luck to you?” He's angry and defensive, but Cas starts to smile anyway. He detects a note of forgiveness in Dean. Cas vows to go with Dean and help out.

It's gray, it's rainy, but that doesn't stop Baby from squealing tires and generally being amazing. The Impala tears into Sucrocorp headquarters to the strains of Born to Be Wild.

Meg emerges, armed with borax and a knife. Dean, Castiel, and Sam are already inside, having slipped in while Meg distracted security outside. They hastily go from room to room checking for Dick Romans.

Outside, demons accost Meg. Crowley is moving in.

Sam rescues Kevin, who convinces him to stick around and blow up Sucrocorp's lab. In the lab, Dick is delicately sampling lethal creamer when Dean and Cas show up and slice up the chief lab tech leviathan. 

Dean pulls out the bone weapon, Dick lunges for Dean, and Cas tosses Dean out of the way and hurls himself at Dick. Dick easily chucks Cas across the room. This gives Dean the perfect opportunity to stab Dick right in the chest, but it seems to have no effect. Dick's still walking and talking and being smarmy. But then Dean opens his jacket and pulls another sharpened bone from a front, inner pocket vast enough to hold and conceal a giant bone (who MAKES these coats and where can I find one?) Cas pulls Dick's head back, baring his throat long enough to allow Dean to stab Dick right through the neck.

Dick Roman snarls angrily and begins to pulse with energy. He cackles before exploding into black goo.

Sam picks up his head to look around the lab moments after the explosion. It's empty of anyone but him and Kevin. While it's spattered with black goo, Dean and Cas are gone.

Enter Crowley, who happily tells Sam that without Dick Roman leading them, the leviathans are easy picking for his demon army. The bone weapon had a kick and dragged Dean and Cas off to Purgatory. Crowley nabs Kevin for his own, then leaves Sam alone in the lab as he silently freaks out.

Dean wakes up in a forest to Cas tersely ordering him to wake up. Cas tells Dean that they're in Purgatory and it's full of monsters and...even worse...leviathans. Dean turns to see red eyes glowing in the woods and tells Cas it's time to go...but Cas has already flapped away, leaving Dean alone. 

Random findings and food for thought:

7x23/13x10 parallels

Dean needs Cas to get Dick

Starry, Starry Quotes:

Here we are, negotiating like proper psychopaths.

Let's bone this nun

Go ask him, he was your boyfriend first.

How important is lipstick to you, Dean?

You have no sense of poetry.

Where's the fun in clobbering a ball of wet fur? Text me when Sparkles here retrieves his marbles

Please accept this sandwich as a gesture of solidarity.

We should play Twister.

I see now. It's a punishment resurrection. It's worse every time.

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[pensbridgrton]

totally unrelated but YARA & SANSA TALKING ABOUT THEON POST-CANON

note: i’ve been avoiding this one for…. many reasons. i was going to incorporate it into another fic but i dunno if it’ll ever get written, so i figured i’ll just post it.

missing scene from 8x06.

Perhaps it’s luck that their paths intersect with Yara Greyjoy’s. Or maybe it is fate, with the urn Sansa carries still in her hands. 

Or maybe it is planned, unconsciously. 

Whatever it is, Sansa wordlessly nods at Arya and Bran; Arya pushes Bran ahead.

“Lady Greyjoy,” says Sansa, only her slightly shaking hands any indication of her nerves.

“Your Grace, Sansa Stark - Queen in the North.” There’s an edge to her voice, one Sansa expected. It’s a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and anger. But the loudest emotion is pain. “What does your Grace want?”

Sansa lets her gaze flicker downwards for a moment; but she is a queen now and will not be intimidated. With clear voice and strong heart, Sansa ignores the cracks inside. “I want to apologize for my sister’s earlier threat.”

“No you don’t,” says Yara, her smirk sarcastic and her voice bitter. “You only wished you could have made the threat yourself.”

It makes sense now; the confidence that masked anger and fear in Theon as a child. Sansa sees it again, now, with Yara. She bites back a smile. “That would not have been proper.”

Yara rolls her eyes. “Your brother killed my queen.” Her hands are tense, gripping her sword and axe tightly. “He killed my queen - but you. You killed my brother.”

A crack, somewhere within her chest; it’s numb now, not as painful as before, but it’s still there, an acidic fire threatening to burn her whole. “He saved my life.” The words are honey on her lips. “I loved him.”

Yara’s eyes narrow. “He spoke of you. Fondly. Said you saved him. You’re pretty, I will give him that. But no matter how good or pretty you are - you’re here and he’s not.”

“You’re right.” There’s nothing else to be said; Sansa knows it, is living it. It’s hard and painful and she tries not to dwell on it, not too much, because there’s too much to do and she’s suffered enough loss in her life. 

It scares her how easy it is to move on, now.

“I want you to have this.” Sansa gives the urn to his sister, his blood, his family. The scars on her heart pulse. “We had to burn him - but he deserves to be scattered at sea. This is half.”

“Where is the rest?”

“In the crypts of Winterfell.” Yara takes the urn from her, studying it, softly - it’s a rare moment where Sansa can see the affection and pain, before she hides it once more. Sansa stares at the urn - a light gray pot she had Gendry create for her, with the leaves of the Weirwood floating on water. “He was a Greyjoy by blood and by heart.”

Yara looks up at her but Sansa stares at her hands.

“He was your family and he died too far from the sea,” says Sansa, now locked onto Yara’s eyes - onto features so similar to his, a memory now, an echo. “But he was my family too.”

Yara watches her in silence, in thought. Finally: “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s not enough, will never be enough, but it is all Sansa can say. She has no regrets; only hopes, wishes, dreams.

“Me too.”

Yara walks past to her own ship and Sansa does not bother looking back.