#just to be laid up with him for decades afterwards

[blackerthings]

Armand you fucking bitch.

[bi-writes]

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.

[charliemwrites]

Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry. 

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair. 

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead. 

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs. 

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold. 

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy. 

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

[teamred]

so contagious

✩‌ logan howlett/wolverine x reader | fluff | smut | 2.8k

SUMMARY | following the kissing from your movie night, logan takes you out on a proper date, while you take him back to your place afterwards. // part two of any other way

WARNINGS | smut, breastplay, oral s*x (female receiving), piv s*x, unprotected s*x // this is 70% fluff - 30% smut!

RATING | explicit

NOTES | i didn't intend to make a part two, but so many of you loved it, i had to give it a shot! this one is from logan's perspective. yes, i know this logan is a bit ooc, but, in my head, this takes place some time after worst!logan enters wade's universe and he's softened up. please leave some love if you enjoy it!

Logan has absolutely no idea what he's doing.

Standing in front of the living room mirror, he debates if he should choose the pale blue plaid shirt he's currently wearing or one of his brown ones instead. But if he chooses the latter, it'd be too similar to the one he wore when you saw him yesterday. 

Overthinking isn't his style, and yet here he is, obsessing over something as trivial as his shirt color. It’s been decades since he’s been on a proper date, maybe even ever.

“Well, don't you look handsome,” Wade cuts through his thoughts with a grin and folded arms, peeling himself away from the kitchen door frame. He saunters over, reaching out to touch Logan’s hair, only for the larger man to shove him away immediately. 

“Not now, Wade.”  

Wade sniffs his hand dramatically. “Oh, my God–you even used hair product! This is so exciting. It's like witnessing a teenager on his first date. I feel like your mom!”

“Well, Mom,” Logan refocuses on the mirror, fixing the mess Wade made of his hair, “you can fuck off.” 

Wade points a finger at him with mock sternness. “Hey, watch your language, young man.” 

Then, to Logan’s surprise, Wade grows momentarily quiet as he stands next to him, both facing the mirror. “Also, the blue shirt’s the better choice.” 

“Yeah?” Logan quirks an eyebrow, glancing over at the brown plaid shirts laid out on the couch. 

“Yeah,” replies Wade softly, and Logan catches a genuine smile in the mirror. The heartfelt moment doesn’t last long though when Wade claps him on the back. “And don’t be so nervous, Wolvie. You already went to second base with her last night. The deal’s pretty much sealed.” 

Logan scowls. “I’m not nervous.” 

“Mm-hmm. You say that, but you’re being even more testy than usual. Dare I blame it on the hormones?” Suddenly, he plants a quick kiss on Logan’s cheek.

“What the fuck?!” 

Logan recoils, then almost lunges at him instinctively. However, Wade’s already retreating and walking backwards, making a beeline to his bedroom with a wave of his hand. 

“Be back by curfew, sweetie! But text me if you’ll be out late, or if you need anything. Some snacks, some condoms—” 

“Wade!” he growls, his patience wearing thin. 

Wade blows an air kiss, disappearing into his room. “Love ya! And you got this!” 

Logan mumbles to himself, “Yeah, I sure hope so.”  

Turning to the mirror for one final check, he adjusts his collar and straightens his shirt. His phone vibrates on the living room table and he reads the incoming texts from Laura: 

- hey sorry for the late reply - but if you haven’t gone out already, i prefer the blue over the brown - not that it matters though - she’ll find you handsome either way - don’t worry! it’ll go well :) 

Logan nods, reassured by Laura’s texts. It’s just a date with someone he’s already known for a little while; it’s not like a blind date or anything. He can do this. 

With one last look in the mirror to check his hair and beard, he grabs his keys and wallet, slings his dark brown leather jacket over his shoulder, and heads out the door.

Logan pulls up in front of your apartment complex and gives you a quick call to let you know he’s here. When you step out of the building, his eyes can’t help but sweep over you—fitted jeans hugging your curves, an off-the-shoulder top that shows just enough, and that stunning smile that lights up your face.

He notices you checking him out too. Realizing that his hair might be messy, he quickly combs his fingers through it as you stroll over. 

“Long time, no see,” you joke, referencing how you saw him just yesterday.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Logan greets, trying to sound more relaxed than he feels. He holds a helmet out to you, but catches how his grip is more tense than usual. “You ready for a ride?” 

You nod, eyes sparkling with excitement. As he steps away from his bike to help you with the helmet, he finds it endearing how you lift your chin and pout a little, making it easier for him to secure the straps. He hopes his touch isn’t too rough, but when your eyes meet his and you smile up at him, he knows he must be doing something right.

With his hands so close to your face, his mind flashes to how he palmed your cheeks and neck last night as he kissed you deeply. It’s presumptuous, but he hopes for a repeat tonight. 

Once you hop on the bike behind him and wrap your arms snugly around his waist, he revels in the warmth of your body against his. As he weaves through the city streets, he occasionally glances back to make sure you’re comfortable. 

Logan thinks to himself how good this feels, to ride around freely with someone he cares for by his side. It’s been awhile since he’s let someone get this close to him… 

Maybe he could get used to this. 

Eventually, he pulls up at an old diner he’s grown fond of across town. The place gives him a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of simpler times (and, even though he tries not to think of it, it also brings back memories of that one time with Wade in the Void).

He offered to take you here because it’s familiar, cozy, and he didn’t want to overthink this date with reservations to some high-end restaurant.

Walking across the mostly empty restaurant, a waitress leads you both to a window booth, where you sit across from each other.

At first, there’s a bit of awkwardness—Logan recommends what’s good on the menu, and you take a moment to decide what to order. His foot taps on the floor as he peeks over the menu, sitting in the silence uncomfortably. 

But once the waitress takes your orders, conversation flows more easily, just like it normally does at Wade’s get-togethers.

You check in with how Laura’s doing, if he and Wade have been on any more assignments recently, and how his motorcycle is running since he fixed it last. 

Logan’s grateful you’re leading the conversation and asking questions; it’s always been easier for him to listen than to talk. 

But he’s putting in effort tonight—he takes it upon himself to know about your life outside of work, if you’ve been reading anything lately, and how you felt about the ride over to the diner.

“A little scary, but it was fun!” you grin, resting your chin in your palm. “I’m just glad it’s you driving it. Like I said yesterday, I always feel comfortable and safe around you, Logan.” 

As your foot brushes against his under the table, Logan’s gaze meets yours. You flash him a shy smile, and before he can think twice, his foot instinctively strokes yours in return. A flicker of doubt crosses his mind—Is this the kind of thing people do on dates?—but your soft giggles melt away his hesitation. The lighthearted game continues until the arrival of your food.

You dig into your food, and a random thought crosses your mind. “Have you ever used your claws to cut your food?” 

Logan pauses mid-bite, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “You know, in all of my two-hundred years of living, I’ve never really thought to try it.” 

“Probably ‘cause you always have a knife around,” you say. 

“Probably,” he smirks. With a glint in his eyes, he unsheathes his claws and the sound makes you jump slightly in your seat. 

“Whoa,” you whisper, eyes widening in awe. Logan realizes you’ve never seen them before. Slowly, he extends his hand, the blades gleaming under the diner lights. 

“Go ahead,” says Logan softly. “Just be careful.” 

You reach out carefully, your fingers grazing the cool, polished metal. You’re both unusually quiet, your attention fully on each other.

Once you pull away, he turns back to his plate with a slight grin. “Okay, let’s see how this goes.”

With surprising finesse, he slices through his burger using his claws, the action both impressive and a little absurd to witness. 

You burst into laughter, the sound contagious as he joins in. “Logan, I think you need to stop before you break the plate.” 

He chuckles, retracting his claws and grabbing a sliced up chunk of his burger. “Yeah, probably a good idea. At least we know the answer to that question now.”

As you move on to dessert, you savor a slice of cheesecake while Logan indulges in a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. When he’s almost done, Logan takes a slow lick off his spoon and catches you staring at him. 

“What’s on your mind, beautiful?” he asks with a playful smile, raising an eyebrow as he takes another bite of pie.

You scarf down the last few bites of your cheesecake before answering. 

“Okay, I have to ask—” you lower your voice and lean in across the table “—can you actually smell how horny someone is?”

Logan freezes mid-chew, remembering what happened yesterday before you left.

“Fucking Wade…” he mutters, shaking his head. After a beat, he sighs. “Do I really have to answer that question?”

You gasp, covering your mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God, you totally can…” 

All Logan gives you is a brief laugh and a shake of his head. He fishes for his wallet, tosses some cash onto the table, and then stands up with a grin. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s get outta here.”

As he pulls you to your feet, you ask half suspiciously and half in jest, “Are you saying that because you can smell something or…?” 

“Maybe, maybe not...” he teases. He grabs your hand, fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you to the door. “Either way, let’s head out. C’mon.” 

As you step outside and Logan helps you with your helmet again, you look up at him with a different look this time than before—one that signifies that the night’s only beginning. 

As you fumble with your keys in front of your apartment door, Logan steps in from behind and grips one side of your waist. He leans in, pulling you close, and kisses the crook in your neck. You inhale sharply, losing focus as you melt into his touch. 

After you finally manage to unlock the door, Logan quickly shuts the door behind him before he presses you up against the wall. Initially, you share an intense kiss, but it soon becomes fervent and open-mouthed. Rough edges of his beard even brush against your lips at some points. 

Both parties quickly kick off their shoes. He peels off his leather jacket and aids you with yours. Still lip-locked, he then lifts you up and has you wrap your legs around his waist; his evident desire presses against your body. 

Logan drags your top off, his heated kisses trailing from your mouth, to your neck, and down to your clavicle. His mouth leaves love upon your breasts before he pushes your strapless bra down. You gasp as his push is so rough, the bra merely snaps off and falls away towards the floor.

But Logan doesn’t stop—he hones his attention towards your hardened tips, sucking and nipping with a fervor that makes him lose himself in you.

The moans that fill your entryway only drive him crazy further, along with your fingers tugging at his hair tightly. His hands are needy, kneading your other breast with a blend of tender and strength. After a moment, he pulls back, gently setting your legs back onto the floor.

He kisses his way down from your breasts to your stomach, dropping to his knees in front of you. Logan blinks up at you as he helps unbutton your jeans, pulling them and your panties off and tossing them aside. The sight of you, completely bare and vulnerable, only heightens his desire.

He kisses your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin as he moves towards your core. The scent of your arousal is unmistakable and intoxicating, but it’s the way your body reacts to him that drives him wild. Lifting one of your legs over his shoulders, he dives in without hesitation, his tongue exploring your wetness.

His tongue skillfully works over your most sensitive areas, each touch and flick of his tongue sending waves of pleasure through you. Logan is so immersed in the moment, he feels like he's freefalling, lost in the intensity of it all.

The need to be inside you drives him to a point of near frenzy, his own body responding with instinctive thrusts. Each lick and suck against your folds is fuelled by both the need to make you feel good and to be desperately inside of you.

“Logan, Logan—” 

You shatter and unravel for him, jerking your hips against his mouth. He holds you still, securing your orgasm rides out fully. Once you do, he stands up and kisses you gently, intermingling your taste with his tongue.

Dazed, you hook your fingers with a couple of his and lead him towards your bedroom. You lay yourself on the bed first, while he watches you as he strips his shirt and tank top. He sees the inflamed hunger in your eyes at the sight of his entirety. 

Crawling over to you on the bed, his hands roam your body, caressing you passionately before the next part. When he finally undoes his jeans and belts and throws them aside, he looks at you intently. 

“Do you have—?”  

You shush him with a finger, whispering, “Just get inside me, Logan.” 

A smirk spreads across his face as he aligns himself with your slit, teasing you slightly before sliding in. Being inside you draws out a low groan from him, while you throw your head back and expel a long moan.

When you finally acclimatize to his girth, he starts to thrust slowly and kisses you throughout. It’s so easy for him to lose control, to get this over and done with, but he wants to make sure it feels good for you as it does for him. 

But it doesn’t help when your hands dig into his back and your walls clench harder around him. 

“Faster, please,” you beg. 

He checks in with a smug grin, cocking his head slightly. “You sure, gorgeous?” 

You nod breathlessly, “Please, Logan.” 

And that’s enough to make him lose all restraint. He picks up the pace, his movements becoming more intense and primal. His thumb circles your clit, and the combination of his hard thrusts and gentle touch brings you over the edge in unison. He ensures you’re satisfied first before he pulls out and marks you with his release. 

Panting, he catches his breath, and grazes the back of his knuckles against your thigh. Logan turns to look at you. “You ready for round two, beautiful?” 

You laugh with disbelief and exhilaration. “Wait, round two alr—?” 

Logan cuts you off with a deep kiss, his grin wide and satisfied. He feels you smiling into his kiss, your excitement matching his own. 

Oh yeah—he definitely could get used to this.

EPILOGUE — ONE WEEK LATER 

Back at Wade, Logan, and Blind Al’s apartment during another weekend get-together, you’re seated next to Logan at the dining room table, caught up in a quiet conversation with him amidst the animated chaos around you. 

Suddenly, Wade appears behind you, throwing his arms around you both and playfully squishing you together.

“Say ‘thank you, Mommy Wade for our beautiful dating life and we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you and I’m gonna name our kid after you and—’” 

“What the hell is happening?” you cut in, looking at your new boyfriend. 

“Just ignore him, baby,” Logan groans, shaking his head. 

“Already using terms of endearment? Y’all move fast,” Wade quips. “And is that any way to treat the person who got you two lovebirds together?” 

“Hey, I helped too,” Laura interjects from Logan’s side.

Wade waves her off dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. You might’ve mentioned something here and there, but I saw the vision, and not Wanda’s, might I add.” 

“I’m not gonna call you ‘Mommy Wade,’ but I will thank you.” You lean over and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He gasps theatrically and ruffles your hair with exaggerated affection. Times like these remind you why Wade has always been one of your closest friends. 

“Well,” says Wade, as he steps back to return to his seat, “at least one of you appreciates Cupid Wade’s handiwork.”

Later, while you’re chatting with Yukio and Ellie, you notice out of the corner of your eye Logan and Wade exchanging glances across the room. Logan gives Wade a small, grateful nod. 

“Thank you, Wade,” Logan mouths, his expression soft and sincere. 

“Anytime, Wolvie,” Wade mouths back with a wink, raising his beer in a mock toast. 

You catch Logan’s eye, and both of you share a smile that speaks more than words ever could.

[1mlei]

Dead on Main Soulmate AU [Part 1]

Everyone has a soulmate. They can be either romantic or platonic, and the intensity of the bond varies, but everyone has a soulmate.

According to every person that has met their soulmate, the feeling of finally finding your special someone is unmistakable.

But to help you along, everyone is also born with a tiny red heart tattooed on the inside of their wrist. The heart beats if you're close to your soulmate, and when you meet them the tattoo turns golden.

It is also known, that when your soulmate dies the heart fades to black, and won't ever beat again.

Now insert Danny and Jason into this scenario.

This turned sadder than I intended it to be :')

-------

Next part | Masterpost

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Danny has a heart on his wrist like everyone else, and he has all but confirmed that his soulmate doesn't live in Amity, which he's secretly very happy about.

The thing is, Danny dies when he's 14 years old. Sure he comes back to life afterwards, but the damage is done. He'd looked into it to make sure, there are cases of someone very briefly passing away before being resuscitated. In each of these cases, their soulmate's tattoo would fade to black, regardless if they had met or not.

Danny knows that his soulmate believes him to be dead, and there's nothing he can do about it. He doesn't know what will happen when they meet, will the heart shift or stay black? Any reports he could find online about the subject didn't delve into what happens beyond the heart fading.

As for Danny's own tattoo, it remains mostly unaffected by his death. There is a fascinating side-effect of the heart changing from red to green when he goes ghost, most probably because he stops relying on his heart, switching to his core, which runs on ectoplasm.

But that aside, Danny doesn't notice a difference. His heart is still it's regular old red colour whenever he's human.

There's nothing he can do about any of it until he actually meets his soulmate, so until then it's a waiting game.

--------

Jason was 13 years old when his soulmate died.

It had been a regular afternoon, he was hidden away in the manor's library with a big stack of books he was planning to plough through.

It happened as he was simply turning a page. The red heart on his wrist caught his eye, and he froze in terror.

It just turned to black.

It didn't fade like what people have described, oddly enough. Instead, it flickered back and forth between red and black, as if unsure where to settle, before it stopped and stayed firmly black.

Jason just sat there, refusing to take his eyes off his tattoo.

That was where Alfred found him hours later, after the sun had set and the natural light in the library consisted solely of the dim glow from the moon.

The butler had originally sought out the boy to inquire about his absence at dinner, but could tell at a glance that something was very wrong. He approached carefully.

"Master Jason? Is everything quite alright?"

Jason numbly turned his head up to look at Alfred. He looked at the man that was always there when he needed him, even when Jason was damn sure he didn't deserve it.

He looked into the kind eyes of the man that had become like a grandfather to him, and he finally stopped holding back.

He wept silently, allowing his eyes to let out the tears he had been holding back. The tears flowed down his face, and had anyone other than his grandfather Alfred been watching he would have been embarrassed by the pitiful sniffling sound he let out as he wiped at his tear-stained cheeks with the back of his hand.

He wordlessly held out his wrist, showing the now firmly pitch-black heart stamped there.

The moment Alfred laid eyes on the tattoo his heart clenched, the older man feeling a pain that was beyond words with the realization of what his grandson was going through this early in his life. He quickly reached out and held Jason in a tight embrace.

For the first time in many, many decades he felt incapable of fulfilling his job.

After all, how do you comfort a child that has just had their one special person, their other half, cruelly ripped away from them before they even got to lay eyes on each other?

"I'm so sorry my boy."

As much as he loathed it, the words were all Alfred had to offer.

He wanted to curse the world, for doing this to the poor boy. Yet all he found himself able to do was silently pray for a miracle, that this wouldn't be the boy's fate.

-------

Next part | Masterpost

[ultimate-chickennougat]

| Your Salaryman Husband | (Vol 1)

Vol 2 Vol 3 Vol 4 Vol 5 Vol 6 Vol 7 Vol 8 Vol 9

Salaryman!Kento x Housewife!Reader;

Nanami puts on an apron to help his cute little housewife prepare dinner.

Word Count: 1k

CW: SFW, domestic fluff, fem!reader, newly married Nanami and Y/n,

A/n: First time writing for Kento... thanks for reading!

Your dear husband Kento Nanami was not one to come home late. Ever. 

Even though it had only been about two months since your marriage, the daily routine had already been set, and you couldn't imagine that happening in a decade, let alone on the next day. 

Of course that wouldn't be true in his past profession, as a Jujutsu Sorcerer, but he was back being a salaryman, never going to extra meetings or taking on any more jobs than his work contract required him to. Hence he rushed home, avoiding that dreaded overtime that the younger company members fought for. Even then it took a lot out of him.

Mr. Kento Nanami was a diligent worker from 9 o'clock in the morning to 5 o'clock in the afternoon. A senior manager at an investment company, his pure skill and dedication was the only way he could get that position. He never tried to do anything more than what he had to, which was providing customers with the best investment services he could. And you, the new Mrs. Nanami was his lovely housewife, always there to greet him when he got home. It was always the most comforting thought he had, while listening to the executives drone on about profits, and training the newcomers eager to reap those rewards as well. But then again, that is why he was in that business too, right? 

As per usual, he quickly packed up his things and headed to the elevator right after the hour hand hit 5 on his watch. Ideally he would be home in the next thirty minutes, far more eager than his other coworkers. A promotion was not awaiting him since his marriage, but that wasn’t a concern. He had enough saved up for an early retirement anyway, and, more importantly, one would take away from his precious time with you.

While his heart beat was steady, walking to the train station as he did everyday, yours was much more rampant.

Rushing around the kitchen, you hurriedly washed and cut vegetables, meat, and ground spices as fast as you could. Dinner was expected to be served at about 6:00 pm that night, and afterward would be a relaxing evening with your husband, who would be done for the week. While the daily routine was solidified, the speed of your cooking was not. Especially when your carefully laid out schedule of repotting the plants, cleaning the bathrooms, and doing laundry took a bit too long for each one. It was already 5:15, and you had just popped the tarts into the oven. 

Today's dinner consisted of a thick stew, crusty white bread, and miniature fruit tarts for dessert. With some preparations the day before, it was a plan that should have taken about two hours, most of which would be idle cooking time. That of course, did not happen. 

Your usual greeting of your husband at the door was foiled for the first time. He opened the door promptly at 5:33 PM, about the same time as every day, yet for once you weren't there.

Setting his briefcase down and removing his jacket, he walked through the living room into the kitchen, hearing your not-so-subtle whines of frustration, the scent of sweet fruit and grilled meat filling the air.

Married life is full of firsts, many of which were known to you and Nanami alike. Your first kiss being married, your first date being married, among other things. But what he didn't expect to focus on were the little ones he saw everyday. The first time you screwed up your daily routine, of course, and the first time he got to see you cooking his dinner in your cute little apron.

You quickly turned around hearing Nanami enter the kitchen. "Kento..!" you muttered, knife in hand chopping vegetables with great fervor. He chuckled softly, your knuckles had turned white from the grip, and carrots rolled off the cutting board.

He strolled over to the cabinet, pulling out a simple white apron, not before giving you a quick kiss on the cheek from behind you. "I see you've been quite busy today, my love," he put the apron over his head and tied it in the back, before turning towards your work.

His knees dug into your thighs, as he reached around your body and grabbed the knife from your hand. "How about I finish this for you?" he asked, already starting to chop away. "Aren't you tired from work? You can go sit down, darling," you tried to move away from him, though he gripped your stomach lightly with his other arm, pausing his work. "It's not tiring at all, standing here with you, my cute wife."

He put his head on top of yours, enjoying your warmth and the scent of food cooking, what you've been toiling away with for the past few hours. “I might not be as good of a cook as you, my love, but I think my knife skills are decent enough.” He continued, making quick work of the pile of vegetables. "Darling, the tarts are burning," you gently pushed him away, rushing over to the oven and pulling them out.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to greet you. I'll make sure to be there tomorrow." you spoke softly, lifting the tarts onto the cooling rack. "I was wondering where my wife's face was. I see you've had quite the predicament in here," Nanami scraped all the vegetables in the pot, and covered it with water as instructed. It would still be about half an hour until done, being finished only 15 minutes late thanks to his help. 

Nanami stared deeply as you joined him in the living room. Your fingers carefully undid the tie of your apron, as you started to take it off. "Have I ever told you how good you look in that?" He mentioned, standing up off the couch. You yelped, as he helped to pull it off your head. "...Thank you, darling. You look very dashing in one as well." You muttered, a subtle blush coating your cheeks. 

"I look forward to seeing you wear it tomorrow, my love." He chuckled as he sat down at the dining table, ready for the dinner you prepared together.

[creative-frequency]

Lucanis Dellamorte x Reader: Late Nights & Delayed Confessions, pt.3

Summary: There is only one bed. Part 3 of 5. Word count: 980 Notes: (Unresolved) romantic tension, pining, you’re an Antivan Crow, no spoilers for Veilguard → Part 2 → My writing masterlist

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Lucanis prompted instantly as you stepped inside your room.

“Don’t be silly,” you replied.

“Then where do you suggest I rest? In the closet?” He spread his arms and pointedly looked around.

“Hm, it might be a tight fit, but…”

Lucanis scoffed.

This familiar back and forth brought back remnants of times that were somehow simpler, somehow more filled with hopes and dreams. You had long since abandoned those three notions in everything related to Lucanis Dellamorte.

“There’s enough room for us both,” you continued as nonchalantly as possible. Meanwhile the thought of sharing a bed with him made your pulse quicken.

You both looked at the said bed. It looked even smaller now.

Lucanis inhaled deeply and searched your face for a moment. He probably didn’t find what he was so intent on seeing since he sighed again, clearly vexed, and crossed over the floor to sit on the bed. Without any further ado, he started taking off his cloak, jacket and boots, and lovingly placed three throwing knives, a dagger and a short sword on the bedside table.

You just stood there. Staring. Probably your mouth hanging open with a high probability of a line of drool. So ladylike.

Sure, you had seen him taking off his… stuff and not just in your daydreams. You had seen men undressing, and been an active participant in the activity and what usually ensued after, but witnessing Lucanis go through the motions made your heart lodge in your throat. It felt somehow very wrong and very right.

Suddenly it also felt like decades had passed since the last time you had been alone with him. Memories of flowing wine and a secluded balcony in Treviso surfaced. It had been a hell of a contract and the execution had been flawless. Some visuals of the celebrations afterwards were still hazy and you hadn’t dared to ask Lucanis to clear up the fog.

There was… heat. And heartache. A wine-induced drunken haze? Or maybe something more.

You shook your head to dissipate the tingling sensation. You hadn’t asked Lucanis about that night before and you wouldn’t start that conversation now.

You started taking off your earrings, gaze bouncing between the master assassin and your own motions in the mirror.

“Are you sure the man wasn’t just trying to rob you because you’re walking around in those?” Lucanis met your eyes through the mirror and nodded to the small pile of jewellery on the side table.

“Mm. Maybe,” you ventured softly, “But they were a gift from Illario on last Satinalia, so I wanted to wear them.”

Lucanis looked away, but didn’t comment. That frustrating, perfectly blank slate on his handsome face would be a frightening opponent in Wicked Grace.

You didn’t exactly hurry in preparing – mostly mentally – to bed, and yet the moment still arrived altogether too soon. Lucanis was waiting for you, stalling. You could see he didn’t approve of the idea, but had likely arrived through a very precise, logical line of thought to the conclusion that this couldn’t be helped. For one night, you could sleep standing on your head if need be. Lucanis was probably thinking along the same lines. You needed to be up early and well rested for the journey back to Treviso in the morning. Viago would actually murder you if the Merchant Prince contract wouldn’t be handled by the end of the week.

“I’ll take the door’s side,” you said and embarrassment burned hot because of how squeaky your voice was.

“Right.”

You avoided looking at Lucanis and shuffled to your side of the bed. It was so small. This was a terrible idea.

The mattress dipped behind your back as Lucanis laid down. There was only one blanket and you cursed yourself for not having the foresight to snatch an extra one from Illario’s room.

You lifted the blanket and tossed the other half of it behind you so that Lucanis could have what little comfort it offered. Both of you were mostly dressed, but it seemed disrespectful to hoard it all to yourself.

Lucanis didn’t say anything as he settled the blanket over his side, but you were already feeling the warming effect of sharing. You scooted just an inch backward to narrow the gap between your bodies.

“You’re going to fall off the bed. Come closer,” Lucanis said quietly.

Those two last words rushed the air from your lungs, attached your heart into your throat to prevent inhaling more and threw a match into the barrel of gaatlok inside your chest. Heat rushed through your whole body to chase the escaped air and for a second, breathing ever again seemed impossible.

Lucanis turned slightly to look over his shoulder. You were petrified.

“Fiore?”

Could he not.

“I-I’m fine,” you managed.

He turned back and silence fell.

You really needed to calm down. Treat it as just a job. It was not the first time you were sleeping next to another warm body. You both were reasonable and functional adults. This was a matter of convenience. If Lucanis realised you were doing calming breathing exercises, he didn’t address it.

He shifted a little, tugged at the blanket and let it loosen again. You focused on breathing.

Lucanis scooted backward just like you had done and all of a sudden your back was pressed against his. A backwash of the heat flooded back into you. Forcing your body to relax was suddenly effortless. Like this warmth had been what you were just waiting for in order to settle in for the night. Your breaths were steady. Lucanis’ back was moving subtly in tandem with his breathing.

Now, if only you could have fallen into dreamless sleep.

He had called you ‘Fiore’.

Who had you been kidding, there was absolutely no way you could fall asleep next to Lucanis Dellamorte.

-

→ Part 4

[yzashaven]

Scara eating reader's ass and reader getting embarrassed about it🤭🤭🤭

FEATURING ! scaramouche x fem!reader

CONTENTS ! ass eating, clit stimulation, squirting, a bit of fingering back there, use of 'baby' and 'darling', spanking

NOTE ! i think this is like the first time that i'll be writing about something like this so it's a bit messy + reader isn't exactly fitting into the embarrassed part??? 😭 nonetheless i hope you enjoy reading!!! not proofread i'm too lazy to rn 😘😘

"just relax, baby."

scaramouche coos at you from behind. kneeling down on the floor as you were near the edge of the bed laying on your stomach. he has you situated in a position in which your most intimate parts are on full display for him. he hums quietly as his hands make their way to your rear, gently squeezing the area earning a response from you in the form of a small gasp. smirking slightly, his fingers spread the two mounds apart and took in the sight presented before him in awe. suddenly you feel a certain wet muscle poking at your hole...but it's the other one. you look behind, only to see him push his face closer, you feel a certain something which was his tongue swirling around the entrance before you finally feel it make its way inside, but not so deep. your head drops down onto the silky sheets of the bed as his tongue goes in and out of your ass. he then goes to lap up your arousal fluids at your pussy only to go back and direct his focus back to the original goal of his, claiming your perfect ass.

"feels good, yeah?" he asks with a seductive tone. "yes-mmph...! ah~" your sentence cuts off as he suddenly inserted a finger into your ass. "oh, darling, you're even tighter here." he whispers as he did a few experimental movements, having his finger go in and out. you moan every now and then that his fingertips kiss a certain part of you that just feels too good not to. after a bit he removes his finger and replaces it with his tongue again. "s-scara... why are you eating me out from t-there...?!" you frantically ask, "why not? change of pace. plus..." scaramouche moves away a bit before adding, "...your ass tastes just as good as that cunt of yours." heat rushes to your cheeks to tint them bright red upon hearing his statement. earning a speechless reply from you, he chuckles, "god, you're just so cute, always." landing a rather sharp spank to your rear and massaging it gently afterwards. the sudden moan you let out at the contact of his palm to your delicate skin had him smirking. spreading you wide for him once again, he leans in to lap his tongue at your hole hungrily as if he hadn't had a proper meal in decades. you let out whimpers at his unexpected aggressiveness in acts of what seems to be desperation.

and to add to what was being given to you, one of his fingers graze your skin teasingly until they reach a certain area. momentarily, you feel his fingers rubbing your clit, increasing the amount of delightful pleasure overall. digits skillfully rub your clit in circular motions at a pace that appear to be matching the way his tongue was going down on you from behind. eventually after a few minutes have passed by, you feel something at your stomach that look to be signaling upcoming release. as your moans grew louder, voice echoing throughout the walls of the bedroom, he never stopped any of his movementsㅡ keeping a consistent speed and pressure for you to effectively reach your climax.

"cum for me." a pinch at your clit sent your orgasm to finally be reached, squirting all over whatever laid beneath. scaramouche helped you ride out your orgasm, continuing to eat you from behind while stimulating your clit at the same time with his fingers. every few seconds, he would even pause to shower you with praises for being such a good girl for him.

[tickly-tufts]

Once Bitten, Twice Teased

finally letting miguel be a ler after four whole fics dedicated to wrecking him

ft. lee!peter cuz he’s earned it, and ler!mj cuz i love that for her <3

—

“You paralyzed my husband.”

“He deserved it.”

“Probably, but I’d like an explanation anyway.”

“He was annoying me…” Miguel paused. “…and said I had fangs like a kitty cat.”

It took everything in MJ not to laugh. The mental image was simply too good. Miraculously, she managed to hold back, though she did smile at Miguel’s pout.

“So, you bit him to prove a point?”

“The fangs are no joke,” Miguel defended. Then, sounding just a bit sheepish… “The venom will wear off in an hour.”

Whatever he expected MJ to say next, it wasn’t what she actually asked.

“How much can he feel while he’s stuck like this? Does the venom cause any numbness?”

“He can still feel everything… but this is a punishment. If you’re planning to-“

“That’s not what I mean.” Leaning in with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, MJ made her proposition. “How’d you like to help me get some payback?”

—

Peter’s face lit up when MJ entered the room, and if he’d been able, she knew he would’ve rushed her. Beyond the change in expression, however, he didn’t move a single muscle. Miguel had placed him in the center of their bed, arms laid neatly at his sides. Noticing the pillow under Peter’s head, MJ smiled. What a softie.

“How ya feelin’, Tiger?” She sauntered over, taking a seat right beside her husband.

“Migs is mean,” Peter pouted. “I can’t believe he actually bit me.”

“Well, you did make fun of his fangs. Not your brightest idea,” MJ countered lightly. Peering at his neck, she soon spotted the bite marks. “Want me to kiss it better?” she offered sweetly.

Peter couldn’t nod but his gaze turned hopeful, and MJ leaned down to hover over the marks. Her breath puffed against them, and Peter would’ve shivered, but his muscles simply refused to respond. He smiled when he felt MJ’s lips, soft and warm against his skin. Then she began peppering small kisses along his neck, and he instantly remembered that kisses could tickle.

“Hmph!” Peter stifled the urge to giggle. The situation was already embarrassing enough. At least MJ would be pulling back soon. He just needed to control himself until-

“AH!” he yelped when kissing became nibbling, right where Miguel had bitten him before. “W-Wait, Em- Nohoho!” he cracked when he realized her true intentions.

MJ paused a few seconds later, shifting to whisper in his ear. “Do you remember that time you strung me up in the living room, then decided to tease me until the webs dissolved?”

Oh. Oh no. Peter did remember. He remembered that evening quite fondly, actually. MJ had collapsed into his arms afterwards, thoroughly flushed and swearing revenge. Of course, Peter had laughed it off at the time, doubting she’d ever catch him that compromised. It would be another decade before Miguel found them… and now, he’d served Peter right up for MJ.

“You’ve got to tell me the full story later,” Miguel interjected, done hiding his presence. Peter gawked as MJ patted the other side of the bed, giving Miguel a peck once he was close enough.

“Have you two been plotting against me?!”

“No, I specifically bit you for being a nuisance. The plan was to leave you in here alone… but MJ came up with a better idea.”

MJ beamed at Miguel, then focused her attention back on Peter. “Now, let’s find out where you’re most sensitive…” Peter cringed as his past words were echoed back at him.

Her fingers grazed across his ribs first, nails easily felt even through his shirt. It really wasn’t that bad a spot, but Peter’s breath still hitched at the touch. He had no chance of resistance, mouth curling up as nails dragged down. The fact he couldn’t even try to turn away made him overly aware of his own nerves.

MJ went from his uppermost left rib all the way to the bottom, then wiggled her fingers on the way back up. It was ticklish enough to earn a few snickers, but nothing too dramatic yet. That was until Peter felt a dig on his right, squawking when the tickling crept between his ribs.

“Wait- Wahahait!”

Miguel did not wait, fingers burrowing in without hesitation.

Peter’s mind demanded he move, but all he could physically do was laugh. It only spiraled when MJ switched spots, pinching at his much more ticklish side. The squeal he couldn’t quite suppress didn’t escape either tormentor’s notice.

“Shitshitshit! Thahat’s sohoho unfahahahair!” Peter swore when Miguel’s claws traced down his other side.

Claws and nails… it was a deadly combination. Peter couldn’t say which side was worse. If he’d been able, he would’ve been wriggling from one to the other, indecisive and frenzied. Unfortunately, as things stood, he had no choice but to endure both together. Miguel scratched carefully along his right flank, while MJ raked ruthlessly at his left.

“Mehehean! You’re bohohoth so mehean!”

“Pobrecito,” Miguel replied.

“Oh, babe, you think this is mean? Just you wait,” MJ promised.

A nervous thrill shot straight through him. How wrecked would he be by the end of this? He’d never felt so uniquely defenseless, safe from real harm, but not from this. His sides were bad, but not terrible. What would happen when they found his actual weakness?

All these thoughts were quickly halted by MJ poking around his waist.

“Nonono- Dohohon’t!” Peter giggled uncontrollably.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re helpless,” MJ cooed, kneading his love handles. Her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, bypassing his only means of defense. It tickled so much that Peter’s laughter pitched higher, which didn’t escape Miguel’s notice.

“Que precioso,” Miguel teased, knowing it was a phrase Peter would understand. Right on cue, Peter blushed, and Miguel smirked in satisfaction. It was the exact reaction he’d been seeking, after so many instances of Peter flustering him.

Revenge garnished with extra affection, easily shared among three.

Peter flushed even further when MJ proceeded to lift his shirt. She pushed the hem all the way to his chest, exposing his pale abdomen. Just like that, he was on display for his equally gorgeous wife and boyfriend… and then insecurity reared its head, reminding him of his current physique.

Objectively, it was absurd. They'd both seen his gut before, and he was hardly one for bashfulness nowadays… but still, to have all their attention focused right there, while he couldn’t even cover his face? Apparently that was just a bit too much. Peter didn’t tense up, mainly because he couldn’t, yet his partners still noticed the shift in his mood. Of course they did... observant as ever. He shut his eyes to avoid examining their expressions.

There was a beat, then finally movement, but not from the direction he'd been expecting. Instead of MJ, sweet and familiar... it was Miguel whose lips brushed bare skin first. Peter's eyes shot back open and MJ caught his gaze, understanding reflected in her own. Then she glanced at Miguel, her lips quirking, and Peter’s attention jumped to him.

His heart skipped when he found Miguel staring, intense and analytical. Then it dropped as Miguel inhaled deeply, before blowing the most devastatingly ticklish of raspberries.

Peter screeched, barely calming when Miguel ultimately switched to nibbling. The tips of Miguel’s fangs grazed against his belly, pressing down too gently to break any skin. That was when MJ joined back in, too, peppering tickly kisses wherever Miguel wasn't. Peter giggled, then released a squeak when she poked at the softest part of his stomach.

If Peter had been a luckier man, the pair might've concluded around there. He rarely was, though, so of course they weren't done. MJ's next statement sealed his fate.

"We should lift his arms," she suggested to Miguel, and Peter nearly broke into a cold sweat. He didn't say a word as they guided his limbs. Miguel raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic silence.

"Hold on, are you nervous?" he had to ask, curious amusement coloring his tone.

"Wha- No! I'm just... getting tired?" Not entirely false, but not convincing either.

Indirectly calling his bluff, MJ reached out a hand, watching Peter's eyes. He anxiously tracked her slow approach, worsening the suspense for himself. Abruptly, Miguel inched forward, and Peter would've flinched if he'd been able. There was no way to track both of them.

Not that it mattered, once the tickling restarted.

"NOHOT THEHEHERE!" Peter screeched after a swear unbecoming of the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman. MJ's nails scribbled at his left underarm, while Miguel's thumb massaged his right hollow. “DOHON'T- I CAHAHAN’T!" He wanted to thrash, but he couldn't even manage a twitch. "PLEHEHEHEASE!” It was a maddening experience. Being tied up had nothing on this.

If only he could lower his arms, or twist away, or struggle at all. It didn't help that he was just too damn ticklish in that spot. Miguel and MJ exploited his weakness in distinctly different ways, and thus it didn't take long at all for the contrasting sensations to overwhelm him.

As soon as tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks, they both pulled back to let him breathe.

“Alright there, Tiger?” MJ pet his hair, a hint of worry entering her voice.

“…Could I get some water?”

His partners relaxed, and Miguel nodded. “Be right back.” He returned a minute later with a bottle and towel, first wiping Peter’s face, then sitting him up on the pillows, then carefully lifting the bottle to his lips.

“Thanks,” Peter said after a long drink. “You two are weirdly diabolical.” He glanced at MJ. “Especially you.”

“Just means you have a type,” MJ countered smoothly.

"Hot and sadistic?"

"You said it, not me~"

And then before his brain could stop his mouth-

"Just as ticklish, too." Why would he say that.

Miguel's eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You know, we’ve still got time before the venom wears off.”

“Doesn’t seemed like he’s really learned his lesson, huh?”

Peter squeaked when something soft caressed his ear. MJ had a feather… no, make that two.

“W-When did you get those?!” He watched helplessly as she handed the second feather to Miguel.

“Aww, did you think I came unprepared? I knew you’d talk back enough to earn this~”

And then both feathers were twirling inside his ears, and he could only squeal for mercy.

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 21 - End of the Line

There's Something off About Proteus...

(Please read 'The Bridge' from last year's Traintober first to get the best experience, and then read 'Middle of Nowhere' afterwards. This will be a running theme for a few of these.)

The Skarloey Railway was prospering. The wartime traffic had bolstered the little railway immensely, as had the discovery of a vein filled with copper and iron ore to the north of the lake, on the other side of the now Old Iron Bridge. The managers of the line were quick to jump on the opportunity and bought a new engine to help with the work, freeing Skarloey and Rheneas up to do their own work with the main line and the slate quarry. The engine wasn’t given a name right up, but it didn’t take long for the men to start calling the engine Proteus, due to just how much water he drank and how well he herded the trucks into line – like seals, a worker had once remarked, though neither little engine understood the reference.

Skarloey and Rheneas thought Proteus was an odd sort. He did his work with no fuss whatsoever, making his way up high into the hills and taking the empty trucks right the way to the end of the line to be loaded before bringing loaded ones back. But he also didn’t… speak. He was completely silent – mute, the workmen claimed. He just gazed about with wide, dark eyes.

Something felt off about that too, and for all that both Skarloey and Rheneas tried to think of a reason whey they were so uneasy about their new shedmate, nothing came to mind. Proteus just… was. He came and he went, and he did his work. He said nothing, but his eyes took in everything, almost as if the little engine was cataloguing everything and tucking it away deep in the back of his smokebox.

The mining company extended the line deeper into the hills, searching for even more copper and slate and stone to exploit. Rheneas and Skarloey watched on, feeling a deep wrongness about it all but not quite sure why.

Stories began to trickle through. Miners were a superstitious bunch after all, and the old legends had a way of spreading rapidly through their neighbourhoods. One that stuck out to the engines was the tale of a mythical, almost perfectly spherical boulder which stood at the very heart of Sodor, and any who laid eyes on it was cursed. Rheneas had been the one to hear it, told it by a withered drunkard with almost unnaturally long white hair who had swung his hands around as he spoke as though he was trying to summon the spirits. He thought it was a passenger, and retold the tale to Skarloey as a joke in the sheds.

“And so the boulder stands over the valley, its ghoulish eyes constantly searching for those who trespass on ‘its’ territory – for the moment they do, it will curse them with a most gruesome fate!” Rheneas recounted, adding in sound effects to the delight of his brother. “Was that it?” snorted Skarloey. Rheneas was about to reply, when something stopped him. A half-buried memory, pushed down over decades of repression stirred to the front. “No…” Rheneas admitted. “The man said that he could only tell the story in full to someone who had witnessed the boulder’s powers for themselves.” Skarloey raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“So either you weren’t told the whole thing, or you missed something out while telling me and you saw this mystical, perfectly spherical boulder.” Rheneas went to retort, but thought better of it. “Remember when you had your cab fitted? Back when the Old Iron Bridge was made of wood?” Skarloey thought back, then hummed. “I think – it collapsed, didn’t it? And you had to be carted right the way around the valley behind a traction engine so you could get back here.” “Yes! I almost crossed the bridge that night… but there was something else on it. I saw something.” “And what would that be?” quizzed Skarloey. “I saw a lantern, out on the bridge. And I heard hooves – but there were no horses out that night… Or maybe there had, but the bridge still collapsed and a boulder fell into the ravine and had one of my coaches not derailed we would have gone with it.” Skarloey stared at Rheneas, then burst out laughing.

“Oh, you are a hoot! Ghost horses!” Rheneas scowled furiously, and let off steam. As the steam cleared, it revealed Proteus, backing into the shed after a long day at the mines. The little engine stopped not too far from them, and their crew hopped down, looking annoyed.

“There was a gas leak in one of the mines, and now it’s closed for a week!” the driver complained. “There are a few mines that use canaries,” Skarloey piped up. The driver and fireman shared a look, then turned to their engine. “A canary, huh? Well, a yellow engine ain’t that different.” Proteus just stared at the pair impassively, almost as if he didn’t care. Rheneas wondered why the little engine didn’t seem bothered by his crew’s almost compulsive decision, though he figured it may have been that he was used to their impulsivity.

Proteus did seem a little peeved when his crew actually followed through on their decision, painting poor Proteus a bright, eye-sore yellow and parading him about the yards. At the very least, it made spotting him in the dark easier.

To add to the odd modifications, another incident at the mines a week after his repaint – this time due to a candle going out and a miner being crushed under a wagon – led to Proteus’ superstitious crew bolting a large, ungainly American lantern to the top of his smokebox.

Skarloey and Rheneas both thought the lantern was unsightly, but withheld their comments so as not to embarrass the poor engine, especially as he had no way of speaking up for himself.

A suitable spot for a new copper mine was chosen, and Skarloey went up to help Proteus out so the little yellow engine could build the line. Each day, Proteus returned later and later, his lantern being almost constantly lit.

Then, one evening Proteus returned at nearly midnight, his crew almost silently finishing up their duties, but still loud enough to rouse both Skarloey and Rheneas.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” hissed the driver. “An almost completely round boulder!” The two engines were wide awake in an instant. They looked over – but neither could see Proteus’ face from where they were parked.

Still, both engines noticed a marked change. Proteus became more withdrawn, less inquisitive and more… blank. There was nothing behind those eyes now, as if Proteus wasn’t all there. Skarloey believed Rheneas now – but try as they might, neither engine could tell anyone else. They tried – but every time they opened their mouth, an invisible force held them back. It was as if they had been gagged, forced to keep their silence and watch as Proteus became more and more unrecognisable each day over the next month.

The rains came stronger than usual that year, and they weakened the ground up around the mines. All three engines had to go up to help repair – and that’s when Rheneas and Skarloey saw it.

The boulder was real. It stood right at the end of the line, on a cliff overlooking the ravine the railway ran through. Skarloey’s driver began muttering something under his breath, his hands clasped together.

“I’m not going up there again,” he hissed that night. Skarloey and Rheneas both agreed. Skarloey’s driver considered for a long moment, then turned back to them. “And neither of you should either. If you do, it will make a beeline for you.”

Both engines resisted the urge to demand to know what it was. Something deep in their frames told them knowing would be worse than blissful ignorance.

Proteus continued heading up to the end of the line every day, and not returning until almost midnight.

The rains finally cleared, but their departure signalled the rise of the mist and fog. It swirled around everything, making it almost impossible to see. The only thing bright enough to cut through the fog with ease was Proteus, painted in his bright livery and with his giant, powerful lantern.

Skarloey and Rheneas were thankful for the fog – it meant that traffic was slow, and they weren’t needed up near the mines. But Proteus still went dutifully up to the end of the line, even as work ground almost to a halt. Even as his eyes began to very slowly shift colours, lightening up around the edges and morphing from the coal-black eyes the pair had known for the few months the little engine had worked with them to something... different. A hazel, perhaps? But it was too vibrant for it, and too foggy to really tell. 

Then, something changed.

It had been a cold, wet and miserably foggy day. The fog was so thick that it was almost entirely impossible to see beyond the edge of Rheneas’ buffers, but he still agreed to pull the afternoon passenger train. His journey up was without incident, and the little red engine stopped at the top station to run around his train. As he puffed by the yard, he thought he could just make out the silhouette of one of the other engines – but it was too thick to tell.

“Goodbye,” whispered a voice. Rheneas looked over to the platform, but it was devoid of people. He looked back, and saw what looked to be Proteus’ lantern retreating into the distance. Rheneas felt a chill run through his boiler. Beneath his lantern, Proteus' eyes were almost blood red. 

“Let’s go back. Fast.” Rheneas’ driver obliged, happy to be out of the wet and cold. As they headed for the sheds, night began to fall. A full moon shone overhead, it’s brilliance almost entirely disfigured by a thick, impenetrable fog. Rheneas battled through it to reach home, and was glad to spot his brother in the sheds.

“Oh good, you’re here!” panted Rheneas. “Something is wrong – I was up at the top station, and I think I heard a ghost!” “A ghost?” “There was a voice, it said ‘goodbye’ but there was no one there except…” Rheneas cut off, his eyes blowing wide. “Except Proteus.” There was a muffled boom in the distance, and then silence.

During the night, Proteus went missing. He’d been somewhere up near the end of the line, and then gone. A farmer later claimed he saw the poor engine fall from the Old Iron Bridge, his lantern dark and his face featureless. Worse yet, the gas leak deep in one of the mines hadn’t been properly clogged – a miner had tried to light a cigarette, and the entire mine had gone up in a fireball.

The damage was intense and severe. The mining company ran dry of money, and had to sell the railway. Mr Handel Brown – the brother of Skarloey’s driver – bought the line, and decided to close the route up to the mines. “It’s not safe,” he said darkly. They placed dynamite on the Old Iron Bridge, and detonated it.

…

They destroyed the Old Iron Bridge, so why was it intact now?

Back to the Master Post

[creelkobblelaufeyson69]

First time/in a while

Warnings: smut

Y/n was procrastinating in their bed as they couldn’t stop thinking about their next door neighbor Renfield. His blue kind eyes greeting them each time the two saw each other. After seeing the fight with Teddy’s gang, they fell for him even more

It was innocent thoughts at first, but after seeing that fight the innocent thoughts had became become very naughty. They couldn’t stop imagining him coming onto their chest as he moaned their name. Him thrusting into them at an abnormal speed. There was a problem with them thinking these thoughts, they’ve never had sex in their life

Y/n was quite embarrassed to admit to any guy they were a virgin since most of the time the guys wanted someone experienced. They had doubts that their neighbor Renfield also had these same feelings, which wasn’t true. He craved to touch them, but was scared since it had been so many decades since he’s last had sex

The thought actually kinda scared him, but he was open to doing it again. There was a knock on their apartment door as they found themselves touching themself to relieve them from their arousal. Y/n let’s out moans that he could hear clearly

He had figured that perhaps someone had gotten to them before he could. He was about to walk back to his apartment, when he heard them moan his name. He decided to knock louder, which makes them stop touching themselves. They washed their hands before they answered the door

Once the door was open, Y/n had realized who it was. Their face was red now; “I’m sorry for coming over at a time like this Y/n. I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship and last time I was in one, I ended up ditching my wife and my daughter” he explains since they knew this had to do with him being Dracula’s apprentice

“So please do tell me if you want this to go any further, because I would like to do things with you…” he adds, which makes them kiss him on his lips. He returns the kiss as each other’s bodies moved away from the door

He had shut the door behind him, and soon he was pressed against the wall. He pulls apart, and was blushing like crazy. “This is my first time anyway. So it’s okay if you’re rusty” they said as they let go of his wrist now

“Are you sure?” They nodded their head as they take his hand into theirs. They lead him to their bedroom now, and once the two were in their room, they started to take their clothes off. He watches as they take their clothes off

Once they were fully naked, they get onto their bed now. He laid down next to them once naked. His lips are on theirs, and he finds himself comfortably on top of them. He hadn’t entered them yet, because he was scared of hurting them

He was gonna wait for them to reassure him that they did want this. They pulled apart for air, and got lost in his eyes. “Should I go ahead and go in, or?” He asked genuinely. “Go ahead Ren” they said, which makes him go into them

He lets them adjust to him first and waited for them to tell him to go ahead and fuck them. He notices a bug, and then takes it. Once he ate the bug, he starts going at their pussy. It was like he knew it would be what they wanted

“Fuck!” They moaned as the bed was on the very verge of falling apart already. The two’s hands intertwined with each other’s now as he fucks them. He hits their spot, which got them a moaning mess. It hurt to say the least, but that made them moan more. They felt like coming, and he knew that they needed to come

“Renfield” they moaned as they now came. He continued until he came too. Their bed breaks afterwards, which makes them shocked. “Fuck” they cursed after he pulls out of them. “I’ll get you a new bed” he says as he now felt bad

[bullet-prooflove]

Could you write a crossover story featuring Beau/Ally and Harm/Savanna?

Tagging: @kmc1989 @keyweegirlie @snowlover250 @kenbechillin @@too-strong-to-lose @buckysteveloki-me @sca3a @flopiboni @secretsquirrelinc @@sportslovers-world @burningpeachpuppy @mandy426 @@al-lethan @thiashazzywriting @justameresimp @agentorange9595 @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @imaginecrushes @flrboyd @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @crimeshowjunkie @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman @tortilla-maria1 @lemmons1998 @dr-alan-grantler @penguin876 @deliriousfangirl61 @goosterroose @kishie8 @skyesthebomb @marshmallowflufffox @whateversomethingbruh @4everademigod @notanotherpotter @yousigned-upforthis @silversprings-mp3

Ladies and gents we got ourselves a crossover! Refs to both Ally's career in JAG and Beau being a flyboy.

It’s in a park by The Naval Yard that Mac first sees Harm again. It’s been nine years since she last laid eyes on him and he still looks as handsome as the day he packed his bag and walked out the door.  He’s standing alongside the coffee kiosk, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark overcoat as he surveys the menu board fixed the outer wall.

She doesn’t expect to see him back in Washington DC, the last she heard he was seeing a girl down in New Orleans, spending all his shore leave celebrating Jazzfest and Madri Grais. That man, she’d thought at the time, he’ll never grow up.  

She hasn’t had a single successful relationship since she left Harmon Rabb and she blames him for that. She blames him for a lot of things. The two of them had made a pact when they’d flipped that coin, he was supposed to stay out of the service, live life as a civilian in San Diego. They’d get married, have a couple of kids.

It had worked for a while but then he’d run into Ally again and it had all started to fall apart. The Admiral's Wife, Mac calls her, because she’d married Beau Simpson a decade ago, the rear admiral in charge of the Top Gun program.

Harm had been her mentor when she was coming up through JAG. He’s walked her down the aisle when she had married Beau at sunset in Cape Rey. Mac remembers she’d been a ferocious little thing, tenacious and fierce in the face of adversity. She packed a hell of a punch in the court room. Mac should know, she’d run up against her a couple of times since taking the promotion in San Diego.

“She’s as good as you.” Mac had told Harm over dinner one night. “And just as infuriating.”

“No.” Harm had responded, sipping from his beer bottle. “She’s better.”

It was Ally that had urged Harm to rejoin the Navy, her and Beau. Mac couldn’t see how unhappy he was at the time, she hadn’t understood it, not really. She remembers the day he’d come home from the airfield, eyes bright with exhilaration. He’d been out flying again with Beau, the two of them were like boys with toys once they got up in the sky. Testing boundaries, playing wargames, showing off. He always ended up at their home afterwards, talking cases over dinner with Ally or swapping war stories with Beau. He would come home with a smile on his face, smelling of cigar smoke, tasting of whiskey.

“I’m re-enlisting.” He’s told her that night after he stepped out of the shower. “It’s a different commission from JAG, it won’t mess up our agreement.”

He was wrong, it had been the end of everything. The posting that Beau had offered him meant he was away on aircraft carriers for six months out of the year, flying jets and sailing ships, the two things he loved most in the world.

Mac had hated him for that, she hated Beau and Ally for giving him that option because now she was the one left behind. The lonely one, the sad one.

It had lasted one deployment.

By the time the next one came up, it was over.   

It was a way of punishing him at the time, she’d expected him to resign his commission, come back with his tail between his legs, but he hadn’t. He’d packed a bag instead and gone to stay with Ally and Beau before shipping out to the USS Allegiance, she hadn’t seen him since. She’d heard stories over the years from mutual friends, places he’d been, women he was seeing. He’d become the Harm she used to know, the one without ties or commitments.

She had always believed they would find their way back to each other. Nine years and thousands of miles later, it’s finally happening on a rainy day in Washington DC.

She doesn’t realise how wrong she is, not until she sees you. You’re hurrying towards him, gesturing with your hands, your voice full of apology. He smiles then, and it’s that smile that completely obliterates her. She’s never seen him smile like that, not in all the years she’s known him.

You’re nothing special, not really. She’d call you pretty as opposed to beautiful, a step down from the women he usually covets. You aren’t military, she can tell from your walk, but you carry, she can see it in the way your coat drapes. Law enforcement then, she assumes. Most likely NCIS.

Strong women, she recalls. That’s what Harm’s attracted to, strong capable women.

It’s when he kisses you, she knows that it’s real. When he cradles your face between his large hands, there’s such tenderness in his expression. He looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world and her heart just breaks. He’s loved before, she realises in that moment but he’s never been in love, not until you.

Her eyes start to sting because for all these years she’s clung to this hope, this stupid ridiculous dream that the two of them were meant for each other. She’d imagined that they’d bump into one another, their eyes would lock and it would be like it was back then. Nights filled with fire and passion, their days adventure and laughter.

That life, it isn’t a reality anymore.

It’s clear that Harm’s moved on and it’s time that Mac does too.

Love Harm? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[slutforsnow]

DJ & His Jackalope

I wrote this on Discord yesterday because I was thinking of angst for Hazbin OCs lmfao. The OC, Firah, however, DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. She has been created by @salem_crossing! Salem can be found on TikTok & Twitter 🫶🏼

The battle was over. The remaining exorcists were fleeing with their now one armed leader, Lute, leaving behind a deceased Adam and other exorcist angels. The staff of the hotel were catching their breaths, impressed that most of them live but something felt wrong. Robin felt like something was missing, and once the adrenaline started slowing down, they realized something was wrong. Vex wasn't anywhere in sight. Feeling her worry rise, she immediately ran through the scene, Robin weaved her way through rubble and dead bodies, sniffing them to find Vex.

'He couldn't be dead, could he? No, no, not my Vex. We've survived a decade's worth of exterminations, he's fine,' She thought, feeling her hooves slam against some sharp rubble. The pain stung, but they kept going, having picked up on Vexs scent at last. Being a jackalope demon, as well as a cannibal, definitely had its perks because she could tell he wasn't dead. Severely injured, but not dead.

They saw his hand under a piece of rubble and came to a screeching halt. Digging her way to him, she was grateful jackalopes could dig well. Hearing him groan, as he could feel the pressure of the rubble decreasing, Robin dug faster, and eventually, he could pull himself out. With her help, he freed himself, and Robin's gaze was immediately pulled to a gaping hole where his liver should've been.

"Oh my stars, Vex, we have to get you to Charlie or Lucifer," Robin yelled out, trying to pull him up.

"Robin," the 16-year-old grunted out, holding his injury as best as he could as Robin tried to lift him. She ignored him, trying to focus on getting him at least up.

"Robin," Vex uttered again, lifting his head to rest on her shoulder. "I'll be okay, I promise."

"No, no, no, I said you're staying with me until all 9 rings of Hell get wiped out fully. You're not leaving me. We just have to get up and get you to the Morningstars. You'll be okay. Y-you can even sing the song you made for me afterward!" She said, trying her hardest to lift him up, but to no avail. The highest she got was almost halfway up before the two tumbled down. Vex was lying on the ground, and Robin was on her knees, holding his hand and trying to stop the bleeding crying and begging for him to keep his eye open.

Her forehead was gently laid upon his as Vexs breathing started to slow. All hope would've been lost had Alastor not found his & Firahs child crying and holding Vex begging for something to happen... and something did. Alastor worked a little magic, and his shadow had gotten to work, sewing up the surgically enhanced teenage sinner.

Robin finally lifted her head up when Vexs breathing resumed its steady pace and seeing the stitches, she looked up, smiling weakly at her dad as Firah, who had been searching a different area for Robin until Alastor had slipped into the shadows and brought her to where he was, knelt down to Robin, pulling her into her arms.

"He's going to be okay, darling," Firah reassured, pulling a piece of rubble from Robin's hair. "He'll be good as new."

Robin met both her parent's gazes before looking down at Vex as Alastors shadow disappeared. "I hope so... I don't wanna let him go..."

[toaarcan]

I've talked about the Bionicle-flavoured D&D game I was a part of a few times on here, but I kinda want to go over our take on Makuta.

Makuta was, of course, the ultimate villain of the story, and while we didn't finish the game for a host of reasons, we know how it would've gone down had we completed things, and so I can ramble about everything rather than merely speculating.

Makuta and Teridax were separate characters. This was an idea I've seen a couple of times, but here it happened organically. My first PC was Ahkmou (shocker), a Warforged Stone Sorcerer, and as such I gave him a backstory featuring an antagonist based on 01-03 Makuta. One of my friends' first PC was Miserix, a Dragonborn Moon Druid, and as such, he had a backstory featuring an antagonist based on 05-10 Makuta.

These two characters couldn't be the same (well I suppose we could've finagled it so they were, but we didn't), so I avoided naming mine until we landed on the solution that Ahkmou's old nemesis was Makuta, and Miserix's old nemesis was Teridax.

Makuta and Teridax's initial appearances, respectively.

Teridax ended up being a charismatic and manipulative High Elf with a Wizard/Sorcerer multiclass that sought ultimate power and knowledge, while Makuta was the ancient and terrible Fiendish God of Magic, Power, and Destruction that had ravaged the world in the Great Cataclysm, all that stuff.

They also took inspiration from G2 a bit because this was just after G2 died and we weren't wholly ignoring everything from it yet.

But something happened with that.

See, Teridax was the (apparent) BBEG of the game, and therefore he didn't appear all that much. He would show up every now and then (and most of his appearances were very memorable and tense), but Makuta was different.

Makuta was a PC.

Ahkmou had a passenger. Formerly a servant of Makuta during the Cataclysm, he had turned against his former master and helped the previous generation of heroes stop him. However, when Makuta was shattered into six shards, the smallest and weakest of the bunch buried itself in Ahkmou's core and laid there, dormant, for decades afterwards.

Then, during our first adventure, Ahkmou came close to death, and in a moment of panic and weakness, reached out to the Shard for the power needed to survive, and he got it.

Makuta's power rippled out of Ahkmou's body in an enormous shock wave that ripped up the floor of the room we were in and killed the antagonists we were fighting. Ahkmou began to levitate a few inches off of the ground, his formerly blue eyes burning golden, and started to speak with two voices, the second much deeper and much smoother than his own rather high-pitched and scratchy one (I typically give Ahkmou the voice of Prime Starscream, for reference). The armour on his left hand began to turn black and red, and shortly after leaving the dungeon, he fell into a comatose state.

Makuta had single-handedly ended our part of the adventure (we split the party, oops) with his morning stretch. And he didn't go away.

When Ahkmou awakened, he'd changed a bit. He'd become spikier and meaner, and the subsequent adventure saw the last of his idealism die, when he managed to prevent a conflict with a big redemption speech, only for the BBEG to kill off most of the people he'd saved with a killswitch. After that, Ahkmou became much more aggressive, his biting sarcasm got much crueler, and he began strongly advocating for solving all of our problems with murder.

Originally, Ahkmou had been snarky, but well-meaning, and somewhat cowardly. He secretly held a great admiration for those that saved the world from the apocalypse he helped cause, and used the story of his redemption at the hands of Takanuva to try and inspire others to be better.

But now, there was another voice in his head, encouraging him to take the darker path.

As this was my character, I was the one playing the Makuta presence, and though he was based on 01-03 Makuta... I have a preference for the later characterisation, and so I quickly began to play him more as a thinking, scheming being.

Things got worse in the next adventure. During his coma, I had instead played Aisling, a ruthless and cynical death-worshipper who the party had inadvertently stomped on all the trigger buttons of during their first adventure together. Aisling had returned for vengeance, and the party went to try and stop her. Ahkmou stayed behind, though, because the place the fight would be happening was the resting place of another of Makuta's Shards, the Shard of Fire.

See, Ahkmou dreaded being in close contact with the other Shards. To his knowledge, the Shard of Stone was weak and directionless. It was a lump of power, more power than he could normally wield, but nonetheless it wasn't even sentient. If he were to be in close proximity to one of the bigger, smarter Shards, however, he feared they would merge, and overwhelm him, reviving Makuta in his body. As such, he didn't go to the Charred Forest to confront Aisling.

OOC, this was largely an excuse for me to not have a character on both sides of the conflict.

This ended up being a bad idea. In the battles that followed, Aisling effortlessly exploited the weaknesses of her former allies, soundly beat them at almost every turn, and killed Miserix when he attempted to challenge her alone.

Ahkmou was left feeling terribly guilty, that he could've prevented Miserix's death and helped turn the tide if he were present. At the same time, he largely found himself agreeing with Aisling's motivations, if not her methods, given his own ruthlessness. Even still, he liked and respected Miserix. And the icing on the Cognitive Dissonance Cake was that Aisling had been killed by another villain, revived by her girlfriend, excommunicated from her cult, and essentially forced onto the redemption path. She was still here, still rubbing shoulders with everyone else, and still in the "But I did nothing wrong" phase of the redemption process.

This complex mix of feelings left Ahkmou largely absent for the following few adventures, with Aisling and my third character, Gavla, being my mains in that time.

Worse still, it was during the confrontation with Ash that Teridax revealed himself, and claimed the Shard of Fire, which was all around very bad news.

Two adventures later, we had another run-in with Teridax wherein he also revealed ownership of the Shard of Earth, and this confirmed Ahkmou's worst fears. Someone, somewhere out there, was trying to reunite the pieces of Makuta for some unseen purpose.

Takanuva had done his best to suppress all knowledge of the Shard of Stone. Across the whole world, the only people that knew of it were him, his trusted inner circle, Helryx and her representatives in the guild we were working for, and Ahkmou and his comrades specifically. As far as anyone else knew, there were only five Shards. That his one's element was so similar to Earth only helped them hide it more.

But if Makuta were reunited and revived, he would know he was incomplete, and he would know where to look to find the last piece. No mortal soul would be able to contain and control even half of Makuta's essence, let alone the majority of it, so the odds that Teridax would survive completing his mission were low.

In that moment, Ahkmou should've thanked the party for their support, and left to make the journey to Solspire, the home of the Order of Light and Takanuva specifically. He should've joined forces with his oldest ally, and had his own Shard suppressed or removed.

But he didn't. In part because this was a D&D game and I wanted him to stay with the party, but mostly because Ahkmou was wrong about the Shard.

It wasn't non-sentient. It was, in fact, not just sentient, but sapient. It had grown smarter and stronger ever since he awakened it, with more and more of his body starting to mutate as it reached its corruptive essence further and further into him, and it was already starting to influence his decisions.

Makuta did not want to be suppressed, and he definitely didn't want his host to be purified, so he instead pushed Ahkmou to a different course of action: Breaking the party away from their previous allegiances and going on a personal quest to find and destroy the rest of the Shards before Teridax could get them. If he only had two, maybe that would be a problem they could stop.

Makuta also implanted the idea in Ahkmou's head that only the Shards could find and destroy each other. Therefore, Ahkmou would need to keep him alive and around in order to achieve his goal.

After all, if Ahkmou is going near the other Shards, then Makuta has a chance to reunite with the rest of himself.

The first we found was the Shard of Water, in a sunken city in an acidic sea. Ahkmou still had enough control to refuse to join the mission below the waves, but nonetheless supplied the others with a specific plan: They should go down there, recover the Shard of Water, and bring it to the surface, so he could destroy it.

In reality, Makuta was just trying to get it brought to him so he could absorb it.

But then, things went differently to his expectations. The fight for the Shard of Water was grueling, having to confront a genocidal fish-man who wanted it for himself, a gang of pirates, and in intensely creepy Wight named Gorast who had been one of Makuta's original followers.

(Gorast got a model despite her relative non-prominence because I like making nasty-ass zombie-looking creachers in HeroForge)

In the battle that followed, the party had managed to trick Gorast into taking the Shard of Water into herself, and then Nurghal, the party's main Paladin, had been able to bait her into sticking around to try and drain his light and morality with her powers instead of immediately teleporting away, long enough for him to smite her and kill both Gorast and the Shard of Water.

Because Nurghal Ironhide is just that cool.

Ahkmou's theories about what could kill a Shard proved to be wrong. In any normal situation, this should've been cause for jubilation. Ahkmou could safely purge his own Shard and they could continue the quest without Makuta growing stronger.

But Makuta wasn't happy. In fact, Makuta was fucking steamed. A part of himself had just been killed, perhaps permanently, and he would never be whole again. He was so close, only a few hundred metres from reclaiming part of his lost power, and now it may be gone forever.

So instead, he accentuated the negative. During the drop, Gavla almost died, and Ahkmou has caught feelings for Gavla that he doesn't know how to process, and that gave Makuta a wedge.

Rather than congratulatory and relieved, Ahkmou got snippy with Nurghal, saying his plan was far too risky and could've allowed Gorast to escape with her prize. They almost lost, someone he can't lose almost died, and next time, he's going with them to prevent that.

Over the course of the next few missions, Makuta's influence ramped up, as Ahkmou tapped more and more into the Shards in an effort to survive an attack by the Gravesworn and a hellish jaunt through the Underdark, bargaining more and more of his soul away to protect himself and his comrades.

By the time they reach their next breather spot, he's laser focused on the Shards, and he starts getting aggressive and threatening anyone and anything that would impede his progress toward that goal, even other members of the party.

Because all these detours and distractions and sidequests are hindering him. Stopping to help all these... small, insignificant people, well it won't matter if Teridax beats them to the Shards of Air and Ice, and everyone dies because the world is destroyed.

He doesn't realise that his reasons for being so forceful are increasingly just a mask that Makuta is wearing, even as he articulates them when the others call him on his attitude.

He apologises for his pushiness, for not accounting for the needs of others. He doesn't mean it. He's not really in control any longer. He thinks he is, he's got both hands on the wheel, but Makuta tells him where to go, and he goes.

And then, they finally meet Teridax again. Makuta feels the other parts of himself within his opposite number, and it drives him crazy. Two more parts of himself are within his reach, held by another... and he isn't even using them right.

Teridax isn't mutated like Ahkmou is, and that's not a glamour. He has the Shards within him, but they're dormant. If they weren't, he'd be most of the way to full transformation and completely controlled by Makuta.

Ahkmou was unable to stop him, and Makuta overrode him and attacked.

Still, Teridax was too powerful for the party... and that was exactly what Makuta wanted. Even in his rage, he's scheming. Backed into a corner, Ahkmou had little choice but to give himself fully over to the devil within.

Makuta has won. Over the course of the last few months, he's chipped away more and more at Ahkmou's mind and soul until he can finally wrest full control from his host.

He effortlessly defeats Teridax. He easily dupes the others into thinking he's still Ahkmou, and feeds them a plan that requires them to distract an adult Dragon while he peacefully searches for the Shard of Air, the only person accompanying him being the one member of the party that happens to have the worst WIS save and the worst luck, the one person he knows he can escape.

And he very nearly miscalculates. He's so convinced of his superiority and inevitable victory that he forgets that his companion as a Ring of Spell Turning. He assumes he can just drop a Heightened Hold Person and lord his victory over a captive audience of one, and it almost blows up in his face.

But ultimately, it doesn't matter. He claims the Shard of Air and he escapes to begin his plans proper, and now that he has more of himself again, he finally comes to grasp the totality of the Plan, the goal that the other pieces of himself have been steering Teridax and Ahkmou and any other Shardbearers out there towards.

He prepares for open conflict with Teridax, because one of two things will happen. Either he will kill Teridax, and claim Fire and Earth, or Teridax will kill him, and claim Stone and Air. Either way, the result is the same: Four of the six Shards, in control of one body. Then, they are free to find the last of them, the Shard of Ice.

The Shard of Ice rests in the Winterlands, the home of the cult that Aisling hailed from. In fact, it rests within Vasyana, the leader of that cult, and it has been growing stronger and stronger by feeding on the cult's faith for the Raven Queen. For a piece of a god, the leader of a religious organisation is the about the best place it could end up.

And once they have control of the seat of the Gravesworn, they can open the door to the afterlife and reunite with the Shard of Water, becoming whole again, Makuta reborn in totality.

But if, by some twist of fate, the heroes of this world actually manage to kill them and their host? It doesn't matter. Because they know how the afterlife works. They know that they will simply go there, and reunite anyway, and it will be child's play to resurrect himself.

Because he's Makuta. He's been three steps ahead this entire time.

For all the things that got messy with R&R, I think we translated the character of Makuta into the game perfectly.

[littlesparklight]

The timeline I've constructed for my Greek myth fic 'verse has been a gradual process (and labour. so, so much labour sobs), and I wish I'd realized earlier I could use Herakles' age of death to help guide how many years I'd at the least need to put in between his birth and when Perseus kills Medusa. As it was I've had to move things earlier than Herakles' birth back by several decades at least once!

You'd think Herakles' Labours would be useful as a guideline, which they are. Sort of. Because the thing is, as fantastically ordered and neatly laid-out as the Labours and the other events afterwards are (sort of) laid out in the Bibliotheke (which is so helpful in general), I quickly had to just discard not just the order of the Labours but the idea that they happen in twelve years consecutively.

Mostly (but not only) because of the last one, with Kerberos. It needs to coincide with Theseus and Pirithous' attempt at kidnapping Persephone, which happens right after Pirithous has helped Theseus kidnap Helen - and Helen is conventionally between 9-12 years old when this happens. (Later I also realized that Odysseus needed to be somewhere between 16-20 years old when he got the bow from Iphthius right before Herakles murders him, which, fortunately, by happenstance my timeline as it was at that point could accommodate without changing any ages or moving any events!)

What's actually been really helpful as a guideline is the journey of the Argo (but even that isn't without problems (': ) and the events around it.

Given who all are most often considered a participant in the journey, it was obvious I needed to put the Calydonian boar hunt after it - specifically Akastos always being alive and on the journey, and still only a prince, therefore Peleus accidentally killing his father in law (during the hunt) and coming to Iolkos to be purified by Akastos and the mess that happens because of this cannot have happened yet.

So you have a neat connection of events, presumably in very short order after each other; the journey, the funeral games of Pelias, the hunt, Peleus going to Iolkos (and losing his wife); Peleus and Thetis' wedding. I put these within a collective two year span, of which the journey takes up most of one year.

I completely ignored that the goddesses always seem to go to Paris immediately after the wedding. It makes just as much sense, and worked better for character and timeline and age reasons, that Zeus would drag the whole thing out. Plus with the Dioskouroi as part of the journey they'd been to be teens at least.

I early on settled on a rather simple way to chop things up; the journey of the Argo is ~15 years before the start of the war (because of Achilles' age at the first muster), and Herakles' attack on Troy ended up being 39 years before the war. I think I originally had it be 30 years before but pushed it up.

I reaaallyy quickly decided I'd go with what other myths as well as the vase painting suggests when it comes to the Dioskouroi; that they're older than Helen (and Klytaimnestra). It makes more sense, so they've ended up being nine years older than Helen.

I had to fight a lot with both the myths and my timeline to try to figure out where to put Tyndareos' exile/Hippokoon usurping him.

You could probably put it much earlier than I did (especially if you're ignoring that Herakles' attacking Sparta is part of his post-Labours wars/events), since all that you need is that the Labour to fetch Geryones cattle has happened. One of the reasons given for the attack on Sparta is that Sparta/Hippokoon helped Pylos when Herakles attacked it to avenge himself of Neleus and his sons attempting to steal the cattle.

If you put it earlier, then all the kids are presumably born in Sparta (though I do know I've read a source that imply the Doskouroi were actually born during the exile...). I put Hippokoon's usurpation rather late, in conjunction with Helen and Klytaimnestra's births, so they're actually born in Pleuron (where I put exiled Tyndareos and his family). The whole family comes back to Sparta/Lakedaimon in my timeline only shortly before Helen is kidnapped by Theseus, when she's ten.

And Agamemnon and Menelaus come to Sparta for a year a couple years later, first spending time in Sikyon and then Calydon (to match up with that Aegisthos kills Atreus when he's "grown to manhood". But I've actually cheated a little and he's like... fourteen or something, but I couldn't have this happen later.

so basically: 1231 BC - The judgement, Paris goes to Sparta. He's twenty, Helen twenty four, Menelaos thirty. (In 1235 BC, the Epigoni attack Thebes, ten years after the Seven did so.) Seven years before the judgement, in 1238 BC, Helen and Menelaos marry; she's seventeen. Menelaos and Agamemnon are exiled from Mycenae between 1244-1240 BC; they spend the first couple years in Sikyon and Kalydon, until Tyndareos, sympathetic to their plight (and probably having had their character vouched for by Oeneus, since, uh, Helen's abduction by Theseus was just the year before they were exiled), offers to help them. They spend a year (between 1241-1240) in Sparta; at the end Tyndareos lends military aid to retake Mycenae and Agamemnon marries Klytaimnestra. In 1245 BC, the Seven attack Thebes early in the year and, too several campaigns of Herakles means Tyndareos can take control of Lakedaimon again. Later in the year, Helen (10) is kidnapped by Theseus and Pirithous, they then attempt to kidnap Persephone and are imprisoned. Peleus and Thetis marry the year before that, in 1246 BC, right at the start of the year; I liked the idea that he attempted for a couple months to woo her before the wrestling happens (and it also means a little time to perhaps grieve his wife committing suicide), so the mess with Akastos, the Calydonian boar hunt, and the funeral games of Pelias all happen in 1247 BC. Thus, the journey of the Argonauts are during 1248 BC, with the Dioskouroi 16 years old. At this point they're obviously still living in Pleuron, and have been for several years, as Hippokoon usurped him in 1255 BC, when they were 9.

I partially chose Pleuron because well, it'd make rather sense for Tyndareos to take refuge with his father in law, and because there is actually quite a lot of connection between Ikarios and a section of Akarnania (west of Aetolia, where Pleuron is). Which I decided to lean into, so that when Tyndareos goes back to Lakedaimon, Ikarios and his family stays, having been given land of their own in Akarnania.

[spacemonkeysalsa]

God of Ambivalence

A tiefling Artificer splits a large stone on a beach to discover a one handed-wizard inside.

Pairing - OC/Gale & Shadowheart/Lae'zel but there will be more as it goes on.

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

Read Chapter Three on Ao3

Read Chapter Four on Ao3

Read Chapter Five on Ao3

Read Chapter Six on Ao3

Read Chapter Seven on Ao3

Read Chapter Eight on Ao3

Read Chapter Nine on Ao3

Read Chapter Ten on Ao3

Read Chapter Eleven on Ao3

Or read Chapter Eleven below

“You were meant to return to the astral, with me,” Lae’zel reminded Xan. “These were carefully laid plans, and should not be discarded on a whim.”

“It’s not a whim, mother,” Xan had adopted more of Shadowheart’s mannerisms than her own. Sometimes, Lae’zel found it charming, moving even. Sometimes, especially when they were in disagreement with one another, she thought it was easier to speak to him without looking straight at him, a habit she wouldn’t allow with anyone else.

But Xan was different. Everything about Xan had always been different. A shining, burning, sometimes painful exception. Lae’zel found her emotions to be broader and nearer to the surface when she was with her child. To look at him, and watch him flit gracefully from one manipulation to the next with such natural skill was to risk tearing up for seemingly no reason at all. Unacceptable. It was better to make eye contact with the wall.

“And I still will return with you. Surely, you didn’t plan to rush away. Not after all this time.”

He had her there, but she could never admit it.

“It could be a tense meeting, hostile even. I should accompany them to make sure Rolan receives them in the spirit he should.” Xan shrugged, “we understand each other, Rolan and I. We’ve been through a lot of the same—” here Xan started to lose his words he finally waved a hand dismissively, the gesture seemed to say ‘you know’ and she did know. The same time, the same history, the same world.

Xan had no siblings, no cousins even, as all in his clutch had hatched before him and been strangers to him for his entire life. Rolan though, he’d been around, and at times, took on a role that Lae’zel thought could be analogous to that of an older siblings in the culturally homogeneous family units of Faerûn.  One half of his home and his heart.

“I don’t know,” Shadowheart usually let the two of them argue without her input. She’d have her say one on one with each of them afterwards, if she felt it was necessary. Even now, she’d only been observing them from atop her bed. She sat cross-legged, almost sentinel. A lovely white cat that Lae’zel hadn’t recognized as one from the farm was draped over Shadowheart’s lap, tail tickling her contentedly as she stroked it’s head, and scratched his neck.

Lae’zel in contrast, was still in the doorway. It was something of a bad habit of hers—to block the way of egress during an argument. She didn’t do it on purpose, but still found herself reluctant to move out of the way. It felt like relinquishing ground.

Then again, it wasn’t like Xan wouldn’t just push past her when it came down to it.

This argument wasn’t heated though. And she doubted it would become so. Lae’zel didn’t want Xan to leave with the injured wizard and suspiciously helpful stranger, but she wouldn’t stop him. Xan was very much a man. His mothers could tell him what they wanted him to do, but he’d already spent a lifetime ignoring their wishes and they were all quite used to that dynamic.

“If only the portal was a little closer.” Shadowheart stroked the cat’s ears.

Xan rolled his eyes in a way that might have gotten him chastised a few decades ago. “It’s barely a days’ hike.”

“An injured companion can easily turn a day’s journey into a tendays’ journey,” Lae’zel didn’t have to tell him that, he knew well enough without her sage wisdom.

“He’s as recovered as he’ll ever be, thanks to mum,” Xan indicated Shadowheart with a slight nod, “Besides, you didn’t see what his tiefling did this afternoon.”

“What did Elion do?” Shadowheart gathered up the shed cat fur in one hand and brushed it away.

“Crafted a rather unique prosthetic for him. It won’t work like a real hand, but it can grip, and I think the wizard will make use of its tricks.” 

“Are you determined to leave us again, so soon?” Shadowheart briefly met Lae’zel’s eyes before she spoke. Perhaps she was waiting to see if her wife was really giving up so easily.

She was. Lae’zel restrained a sigh.

“It will be quick. I’m sure we’ll have a good bit of time to all waste here together as a family as soon as I get back.” Xan’s shoulders relaxed, maybe he hadn’t been aware how close he was to victory until this moment. Perhaps Lae’zel wasn’t softening quite as much as it felt.

“I’d still feel safer if it wasn’t just you and three unknown quantities,” Shadowheart gave an exaggerated exhale and then said, rather performatively, “if only there were a reliable dagger for hire in the area looking for work who I could send with your group for a modest fee.”

The cat slunk off her lap, stretched and bounded out of the room.

Lae’zel watched the cat go out of the corner of her eye and then sliced her narrowing gaze back over to her wife, interrogating her with a tight-jawed stare.

“Haven’t you figured it out?” asked Shadowheart in undertone. “He never lets me so much as hug him when he’s in his true form. And if I want a cuddle I have to pretend I don’t know it's him.”

“Astarion?!” Xan demanded in a hiss.

“Arabella isn’t the only one who’s tried to sneak about amongst my clowder unnoticed.”

“I thought that animal looked familiar,” Lae’zel thought back, but it had probably been nearly twenty years since she’d seen Astarion in his cat form.

“When did he learn to wildshape?” Xan demanded, “was I the only one who didn’t know?”

“Probably. Arabella helped him connect with a past life. A druid. Wildshape is actually more convenient than the animal forms he could take on if he were a true vampire, sunlight and running water don’t hurt him when he’s in wildshape,” Shadowheart still kept her voice low, “but don’t say anything, as much as he likes to show off, he’s actually done a decent job keeping it out of the rumors and his reputation, and I think it makes it that much easier and safer for him to catch people unaware—” Shadowheart cut herself off as footfalls approached from outside the bedchamber.

Lae’zel stepped into the hallway and almost ran directly into Astarion’s grinning face.

“Ah! Lae’zel of Crèche K'liir, you look well,” he stepped back with a flourish and bent at the waist in a quick bow.

“Old friend! Happened to be in the area, I suppose?” Lae’zel asked, trying not to grin back at him.

“I did in fact! And you know Moonhaven Anew is all abuzz about the charming half-elf cleric and her ravishing githyanki wife, and I thought, what are the chances?”

“Indeed. Please come in,”

“Why, thank you.”

In many ways, Astarion’s unchangeable nature emphasized just how much Lae’zel and Shadowheart, and especially Xan, had changed. One hundred years had spread gray and silver through Lae’zel’s hair, lined her face, and stiffened her back, if not bent it. Shadowheart too, showed her age in the tired moments between graceful bursts of energy that sometimes fooled others.

But, Astarion was Astarion. The difference of a hundred years manifested mainly in self-confidence, which he’d never appeared to lack, but time and consistency and his own well-being had made it less of a costume he wore and more of a fixed point in his personality. Lae’zel didn’t know if she actually looked ‘well’ but Astarion definitely did. 

“Why Astarion, it’s been an age, how are you?” Shadowheart scooted down from the bed, sweeping the rest of the cathair aside and straightening the fall of her robes.

“Well as can be. I do hope my favorite extra-astral family is just as remarkable as ever? Xan! Towering over everyone as usual, I see.”

Xan nodded in Astarion’s direction in greeting.

“What brings you back to this forgotten corner of the Sword Coast?” Lae’zel thought she might as well play along. Shadowheart cringed slightly. Her performance must not be very convincing.

“Nothing much, to be honest,” Astarion shrugged elegantly, “a bit of freelance work that wrapped up quicker than expected. So, I thought I would detour through some old memories.” He spread his gloved hands out on either side, indicating the sanctum around them, “I was quite sure this place would be rubble by now, but it’s almost liveable.”

“Almost,” Shadowheart emphasized.

“What do you think about accompanying our erstwhile son on another detour to Ramazith Tower?” Lae’zel faced Astarion with arms crossed, keeping Xan in the side of her gaze well enough to see him roll his eyes yet again.

Astarion’s grin widened, “You’re so straightforward. I’ve always admired that about you.” He fell into an exaggerated contrapposto and rested his jaw on one gloved hand, thinking. “As it happens, my social calendar is quite light at the moment, so I certainly could. But, alternatively?” He scoffed, “Rolan.”

“You would have to see Rolan,” Shadowheart nodded gravely.

“It’s not even that I dislike him,” Astarion started to defend himself, “I like Rolan—I just think there’s a strong possibility that I like everyone else who I also like, more than I like Rolan.”

“Perfectly explained,” Lae’zel couldn’t have put it better herself. “He does make it difficult.”

With a slight smile Shadowheart chided, “yes, there’s nothing quite so irritating as someone who is arrogant, clever, infinitely talented, and also rarely wrong.”

“Exactly! The audacity.” Astarion agreed. Lae’zel wasn’t sure she was with him any longer, but at least they had found their chaperone.

“Shouldn’t I be consulted on this?” Xan sighed. Lae’zel hadn’t exactly forgotten that he was in the room, but he was doing that hatchling thing again where he shrank back against the wall and shut out the rest of the room, moody and isolated. She’d found it was best not to pull him back into conversation when he was trying to shrink from it, and this had served their relationship well over the last century.

“No,” Lae’zel said the word in unison with her wife.

“It’s not up to you,” Shadowheart told him firmly. “You’re a grown man who can make your own choices. You’ve chosen to go on this little adventure and there’s nothing your mother or I can do to stop you. But you can’t stop me hiring Astarion to either accompany or stalk you to Ramazith tower. I’m simply allowing you the courtesy of knowing that’s what’s happening,” she informed him.

“I prefer stalk,” Astarion shot Xan a wink, “you’ll want to travel during the day anyway, so it isn’t as though I can walk next to you and chat.”

“Well, you’re welcome to. Either way.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m a little light on gold, but I have an item you might find valuable…” Shadowheart made her way over the wardrobe and began to sift through its contents.

Lae’zel realized she still hadn’t unpacked anything. Her pack was on the ground by the door, speckled with silver ghaik blood. “I can supplement your fee,” she picked up the pack and opened it, remembering a few things she’d collected that she knew she wouldn’t need. “Scrolls of misty-step,” she handed them to Astarion, with his thanks and he slipped them into his own pack.

“Oh,” she found one more shoved into the bottom of the bag, “this one is valuable. But I imagine you’ll find a use for it before I do.” She put another tightly bound scroll into his hand.

Curious, Astarion frowned at it, then unfurled it just enough to read, “Benign Transposition? Interesting.”

“Only works on the willing,” she warned.

“I work alone, most of the time, but I can imagine it will come in handy,” Astarion slipped the scroll into his pack and turned to where Shadowheart was still rummaging through the wardrobe. “Your wife has quite covered my fee. Consider me engaged. Though, I won’t say no to more tokens of appreciation.”

“Well—there is one thing—it’s for you,” Shadowheart let out a soft grunt as she dug deeper into the back of the wardrobe. “Traveling merchant I’ve run into a few times let me have it at a bargain. I knew I had to get it for you.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t get too excited. I told him I was in the market for artifacts that made life easier for vampires. Most of the really good stuff is infamous, accounted for, and impossible to procure—”

“Don’t I know it.”

“But, he did have this. It’s not the intended purpose, but in a pinch, it’s meant to protect you from imminent combustion. I gather it was originally some kind of safety measure meant for Artificers working with explosives.” Shadowheart finally closed her fingers on the item she was describing in the midst of her wardrobe, Lae’zel could tell, though she was only watching her rummage from behind. She gave herself away with her body-language, her back muscles finally uncoiling as her shoulders dropped, task complete. She turned back around and briefly held up a golden ring for Astarion to look at, before she dropped it into his waiting palm.

“Oh?” Astarion said again, inspecting the ring with a raised eyebrow over one open eye before he slipped one glove off to find which finger the ring would belong to. “A sunburn countermeasure?”

“He says it should work the same way for a vampire spawn in the sun, yes. Something about measuring the threat of heating flesh rather than the ambient heat itself and relocating them somewhere safe? He was vague as to where that would be though. It’s only meant for emergencies. I gather it doesn’t so much solve the problem of the sun, as it creates a different, more solvable problem of being quite lost somewhere. It won’t protect you from the sun like the tadpole.”

“How mysterious.”

“You might just want to keep it on hand.” Shadowheart suggested.

“What a thoughtful gift. Thank you, my dear.”

It was only then that Lae’zel noticed that Xan had slunk away sometime in the last few minutes. She wondered if she ought to go after him, but Astarion seemed to read her thoughts. He caught her eye and shook his head, “I’ll go have a chat with your son. We should have some contingencies worked out ahead of time, in case something goes wrong on the way to this portal.”

“Contingencies?”

“He’ll have to come up with them,” Astarion sighed, “I’m better at improvisation.” He swanned out of the room as casually as he entered it.

Shadowheart had begun sighing at the same time as Astarion but didn’t quite finish until after he’d left. Her eyes were closed and her head bowed slightly. Lae’zel recognized that stance with a pang of sympathy.

“Headache?”

“Neck,” Shadowheart qualified in undertone. “It’s been a long day.”

“Get in bed then.”

“You do love telling me what to do,” but Shadowheart opened her eyes again and slowly her lips spread into a wide smile. “I missed you.”

Lae’zel almost said it back automatically, but found the words knotted in her throat. It wasn’t enough to express how she felt. For Shadowheart it had been a few months since they saw one another, but for Lae’zel it had been much longer. She tried not to dwell on how long. It just worked that way sometimes. Often, the other way around, where Lae’zel would only seem to be gone a few days by her own reckoning, but Shadowheart would be left wondering where she was for tendays at a time. “I think I’m staying for good, this time,” she’d thought it before, but she’d never said it outloud.

Shadowheart’s eyes widened, her brow arching high only to sink into a knit, “really?”

“I wouldn’t tease this.”

For a moment the time they’d spent together fell back like a curtain and Lae’zel remembered the uncertain, vulnerable young woman that Prisia had rescued from a pod on a mindflayer’s ship, against Lae’zel’s protests. She’d seen it and been numb to it at the time, totally unable to bring herself to act on any lingering feelings of empathy that hadn’t been stripped from her in her youth.

It had all worked the way it was meant to. Shadowheart had been so guarded at the time, she wasn’t in any position to accept comfort, even if Lae’zel had been willing and able to offer it at the time.

But after a hundred years, it still felt like they were making up for it sometimes.

Honestly, it was quite a nice feeling.

Shadowheart melted back against the bed as Lae’zel closed the gap between them. Her thin legs sank in between Shadowheart’s easily and she folded into her, each hand finding purchase on her hips first, pulling her body into place underneath her. Shadowheart let out the smallest gasp that turned into a contented sigh as Lae’zel feigned a kiss to the lips just to begin nuzzling her throat in earnest. Shadowheart let her carry on, her hands exploring the taut muscles and gentle curve off her back and flitting under her clothing. Taking her time. They had a lot of time, and yet never enough.

“You’re right,” Shadowheart finally sighed again. “No more adventures for us. Let’s just spend the rest of our lives like this.”