#minor restoration for the win

[foresttt-png]

They healed each other the next morning without a single word

[nevermind-i-forgot-whats-that]

Sometimes, as much as I love internet communities and spaces, I really think a lot of people have spent so much time in sanitized, morally pure echo chambers that they lose sight of realism and life outside the internet.

I live in Alabama. My fiancée and I cannot hold hands down the street without fear of homophobic assholes. We have an abortion ban with no exceptions for rape or incest. We are one of the poorest states in the US with some of the lowest scores on metrics related to quality of life, including maternal mortality, healthcare, education, and violence. It’s not a coincidence that we are also one of the most red, one of the most Republican states in the Union. In 2017 the UN said the conditions in Alabama are similar to those in a third-world country.

Trump gave a voice to the most violently racist, sexist, xenophobic groups of people who, unfortunately for most of us in the Southern U.S., run our states and have only grown more powerful since his rise to power. The Deep South powers MAGA, and we all suffer for it.

We have no protections if they don’t come from the federal government.

I know people are suffering internationally and my heart is with them. However, this election is not just about foreign policy - we have millions of Americans right here at home living in danger, living in areas where they have been completely abandoned by their local leaders. We need this win.

No candidate is perfect, but for the first time in my voting lifetime I’m excited to vote. I’m excited for the Kamala Harris/Tim Walz ticket because they are addressing the issues close to home. They’re advocating for education as the ticket to a better life, but without the crippling student debt. They’re advocating for the right to love who you love without fear and with pride. Kamala has always been pro-LGBT+ and so has Tim. Again, if you’re queer in the South, we don’t have support unless it comes from the federal government, and we absolutely will not have support if the Republicans regain the White House.

Kamala speaks in length about re-entry programs to reduce recidivism and help people who have been arrested and imprisoned regain their lives. Tim Walz supported restoring voting rights to felons. In the South, you know who comprise the majority of felons? Members of minorities. It’s one of the major tools of systemic racism and mass disenfranchisement, and arguably the modern face of slavery (there are some fantastic documentaries and books that explain the connection between the post-Reconstruction South and the disproportionate rates of imprisonment for BIPOC). Having candidates who recognize this and want to restore the freedom and rights to people who have come into contact with the criminal justice system? And keep them from having to go to prison in the first place? That’s refreshing. That’s exciting.

I would *love* to live in a country where women’s rights are respected, where LGBT+ rights and protections are a given, where we treat former criminals and individuals experiencing mental health crises with respect and dignity. I would *love* to live in a country where education is free of religious interference and each and every citizen is entitled to a fair start and equal opportunities.

But I don’t live in that country. Millions and millions of Americans find their rights and freedoms up for debate and on the ballot.

Project 2025 poses the largest threat to the future of our democracy as we know it. We are being called to fight for the future of our country.

We have to put on our oxygen masks first before we can help others.

You don’t have moral purity when you wash your hands of the millions of us who are still fighting for own freedoms right here.

The reality is that a presidential candidate is a best fit, and not a perfect fit. But comparatively speaking? Kamala is pretty damn close.

[gracie-eilish]

A cute, fluffy, funny request of reader’s vision starting to blur and needs to wear glasses, but she’s very stubborn and refuses to wear them, which leads to several mishaps.

clearlyyy in love

an: love the glasses wearer representation🙂‍↕️🤓

It started with little things.

Street signs looking a bit fuzzier. Your texts needed to be in bigger font. The subtitles on your favorite show—suddenly… off while the volume was louder than usual.

You tried to brush it off at first, convinced it was just bad lighting or a smudge on your screen or maybe you were just tired.

But Billie noticed.

She always noticed.

“Babe,” she said one morning, as you blinked hard at your laptop screen and leaned in like an inchworm. “Why are you basically making out with the monitor right now?”

You looked up, flustered. “What? I’m just… focusing.”

She tilted her head. “You sure? Because I swear you were trying to count the pixels.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “It’s fine. My eyes are just tired.”

“Mmm,” Billie hummed, not convinced. “I’m making you an eye appointment.”

And just like that, you were booked.

You went, of course. Because Billie had that mix of puppy-dog eyes and I’m-not-kidding tone that always made you fold. And sure enough—blurry vision, headaches, eye strain…….

Yeah. You needed glasses.

You were not thrilled.

You texted Billie the second you left the appointment:

you were right. i need glasses. i’m upset.

She texted back two seconds later:

why are you upset??? you’re gonna look cute as hell.

also, now you’ll stop tripping over everything. that’s a win for us all.

And honestly? She was kind of right. About both things.

The tripping had become a minor hazard, and even though you were reluctant, the first time you tried on frames in the optometrist’s office, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and… huh.

Not bad.

You chose a pair. Classic. Pretty. Soft around the edges but with just enough personality. Billie met you at home later that evening and lit up like you’d just told her she won a surprise Grammy.

“Oh my God,” she gasped the second she saw you in them, dropping her keys on the counter. “You’re so cute I could die.”

You gave her a skeptical look. “They’re not weird?”

She practically teleported to you, grabbing your face gently, tilting your chin. “No, they’re perfect. You’re perfect. I can see your pretty little eyes even better now.”

You blushed. She smirked. Balance was restored.

That night, you wore them proudly. Even watched a movie without squinting once. Billie held your hand the whole time and kept sneaking glances at you like you’d just grown fairy wings.

But the next day?

You… “forgot”.

And then the day after that?

You “accidentally” left them on your nightstand again.

The truth was, you liked them—but they still felt a little unfamiliar, a little too new. Sometimes they slid down your nose. Sometimes they got smudged. And sometimes, you just felt too stubborn to admit that you needed them at all.

Billie, ever patient, clocked it.

So when she came into the kitchen one morning to find you staring helplessly at your phone, holding it two inches away from your face with furrowed brows and a crumpled forehead?

She sighed. Softly. Lovingly. Sternly.

“Where are your glasses, baby?”

You froze. “Uhhh�� somewhere?”

“Somewhere,” she repeated, stepping closer, plucking the phone from your hand and squinting dramatically. “Trying to decipher texts like it’s a secret code from 1942?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”

She grinned. “Don’t be stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “They’re just annoying sometimes.”

Billie walked over and put her arms around your waist from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.

“I get that,” she said gently. “But I need you to see. Like, for real. For your safety. And also—selfishly—for me. Because I love looking into your eyes and knowing you can really look back.”

You softened at that. “You’re too good at this.”

“I know,” she said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Also, you left them on the bathroom counter. I brought them with me.”

She pulled them from her pocket like a magician. You groaned.

“You’re relentless.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” she corrected, slipping them gently onto your face. “Sue me.”

You blinked. The room came into focus again. The fuzz disappeared. Billie’s face—smug and gorgeous—was crystal clear.

She leaned in, smiling. “There’s my girl.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

She smirked. “Oh, I know. Now come on. Let’s go outside and you can actually see the flowers I planted for you.”

You rolled your eyes (now with 20/20 clarity), letting her take your hand and lead you into the sunshine.

That afternoon, Billie kept sneaking photos of you in your glasses while you sat on the back porch sipping iced tea and reading a book, muttering, “God, you’re cute,” every five minutes.

That evening, she kissed the bridge of your nose—right where your glasses sat—and whispered, “These just give me one more reason to fall in love with you again every day.”

And that night, you didn’t forget to wear them.

You didn’t even want to.

Because Billie was right. Again.

Clear vision was nice. But seeing her—really seeing her—and knowing she loved you through it all? That was the most beautiful thing of all.

[mariacallous]

Donald Trump launched a destructive global trade war last week, devastating the US economy and quickly erasing a record $6 trillion in value from the stock market. Americans everywhere watched their retirement savings catch fire, and now amidst the rubble, many Trump voters lament that this wasn’t their desired outcome when they willingly returned a madman to power.

Over the weekend, billionaire hedge fund manager Bill Ackman called Trump’s tariffs “a self-induced, economic nuclear winter” and insisted, “This is not what we voted for.” (Ackman pathetically changed his tune after Trump walked back some of his tariffs on Wednesday and the markets temporarily ticked up, tweeting, “Textbook, Art of the Deal.”) Many Trump supporters have complained that they voted for “affordable groceries” and “lower taxes” but not a “global trade war.” But they were kidding themselves.

The 2024 election wasn’t a restaurant where you could order cheaper eggs but politely ask for the server to hold the fascism. You’re still getting the fascism, and your eggs aren’t just overpriced now, they’re broken and rotten.

Perhaps the most damning commentary about the US electorate and media is that Trump never even tried to conceal his malicious intentions and deranged policy positions. Despite some revisionist history from pundits and Trump voters with serious regrets, his second term is largely what his campaign promised. He was consistently fixated on personal grievance and revenge, with no serious solutions for the country’s problems, many of which were of his own making. That’s hardly the blueprint for an American Golden Age.

Almost exactly a year ago, Trump gave an extensive interview with Time Magazine that served as a detailed confession of his plot to ruin the country. The interview was conducted in April, months before he’d receive the Republican presidential nomination for a third time. His general election campaign was even more radical and divisive: He offered a dirty ashtray’s view of the future, with migrant fear-mongering, transphobic attacks, and outright threats against his enemies.

Trump wanted to win the presidency for his own self-aggrandizement and to inflict pain upon everyone he hates and who he believes has wronged him. Now he’s doing just that. He’s targeting immigrants, trans Americans, minorities, his political opponents, and anyone who ever tried to hold him accountable for his past crimes. He’s abandoned America’s allies and embraced democracy’s enemies. He’s governed even more lawlessly than during his first term, which is really saying something considering he was impeached twice, the second time after inciting a coup attempt.

There are cultist MAGA voters who supported Trump because he promised mass deportations, no matter how inhumane, and further persecution of marginalized groups. Then there are the supposed “normie” Trump voters who were willing to overlook the actual words coming from his mouth and assume he would restore the economy to how it was in 2019 — conveniently before his botched pandemic response. Now, neither group is happy with Trump’s insane, self-harming revenge tour, even though it was completely predictable.

[elodieunderglass]

Firstly, thank you for answering all the Killie Questions. I've gone from 'Oh, it's the sad, ginger horseboy on my dash again' to telling my wife all about THE SAD, GINGER HORSEBOY 😁 while she makes this face at me: 😐. So, thank you for the indulgence.

Second, I'm desperately curious about the rich weirdo who actually owns Thunder and employs Killie. Who is this person? What is it about pairing Killie and Thunder that delights them so, aside from They Win A Lot? Does Killie actually interact with them much, or is it a 'They Sign My Paychecks' kind of thing?

(Killie the jockey OC)

Ohh this is such a GOOD question and it's really hard to answer!

The Rich Owner is an integral part of the pragmatic underpinnings of Killie's narrative.

Being a stable jockey contracted to a fixed owner in the UK liberates him from having to orbit his family's training yard in Ireland, allowing him some space and independence - normally the jockey children of generational trainers are expected to trot around after their parents and get put up on their horses, keeping everything in the family in a perfectly circular self-sufficient ecosystem. Killie, being a prodigy, has ascended to the completely separate sphere of being on retainer to a stable with limitless resources. (His parents are proud, even if the lack of heir-at-home is destabilising the dynasty.) It means Killie gets distance (physical and emotional) from the evil horse dynasty, that he can focus his energy on the sport, and it means he has a longterm relationship with O Holy Thunder, which is otherwise a bit unrealistic in the modern racing industry. And it means he's tremendously guilty about Not Being Home Where People Need Him - even as they're roaring for him to not worry about that, to conquer the world and have the Tiernan stats raised above all others in the history books, carved in stone and filled in with gold, a fling of faith to restore fading glories of a dying sport, etc.

You can see how all of the dominoes are lined up to topple! So, narratively, the Rich Owner HAS to exist to make all of this happen. The problem, narratively - letting you behind the curtain - is that I hadn't laid out any of Killie's problems with the intention of writing a book!! So Killie's owner has traditionally been whatever I was fighting with at the time, and wanted to rotate. They have variously been:

a terrible boss that puts Killie through the wringer, and he feels like a trapped animal (insert any archetype of a boss you hate, or circumstances of a job that felt like a daily panic attack.)

a great boss who is just so eccentric and charismatic and bugwild and loves treating Killie like a pet, and drags him to fancy rich parties and galas and puts him into terrible, terrible situations. (fun for when you want to imagine rich parties and galas and insufferable rich people. and then to put Killie in them. Sleek and beautiful and tiny and dapper, like a jewelled cufflink, and absolutely nothing but white noise between the ears. a racehorse in a cravat, sent into outer space by a teaspoon of prosecco. someone save him)

a pleasant person with benevolent intentions, who is nonetheless corrupted by their wealth, and you can't ever trust them or forget that (anticapitalist theme for when you're mad at capitalism)

old money

new money

minor royalty

I think old money/minor royalty would be enjoying the pleasure of the captive-knight dynamic you'd get out of keeping Killie. For slightly more than minimum wage salary and the cost of his humble little flat-above-the-stables, you could get quite a lot of amusement

a person with a playboy son who is predatorily interested in Killie (captivated for SOME REASON by his blank stare and wet cough and awkward horsegirl swag) but Killie's impenetrable shield of Killieness, like Saint Patrick's Breastplate cast over a priest before an exorcism, has him completely oblivious to all expressions of interest. the receiver's not tuned to the right channel. possibly not even plugged in. (can be played for comedy or something more sinister.)

not even there because they're not relevant to the narrative (They Sign My Paychecks)

I need to pick one and sort it out so we can get some canon published, but I'm doing it entirely the wrong way 'round so far!

Any advice or archetypes you think are funniest are warmly accepted. we're doing this the wrong-way-round anyway!

[rmadridcore]

Cabin Moments

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader

Requested

Summary: After a hilarious cookie mishap, you and Jude escape the cold and find yourselves melting into each other in a cabin warmed by love and a crackling fire.

Word Count: 3.3K

Warning: Smut! (Minors DNI)

Author’s note: I���ve been wanting to write something Christmas themed and I decided to combine it with one of my requests ✨ Hope you’ll love it, happy holidays everyone 🤍🤍🤍

Jude had approached baking with the same confidence he brought to the pitch, but the batter currently clinging to the ceiling suggested otherwise. It was a few days before Christmas, and after ending the year with a win, Jude had whisked you away on the snowy getaway you’d both been looking forward to for weeks. Nestled in a cozy, picturesque cabin surrounded by a blanket of thick, crisp snow, the two of you had every intention of soaking up this peaceful time together before heading to England to celebrate the holidays with his family.

After a playful afternoon of snowball fights and building lopsided snowmen, you’d returned to the cabin, cheeks pink from the cold and laughter. That’s when Jude had insisted on baking cookies for you — a gesture he’d framed as a “thank you” for always taking care of him during his grueling season. You’d tried, and failed, to talk him out of it, knowing all too well that Jude’s cooking was less “Michelin star” and more “hazardous experiment.”

“Babe, why is there flour on your forehead?” you asked, squinting at him from your perch at the kitchen counter. Your chin rested in your palm as you watched his questionable culinary process unfold.

“Because the bag exploded on its own,” he replied, his tone completely serious as he stirred a bowl of unidentifiable liquid that was supposed to be cookie dough.

“Uh-huh,” you said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And I’m guessing the whisk didn’t magically fling batter onto the ceiling either?”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Okay, that one might’ve been me.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. It was impossible to stay annoyed when he looked so determined, even if his methods were… unconventional. He whisked the mixture with such vigor you half-expected the bowl to launch itself off the counter. Butter, eggs, sugar, flour, vanilla, and a pinch of salt were haphazardly combined in a way that made you want to intervene at least ten times. The butter wasn’t properly melted, the flour was clearly insufficient, and his measurements were more guesswork than precision — but he was so resolute in doing this himself that you decided to let him be.

And prayed the cookies wouldn’t kill you.

As Jude began shaping the dough, his brows furrowed in concentration. He rolled an oddly lumpy blob in his hands, inspecting it as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Do cookies need to be round, or is that just a societal norm?” he asked, holding up the blob for your opinion.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter, doubling over as the absurdity of the question sank in. “No, Jude, they don’t need to be round,” you teased. “But it helps. Want me to take over?”

Tempted as he was by your offer, Jude stood firm. “No, thank you. I’ve got this.” His voice was confident, even as his hands struggled to mold the dough into something remotely spherical.

After what felt like an eternity, Jude triumphantly placed six misshapen dough balls onto a tray and slid them into the oven. Turning back to survey the kitchen, his eyes widened in disbelief. The once-pristine space now looked like a war zone — flour dusted every surface, utensils were strewn everywhere, and a suspicious trail of chocolate chips led to the corner of the counter.

He caught your knowing look and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, maybe I’ll let you help with the cleanup,” he admitted sheepishly.

You grinned, grabbing a dishcloth. “I thought you’d never ask.”

As the cookies baked, the two of you worked side by side to restore some semblance of order to the kitchen, exchanging teasing remarks and stifling laughter at the chaos Jude had created. The air was filled with the warm, sweet scent of vanilla and butter, but also the undeniable warmth of shared joy and affection.

A soft ding from Jude’s phone broke the quiet, signaling that his cookies were ready.

“They’re done!” he shouted, darting to the oven with the kind of excitement you’d expect from a five year old on Christmas morning. You stifled a laugh, watching him as he carefully pulled the tray out, his expression radiating pride.

His enthusiasm was endearing, until you remembered the last time he’d insisted on cooking. You prepared yourself for what was likely going to be an unforgettable culinary experience.

The cookies cooled for a few minutes, and then you both grabbed one, each taking a tentative bite. It only took a second for reality to hit. The moment your teeth met the cookie, it felt as though your entire dental health history flashed before your eyes.

“Jude, what is this?!” you exclaimed, your jaw protesting from the sheer effort it took to chew.

Beside you, Jude was in the same boat, though he valiantly tried to act like it wasn’t a disaster. He set his cookie down slowly, as if to avoid offending it. “They’re just… crunchy,” he said, forcing nonchalance.

“They’re not crunchy, Jude. I think I just tested the limits of my dental insurance policy,” you replied, gingerly placing the cookie back on the plate and vowing never to attempt another bite.

Jude’s face fell, a cute pout forming as he stared at the offending baked goods. He looked so disappointed it tugged at your heart. Bless him, he had just wanted to make something special for you.

“It’s okay, my love,” you said, softening your tone as you approached him. You cupped his face gently and placed a sweet kiss on his lips. “I’m still so proud of you. You’ll do better next time.”

Your reassurance brought a small smile back to his face. He hugged you tightly, his chin resting atop your head as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

“You probably won’t,” you whispered teasingly, unable to resist.

“Hey!” he protested, pulling back with an offended look that made you laugh.

“I’m kidding,” you said, pecking the tip of his nose. “How about you go light the fireplace, and I’ll make us some hot chocolate? Deal?”

“Deal,” he replied, clearly agreeing that cooking should forever remain your domain.

You set to work preparing two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, using the adorable Christmas-themed mugs Jude’s mom had gifted the two of you just a few days ago. With the rich scent of chocolate filling the air, you carried the mugs into the living room.

Jude was already sprawled on the couch, the fireplace crackling and casting a warm, flickering glow around the room. The cabin was utterly serene, the kind of cozy that made you want to live in this moment forever.

You handed him his mug before curling up beside him, his free arm naturally draping over your shoulders.

For a while, the two of you sipped your drinks in peaceful silence, the warmth of the fire wrapping around you like a soft blanket. It was a much-needed pause, a rare moment of tranquility amid the chaos of your lives.

“I wish I could freeze time,” Jude murmured, his voice breaking the quiet as he rested his head against yours. “Just stay like this forever.”

“What would we even do all day?” you teased, humming contentedly as the sweet, creamy liquid soothed your throat.

“This,” he replied simply, his fingers tracing soft patterns on your arm. “And maybe… I’d hold you a little closer.”

His words made your heart swell. You turned to look at him, your eyes brimming with affection. The way the firelight danced across his features left you breathless. He was stunning, and in this light, his expression so relaxed, so full of love, he somehow seemed even more beautiful.

“You look so different like this,” you whispered, your fingers grazing his jaw in a tender caress.

“Different?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Softer,” you said, smiling as your hand lingered on his cheek.

“Softer, huh?” he teased, his lips quirking into a grin. “That’s a first.”

“Not your muscles, silly,” you replied, rolling your eyes playfully. “Your eyes. They’re glowing. Like you’re thinking about something.”

He gazed deeply into your eyes, his demeanor calm and tender. “Just thinking how lucky I am to have you,” he said softly, his words making your heart flutter, as they always did.

You leaned in, pressing your lips against his, gifting him a short but heartfelt kiss that carried every ounce of your affection.

Turning your head, you let your eyes settle on the fire burning in the hearth, its soft glow casting a magical warmth over the room. “There’s something about this moment,” you murmured, “something magical, isn’t there?”

Jude brushed a gentle kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a moment as his arms tightened around you. “You’re the magic,” he whispered against your skin. “The rest is just the setting.”

Your gaze flicked back to him, your chest swelling with love as a warm, fuzzy feeling settled deep within you. He reached for your mug, setting it alongside his on the coffee table.

“I don’t want anything between us, not even hot chocolate,” he explained when you gave him a curious look.

Before you could respond, he pulled you into his embrace, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and brimming with emotion. His tongue grazed your bottom lip, and you granted him entry, allowing him to explore your mouth with delicate care. His hands traced slow, soothing patterns along your back as he lowered you onto the couch, his body hovering over yours, never breaking the kiss.

Your fingers found their way to the back of his neck, nails grazing softly along his skin, sending visible shivers through him. He moaned quietly into your mouth, the sound igniting a fire in your belly.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, his lips trailing a path to your neck where he began leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses. His warm breath sent tingles coursing through you, your skin heating beneath his touch. “I love you more than anything.”

“Jude,” you sighed his name, your voice a soft groan of pleasure. “I love you too.”

He hooked one of your legs over his hip, his lips continuing their worshipful journey along your neck and collarbone. Jude’s hands worked quickly, pulling his top off in one swift motion before reaching for your sweater, lifting it over your head. You unclasped your bra and tossed it aside, your bare skin now exposed to his hungry gaze.

He cupped one of your breasts, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin while his mouth captured the peak of your other breast. His lips and tongue teased your nipple with a mix of tenderness and desire, leaving you breathless as soft moans slipped from your lips.

“Jude,” you moaned again, the sound spurring him on.

Hearing you say his name like that was his greatest reward — a confirmation that he was making you feel good. It fueled him, his own pleasure second to the joy of knowing he was satisfying you.

Within moments, the rest of your clothes were discarded, leaving you naked beneath him. The firelight danced across your skin, painting you in a soft, golden glow that took Jude’s breath away.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m obsessed with you.”

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers exploring your wet folds with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You were already ready for him, Jude had that effect on you. Just his touch, his words, even the way he looked at you could leave you completely undone.

You whimpered softly as his fingers left you, watching as he stroked himself a few times before positioning himself at your entrance. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent as he began to push into you slowly.

A deep groan escaped your lips as he filled you, stretching you perfectly in a way that was both intense and utterly satisfying. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his skin as you adjusted to his size.

When you tilted your hips upward, your body signaling your readiness, he began to move, his thrusts slow and purposeful as he lost himself in you.

A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes your lips as Jude begins to move, his hips rocking slowly, savoring every second. There’s no rush — neither of you are in a hurry. For the first time in what feels like forever, you both have all the time in the world to explore each other’s bodies, to bask in the tenderness and love that envelopes the moment.

His rhythm is steady and purposeful, his thrusts full of affection. Each movement feels like a silent declaration of how much he loves you.

Jude lifts his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes melting into yours, filled with devotion and longing. Your fingers curl into the back of his head, your breaths mingling as your hearts beat in perfect synchrony.

“You’re so perfect, you know that?” he whispers, his voice soft yet full of intensity, as if the words themselves carry the weight of his entire heart. His hand gently brushes strands of hair away from your face, revealing every detail of your expression.

Your eyes hold all the emotion that words could never fully express. If others wear their hearts on their sleeves, you and Jude carry yours in your eyes, transparent and undeniable.

He moves gently within you, every thrust igniting a fire in your core, sending pleasure rippling through your body. His lips find yours, warm and inviting, and his tongue slips past your parted lips to deepen the kiss. Slowly, he trails his kisses along your jawline, then down to your neck, his mouth hot against your skin.

Soft moans spill from your lips as his pace quickens, each movement perfectly calculated to bring you closer to the edge. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper as your hands explore the expanse of his back. He groans softly against your neck, the sound vibrating through you and making your skin tingle.

“You feel so good,” Jude murmurs, his voice thick with adoration. “So perfect.”

His large hand moves to cup your breast, his fingers teasing the hardened peak with a gentle pinch. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder, his lips lingering on your heated skin.

“Jude, you make me feel so good,” you say breathlessly, tilting your head back to give him more access. Your words spur him on, his lips trailing even lower, leaving you a trembling mess beneath him.

Hearing you say those words is everything to Jude. It fuels him, his desire to make you happy, to make you feel cherished, surging through him like a tidal wave. He pauses, his lips leaving your skin to gaze into your eyes once more.

“Y/N, you’re my everything,” he says, his voice raw with emotion. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the love radiating from them. It’s overwhelming, almost too much to bear, yet you welcome it, reveling in the intensity of his feelings for you.

Even without his words, you can feel it. His every touch, every glance, every moment you’ve shared has shown you how much he adores you. But hearing him say it, especially now, sends warmth flooding through your chest.

He captures your hand in his, bringing it above your head, intertwining your fingers tightly. His thrusts remain slow and deliberate, his body perfectly aligned with yours as he leans closer, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re mine, right?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

The question feels so silly to you, but you know Jude well enough to understand the quiet need for reassurance beneath it. Even though he knows your heart belongs to him, hearing you say it, especially in a moment this intimate, brings him a joy he can’t describe.

You smile, your free hand gently cupping his face as you whisper, “Of course, my love. I’m yours. Forever.”

The words ignite something within him. His thrusts pick up slightly, enough to send waves of pleasure cascading through your body, inching you closer to the edge. Your soft cries of pleasure echo in his ears, and he knows he’s exactly where he’s meant to be — wrapped in your arms, lost in the love you share.

Jude gazed down at you, his breaths heavy and labored but his heart fuller than ever. To him, you felt like a dream, a tangible piece of heaven he could hold, yet somehow still untouchably divine. There was an ethereal connection between the two of you, unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

The moment he had you in his life, he knew there was no going back. How could he? You made him feel like he was perpetually on cloud nine. You were the light that brightened even the most ordinary days, a warmth that banished every shadow.

As his pace quickened, your fingers squeezed his tightly. He responded by leaning down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deep, fervent, and all-consuming. It wasn’t just a kiss — it was a declaration, a pouring out of emotions from the deepest corners of both your hearts.

To Jude, it felt as though he were floating on warm water, his entire being weightless and suspended in bliss. His heart swelled, threatening to burst from how much he loved you.

“I still can’t believe how lucky I am to have you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with sincerity.

And he truly felt like the luckiest man alive. You loved him without reservation, understood him like no one else ever had, and supported him in ways that made him feel invincible. He never thought his life had been lacking before he met you, but now, he understood — nothing could ever compare to the completeness he felt with you by his side.

His thrusts quickened slightly, urgency mingling with tenderness as both of you approached your highs. Your intertwined hands tightened simultaneously, the shared gesture grounding you both in the moment.

Your lips remained locked as the peak hit, his warm release filling you just as your orgasm surged through you, sending tremors down your spine. Your walls clenched around him, eliciting a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest that you swallowed with your own cries of pleasure.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your labored breaths mingling with the soft crackle of the fire. Jude slumped against you, his weight resting on you in a way that felt grounding and secure. He was careful not to crush you, but he also didn’t want to break the closeness of the moment.

Your fingers found their way to the back of his head, gently caressing his slightly damp hair. The soothing motion sent shivers down his spine yet again, a sensation that never seemed to grow old no matter how often you touched him.

The cabin was silent, save for the occasional pop of the firewood. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, blanketing the world in stillness and cold. But inside, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s embrace, you felt untouched by the chill.

Jude rested his head on your chest, pressing lazy, loving kisses along your collarbone as he listened to your heartbeat — steady, soothing, and his favorite sound in the world. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, the crackling fire and the scent of pine only adding to the magic of the moment.

Though it felt like perfection, both of you knew this was just the beginning. With Christmas just around the corner, the love and passion you shared promised even more magic ahead. And as the snow continued to fall outside, you lay there together, hearts full, basking in a warmth that no fire could ever rival.

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (1) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board | ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.

chapter summary: your parents are convinced that you will marry the king by the end of the social season. and so, too, it seems does coriolanus snow.  

word count: 2,764 

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later 

chapter warnings?: no use of y/n, you cannot stand coryo, not proofread

Coriolanus Snow’s rise to the throne was something you never expected to come to fruition. When you were younger, you remembered your peers talking about how Snow wanted to one day rule Panem. At the time, you thought it was just another wild dream of a child. Something a child would say when an adult asks what they wish to be when they grow up. “A pirate!” one might exclaim. Or, perhaps, “A painter!” The sort of thing that a sensible parent would shrug off and not dedicate anymore thought to. The Snow family, as it turned out, was not particularly sensible. 

When the Former King Ravinstill died without warning, the throne was left vacant. Everyone knew that the old man had little life left in him. Yet, despite his age, he had a tendency to power through. No one thought he would have lived as long as he did, but he had. So, the Electors had not yet begun considering his replacement. No one had been prepared enough to seek candidacy. No one, except Coriolanus Snow. A few other eligible persons put forth their names, but no one garnered support quite like the young man. From a prominent family, the son of a general, had served briefly himself, intelligent, and had the financial backing of the Plinth family? There was no version of history where Snow could lose. 

Within weeks of Ravinstill’s death, Snow was crowned King. 

You did not care for politics, so you knew little of his reign. But your father seemed pleased, talking often and loudly about how the young Snow would restore Panem to its former glory. You weren’t so sure of that. Though you did not interact with him often in your younger years, you remembered Snow as someone who was self-serving. Who would pretend to care if only it could further his own interests. He very well might let all of Panem burn if it meant he could gain from it. But your father was quite pleased with Snow as King and, when word began to spread that Snow would be seeking a bride this next social season, your father pushed hard for you to woo the King. 

“If you wish to serve your family well, my little dove, you will convince the King to marry you,” your father told you the moment he heard the news. 

You all but scoffed. “I hardly think I am the sort of woman he wishes to marry. A man like him would want someone meek, someone who would not challenge his authority. We hardly ever agreed on the schoolyard, and for that reason, he never considered me a friend. How could he ever see me as a wife?”

Your father’s eyes narrowed at you. “It is your responsibility, then, to make yourself small so that he may choose you.”

“I would rather die than sacrifice my ideals, Papa,” you said. “Why can I not vie for any other’s attention? I know Lord Plinth quite well. I’ve always enjoyed his company. It would be easy to win his heart and have our family set for life. Certainly easier than winning over the King.”

He sneered, “The only thing the Plinth family is good for is their money. I want to be respected. We would be little more than social pariahs if you wed the Plinth boy.”

“I shall not marry the King—”

Your mother stepped in before you could say something you might come to regret. She placed a hand on your arm, directing your attention to her. “Never mind that now. There is still time before the season begins for minds to be changed.”

“I shall not change my mind, Mama.”

She looked over at your father, who was the perfect picture of irate. She looked back to you. “Perhaps, but perhaps not. Let us go clear our minds, yes? We should go order new gowns at the modiste before everyone else floods her with demands.”

“You cannot distract me with fashion.”

“But you would do well to pretend that I have.”

Your efforts to convince your parents that you would not, under any circumstance whatsoever, marry Coriolanus Snow did not do anything for you. Despite your best efforts, you now stood in the palace for the King’s Ball, wearing the most beautiful powder blue gown fresh from the modiste, trying and failing to hide from your mother, so that you might delay her forcing you onto Snow. For now, though, she had been distracted by a conversation with Lady Dovecote about…whatever mothers talked about. Surely some scheme that would end with either you or Clemensia as Snow’s betrothed. You rolled your eyes at the thought. 

A familiar voice said your name. When you turned, you were greeted by the sight of Sejanus Plinth, holding two glasses of lemonade. He handed one to you, remarking, “I never knew you to be one to hide from the crowd.”

“I shall hide from the crowd when my mama is convinced I shall become Queen by the end of the season.”

“Ah.” Sejanus took a drink and laughed. “Strange, isn’t it? Seeing everyone we grew up with vying for Coryo’s attention.”

Coryo? Oh, yes. That was the nickname those close to Snow would call him. You had forgotten that the two were friends. Hmm, perhaps you could use that information the next time your parents try to force a connection with Snow. Something about how getting close to his friend might make him interested in you. “That it is. It seems as though everyone has lost their minds just for a glimpse of the crown.”

Sejanus laughed again. Then he looked at you a little more seriously, and said, “If I am honest, I am surprised you are not among those fighting for Coryo’s attention.”

Your brows pinched together. “You think I am interested in climbing the social ladder? Lord Plinth, you should know me well enough that I care more for a love match than gaining a title.”

“No, no. That is not what I meant. I remember in school that you and Coryo always had a sort of connection. Truthfully, I thought one of you might have acted on it sooner when you entered society.”

“The only connection we had was that of hatred. We despised each other.”

Sejanus shook his head, his curls bouncing. “I do not think that was true for Coryo. He liked that you challenged him. He has never been the sort of person who liked people who switch their position when the tide seems to turn. He likes people who are firm in their convictions.”

You laughed. “He’s told you this?”

“Not in so many words. But you have to wonder why he always sought you out.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he is crueler than we all think.”

Sejanus moved to protest, but another beat him to it. “Or perhaps you judge without truly knowing.”

You froze. Oh, how you had hoped that you could have avoided him tonight! Damn Sejanus and his friendship with Snow. So much for him being your safe haven during these balls. You might as well have lit a beacon leading straight to you. Alas, you did not want Snow to see the hatred you had brewing for him. Even if you did not like the man, you would be a social pariah if you made such feelings known to him. So, you painted on a smile as you turned to look at Snow. “Or perhaps I made an educated guess supported by the evidence of past interactions.”

Snow snorted, turning his gaze to Sejanus. “Always so quick with a response, she is.”

Sejanus glanced at you, a knowing look in his eyes. If you were a mindreader, you could imagine him gloating in his mind about how he was right, that this was a sign that Snow cared for you in some way. But you only knew it to be yet another indicator that you and Snow could never, ever, get along. “Her wit has never dulled.”

“Should we see, then, if her dance skills are still equally sharp?”

Sejanus looked at you again, a brilliant smile on his face. Oh, how you wished to wipe that look off. This was not proof of anything. This did not prove his point. “I could not think of anything better.”

Damn you, Sejanus Plinth. Damn you. 

Snow held his arm out for you to take. You stared at it, not moving. “In order to dance with a lady, you must ask her. I do not recall you asking me anything.”

Snow glanced just beyond you. When you turned your head to follow his gaze, you saw your mother and Lady Dovecote watching the interaction carefully. As you looked back at Snow, he said, “Your mother would be disappointed if you did not dance with me.”

“It is amazing you became King when you are so lacking in manners.” But you knew your mother—the entirety of the ton, perhaps—would consider you insane to turn the King down so openly. So you took his arm and let him lead you onto the dance floor. 

He snorted. “You are the only person who speaks so freely to me.”

“Ah, so this is one last dance before my execution? How kind. Perhaps I was wrong about your cruelty.”

“There is much you are wrong about,” Snow said. You had reached the dance floor. The crowd parted around you, allowing you and Snow to take the middle of the floor. You faced him, allowing his hand to fall to you waist. You placed one hand on his shoulder, and let him take the other in his free hand. “It would be far too much of a shame to take your life.”

“Such a kind and gentle king.”

“Only for those who deserve it.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your mother miming for you to smile. You fought the urge to sneer instead. Even if you would rather do anything else than be courted by Coriolanus Snow, acting out would not do you any favors. If you had any hope in finding a love match, you had to at least be cordial to him. So you smiled as prettily as you could. But you couldn’t help yourself from saying, “Then perhaps you should go see a physician. You seem to have lost your mind.”

To your surprise, Snow laughed. The sound almost scared you. When was the last time you heard Snow laugh? An actual laugh, at that. None of his snorts of derision or half-hearted chuckles when he was trying to charm someone. Had you ever heard him laugh before? You tried to wrack your brain, but you could not recall anything. In school, he had always been so serious—focused more on using the tools available to him to climb the social ladder rather than being a kid like everyone else. Though, you supposed, Snow was a far cry from everyone else. 

The music began to play, and Snow spun you around the dance floor. As you turned, you locked eyes with Sejanus. He wore a large grin on his face, seemingly sure that you and Snow were making nice. Why else would he have laughed at something you said? You wished you could yell out to Sejanus, tell him that he was dead wrong. 

“What is it that people say? Something about love driving people mad?”

This time, you did roll your eyes. “Oh, come off it. You and I both know perfectly well that you do not care for me. I hardly understand why you’re even entertaining this nonsense, if for no other reason than to torture me.”

Snow considered you. After a long moment of silence, he said, “I seek a bride who will produce me an heir. There are few women here who meet my standards. A woman of good breeding, from a respectable family, and intelligent enough to keep up with me. Someone who will be a good Queen and a good mother.”

“Someone that you can control.” You scoff. “You truly must see a physician, Your Majesty, if you think that I will fall in line with whatever you ask of me.”

His lips curled into a grin. Your stomach churned. “Not yet.”

The next morning, your mother promptly reported that you had danced with Coriolanus Snow not once, not twice, but three times to your father. To say he had been pleased was something of an understatement. He was certain that Snow would soon be reaching out to discuss a proposal. It did not matter how much you tried to downplay the situation—explain that he was only dancing with you for some other reason than him wishing to marry you. Your parents minds were made up. By the end of the season, you were to be Queen of Panem. 

“It’s just the nerves,” your mother dismissed as you sat in the drawing room, waiting for any suitor to call on you. “You will be more than confident once you are wed.”

You ground your teeth together. “I do not wish to marry Coriolanus Snow. I would marry anyone else. I would let you or Papa pick anyone else in the ton and I would not let out a single complaint. I cannot marry that man.”

Something just beyond you caught your mother’s attention. Your father, you supposed. “You should not say such things—” she began to say. Of course. Of course she would say that. 

“Why not? It is true. I would be miserable with him. I would rather die than be his bride, bear his children. Frankly, forcing me to marry him may as well be a death sentence.”

“Dear, you do not truly mean that—”

“And you must not know me at all if you think I am not being completely, and utterly, truthful right now. Coriolanus Snow is the last man I would ever wish to marry.”

Your mother leaned in close to you, hissing, “Stop talking right now, young lady.”

A frown settled on your face. Why was she so bothered about you speaking so freely? There was no one in the room but you, her, and a maid. Perhaps she was concerned about the maid spreading gossip with other maids and that slowly enveloping the ton. It wasn’t a non-possibility, to be sure. But why was she acting so…scandalized by your words? 

Unless…

You turned your head toward the entrance of the room. There should Coriolanus Snow, dressed in a dark red suit, holding a bouquet of white roses. Your mouth went dry. Oh, why does he keep showing up when you least expect it? “The butler typically announces when a guest has arrived,” you said. 

You couldn’t read his face. A part of you wondered if you had offended him. You didn’t particularly care about offending him, but you also knew that such an act could have dire consequences on you marrying anyone else. “He was going to, but I wanted my arrival to be a surprise.” He took a step closer to you, holding out the roses. “I just had these freshly picked from my garden.”

A part of you wanted to smack the roses out of his hands, but you had already embarrassed your mother enough in front of Snow. You took the roses, yet couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “I cannot believe a man like you could grow something so beautiful.”

Your mother let out a loud—obviously fake—laugh. “Oh, isn’t she just funny? She always says the silliest things.”

Snow chuckled. He smiled at your mother—the sort of smile that your stomach twist into knots. Like he knew something no one else did, and he was reveling in that. “It is one of her more…charming traits.” He turned his attention back to you. “As lovely as this is, I came to ask if you would like to promenade with me in the square.”

Oh, Snow. Why was he so good at backing you into corners? You took a breath and passed the bouquet to the maid so she could put them in a vase. “That would be nothing short of a delight.”

He held out his arm for you to take. You slipped your hand around his bicep, your nails digging in. If he felt any pain, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned down so that you could only hear him whisper, “It seems like you fall in line much easier than you would like to believe.”

[ninibeingdelulu]

He won his game ft. seishiro nagi

The second that final whistle blows and Seishiro's team wins, his laser-focus zeroes in on finding you amidst the roaring crowd without fail. Those piercing whites cut straight through the chaos until locking onto your familiar presence like a guided missile.

Despite the swarm of celebrating teammates, coaches, staff, etc. around him, Seishiro brushes them all off without a second thought. He's a man utterly possessed, stalking straight over with those long, purposeful strides while devouring you with an almost predatory stare.

Once he reaches you though, any sense of urgency or edge melts from Seishiro's frame. That's when the subtle shifts signal his walls coming down - just the barest softening around those striking features and carved lips tugging up ever-so-slightly.

Nagi wastes zero time bundling you flush into his solid, athletic build without warning. Those calloused palms smoothing up the dip of your spine before splaying wide across your nape and lower back, arching you into an intimate bow against him.

He'll nuzzle his sweat-dampened crown into the crook of your neck or jaw, letting out these low, satisfied rumbles - almost like a purring lion scenting his most cherished mate and territory. Reveling in surrounding himself fully with your essence while basking in the victory high.

Seishiro is seldom overtly romantic or showy with PDA. But these charged, sensual moments after victories are when his uninhibited, carnal side comes roaring out from dormancy. Leaving you both utterly consumed in that scorching friction bubbling between your tangled frames.

When he finally does draw back to face you properly, don't be shocked if Seishiro abruptly frames your features with those large palms to slant his mouth hungrily over yours. Drinking you down like the last, restorative oasis available while his thumbs brush your feverish cheekbones.

After slowly separating with a sated growl, Nagi tends to linger inches away - intense pewter stare unblinking as he maps every molecule of your disheveled bliss etched across your swollen lips and fluttering lids. A primal admiration of his prowess reducing you to such sublime putty in his commanding grip once more.

So while he may not vocalize much in those private, blazing reunions, rest assured Nagi's undivided adoration pours from every minor shift and simmering caress instead. Branding you wholly as his insatiable muse and most treasured prize to be relentlessly conquered.

[defectivevillain]

relentless

pairing: Blaise Zabini/Reader

the reader is transmasculine and has undergone top surgery. the reader uses he/him pronouns; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

You seem to be the only one immune to Blaise’s charms, and it frustrates him more than he’d like to admit.

word count: 2.1k | ao3 version

warnings: mentions of underage drinking.

also, quick disclaimer: I do not support or condone the actions and beliefs of HP’s author in any way whatsoever. I thoroughly believe in fanfiction’s transformative, restorative, and healing power. Therefore, I write HP fanfiction not to encourage JKR’s beliefs, but instead to directly challenge and disprove her prejudice; I write to further strengthen, validate, and support minority identities that are harmed by She Who Must Not be Named’s dangerous ideologies. I won't be taking comments, questions, or criticisms on this. Don't like it? Don't read. (fuck jkr fr)

Blaise Zabini is a relentless flirt. 

…It’s his personality. He flirts with everyone. You’re not special to him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Everyone around you seems to think otherwise. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them in frustration, citing each and every time Blaise has been interested in virtually anyone with a pulse. It’s no secret that Blaise is rather charming, and he certainly has no qualms about using it to his advantage. 

But he acts differently with you, your classmates assert. 

He always has a glimmer in his eyes when he sees you, your friend says. He likes riling you up. 

You think Blaise just doesn’t know what to do with someone who isn’t outwardly affected by his advances. Sure, you’ll often panic internally, but you can never bring yourself to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The Slytherin has tried many times to get you flustered, but you manage to keep your composure through it all. A kiss on the hand, the “accidental” brush of a shoulder, an intent gaze… And you can’t seem to forget the look on his face as he sweeped into a particularly low bow when the two of you were dueling in Defense… 

You suppose you have to give Blaise credit: he just doesn’t know when to quit. You thought your nonexistent reactions would dissuade him, but they only seem to motivate him further. Blaise starts to go bigger: he’ll place a hand on your knee and stare at you as if you’re the only one in the room, imploring you to continue speaking, if only so he can hear your voice again—

He’s insufferable, you’ve decided. You hate him. Or, at least, that’s what you try to tell yourself. But you’ve never really hated him—only the persona he wields with ease. And hell, maybe it’s just envy—maybe you’re just jealous of the way he so effortlessly draws the attention of everyone in a room. 

You try not to think about that slippery slope of logic, otherwise you’ll end up at a conclusion you’d rather not accept. Instead, you busy yourself with schoolwork and Quidditch. Since it’s your seventh and final year at Hogwarts, you’re nearly drowning in homework as you prepare for your NEWTs. Your only true reprieve from the hustle and bustle of seventh year courses is the Quidditch elective Madam Hooch introduced a few years ago. In the past, Quidditch was only a first-year course; now, students who are members of their teams have the option to take an extra “class” as an elective. It’s not really a class; rather, it’s a way for players to work on their skills and collaborate with those they’d usually only see on the opposite side of the field. There are mixed scrimmages that take place during every class—and with the course taking place twice a week, it’s a nice break. (And virtually the only one you get, with your weekends dominated by studying and your evenings taken up by Quidditch practice.) 

One of these scrimmages lands you on the same side as Blaise. And as much as you hate to admit it, he’s a damn good player. By the end of the period, your team wins by an overwhelming majority. Sweaty and breathless, you head back to the changing room with the rest of the guys. 

“Nice flying,” Blaise hums as the two of you walk over to your respective belongings. 

“Thanks,” you say, staring down at the pile of folded clothing in front of you as if it’s particularly interesting. You can feel Blaise’s eyes on you and it makes you nervous. “...You too.”

It’s silent for a moment, as you two begin to change. The air is tense and you can only hope that he isn’t staring at you with that damn smile on his face. You almost want to wait until he leaves, but you also don’t want him to think he’s getting to you. Besides, you’ve finally grown a bit more confident when it comes to your chest—and you won’t let anyone take that away from you. You barely get your shirt off before Blaise’s speaking again. 

“Are you planning on playing professionally?” He asks. 

You shrug. “I’m not sure yet.” It’s the truth—you need to get your career plans figured out first. And in order to do that, you need to get through these damn NEWTs. From how Blaise is speaking, you’d venture to guess that he wants to play Quidditch professionally. 

“What a shame,” Blaise says, something of a smirk rising on his face. You feel dread settle in your chest as you wait for an insult. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing you like this more often.” He’s staring at your shirtless chest unabashedly; the heat in his gaze alone is sending a shiver down your spine. Lost for words, you pretend not to hear him and instead continue changing. Blaise only laughs. He places a hand on your shoulder as he leaves the changing room, and you promptly pretend not to think about it for the rest of the night. 

It only gets worse from there. It’s as if your silent rejections mean nothing to him. Before, Blaise’s actions were subtle. Now, they’re… a lot more straightforward. Not to mention, he seems to have no issue with flirting with you in public, in front of virtually anyone. Hell, one time, Blaise doesn’t even notice Professor Snape looming over his shoulder. You almost feel bad when the Potions Master casts a spell that promptly enforces the distance between you both, sending Blaise sliding to the other side of the bench you’re sitting on. 

After that incident—and a few more occasions that will go unmentioned—everyone thinks you’re dating. 

And, honestly, you’re starting to wonder, yourself. After all, there are only so many compliments Blaise can give you before you start to suspect that they’re earnest and truthful. But neither of you has acknowledged the tension that always seems to follow your conversations, nor the unseen force that keeps you both at a close distance. 

Things come to a head at a party late one night in Ravenclaw Tower. You’re planning to see a few of your friends, who you scarcely get to speak with during the week. All of the seventh years are swamped in coursework, so you’ll often take advantage of any free time you can get. 

Someone’s propped open the puzzle door with a book, you note with relieved amusement as you slip through and enter the Ravenclaw dorms. The space is bustling with people—mostly older students. You scan the crowd for your friends, only to lock eyes with a familiar face.

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here,” Blaise says in lieu of a greeting. He takes a few steps towards you, before looking you up and down. “You look quite ravishing, I must say.”

“...Thanks,” you manage to say. ‘Ravishing’ is certainly a new one—you can’t say you’ve ever heard that before. 

Blaise scrutinizes you for a moment, before a smile rises on his lips. “You’re stone-cold, aren’t you?” he remarks, seemingly unaffected by your hesitant gratitude. “I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed.” 

“Why not both?” you say before you can stop yourself. Don’t play his games, you admonish yourself. But it’s too late. And, if you’re being honest, it’s been far too late for a while now. This song and dance has been going on between the two of you for at least a year.  

Blaise tilts his drink up, as if toasting you. “Fair enough,” he says, evidently hiding a smile as he takes a sip. “Care for a drink?”

You shake your head; Blaise doesn’t seem particularly surprised. “Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “These parties aren’t exactly fun sober, I must warn you.” 

“Why are you here, then?” you ask, raising a brow. He clearly isn’t the slightest bit tipsy—and his drink is still mostly full. 

“Malfoy is pining after someone yet again,” Blaise sighs dramatically, looking up to the sky as if hoping something will fall onto him and end his suffering. “I regret each and every moment that led me to interacting with him.”

You feel yourself smile in amusement before you can hide it. 

Blaise notices, because of course he does. “Ah, so you can smile,” he notes. “I was starting to think you weren’t able to.”

At that, you roll your eyes. Blaise stares at you for several moments and you eventually grow tired of pretending you don’t notice. When you meet his gaze once more, you’re surprised to find his eyes glimmering. 

“I fear it must be said,” he remarks, almost frowning as he thinks. “What do I need to do?”

“Hm?” you say eloquently, overwhelmed by both his attentive gaze and the sheer amount of people in the cramped space.

“What do I need to do, to convince you of my feelings?” Blaise asks. 

“Your… feelings,” you repeat, your brows furrowing. 

“Yes, my feelings for you,” Blaise says, sounding amused. He studies you for a moment. The noise around you all seems to fade into obscurity. “I assumed you knew.”

Oh. This whole time, he was being serious? It seems your classmates were right—hell, everyone was right. Are you really the last person to know about this? “Um… no, not exactly,” you admit hesitantly. 

“Really?” Blaise questions. “I was being rather obvious about it. Or, at least, I thought so.”

“I thought you were like that with everyone,” you say with a frown. The justification sounds weak in hindsight. 

“Do you really think I’d act like this with just anyone?” he asks, raising his brows. You think back to all the ‘casual’ touches, the way he’d clasp your hand fervently and look at you adoringly. 

“I… guess not,” you relent. You feel kind of foolish for not noticing sooner. 

“Yes.” He nods. “So… do I have even a slim chance at winning your affections?”

“I’d say you have a good chance,” you answer before you can stop yourself. “Probably better than you realize.” 

“Oh?” Blaise hums, raising a brow. Your tongue suddenly feels glued to the roof of your mouth; he’s waiting for an answer, but you’re not sure you can give him one. Blaise seems to sense your sudden apprehension, because he continues to speak. “No, do tell. This is fascinating.” 

You’re assaulted with a fond sense of irritation. “You’re enjoying this,” you say with a sigh, struggling to maintain your composure again. You avert your eyes. It feels like the room is getting warmer, but that could easily be your imagination. 

Blaise’s grin is so wide that you think it could cut into his cheeks. “Yes, I am,” he says shamelessly. You want to melt into an embarrassed puddle on the ground. How can he just say these things so casually? “But don’t hold back on my account. I’d like to hear your response.” 

…Of course he’s going to make you say it. 

You think back to the past few months, to his numerous advances and attempts at wooing you. You recall your lives before then—when you were mere acquaintances. You remember your eyes had often wandered to him when your attention drifted from lectures; and you recall he often stole glances at you, too. You try to think of just how to illustrate your feelings for Blaise—how you can possibly summarize this nervous, almost giddy feeling you get around him? It doesn't feel like words will be enough. 

With an inexplicable rush of bravery, you take a step closer—waiting a few moments to see his reaction. When he doesn’t immediately shove you away, you take another step forward. You’re standing quite close now. After a moment’s contemplation, you let your hand settle on his shoulder. 

“If this is some kind of joke…” Blaise says warily, clearly a bit skeptical of your uncharacteristic boldness. 

“It’s not a joke,” you reassure him. “I have feelings for you too.”

You’re not sure who breaks the distance between you; all you know is that you’re in each other’s arms within the blink of an eye. Everything seems to fall away as he kisses you: the loud conversations scattered across the space, the nervousness you’ve been fighting off since you arrived. It all just… fades. 

“Zabini,” Malfoy drawls exaggeratedly. Blaise and you break apart in annoyance and confusion, respectively. It seems Malfoy is about to ask for something. 

“I’m preoccupied at the moment, Malfoy.” Zabini sighs, his hands still on your waist. “Surely you can survive without me.”

Malfoy groans but eventually leaves, clearly discouraged. 

“Now, where were we?” Blaise asks. You roll your eyes fondly, secretly impressed with how smooth and charming he can be. You never plan to actually utter those words; though you think Blaise may know anyway.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

ever since i got top surgery i’ve been writing in unnecessary shirtless scenes and, you know what? it’s my right at this point. rahhhh! 🦅🏳️‍⚧️

also ummm wtf. why are there so many white men in the Blaise Zabini hashtag. took me way too long to find a good gif of him 😐

anyway, thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

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[justagaycryptid]

I feel that regarding Morgott/Tarnished pairings there’s an untapped market regarding the transitional period that there would be between the start of the relationship and the point where it actually is healthy

Like it would take a lot of effort on the Tarnished’s part to actually get Morgott to simply just be amicable to them. Like it wouldn’t take too much divergence from canon to keep him alive, simply have him decide to concede to the Tarnished instead of choosing to keep going until he dies; he’d have to realize that he cannot win, but if he stays alive he can figure out some way to minimize the damage the Tarnished poses to the Golden Order/Leyndell, especially since they aren’t Elden Lord yet, so he’s got time to plan. It could be believable since while Morgott is prideful as hell, he’s also fully devoted to his role as Lord of Leyndell; yes it’s more likely he’d die protecting the Erdtree, as happens in canon, but posing a divergence from canon with his concession, depending mostly on the type of Tarnished he’s dealing with, wouldn’t be too out of character so long as you frame it as a long play on his part, which we know he’s capable of given his history as Veiled Monarch for the past few thousand years or so.

So given this kind of foundation, there’s no way in hell that there would be any sort of progress until after the Tarnished becomes Elden Lord. Morgott’s deal is very much ‘the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t’. He’s not stupid; he knows he suffers under the Golden Order, he knows other Omen suffer under the Golden Order, he knows the world had gone to shit. Yet still, this is all he has. He’s given himself to the Golden Order because it’s all he has. He holds a hope that yes, one day the Golden Order will fix everything, that it will hold true and restore sanity to The Lands Between. It is the only thing he has left to give his love to, and by every god above that’s what he’s going to do. And like I don’t 100% subscribe to the notion that the dude is just a self-loathing sad sack. Yes, he holds a disdain for his Omen heritage and views himself as lesser in that regard, but at the same time he deliberately escaped the Shunning Grounds during the Shattering and took the throne of Leyndell for himself. He explicitly refers to himself as ‘Last of All Kings’ during the cutscene for his boss battle. He’s an efficient warmonger and one of the orchestrators of one of the battle on Mount Gelmir, which is considered one of the most appalling battles in the entirety of the Shattering. Despite all his hang ups about being an Omen, he is prideful to a fault.

So then when it comes to the Tarnished, he doesn’t know what they are going to do. (Minor point of contention that I have is when people refer to Morgott as ‘racist’ because of his disdain for the Tarnished. First off, Tarnished aren’t a race, being Tarnished is an affiliation; warriors of Godfrey that were banished with him after they lost Grace in The Long March (pretty sure that’s what it was called) and their descendants. If you’re gonna call Morgott racist then criticize his beliefs about the Golden Order and how they treat lesser races, but not because he hates the player character. Stupid thing to bitch about but I digress) Morgott hates the Tarnished because he knows what they represent. He knows that means that they have been called to repair the Elden Ring and become the new reigning Elden Lord, which is an idea that terrifies Morgott. And honestly given some of the endings you can achieve, he’s right to be terrified. This is something that threatens the state of the Golden Order and the Lands Between as a whole, much less Morgott’s title as Lord of Leyndell. He stands to lose everything he’s desperately fought for, and watch the world fall apart before his very eyes. There would be no relationship between the Tarnished and Morgott unless they could prove to him that they aren’t going to essentially ruin everything. Given that they are able to achieve this, it would likely be slow going to improve their standing; hesitant allies evolving to a sort of comfortable ‘coworker’ (I suppose? There’s probably a better word for it but that’s all I’ve got at the moment) standing given that the Tarnished proves themselves competent in manners of state, or if they are willing to learn (preferably from Morgott since then he’d be more assured that they’re doing things the ‘right’ way). Of course Morgott would be very unlikely to initiate anything on his end. As it stands, once he’s sure the Tarnished won’t bring about the destruction of the Lands Between, he’d probably prefer to be left alone to keep serving as Lord of Leyndell. It’s not that he necessarily wants to be alone, it’s just more comfortable for him; it’s what he’s used to. But given that he’s almost certainly lonely, and if they are tolerable to be around, it would take less effort than one would think to get him to warm up to them.

If it did ever progress to something romantic however, the Tarnished would need to initiate. Firstly, it’s unlikely Morgott would recognize any romantic feelings he may harbor as being such; he’d likely take it as himself beginning to recognize the Tarnished as Elden Lord, which is a status akin to divinity, since for Morgott love and worship are intrinsically linked in his mind. Secondly, even if he did recognize himself as falling in love, he would not act on it unless he knew his affections were explicitly wanted. And even then it would take convincing. Just because he feels he deserves his position as Lord of Leyndell, doesn’t mean he feels like he would deserve to consort with the Elden Lord. He *is* still an Omen. He knows that is something that is undesirable, something that he himself considers undesirable. It would take a metric ton of coaxing and reassurances that yes, the Tarnished does in fact want him romantically.

And then it would very quickly get unhealthy.

As I said before, Morgott believes love and worship to be intrinsically linked to one another; his parents are gods and the only thing he has ever loved has been the religious system that oppressed him for thousands of years. He had likely never had any sort of healthy attachments modeled for him, and thus would not know how to express his newfound love for the Tarnished in a healthy manner. Like it wouldn’t get to ridiculous levels like ‘Alpha Male’ Morgott, but he would be incredibly jealous and possessive. This is his Love, his very God. He dedicates his very fucking soul to them and only them, and he’s constantly terrified of losing their favor just as he never held the favor of Grace. Because the Tarnished is a God he knows that other people worship and covet them as well. Depending on the Tarnished’s stance on the Golden Order it’s very likely he would at this point finally abandon it, especially if it’s been abolished by the Tarnished. How foolish of him to worship false idols that would never return his love! He’s finally found true divinity! Of course be still holds lingering shame about his blood considering that it takes more than a little while to undo thousands of years of hearing that you are a mistake and a blight on the world. But in this instance his shame would only push him to keep his hold tight on the Tarnished. He knows that he is Unworthy, and yet he still has the love of his God anyways, and there isn’t a single damn person that can take this away from him. It’s very likely he would also become paranoid to excessive levels that the Tarnished will find someone better. That there are worthier suitors than him, that they will decide that they no longer want him and have realized that they deserve better. Depending on if the Tarnished is able to catch this, it’s very likely that Morgott would spiral into something uncontrollable and that the relationship would become something toxic. Taking a more optimistic path, it would take a lot of honest discussion with Morgott before the relationship settles into something healthy, at least on Morgott’s side. He’d eventually calm the hell down and for the most part quell his more negative emotions.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sara Boboltz at HuffPost:

Facing mounting courtroom losses over student visa revocations, the Justice Department announced that it was backing down and would manually restore many student visas while it developed new policy guidelines for their removal. The surprise reversal came after thousands of foreign students had their immigration records abruptly terminated in the federal system that keeps track of them, which is maintained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE. The terminations meant that the students were suddenly vulnerable to deportation, with some unable to figure out what they had done wrong. Some of the students appeared to be flagged for participation in pro-Palestine demonstrations while others had minor legal infractions on their records, many of which had been thrown out.

The about-face marks an unexpected defeat in President Donald Trump’s war on immigration. During a Friday morning hearing in federal court, a federal prosecutor read a statement from ICE noting it was “developing a policy that will provide a framework for SEVIS record terminations,” referencing the system that tracks students’ immigration status, called the Student and Exchange Visitor Information System.

The evil 47 Regime has been forced to concede on the student visas, as numerous student vias wrongly terminated have been reinstated.

See Also:

Wonkette: Nice Time: DHS Backs Down, Says It Will Restore International Students’ Records After All

The Guardian: US restoring legal status of hundreds of students after abruptly revoking visas

[belovedmusings]

“I’m not going anywhere.”

+ MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS +

Explicit Smut 18+ 🚫Minors DNI🚫

Satoru survived being severed in half thanks to Yuuta’s Reversed Curse Technique and subsequently claimed victory, but you keep reliving the moment you saw him die before your eyes. You wake up beside him one night crying from a nightmare of it, and wanting to make you feel better and remind you that he’s okay and he’s not going anywhere, he lets you take him any way you need him.

Relevant tags: AFAB reader with minimal gendered language, reader insert without using “y/n”, graphic nightmare at the beginning but it’s quick, fix-it, hurt/comfort, soft and emotional sex, handjob, fingering, Satoru’s 6-inch fingers, slow sex, praises and declarations of love, lots of kissing, love bites, riding, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, Satoru’s big cock :’) <3

Music recommended while reading: My Love (Sia), positions (Ariana Grande), Souvenir (Selena Gomez), Religion (Lana Del Rey)

A/N: no I’m absolutely not over wtf happened in ch 236 and yes I’m 100% crazy enough to still believe him when he said he’d win. He’ll win and I trust him. I have to or I’ll go crazy. Here’s this emotional smut to cope.

Read below cut:

He was winning. He was fine, he was smiling and now—

He’s not. He’s not moving, he’s not doing anything but he’s in half he’s in fucking half and there’s so much blood—

You scream. You scream but it sounds like it’s underwater and you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but despair and pain and dread and anger and disbelief and fucking devastation. Satoru is— he’s— oh god, he’s—

“Hey.”

You’re sobbing. Tears stream from your eyes but you can’t feel, you can’t see anything, you can’t hear, you can’t exist without him—

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.”

That voice snaps you back to consciousness, a deep gasp from you following. Warm hands are on your shoulders, and you look up at the source, eyes landing upon Satoru’s concerned face. His beautiful, alive face. What? How?

“Hey,” he murmurs again softly, brows furrowed in worry as he rubs up and down your arm soothingly. “Shh, shh, shh…you’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

A dream?

“No it wasn’t,” you shake your head, voice broken. The lump in your throat won’t go away as you continue to cry. “You were…you were gone and I—”

“I’m right here,” he cuts him firmly, squeezing your arm. “Look at me. I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m fine. Promise.”

Your eyes search his face, his body, and blindly you reach out, touching his clothed abdomen, feeling over it to make absolutely sure he’s not lying. When you feel nothing but solid, warm flesh underneath, even when you touch down to his thigh, you relax, sniffling. He’s completely intact. He’s okay.

You remember then what had happened after he had fallen. You’d gone into a panic, threw up, and blacked out after sobbing uncontrollably after tearing your eyes from the screen that displayed his lifeless body.

When you woke up, you were lying against a wall, Shoko watching over you, telling you that Yuuta managed to get ahold of him while Yuuji and Higuruma were fighting Sukuna. He’d used his Reversed Curse Technique to heal him, and he was up and fighting again, this time facing off with Kenjaku.

It was jarring to see him back alive, like you were seeing the resurrection of a god. But it was okay. He was even stronger than before, and along with the others, he was capable of defeating both of the threats.

His victory had restored balance once more.

He’d come off of that battlefield on his own two feet, sweaty, heavily banged up and exhausted, but he had a brilliant smile on his face that said everything is fine now, and he’d welcomed you into his arms without hesitation.

“Oh god,” you breathe out, “It was a dream. Thank god.”

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in, planting a kiss on your temple.

“I told you I’d win, didn’t I?” He asks, “You gotta trust me, silly. M’ not going anywhere.”

You huff, nuzzling into his chest. “Don’t call me silly because I’m worried about you.”

He sighs softly, rubbing your back. “Fine, fine. But seriously, I’m fine. So no need to worry, okay? I’m right here, however you need me.”

He is. You can feel him in your arms, you can feel him holding you, and yet in your sleep-fogged mind, you can’t help but still retain some anxiety that you’ll wake up again and he’ll be gone for good. That you imagined all of those victories in order to cope. You need to feel more of him to confirm he’s real.

“However I need you?” You ask, drawing back to meet his eyes, gleaming in the dim lighting of the moon. He nods.

“Of course. What kind of boyfriend would I be otherwise? I’m yours to do with as you please.”

You can’t help it; his tone always brings out a special playfulness in you. “As I please? You sound so easy.”

“Easy for you,” he grins wolfishly, and you roll your eyes fondly before sobering up.

“I need more reassurance,” you tell him. “I want to feel you.”

He eyes you curiously, nodding. “Sure thing. What do you have in mind?”

You reach up to touch his face, brushing your thumb between his eyebrows to work out the furrow, then dancing it over his brow bone, then his cheekbone, and finally his lips. You pad it over the soft skin there before leaning up and kissing him, relaxing at the familiar taste of his mouth. He doesn’t hesitate to return the gesture, lips moving with yours in a combination of slow and sensual.

The hand that was resting on his jaw slowly travels down over his neck, where your thumb runs over the column gently, grazing his Adam’s apple a few times before moving on to his collarbone. You explore that spot for a few moments and then massage down his shoulder, over his pec, flattening your palm to feel the beat of his heart.

It calms you to feel that strong thump thump thump against your touch, impassioning you enough to make you deepen the kiss and slip your tongue into his protestless mouth. A soft groan sounds at the back of his throat, and that spurs you on to continue touching him, running your palm over his muscles that were once lithe, but after time spent preparing for battle while he was sealed away to occupy himself, have turned thick and solid. You ghost over the ridges of his abdomen and shiver, feeling each contour through his shirt.

It sends a wave of heat through you and your ministrations turn heavy with desire, finding the hem of his shirt, sliding your hand underneath it and massaging over the hot skin of his naked chest. He groans and guides his own hand from your waist to your ass, clad only in underwear for comfort to sleep, giving it a generous knead.

“Mmh,” you breathe into his mouth, letting him go further to grab your thigh, hooking his hand under your knee and hiking your leg up around his hip.

His tongue runs over yours dirtily as his hand slides back up to the apex of your legs, reaching around to cup your mound through the thin garment over it. His middle and ring fingers massage over that little sensitive pearl just begging to be touched, making you moan softly.

Your lust is deepening by the second and it makes you grow bolder, palm on his abdomen lowering to the front of his boxers and caressing the sizable hardness it finds there. Subconsciously you start to move your hips with his touches, kiss turning sloppy the more you pleasure each other.

The drags of his fingertips get a little too difficult when the fabric over your core gets soaked through, so he easily amends it by slipping his fingers beneath the edge of the article, touching you without any barriers.

“Satoru,” you moan louder as he teases the swollen pearl beneath his digits. He hums in his throat, and wanting to even things out, your hand dips below his boxers, wrapping around the hard and hot erection he’s been sporting since you started kissing him.

A bead of precum at his tip makes the slide a little easier and you feel him start rocking into your hand, meeting your strokes, a breathy groan sounding from him.

He wants the upperhand, of course, so he elects to push two of his lengthy fingers into your entrance, causing you to gasp, spreading your legs wider to accommodate. The man’s digits are long enough to reach your cervix without even trying and he presses pointedly against it, wriggling the tips of his fingers against that sensitive spot teasingly.

“God, Satoru,” you mewl, touching him with more purpose, circling your thumb over his tip.

“Ngh,” he groans in response, moving his hand so that he starts finger-fucking you at a pace, the wet sounds reaching your ears along with the heavy pants from the both of you. You clench around him and he speeds up, abusing that part deep inside of you just with his hand.

You love it when he fingers you but it’s not what you want right now—not truly.

You look up at him, shuddering at the look of unbridled lust pooling in his cerulean eyes. He always gets this certain wild look that gives you goosebumps.

“Satoru,” you manage breathlessly.

“Yeah?” He asks, just as winded.

“I want you inside me. I need to feel you.”

He sucks in a breath and nods, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before pulling his fingers out of you. He rolls to lay on his back, raising his hand up to his mouth and running his long tongue over the digits coated in your essence, a deep groan sounding after. It invigorates your desire for him and hurriedly, you remove your soaked underwear, freeing him of his own boxers afterward.

He sits up for a moment to get his shirt off, tossing it off the bed and then grabbing your hips, making you straddle his thighs. His hands hook under your shirt and you raise your arms so that he can remove it, the two of you now bare as the day you were born.

He wastes no time in kissing you again, this time more desperately, using one hand to guide your hips over his large cock, the other holding it still. He slides inside as you lower yourself, girth forcing you to stretch generously.

“Fuck,” you breathe into his mouth. You’re familiar with his impressive size by now but it never ceases to light a fire with your nerve-endings, length stuffing you full even before he’s bottomed out. You shudder and push him down to lay out on the bed, following him, breaking the kiss to bury your face in the crook of his neck. His palms grip the tops of your thighs as you lay on his chest, your skin touching everywhere. He’s so warm and sturdy beneath you, you feel like you could stay like this forever, tucked into him, split open on his dick, nestled deep inside you without any effort. You breathe in and get hit with the scent of his skin, musky and sweet in a way that’s unique only to him and completely intoxicating to you.

You push your nose more greedily into the column of his neck, moaning as he starts rolling both of your hips together slowly. Like this, his abdomen provides the perfect firm muscle to grind your swollen pearl on, heightening your pleasure.

He bends his legs to provide himself with a little barrier so that when he pushes your hips down, they don’t have anywhere to go, forcing you to take his cock deeper. It prods at your cervix and forces hot chills over your body, your hands bracing on his shoulders helplessly as he does all of the work.

You inhale deeply as he grinds up into you, walls fluttering around him, eliciting a groan from his syrupy voice.

It sends a shiver through you and wanting to chase it, you flick your tongue out over his collarbone, licking along the flesh to taste him.

“Oh,” he grunts, sucking air through his teeth as you feel him twitch inside of you. Encouraged from his response, you do it again, closing your lips around the spot and sucking. A stuttered breath is pulled from him, your hold on his arms tightening.

Like this, you just feel so safe, so content. He’s all you could ever need. Sure, he’s insufferable sometimes and his personality goes overboard naturally, but he’s never too much for you. He’s serious when he needs to be and so sincere in his sweetness, in his affection—you don’t know what you’d do without him. You thank any god that might exist along with the stars that he survived, that he prevailed and that everything is fine now. Your chest swells with all of the gratitude in the world and it spills over.

“Satoru,” you breathe, feeling tears prick at your eyes, “I love you so much.”

You feel him swallow thickly as his hands rub comfortingly up and down the expanse of your back, kisses being pressed to the top of your head.

“Me too, baby,” he replies softly, voice slightly strained with the distraction of heat around his cock. “I feel the exact same way about you.”

You sigh shakily, littering sloppy, wet kisses over his neck, starting to roll your hips in time with his.

“I’m always gonna be here,” he continues between labored pants, “You…you can’t get rid of me. Mmh—you’re stuck with me for life.”

Your kisses begin to be accompanied by involuntary whimpers, the sensation of him locked inside of you along with his smooth skin rubbing against your sensitive bud starting to overwhelm you.

“I’m gonna…h-hah…love you so much you’ll be annoyed with me,” he continues, sucking air through his teeth, “oh fuck…so glad I have you. I really am.”

You sniffle, a watery smile spreading over your lips. A few tears escape your eyes but this time they’re of joy.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you say with your entire soul.

“Nothing can keep me down for long,” he assures you, “I promise, okay? I promise.”

You nod against his neck, moaning when he speeds up, hands controlling your movements to meet him thrust for thrust.

“Sh-shit, Satoru,” you mewl, feeling your climax start to approach. His breathing gets heavier and more ragged, chest rising and falling so prominently that it jostles you on top of him, indicating that he’s just as wrecked as you are.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he exhales thinly, “Oh shit, shit, god you’re so tight…I’m gonna…”

You choke on a gasp, eyes squeezing shut. He always rambles when he’s nearing his finish, control on his words slipping, and you think it’s the hottest thing in the world.

“Ngh,” he gasps out, guiding you faster on top of him. You clench at the feeling, nearing the peak—“oh fuck, it’s gonna, it’s—a-ah, ah, fuck…”

You feel exactly when he cums, cock twitching hard as he spills against the entrance to your womb. The feeling of release pouring coupled with his incessant grinding on your mound pushes you to climax, a full body shudder taking over you as you tighten around his member.

He groans at the feeling, giving you another spurt of release, hands moving up to hug you close, pressing his cheek to your forehead.

“That was so good,” he breathes.

You nod in agreement, kissing his neck once more.

You know this is the part where you get off of him so you can clean up to get back to sleep, but you don’t want to move at all. You’re completely sated now, and the feeling of his softening cock inside of you is comforting. Undeniable proof that he’s right here with you in the form of a dull stretch in your core.

“Let’s stay like this,” you tell him, and he chuckles softly.

“It’s just that good, isn’t it?”

You snort softly, raising up to meet his eyes. “You’re such a little shit.”

His smile is lazy and mirthful. “Ah, but I’m your little shit. By law you have to deal with me forever, sorry.”

He shrugs in a way that indicates he’s not sorry at all, and your grin widens.

“I’m happy to deal with you forever.”

His beautiful face is radiant with the next smile he gives you, and when your lips meet in a soft kiss, you realize that all of the anxiety and fear that nightmare had left you with has been melted away.

Satoru is real, and he’s okay. He really isn’t going anywhere. He’s safe and warm and set to live a long and happy life by your side.

When the kiss ends you lay back down on his chest, and he takes to drawing invisible circles over your back with his fingertips, the steadiness of his breath, the sureness of his heartbeat, and his comforting scent all lulling you to a peaceful sleep with the promise of his presence tomorrow.

___

A/N: I actually miss him so much to the point where it’s debilitating. I’m literally a widow at this point I might as well put a picture of him in a fuckin locket and wear it like he sent it in his last letter to me, like Gege u bitch that was our husband

Please don’t repost my work but feel free to reblog/share. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed :)

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Two

🩸Full Chapter List 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[woradat]

SCENARIO : FINE PRINT

PAIRING - swindle x reader

After the war ended with the Autobots technically “winning” and all – what was left of the economy and legal system resembled a scrapyard fire on a windy day

Enter you: the infamous gray-area legal consultant with a perfect courtroom win streak and a billing rate that makes senators sweat. As long as clients bring enough shanix, you're their savior in a three-piece suit. Which is why you haven't had a single peaceful recharge cycle — former Decepticons are lining up outside your office like it's a Black Friday sale, all begging for: “record wipes / charges dropped / confiscated property restored”

Apparently, galactic war crimes are just.. paperwork now

And one of the most unhinged clients you’ve ever had the misfortune (or financial fortune) to take on?

 Swindle

Arms dealer. Con artist. Entrepreneur. A one-mech Wall Street crash with wheels. He swears up and down he’s done nothing wrong—he just happens to maintain a “business contact list” featuring every name responsible for minor incidents like, oh, intergalactic war. According to him, he's not guilty, he's just networked

—

“I didn’t sell weapons to radical insurgents! I just... opened a pop-up shop next to their hideout. Coincidence!”

“You literally put up a sign that said ‘Half off for certified terrorists"

“That was just marketing!"

·

·

Swindle talks like he’s being paid by the word, lies like it’s a religion, and schemes with the grace of a turbofox in a jewelry store. He’s slippery, shameless, and morally bankrupt—but hey, he pays on time. (In stolen tech, counterfeit credits, or suspiciously ticking crates, sure. But still.)

You? You’re sharp, strategic, and so chronically unimpressed you might be legally classified as allergic to bullshit. You despise his laugh, dread his entrance, and yet… you keep taking his jobs. Because, well. Money smells better than morals.

Every deal starts with ten rounds of shouting, legal threats, and Swindle trying to weasel out of his own paperwork. Every time ends the same

“Swindle” you begin, with the tone of someone who’s about ten seconds from launching themselves into the sun. “You just confessed to registering a business that sells personal nuclear energy... under the names of three dead bots.. that's–”

Swindle beams like a mech who just got away with shoplifting a tank “It’s called creative accounting! And hey, I never used those names to buy bombs. That was, like, a totally different Thursday”

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. Somewhere in your frontal processor, a stress circuit quietly fries itself

“Do you want to walk out of this courtroom, or should I go print out the arrest warrant myself in Comic Sans and hand-deliver it to Ultra Magnus with a bow?”

Swindle raises both hands like he’s being held at blasterpoint—optics wide, grin wider “Okay! Okay! I’ll follow your script! Just—please—don’t write ‘intent to defraud’ in the summary. It’s bad for the brand”

You blink “Brand? You’re a glorified black-market vending machine with legs

·

·

Swindle and you? It started as a business arrangement—a painfully loud, legally questionable business arrangement. But somewhere between the bribes, the threats, and the deeply unethical invoices, things got... complicated

You both are survivors. Quick with your words, quicker with your lies. Not evil, just desperately allergic to poverty. And as much as you hate to admit it, Swindle: the galaxy’s most untrustworthy lifeform, might just be the one who gets you the most

He’s a walking lawsuit in a sales pitch, you’re a ticking stress ball in a three-piece suit. He flirts like it’s a side hustle, and every time he drops some smug one-liner your way, there’s this... weird tension. The kind that makes you grip a file folder hard enough to bend steel, just to stop yourself from throwing it at his smirking face

Because sure, he’s slippery, shameless, and full of scrap. But primus help you—he always pays and worse… he always comes back

—

NOTE - I wrote it just in case I ever make a fanfic about him in the future or I'll just leave it to rot. Just thinking about Swindle, he's funny guy. Why not write it down? What my mind was thinking at 2am when I should have been asleep

[yassminesboo]

Lookism chapter 514: little rant

This is stupid as fuck at this point, genuinely one of the worst lookism chapters i've read so far.

I've been here since 2020, I've felt a lot of things when reading lookism, excitement, giddiness, sadness, suspense but never have i ever felt actual "what the fuck is going on" rage ever while reading lookism.

Nothing in this whole "hunt for gun" arc makes sense, like literally nothing adds up. first we've got the ENTIRE verse assembling like the avengers to take down gun, like we're talking extras that haven't appeared in years. Then these seemingly amazing strong characters that went through so much character development and training arcs get the floor wiped with them, absolutely erasing all the progress they've made so far and get taken down within literally three panels. Not to mention how they deal fatal blows and this man hits super saiyan poses and gets up like nothing happened? Then he proceeds to randomly and casually plunging off a cliff above the mountain forest and lands on the highway in 0.00001 sec mid fight without taking any fall damage whatsoever and gets right back to swinging.

Anyways fast forward to the ridiculous fight he had with johan, which i find to be absolutely ridiculous johan should have 100% won that and the fight should'nt have been prolonged that much, not only was johan in perfect health and his vision was restored, but gun was also getting more and more "tired" and his state was pitiful. But SOMEHOW he still won that. Okay. Cool.

And now fast forward to today's chapter: gun's DUMBASS turns down goo's offer and now they're fighting. So naturally you'd expect gun to lose because goo is relatively equal (as stated multiple times by the narrative) to gun, and gun is in a pitiful state broken arm basically became a flesh and bones smoothie, not to mention his organs must have turned into slime from the amount of hits he has taken. His left eye is popped and bloodshot, his neck is sliced, he even has CLAW marks down his lower torso and forearm, excessive blood loss and nasty bruising everywhere... so obviously goo who is 100% in good shape and is proven to be a very powerful and impactful character will win right? Haha.

*internally screaming throwing up sobbing rolling on the floor in rage and despair*

HOW THE FUCK DID HE END UP ON THE FLOOR SQUISHED LIKE A BUG WITH A SWORD PIERCING THROUGH HIM???? The whole fight made me ENRAGED, i lost it when he blocked the sword with his mouth AND bit it off like are we sure we're still in a slice of life manhwa and not a horror one? I lost it even more when his mouth that was torn ear to ear because of the sword magically healed in the next panel like nothing happened, like that sword didn't just cut through his flesh. Speaking of swords cutting through flesh, how did goos sword sharp enough to cut through metal and concrete walls get stuck on his ankle? Dies this man have titanium bones or something?? How did the sword get stuck on the FLESH not even the bone itself. And the fact that he just walked it off again like nothing happened.. somehow goo only landed like two clean hits and gun magically dodged all the other ones.

Then PTJ proceeds to pull up the double suicide to end the fight in which BOTH goo and gun were stabbed but goo somehow is the one who ends up being squished on the floor like a bug.

This is unacceptable, idk wth ptj was expecting us to get hype after gun some fucking how is capable of weaseling himself out of every corner he's backed up to this is starting patterns that are very similar to jjk.. which i don't like at all. I'd like to say for the one billionth time again that PTJ writing gets progressively worse from the years, which only consists of stalling and dragging the arcs instead of moving on to other plot points, extreme plot armor, adding in an unbelievable number of minor characters, background characters, and extras just to neglect them after a few chapters. Some characters who supposedly were from the "main cast" were gone for YEARS dude, and the lacking female character writing (some may argue with this because it is true there are female characters that are badass and are really good written, but most are created only for the purpose of helping a certain male character with character development. Which he literally directly says on his author note for viral hit in which he says all the female characters form the main cast even the nurse were created for romantic interest, which is an insane thing to say.)

Anyhow, if you've read this far thank you for coming to my ted talk 😓. I know some things i said might be controversial but i just needed to let out some steam, because this is getting ridiculous. Everyone can see the pattern now like there is no way that he's so overpowered that the entirety of the verse wasn't able to take him down.

[sailorspica]

basil hawkins' cartomancy (it sucks)

spoilers for wano arc, especially onigashima.

hawkins only draws and interprets four cards during one piece and all major arcana, which is statistically improbable (a 28% chance from a standard deck), and none of them make any damn sense. when he falls to killer in 1029, the cards fluttering around him include some iconic waite-smith style minor arcana, so they exist in his deck! it isn't stacked with only majors! oda knows about the nine of swords! ugh. anyway.

disclaimer that i personally don't read reversals because i think positive and negative qualities of each card are always present, but context points us in either direction, whether in the question being posed to the cards or the structure of the spread around it. that said, these are almost all single-card draws.

1. the fool reversed (913)

my interpretation: at its best (upright), the fool is pure and trusting, really like any guileless shounen protagonist who others try to take advantage of. the major arcana can be read as the fool's journey through the ages of man, like stupid campbell's the hero's journey. we can look at the fool nostalgically as someone who isn't jaded yet, but i hope it's a nika-like figure who's hopeful and trusting to spite the world's cruelty, having learned about it intimately. reversed, i think it's unflattering things onlookers and enemies say about luffy: naive, unprepared, in for a rude awakening.

cards that fit his better: there are cards that are closer to betrayal or deception, like the seven of cups or the moon, but the imagery of hawkins' beasts pirates underlings (we never know what happens to his crew) looks like the five of wands, despite their swords.

2. the hierophant reversed and upright (913)

this is why i suspected he stacked his deck because how does he draw the hierophant twice

my interpretation: sorry but i have to say that in older decks this was called the pope, and who the hell does the pope help other than serial abusers? but i digress. somewhere around the turn of the century, someone likely associated with the golden dawn came up with correspondences between 12 of the major arcana and the signs of the zodiac, and taurus got the hierophant, which i plainly disagree with. the hierophant is much more saturnine, much closer to capricorn which is also an earth sign, so melancholic, cold, and dry. saturn has associations with organized religions, higher education, and really anything traditional and structured. associating any of that with otsuru is... unflattering, in my opinion. the most saturnine institution in one piece is certainly the five elders, hi saint saturn. i would even say otsuru should be the hierophant reversed as someone with ties to a rebellion! but one to restore a dynasty. so...

cards that fit his better: for "pursuit," i'd say six of wands. for "reinforcements", maybe the star, two of coins, two of cups, three of coins, three of cups.

3. death (1029)

my interpretation: death is about endings of any kind. it can be about a breakup, or graduation, or just... a fight ending. it says nothing about the result in favor of one party or another. death and loss are necessary to life, so reading it as simply bad news for killer, good news for hawkins is immature and simplistic. we don't know exactly what happened to kid's arm when they fought against shanks, but he lost an arm and kept his life. that's still a kind of death, though. killer eating the SMILE was a kind of death, and so is the kid pirates declaring they'll be a cheerful crew.

cards that fit his better: oh, i don't know. the TOWER

overall, i have major umbrage with straw man cards as an attack. if the point is that every other card is drawn to affect the enemy and the others can "expand one's (the reader's) power beyond their natural limit," we never see it win hawkins any fights. straw man cards creates reality instead of just describing it, which is not what i think divination should be. instead of death or the tower to describe killer's position with kid's straw doll, i'd choose the hanged man or the eight of swords. they're both cards about being stuck, the former about being suspended in limbo before some sort of breakthrough, and the latter about being trapped in a situation you can't see the way out of—but there is a way out.

4. the tower (1029)

my interpretation: i'd link this to the modern planet uranus, which has come to mean revolution in large part because it was first discovered during the enlightenment and before the european revolutions of the 19th century, and indeed the 20th. the tower sucks if you're a romanov, in this narrow view, but it does indeed spell calamity and disaster, which is a fair way to describe what happens to hawkins' effigy, though there are other options, like...

cards that fit this moment of this fight: DEATH. just death, you got it damn backwards, my love. the narrator's description matches mine, sure, but someone could just as easily argue the shogunate as an institution is old and brittle. but i think it's describing linlin, which is so rude. straw is brittle, i grant you...

anime-only bonus: strength reversed, or a theory on his percentage system (1001)

he doesn't interpret this out loud and it isn't part of straw man cards, but it's part of his "1 percent" calculation. i have to assume that his percentage system works similar to astrological condition, e.g. a reversed major arcana must subtract more favor than a reversed minor? if he draws 10 cards starting with 100% or maybe 50% for 1:1 odds and say, a bunch of of them were reversed majors and the last was a kind of shitty upright minor arcana... maybe that's how it starts. (i think aces are generally lovely cards, so it can't be by pip value?) i theorized another more convoluted system involving decimal places when i first watched wano and this blond hack gripped me, but this makes marginally more sense

a conclusion

tarot is a narrative art, whether you believe in divination or not. it's a palette to tell stories with. it's for chatty cathys and people who write in journals by hand. hawkins' generally one-word descriptions do it a major disservice, and oda's bizarre percentage system makes hawkins more of a gambler than anything mystical

even if his single word choices were at all traditionally correct, i'd still be dissatisfied because a good tarot reading is a conversation, and i want to hear more! hence my answer is writing x reader fanfiction where he is better at this and has a partner (me). just like most people interested enough in astrology to get a reading know their big three, most people i read tarot with are other tarot readers or have a passing familiarity with it, whereas hawkins is only shown lording his insider knowledge over enemies. but maybe my approach to divination is pedagogical because i don't believe in it earnestly and want to "show my work," as it were. i want to be questioned because i'm more than willing to question, evidenced here