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baldursgate3tempobsessed · 1 year ago

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Kidnapped Astarion

I have a very specific thing I can't stop thinking about. That involves Astarion getting kidnapped by Cazador for the ritual and him taunting him over the lie that Tav gave him away. Sold him even.

Tw: Lies, manipulation, mentions of torture, bad times had all around, it's long as fuck, betrayal (or at least the lie of it). Like Cazador is involved so all bad. Very bad. This also has VIOLENCE. Like canon game violence but it is BLOODY. You've been warned. Also happy ending :)

So now let's get to that angst:

It had all happened so fast.

One moment Astarion was laid back in the tent you share, reading a mediocre book as he impatiently waited for your return. He loathed when you went out without him, even if it was for good reason. He wasn't exactly welcome company when it came to solving Gale's problems, especially when it came to the bomb nestled in chest. You both knew his inability to keep his sarcastic quips to himself would not be an asset while exploring a sacred library. Besides, he didn't have much room to complain, not when he accompanied you on ninety-nine percent of your outings.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. Even if it was shaping up to be a nice, uneventful evening. He had set your tent a little farther away from the others, considering the complaints that some....well most had made about the volume of your nightly activities. It was quiet, peaceful even. The atmosphere tranquil enough for him to fully relax.

What a mistake that had been.

When the flap of the tent opened he didn't even look up, fully expecting it to be Shadowheart or Lae'zel coming round to dig about in his darling's things. It made sense, considering how it was one of the few times they wouldn't be risking walking in on something. You had such a bad habit with that "open door" policy of yours. One that had exposed nearly every party member to quite the show. Though in Astarion's view, they were just unreasonable. When you were both loud they complained. When you were quiet and they walked in on it they would whine even more. How could you win with people like that?

Perhaps a sign on the door would have done the trick, but Astarion would be lying if he didn't enjoy the others being fully aware of who could make you cry and moan. The risk was just more thrilling, if not the slightest bit annoying.

But the intruder was staying still at the opening, quiet as could be. It was odd enough to have Astarion glancing upward, his heart stopping in his chest at what he saw.

It was a man, frantically muttering something under his breath. A man that he recognized. The idiotic Petras, trying to cast some kind of incantation. It had Astarion scrambling upward, reaching for his dagger. But it was already too late. The spell was finished and Astarion could feel his senses start to fade away, one by one.

He had gotten sloppy, relying on the safety of camp that had never existed. And now he was paying the price, and what a price to pay. Even as he fell to the magic, one feeling managed to stay in place until the bitter end.

Terror.

And then, he felt nothing at all.

The next thing Astarion knew he was being awakened by a slap of cold water to his face, blinking up into horrifyingly familiar light. He immediately recognized where he was. The torture room, his arms hanging from the ceiling, his toes barely scraping the floor. It hurt to be suspended like this, a pain he was still so familiar with despite going months without. And in front of him was the cause of it all, sneering at him like the maniac he was.

Cazador.

"You're finally awake," He grinned, dropping the bucket that was in his hands, "You've been a very bad boy Astarion. Just what am I to do with you?"

Astarion wanted to answer, to curse at him, maybe even beg to just be left alone, but nothing came out. He was too stunned, too stupefied that he ended up here after everything he'd gone through. Everything you'd gone through. How could it end like this?

"I don't fully know what you were up to with all that time away from your family," Cazador continued, stepping close enough for Astarion to feel his disgusting breath on his skin, "But I think I may have the gist. Galivanting around with your merry-band of degenerates. Seems fitting."

Astarion gave a full-bodied flinch when Cazador started to graze along his collarbones with a gentle finger, his touch freezing and revolting. The gentleness wouldn't last, Astarion was surprised it was even there to begin with.

He should have realized there was a reason for it.

He trailed up his neck, stopping to trace a bruise you had left the night before. If only he had known that it was almost certainly the last time he would get to touch you. The realization was nearly enough to bring tears to Astarion's eyes, but he refused to cry in front of this creature, not if he could help it.

"Seems like you may have even found yourself a favorite amongst them. Tell me pet, who was it?"

"Fuck you." Astarion spat out, his fury managing to shine through his despair.

Astarion expected a hard slap for the insolence, but instead Cazador just laughed, loud and full-bellied, "You've gotten quite the temper since you've been away, haven't you? I wonder where that came about?"

It was a false question, Astarion could tell from the way his eyes were crinkled. Like a child excited to reveal a surprise. Cazador answered it for himself, "Is it that lovely little thing that you've been following around. Gods, what's their name again...Tav, is it?"

"Don't you dare say her name," Astarion growled, his righteous fury overcoming the ever-growing terror and dread, "They have nothing to do with this!"

"Oh but they do," Cazador grinned, stepping back to do one of his famous gloating sessions, "Just how do you think I found you? Luck? No my dear, you were given."

Astarion's answer was as immediate as it was hateful, "You're lying! You know nothing of them. Nothing of us."

He won't believe it, he has no reason to. You...you loved him. And you were probably looking for him as they spoke. You would never betray anyone like this, least of all him.

But Cazador remained unphased. If anything he was looking at him with pity, "Oh you poor thing. You think she cares? You think she loves you? I'm disappointed Astarion, it seems you've learned nothing from our time together. What is there to love, hm? Nothing that I can see. Though...they sure did seem to love the gold. You fetch quite the high price my dear. But it will be worth it."

Lies. It was all lies. It had to be. Astarion shoved his uncertainty back down, bellowing out, "Liar!"

It was forceful enough to even make Cazador falter for the briefest of moments, a split second that anyone else would have missed. But he pressed on, shaking his head, "Darling, don't you find it strange that you were all alone that day? That no one came to your aid? Where do you think you're love was, hm? Wait, don't tell me. I can remember...ah yes! With Gale, correct?"

Astarion swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. How...how did he know that?

"It was a fabulous excuse, was it not?" Cazador continued with a laugh, "We came up with that one together. After a little fun that is. I can see why you fell for their treachery Astarion, they are quite lovely, aren't they?"

No. No, no, no.

"Stop it," Astarion hissed, "Shut your mouth. I-It's not true."

"Oh but it is. I'm not sure if you're aware but you're quite the headache darling, not many can handle it. Not including myself. She even told me of that hilarious speech you gave. About wanting something real. It was just as funny to her as it was to me."

Astarion stared at him, at a complete loss for words. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. But...how else would he know that? In a camp full of people why did no one come to his aid? But the cruelty of it all...it was exactly the type of thing Cazador was versed in.

Setting up the same type of trap that he'd trained Astarion for, that he had used on others countless times. And he fell for it, he lost the game he thought he'd mastered.

His faith was slipping, hard and fast when he asked the horrible question, "How do you know that?"

"Because I sent them to you," He said with that disgusting grin, "It was no coincidence that you met. You were kidnapped, I needed you back, so I hired some help. It's a pity that they were captured as well. The pause to our plans was quite inconvenient. Our Tav just can't help but get distracted, can she?"

"No..." The word slipped out of Astarion without his consent, his mind racing. That couldn't be true. It didn't make sense. T-There had to be another explanation. If he could just think he'd find it. But...what point was there? He was already captured, taken. If anything, all of this being a grand scheme from Cazador was more logical than someone loving him.

He had gone through many, many tortures during his time here. Unspeakable, horrible things that he would never wish on anyone, excluding the man in front of him. But this...this was the worst thing he'd ever done to him. He had tricked him, you had tricked him, and he whole-heartedly fell for it, like the fool he was. The fool he would die as.

He didn't know it was possible, but this would be the greatest pain he ever knew. He was sure of that. Cazador had managed to do it. He had broken him, finally.

His tears were falling on their own accord, plentiful and pathetic. Cazador cooed at him, tracing his cheek with his horrid hand, "It hurts, doesn't it? I missed that expression on you my boy. You were always at you're prettiest when you had given up."

He wiped Astarion's tears away, gently holding his face as he spoke, "If only this was enough. The things I want to do to you for running away... I want to make you scream, make you beg for death. Just like how things used to be. If only we had the time."

Cazador let go, stepping back with a sigh, "How I wish that they had gotten you to me earlier. Though it's too late to pout about it now, the preparations are almost complete. But don't fret my boy, your end will have the meaning that your life failed to posses. Come along now."

Astarion hung there, limp as Cazador unhooked him from above. This was it. He was going to die here, as nothing but a pawn. He didn't even try to fight it when he was led down, deep into the palace to a place he'd never known existed. He kept his eyes closed for most of the journey, simply for the fact that he didn't have the strength to keep them open.

It was...a horrendous feeling to be incased in that red energy, floating in the air with all of his brothers and sisters as Cazador finished his preparations. It forced his eyes open against his will, making him see the hell that had been hiding beneath his feet all these years. He had been wrong about the sacrifice it seemed, it wasn't just them. There were thousands of bodies, barely alive in hanging cages, strewn throughout the place.

It was horrible, but fitting. Where else would something like him die? All he wished was that Cazador would hurry, so he could be done with it all. He has to much time to think in these last moments, too much time to examine your betrayal.

He...hates you. For it all. He hates you more than anything, enough for that same fury to come bubbling back to the surface. How dare you do this to him, after everything you'd been through. He should have killed you while you slept, while you let him drink from your throat. He should have killed them all, the vile sacks of shit.

If his soul ever found it's way back from the hell it was about to be damned too, he'd find you. His revenge was no longer reserved for Cazador, but for the wretched bitch hat tortured him in ways he didn't even think were possible. He'd do worse to you than anyone could imagine.

You were the cruelest thing to ever exist, as heartless and horrid as the monster before him.

So why was he still crying over it?

It didn't matter anyway. Not now. Now, all he could do was wait for the bitter end.

But then...he felt something. A familiar presence tickling the back of his mind. A barely there whisper, no words that he could make out. But it was getting stronger. Clearer.

It...it was you. Calling out to him with your illithid connection, begging for an answer.

My love, where are you? Astarion please, please tell me your there. Help me find you.

He can scarcely believe it. But he wasn't going to wait for his emotions to catch up to what could be an escape. He was screaming in his brain, trying to send out any signal that he could.

I'm here. I'm here. Don't let him take me. Please.

He could hear you in his head, the sheer relief from your mind nearly overwhelming, I'm coming. Hold on, I'm coming.

Astarion didn't even have the time to doubt. Because the next moment you were bursting through the ornate doors, nearly your entire team in tow.

Astarion had never seen you look the way you did then. He was so used to your kindness, the warmth and light that you tried to spread everywhere you went. You were always smiling, always laughing, always trying to share the same with others.

But now you were breathing hard, near feral in your posture as your eyes darted around, landing straight to the shocked Cazador. You looked murderous, vicious enough to send a shiver down Astarion's spine. Your teeth were bared, your whole body trembling with rage as you started to advance, weapons already drawn.

And in that moment Astarion was sure that you were the most gorgeous, perfect thing he had ever seen. Or ever would.

It was brutal, bloody battle. One that ended with you slitting Cazador's throat as Astarion watched in awe. You let the body fall to the ground, blasé before you finally ran to him, releasing him from his prison.

Then he was being pulled into the most crushing hug of his entire life. One that he was helpless to return. He clung to you, uncaring for their rather large audience.

He was too busy burying his face into your hair, breathing you in as you whispered into his shoulder, "Thank the Gods that you're still here."

The pain in your voice was so raw, so real. Astarion needed no other evidence to be sure that every word from the dead man's lips had been a lie. He was also positive that he had never cried this much in his life, but now it was a different kind of sob he was trying to choke back. The flood of relief was crushing, the truth that your love was real was nearly enough to destroy him all over again. Not for cruelties sake, but to make something new. To kill every last doubt he had that he was nothing, worthless. How could he be when you were here? When you came for him?

He pulled back reluctantly, smiling down at you with tear tracks on his face. He kissed your forehead, covered in sweat and blood, and gods knows what else.

It was all finally over. You both turned to the rest of the group, your hands clasped together as you made your way to where Cazador lay dead. It was satisfying to see, but such a shame that Astation wasn't the one to do the deed. A regret he'd have for the rest of his days.

Or so he thought.

But then you were turning to Shadowheart, your sweet face curling back into the disgust from earlier when you ordered, "Revive him."

Astarion watched, wide-eyed as she did what she was told. Cazador came back into consciousness, in what looked to be an extremely unpleasant experience. He was coughing blood, the spell doing just enough to mend his mortal wounds, but not nearly powerful enough to give him a fraction of his strength back. He stared upwards, his eyes wide at the sight of you lording over him.

And for the first time in two hundred years, Astarion saw fear in the other man's eyes. Wonderfully delicious fear.

He felt you squeeze his hand as he stared at him, speaking quietly, "He's yours. To do with what you please. Do...do you want us here for this?"

He could hear the hidden meaning in your words. This wasn't just a choice of what to do with him. It was a choice of what to do with them all. He had taken notice that he was the only one that you had freed, his brethren still suspended in air.

He turned to you, his voice strong for the first time since he'd come back to this pit, "I want you here for this."

You nodded before looking back to the others to tell them to wait outside. They did so reluctantly, obviously without confidence in his decision making abilities. He ignored the especially worried look Karlach sent his way, too focused on the piece of vampiric trash in front of him.

Cazador was still coughing, his mouth forming more vile words, "Y-You don't have to do this. I can-"

"Silence," Astation seethed, partly surprised when it worked to shut him up. But then again, he had never been placed in a position to see his master be the one without an escape, "Your life is in my hands now. Tell me the truth. How did you find me?"

Astarion could see the fury behind his eyes, the humiliation of being ordered around by his own spawn. But his desire for life won out in the end.

"Luck," he spat out, "Sheer luck. Yomen saw you in the city, at Shar's Caress with this one. He followed you, found your camp and reported back. I sent Dalyria and Petras to fetch you, gave them a powerful sleeping scroll to knock out your allies. And then you were mine again."

Astarion shouldn't have been surprised that he had the audacity to glare at Tav, seething, "Or at least you would have been."

"And my memories?" Astarion pressed, "How did you know of us?"

"The tadpole squirming behind your eyes doesn't change the fact that I am your master," Cazador said, "Your mind is mine to shape, to understand. It was more difficult than before, yes. But I had enough to know what to say."

Of course. He should have known, "So that was your last torture then?"

"Yes," Cazador said simply, a sneer managing to appear on his bloodied face, "And you have to admit, it worked wonderfully."

"You can kill him now if you'd like," You piped up from his side, staring down at the vampire like the trash he was, "Or...you can take his place."

You hesitated for a brief moment before steeling yourself, looking Astarion in the eye, "Whatever you choose, I'll be here for you. I promise."

Astarion nodded, weighing his options. It was so very difficult to not just kill him where he laid, like the pathetic dog he was. But then again...the ritual would mean endless power. Power that he could use to protect himself, to protect you. So nothing like this could ever happen again.

Astarion looked up, his eyes searching every last one of his brothers and sisters faces. They looked scared, perhaps even resigned to their fate. Just at the hands of another. Astarion hadn't expected the image to make him feel ill, yet it did.

Could he do it? Sacrifice them all, along with everyone else trapped in the bowels of their personal hell? He could. He knows he could. Yet...

He looked back at you, the only thing he had ever loved. The one person to show him a different way to live, who was giving him the freedom to be his own person. But... he wanted that person to be someone worthy of you. Someone who would make you proud.

And there was only one way to do that. Astarion let go of your hand, reaching for the dagger you kept at your belt before striding over to Cazador. He stabbed him with little fanfare, no warning, no chances to beg. And then he did it again, and again, and again. Until he lost count, until the body of his former master was mutilated, his chest nothing but unrecognizable gore.

He wasn't quite sure when he started crying again. He only realized it when he could barely breath through his own screams, every bit of rage, hurt, and humiliation that had been beaten into him coming straight to the surface. He sunk to his knees as he sobbed, tossing the knife to the side.

The whirlwind inside of him was too much, so overwhelming that he was afraid he'd be lost to it. But then he could feel it, you wrapping your arms around him, kneeling next to him as he broke down.

He clung to you, burying his face into your neck as he cried, desperate for your comfort, your touch. You were crying too he realized, your voice breaking as you gently spoke to him, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have been there to protect you. I love you, you did the right thing. I'm sorry."

You had nothing to apologize for, but that didn't stop your words from acting like a soothing balm to all of his internal wounds. But he would get through this. Because for the first time Astarion knew, without a shadow of a doubt he wouldn't have to get through it alone. With you by his side, he would never be alone again.

He wasn't sure how long you both spent there, kneeling in a pool of his tormentors blood. But he knew he felt different when he pulled away, changed.

Free.

He cupped your face, wiping away your tears while only managing to smear the mess about. But it didn't matter that you were both covered in blood and viscera, not when he had you.

"I love you too," Astarion whispered, finally allowing himself to unload the burden of hiding away from you. No more of that. He was yours, fully and completely, "I love you so much. I-I thought that this was it. That I'd never see you again. That you betrayed me-"

"Never," You interrupted, your voice fierce despite how it was breaking, "I never will. You're all I want, all I need. I should have been there, I'm so sorry-"

"No more apologies," Astarion murmered, pressing a quick kiss to your bloody mouth, "No more. We're here. That's all that matters."

You nodded, kissing him again, so sweet despite everything that should have made it sour. Despite his own words, Astarion couldn't help the white hot shame that passed through him. How could he have doubted you, even for a moment? Doubted this, the most beautiful that ever happened to him. Never again would he question what you had together, to let his mind be poisoned by others.

But there would be more time for the two of you later. The rest of your lives if he had anything to say about it. But for now...you freed him. And it was his turn to do the same.

Astarion pulled back, sighing as he looked around the room at his brethren. They were still hanging in the air, all privy to quite the show. He freed them, forgave them even, despite every horrid thing they'd done to eachother over the years.

But that didn't stop him from clocking Petras squarely in the face the second his feet touched the floor. The other man took it well enough, fully knowing that Astarion was capable of much, much worse. Though he was well aware that Petras had been compelled to kidnap him, it didn't change the fact that the punch was very satisfying.

As for the rest of the spawn, the thousands trapped here, he let them go as well. Down to the Underdark, where they could at least have a chance of controlling their feral nature before associating with mortals again.

Then it was time to leave this wretched place, forever. He would never be hurt here again, never controlled. He was free, finally. And with you by his side, what else could he ever ask for?

#astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 cazador #hes such a piece of shit #but I feel like this is something he would totally do #happy ending #but god damn that was rough #angst #a lot of angst #its there #front and center #long fic #you'll pry my long posts out of my cold dead hands #im feeling spawn astarion man #i started this side blog for the ascended version but...#spawn is bae #female tav

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pinknatural · 1 year ago

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After googling “what to take to a stranger’s birthday party” and reading the top five articles thoroughly, the first two more than once, Castiel has determined that he should either bring candles, wine, or baked goods.

A candle seems like a good, safe option, but the Walmart candle aisle is overwhelming. How is he supposed to know if Anna’s-friend-Dean likes oaky, woodsy smells versus lavender-linen smells? Castiel likes the one that smells like a waxy apple pie, but who’s to say that opinion is shared? What if he prefers pine, or something called Deep Twilight Mist? Castiel removes the lid for Deep Twilight Mist and smells the cream-colored wax curiously. It smells like the perfume Hael used to spray everywhere when she was eleven. He puts it back on the shelf.

There’s a candle that smells like cupcakes. It is a birthday party, so perhaps he would like that. Castiel puts it in the blue plastic basket dangling from his arm, then puts it back on the shelf, tilting it so the label is facing perfectly outward. Maybe Anna’s-friend-Dean doesn’t like candles at all.

Wine. Everyone likes wine. Well, unless Anna’s-friend-Dean is one of those guys who thinks wine is too feminine. Or if he doesn’t drink at all. Or if he drinks too much. Or, perhaps even worse, if he’s some kind of wine connoisseur and will mock Castiel for buying reasonably-priced wine from Walmart and then blacklist Castiel so thoroughly that he will never find a friend in this town.

Wine and candles are too complex. But everyone likes baked goods.

Castiel is stopped in the middle of the road, turn signal blinking to indicate that he would like to turn left into his apartment complex, when he realizes that Anna’s-friend-Dean could be diabetic. But the party is at a restaurant that specializes in hamburgers, so probably not. Hopefully not. All Castiel has to do is successfully implement chocolate chip cookies and then melt into the walls at the party. Be pleasant enough company that next time someone has a large event they allow Anna to invite him again. Go to enough social functions that he can claim to have friends and get Anna off his back. Live quietly, working at the Gas-N-Sip and writing papers about the science of Theology and perhaps even going to the library and reading secular fiction.

Castiel has no expectations of finding actual friendship at Anna’s-friend-Dean’s birthday party. Or ever, really. If he ever gets lonely, he can get a cat.

Anna thinks that Castiel and Dean will get along very well. Castiel thinks that living outside of their mother’s influence has made Anna believe in fairytales. Anna has known Castiel his entire life. She knows full well that he has never gotten along very well with anyone.

Castiel cracks an egg over the batter. Maybe this whole baking thing will impress Anna so much that she’ll stop bothering him about making friends.

Who knows, maybe these cookies will unlock something else to add to Castiel’s quiet life. He quite likes the idea of baking.

The firefighter is very beautiful. Maybe even the most beautiful person Castiel has ever seen, besides models on the sides of buildings who look so perfect they’re fake.

“You the guy who started the fire?” the beautiful firefighter asks. He puts his hands in his pockets. Castiel’s cheeks burn. Not from any fire.

“They were just burnt cookies,” he says. “I didn’t know they would set off the smoke alarm.” In the entire building. The other firefighters are by the doors, writing things down, talking to other residents of Castiel’s building. How come the beautiful firefighter was the one who had to talk to Castiel? He sneaks a peek at the man’s arms, but they’re sadly covered by his coat.

“You burned the cookies on purpose, then?” the firefighter raises an eyebrow.

“Of course I didn’t,” Castiel says. The firefighter has green eyes and freckles splashed across his nose. Castiel wants him to take off his helmet so he can see what his hair looks like.

“Right,” the firefighter says.

“Am I in trouble?” Castiel asks.

“No,” the firefighter says. He winks. Castiel feels his heart literally skip a beat. “Not a crime to burn cookies. Losing out on the cookies is punishment enough.”

“They weren’t for me,” Castiel says. “They were for a birthday party. Tonight.” For some reason, he wants the firefighter to know that he has a social life. Never mind if the social life was enforced upon him by his older sister.

“A birthday party? Today? Who’s hosting? I gotta fight for my honor.”

Castiel is baffled. What honor? What fight?

“What?”

“Everyone will come,” the firefighter says. He makes a pose, as if he’s flexing. “To see me and this other guy fight to see who’s the Supreme Birthday Boy.” He stretches one arm out, pointing it to the sky, then he opens his fist. “Pow! It’ll be me, of course.” He turns to look back at Castiel. His mouth is very pink. Castiel wishes he understood what words were coming out of it.

“It’s my birthday, too,” the firefighter says after a moment, when Castiel doesn’t react.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I dunno. Trying to be funny, I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again. Behind the firefighter, he sees that the other residents of his apartment building are filing back inside. For some reason, despite the January chill, Castiel doesn’t want to go back in. Not yet.

“You know, usually this is the part where people say happy birthday,” the firefighter says.

“Happy birthday,” Castiel repeats.

“Thanks!” the firefighter beams. “So do you think I should crash your friend’s party tonight?”

“No,” Castiel says, alarmed at the thought. A firefighter, and probably a bunch of other firefighters, crashing Castiel’s opportunity to stand beside the wall, holding a cup of sprite? When Castiel shows up with store-bought baked goods? And this beautiful firefighter will point right at him and say that Castiel invited them and then Anna’s-friend-Dean will hate him forever, and probably Anna will too? “Also, he’s not my friend.”

“He’s not? Then why are you going to his party?”

“He’s my sister’s friend,” Castiel explains. “I’ve never met him. She thinks I need to leave the house more.” Too late, Castiel remembers that he was supposed to pretend he had a flourishing social life. Oops.

“Wait,” the firefighter says. His eyes sparkle. “Are you Anna’s brother? Cas-something?”

“Castiel,” he says, with the patience of someone who has had to explain his name a million times. He narrows his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Dude,” the firefighter says, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

Anna’s-friend-Dean is a beautiful firefighter, with green eyes and freckles? Anna’s-friend-Dean is the Supreme Birthday Boy? Anna’s-friend-Dean probably has very muscular arms, under his uniform?

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the firefighter says.

“Winchester! Wrap it up!” one of the firemen calls from the truck. Castiel realizes that all the firefighters are about to leave, and everyone from his building is already back inside. When did that happen?

“Be there in a minute!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. When he looks back at Castiel, he grins almost shyly. “You were gonna make me cookies?”

“Yes, I--I thought it would be an appropriate thing to bring.” Castiel wonders again if Dean could be diabetic. Or perhaps allergic to something in chocolate chip cookies. Are chocolate chips made in a peanut-free facility? Maybe Castiel should’ve bought wine, after all.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was dead-fuckin’-on. But, uh.”

“But?” Castiel is sure, suddenly, that Dean is about to reject him and tell him not to come to his birthday party after all. Which would be a shame, because all of a sudden Castiel wanted to go.

“My favorite dessert is pie,” Dean says like a confession.

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. Maybe he can swing by the bakery--maybe he can look up a bakery, and then swing by it--on the way to the party. Assuming he’s still going.

“And, uh, not to toot my own horn, but I make a pretty mean one. I actually made myself a birthday pie, and I was gonna eat it alone, but maybe…I mean…”

“Yes?” Castiel asks. Dean is slightly taller than him, so he tilts his head back to meet his eyes. Dean swallows. Castiel watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Well, I could swing by after my shift is done,” Dean says. “Bring it with me. We could share. Before we go to the Roadhouse, I mean. If you want.”

“I want,” Castiel says before he can think about it. He snaps his mouth shut. Dean brightens.

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be back. After my shift.”

“When does it end?” Castiel asks. Dean looks at his watch. He grins at Castiel, tongue poking between his teeth.

“Twenty minutes,” he says.

“Okay,” Castiel says. “I will you soon, then.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Gimme about an hour, okay? And then we’ll have pie.”

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean turns to head back to the firetruck. “What kind of pie?” Cas calls after him. Dean turns.

“Apple!” he calls. Castiel stands outside, in the January chill without his coat, for a long while after the truck leaves. What a strange man, making his own birthday pie. What a lovely man, sharing it with a stranger. Supreme Birthday Boy, indeed.

When Dean returns, in a soft flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his magnificent forearms, his hair a spiky mess that Castiel wants to run his fingers through, he has, as promised, an apple pie. And Castiel has a present for him.

When Dean opens it, he laughs until he almost cries. He lights it right away, and the lingering aroma of burnt chocolate chip cookies is chased away by the apple pie candle from Walmart, a bright, steady little flame flickering between them.

(ao3)

#destiel #dean winchester #castiel #writingtag #deansbirthdaybash #chocolatecakecas #changed my mind posting this now. whatever

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vampykween · 1 year ago

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mic i need to know. how vampire!ghost and vampire!price spend their individual time w pet (nickname ?:3) does pet have a favorite…

how does pet warm up to them!! 🧛🏽‍♀️🧛🏽‍♀️ literally kept captive like a bird but ghost and price are so so offputting but nice at the same time.. hmm…

im convinced you hacked into my brain because i was just drawing up ideas on how pet (love the nickname) has a different relationship with each of the boys hehe. i hope this suits ur fancy, i started running away with it like always oops! <3

price shows you to your quarters on the first night after the wooziness of being bitten (by an actual vampire!!!!) wears off. the space is grand and luxurious, and if you weren't so shaken up you'd marvel more at the beautiful window seat with gorgeous bay windows - the perfect spot to curl up with a good book.

once price leaves you alone in your room, you hastily lock the door and sob. what the hell has your life become?! for the first week, you don't dare leave your room in hopes of being able to avoid the creatures holding you captive. price is amused at your little attitude; how cute that you think a little door lock would stop him from being with his pet.

your relationship with price is weird, you're grateful he saved you from the woods, but you also hate him for keeping you in this stupid castle all alone. in an attempt to lower your hackles, price comes with breakfast for you each morning, he knocks as if to give you the illusion of choice whether you want him in your space or not, he unlocks the door and barges in no matter what you say anyway.

he insists on feeding you breakfast himself, you bristled at the idea at first because is he serious?! he offers you a simple shrug and a curt "amuse me, pet." and after realizing it was more of an order than a suggestion you concede.

you hate that price treats you like your his prized possession, it makes it so much harder to hate him. perhaps that was his goal really. it starts to work because eventually, you relax as he pops strawberries and decadent french toast in your mouth one morning - and when he leans in and licks the sweet juices from your lips, you feel warmth blooming in you. suddenly, you can't help but imagine him in between your legs licking over you reverently.

with ghost, things are so vastly different. you don't even see him until you finally work up the courage to leave your quarters. you're exploring the entirety of the manor and stumble upon the most impressive library you've ever seen. flitting between bookshelves silently until you're startled by a looming figure in the corner.

you realize it's ghost and are frozen with the decision on whether to leave him be or go over and try to talk to him. there's something so odd about him, but that only makes you want to figure him out more.

the library becomes you and ghost’s little meeting spot. he’s different when he’s not under the supervision of price, still very much reserved. but unlike price ghost avoids making any advances towards you, in fact, it was you that made the first move.

ghost had been dropping little tidbits about his life before he was turned and your heart ached painfully for him. he was curating a pile of his favorite books for you, and when he leaned into your space unintentionally, you place as shaky hand on his face in an attempt to drag him into a kiss.

ghost concedes and kisses you back with a passion you weren’t expecting. when you pull away and search his eyes for any sort of explanation, he simply shrugs and says he has to leave you for now. you’re left reeling from the magical kiss you two shared, surprised at much more you want from him.

#mic answers #vampire!au #vampire!ghost x reader #vampire!price x reader #vampire!price #vampire!ghost #fem reader

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plasticfangtastic · 1 year ago

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American Royalty. Ch. 10

A Homelander X F! Reader/Dadlander fanfic.

A/N: sorry for the delay, I wrote another fic and that ate my time, hope y'all like the chapter, there's only 3 chapters left and the epilogue and now that kinktober its done I should be able to post the remaining chapters on time, if ya like to be on the taglist plz leave a comment with a request. prev. chapter here:

Tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, oc characthers, child neglect, dadlander, romance, some spicy and murder.

Chapter Ten

Reconsidering

A lavish prison.

More rooms than ideas to fill them with– mere latrines for kisch.

Floors that screamed ugly opulence, the kind that made you yearn for the simplicity of owning nothing, of forced minimalism... or tasteful decor.

When you cracked your neck to witness the enormity of the seven story mansion (not counting the cellar basement and the terrace) the price tag had frightened you to the core more than the height, making you feel more than inadequate in visitation, as you had come in jeans and an ironic t-shirt to accompany him (not that you had a choice)-- as Homelander pulled you around from floor to floor, forcing you to walk alongside him from beige rooms to white rooms, past rich dark wood doors. So heavy they hurt your wrist, you worried for your future.

These were the things you could only witness in pictures.

“I hate the carpet.” He said coyly, trying to stand close to you without frightening you.

Looking down at the rug you’ve taken your shoes off for-- it was luxurious, it was nice for the somewhat dark library, the smell of curated cedar and walnut genuinely intoxicating. From a second glance it matched his taste in your mind, but you guess he was a lot more finicky than he already was– perhaps it wasn’t soft enough for him, you thought.

“I'd rather we just have the floors bare– it’ll be easier to clean.”

“Concerned about the maids already?”

“Maids?”

“Honey, you don’t think I expect you to clean this thing by yourself?” He gave you a playful pat in the back– even with superspeed you’ll wear yourself out…”

The real estate agent who kept rubbernecking at your direction, raised his eyebrow as he saw how stiff you were next to your fiance.

Pressing yourself against the aged stone of the terrace fence, the city seemed so far away as you looked down from so high up, wondering if you could fall quick enough, if he would catch you right on time or make it easy for himself and play the tragic broken hearted hero. The cold breeze kissed your temples as you processed the jarring passage of time.

Kaleem, his wife Alessia and your co-worker Chrissie dropped what they were doing when you broke the news that you’ve gotten engaged, they’ve already gotten it from the breaking news report and online but actually hearing it out of your mouth cemented it, it wasn’t a lookalike sharing your name marrying Homelander! But you! Their hardworking and worn out cook.

Who never once mentioned him before, who never described your baby daddy, who gave no hints… yet to them who thought were your friends–if not confidants, felt betrayed.

They were friends of yours but the fear of Homelander’s and Vought had been so great you never wanted to disclose who’s Helena’s father was to anybody, they had formed very strong opinions over the time they’ve known you but at the sight of half a dozen black suits entering their pizza shop– you probably would have never been able to tell them on your terms, anyways.

You had no choice now but to divulge.

After having been made to lose a day’s work and being informed they would have to agree to some sketchy stuff regarding selling your situation to the public, you owed them an explanation– at least the financial compensation for their cooperation was generous.

Right now you were a stranger.

You told a version of your story, adding to what they already knew, like everybody else their image of Homelander was firmly cemented after 20 years of exposure to the bastard, it was hard to view ‘The Nation’s Favorite Dad’ was the one who threw you on the streets, nobody spoke much while you melted into the booth, your sight so far away, as the light’s buzz drilled into your brain.

“Is the dick at least good?” Chrissie slurped loudly on her coke– I mean go get your bag bitch, just don’t let him make you sign a prenup and when you get divorce take half his shit.”

“Slightly above mid… his mouth tho…” You did smile there.

“Is it little?”

“I wish… shit hurts. Can’t sit straight afterwards... he's just so quick! Thank god his mouth isn't just good at speeches” You chuckle dryly.

Chrissie began spacing her fingers until you rolled your eyes in embarrassment, poor Kaleem sat in his corner pretending to be blind.

You both shared an ugly snorting laugh, cackling from the absurdity of the situation.

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to marry for benefits– trust me I seen a lot of ‘90 day fiance’ and my aunt Lucia’s been married to my uncle for 32 years– she met him a month before the wedding and only for the green card.”

“32 years?” That was dreadful.

Alessia was quite relaxed about the whole ordeal, if anything it was the most stimulating thing that had happened in recent years and seeing a six-year- old tutor her teenage son was exhilarating.

“She said he has a big dick and uncle works the night shift… works great for her– pretty sure 2 of their 7 kids are his”

“Is this the aunt Lucia that came and did our light fixtures? I feel sorry for your uncle.” Chrissie said.

“Yes– she's happy, and don’t be… Uncle Frank may have a whole other family in Mexico, but that’s a whole other business.” She said loudly– look you had it rought, and fuck him. I thought killing the dude at that rally was a bit much, but dumping you in the streets– way worse than murder! Look, we got three kids and if this dumbass died on me– I don’t know how I would cope and if some hot rich asshole asked me to marry him… I might ‘cuz college ain't cheap.” You could laugh, watching Kaleem agreeing he would do the same if she died– Homelander is cute and has money. You said it yourself– you don’t have to love him. He’ll meet somebody else and end it, but Helena it’s your main priority here not him, and I mean after everything you’ve been thru you deserve to cruise thru life.``

“I don’t think John is going to let me fuck around…” You groaned, resting your head on your forearm as you sunk deeper– I don’t have to be happy, right?”

“It’s overrated.” Chrissie said– Helena would probably finish college by 12, and that if she takes her time.”

“Thank you guys for encouraging me in my new ‘Sugar Baby’ journey– I always knew I had it in me to be an amazing hoe.”

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear… to them who just like you had to break their backs to keep the roof over their heads, it was an enviable golden opportunity and in this economy one couldn’t really afford to miss out on such opportunities…

“Just pretend you like him if he’s ever around, I guess.” you mention.

“It’s gonna be hard ‘cuz I like Noir more.” Chrissie says leaning across the table to pat your shoulders.

So here you were admiring the Upper East Side, in the nicest street, in a coveted building that he had every desire in the world to make you ‘Lady of the House’, it was beyond extravagant it even had an elevator… so there was some appeal.

Ashley followed him like a lap dog as he listed a billion much needed remodeling decisions to bring back the home into the office spaces by force, in case he decided to purchase the edifice.

“So you like it? This is the fifth house we’ve seen… you said you wanted a yard and space.”

“Needs more plants… is a great location…” you said softly, still looking down, pretending to not notice Ashley was writing that down too.

“But do you love it?” he pressed rubbing your shoulders– we can still get the penthouse… even if it's only four bedrooms but great open concept! Or the condo right in front of Central park– but that one is only 3 bedrooms which might tamper with our plans… although the one in 63 street, classy and it has a cinema.”

He kissed your forehead, after speaking quickly.

“Do you love it?” You asked, fixing his hair once he got too close to you– this will be your home too.”

“Is pre-war” He whines playfully– is so pretty… the brownstone… the history…” He gives you the most pathetic attempt of ‘puppy eyes’ you’ve ever seen, a smile creeps onto your face without permission which he takes graciously– I can see us here.”

“You’re not hanging a giant american flag anywhere in this house!”

“A small one?” He pouts.

“In your office… and it better be small, John.” You rested your head on his chest– The kitchen… is awful.”

He was touchy, your skin numb to his touch at this point, he wanted to kiss you and hold you until you cherished him, but he wouldn’t force it.

You just had to keep smiling and thwart most of his approaches, but you know if you gave him just enough affection he would be unable to notice the wicked game you were playing– forcing him to move at your dictated pace, to keep him on his toes yearning that you would turn and pamper him, never knowing if his affections were welcomed or not, but knowing you gave yours to him and he welcomed it.

You could see Ryan and Helena growing up happy, and safe.

You and those two children sitting by the fireplace, enjoying hot chocolate and opening Christmas presents.

You would in fact not choose this house just to spite the man, who had fallen in love with his grand vision– not that the chosen house was worse, just one floor shorter, just as massive as the other and still in a great location… so Homelander didn’t complain too much… just a little.

The boxes increased but there was still so much to fill up, even with his stuff it wasn’t enough to fill the gaps… he would not spare you from the American flags, tragically as it sounds.

At least it was framed and matched the decor of the gallery and dining room. As you unpacked and watched the movers bring the beds while the kids argued about who kept which floor– Helena demanded the fourth floor already making executive decision to turn the empty rooms into labs and offices for her future endeavors, while Ryan wanted to be normal child and stay in the same floor as his sibling, ultimately pushed to the fifth floor after multiple rounds of rock-paper-scissors, and a paternal mediator who said they had to settled it with another round of games which sadly Ryan lost.

After a laborious day, you two just sheepishly laughed as you stared at your bedroom, both leaning against each other as you laughed, staring at the wooden cross dividing the two beds and matching nightstands– all so very circa 50’s catholic chic.

You two just laughed about how absurd this was in execution, a part of you wished to just put the beds together instead of making your great-grandmother proud.

“Y’know we could’ve fit two kings in here…” He said while staring at the space.

“I thought you wanted me close-by.”

“Double’s were the perfect choice.” He replied quickly.

It took weeks before you reached a boiling point with your live-in situation, to see him walk around your home in that stupid suit, his mind longing for the familiarity of his abandoned penthouse was frustrating, he himself didn't expect to miss it either– He felt like a guest that refused to leave instead of your fake fiancee, this wasn’t him staying overnight at your previous domicile levels of awkward, that had been a challenge on its own, even if now you skipped the pillow walls and sleeping on the floor… God knows how many times he picked your unconscious self up from the ground and laid you to bed, while he sat next to you reading a book in the dark– this was an alien living in your house calling himself the owner.

Before you knew it your heart stung as you dragged the two kids to the nearest Target to bulk buy the man some loungewear, both from exasperation and as request from his son who mentioned he didn’t really own much clothes, and what little he did own he didn't feel like washing every 2 days just to chill around the house... and as his future wife you gave yourself automatic permission to buy him clothes… just anything that would get him out of that suit.

Ryan had never been to many stores before, much less a Target, it hurt a tad to see him fascinated by the colorful aisles and the abundance of people…knowing he had grown in a compound, the mother in you just wanted to squeeze him and apologies for it all, but you instead just squeezed the handle bars and let him pick snacks that caught his fancy.

It was hilarious that you would find yourself doing this again– back then buying for him had been difficult, he wore very little but he liked your input, he simply wore what you told him, but after so long you had no idea what he liked anymore– this wasn’t food… this wasn’t easy… so the plainest sets were your best bet.

There was something fresh about this, as you perused the aisles with the kids in tow, thinking of buying him some jeans and clean button ups, Ryan picking up colorful socks while Helena opted to pick him a shirt just to fit in.

You had fun, you looked forward to sprousing his wardrobe, watching this scene play out made you feel as if you were normal, until somebody took your photo at the checkout in your least flattering angle.

It took another week before he opened up to being undressed and exposed in cheap pajama pants and white t-shirts, it would take three weeks for him to do so without being told to– plus enough complaints about people trying to photograph them after seeing the Homelander lounge in the terrace, served as added motivation.

You told yourself it wasn’t too bad to cohabitate, as you saw him slowly get more and more comfortable in his new environment, as you watched him become softer with your kids, as you found yourself having pleasant breakfasts, found yourself being welcomed home and conversed over coffee about your day or his day– not even bringing up his concerns about you still choosing to work in Lucci when you could do so much better too often, giving up on teasing you with buying you a restaurant, or upcoming publicity stunts when you weren’t in the mood to listen to the drivel.

Staring down from the roof garden looking at the brownstone buildings around and the pale light, pleased by the subtle fragrance of flowers behind you, he seemed so normal as you watched him from across the coffee table.

He kept sipping on his latte looking miffed before turning around and asked about why Elmo had been staying over for the last 3 days, to which you reminded him he sent his dads to sort some business in Singapore.

“Does he have no other family?” He thought of Singapore– it was quite urgent… they decided to fuck us up.”

“You and them booked them for acting classes plus they have their first suit fittings tomorrow… easier for them to leave Elmo here and have us take care of that– they’re a team-up. They should be close.”

“I know! But why does he have to sleep here? He’s a boy.” He seemed concerned.

“‘Cuz we got the space…?”

“It doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“Oh you freak.”

He was still stiff around the edges but you could bear with it, as you saw him and Helena bond you knew your daughter was handling him well– your target was Ryan now.

You asked him to help you around the kitchen more, taking your time to teach him without pressure, scolding his father when he acted like it was undignified of him to help around the kitchen and forced him to eat whatever he'd made, making him feel proud when he took charge of dinner even if it was slightly too salty at times and his impenetrable skin resulted in chipped knives…

You helped him make those cute films and took him out to the cinema, buying him books on the subject, encouraging him to join art clubs, to try as many extracurriculars he was interested in and to ignore his father as he pushed Ryan to join sport related clubs, when all he wanted was to make dioramas with his new found friends, instead.

Homelander didn’t have any issues with Helena for her selections were sparse, just the chess club, and some science club she was quickly losing interest in… if anything he was being pushy about piano– and god knows how he managed to bring that piano to the fifth floor without breaking anything.

Is not as if she was already taking too much in-between physics, science and math classes… and working casually at Vought, but he didn’t seem to care. Helena assured you she could handle it, telling you to focus on your tasks without worry and you listened.

Ryan liked your support, it helped you get closer as you allowed his friends to enter the house for his little projects, he liked when you twisted his father’s ear to let him be just in case he began to disapprove, he began to trust you.

Helena wasted her afternoons in the office between daycare, superhero training and shadowing her father or Ashley, reading his meeting notes, writing them for him, or as he called it assisting him, learning about the company and the labs from her privileged position– the whispers of curious passerby wondered why Homerlander would keep his daughter so close, it had taken the building by surprise to learn that this little girl had been his child all along even if rumors had spread prior… but the once cute anomaly began to gain a insidious reputation in the underbelly of this company, something that made them more uneasy than just her strange demeanor from before.

“What’s that on your dress?” You noticed a brown stain on the hem of her dress.

“Iodine.” She said while taking her clothes off, Homelander said nothing as he picked after her.

Homelander gave you a stiff smile as he scrunched the clothes into a ball before your kid ran up towards the bathroom, mentioning she’s a tad clumsy with the equipment as he walked past you.

You didn’t need to know that the duet had some quality father-daughter time to the misfortune of some lab rat.

He stared at the chunky bloodstain sliding down the wall.

“I can explain.” She panted, staring at her work as her eyes spun around the room.

“It’s pretty obvious what happened, no?” He said stepping on top of the unidentified– "I'll have somebody come clean it up, darling.”

“You’re not mad?” She asked, genuinely nervous, fidgeting with her fingers as her head throbbed.

“Why did you kill him?” He stared at the smashed patty with curiosity.

“He resisted termination… forcing me to defend myself… he took my assistant.”

Homelander looked at the other corpse and its mangled remains, spilling around her boots.

“Why?” He spoke with a boor.

“Self-defense.”

“You took your time doing it… you could have cut his oxygen supply and killed him in a few minutes, instead you” He kicked a shattered bone– made it agonizing.”

“Tch… if he attacked me I would’ve lost control of the bubble…” She gasped lightly trying to kill the headache inside her– the math… the math makes sense. My formulas make sense. But it's them… these samples aren’t fit, they aren’t meant to be like us. They are worthless!”

She leans towards the wall, smacking her forehead against the wall full force, Homelander jumps on his heel but doesn’t reach her as she mutters incoherent curses under her breath, his hand stop just inches from her.

“This one wasn’t too bad… I thought I cracked it but then I noticed…” Helena was pensive looking at images he wasn’t privy to, as she spoke with a light airy voice as her lungs emptied for her to speak once more— I cull it.”

She squatted picking up a loose tooth from the ground, examining the perfectly structured canine, for the first time Homelander felt uneasy about her.

“Is not often that I feel…”

Homelander raised a curious eyebrow, taking a step closer towards her, Helena tilted her neck to look at him, her sight so detached it didn’t seem possible for a child to make such an expression.

“Excited. The simulations always succeed but the human variant poses an interesting angle I hadn’t previously considered… truly successful adult specimens… V24 almost recreated the perfected serum but with nasty side-effects… programming the serum is obtainable but adult humans continue to reject it or somehow create variants as if the host alters the code live” She flicks the tooth– Is like Frederick left me a puzzle.”

“So are these just pieces” He waved his fingers nonchalantly at the messy remains.

She scoffed standing up and patting her knees clean.

“You know why I play piano?”

He shook his head.

“Because in order to be good at it… you have to foster talent… but no amount of practice can’t beat those blessed with a gift… supposedly. So I have to solve his puzzle because I cannot believe that that coward was blessed more than me.”

“You think Vought has beef with you? So what will you do with all your failures? Murder them?”

“Is it murder to cull a deformed goldfish? No… that’s just mercy.” She stands up fixing her hair– It’s not beef. Is a challenge he left us with.”

His smile is so wide his skin creaks as it stretches.

He picked her up to plant a kiss on her chubby cheek.

“You’re such a messy child.” He kissed her again– you got your pretty dress dirty.”

“Sorry.” She moped– sorry about all of it… you must think I'm a hack.”

“Is okay princess… daddy will just buy you a new one… and a new dress.”

You didn’t question the stains on her dress, god knew what sort of chemicals and stuff she had to play with, and how much of it wasn’t built for the size of her hands.

The more you saw him return to that man you once loved, you felt down the spiral of considering giving him a second chance– Helena was happy, she was smiling, she was playful, your quiet daughter had blossomed under your mutual care, seeing him domesticated, seeing him interact with genuine joy with her had began to melt your heart. It didn’t help that he look so delectable in compression shirts, as he came back with the kids without a sweat on his brow, Ryan just as dry with nothing more than messy hair and then your daughter dropping to the ground half-dead from the walk… what you had stared at mostly had been his ass in those black tights.

“Honey it was only 20 miles.” He sounded a bit frustrated– gotta get her fit otherwise she will get outperformed.” He turned to you sounding a tad aggressive– she’s my daughter she should be able to handle it just like me and Ryan.”

“Mommy!” she cried.

“Most humans can’t even do twenty!”

You picked her up, not caring she was covered in sticky sweat but as you draped your child over your shoulder kissing her head as she whined, you caught an improper glimpse at him, no doubt he caught a couple looks from passersby on his way here– even by this city standards he was wearing too little.

“Go change…” You said with a light blush on your neck– don’t be a dick to her, she wasn’t born a copy of you.”

He pestered Helena for the rest of the evening, giving up once she barricaded herself in her bedroom.

“Spending all her time inside books is not gonna do her any good… she needs exercise.”

“I think you got the kids mixed up, dear.”

He moped in the living room pursing his lips, one sentence away from crossing his arms and whining like a child.

“Look I think it’s great that you want to train her but… she’s not like you. I would love for her to have inherited some of your physical skills– it's just not gonna happen.”

“I know. I don’t know why she’s so different from me… yet she has to get better…” His sight lingered on the roof– You think she’ll move her dresser out the way.”

“She’ll move it when she wants to– and don’t think about getting in there thru her window!” He almost complains but chooses to stay quiet scooting closer to you on the couch– What?”

“You seem mad…”

“You harassed our kid all day and made her upset… but I was mad before it...I made the mistake of googling myself after somebody at work made mention– have you seen the shit that people are saying ‘bout me online ‘cuz of you.”

Homelander shook his head lightly.

“I only google myself.”

“People are saying nasty shit. Hurtful shit… saw my mom getting interviewed… that was nice… she certainly made me feel like shit.”

“Want me to kill her?” Homelander spoke in such a bored tone, his head finding his way on your lap with the smoothness of a cat, unconsciously your hand took to his hair– Or something else?”

You stared at him and considered it, your mom sort of had it coming if she was going to paint herself a saint for her 15 minutes of fame.

“Don’t kill my mom, John. I just don’t want people saying I’m a bad mother because my kid went to a “shit public school” in the projects.” you said annoyed.

“I’ll see if Vought can write you a fluff piece.”

You believed him, choosing to put your anxieties away as he nuzzled into your stomach and let you watch TV without care as long as your hands kept pampering him making little commentary as you watched true crime videos.

Rolling in your bed you turned to see his back on the bed beside you, you signed readying to play dirty, your body awoken to something sickening.

“I know you ain’t asleep, John.”

His ears perked, he turned to see your silhouette in the dark.

“I can’t sleep.” You whispered– mmm…so” you signed lightly– can you get your dick up?”

His ears perked up, lifting himself by his elbows as he adjusted to face your darkened silhouette, your cheeks reddened, mildly embarrassed, your mind wandered back to the sight of his clothes, to the tussling of his hair and the glint in his eyes as of late… and of that last sudden night of intimacy.

“Oh. O-okay… might need some stimulation is not like I got a crank down there.” he faked being annoyed by your request.

“I stopped taking the pill…” His piercing eyes illuminated the room for a brief second just to catch a sly smile ‘bout to fade away off your face– so you wanna put the mommy in MILF or not?”

He tripped out of the bed to jump into yours, clawing his way back towards you, as the little voice in his head blared sirens.

Latching on your neck, ripping your clothes open as you tried not to chuckle at his messy desperation to fuck you, you closed your eyes and thought of nothing but the hundred different pleasurable sensations prickling you– it had been so long… your body sensitive, writhing over his hungry touch, wherever his hands and his lips got to taste you felt it twice as strong.

Whatever he was imagining in his head was happening none of it was relevant– this was simply a mutually beneficial exchange. Nothing but lust, it had to be lust because you didn’t see Homelander underneath you, as you rode him, as he let you fucked him just as hard as he wanted to fuck you– you saw the John that he had killed so many years ago... but somehow you didn't hate the sight.

He wanted to devour you, he was needy and pent-up and you took it all graciously, for one night you two used each other equally.

Finding himself delighted and more aroused at the squeals and mewls coming from your delicious lips just as much as you enjoyed the moans and guttural grunts that came from him as he cried against your chest, crying for your kisses and directions, liking the way he craved your scent once again.

You were better than his molasses drenched memories.

Homelander teeth gilded over your neck, the thought of him ripping and gnawing on your flesh lingered as he brought you to an orgasm.

To be so close to death as you touched heaven… you heaved, melting into the mattress letting him lumber atop of you, too delighted with the end result to complain… looking down to find him kissing your chest, whispering sweet grunts as your hand pampered his hair, you tried not to smile at that satiated goofy expression on his face, at the flickering light illuminating your skin as he purred around your touch.

He was so easy to win over… it scared you.

My Taglist-- @demodemo909 @immyowndefender @fromforeigntofamiliarity @ghqstfqce

#personal #my fic tag #Homelander #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #sorry for all the delays am a mess #american royalty #homelander x f!reader

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silverflame2724 · 2 years ago

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Alternate universe where Su She admires and wishes to support Wei Wuxian for saving her life 2 times (Aquatic Abysses and Xuanwu Cave) in addition tobe convinced that he hates Lan Wangji and Jin Zixun too

I actually quite like this prompt so forgive me for taking so long to write it! Hope you enjoy!

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Su Minshan thought that this was the end. That his arrogance that he thought he could match up to Lan-we-gongzi would be his downfall.

Never would he have thought that Wei Wuxian, whose was thought to be the most arrogant of all, would disregard his own safety to help someone like him!

But Wei Wuxian was known more for his speed than strength and was soon weighed down by Su Minshan.

Su Minshan thought that Wei Wuxian would do the obvious thing and let him go to save himself. As he had seen many others do.

But no.

Wei Wuxian did not do the smart thing and let him go. He weaved through the relentless attacks of the waterborne abyss, holding him even tighter than before.

In the end though, they had to rely on Lan-er-gongzi’s arm strength to pull them out. Wei Wuxian teased the young master, only to receive the expected biting sarcasm as before. Su Minshan might have missed it if he weren’t so close, but Wei Wuxian’s hand trembled with an unseen hurt.

Su Minshan narrowed his eyes at this. He would make sure to repay his savior, Wei Wuxian. Not now, but perhaps when he has the necessary power and resources. Or, at a good time.

He found an opportunity soon enough. Jin Zixuan was famously known for disrespecting Wei Wuxian’s Shijie. While Su Minshan did not want to draw a sect heir’s ire, if he could get revenge for his saviour somehow, wouldn’t Wei Wuxian look upon him with favor?

So he put his plan into motion in the coming few days.

The common people were rather grateful to him and the others that helped contained the Waterborne Abyss so it was easy to buy a bunch of fish at a cheap price.

He planned to donate the fish to the Cloud Recesses’ kitchens - he was not naive - wasting food was just wrong - only asking for the scraps of the fish - namely the guts. Of course, to not implicate himself, he had left the fish in special storage containers after gutting the fish. Soon after, Su Minshan waited until the afternoon, made sure his savior was locked up in the Library Pavilion to complete his copying punishment and smeared most of the fish guts all over Jin Zixuan’s room.

The reason he waited until Wei Wuxian was in the Library Pavilion was because he knew people would be quick to blame his savior for the incident. After all, Jin Zixuan had recentlymade a snide remark about Jiang Yanli recently and Su Minshan had watched Wei Wuxian tremble with rage, being barely held back by his shidis. Wei Wuxian had ample motive to carry out this revenge and Su Minshan wished not to implicate him.

Jin Zixuan soon arrived in his room and nearly retched at the smell. Su Minshan grinned.

Jin Zixuan had raged for a while, thinking it was Wei Wuxian, but when questioned, Wei Wuxian had been in the library completing his punishment. There was not enough time for him to do that to Jin Zixuan and no one had seen him anywhere near Jin Zixuan’s room.

Wei Wuxian was let go and Su Minshan sighed in relief. Revenge complete.

...................................

Wei Wuxian was evidently a lot smarter than people thought and quickly found out that it was Su Minshan who had done that. Turns out he hadn’t been as sneaky as he had thought.

When asked why, Su Minshan merely smiled. “Wei-gongzi, you rescued me, remember? This is what I should do to repay you.”

“Ah...that--” Wei Wuxian looked sheepish. “Thank you.....umm....”

“Su She, Su Minshan. I know we never got introduced to each other.”

“Then.. Su-xiong. Thank you, really.” He gave Su Minshan a bright smile. “I really appreciate it.”

Su Minshan felt elated being recognized like this. “Can....Can we be friends?”

Wei Wuxian grinned. “Of course! Call me Wei-xiong or Wei Wuxian, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay, Wei Wuxian.”

After an invitation to join Wei Wuxian and his friends was offered, Su Minshan agreed and parted soon after. He had classes to get to. But when he turned around, he was met with a glare from Lan-er-gongzi. Which was odd considering he hadn’t done anything.

But, as Su Minshan found out, Lan-er-gongzi was jealous. Jealous of the closeness between them, of the casual, affectionate touches Wei Wuxian gave everyone but him.

Hmph. If he was so jealous, he shouldn’t have hurt Wei Wuxian’s feelings.

.................................

It was regrettable, but the time the guest disciples were here came to an end. Wei Wuxian promised to write letters to him and Su Minshan was elated at that.

However, he had to breathe a sigh of relief at the same time. He had had a tough time keeping Wei Wuxian from punching Jin Zixuan and getting sent home early, but thanks to Su She’s interference, it didn’t end up like that. He even spent a lot of time distracting Wei Wuxian from mischief that the Jiang clan always seemed to draw him into.

But, thanks to that, Wei Wuxian and him had become close.

And perhaps, because of that closeness, Su Minshan despised Lan Wangji. That man had finally had the balls to approach Wei Wuxian after the other had left him alone and only had the harshest things to say. Watching Wei Wuxian flinch imperceptibly had made him shake with anger.

Su Minshan took great joy in making sure Wei Wuxian hardly ever crossed paths with Lan Wangji and seeing Lan Wangji’s distraught face from afar. Eventually, Wei Wuxian avoided Lan Wangji on his own and Su Minshan was satisfied seeing Wei Wuxian finally start to dislike the Second Jade.

Childishly, he wanted to stick his tongue out at the man.

...........................................................

However, tragedy struck. The Cloud Recesses burned and they barely had time to recover before being forced into an indoctrination. As usual, Wei Wuxian took care of everyone and did his best to make sure everyone's spirits were up, even Lan Wangji's. Su Minshan might have disliked Lan Wangji for his treatment of Wei Wuxian, but after what had happened, Su Minshan didn't block Wei Wuxian from assisting Lan Wangji. Especially since Lan Wangji's leg was broken during the Wen invasion.

Wen Chao is a terrible, good-for-nothing and Su Minshan wants nothing more than to crush him. But as weakened as he was and how surrounded by Wens they were, there was not much he could do. However.....when push came to shove and a girl - Luo Qingyang, if he recalled correctly - was to be bled to force out whatever beast was in the cave, Wei Wuxian, as always, came up with a great solution and held Wen Chao at sword point, effectively stopping the Wens' movement. Not even a few minutes later, a huge murderous turtle moved from underneath Wei Wuxian, distracting everyone. This was Su Minshan's chance!

Wen Zhuliu had been a deterrent to all. The Core-Melting hand had been a big reason for everyone's hesitance to rebel. If he was gone.....

Su Minshan sent a strong kick towards Wen Zhuliu's back and quickly hid amongst the panic. He watched in satisfaction as Wen Zhuliu was snapped up in the turtle's jaws and quickly swallowed down.

There. He won't bother anyone ever again.

..................................

He didn't want to. Wei Wuxian had volunteered to stay behind and distract the monster to allow everyone to escape. Su Minshan wanted to stay behind but Wei Wuxian grinned and pushed him out.

"Don't worry. I'll be right behind you. Thanks for worrying though, Minshan."

Su Minshan nodded and reluctantly started to leave with the others. He turned around to say goodbye and saw the turtle snap at Wei Wuxian.

"Wei-xiong, watch out!"

Wei Wuxian turned too late. However....Lan Wangji had pushed him out of the way and gotten captured by the turtle instead. He didn't see what happened next as he was pulled underwater and through the exit.

.........................................

He didn't see Wei Wuxian when they exited the cave. He heard, of course, how they killed the Xuanwu of Slaughter. But didn't see him. He didn't see Wei Wuxian at all until he came back, cloaked in darkness.

He pushed everyone away and his sunlight-like smile was replaced by a manic grin. Su Minshan of course knew what might have happened. He had heard of the burning of Lotus Pier, of the loss of their disciples. And, of course, Wei Wuxian being captured by Wen Chao. There were rumors and whispers from the Wen guards that Wen Chao tossed Wei Wuxian into the Burial Mounds.

Most brushed that off, saying it was impossible for anyone to survive it. But not Su Minshan. He knew that that had probably happened. What with Wei Wuxian controlling resentful energy, his uncharacteristic attitude towards the Wens, towards his friends.

No one gets out of the Burial Mounds alive. And, perhaps, in a way, that is true. For the Wei Wuxian they all knew - the sunshine-bright boy - was gone.

But what Wei Wuxian needed was not judgement, like that bastard Jin Zixun. It wasn't pity (or whatever Lan Wangji was attempting to do). It was support. And if Su Minshan could provide that for him, he who remembered him and saved him over and over again. Su Minshan would be satisfied with that.

...................................

"Wei-xiong."

"Hm? Minshan? What's wrong? Is everything okay?" Wei Wuxian asked.

Su Minshan shook his head. "I'm fine." He paused. "Well, as fine as anyone could be with the war going on. But I'm worried about you."

"Me? I'm fine, there's nothing wrong." Wei Wuxian put his shields up, eyes shifty and nervous.

"Wei-xiong.....we're friends, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then, you should know that I support you, right?"

"But doesn't GusuLan have rules against demonic cultivation?"

"Sure they do. But you're not evil. Those rules are bullshit sometimes. Like they think that just by following the "orthodox" path, you can avoid being evil. But if that were true, the Wens wouldn't have done all of this."

Wei Wuxian gave a small chuckle. "That's true enough."

"Now, Wei-xiong, I heard from many Wen guards that you were tossed in the Burial Mounds." Wei Wuxian paled. "Now while most refuse to believe that. I believe that that had happened. How else would you have such mastery over it? You love to boast about your cultivation. Why would you risk tainting it with demonic cultivation? Something must have forced you to use it."

"You're quite smart." Wei Wuxian whispered after some time.

"Heh. One of my best strengths." Su Minshan felt happy at the praise. "But most people are idiots."

Wei Wuxian laughed again. "You're the best. Thank you."

"No problem. You've always saved me. I would be an idiot to not help you in return. If you can't accept my help, think of it as a debt I want to pay back to you."

"Alright." Wei Wuxian smiled, not as bright as before, but still there. "Alright."

________________________________

Lol. Anon, you asked for me to have a Su Minshan that wishes to support Wei Wuxian but I took it as Su Minshan actively supporting Wei Wuxian from the shadows. Let me know if this is fine or if you'd like me to change it!

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lizzieraindrops · 1 year ago

Text

After the conclusion of Season of the Witch, Ikora and Eris spend some time together in the library discussing the Harbinger, the Darkness and the Light, and just maybe, talking about what is between them.

Presence and Absence - Chapter 1 (1564 words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

"This is nice," Ikora said over the rim of her teacup. She set the little porcelain bowl down on an end table as she browsed the bookshelf for a title.

A contented sigh answered, a sound made unfamiliar by the one who uttered it. "Yes," said Eris Morn softly. "It is." She had once more sunk into what was clearly a favorite library armchair and was truly ensconced. Wrapped cozily in her soft green hooded tunic and pants with her charms about her brow, she held her own steaming cup close in both hands.

It had been a week since Eris had struck down both Savathûn and Xivu Arath, renouncing the Hive's vicious sword logic even while felling them from the unthinkable height of power she had gained within it. In that renunciation, she had felled herself, too, losing every scrap of potency that had briefly made her more powerful than any Hive god had ever been.

But she did not appear diminished. No, to Ikora's eyes, the sight of Eris now—tired and comfortable and unarmored and soft in a way she had never before seen—she was both more formidable and more beautiful than anything Ikora had beheld. She was a woman who had walked away from godhood with confidence. So grounded was she in her self and her purpose that she had no more need of the Harbinger's terrible splendor. Eris sitting in a musty old armchair and cursing quietly as she spilled a drop of tea on her book was an apotheosis, not of violence, but of the impossible accomplished—of peace demanded, wrested, and won from a legacy of cruelest torment.

Ikora looked away from her and resumed pretending to look for a book. She ignored the odd ache in her chest. "You said you were tired. Have you found any rest?"

"Some. More than I expected. And yet, I think it may take many years to plumb the depths of such weariness. I am not unwell, do not fear. But I have been..."

When Eris did not finish her thought, Ikora turned back toward her with a single step. "Been what?"

"Not restless, for recently I have slept deeper than in decades. But even so, it has been somewhat difficult to simply...relax. As one might expect. Perhaps 'unresolved' is the word."

A twinge of unease impelled Ikora to the armchair nearest Eris' favorite. She picked up her teacup from the little table between them and let it rest in her palms. "What else is there for you to do? Yes, there is always more to do to keep the Hive at bay, but that is the work of many. It doesn't rely on you the way all of...this…did."

"It is true. In my mind, that is clear to me. My long purpose against the Hive has been satiated. Yet I think I still struggle to feel, to understand, all that has happened. This has changed me, Ikora."

"Yes." Ikora considered her, considered Eris considering her back. They watched each other's eyes. "Yet you remain Eris, now as throughout it."

Eris nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Did you ever fear that I was not?"

Ikora leaned forward on the arm of the chair and studied the precise shade of the pale green infusion in her teacup. Past the silence in her throat, her voice came out low and tight. "I feared that you would not remain so, the longer that ritual went on." The shame of her own doubt stung. Yet she continued to speak.

"You've done the impossible so many times, but always at such cost to yourself. I—have spent so long fearing that you would finally throw yourself against a challenge so great that its price would be your final death." Eris knew this, of course, by inference if nothing else. But something about the admission made Ikora unable in that moment to meet that unblinking gaze full of stolen soulfire. She looked up at Eris without raising her head, obscuring direct eye contact with her lashes. It was almost amusing, the absurd way Eris had always made her so unsure. She was acting practically shy.

Ikora forced her gaze upwards again despite herself, and spoke while looking Eris in the eyes. Their alienness was so familiar to her as to be a comfort. "I thought you had reached that point. And I've never been more pleased to be wrong. I'm only glad I didn't hinder you. What you've accomplished...it's incredible, Eris. I'm so proud of you. But perhaps you can forgive me for being somewhat relieved when you said you meant to rest."

Eris stared at her, tea and book forgotten. "You did this for me. Despite all the doubt and pain I've caused you," she said in a soft voice. "Know that it is not a gift I have ever accepted from you lightly."

"I know." And she did. They understood each other. Eris had never taken her for granted. Many did, but never she. Any favor she asked was requested with the knowledge that it might be refused. After all the rejection Eris had faced following her dramatic return from the Hellmouth, she almost seemed to expect rejection more than aid. When Ikora had been unable to bring herself to condone the use of Stasis, Eris had accepted her silence without resentment. And for her part, Ikora had had to accept that Eris would proceed with or without her help or approval.

Most recently, the opposition of Eris' ambition and Ikora's fear for her had brought them to raised voices and Ikora nearly to tears. But Ikora had gone into this final trial prepared to help Eris travel this dangerous path in any way she could, even if she could not convince Eris to turn aside from it. As she had been so recently reminded, this was who Eris was. Tenacity incarnate, true to the very last dregs of herself and far beyond.

"So,” Ikora said in a voice that barely breached a whisper. “Anything you need, now. All you have to do is ask."

"I know," Eris echoed.

They looked at each other. They drank tea in silence. Eris looked at the book in her lap. Then she shook her head and flipped its cover shut with a soft thump that broke the surface of their stillness into action.

"Will you come with me?" Eris said plainly.

"With–?" Ikora blinked twice. "Where?"

"The Lucent throne world. Briefly."

She stared. "You want to return to Savathûn's throne world." Centuries of self-discipline snapped back into place, and her voice was as undisturbed as windless water, betraying nothing. To Eris, that probably betrayed everything.

"Yes. Not the Spire, nor the Altars," she assured her. "I do not think that would be wise for me, at this point. And I have nothing more to gain in the Athenaeum. But there is something I must ascertain before I may truly rest."

The fact that Eris did not clarify further told her that she would not get an answer to her next question. So she merely said: "She will be watching you, now."

"Yes." Eris' voice was solemn, regretful yet resigned. "That is why I want you to come with me. I do not care to be alone with her."

The way she framed the request did something to Ikora's lungs. They contracted in a way that she could not pinpoint as either pain or joy. Somehow, this was such a far cry from every other time Eris had come to her.

The first time, she had arrived fresh from the Hellmouth, begging to be believed. Her eventual vindication had seen two gods of the Hive broken and ground underfoot. Then, despite Ikora's pleading to rest, to stay in the City, Eris had swung away again like a comet into the far reaches of the system, trailing aches behind her like cosmic dust.

When she at last returned to Ikora's orbit, Eris had continued to plead her truth again and again, to Ikora among others, even as she delved into the Darkest secrets they had yet uncovered, from the Pyramids themselves to the chilling power of the unsettling ice offered within.

And only days ago, she had entreated Ikora, specifically, to once more believe, to trust, to uplift her so that she might succeed where all else had failed. To help her ascend in a terrible, apotheotic glory of violence in the name of ending it. And she had made good on her promise, to an extent beyond Ikora's most speculative dreams.

But for the first time, as Eris made her quiet request in this library, it was different. The motions of this long dance between them remained superficially the same. Yet beneath the surface, they had both changed, and they both knew it.

This time, rather than preparing to rush ahead alone, Eris was waiting for her. This time, despite the shock of the request, Ikora did not have to fight down her fear to coax her trust back to life. It already thrived with such unaccustomed ease in the face of uncertainty that it made her feel light-headed.

Ikora drained the last of her tea and set the cup aside. Rising to her feet in a single motion, she extended a hand to Eris, palm up.

They considered each other.

"Shall we?" Ikora asked.

#ikora rey #eris morn #eris/ikora #erikora #ikoris #season of the witch #destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny fanfiction #lizzie taking up space #lizzie's adventures in writing #fic #femslash

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botanikos · 5 months ago

Note

To my beloved son, dear Stolas:

My son, I do hope your affairs are in proper order.

I have been informed of recent controversy with you and Marquis Andrealphus regarding his tea reserves. While we have many duties and are thus beholden to perhaps some complimentary comforts, we must all see to proper moderation in all things. I have seen the total amount your debt has amounted to, a paltry sum. It would be rather salubrious of you to not submit yourself to the judgment of the Marquis. He is royalty, and you did consume his property, all the same such a charge is rather absurd given his frequent consumption of my own teas of which I have raised not eye at of his overindulgence. I suggest rather then provide the funds yourself you allow him to have equal measure of what was taken or another less direct form of repayment. A direct sum would be to put the Marquis over you in some way and lower our prestige. Perhaps you might lend the money to Madam Stella who could give the money as a gift to her beloved brother or simply sell off a few of your servants? We can always buy new ones. We must ever pursue a line of action that does not result in any paperwork noting this event and lapse in your judgment. I will require you to journey to my castle to watch the training videos on abstinence from worldly pleasures. I understand they are not to your liking and that they are well over seven days long, but they are filled with knowledge on how to be a supreme and modest gentleman in all respects.

Your Beloved father His grace King Paimon of the Ars Goetia, head adviser to Lucifer Morningstar, chairmen of the Institute of Brilliance, and founder of the Universal Celestial Library.

When one of the servants presents him with another letter, he nearly claps with glee. Surely it was a response from Andrealphus. The hurried retreat of the imp however, has Stolas reconsidering. Ah. His father. Glowing hues scan the paper, reading over every word. His features twist, and in the privacy of his own home, he had the luxury of allowing himself to display such things. He couldn't disagree. Stolas didn't have any intention of providing him with monetary compensations, but rather, had been considering purchasing teas himself. Now he wanted to send him empty teabags and broken cups, but he wasn't quite that petty. Not yet. Would Stella ensure the funds reach her brother? Actually, he didn't doubt that nearly as much as he thought he might. The two were closer than honey in a hive. Sell off his servants?! He would not! Least of all if it meant selling them TO the Stella and Andrealphus. Stolas drops his head into his hands with a heavy sigh. He rests like this a moment before finishing the letter. Venturing to his father's castle was at the very bottom of his list of invitations he expected to receive, but considering it was now a requirement. . . . Could he reject the offer? Unlikely. And how outdated was this material to be SEVEN DAYS in length?! Feathers ruffle, talons tap in frustration against the floor. He stands, sweeping the letter into his fingers with a groan as he begins to pace. He could be proper! He was very much a gentleman! Eventually, Stolas finds himself reluctantly penning a response to his father.

To My Esteemed & Dearest Father, Lord Paimon:

My affairs are muddled as always, but never so drastically out of reach that I cannot find where they begin or end. At least in this particular inconvenience. Please forgive any inconvenience this has become as word reaches you in regards to. . . tea.

I understand the scrutiny, and your concerns both. Steep financial debts were unexpected, rest assured! Surely this is an accumulation of every visit meticulously priced into one itemized list per my most recent visit. Nevertheless, I of course, fully intended to provide some compensation. When, what, or how, was not meant to be a present or available discussion. I am not so inconsiderate that I would drink & dash every time!

Your words have reached me, and I will consider only the finest of options befitting these particular circumstances. As for my visit. . .

How soon would you expect me? I am open to considering such trainings, though personally I do not guarantee I will find them. . . suitable. I am capable despite my reputation, of being a modest gentleman. Additionally, worldly pleasures are meant to be enjoyed, are they not? I do not find myself so gluttonous that it is problematic or a hindrance. Not so consistently, at least. Regardless, as per your request, I will be in attendance.

Your Dashing Son,

Prince Stolas Ars Goetia

#✧･ﾟ･ﾟ✧ | ☾ | : stolas chirps.#avispatr #{ stolas: i'll never drink tea again in my LIFE }

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treatian · 6 months ago

Text

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Domestic Battles

Chapter 29: Part of the Plan

He'd gone to the Mansion in hopes of getting answers and perhaps a way to find the Apprentice. Now, as the sun was beginning its descent, he drove away from the mansion with three bristles of a broom and a plan in mind.

No, he didn't know where the Apprentice was, but with these bristles, he knew how he could find him. And he knew what he was going to do with him once he found him. And he knew what he was going to do with Hook once he came crawling back to him, begging for his hook back. He didn't know how his date with Belle was going to go tonight, but that was a part of his life he was happy to keep surprising.

When he returned, he pulled the car up right next to the shop. The lights were off in the library. Belle wasn't there anymore, but when he activated the magic he'd attached to her ring, he felt her just down the street at Granny's, probably grabbing them some dinner. Excellent timing…

He used the side door to head into the shop so that the front windows remained undisturbed, then-

There was someone in the library.

No. No, not in the library, outside of it, on the property.

Two someone's, now.

The protection spells he'd set up for Belle recognized one of them, the one who had just come too close to the door. Captain Hook. Curious, he wandered over to the front window and peered through the blinds. Hook stood at the door to the library, talking to…was that Will Scarlett? Dove's friend, the one who had done some work for him in the past?

If the men had simply remained talking to one another, he might have been able to confirm that, but then Hook reared his arm back and swung that old fist into the man's jaw.

He stepped away from the blinds with a smile on his face. Perfect. It wasn't even dinner time, and Hook was already getting himself into trouble with that hand of his. He knew it wouldn't take long.

He took his time in the shop, as much as he could, knowing that Belle was down the street, and he wanted to surprise her by picking her up at the diner. He put the bristles in the safe and checked on the hat, as well as his dagger. Hell, he even summoned some flowers from Game of Thorns, half expecting that at any moment, Hook would come to his senses and storm into his shop demanding his hook back. But when the man didn't show, and he knew it was time to pick Belle up, he turned back to the side door and locked up the building.

So, Hook wouldn't be stopping by tonight. That was fine. He'd predicted it would take a day, and even with a night to stew in what he'd done, depriving the Pirate of a good night's sleep, there would still be many hours in that time period for him to come to him. Tomorrow, he'd solve all of this. Tomorrow, he'd get Hook in line and end the blackmail. Tomorrow, he'd-

No sooner had he gotten into his car did he find the passenger side door flung open and Hook himself jumped inside. Fuck. Just when he was looking forward to tomorrow…

"You were right."

Of course, he was. But now that he'd wasted his good time, he'd prefer this point be made tomorrow.

"Get out."

"I don't want this infernal hand anymore. It's taken possession of me."

And clearly, the idea he'd put in his head was actually what had taken possession of him, just as he'd intended.

"You should have heeded my warning when I offered it."

"I can't control it! Remove the damned thing before it makes me do something you'll regret."

"Was that a threat?"

"Aye, mate. Take it back, or Belle learns that the dagger she has is as fake as your new disposition."

Oh, he really was tired of this.

"Oh, is it?" he questioned.

"Is it what?"

"Fake?"

"Well, you wouldn't have given me the hand if it weren't."

"After you extracted that price, I switched the real dagger back."

"No, you're lying."

"Am I?" The joys of being a dishonest man. One could always trust them to be dishonest. This was no better than hide the lady. Which statement was the real one, and which was the fake one? By now it would be getting harder for the pirate to tell. And given his plans to keep Belle busy and away from her phone tonight, there would be no time for him to decide and test that theory by involving her. Hook was caught in his trap, and he knew it. His face said it all. "Seems you've lost the leverage you once had. So, if you want to part ways with that hand and get this back…" he used magic to summon the hook from his shop, "there's only one way I'll help."

Hook looked the hook over with the gaze he expected, like someone who hated it and wanted it all at the same time. That was perfect. "Damn. What do you want?"

"All in due time."

"And you think I'm daft enough to agree to that without knowing the terms? I'll find another way to rid myself of this damned hand."

"I'm afraid that's easier said than done. You see, my magic put that hand on, and only my magic can take it off." He let that sink in, let the knowledge fill him up and shake his fear and-

Without warning, Hook leaned forward and grabbed the hook, forcing it into his chest at nearly the same damn place he'd once gotten that before. He hadn't expected it. For a moment, he cried out in shock and surprise and pain as it scraped his sternum, but then…then he laughed. Hook, his oldest enemy, the one who knew more about his dagger than potentially anyone, had tried this again?! It was nothing but the act of an angry man with no choices. And he could certainly use it against him.

"You'd think you'd have learned the first time you buried that hook in me…it never sticks…" He used his magic to remove it and heal himself in the blink of an eye.

"That wasn't me."

Or so he chose to believe, not that he was going to argue at the moment. Hook was looking at his shaking hand as though it was a demon. This was more than having him right where he wanted him. This was playing with his food.

"You're losing control, dearie. Next time, you might do something to someone who can't be so easily fixed."

"You have a deal," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Oh, I do love it when they say that. Meet me at the docks tomorrow morning, Captain. We have work to do."

#rumbelle #rumpelstiltskin #rumple #dark one #mr. gold #killian jones #captain hook #ouat #fanfic #ouat fanfiction #will scarlet #Knav

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noisytenant · 2 years ago

Text

You can stop capitalism and the attention economy from sucking the joy out of art for you right now*

*at the small price of, perhaps, your hopes and dreams.

Commodification and competition only suck the joy out of art when you buy into them. If you want to make art for fun and not worry about attention economies and algorithms then literally just stop worrying about them, and accept the consequences of that.

What are the consequences? There are artists who have successfully risen to a living wage off posting their art online, and in the shadow of these prominent but rare figures it is difficult not to dream of having even a sliver of their luck. And this is to say nothing about the social and emotional fulfillment of sharing art with others, but I'll be focusing on the economics here.

It's luck. Commercially successful artists who seem to have "gamed the algorithm" are prone to survivorship bias--it's impossible to know how many artists have tried the same tactics only to get nowhere. And most will attest that every step of these attention-economy-appeasing rituals is demoralizing and exhausting. Many--even those who succeed--give up or take a step back.

But if these rituals are so awful, why perform them? To potentially increase the meager chances of economic success as an internet artist? To see your engagement numbers go up?

I don't want to tell people to give up on this dream because I believe it is impossible. Instead, it is possible, which is the trap. And when the entire economy and job market are so dire, it's difficult not to dream of that lottery ticket.

I do believe we can live in a world where we can survive and make the art that brings us joy--Through significant effort and numerous systemic changes at every level of culture and society. And in the meantime, there is a huge grey area of economic sustainability--if you make even a little money off your art, that's more in your pocket.

But hobbyist artists have been making and continue to make art out of joy and curiosity regardless of how popular or commercially viable it is, it's just harder to find them on common online platforms. They're in your neighborhood, at work, in your family and probably among your friends, sitting at the library leafing through a "How to Draw" book or signing up for an adult beginner's class, if they have the money. And when we promote the idea that art is fun for everyone, we make more space for people to enjoy it.

We have a finite amount of time and energy every day. Our capitalist economy saps us of both such that we have very little left to devote to our passions. But we fail to realize how much more we lose investing in an arbitrary and fickle economy that is, in fact, entirely optional. If you work a day job with clearly defined hours, you may spend several hours miserably--and that is a problem that needs addressing--but your day ends. Meanwhile, the work of a professional internet artist is never done--You are always on the clock.

I feel heartbroken when I see artists lamenting how joyless, soul-sucking, and uninspiring art has become for them in the midst of our current circumstances. I think they are correct in identifying that the attention economy saps them of this joy--But they are not seeing the forest for the trees.

It is the difference between the expectation of success and the reality of disappointment, rather than the disappointment itself, that leads to such a depressing state of affairs. Let go of the idea that sufficient effort scales with reward in a system as arbitrary as ours. Save your energy. The best way to win is not to play.

Art is as beautiful and life-affirming as it ever was. Realize what it has to offer you, and realize what you need from elsewhere. We still need food and a roof over our heads. We still need friends and community. If we want art to occupy a joyful space in our lives, we need to rely on other parts of ourselves to get through the sometimes boring, tedious, and depressing work of living our daily lives.

Our capitalist system and its associated attention economy deserve every criticism they can get, but if we fail to question their fundamental assumptions, we will never truly move past them. We have the autonomy to untangle capital from our artistic lives, if not completely, at least to a more manageable state.

So, believe that art can be fun again. The things you want to see in the world are waiting for you to make them.

#indexed post #long post #Sorry I just get really upset when people talk about how art has been ruined for them by the internet or whatever #You can fix this. And then you get to discover all of the other things fucking up your relationship to art. And the adventure continues.#And hopefully I don't make it sound too easy. I think it's hard. But it's manageably hard #And at least then you're barking up a better tree #Like. I have a complicated relationship to art rn. But I can't relate to the idea that it's not fun any more because uh algorithm and AI #You can opt out of that stuff.#Anyways. There's the rant.#Appended edit: This isn't to say you should never become a professional artist - just that you have to accept the associated drudgery #I decided that I didn't want to be a professional illustrator bc i felt it would affect my passion but i do think i could handle better now #And I think there are many kinds of art and craft - Some may be easier to carry boredom and lack of inspiration than others

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making-dough · 1 year ago

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The Price of Loyalty

♠ - She knew this fight was a bad idea by the time they started it. Maybe it was the way her spear was jumping around in her hands, in a way oddly reminiscent of that encounter in the library. Or, maybe, it was the way this ghost was staring at them that just creeped her out. Either way, she wanted to take whatever curse this thing had to offer and just get on with it.

But, nope. That cheeky little mage just had to rush in and try to fight the damned thing. "Uh, wait, hang on!", Farina paused to stare disbelievingly at the reckless mage for just a second before ultimately deciding that she was going to live up to the Ilian reputation. Never betray an employer, even if the employer is supposedly suicidal. White wings spur outwards as she ordered her mount to spur onwards in an attempt to reach her reckless ally and pull him back to safety but really, in such a cramped corridor, what was she but a big target. Green arrows spread outwards from the ghost's hands and pierces through her body in numerous places, sending her crashing into a nearby wall and staining her mount blood red.

What? Did she expect any other ending? Killed in a death trap that she had no part in triggering in the first place? Story of her life, really. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a boy screaming her name. Why bother. When it came down to it, she was nothing. A pawn bought and sold for gold.

And what else was a pawn than something you could throw away. Speaking of gold, she had saved up so many and she had been more than prepared enough to have made the arrangements beforehand. Even if she were to simply disappear in a place like this, everything after would have been satisfied. Now, the only thing she needed to do was smile weakly and close her eyes, buried under her faithful mount that was to act as her funeral shroud.

As for the outside, perhaps this boy could clear this maze in her place and bring them word of what happened, though, honestly she doubted it, especially if his approach to danger was like that. So now, she really only just had one regret. "Sorry...Fi...Flo...Guess I ain't coming home...."

And then the rest was silence.

#aotau2024 #toaapollyonouranos2024 #tw death #thread: the price of loyalty

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hisaacswrites · 1 year ago

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Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 2

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn't expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn't really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who's determined to win him over one baked good at a time.---Or, The baking AU that no one asked for.

← Chapter 1 】 ⦿ Chapter 2 ⦿ 【 Chapter 3 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Un-beta'd, as always. Still not entirely sure where I want to take this but I hope you all have fun on the ride!

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 2

Simon was carefully folding his macaron mixture when he heard the commotion out front. Cafe 141 was made up of a lively crew, almost all of them veterans that could more than handle a disgruntled civilian, so he paid the ruckus little mind. It wasn't until he heard Rudy's voice joining the shouting that he looked up from his batter. Rudy and Alejandro were his two baking assistants, with Rudy being the more level-headed of the two, so if he was fired up about something...

Simon sighed and eyed his macaron mixture carefully, taking in the consistency of the pale blue batter (Price said black macarons would scare off their customers, so the SAS' pompadour blue seemed like a fitting choice). It was at the perfect consistency, ready for piping, and he didn't want to risk ruining a perfectly good batch of macarons just because some civvie thought they could get smart with the staff. Confident that his coworkers could handle themselves for a few moments longer, Simon gingerly scooped his mixture into his prepared piping bags, quickly tying them off so that the batter wouldn't dry out while he tended to... whatever was going on. Straightening to his full height, Simon rolled his shoulders back, made sure his surgical mask was in place and secured, and made his way across the kitchen and out the doors.

He had expected to see a Karen or Ken up in arms about some minor inconvenience, shouting obscenities, poking fingers, making threats, or perhaps attempting to destroy their merchandise (again). What he did not expect was for Gaz to have a random man pinned to the ground with Rudy's assistance , his knuckles vigorously giving their victim's head a noogie while Rudolpho cackled and shouted good-natured abuse. The pinned man was struggling valiantly, but he couldn't shake two of Cafe 141's finest staff. Instead, he resorted to shouting angrily, though Simon couldn't understand a lick of it. He stared, unimpressed by the childish antics, but silently relieved that it wasn't anything major, as the man thrashed and cursed at the pair in a way that only a tried-and-true friend could. It was fortunate that it was a slow day, the cafe entirely empty, lest he have to field questions from concerned customers. (Again.)

Through the chaos, Simon was finally able to make out a disgruntled "Gerroff me, you bawbags!" and some of the pieces started clicking into place. Gaz and Rudy's victim was Scottish, violently so if the strength of his accent was anything to go by. Leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms, Simon just couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire with some of his own heckling.

"Let's try that again in proper English."

Both Gaz and Rudy's heads whipped around at his dry baritone, Rudy's face flushing in embarrassment as he scrambled off of the Scottish man, while Gaz merely smirked as he pressed the man's head into the tiled flooring, muffling the renewed shouting. "Hey, Ghost!" He greeted, apparently unfazed that he was smooshing a potential customer's face into the less-than-sanitary ground of the cafe.

"Garrick," Simon returned, raising a brow in an unspoken question as to what was actually going on, ignoring the wheezing sounds as the Scot fought to catch his breath with Rudy now off of him.

"An old friend of mine finally deigned to grace us with his presence," Gaz explained, pinching at the other man's cheeks one last time before finally letting up on his head and leaning on his lower back instead. "This is Soap, my absentee best friend with an arson problem."

The Scottish man, "Soap", apparently, immediately seemed to take offense to Gaz's ribbing. "It was just the one time an' there wasnae any property damage," he scowled, prompting an amused snort from Simon.

Largely free from Gaz's grasp, Soap turned his head towards the noise, his eyes sweeping up Simon's torso from where it showed from behind the counter, all the way up to his face. Bright blue eyes met Simon's own dark brown ones, Soap's mouth sliding open as his gaze darted all over Simon's face. Simon met the stare head-on, his walls sliding up at the open gawking. A military career like his garnered more than his fair share of scars, so he was used to the staring, but people tended to at least try to be a bit more discrete. His face mask hid the worst of them, but he knew that there were countless others still exposed. Simon stiffened as the silence stretched for one moment, then two, his anxiety building with each passing minute. This was one of the reasons why he hated being out in the front of the shop. People were always staring for one reason or another and Simon just wanted to just bake and exist in peace. He was just about ready to make a tactical retreat back to the kitchen, ego be damned, and leave Gaz and Rudy to their friend.

It was only when Rudy cleared his throat awkwardly that Soap shut his mouth, teeth connecting with a firm click as a ruddy flush exploded across his tanned cheeks. His eyes met Simon's again, though they still seemed to have a weird haze to them that had Simon a bit suspicious , maybe even slightly concerned. When Soap opened his mouth, Simon expected a question, maybe an apology, or at least some sort of belated introduction.

That is not what he received.

"Do you knead a bakin' partner? Because I promise I could fire up your oven like no other."

Simon stared.

Rudy stared.

Gaz stared.

Soap froze.

Simon spun on his heel, making a hasty retreat (he didn't run away , fuck you very much) and pointedly ignored Gaz's sputtering laughter, Rudy's long-suffering groan, and the thunk of Soap's head as he repeatedly hit it against the sticky floor.

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