#page of staves

[monstergirlgang]

Monster Girl October Tarot day 5: Ishtar from the Epic of Gilgamesh as the Page of Wands card

"Ishtar opened her mouth and said again, ‘My father, give me the Bull of Heaven to destroy Gilgamesh. Fill Gilgamesh, I say, with arrogance to his destruction; but if you refuse to give me the Bull of Heaven I will break in the doors of hell and smash the bolts; there will be confusion of people, those above with those from the lower depths. I shall bring up the dead to eat food like the living; and the hosts of dead will outnumber the living.' "(Epic of Gilgamesh Book 6)

The page of wands card implies free spiritedness and energy; the fiesty and willful Ishtar who is the goddess of love, sex, and war in the Epic of Gilgamesh who threatens to raise the dead and unleashes the bull of heavens against Gilgamesh for insulting her seemed a good fit!

[daydreaming-ace]

If Kirby had an infection/zombie au, I don't think the main problem would be the infection.

It'd be keeping the Halberd out of the ocean.

[jup1tersparx]

up&adam + sydney sargent and polly apollyon + rick rounds are both sets of characters containing '(theoretically) charismatic and manipulative demon with floral suit’ and ‘guy with Religious Issues who is being slowly eaten by the forest (metaphor)’. but the difference between them is sydney responds to cosmic horror by going 'holy shitttt this is gonna change my entire world view...give me a second...ok worldview changed. have you heard of warrior cats' whilst rick responds to cosmic horror by trying to shoot it. with a gun

[loverdotpng]

Found more really cute images of him

[notasapleasure]

Look i’m stressed out of my tiny mind because of house move, the dog won’t stop licking his leg and being an arsehole when you try to stop him from doing so, i’m mired in writing Doubt, my work inbox is full of passive aggression, please just let me be proud of this one thing

WATCHED 2023 Death in Paradise (Charlie Banks), 1 episode, BBC iPlayer 2022 Andor (Brasso), 6 episodes, Disney+ I Used to Be Famous (Big Dave), feature film, Netflix The Witchfinder (John Stearne), 2 episodes credited, but really just 1, BBC iPlayer 2021 Invasion (US General), 2 episodes (1.8, 1.9), Apple TV+ 2020 Avenue 5 (Joe Gibbs), 2 episodes (1.1, 1.2), HBO+/Sky 2019 Memory Man (Memory Man), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkjWko7sJLk&feature=youtu.be White Gold (Roland Setra), 2 episodes (2.5, 2.6), Netflix 2018 Nightflyers (Lommie's Father), 3 episodes (1.2, 1.5, 1.7), Netflix Head Full of Honey (Mickey), feature film, Apple TV+ Safe (Neil Chahal), 8 episodes credited, but it’s more like 6, he’s barely in the last two, Netflix Marcella (Nick), 1 episode (2.1), Netflix Vera (Naz Ahmed), 1 episode (8.1), ITVplayer 2017 Maigret (Oscar (as Chook Sibtain)) 1 episode (2.1) No Offence (Sgt Keith Pankani (as Chook Sibtain)), 3 (2?) episodes (2.2, 2.3), 4+ player Emerald City (Jeremiah (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (1.4) 2016 New Blood (Ayjay Kapour (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (1.6), Britbox (free trial) Houdini and Doyle (Dr. Chandra (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (1.7), ITVplayer 2012 Ghost Recon: Alpha (Pepper (as Chook Sibtain)), Short/video game promo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-wAzlqzXH0 2012 Casualty (Stephen Leese (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (26.17), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVfvj1v0lk8 (full episode) 2011 Hustle (Danush Larijani (as Chook Sibtain), 1 episode (7.4), BBC iPlayer 2009 We Make Music Short film, Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wfpGohoz_s Doctor Who (Tarak Ital (as Chook Sibtain), The Waters of Mars, BBC iPlayer Robin Hood (Isabella's Guard (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (3.11), currently available on BBC iPlayer 2008 Doctors (Matt Brown (as Chook Sibtain)), 8 episodes (10.8, 10.9, 10.12, 10.14, 10.16, 10.17, 10.18, 10.19), YouTube 2007 The Sarah Jane Adventures (Mark Grantham (as Chook Sibtain)), 2 episodes (1.5, 1.6), BBC iPlayer 2006 The Bill (Chris Dalton (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (22.36), UKTV player 2005 Where the Heart Is (Gary (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (9.5), UKTV player Footballers' Wives (Surjit (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episodes (4.5), ITV player 2003 Grease Monkeys (Deep (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (1.10), Prime TV 2002 Bad Girls (Naj Khan Din (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (4.16), UKTV player 2000/2001 EastEnders (Jack (as Chook Sibtain)), 10 episodes, August – October 2000 and a couple in February 2001, some on youtube, some on UKTV player 22 Aug, 24 Aug, 4 Sep, 21 Sep, 26 Sep, 5 Oct, 10 Oct, 16 Oct ; 2001: 19 Feb, 19 Mar 

CURRENTLY WATCHING 2018 Hard Sun (DS Herbie Sarafian) 6/6 episodes, hulu/Sky – no longer available on iPlayer, paid for on Amazon

SOURCED, YET TO WATCH 2020 National Theatre Live: Dara (Itbar) Via subscription on NTL 2015 National Theatre Live: The Beaux' Stratagem (Gibbet (as Chook Sibtain)) Via subscription on NTL 2013 National Theatre Live: Othello (Montano (as Chook Sibtain)) Via subscription on NTL 2000 The Stretch (Richard Asher (as Chook Sibtain)) TV movie, Sky

I CONTACTED THE PRODUCTION COMPANY OK WHAT ELSE DO I DO? 2016 Arman (Sevan (as Chook Sibtain)) 2012 Naachle London (Galpreet (as Chook Sibtain)) trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftwUGemp6Jw 2009 The Unforgettable (as Chook Sibtain) The songs are everywhere, but the film? Three trailers here, not sure he’s actually in any of them: https://vimeo.com/channels/theunforgettable

I HAVEN’T FOUND IT YET 2006 Holby City (Eddie McGuire (as Chook Sibtain)) 2 episodes (9.5, 9.6), not available anywhere obvious – clip on Joplin’s YouTube showreel 2005 Doctors (Bryan Hennessey (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (The Two of Us, 7.134) 2002 Doctors (Gary (as Chook Sibtain)), 1 episode (Into the Shadows, 4.38) 2000 EastEnders (Jack (as Chook Sibtain)), 5 episodes, August – October 2000 17 Aug, 21 Aug, 5 Sep, 2 Oct, 9 Oct 1997 In the Customer’s Shoes (new version) sometimes it’s better when you can’t find something - Melrose Learning Resources https://www2.bfi.org.uk/films-tv-people/4ce2b813d8b41 1996 Beck (Charlie (as Chook Sibtain) 1/6 episodes (1.4), tough to track down, never released on DVD

[hobbitinthetardis]

i've written a 22.5k (so far) fic and am refraining from posting it because it's not finished and it is taking all of my will and self control

[lightyaers]

my first draft of my capstone is a week overdue so i’m trying the ole sleep deprivation method (i.e. no sleep til it’s done) but now it’s 3am i’ve faffed my way into getting one more page done and the harsh reality that this paper is truly not going to write itself is setting in. what the fuck gives

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA The Jerusalem Post di Oggi lunedì, 06 gennaio 2025

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 19)

masterlist

-

A blood-orange sun hangs low in the sky.

You might think it ominous on any other day, but not this one. What more adversity could stand in your way? 

Instead of sharing a saddle with John, you ride the same horse that Graves rode out of town. Days spent on horseback have finally caught up to you, pain radiating up and down your legs, a soreness embedded deep in your inner thighs, the skin positively chafed from the constant friction. At least you no longer have the handcuffs digging painfully into your wrists, the metal cuffs long since unlocked using the key in Graves’ pocket and discarded, now lost some acres back for the coyotes and the hares to prod at and sniff. 

You drift in and out of conscious awareness, coming back into your right mind every mile or so, losing track of time along the way. Sometimes you blink and trees disappear out of sight, already ten miles back. Scouring the landscape for something familiar only to come up empty. 

Recent events lour over your conscience. It’s difficult not to let it get to you. So much has happened in such quick succession that part of you still thinks you’re dreaming in the abandoned shack with Graves sleeping just a few feet away. 

A distinct sound scrapes against the inner recesses of your mind and eardrum. If you were to look behind you, you’d find the source of it wrapped in a shroud and dragged behind John’s horse. Drying blood stains the fabric. The head, obscured under the fabric, jostles from side to side as it passes over rocks and undergrowth. 

It’s beyond you now though, the future shuttling forward at an unfathomable speed and taking you with it, willing or not. The world hurrying on to repeat its past mistakes. 

So you don’t look behind you. 

“Won’t be much longer,” your husband murmurs from beside you, speaking just loud enough for you to hear him over the influx of thoughts in your head, which rapidly empty out at the sound of his voice. 

“We can stop for a break after?” you ask, turning your head enough for your eyes to land on the hard, bristled line of his jaw. He nods. 

“Just gotta get this part out of the way.”

He says it so casually, like a bit of unpleasantness that has to be dealt with; no way around it. Unfortunately, a body isn’t something that can be just swept under the rug. No matter how much your muscles beg for a moment’s reprieve, you won’t get it until all the loose ends are tied up. 

“How do you know the land around here so well?” you ask as John leads the two of you deeper into the plains.

“The boys and I have been out here before. Grew up in this county anyway; been wanderin’ these parts since I was born.”

You can’t imagine John as a young boy, uncertain of his place in the world. He seems like someone who emerged from the womb ready-made, already able to skin a deer and build a bushcraft shelter by hand. But he must have been young at one point. 

Finally, he comes upon a suitable place to bury the body. 

Deep in the wilderness, he digs a shallow grave with the short shovel strapped to his horse, sweating up a storm before the hole is big enough to bury the body. You dismount your horse and wander off while John handles the burial. 

This is the part where you have to turn away and pretend it isn’t happening. You stave off the urge to plug your ears and close your eyes. Dogear any page in your life except this one. This is the only memory that you want to fade into obscurity, pretend that it never happened, that this was some bad dream that you only half-remember twenty years from now. 

You glance back only once to find John breathing heavily at the edge of the hole, having just hauled himself out. Sweat slicks his brow and drips down the side of his face near his temple, a dark flush spreading over his cheeks from exertion. Even his shirt is damp with sweat under the pits and around the collar. 

You force yourself to look away. Now is not the time for your libido to trouble you. 

Graves’ body lands with a dull thump when John rolls it into the makeshift grave. You bite your lip and let your eyelids slide shut. Then he starts the process of covering the body, shoveling the dirt back into the hole. It takes a while. An offer to help hovers on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite make yourself say the words. 

A half hour later, it no longer matters, the hole covered until the only thing demarcating the grave is the layer of upturned soil, slightly darker than the dirt in the surrounding area.

“That’s it,” John announces, making his way back to you with the shovel slung over his shoulder. You can smell the ripe scent of sweat wafting off him even from a foot away. “Let’s head out; we’ll wanna make camp before it gets dark.”

You don’t answer. Not verbally anyway. The guilt almost makes it hard to breathe. In all your stupidity and poor decision-making, you’ve inadvertently made John an accomplice in your crimes; forced him, in fact, to commit one as heinous as the one that had started this whole debacle. 

You travel the next mile in relative silence, scouring the landscape for a neat patch of land to set up camp. The sun plummets towards the ground at a faster and faster pace until it’s tugged below the horizon, vanishing with a green flash. Then it’s too dangerous to keep going, the way back far too dark to keep traveling down. 

John builds a small fire after tying up the horses for the night. The temperature drops exponentially as the sky darkens, the cold sinking low to the ground. You help with gathering the kindling, mostly twigs and clumps of dry grass, then take the packs off both horses to use as makeshift seats by the fire, unrolling the sleeping bags as well. 

It comes as a relief to finally sit down after the fire is struck. Rest is a double edged sword though; the longer you sit with Graves’ old pack propping you up, the more the pain has time to sink its claws in deep. 

In the hours since he shot Graves, neither of you have spoken more than a few words to each other. You certainly haven’t brought it up. The memory of Graves revealing the truth of what you’d done back east to John looms over you. It’s inevitable that you’ll talk about it eventually though. It’s heavy in the atmosphere, almost oppressive; the weight of everything said and unsaid. You can’t take back what Graves revealed to John. At some point you’ll have to face it. 

At what point will you have to beg for forgiveness? It sits on the tip of your tongue. 

The small fire crackles in front of you. Red tongues of flames lick at the darkness, the light extending out in a circle around the two of you. You’re grateful for the warmth though, particularly after spending the previous night in the cold.  

“Nothing to eat, m’afraid,” he says apologetically, brow creasing. “I didn’t exactly pack before coming after you.”

You shake your head. “That’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.”

In a few more hours, you might work up an appetite again, but for now, you couldn’t be further from it. All you want to do is lie down on your bed back home and sleep through to the next day. 

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Me neither.”

He picks up your hand and holds it in his for a time. It’s strange how such a small gesture has become such an immense comfort for you. You wish you could thread your fingers through his and bring his hand up to your lips to kiss all over, but you’re too tired for a gesture of that magnitude. 

When he lets go of your hand, it’s only to transfer it to your face. His thumb runs over your split lip, pulling away when you wince. “Looks like it’s healing on its own.”

“That’s good,” you mumble. “…It hurt a lot more yesterday.”

John’s nostrils flare. The fire reflects off his eyes in such a way that, for a moment, it almost looks like it’s coming from within him. “I’d kill him again if I could.”

Your stomach clenches at the ferocity behind his words. 

“You—you shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” you croak. “Not when he was—” right, you don’t say. Right to haul you out of town by your hair and drag you back to the scene of the crime, back to pay for what you’d done. 

“Now I ain’t gonna hear you go spoutin’ that horseshit,” he growls, clasping you by the back of your neck and tugging you to his side. It’s so sudden that your butt skids across the ground, raking up a small mound of dirt with the weight of your body.

You look away, unable to meet his eyes even as he pulls you forward until you’re nearly nose to nose. “It’s not—”

“Yes, it is, darlin’. That shit weren’t none of your fault. You ain’t done a thing wrong by keeping yourself safe.” 

It’s almost hard to hear. It’s taken you months to scrub the dirt from your soul, which until recently was raw to the touch and pained you to even think back on. And the hopelessness. And the longing, the irreversibility of it; irreversible in the way that you couldn’t turn your pain inside out. You could never go back to the way things were because the only way out was to keep on trudging forward. 

Like rain in a drought, you’ve been missing someone’s mercy. You’ve been waiting for someone to come and forgive you for your sins; someone to absolve you of them. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his neck. Not making much of a sound except for a harsh exhale, your throat quavering with something unsaid. 

Then you grip him by the back of his shirt and pull him to the ground with you. 

Out in the open like this, John doesn’t dare remove your clothes, but he does reach beneath your dress to pull off your underclothes. He’s silent through it all, eyes fixed on yours. Never wavering or dropping your gaze. It’s intoxicating to be stared at with such a fierce intensity. Vaguely overwhelming, the sensation creeping up your chest and lodging in your throat. 

The light of the fire he built for the two of you flickers across his skin, illuminating his face in shades of orange and gold. 

He holds your gaze when he rucks the skirt of your dress up and crawls down the length of your body until his mouth is level with your center, slick already dripping from your sex. Your breathing goes haggard, anticipating his mouth before it’s suddenly there between your thighs, planting a gentle kiss on your inner thigh before dragging his lips over your sensitive skin until they brush your clit. Your mouth opens to a soundless gasp. Electrical impulses travel up your spine, your arching back following their trajectory. 

He pulls back to stare at your dripping hole. “Missed me, my love?” 

You’d answer if you could form words, but then you realize who he’s talking to and your mind goes blank. 

When he runs his tongue up the seam of your pussy, you jolt, legs slung over his shoulders kicking at the air. He eats you out with gusto, with reverence, sighing into your pussy that it’s been too long, that he’d worried himself nearly half to death over you. 

Rough hands hold you by your waist and pull you down onto his face. Long, crude licks of his tongue, rubbing the flat of it over your clit until you’re a roiling, twisting hotbed of pent up arousal. 

The urge to suppress your noises is almost overwhelming. When you twist your head from side to side, there’s nothing but miles of land; trees and shrubbery and a deep, impenetrable darkness. Not another person around for miles. It makes you shiver when you stare out into it. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” you gasp, chest getting tighter and tighter until you expect it to burst but it doesn’t. It stays all pent up, all itchy and scratchy and you can feel the sweat slicking the small of your back and the blood furiously rushing to your cheeks, heating you up from the inside out. Sweat-laden and flustered. 

Your toes curl in your boots, throat tightening up the closer it gets. All it takes to push you over the edge is John cupping his hands under your butt to tilt your hips up, licking you from hole to hole. The impertinence and thrill sends a rush through your body, the coil in your belly twisting and releasing, core pulsing around nothing. Your body gives a violent jolt when he gives your clit one last wet, suckling kiss.

“Are you comfortable like this, darlin’, or should I wait until we’re home?” John asks when he positions himself over you again, beard still wet with your desire and a big hand cupping the front of his trousers. You stare down at the hair dusting his knuckles and the bulge straining against his pants. 

The shadows make it seem even larger than usual. Your throat goes dry the longer you stare down at where he fists his length through his trousers.

“Darlin’?” he repeats, drawing your attention back up to his face.

“Oh?” you ask, cheeks heating. “I’m, um…I’m quite comfortable.”

It seems absurd to have such a conversation when your husband’s hand is reaching into his trousers to pull out his cock and fuck you with it, but the nervous tickle in your belly is far from unpleasant. 

He’s so careful with you, cognizant that your muscles are already sore and aching from days of being on the road and the abuse Graves put you through. Gentle hands maneuver your legs around his hips and move your hair from your face. Again your belly flips. 

Your grunt is involuntary when he first pushes in, walls stretching around the head of his cock. It hasn’t been long enough for the blunt intrusion to be painful, but it’s overwhelming all the same. You wince and grimace through it all. 

“Easy does it. You’re alright,” John shushes when you whimper, rough hand cupping your cheek. It sends a thrill down your spine, but doesn’t lessen the intensity. 

He stays like that for a time, hovering over you and stroking a thumb over your cheekbone until you relax around his girth, gradually finding your breath again. In and out; one after the other. When he pulls his hand away, it’s to plant his forearms on the ground beside your head and grind his hips forward, taking your breath away. 

“Oh Lord,” you wheeze, then brace your hands around his neck. 

“You’re doing great, darlin’. Just hold on; I’ve got ya.”

It’s nothing like the times before; your arms link around his neck and your breath goes shallow, hitching with every measured thrust. It’s too much and not enough. You feel windswept and battered, bruises smarting now that you’ve had time to feel them, but still you need more from him. 

He works himself into the wet flex of your pussy with slow, heavy thrusts. Taking his time. Not rushing it just yet because though the threat of you being taken from him still looms over his head, he’s sated his bloodlust. His reassurance now comes in the form of your legs spread to receive him and the fat head of his cock fitting snugly in you. 

The heels of your boots press firm against the flesh above his buttocks. Taking him this way with your clothes still on feels debaucherous, filthier than usual; like you were so desperate to have your husband inside you, that you couldn’t even be bothered to remove your garments. 

He must feel the way that thought heats you up because he rasps, “Need a lil somethin’, love?” 

Before you can even answer, he’s reached a hand down and tucked it between your thighs to strum the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex. 

“John—”

Your fingernails must dig into the back of his neck because he grunts. Serves him right, you think, digging your nails in all the harder when grinds a knuckle against your clit and you briefly see stars. 

You’re splintering down to the root, coming apart in his hands like clay; when he says your name, the darkness fades and for a moment, you’re in the light, a shaft of it haloing your face. Chasing it no matter how fast it runs. A hare in a snare, a shadow captured in the palm of your hand. 

It comes fluttering down from somewhere beyond sight. Gasped out in another voice, a truer voice. From the depths of you, true as stone and air. 

“I love you.”

Give it time and it’ll come naturally. Now, it comes as a gut punch. Even John stills over you when he hears the words, and you can feel the shudder that runs through him under your fingertips. There’s no time to sit and talk about it though, not with the frenzy that comes over him, blue eyes glazed over by a manic glint. 

He braces one hand on the top of your head and surges forward, so rough with you that your teeth clack together, eyes rolling back in your head. 

“Say it again,” John growls, leaning down until his mouth is right next to your ear. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Then it hits you. A wall of heat. Your belly rolling and cheeks burning, walls squeezing around John’s cock, tighter with every thrust. You yelp when he lifts himself off you to yank the skirt of your dress up higher and presses his hands to your inner thighs, spreading your legs wider for him. Bullies his cock into your channel even as you try to squeeze him out, pounding into you until the lurid torrent of words spilling out of his mouth go slurred and his release floods into you, his hips slapping against yours until he’s emptied the last of his spend into your womb. 

It’s a while before either of you can move after that. Your energy melts into the ground like rainwater, purifying the earth. Maybe life is already germinating beneath you, grass seedlings about to burst from the dirt, flower buds curled up in tight coils until they’re ready to bloom. 

Your hands shake when you lift one up to wipe the sweat from your face. 

When he finally pulls out of you, the feeling of his come leaking down your inner thighs makes you fussy. You lift your thighs just enough to let him pull your drawers back up before lying back down, no energy left in you to do more than that. You only scrunch your nose a little at the feeling of your combined juices already wetting the gusset.

Time seems to come apart and then piece back together. You roll over onto your side and nestle up against John’s chest, staring up at him wordlessly. His eyes stay shut for some time until he feels your stare on him and they peel open, the color of his irises barely discernible in the flickering light. 

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he asks in a tone so devoid of accusation or condemnation that you’re almost thrown by it. He says it like it’s just another day, like something horrible and monumental didn’t just happen. 

It takes you a while to find the words. Even when you do, they come out jumbled and disjointed. “How long have you…—when did you find out?”

“‘Bout what happened back East?” he clarifies, blunt as usual. 

The question makes you swallow impulsively, anxiety secreting from you again. “Yes.”

John looks up into the dark sky, quiet for a spell. “Not until recently. The arrest warrant drifted across my desk probably around the time Graves first stopped by. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together after that—you showing up in a tizzy around the same time as the warrant was issued. General description matched as well.”

You feel a bit foolish in retrospect, certain that you were getting away with it all this time. 

“You know my name.”

“I do.”

“My real name.”

“In a manner of speaking. Got yourself a new last name since then though, didn’t you?”

Your lips pull up at the corners involuntarily. “Yes. I guess so.”

You can almost hear it now. The penultimate note of the overture writhing against convalescence like you might stay this way for a second longer. But it isn’t right to keep feeling the same old pain. At some point, it has to heal. 

“Hey,” John says, giving your shoulder a little shake to draw your attention back to him. The look in his eyes is serious. “This is as far as the story goes, alright?”

You stare up at him silently until you nod against his chest. 

“You’re my wife. End of story. The rest ain’t anyone’s business but ours.”

Off in the distance, an owl hoots, and its call hits your ear as a distant evocation to sleep. You press one last kiss to his chest before rolling off him, letting him put the fire out before the two of you turn in for the night, and then drawing a blanket over the both of you. 

And then, you go to sleep.

[fandomtrumpshate]

Defeating Tr*mp and the Republican party: how you can help

So as you've probably heard, there is a presidential election coming up in the US this November. You may even be experiencing some concern about the outcome of that election -- given both the high stakes and the active efforts by Republicans to suppress the vote -- and wondering what more you can do to stave off the possibility of a literal fascist takeover of the United States.

The good news is: you're not helpless. There are wonderful organizations out there -- staffed by knowledgeable, talented people with their feet already on the ground -- and they could use your help.

Here are a few of them:

VoteBeat offers deeply-researched local reporting about elections, which is both valuable and rare in the current news environment. A spinoff of ChalkBeat, it was founded and is run by journalists from ProPublica.

Spread the Vote is an organization that works on the ground to help every eligible voter secure the documentation and the access they need to make their voices heard. In particular, StV runs a program called Vote by Mail in Jail to help ensure that incarcerated persons also have access to these rights.

VoteRiders, like StV, works to ensure that every American has the opportunity to vote. In particular, they provide financial and practical support to trans people so that they can get hold of the documentation they need and can vote safely and confidently.

FairVote advocates for ranked-choice voting, a system in wide use outside the US which far more effectively captures the will of the electorate. (we don't have an individual feature page for them, but FV was one of FTH's supported orgs in 2020.)

(This is just a short starter list of amazing organizations, pulled from FTH's supported orgs list in past years; there are plenty of others. Please feel free to add them in reblogs!)

Ways you can help

Donate to one (or more!) of these organizations. These are all fairly small operations, even if their goals and their impact is large; they could use the help!

Volunteer your time. Many of these organizations rely on volunteers to make their day-to-day operations work. Sometimes it's necessary to do this volunteering in person, but often there is a remote option for volunteering if that's what works for you.

Run a fanworks auction to raise money. FTH recently rolled out a full and detailed playbook, sharing all of our organizational materials and step-by-step guides for how to use them and adapt them to your needs. This is a great moment to put that to work! Whether you want to raise money for one of the organizations listed above, or for some other nonprofit, or even for a progressive local candidate that could use the support (FTH doesn't do individual candidates, but you shouldn't let that stop you!) you can make a real difference while also helping to put more fanworks into the world.

[solelifauna]

GUYS THIS COMMENT FROM @silken-moons ON THE WEREWOLF AU HAS ME LOCKED IN.

silken-moons:

Wait....so what happened to Kon or Conner in this au ? Was he the one eaten since he was basically half human and kryptonian too assuming lex is human in this au too.

I am more than happy to elaborate.

Lex is a half-human half-werewolf hybrid like the reader. So Conner would be half-kryptonian and only a fourth werewolf. When Clark finds out about his existence he’s pissed (at first). Superman doesn’t hesitate before finding Luthor and melting his skull in with his laser vision. It’s quite the graphic scene, Conner unfortunately being there to witness it all.

Conner is pressed back into some crevice in Luthor's office, doing his best to calm his heart beat, stave off his on-coming panic attack, and pray that Superman won’t kill him. Clark of course finds him curled in on himself, hyperventilating, tears streaming down his teenage face.

Conner is blubbering, he thinks, trying to communicate some type of garbled “please” and “I’m sorry” and “don’t hurt me please”. Superman just critically eyes him before knocking the clone out. Now, in the beginning he was just planning on taking the clone to the Watch Tower to interrogate him and then kill him. Perhaps Jon would like the extra meat?

But after watching the clone wake up alone in one of the containment units, crying quietly to himself as he rocked back and forth, he started to feel a little bad. He thought back onto the way the clone had practically begged him for mercy through his own panic attack. He's read Lex Luthor's files on "Superboy", how this clone had no flight, was not invulnerable, and couldn't even throw out half of Clark's strength.

This clone was no threat, no, in fact he was a gift. Another Kryptonian (even if the clone was only half with human DNA in his mix). And even better, the clone boy had no ill intentions towards the JL, hell, the boy looked afraid that anyone even considered the idea. No, no, no, this boy, his boy, was so sweet.

From the way he leaned into Clarks palm when he caressed the sleeping boys face, to the way he clung to Clark and his approval like a touch starved puppy, Clark couldn't help himself. The only problem now was getting his Wife and Son on the same page. He knew werewolf customs, he knew what it meant for Conner (a name his new son had previously picked out).

It would probably be easier to convince Jon considering the poor kid's been wanting a sibling for a long time now (Jon is 8 right now, but still all the same crazy). Lois might take a bit more time, considering pack bonds and the human part of Conner. So with a heavy heart, he kisses his new baby goodnight, as he flies home for he night. Yes, its been a couple of weeks since Connors arrival and he still hasn't told his family. he plans to amend that today.

He expects growling and demands for flesh. he expects outrage from his wife, or even a calm cool collected "bring him to me". What he gets instead are demands from Lois to see Conner, her new son. Clark blinks in surprise before he's fumbling with his phone, opening up his camera role where has has a million new pictures of Conner. Lois only grabs his phone, cooing over the pictures with adoration in her eyes. Well, Clark is pleasantly surprised.

"You're not mad are you Lois?" Clark asks gently.

"Oh I'm not mad Smallville, I'm livid." She all but growls, a smile still etched on her face as she continues scrolling. "You knew about him for weeks, and didn't even bother letting me know. I had a son for weeks, and he's been by himself."

Clark winces. "I know Lois, I know. I just-I was just afraid that you wouldn't want him the way I do. That you'd rip him open, hell, even I considered it in the beginning!"

Lois looks up from his phone, a knowing smile, a soft one, on her face. "I know farm boy, I know. But its important that you remember we don't always kill and eat the weak. Sometimes, its nice to have something that you can love and take care of, something that relies on you and only you."

"is that what you have planned for Connor?"

"Of course. He's our son now, and after everything he's been through, its out job to keep him and Jon safe. Until he can prove himself capable, he's not leaving the den."

A content grin makes its way onto Clarks face. Oh how he loved his wife. "I wouldn't have it any other way Lois. I'll bring him here tomorrow. Now, lets go let our other little rascal know."

Lois smirks. "I agree. Lord knows he's been waiting to have a-"

"-I have a new brother!" Comes the familiar voice of Jon Kent, cutting his mother off in his excitement.

Clark raises his eyebrow fondly, feigning exasperation. "Did you listen in on our conversation Jonathan Samuel Lane-Kent?"

"Of course I did! Well-I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it! You said I have a brother and I wanna see him!" Jon all but whines.

"Well honey, dad said he'd bring him home tomorrow okay."

"Really!?"

"You betcha. But Jon, you have to be gentle with him okay? He doesn't know werewolf or Kryptonian customs okay?" His dad says.

"Okay, I promise i'll be gentle." Jon swears, nodding up and down.

Lois sighs fondly. "And its important to know that he is part human, do you know what that means?"

"Mhm! It means that he's not allowed out the den or the house, and that its our job to protect him 'cause he's weak." Jon repeats from his memory.

"Good job Jon! You're going to be the best brother, I just know you are." His mom says.

Jon preens under the praise.

He can't wait to meet his new brother!

~~~~~

The next day arrives slower than anyone would have liked.

The morning sunlight filters through the sky as Clark flies Conner to him penthouse in Metropolis, cradling the boy carefully as he slumbers. Conner stirs in his arms, eyes fluttering open, a brief panic flashing in them until he meets Clark’s calm gaze.

“Where-where are we?” Conner mumbles, clutching at Clark’s shirt with a grip that feels hesitant, almost reluctant.

“We’re going home,” Clark replies, a small smile on his face. “Your new home. Your family’s waiting for you, Conner.”

Conner’s eyes widen, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the words die on his lips. His gaze shifts away, and he nods mutely, not quite daring to believe that this “family” will truly accept him. He’s felt so disposable for so long; he almost can’t imagine what it’s like to be wanted.

The penthouse doors open, and Lois stands there, her sharp gaze softening the instant she sees Conner. She steps forward, reaching out a hand in a silent invitation. Conner hesitates, clinging to Clark a little tighter, and Clark gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s okay, Conner,” he murmurs. “I'm here for you.”

With a slow, tentative step, Conner reaches out, letting Lois pull him into a gentle hug. Her arms are firm around him, warm but unyielding, a silent promise of protection, though he senses the fierce strength just below the surface. She smooths his hair with surprising gentleness, her voice soft as she whispers, “Welcome home, Conner.”

Conner relaxes, allowing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. This feels strange. He's never really had a home before. Luthor's compound was last place he felt safe, let alone a place he'd call home. And that word, that feeling-safe. He isn’t sure he's ever felt it outside Superman, sorry, his Dad's arms.

And isn't that a crazy thing, he has a Dad now. Superman, Clark Kent was his Dad.

Jon, standing just a few steps away, is practically vibrating with excitement. When Lois finally releases Conner, Jon bounds over, a wide grin on his face.

“Hi! I’m Jon, your brother!” He pauses, then adds, almost reverently, “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

Conner blinks in surprise, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks as he mumbles, “I-thank you, Jon.”

Lois places a hand on Jon’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Remember what we talked about, Jon. Conner’s still adjusting. Be patient with him.”

Jon nods enthusiastically, but there’s a possessive glint in his eyes as he looks at Conner, a silent vow to protect his new brother from anything—or anyone—that might threaten him. Conner notices this look, a strange chill running down his spine, but he says nothing.

As the day unfolds, Conner tries to settle into this new life, though it feels almost too good to be true. Lois and Clark are attentive, constantly ensuring he’s comfortable, while Jon barely leaves his side, eager to show him every corner of the penthouse, as if staking his claim. Meals are filled with warmth and laughter, and yet Conner can’t shake the feeling of being watched, almost obsessively.

That night, as Conner lies in the bed they’ve prepared for him, he hears the soft creak of footsteps outside his door. It opens quietly, and Clark steps inside, his face illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He walks over to the bed, looking down at Conner with an intense, unreadable expression.

“You’re part of this family now, Conner,” Clark says quietly, brushing a hand over Conner’s forehead in a strangely tender gesture. “Nothing will take you from us. Not anyone. You’re ours, do you understand?”

Conner nods, his throat tightening, unable to find words. Clark’s gaze softens, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Conner’s forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving Conner alone with a flurry of conflicted feelings. For the first time in his life, he feels wanted, cherished, trapped, as though he’s become a prized possession in a family he can never escape.

But, maybe, a small voice inside him whispers, he doesn’t want to escape at all.

Well folks, here's more lore on relationships outside of the Batfam. Let me know chat, am I cooking? New chap, out soon!

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

MDNI NSFW (warnings under the page break). SFW version here!

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire, his cock half-hard already and his mind buzzing. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach for the strings on his trousers before you pull them down. He steps out of them easy enough, though he feels awkward standing there with his tunic on. Though you did not leave him to suffer for long before you pulled his shirt off as well. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. 

Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. Your touch sets him alight. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep.

His cock stiffens, though you keep touching him. You brush over his right nipple, then the left, then both. It is a strange sensation – one he’s not wholly against. 

Then, 

your fingers brush against his abdomen, trace the outline of his abs, then dips below. You grasp him firm in hand, and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft, and he is so very very hard. 

The whore Aegon forced on him at his thirteenth name-day held him tightly, too tightly, then rubbed his skin raw, and still he could not force himself to come. He remained flaccid and cold in her calloused hands, even as Aegon jeered and leered from his place on the dais. 

But you showed none of her cruelty, none of the cold indifference. Just your presence took him halfway to completion, and he doubted it would take much more. Your other hand reaches below to cup his balls. That touch is less gentle, more firm. You start to twist the hand holding his cock, bringing it back and then forth in long, slow movements. You switch between firm, soft, fast, and then slower. But it is never not gentle. And you never look away from his eyes.

Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. 

His eye blinks wide open at the new sensation. Your mouth is warm and soft like silk. It is heaven made flesh, and it makes his knees tremble. You envelop him, tongue hot on his cock. You pay special attention to his head; trace the veins and the weeping slit with extra care. And, oh, is he weeping. 

Aemond needs more. 

He wraps his fingers around your hair, then gently guides you back and forth. A single shake of your head would free you from him, should you wish, but you don’t. Your tear-filled eyes plead with him for a tighter hold, and he complies. A bit. But he is soon lost to the pleasure of your mouth, and so as his eye flutter shut and he shudders, he finds himself guiding you all the way down so that your nose meets the short hairs at his base, and then back up just far enough that your lips wrap around his head. 

The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name.

Though if he finds the most pleasure from your sucking his cock or from knowing that a piece of him was inside you, he would never know. You swallow him down so easily, and with so much enthusiasm he is mournful that there is not more he can give. 

There is a knife on the chest by his feet. He wonders, would you swallow all of him as easily as his seed? If he cut himself would you lap at his wounds? 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight with desire. 

“That was cruel.” He says. “I was close.” 

He wasn’t. Your passions are his passion, your pleasure his pleasure. 

“Then I suppose you should get revenge.” You bite your lip. 

Your nightwear is thin. It is easily swept away from your body and thrown on the floor. 

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

“It is all for you.” You tell him as you lean back against the pillows. 

His eye rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, dance around your sensitive nipples to lay flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. Then, he turns his attention to your breasts. You are most sensitive there. His lips wrap around a nipple, and you gasp. His hand wanders down your stomach, through the hair covering your cunt, and then he presses down on your clit. You jump into his touch, eyes widening at the sudden pleasure. 

“Aemond.” You moan. 

His mouth comes off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’ before he leans down and claims the other. He presses tight circles into your clit, alternating directions, then he moves his index finger to nudge at your entrance. His thumb stays on your clit, but the motions are lazy. He spells his name, then yours, then he stops. 

Aemond pulls away, but not for long. 

He moves down your body, about to put his lips against your cunt, when you pull at his hair. Aemond groans into your flesh. His desire for you is akin to drunkenness. He is dizzy with it, crazed with a need that can never be satisfied. Still, he presses himself against your folds, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness there. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

His thumb stays on your clit, but only for a moment before his nose replaces it. He grabs your hips and brings you closer to him. His face is all but buried in you, and yet it is not enough. Your wetness covers his lips, his chin, his cheeks. His tongue digs inside you for more, tip of his nose pressing against your clit in that way that makes your head spin. 

Time seems to stop, your pleasure endless, his chase bringing him closer and closer, and deeper. He presses a finger inside your entrance, before you give way and he thrusts it inside. He pumps it when his tongue darts away, so that you are never empty of him. 

Then, just as your hips start to shake, and your moans grow louder, you pull him away. He protests, loudly, but it falls on deaf ears. You pull him up to you, and he is reluctant to follow. Aemond feels cold and lost, but is then altogether found and warm when your hands wrap around his cock again. 

And the next moment he’s burning. 

You guide his cock inside you, and he sputters to life. His lips press down on yours, uncaring of the taste of him inside your mouth. He needs the connection, needs you. Aemond thrusts wildly against you for a few moments, his cock driving in and out of you with filthy wet sounds. 

You hold his face in your hands as you kiss, and his thrusts grow more controlled. Aemond wants it to last. Wants to drag out your connection for as long as he can, but he can feel his orgasm building already. His lower back aches with it, his toes curling against the bedsheets. He moves to slow down but the second he tries, you wrap your legs around his hips, pressing your feet against his buttocks to slam him into you. It is the same when he tries again, until he drives back with the same force as you drive him back in. 

The pace is maddening, your sounds so sweet he feels like he’s drowning. He knows not where he ends and you start, but he would have it no other way. If he pushes into you hard enough would you truly become one? In body as you are in soul? 

“Gods, Aemond,” you gasp at a particularly hard thrust.

Aemond brings his finger back down to thumb at your clit as apology, and you sing even sweeter for it. 

Time means nothing, there is only you and him. And then you’re falling over the cliff of pleasure, and he dives after you, clinging to you with bleeding fingers. Your pleasure is his pleasure, two halves of a whole finally forcing themselves together. There is not a crack in your connection, and Aemond thinks he sees stars as his vision goes white. He gasps and moans into your mouth, your pants and sounds of pleasure drowned by his need to bring himself closer to you. 

He lets himself fall upon you, cock softening inside you. His head spins still, but his heart beats like a drum in his chest at knowing that he’s once again been claimed by you. Even when he pulls himself free (reluctantly) there is still a piece of him in you. A piece that would never blossom into something more, for Aemond would not part with a single part of you, not even for himself. 

“I love you,” you pant into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

[seradyn]

Fruit of Our Labor

Summary: Tav accidentally calls Astarion ‘pumpkin’ in a moment of thoughtlessness. What follows is a gentle baring of souls neither could have anticipated.

Pure tooth rotting fluff. Set in late act 1 although the relationship is much closer to where it is in act 2, but fuck it, we ball.

Also happy Valentine’s Day, this wasn’t meant to be a valentine’s fic but I just so happened to get a surge of motivation to finish it today so here we are.

Word count: 2944

Warnings: references to abuse

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It slipped out one night, while you were all sat around the fire.

The others were busy dividing up the spoils from the day’s adventures - equipment and coin passed around to those who needed it. A hearty stew, courtesy of Gale, sat warmly in your bellies, staving off the night’s chill while packs were passed around over idle chatter. The fire crackled and popped in the center of camp, but it was drowned out by the sounds of Scratch’s excited barks and the owlbear’s deep coos. They were roughhousing, no doubt.

You watched your companions fondly from your place curled up on Astarion’s lap, held snugly to his chest in a loose embrace. Surrounded by a nest of pillows that smelled of him, you felt pleasantly warm, despite his cold skin. He held a book out in front of you both, resting his chin on your head as he read, the rustle of pages being turned soothing you. You were sure if he was still alive, you could hear the gentle thumping of his heart beneath your ear, lulling you into a blissful sleep.

The evenings you two spent together, wrapped up in each other's scents, your shared warmth, had become a balm to your taxed souls. Some days it was all that kept you going, the promise of being soothed, comforted in a way that eased your wounds, either to your flesh or to your heart. His voice was a spell, his touch an enchantment, and you found yourself unable to resist his charms. He’d made you laugh on more occasions than you could count with his silver tongue, and his deep seductive purrs sent shivers to places you dare not name. Yes, you’d fallen for him. Hard.

Yet, you knew Astarion felt much the same way about you, even if he couldn’t admit it. You heard the soft sighs that parted his lips, saw the smiles that were real, like he’d glimpsed a piece of heaven, and it sat curled in his lap. The rays of sunlight he’d come to crave couldn’t hold a candle to your warmth, his undead body soaking it up greedily every time you were close. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine being embraced by the sun, with your voice a whisper on her gentle lips. He could never get enough of it. Of you.

It had taken many moons before Astarion was comfortable displaying this much affection openly. He kept the truth of his feelings close to his breast to protect himself, and from what he told you, you couldn’t say you blamed him. In his old life, before the mindflayers, affection was weakness, caring was weakness. And weakness was unacceptable, not for Cazador. He allowed no such things for his spawn, and if he found it, it would be corrected through nights of agonized bloodshed.

So you held Astarion’s hand as he learned. He was no stranger to intimacy, to late nights spent on his back, but this…this was all so very new to him. What was to hold hands, to hug, to cuddle? He may have known once, but that had been left in his grave, delivered from him by that kiss of death. You took care to remind him it was okay to take things slow, to not jump into anything he wasn’t comfortable with. You were patient. All you wanted was him to be happy, after all. Even if you weren’t sure he knew that, or would believe you if you told him.

Despite being his beloved partner, though, Astarion was still Astarion after all, and you found yourself on the end of no small amount of teasing. He always loved calling you pet names, clicking his tongue with a smirk as he purred ‘darling’, ‘beautiful’; a spider spinning a web around his unsuspecting prey. As much as it wounded your pride to admit it, you quite liked being his prey. You offered up your neck with growing delight, stifling moans and shudders each night he fed.

He enjoyed teasing you about that, too, much to your chagrin.

You weren’t going to let him have all the fun, though. Words were easy to coat in honey, and soon the whole camp rolled their eyes as you two bantered like a love sick couple. Worst of all was the pet names, which you two shot back at each other like arrows at waring rivals. ‘Little star’ made Astarion scowl in that oh so adorable way, while ‘honey’ had him preening proudly. It was fun, it was easy, and it made the unspoken emotions between you two easier to ignore.

Until it didn’t.

Once supplies had been distributed, the camp began discussing the plan for the following day. Moonrise Towers loomed far off in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, your fates locked behind its black gates. Your group would need to pick up the pace if you wanted to arrive within the next fortnight. But Lae’zel was adamant - she needed to visit the nearby crèche, and made it clear she would venture to it with or without company. She was stubborn as a mule, and Shadowheart was more than happy to seize the opportunity to lock horns with her.

You sighed as you watched the growing argument unfold. Those two could fight over the color of the sky, and somehow it always fell to you to make them see reason. Gale and Karlach tried desperately to keep things under control, but even Wyll had no luck with them. Halsin watched with a frown on his face, but knew intervening was futile. They listened to you - you weren’t sure why, but they did.

You felt Astarion turn his head towards the commotion, pursing his lips in annoyance. Normally, he delighted in conflict, especially between Shadowheart and Lae’zel, but now that he knew it would mean your own involvement, having you snatched away ruined any enjoyment he may have found in it.

“And what does our charismatic little leader think we should do?” He whispered, hoping it would distract you from your duties. You decided to let it too, burying yourself deeper into his chest, sighing deeply his scent of bergamot and rosemary. You did not want to deal with their bickering right now. You had yet to fight off a drowsiness that crept over you while you lounged in his lap, which was the only explanation you could think of for what you said next.

“We’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings, pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin?!” Astarion stiffened beneath you, a scowl appearing on his face as the tranquil atmosphere dissolved. You blinked at the clear offense in his tone, leaning back to gaze at his disgruntled expression, worry set in your own features.

“Excuse me, darling, but what exactly do I have in common with some unsightly gourd?” He huffed indignantly. The camp quieted from his outburst, several heads turning in your direction. They were wise enough to not interfere, though.

Ah, he thought it was a comment on his appearance, you realized with a sinking feeling. Astarion was sensitive to such things, as he’d shown when you learned he’d been unable to see himself since he turned. It was something he took pride in, one of the only things he could well and truly call his own. You hadn’t meant it that way, of course, but you weren’t surprised that’s how he took it, given his history. He hadn’t been overly enthused when you commented on his lovely laugh lines, or the adorable beauty mark just below his left eye, to put it mildly, and now you’d compared him to a lumpy, often deformed fruit. Guilt poked at your heart for your thoughtlessness.

“You have many things in common with pumpkins,” you said calmly. Perhaps he could see the compliment in it yet. He flared his nostrils, but you pressed on before he could protest. “They’re vibrant, beautiful, and tough on the outside, just like you.” You booped his nose playfully. “But they’re also soft, delicious, and wonderful on the inside, just like you.”

Astarion remained tense as he stared at you, scanned you, like a hawk does the calm fields for a stray mouse. The wrinkling of his nose furrowed his brow, and it took every ounce of willpower not to lean up to kiss his doubts away. His gaze slowly began to soften, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Well, I suppose when you put it that way, perhaps we do have some similarities,” he admitted with a huff. Relief flooded your veins as he settled back into the cushions, inviting you back into his lap once he was comfortable. He looped an arm around your waist, holding you close with a gentle squeeze - a silent thank you for the unexpected compliment.

Soon it was decided; you would be taking Lae’zel to see her kin the following day. There were grumbles here and there about acquiescence to the warrior’s demands, but you made it clear she was your ally as much as any of them. With plans made and bellies full, most retired to their tents, intent on getting some rest. You found yourself settling in Astarion’s, naturally. Honestly, you sometimes wondered why you bothered to put up your own tent at all. Even your small collection of books had come to join his, stacked unorganized in a corner. You carefully plucked one from the tower, sitting down with it as Astarion continued to fuss with the various blankets strewn about.

Eventually, you felt him settle, a contented sigh parting his lips. You peeked at him over the top of your book, and was surprised to find his eyes on you.

“So…about that, little pet name…” he began, his voice a low purr. You felt your cheeks flush a lovely crimson as you lowered your book, you weren’t sure if from embarrassment or from his tone.

“Ah - I’m sorry, my love,” you said sheepishly. Perhaps he was still upset about it. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” he said, catching you off guard.

He wasn’t upset?

“I only hope you’ll try to refrain from calling me such things in front of our companions,” He explained. “I do have a reputation to uphold.” Another smirk spread across his face.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Appearances were very important to Astarion, and though you couldn’t say you understood it, you would respect his boundaries. “‘Course ‘Star, I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Good,” he hummed, planting a soft kiss on your temple. Your lips spread in an involuntary smile as you returned to your book, a calmness returning to the tent. Though, Astarion was rarely happy with silence, and you noticed him still hovering on the edge of your periphery.

“You know,” he drawled, ducking his head to catch your gaze. You locked eyes with him, those beautiful rubies, getting lost in how they nearly glowed in the dim light.

“You do call me an awful lot of pet names, darling. Why not settle on one?”

You lowered your book again, setting it aside to grant him your full attention. “And pass up the chance to tell you all the different ways I find you beautiful? I think not.”

Astarion seemed taken aback momentarily by your answer, before he quickly recovered, puffing out his chest and smirking pridefully.

“Darling, you’re allowed to just call me beautiful,” he said, examining his nails. “I certainly wouldn’t mind hearing it more.”

It was barely detectable, but you could hear a hint of bitterness in his voice. Your smile faltered. Astarion told you enough about his past for you to know how his looks had been twisted for his master’s use; put on display and paraded around like a beloved doll. Early on in your relationship, he had made it clear he thought your interest in him stemmed from that alone, his looks. It was all he’d ever known, all anyone wanted him for. It was natural for him to believe you were the same.

You vowed to yourself that you would always make sure to remind him that was not the reason you pursued him. Yes, he was handsome, that fact was undeniable, but it was not what led you to seek him out, what had led to your trysts that turned into something more. You made a promise to always remind him of that, no matter how long it took until he believed it.

“My love…” you said softly, the words falling easily from your lips as you grabbed his free hand and held it close to your chest. Astarion stiffened at the sudden contact, and you paused, allowing him to pull away if he so desired. He never did though, and you took that as a sign to continue, placing gentle kisses on the back of his knuckles. You had to hide a smile when you felt the tension ooze from his muscles. “There are so many things about you that are beautiful, simply saying it would be an injustice.”

Astarion’s eyes widened slightly, and they scanned you for any hint of deceit, any hint of motive behind your words. You smiled warmly at him, hoping he could see all the love and adoration you poured into it.

“I think it’s beautiful when you get excited whenever you snatch a coin purse out of someone’s pocket. It’s beautiful when you tell me about the books you’re reading, and when you pout whenever Gale opens his mouth.”

Astarion let out a sharp laugh at that. He made no secret of his distaste for the wizard.

“But most of all, I think it’s beautiful when you laugh, because I think, even for just that little moment, I get to see you happy. So yes, that’s why all the pet names. Because not one of them could fully capture how beautiful you really are.”

“Darling…” he whispered, sounding almost breathless. He sat up a touch, his hand coming up to delicately cup your cheek, his thumb gliding across your skin reverently. He leaned forward, and your eyes fluttered closed as his lips ghosted across your own. The kiss was soft and delicate, gentle in a way you knew he reserved only for you. Similarly, you hoped he could feel how much you cared for him in the way you moved your mouth against his.

When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, breaths intermingling as you held each other close.

“What did I do to deserve you?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, and your heart cracked at hearing the pain etched into it, the disbelief. What didn’t you do to deserve happiness, you wondered, but you knew how he would respond. 200 years of luring people back to a cruel master, a cruel fate, and you knew why he had to ask.

You remembered something he’d said, when you asked him about Cazador and his past. Something that made your chest ache, like it was now.

It was about time those memories were replaced.

“You existed. That was enough for me.”

You could tell he recognized them, his own words. His eyes went wide, lips parting as he heard them echoed back at him. You smiled then, pouring all the unsung emotions into that expression. You hoped he could see it, how your heart beat for him.

And maybe he did, for he quickly pulled you into a nearly crushing embrace, burying his face in your neck. He breathed deeply your scent, your essence, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear should he let go. He couldn’t lose you now. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure his undead heart could take it.

You returned his embrace, sighing as you felt him relax into your form. You absentmindedly began rubbing circles into his back with the pads of your fingers, tracing the outline of his scars with unconditional reverence. You liked to imagine yourself massaging away some of the pain and torment of his unlife whenever you got the privilege to hold him like this. It made you both feel a little better.

Soon enough though, your body began to sag from exhaustion, the events of your tumultuous journey catching up with you. You leaned out of Astarion’s embrace, earning a slight pout from him, but you quickly assuaged his worries by placing a gentle kiss below his ear.

“We should get some rest,” you murmured, and he hummed in agreement. You laid down across your shared bedroll, opening your arms invitingly for him. He eagerly curled up over you, resting his head on your chest with a sound almost like a purr. Your arms returned around him, one hand coming up to delicately card through his silky curls, massaging his scalp as you closed your eyes.

It was moments like these you had to bite your tongue from saying the words that had begun to echo deep in the cavity of your chest. You called each other ‘love’ in teasing, but outright saying those blasted three words still frightened both of you. Even though you felt it every time you looked at him these days, your heart soaring as easily as an eagle flies, your very veins filled with nothing but adoration. But, you knew he wasn’t ready. He was still navigating the turbulent sea of his past, his present, and the rapidly approaching future. You had no desire to push him beyond what was comfortable for him.

So you would wait. You would wait until he was ready to love you. Ready to be loved. You didn’t mind, really.

You would wait an eternity for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First Astarion fic lets go. Will probably write more in the future, but will also probably focus on my long fic for another game first. Either way hope you enjoy 💕

[redvexillum]

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human!alastor, period-typical racism, period-typical sexism, implied abuse from reader's husband

SPECIAL MENTION: @cartoonykat thank you for the request. It has been fed into the monster that is called VEXITOBER.

SPECIAL SHOUT OUT: @redfoxwritesstuff I know I promised a fanfiction of your fanfiction (Misdemeanour of the Heart) like 300 years ago. But, just take this one-shot to stave off your hunger for now.

The brittle paper crinkled under your fingertips, every crease, every worn edge, a reminder of the countless times you’d held it before. It was delicate – seemed like it would crumble into dust at the slightest touch – but despite its fragility, it was the most valuable thing you’d ever possessed. Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of the newspaper clipping, but it wasn’t the printed news of the “Bayou Butcher” striking again that made your heart race.  

It was his writing, the neat curling script at the bottom, a mere whisper of words: “Tune in next Monday at 3:00, ma chère.” 

Your breath hitched, a sharp hiss escaping between clenched teeth as the persistent ache in your left leg flared. Pain shot upward, digging into your hip like a dagger, but you fought to stay upright. The agony was a minor inconvenience today.  

Today was the day.  

Your heart pounded harder, matching the rhythmic throb in your leg. The memory of those elegant, looping letters tugged at your emotions, just as they had when you’d first received the note. Every time you touched the ink, you remembered his voice – smooth as honey, with that rich, radio charm, the voice that captivated thousands. But it wasn’t just a radio host’s voice.  

It was his voice. 

It was…Alastor’s. 

You never should’ve gotten involved. At first, it had all been so innocent, hadn’t it? You thought little of it – a mere curiosity – when your husband, a man who harboured such blatant hatred for “coloured folk,” began conducting business with Alastor, a man of Creole descent. It was scandalous in its own way, but you, ever the dutiful wife, entertained your husband’s association with grace.  

You were polite, respectful, keeping your eyes down and your words sweet. But slowly, ever so slowly, those polite gestures became something more.  

A fleeting brush of his hand, lingering longer than it should have. A shared smile, deeper than you intended. The space between you shrank until a single kiss shattered the fragile boundary you’d drawn. And now… 

Now… 

Tears blurred your vision, each drop falling onto the brittle paper and smudging the ink. The once-crisp words bled together, dark and dreary, as if the rain itself had swept across the page. A storm had gathered within you, just like that fateful night. You almost got caught. You and Alastor, locked in a forbidden moment, nearly discovered by your husband.  

The thought of your husband finding out, of him laying a hand on Alastor, made your blood run cold. You couldn’t stay.  

So you left.  

You left Alastor.  

A broken whimper escaped your lips as you stumbled forward, your body too weak, too damaged, to hold itself upright any longer. You caught yourself against the bookshelf, your trembling fingers gripping its edge, knuckles white. Every movement was agony. The bruises littering your skin throbbed with each breath, each heartbeat, a cruel reminder of the hell that had become your life.  

Lately, your husband returned home late, reeking of alcohol so pungent it seemed to burn your skin when he got too close. The man you once knew, once loved, had become something unrecognizable – a monster lurking behind a mask of daylight.  

You were trapped. A prisoner in your own home, your body marked by his rage, your soul shattered by the weight of your tight-lipped silence.  

The clock ticked steadily in the background, its rhythmic pulse mocking your stillness. You closed your eyes, wishing for a moment of peace, but even in the dark, the memories of Alastor haunted you. You hadn’t seen him since the day you walked out of his life. But weeks after, he appeared right on your doorstep, unannounced. His brown eyes were gentle with concern, only to have that warmth crack and harden when he saw the state you were in. His once soft brown eyes had turned into stone, his anger rippling beneath the surface as though it could tear the earth apart.  

He tore a piece of newspaper he had in his pocket and scribbled a message before handing it to you. His eyes narrowing when he saw the striped bruises around your wrist. He hadn’t said a single word to you, other than the two words that seared into your heart: 

You’re mine.  

The clock struck three, and slowly, painfully you opened your one good eye – the other swollen shut from the brutal fist that had come down on you after you refused your husband’s demands. You had denied him access to your body – denied him your so called “God-given wifely duties.” And this state you were in was your divine punishment. The bruises around your bony wrists were dark and vicious, branding you with your husband’s mark that trembled as you reached for the radio.  

Today – Alastor had asked you to tune in specifically today – and out of some stroke of luck, your husband was out of town. He hated when you listened to other men, even if it was just the radio. The idea of another voice in your ear, a voice that wasn’t his, filled him with blind rage.  

You took a quick glance at the window, letting out a brief sigh of relief that your husband was still away. Your fingers hovered over the dial, and with a soft click, the radio crackled to life. Static filled the room, but then, through the distortion, came a voice that made your breath catch in your throat. 

His voice.  

“…and now, I have a special message for the lucky lady tuning in!” 

Alastor’s familiar, jaunty tone spilled through the speakers, wrapping around you like a warm embrace, like the gentlest touch on your battered soul. You bit your lip, stifling a sob as tears welled up, your body shaking with the need to cry out. It had been so long. Too long since you’d heard his voice.  

“A-Al…” you tried to whisper, but your voice was hoarse, cracked from the screams you’d muffled in the night. Your lips were raw and bruised, but even with the pain, you smiled. It was small, fragile, but it was a smile nonetheless. Because here, in this small moment, you had him again. His voice, his presence, filling the void left by your husband who only knew how to hurt you.  

Closing your eyes, you sank onto the floor, legs giving out as you rested your head against the cool wood of the shelf. Alastor’s voice filled the room, filled you, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let yourself feel – let yourself be held by the words of the man who had once shown how gentle and beautiful love could be.  

You tuned in, just as he had asked, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t alone.  

“Ma chère, I still remember your warm eyes that gazed only at me, steadfast and unwavering, filled with wonder and bright cheer. Your voice, a sweet melody, that I could listen to daily and never tire of. Ah – but if I may be so bold to confess, ma chère, it is your smile that visits my dreams. It is your smile that keeps me company daily, it is your smile that I miss…” 

His words hit you like a wave, crashing against the fragile wall you’d built around yourself. Your smile, once warm and bright, slowly withered. The first tear trailed down your cheek, hot and burning, followed by another, and then another, each one faster than the last as you bit down on your lip, suppressing the sob threatening to escape.  

“I miss your smile too…Alastor,” you whispered, lips quivering, forcing the words through the pain. For a moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend you were strolling though a sunlit park with him by your side, hidden from the eyes of the world. But reality, cold and merciless, clawed at your throat, dragging out a small, broken whimper.  

“… Ma chère, my sweet, my love,” Alastor’s voice dipped lower, his tone like velvet through the static of the radio. If you closed your eyes now, you could almost feel him – standing behind you, his breath warm against your ear, whispering his sweet, honeyed words. Words that once filled your heart with joy now felt like they might tear you apart. “A day without you is bleak, but a future without you is…” His voice wavered, a beat of silence, as if he was fighting to get the next words out.  

“Hell.” 

That single word, harsh and broken, cut through the crackling static like a knife. You flinched, the pain radiating from your chest as if someone had reached in and twisted your heart.  

There was another stretch of silence. The white noise filled the room, deafening, until finally, his voice returned –softer, aching. “My love,” he whispered, “if you would allow me to see you once more, to brush my fingers down your lovely cheek, to gaze into those bright smiling eyes, then I vow… I would move Heaven and Earth for you. I would be everything you want and more. And there will never be a day when you must endure the chilling embrace of an unworthy touch, nor a single night of agony. This, I promise. I vow to you, ma chère, if you would only give me the honour to be worthy of your love.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, teeth chattering as you let his words wash over you, seeping into your tired bones. He was offering you everything. Love, protection, a life free from the horrors you endure every day. But didn’t he know? Didn’t he understand that this love was doomed from the start? You were already married, bound by vows to a man who made your life a living nightmare. A love like this – your love with Alastor – could never survive. It wasn’t meant to.  

And yet…yet, like always, Alastor had planted a dream within you, a sweet, dangerous seed that promised bountiful harvests of love, of tenderness, of a life you’d only dared to imagine in the darkness of the night. How could you not reach for it? How could you not want to believe in it, despite everything? 

Your fingers tightened around the scrap of newspaper, the brittle paper crumpling in your hand as you tried to stop the flow of your tears. Yet, it was no use as the tears continued to stream down your face, stinging your bruised eye. You pressed your trembling hand to your lips, your skin still raw and split from your husband’s violence, as if trying to hold in the cry steadily building inside you.  

But you couldn’t hold it back. Not anymore.  

A wail tore from your throat, loud, agonizing, your body wracked with sobs as the flood of tears spilled out, unchecked and relentless. It was too much. The love, the longing, the pain – it all crashed down, drowning you in its biting cold tide.  

You loved him. You loved him. You loved…him.  

The truth of it echoed in your mind, in your soul, and as if he could hear your heart’s desperate cry, Alastor’s voice broke through the storm of your agony, as soft and tender as the touch you craved.  

“My sweetest dear,” he murmured through the radio, his voice filled with the words you had both been too afraid to speak during all your stolen moments together. “I love you.” 

It was the confession you had waited for, the one you never dared hope to hear. And at that moment, despite the bruises, despite the pain, despite the impossible weight of your circumstances, you believed him.  

And you loved him back.  

You bowed low, forehead pressed against the floor, your tears soaking into the polished wood, staining it with sorrow. The ache in your heart was unbearable, sharp and unrelenting, a pain deeper than any bruise your husband could leave on your skin.  

This love – it hurt. It hurt in ways you had never imagined. The realization cut through you like a blade: loving someone you could never have, never be with, was a torture far worse than any physical blow.  

Oh, it hurt.  

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body, too exhausted to endure any longer, curled onto its side. Just for a moment, you needed rest. Just for a moment, you wanted to escape the reality of your life – the bruises, the pain, the suffocating hopelessness.  

In your mind, you reached for Alastor, imagining him beside you, his arms encircling you with warmth, his voice lulling you into a peaceful slumber. A world where his love was real, tangible, and the pain that haunted you every night simply vanished.  

He promised you everything in those dreams – tenderness, devotion, a life free from fear. And as his voice played softly through the radio, talking about the weather, the sports, the latest hot gossip, you let the tears dry on your cheeks. His voice, so familiar and comforting, pulled you from the edge of despair, if only for a little while.  

For the first time in what felt like eternity, a small, fragile smile curved your lips. It had been so long since you felt any semblance of peace. So long since you could rest without the constant grip of terror choking you.  

As your consciousness began to slip away, sinking into the embrace of sleep, Alastor’s voice faded with it, the steady cadence of his words slowly disappearing into the background. The surrounding darkness wasn’t frightening this time – it was welcoming, calm. There were no screams here, no pain.  

Only him.  

But before you fully drifted away, his voice lifted again, bright and animated, his thick transatlantic accent dancing through the radio 

“Now, dear listeners, before I end my segment, please do take care! Word on the street is that the notorious Bayou Butcher is prowling the streets, and the past several victims all appeared to be married men! Haha!” 

The words hung in the air, but you were too far gone to hear the dark twist of humour in his tone. Too far gone to realize what it might mean. Your last thought, before sleep claimed you, was of Alastor, and how much you wished – how much you needed – to be in his arms, far away from the world that was tearing you apart.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

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#234: build mickey's dick smasher between east and west stave

🍷dregsconfessions

So I've been a dregs member for a long time (I'm in my 30s now) and back when I was a new grunt I was especially trolleyed at the Crow Club, and I ended up spilling like half my pint on the head of one of Haskell's feral little runners, yk one of the little kids?? I just kind of mopped him with my sleeve and said sorry and figured that it was the end of it... however it has occurred to me lately that it actually might have been Kaz. Honestly I never could tell the difference between all the kids, and I didn't look properly at him, but now I've been waking up in a cold sweat several times a week thinking about it. Is it time for me to retire from the gang life

#submisson #admin comment: lately all of these have just been ppl embarrassing themselves in front of kaz

🧇 stroopwafels

There's definitely blogs on here that are undercover advertising for the Dregs btw. I accuse that one that thirstposts abt Dirtyhands

🧤 dirtyhandsy follow

:( no I'm a Razorgull actually

🧇 stroopwafels

WHAT???????

🧤 dirtyhandsy follow

I have eyes :/

🧇 stroopwafels

You won't for much longer if your boss finds out omfg

🃏 makkerswheelies follow

you guys are cowards for not wanting to fuck Brekker. Out of my way ghezenboy I'm bout to get it

🃏 makkerswheelies follow

My wallet is Gone

💀 dregsundrained follow

Kaz Brekker isn't violent. Dirtyhands is. Get it right

🏵️ cillasfryup

Gonna rob a bank tomorrow and when the stadwatch come I'm gonna tell them it was my alter ego Countess Boochie Flagrante

🙏🏻 thumbofghezen follow

sooooo sick of seeing people say that the council of tides shouldn't have complete control over kerch shipping. they stop the island from sinking??? every day?? have some respect

⛲ sanktvladimirs

idk about you guys but I'd be popping the BIGGEST bottles if kerch started sinking

🏵️ cillasfryup

me and the girls when kerch starts sinking

🌊 boekcanaling

staff please let me reblog ads please please please please

💪🏻 lionsroar12 follow

guys you have 24 hours to unfollow sanktvladimirs not only are they impersonating and mocking real etherealki and real saints (they are NOT a member of the second army) they're a dregs member, and I bet they're a fucking ka/nej too

⛲ sanktvladimirs

@ dregsofficial

💪🏻 lionsroar12 follow

I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT

💪🏻 lionsroar12 follow

WHO SENT ME AN ANON ASK WITH MY ADDRESS

🍷dregsundrained

guys I was looking at the wiki contributions who the fuck added a jesper fahey page to the dregs wiki... from inside the stadhall???

🥳 pearlhandledrevolvers

you know what. don't even worry about it

liked by dregsofficial

🍃 squallertales follow

the wraith was only seventeen when she started hunting slavers???? she should have been at the club

#DON'T crawl out of the woodwork and say 'oh the crow club-' #the REAL CLUB. for FUN

🎨 dekappelfan follow

🎨 dekappelfan follow

it's so nice to know no one agrees on this

[prettyundeadgirl]

Love Like Ghosts

│Track One of Strange Trails

Summary: Within the night, an inebriated Arthur returns. You take care of him, and when morning arrives, he realizes how in love he really is.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.0k

Tags: Fluff

AO3 Link

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated! :)

The silver moon, curved like a bear’s sharp claw, shone a hazy glow through the lattice of leaves in the caliginous night. Branches swayed peacefully in the breeze, and amid the grassy land, water coalesced atop the mire earth. Hidden in the wavering stalks, a small orchestra of katydids performed their stridulations.

Everyone had scattered to greet their awaiting slumber, and you remained awake, sitting on the stairs and leaning against the firm wooden pillar with nature’s veins strangling it. You were engrossed in a book Mary-Beth had lent to you—one she had owned the longest and must’ve been a personal favorite, you figured from the frayed edges of the spine and the worn pages. It had been your solace for the time being, distracting you from your ceaseless worrying about Arthur’s absence and staving off the encroaching drowsiness. The lantern beside you illuminated enough light for you to read the tiny printed letters.

Time flowed like a river, and you grew inevitably weary, eyelids beginning to close until you heard steady hooves clomping in the muddy grounds near the entrance. The sound resonated throughout the area as it came closer and closer. Arthur returned, almost falling as he tried to dismount his horse. He hitched the reins to the hitching post, all the while holding a bottle devoid of whiskey in his other hand. You closed the tattered book in haste and doused the lantern, rushing toward him.

“Oh, Arthur, I’ve been worried sick.” You admitted.

“Why?” He asked, practically tripping over his own steps.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ I care about you. More than you know.” Your voice was laced with much sincerity, and you stated your words in confidence, realizing he wouldn’t remember anything by morning. He looked into your soft gaze for a moment, his befuddled state along with the lack of light dulling your worried expression. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” He let himself acquiesce to your words, and you placed his arm across your shoulders to give him as much support as you could offer.

“You look pretty tonight.” He slurred, and although you smiled and blushed at the compliment, you still rolled your eyes, knowing he was drunk and those words possibly held no truth.

Entering the once charming and grandiose manor that is now timeworn, veiled in the overgrowth of untouched green and merely a tomb contained with memories of the ones who inhabited it before, you guided him through the dark. Strangely, it provided a sense of comfort and safety, though not as much as Arthur did during your time with the gang.

The old stairs creaked in protest as you went up, and there was the occasional trip or two from Arthur, with a small chuckle following after. Pushing open the door revealed his cozy room, which was bathed in the soft gleam of moonlight filtered through the begrimed windowpanes and casting shadows on the walls. You removed his hat, placing it on the table nearby, and then, with careful and tender hands, you unbuckled his gun belt. It clinked as it came in contact with the wooden table. You laid him down and removed his boots, and when his eyes closed, you slowly pressed a small kiss on his forehead.

As you turned to make your way downstairs, a weak grip on your hand prevented you from doing so.

“Stay.” He murmured. “Please.”

“Why?” You repeated it in the same tone he had given you before.

“‘Cause I…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence for his half-mast eyes had spoken beyond what he could not, and deep within the beating chambers of your heart you knew what it was and felt the same.

You let out a sigh, “Move over.”

He provided as much room as the tight-fitted bed allowed, and as you lay side by side, he pulled you closer into him, arm twined around your waist, the space once between now nonexistent. There was a strong musk that was woven into the linen of his clothes, amalgamated with the scent of heady whiskey, and it wrapped around you with familiarity. You rested against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall and hearing the drum of his heart against your ear, its rhythm growing faster as you placed your knee on his hip. 

His love for you was a quiet thing; it’s unrelenting and inevitable, yet everyone knew and talked about it. He harbored so much of it for you that it seemed to overflow in his drunken state, though it could only be expressed through actions such as placing the gentlest of kisses on your head, taking in the freshly washed scent of your hair, and holding you as close as he could. In your arms, there was a sense of comfort and peace that he hadn’t felt in a long time and never knew he had been missing in his life, and he was lulled into a calming sleep.

In the early wake of dawn, he hadn’t remembered much from the night as it was, for the most part, a disoriented blur, but he did recall your benevolent disposition, and he didn’t understand why you were so kind to him and always made an effort to look after his well-being. He always appreciated it nonetheless.

He had also recalled the vibrant color of your eyes in your gaze—irises deep and atlantic. He felt as though he could fall through them, following their course and soon getting lost in the darkness that lay beneath. They were endless and almost confusing, and he’d spend an eternity figuring out the mystery of them. A simple glance into your eyes, whether inebriated or not, would make the relentless, gloomy ruminations that sat in his mind scatter away.

He felt your warm presence alongside him, turning his head to your beautiful slumbering visage—peaceful and in bliss—that began his matutinal admiration. It was mesmerizing; you were mesmerizing to him. Every inch of you was, and he longed to live in this moment forever.

He wondered what he had said or done last night for you to end up in his bed and how he wished he could remember that part of the night. He relished the moment for a bit longer, tucking the wisps of hair behind your ear before reluctantly leaving.