#plunk extend

[bueckersleftbraid]

”— Not For Real

WC: just abt 4.0k (trust it’s good even tho it’s short)

paring: pazzi ofc 🤗

warnings: ummm fluff, fake dating, rom com ass moments, paige lowkey being stupid

authors notes —> hi!! here is this. I sort of love it so I hope you do too! I wrote this quick so my apologies for how short it is but it’s very cutesy

THE PITCH

The coffee shop was nearly empty except for a few students buried in their laptops and an older couple sharing a newspaper by the window. Paige slid into the booth, her cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a takeout cup in one hand and skepticism written all over her face.

Azzi was already there, lounging like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other and an unread book open in front of her like a decoy. Her sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on top of her head, her dark curls pulled back in a loose bun. She didn’t look frantic or upset — not the way her text had sounded— “Emergency. Meet me at Haven. Bring caffeine.”

“Alright,” Paige said, plunking her drink down. “I came. I caffeinated. What’s the ‘emergency’?”

Azzi gave her a look, one brow quirked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was holding back a grin. Paige didn’t trust that expression. Azzi was rarely panicked. Calculated? Yes. Hyper-competitive? Definitely. But desperate?

Something was up.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Paige blinked. “You—what?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “Just for a few weeks.”

Paige sat back, stunned. “This is a joke.”

“I’m completely serious.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that stretched and pulled like taffy. Paige stared, trying to figure out if Azzi had finally lost it.

Azzi’s tone was matter-of-fact. “My sister’s wedding is in three weeks. My parents are hosting half the extended family. And last year—because I was being cornered by four aunties asking why I was single—I might’ve said I was dating someone. Someone serious.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say it was you,” Azzi added quickly. “But now they want to meet her. And I panicked. And I may have shown them a photo from our joint charity game last summer. You looked good.”

“You—what?”

“I didn’t think they’d remember! But now they’re asking if you’re coming. And since I hate lying—”

“You’re literally lying right now,” Paige interrupted.

“—I figured it’s less lying if it’s you,” Azzi said, flashing a smile that could only be described as weaponized charm.

Paige stared at her like she’d grown another head.

She and Azzi had never been friends, not exactly. Their relationship existed in a gray area between reluctant allies and rivals. They knew each other’s weak spots. They pushed each other during games, sparred during interviews, and occasionally made nice at league events. There had always been tension there — a kind that hovered just on the edge of something else.

But this?

“Why me?” Paige asked finally.

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her expression turned serious — sincere in a way that Paige rarely saw from her.

“Because you can handle it,” she said. “My family can be… intense. They’ll ask questions. They’ll pry. I need someone who’s smart, quick, and can improvise. You’re the only person I trust not to crack.”

Paige felt a strange flicker of pride at that, which she quickly smothered. She hated how Azzi’s approval always stirred something in her.

“I don’t know,” Paige said, eyeing her warily. “What’s in it for me?”

Azzi smiled, like she’d been expecting that.

“I’ll owe you. Big time. I’ll even owe you publicly, if you want. You name the favor. I’ll make it happen.”

Paige took a slow sip of her latte, weighing her options. She could walk away. Tell Azzi she was out of her mind and let her deal with the fallout.

But instead, she said, “I want your warm-up playlist.”

Azzi went still.

“…You’re not serious.”

“I am deadly serious,” Paige replied. “The one you play with the wireless earbuds. The one you turn off the second someone gets too close. You give me that playlist, and I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Azzi looked betrayed. “That’s like—sacred. That’s mine.”

Paige smirked. “Then maybe you should’ve asked someone else to fake date you.”

Azzi muttered something under her breath and stared down at her coffee like it had betrayed her too. Then she sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone.

She scrolled, tapped, and then held it out. “You’re the worst.”

“I try,” Paige said, gleefully accepting the transfer.

There was a strange beat of silence after that, as if both of them realized this was no longer hypothetical. Azzi sat back, a little too calm again.

“So,” Paige said cautiously, “how exactly does this work?”

Azzi raised a brow. “We ease into it. Coffee shops, casual photos, a couple of public run-ins. We soft-launch the relationship by next weekend. Then the wedding. A few smiling family photos. Some lingering looks. Maybe even a dance. Two weeks after that, we stage a quiet breakup. Friendly. Mutual. Devastatingly mature.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’ve thought this through.”

Azzi gave her a crooked grin. “You have no idea.”

THE ACT

Fake dating, Paige quickly realized, required a surprising amount of coordination.

There were rules, schedules, contingencies. Texts needed timestamps. Stories had to match. They spent an entire afternoon building a believable relationship history — from their “first coffee after a preseason scrimmage” to their “accidental slow dance at a teammate’s birthday party.” Paige had never spent so much time with Azzi without the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood in the background.

And somehow, being around her without the structure of basketball— just sitting close on a couch, laptops open, occasionally stealing each other’s fries— felt more intimate than anything else they’d ever done.

It was during brunch on the first Saturday of the plan that things started to feel…off.

Not bad off. Just different.

Their table was tucked into the corner of a sunlit café that Paige didn’t usually frequent— the kind of place with overpriced avocado toast and artisanal jam in tiny glass jars. She kept checking the window, half-expecting someone to recognize them.

Azzi, meanwhile, looked utterly unbothered. 

She was dressed in a soft brown sweater that brought out the warm undertones in her skin, her hair loose for once, curls brushing her shoulders. She’d insisted on sitting next to Paige instead of across from her — “Couples sit side-by-side. Optics.” — and now, her knee kept brushing Paige’s beneath the table like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

Paige was hyper-aware of every point of contact: the press of Azzi’s shoulder, the occasional light touch on her wrist when Azzi laughed at something she said. And then there was the moment— the one Paige didn’t know how to explain— when Azzi reached across the table and gently, casually, brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“Missed a spot,” she said, voice low, like it was just for her.

Paige stared, momentarily frozen. She barely managed a sarcastic “Thanks, Mom,” just to defuse the tension in her own chest.

Azzi only smirked.

Then— in full view of the table across from them— she reached down and laced her fingers through Paige’s.

Paige’s pulse jumped.

“What are you doing?” she hissed under her breath.

Azzi tilted her head. “Handholding. Basic public display. You want this to be convincing, right?”

“This is—” Paige trailed off, unable to find a word that didn’t sound like denial. Her fingers stayed tangled in Azzi’s for a beat longer than necessary before she forced herself to look away.

Convincing. Right. This was just for show.

But it felt like something else.

____

Later that evening, they found themselves scrolling through Instagram together on Azzi’s couch, reviewing what Azzi referred to as “launch content.” It had been Paige’s idea to soft-launch their relationship through stories and casual posts — enough to stir curiosity without a hard announcement. “Let the public fill in the blanks,” she’d said. “It’ll feel more real if people think they caught it happening.”

Azzi had been disturbingly into that idea.

“Okay,” Paige said, reviewing a photo Azzi had taken earlier — the two of them walking away from the café, arms looped together. It was slightly blurry, clearly taken from behind. “This one looks stolen. Paparazzi vibe.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Tag it or leave it?”

Paige sighed. “Leave it. Keep them guessing.”

Azzi grinned, but her voice was quieter when she added, “You’re good at this.”

Paige didn’t look up. “At lying to the world?”

“At making it believable,” Azzi said. “Too believable, maybe.”

There was a silence between them.

Paige felt it stretch again — like the space between words you want to say but don’t know how to. The room was warm, too warm, and she suddenly became very aware of the fact that they were sitting closer than strictly necessary.

She risked a glance over.

Azzi was already looking at her.

Paige swallowed hard. “You’re kind of good at this, too.”

Azzi arched a brow. “Kind of?”

Paige shook her head, eyes flicking away.“Unfairly good.”

A smirk tugged at Azzi’s lips, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nudged Paige’s knee lightly with her own. “Don’t overthink it, Bueckers. Just follow my lead.”

That sentence echoed in Paige’s head for the rest of the night.

____

The first real test came the following weekend— a casual dinner with some of Azzi’s extended family visiting early for the wedding.

Paige had told herself she was prepared. She’d practiced their story, remembered names, even rehearsed a few go-to anecdotes. But nothing prepared her for the way Azzi introduced her:

“This is Paige,” Azzi had said, voice softening at the edges. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

It shouldn’t have hit Paige in the chest the way it did. But the pride in Azzi’s voice, the way she slipped an arm around her waist like it was second nature, it all felt too natural.

Too easy.

“You’re even prettier in person,” Azzi’s aunt said with a warm smile, making Paige blush hard enough to want to hide under the table.

“She is, isn’t she?” Azzi replied, grinning, and Paige gave her a warning glance that Azzi absolutely ignored.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation, wine, and shared glances that lingered a little too long. At one point, someone brought up future plans — careers, cities, and timelines — and Paige heard herself say something about “we’re figuring things out,” and Azzi didn’t correct her.

She just nodded. Like it was true.

Like it could be.

That night, after the guests had gone and they were back on the couch, Paige kicked off her heels and flopped backward with a groan. “I deserve an Oscar.”

Azzi collapsed next to her, eyes half-lidded from wine and exhaustion. “They love you already.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“You were perfect,” Azzi said quietly, not teasing for once. “Natural.”

Paige turned her head to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Sometimes I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige’s breath caught.

For a moment, the room felt too still. The words hung between them like something fragile — something dangerous.

“Don’t,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t what?” Azzi asked.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

Azzi looked at her. Really looked. Then — just as softly — said, “Maybe I do.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She didn’t move.

She just let the words sit there, tucked between them on the couch, daring her to pick a side.

THE SHIFT

Paige had faced playoff pressure before. She’d stood at the free throw line with a championship on the line, heard arenas scream her name, stared down defenders with everything at stake.

And still, nothing made her feel quite as unsteady as walking into Azzi’s childhood home.

The place was beautiful — all warm wood and framed memories, the scent of something sweet in the air — but it wasn’t the house itself that threw her.

It was the fact that everyone knew who she was.

“Oh my god, the girlfriend!”

“You’re even cuter than the photos!”

“I heard she plays just as well as Azzi — is that true?”

“Do you want to see baby pictures?!”

Azzi watched it all unfold with thinly veiled amusement, her arm a steady presence at Paige’s back. She was too calm. Too smooth. Like she’d always known Paige would say yes. Like she’d planned for this exact moment.

Paige leaned toward her as soon as they had a sliver of privacy in the hallway. “Your family’s intense.”

“I warned you,” Azzi said with a smirk, then added, “You’re handling it like a pro.”

“I’m dying inside.”

Azzi bumped her shoulder. “You look great while doing it.”

The rehearsal dinner was the first real blow.

Paige had worn a soft cream dress that Azzi couldn’t seem to stop staring at — not that she ever said anything outright, just a glance too long when Paige wasn’t looking, or a compliment murmured so low it felt like a secret.

They sat together at the head table, posing for casual couple photos, telling rehearsed stories about “how we met” and “our first date,” laughing too easily, leaning in like magnets.

But it was during the toasts— when the groom’s brother started talking about soulmates— that Paige glanced over and caught Azzi watching her.

Not with amusement. Not with performance.

But with something soft. Bare. Real.

It was the kind of look no one gives unless they mean it.

Paige looked away, heart thudding in her chest, guilt bubbling like carbonation in her ribs. This was fake. This was supposed to stay fake.

But suddenly, she didn’t know if Azzi had ever drawn the line. And worse — she didn’t know if she had either.

____

That night, in the guest room down the hall, Paige lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.

She thought of how Azzi had casually brushed her hair over her shoulder earlier. Of the way she’d poured her wine without asking. Of how she’d reached for Paige’s hand in the dark when no one was watching.

This was the most dangerous part of the lie: the moments that didn’t serve the story. The things that weren’t for anyone else.

And then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

She sat up. “Yeah?”

Azzi peeked through the door. She wasn’t in her dress anymore— just a pair of shorts and an old tee, her curls pulled back loosely, her expression unreadable. “You decent?”

“Depends on your definition,” Paige said, forcing a weak smile.

Azzi stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Paige watched her carefully. “Me either.”

There was a long pause.

Azzi broke it, quietly. “Can I tell you something?”

Paige nodded.

“I didn’t think this would get to me.” Azzi looked down, fiddling with a ring on her finger. “It was supposed to be simple. Clean. Controlled.”

“But it’s not.”

“No,” Azzi said. “It’s not.”

Paige felt her heart tug, just a little. “You’re not the only one.”

Azzi looked up at that— eyes locking onto hers, something raw flickering behind them. “When I look at you, Paige…” She stopped. Swallowed. “I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She just sat there, frozen, every nerve in her body firing at once.

Azzi crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Paige could see the tension in her shoulders. “You can tell me to stop. You can tell me it’s just a role. But I need you to know I’m not pretending anymore.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then, quietly— like a truth Paige had been holding in for days— she said, “I don’t want to pretend either.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You mean that?”

Paige nodded, voice shaking. “Yeah. I do.”

____

The next day was chaos. Wedding prep. Final fittings. Tears and champagne and frantic flower girls. But somehow, through it all, Paige and Azzi found pockets of stillness.

A touch on the back as they passed each other.

A whispered joke during a photo session.

A look— held too long— when no one else was looking.

By the time the dance floor opened and Azzi reached for her hand, Paige didn’t hesitate.

They danced slow. Intimate. Their arms wrapped around each other like second nature.

“Everyone’s watching,” Paige murmured, her cheek brushing Azzi’s.

Azzi’s hand tightened at her waist. “Let them.”

“I feel like we’re supposed to kiss or something.”

Azzi paused. “Do you want to?”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Not because we’re supposed to. Only if it’s real.”

Azzi looked at her like she’d already made that choice.

And then, quietly, deliberately— she kissed her.

Soft at first. Like a question. Then with more certainty, like she already knew the answer.

When they pulled apart, Paige didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispered.

Azzi smiled. “Good.”

____

The kiss didn’t shatter anything.

It settled something. Quiet and unforced, it slipped between them like a puzzle piece finally falling into place. Not a performance, not a statement— just Paige and Azzi, wrapped in music and low light, eyes closed to the world and open only to each other.

And then, slowly, the moment passed.

They pulled apart, breath brushing between them, eyes locked. Paige blinked first.

Someone behind them cheered— not for them, for the newlyweds— and the real world came rushing back.

But nothing about them felt fake anymore.

They didn’t talk about the kiss right away.

Paige needed space to think. She slipped away from the reception after midnight, half-drunk on champagne and adrenaline, and found herself sitting on the venue’s back steps, heels dangling from her hand.

She was running her thumb over the lip of a glass when Azzi found her.

“You always disappear after the good parts,” Azzi said, voice soft as she stepped into the night.

Paige didn’t look over. “Wasn’t sure if it was a good part.”

Azzi sat beside her. Close, but not touching. “It was for me.”

That quiet admission settled in Paige’s chest like warmth in cold hands.

She exhaled. “I don’t know where the line is anymore.”

Azzi didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I think it’s gone.”

Paige finally turned to look at her.

Azzi’s hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from dancing. Her eyes, though, were steady. “This stopped being fake a while ago. We just didn’t want to be the first to say it.”

Paige bit her lip. “And now?”

“Now I want to know what it looks like when it’s not a performance.”

There was no crowd to play to here. No family. No cameras. Just moonlight, soft music from inside, and two people trying to find their footing.

“I’m scared it’s not different enough,” Paige admitted. “That it’ll feel the same, and somehow that’ll make it less real.”

Azzi reached for her hand. “Then we make it different.”

“How?”

“Let’s start with this.” Azzi’s voice was calm but certain. “Tomorrow— no stories. No setups. We go on a real date. Just you and me.”

“No pretending?”

“No pretending.”

Paige nodded slowly, almost like a dare to herself. “Okay.”

Azzi smiled. “Okay.”

____

They danced again before the night ended.

Not for show, not for pictures. Just the two of them, alone near the edge of the floor, slow-swaying to a song no one else was paying attention to. Azzi’s arms were loose around her waist, and Paige let her forehead rest against Azzi’s collarbone.

No eyes on them.

No script.

No lie.

Just a beginning — unspoken, but undeniably real.

THE RAIN

The wedding glow didn’t last.

Maybe it was the travel. Or the shift back to real life. Or the fact that what had started as a joke— a fake relationship to get through a weekend— had suddenly become something far too delicate to joke about.

Whatever it was, by the time they were back home, something between them had changed.

Paige pulled away first.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. It was subtle— fewer texts, fewer “just because” calls, excuses about being tired, busy, overwhelmed. She showed up late to dinner one night and didn’t lean in when Azzi brushed her hand.

Azzi noticed every beat of it. Every flinch. Every pause.

But she didn’t push.

Not yet.

____

“You good?” Azzi asked one night, when they were sitting side by side on Paige’s couch, a game on the TV, untouched.

Paige didn’t look over. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Paige let out a short breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With me?”

“With any of this.”

Azzi paused. “You want out?”

“No. Yes.” Paige rubbed her face, eyes burning. “I don’t know.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

Because what could she say, when Paige was already slipping through her fingers?

____

The next few days were worse.

Paige stopped answering. Not just texts — calls, too. She skipped their usual Sunday shootaround. She didn’t invite Azzi to the fundraiser dinner they’d planned to go to together. She didn’t say anything was wrong.

She just stopped showing up.

____

It was raining when Azzi finally found her.

Not a soft drizzle— a downpour, the kind that soaked through clothes in seconds, that made the whole world feel like it was breaking open.

Azzi didn’t care.

She stood outside Paige’s building, coat already heavy with rain, hair clinging to her face, and poundedon the buzzer until someone let her in.

She didn’t call first.

She didn’t text.

She just knocked on Paige’s door, hard, until it opened.

Paige stared at her, stunned. She was barefoot in a hoodie, face pale and tired, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Azzi didn’t wait.

“You don’t get to ghost me,” she said, soaked and furious. “Not after all of that.”

Paige swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No. You were. And I let you. Because I thought maybe you needed space, but now I’m standing here in a storm, and I’m not leaving until you say whatever it is you’re afraid to say.”

Paige’s voice cracked. “This isn’t going to work.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“This thing. Us.” Paige stepped back like she couldn’t bear her own words. “It was supposed to be fake. We were never meant to be real. It’s too much. It’s too fast. And I��m going to mess it up.”

Azzi took a step inside. “You’re not messing it up. You’re running from it.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just scared.”

Paige’s eyes welled up, but she held her ground. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Azzi. Not with anyone. I don’t know what it looks like to let it be real.”

Azzi stood there, soaked to the skin, heart wide open. “You want to know what it looks like?”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi closed the space between them. “It looks like me, right now, standing here completely drenched, because I love you so much I couldn’t not come. It looks like two people terrified out of their minds choosing each other anyway.”

Paige froze.

Azzi’s voice dropped. “I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Paige stepped forward— one shaky, breathless step— and kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking.

And in the middle of it, she whispered, “I love you too.”

____

Later, they lay tangled on the couch, wrapped in towels and each other, the storm still whispering against the windows.

Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing to explain.

Because for the first time, nothing was pretend.

And neither of them was running.

[thecapricunt1616]

Sunday - (Chef Luca One-Shot)

𝒮𝓃𝒾𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉 (𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐵𝒯𝒞!): Sunday. The one day a week that Noma is closed. The one day a week that your sweet, sunshiney boy got to stay home with you and ‘rot away in bed together all day’ as you called it which always gave him a good chuckle. But he loved these days, the relaxation and peace of waking up with you and having nothing on his plate felt like a taste of heaven every single week. This Sunday was no different. It was nearing 7 now, so you knew Luca would be up soon. Being the sweetheart you always were to him (since he of course deserved it) you padded quietly into the small kitchen of your shared house boat and clicked on the electric kettle.

♡ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It is you & Lucas favorite day of the week, Sunday, Noma is closed and you get to rot all day long in bed together <3 ♡ 𝐖/𝐂: 2.6K+ ♡ 𝐀/𝐍: Helloooooo!!! I am sorry to all those rotting away in my inbox Luca in S3 gave me insatiable brain worms im still working through forgive me!! I hope this Luca yumminess keeps you satiated while I continue working on requests! This man is a sweet fluffy golden retriever in my mind so thats how he's written! Hope you enjoy :D ♡ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐓𝐂: Fluff, Smut, Unprotected PV sex, Reader has a vagina & is referred to as 'sweet girl', No use of y/n, Size kink (Luca HAS to be hung. like theres no way he isnt.)

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

Sunday. The one day a week that Noma is closed. The one day a week that your sweet, sunshiney boy got to stay home with you and ‘rot away in bed together all day’ as you called it which always gave him a good chuckle. But he loved these days, the relaxation and peace of waking up with you and having nothing on his plate felt like a taste of heaven every single week. This Sunday was no different. It was nearing 7 now, so you knew Luca would be up soon. Being the sweetheart you always were to him (since he of course deserved it) you padded quietly into the small kitchen of your shared house boat and clicked on the electric kettle. 

You plunked a chai bag in for yourself and an English breakfast tea bag into his mug and grabbed out the cream and honey. That was something he had started ever since you’d been dating. He thought it was strange at first, since his family always put little sugar cubes in his tea but he found it gave it a much more natural tasting sweetness when you added the honey for him. You were sure to get the kettle just before it screeched and heard the sounds of Luca turning over in bed, likely in search of you from where you left him on his side all curled into himself how you often found him after he’d fallen asleep holding you. 

“Darling?” His husky voice called. 

“Coming doll, just putting things away” you explained, putting the cream back in the fridge and cinnamon and honey back in the cupboard before grabbing both steaming mugs and heading back to bed. “Morning handsome” you said and he smiled a bit. 

“Morning love, what do I do to deserve you, hm?” He took his cup, placing it on the nightstand. “I would love to extend my gratitude in a kiss, do you accept?” He asked in that silly way he always knew would make you giggle, and of course you did. 

“I love you, c’mere dork” you set your tea down on your own bedside table and he swiftly pulls you into his lap, kissing all over your face and neck in sweet short pecks. “Oh my gosh! That tickles, Luc!” You laughed, shoulders curling up to save you from his tickle attack. 

“You said you accepted so accept!” He teased, wrapping his strong arms around your middle and kissed your jaw with one dramatic final peck and a mmmuah! Before resting his forehead on your temple and giving you a sweet kunik kiss “love you” he said softly and you felt your cheeks heating, turning and resting your forehead on his. 

“I love you, I think our tea should be drinkable now” you said and he gave you one more gentle peck before leaning against the headboard. 

“Look at that, cinnamon and everything” he said and took a sip from the steaming cup, humming in satisfaction. “Thank you darling” he rested his head back and shut his eyes, and it was your turn now to shower his pretty face in gentle affection, kissing each and every little freckle of his, being sure to kiss along the trail of stubble that had grown since he’d not shaved since yesterday morning. 

“Of course. Have I told you how gorgeous you are in the morning, Chef?” You mused, gently smoothing down his wild locks from the pillows during the night and sometimes nuzzled into your chest, since he was convinced that was the best pillow in the house. 

“You’ve said so before I believe” he joked, peeking an eye open at you adorably as you gently stroked his cheeks with cupped hands. “If you keep stroking me like a pet I’m going to fall back asleep, angel” he took another sip of his tea and this time when he rested his head back you left supple kisses on his closed lids, causing him to smile and blush a bit at the tickle feeling. 

“You deserve some more sleep sweets, nearly 14 hour days this week. My poor love, 80 hours is a killer workweek” you cooed, kissing his temple when he rested his face in the crook of your shoulder nuzzling you adorably and relishing in his well earned and much deserved attention. 

“Thought about you multiple times an hour every one of the 80” he said sweetly, planting a kiss on your collarbone. “And just how bad I missed you” he kissed your neck “in more ways than one” he nibbled just below your pulse point, resting his tea back on the nightstand and soothing over the bite with his tongue, the sting and warmth causing you to let out a small gasp. You couldn’t help the smirk forming on your lips, hand trailing back and finding his hair as you leaned into him. 

“Yeah? You wanna show how much you missed me baby?” You gently tug on his frizzy strands from the night and his warm hand trails over your abdomen, rucking up one of his t-shirts you’d stolen for bed and rubbing his flat warm hand over your belly. 

“I do, may I take these off love?” He thumbs at the waistband of your panties and you smile slightly at his constant need to not waste any time. 

“You can, baby” you lay back on your side of the bed and he swiftly tugs them off before laying between your plush thighs and ravaging them with kisses. You gently scratch his hair and his eyes fall shut as he nuzzled his face into your soft flesh, enjoying the warmth and comfort you offered after such a brutal week in the kitchen. 

“Love you” he mumbled again, before kissing your thigh down, down, down to where you were aching for him most. “Love you more then anything, princess.” He kissed over your nether lips with a gentle movement, easing his tongue on the outside of your folds and smirking into you as he felt you shiver beneath him. 

“Please” you breathe, tugging his hair. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, love. I always do” he spread you out with one of his large tattooed hands, admiring the look of your cunt which always brought heat to your cheeks. “So pretty” he muttered before licking a gentle, flat stripe up your hole that was already dripping wet, over your folds that he flicked with his tongue, up to your clit where he attached his pretty lips and sucked in a way that made your hips twitch and back arch. 

You let out a whiny moan, looking down at him to see his piercing blue eyes melting into yours, cheeks flush with lust as he gauged your every reaction. “Feels -ah- so- so good, Lu- I missed you so much this week fuck” your head dropped back to the pillow in bliss, eyes fluttering shut. He trailed his tongue down, lapping at your cunt while his adorable nose rubbed at your clit like a man starved. “Fuck I’m gonna cum” you gasped, tugging on his hair tighter “please- please fuck me, Lu. Wanna feel you I miss you” 

“Can I make you finish on my mouth, then I’ll fuck you?” He asked in that sweet, innocent way. Like he wasn’t asking about fucking you raw on a Sunday morning and instead was telling someone how many grams of sugar they need in their frosting. A genuine question,with his nose wet from your arousal like a puppy, if you said no he would get right to work. That was something about Luca, he knew his job was overly demanding - so the fact that you wait at home for him to only get a few short hours together before bed every night and this one precious day a week together - he wanted to be sure to give you whatever you wanted. 

“Please” you beg, pushing his face back where it was and moaning out when he continued tonguing your pussy as he rubbed your clit expertly with the bridge of his nose. “So perfect- god you’re so perfect Lu - so so strong, and- and smart- just like that baby” you gasped. He hummed at the praise and you knew his cheeks were gonna be bright pink by the time he finished with all this praise he was getting. “An- so pretty” you spread your thighs further “no one can get me off like you do, baby. I love you” you said and he gave you a wet kiss on your inner thigh in response and thanks for your praise before continuing. 

It wasn’t long until you were whining his name and clenching around his fingers he used to get you ready for him, since neither of you wanted to take things slow this morning and with Luca unless you were going very slow you had to prepare or things could end badly. Safe to say your boyfriend was blessed in his pants many times over, but after 9 months of being together you thankfully had gotten used to the large stretch it gives. “That’s it. What a good girl, sound so pretty when you cum, you know that angel? So beautiful” he cooed in your ear as his fingers worked you through your high, jaw lacks in a silent scream and brows furrowed at the intense pleasure. 

He kissed over your jaw and cheeks, stopping as soon as you whined it was too much. “What do you want darling” he cradled you, kissing your now sweaty forehead as you rested over him in post orgasmic bliss. 

“Want another just- just give me a second” you kiss his jaw lazily and rest your face on his shoulder. Legs and core still twitching every so often from your comedown “felt so good Lu, so good” you mumble, kissing his warm skin. 

“Yeah? I’m glad baby that’s what I’m here for” he rubbed your side lovingly and kissed the top of your warm head. “I’m ready for you whenever you are love, however you want mm?” He squeezed your hips gently. 

“Wanna ride you, you look so pretty under me” you said, eyes still closed and nuzzled in his neck so you couldn’t see the way his cock twitched - more like jumped - in his boxerbriefs - or how his blush extended all the way down to his toned chest. 

“Okay baby. But remember it’s ok if you can’t take it all, yeah?” He kissed your head gently and you look up at him through your lashes, nodding obediently. 

“But I still wanna try” you said softly. He cupped your cheek, rubbing his thumb over your jaw 

“You’re always so good to me, Angel” he gave your nose a gentle kiss and you giggled shyly, taking his hand and kissing his palm. 

“No that’s you. Cmon lay down pretty boy, it’s my turn to take over” you joked and sat up on your knees while he shuffled down getting comfortable on his back with a smile. 

“There’s lubricant in the side draw” he told you, resting his hands behind his head comfortably and you laughed, shaking your head and he looks at you. 

“What? What’s funny?” He asked and you giggle more.

“Lubricant. Its lube you British weirdo” you teased and he rolled his eyes with an amused smile, shaking his head 

“If I made fun of your accent nearly as much as you made fun of mine I don’t think you’d be very happy” he joked and you pulled open his bedside table, taking out said lube and setting it on the tabletop. 

“Cause I don’t have an accent. You're the one with an accent” you kissed his neck, gently nipping over bites that had healed from last Sunday as you trailed one of your hands into his boxers and tugged out his length, not caring to take them off since you were already straddling him. 

“Actually you would be the only one I know here that has an accent darling - strangely we don’t get many tourists around Noma” he teased as you squirted some lube into your palm before stroking him in your hand and he grunted softly “shit” he muttered and you smiled teasingly 

“From what I’ve been told, by you is that you love my accent and you think it’s sexy” you smiled, lining him up and sinking down just about half way, using his chest as leverage. “Fuckin hell Lu-“ you hissed at the stretch, and he grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his lips. 

“You don’t have to go all the way-“ he reminded you and you shook your head 

“I can fucking take it” you breathed, giving yourself a moment before sinking down another inch and he let out a moan 

“Ok- fuck- just- just don’t hurt yourself babe” he said, his breath coming out as warm comforting puffs over your intertwined fingers. 

“Feels so good- I just- let me move a little” you said and squeezed his hand as you slowly and gently move up and down over what you already had inside and you both moan in tandem, heads falling back and your thighs shaking at the overwhelming pleasure. “So fucking big” you gasp as you sat on him fully, pelvis’ flush together and he looks down, the sight alone causing his cock to twitch inside of you. 

“Jesus fuckin Christ” he looks up at you “how’s it feel?” He asked. You could barely even speak through the mind numbing pleasure that came with taking all of Luca. So instead you just take his palm and press it against your lower belly, beginning to ride him slow and careful and his mouth drops as he feels himself rutting in and out of you beneath his hand. 

“See how big you are, Lu? I can feel you in my stomach” you said hotly in his ear and he groans, grabbing the flesh of your ass and helping you move 

“I’m gonna cum- fuck you’re so warm darling I can’t-“ he moaned out and you giggled, kissing his jaw gently 

“So let go baby” you move yourself a bit quicker and harder with his help, squeaking when you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix lightly, jolting at the sharp sensation and clenching around him 

“Did I hurt you?” He asked quickly, slowing his movements and you shook your head bracing yourself on his shoulders and throwing your ass back on him harder - being sure to angle him up more so that wouldn’t happen 

“No- just happens sometimes when you’re big” you assured him and rolled your hips in a way that made his stomach clench and hand tighten around your wrist 

“Wow” he said, eyes nearly rolling back. You smiled at your newfound move and continued the action, alternating between quick and slow circles and he was sounding so pretty beneath you, whimpering “I’m- I’m gonna cum- fuck - Angel- can’t- i can’t” his breath becoming more ragged and tense. 

“Yeah? You wanna cum inside me. You gonna fill me up sweet boy?” You coo, kissing his neck and nipping gently. With a hot moan and a snap of his hips he was spilling inside of you, whispering the dirtiest filth in your ear of how no other girl has been able to take him how you do, and how your body was made for him and him only. Which of course brought you to the crux of your next orgasm and he just had to lightly play with your clit for a moment before you were crying out for him once again. 

Safe to say this activity was quickly added to the weekly Sunday roster.

[theseshipsshallsail]

MUSIC (THE SHORTHAND OF EMOTION)

It was his high school Latin professor who claimed one must be au fait with a number of languages in order to appreciate the world’s hidden meanings, and if Oliver’s learned anything in regards to the walking enigma known as Elio Samuel Perlman, it’s that while he may be fluent in English, French, and his native Italian, the medium of music remains his preferred method of communication; and via which, he expresses himself perfectly. 

The frustrated chords of Chopin and Rachmaninoff, for example, born of their initial games of cat-and-mouse. 

The melancholic strains of Elgar’s Nimrod when they were no longer speaking.

The beckoning call of Bach’s Capriccio when they were.

But then came the berm. A kiss that shocked him to the core. Two endless nights spent staring at the stars whilst Elio hammered away at the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys. Chain-smoking a pack of unfiltered Gauloises as he clung to his mantra of being good. Grateful. That what they had - a friendship unlike all others - would ultimately suffice.

Only it couldn’t.   

Of course it couldn’t.

Under the harsh Riviera sun he’d been reborn, and not even the threat of familial disownment was enough to prevent his leap into the unknown.

The music was different, after that.

After I’ll see you at midnight. 

After I don’t want you to go. 

After I spoke to your father. He’s happy to extend my stay. 

It was richer. 

Brighter. 

Infused in every carefree giggle: tap-tap-tapped over his too-full heart in the burnished light of dawn.

And Oliver? He loves it. 

Loves him. 

The inscrutable maestro who toppled his house of cards, and whose unconditional acceptance settled deep and warm and forever in his rib cage.

They’re ensconced in the villa’s living room, the pair of them, one perfectly idle Wednesday afternoon: Elio plunking bits and pieces at randomas he makes the occasional note on a sheet of ubiquitous staff paper. Sometimes just a scale. Sometimes a whole refrain. Head bowed. Lips pursed. Seemingly unbothered by the portly bumblebee that entered through the unshuttered windows, and has since taken refuge atop the tall glass of apricot juice forgotten on the credenza.

Ostensibly, Oliver’s double-checking his next chapter’s pages for Signora Milani when the other man arches in a cat-like stretch; the hem of his Lacrosse polo-shirt revealing a pale swathe of skin at his hip. Rising from the plush piano bench, he wanders over to the corner, and Oliver’s curiosity sees him setting his revisions aside as Elio casts an eye over his parents’ extensive record collection: running his thumb along the stiff, cardboard spines.

His face is unreadable as he makes his selection. Slides the vinyl from its protective sleeve. Blows the dust from the vintage turntable, then aligns the stylus with the album’s outer groove. But the moment Édith Piaf’s voice crackles through the air - smothering the din of the knife-grinder’s whetstone - Oliver finds himselfcaptivated.

Non, rien de rien, it begins as Elio closes his eyes, swaying gently to the mournfully poignant tone. Non, je ne regrette rien… 

He’s across the room without conscious decision: feeling a tad self-conscious when he offers an unsteady hand.

Feeling decidedly more so when Elio blinks at him owlishly, before finally reaching to take it.

Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, the powerful lyrics continue, and his dance partner swallows - clearly bewildered - as Oliver pulls him closer, one palm cradling his slender waist whilst the other flattens their tangled fingers over his left breast pocket. 

Time distils as he guides them into a rocking back-and-forth: Elio’s grip sliding from wrist to elbow, then further, lingering on the sweat-damp hair at Oliver’s collar. If he didn’t know better, he’d think him the picture of innocence, yet the fact that he does - know better, that is - has him grinning like an idiot when he recognises the genuine emotion beneath his slightly-flushed features. 

The three little words that thus far remain unspoken, shining explicitly in his imploring gaze.

“No, I regret nothing,” Oliver translates in a halting whisper, thanking the decisions of his past that irrevocably shaped his future. “Because my life…” he continues, ghosting a kiss to the shell of Elio’s ear. “My joy…” Another, to the hinge of his jaw. “Sweetheart…” The anticipation is glorious. “Today, that starts with you...”

[ourfatherwhoartinhell]

Perfectly Misaligned (Dewdrop Blurb)

Prompt: "I guess it goes to show, does it not? That we've no idea what we've got… until we lose it" Word count: 504 Warnings: None that I can think of?

Dewdrop is struggling with his new element. It's stopping him from doing things he wants to / used to.

A/N: Prompt given to me by @sister-nyx - I'm sorry it's so short! I hope it still meets your expectations! Also sorry it took so long to get to! If there's spelling or grammar mistakes, just ignore them. I did not proof read this.

Dewdrop never really knew how deeply his element change had scarred him. Yes there were the physical scars, and the obvious change in personality from Water to Fire. However, through the first tour, he took it in stride. He loved the new boost of confidence almost as much as he loved annoying Copia and Aether on stage.

The first tour as a new fire ghoul was bliss.

The second tour was when things really started to unravel. He tried to join Rain in the hotel pool, and ended up almost drowning. When he tried to share a bath with Swiss, he ended up almost boiling the poor multi-ghoul alive. Turning the bathtub into a giant bubbling ghoul soup. Laying out in a storm one day gave him hypothermia so bad that Aether had to put him on bedrest for a week - apart from playing shows.

At first, Dew thought that it was just because he wasn’t used to his new element yet. Unable to fully control it. He knew these things didn’t bother Ifrit or Alpha the same way, he had seen them get caught in the rain or sharing a bath with Zephyr and Omega.

What he didn’t know was that when his element shifted, it meant that he was more intolerant to water. Aether, not having dealt with a ghoul switching elements before, also had no idea.

When they got back from the last tour, Aether had found him sitting by the lake behind the Abbey, skipping burning stones over the water's surface.

“Whatcha doin, little spark?”

Dew barely acknowledged him, skipping another stone into the lake.

Aether already knew he was sulking before he got close, a gift of his quintessence. Dew was sitting there, emitting waves of sadness that extended for miles.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

Dew groaned in frustration as the next rock made a ‘plunk!’ and sank straight to the bottom. “No.”

“It’s about your element isn’t it?”

“....maybe.” Dew sighed and finally turned to look at Aether. “I thought it was just because I can’t really control it very well, but I can’t do anything I used to love anymore. It’s like I’m allergic to myself.”

Aether smiled fondly at the little ghoul and knocked shoulders with him before taking the stone from his hand and skipping one along the lake.

“I might not know exactly why these things are happening, but I can tell you it’s not an allergy.”

Dew hung his head as his tiny body began to shake, a burning tear slipping from his eye. “I guess it just goes to show, that we don’t know what we’ve got… until we’ve lost it.”

Aether looked sympathetically at the smaller ghoul before wrapping his arms around him comfortingly. 

“You may have lost that part of you, but you’ve gained a lot of new parts too. You may not be the ghoul you were before, but trust me. The ghoul you are right now is still you. Maybe a little misaligned, but perfectly misaligned.”

[justtuffithinkabout]

So I just got around to watching the first of the Lord of the Rings movies (extended edition of course) and they made me realize just how much Gandalf's death must've weighed on Pippin.

Like, when they come out of Moria, you see Pippin curled up on the ground with Merry holding him and at first you think "that's so sad look how much they're grieving that Gandalf is dead" but Pippin could reasonably blame himself for the death. He caused that corpse to fall down the well and let all of Moria know they were there, which probably alerted the balrog.

But!

Consider *book Pippin*.

Book Pippin did not poke an arrow and accidentally knock a corpse over the edge of the well. In the book "he groped for a loose stone, and let it drop. He felt his heart beat many times before there was any sound. Then far below, as if the stone had fallen into deep water in some cavernous place, there came a *plunk*, very distant, but magnified and repeated in the hollow shaft."

That was *not* an accident.

And that would be a lot of guilt for even someone like Aragorn or Boromir, someone accustomed to things going wrong and losing people, but Pippin is not even an *adult* yet!

Hobbits come of age at 33. Pippin is 28. Even if you are conservative about it and take that 33 to be more equivalent to 21, he is *seventeen years old*. If you go by the technical, legal adulthood of 18, he is *fifteen!!*

Like. Wow.

Imagine being fifteen and being the probable cause of death of an extremely powerful, possibly immortal being who has been involved in the history of your family (it's mentioned in The Hobbit that Gandalf has taken many Took boys and girls off on adventures through the generations) and community for probably centuries, because you were *bored and curious*

Like-

Can't wait to watch the rest of the movies and get emotionally whammied even more 👍

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Chin/Neck Scratches. That's it, that's the blorbing thought for tonight.

~ The anon who wanted Kaveh but didn't want Baizhu or Ganyu Every time I send an ask, I have to go through my notes to find this exact signature. It's great XD

excellent thought, thank you very much

Foul Legacy LOVES chin scritches, no questions asked. if you hold out your hand, chances are there'll be a moth chin plunked in your palm- it only takes a few minutes too!! you learned this when you were extending out a hand to explain something to Zhongli and suddenly felt like you were holding something heavy. when you turned to look you were met with a blissful Foul Legacy, purring and nudging his head into your hand, your fingers curling around his chin. whatever you were telling Zhongli is quickly forgotten in favor of showering Legacy with affection and scritches, and the ex-Archon simply watches you both in amusement

Foul Legacy has a habit of also craning his head back so you can scratch his neck, to the point of nearly falling over. your hands move from his neck up to the back of his head, behind his horns, listening to his soft rumbles of contentment. his crystalline eye slips shut, occasionally gnawing gently at your fingers, and when he finally leans far enough and flops onto the ground, he takes you with him. an arm drapes over your torso, weighing you down comfortably before he sweeps you into a full-blown hug, nuzzling against your hair with little chirps and trills. he pushes your hand, craning his head back again for you, and you laugh, reaching up to run your nails over his neck again

[skyward-floored]

Idk if your taking requests for your incredibles au but if you are, could you write something about Legend hurting himself (minorly) and being stupidly dramatic?

Okay so I was technically taking IAU requests when this was sent but it was right around when I closed them again, and I forgot about this one and uh. Yeah. Sorry. I wrote you a little something though anon, sorry for the wait, heh 😅

———————————————————

Twilight was used to Legend’s antics by now, but sometimes he forgot just how dramatic his brother could be. He’d insist he was fine falling off his bike and scraping his knees and face to bits, but when it came to smaller things...

Legend let out a pitiful moan as Twilight came back outside to where he was sitting, and Twilight plunked down next to him, grabbing his brother’s hand and holding it out.

Legend immediately snatched it away.

“Legend, calm down,” Twilight tried for what must have been the fifth time now, Legend cringing away as he tried to hold his hand out again. “It’s only a splinter.”

“Well it hurts!” Legend wailed, and Twilight raised an eyebrow at his brother. He’d seen Legend hurt himself far worse than this and merely walk it off. The splinter wouldn’t even be difficult to remove— it was only stuck in his finger deep enough to make it difficult for Legend to pull out by himself.

“Legend, you’re not even bleeding,” Twilight said with a huff, and Legend flopped on the ground, clutching his hand like it was about to fall off.

“I’m gonna die,” he moaned, and Twilight crouched next to him, giving his brother a look.

“You’re not gonna die,” Twilight sighed, and took Legend’s hand in his. “Just let me take it out Legend, and stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” Legend snapped, then violently flinched away as Twilight tried to hold his hand still. “And I don’t want you to do it, you’ll make it hurt more!”

“Mom’s taking a nap and Dad’s still at work, and I know you don’t want Wild to do it. Who else is there?” Twilight said with his arms crossed.

Legend thought about that for a second, his mournful cries paused.

“Sky?”

“Also at work.”

“Warriors?”

“Work.”

“...Sun?”

“Legend you know the answer to that come on, just let me get it!” Twilight said in exasperation, and Legend glared at him a moment longer before finally extending his hand.

“Fine, just do it,” he snapped, and Twilight sighed in relief. Finally.

He took Legend’s hand and held it out so he could get at the splinter, finding the little sliver stuck on Legend’s finger. Twilight studied it for a second, then carefully positioned the tweezers he was holding, all while Legend kept his eyes tightly closed.

Then with no warning, he quickly plucked it out.

Legend stayed where he was, eyes still squeezed shut, hand tensed with anticipation. Twilight watched him for a moment in amusement, all while Legend’s face creased more and more.

“Are you going to pull it out or what?” he said after a few more seconds, voice strained, and Twilight couldn’t help his snicker.

“I already did, Legend.”

His brother’s eyes shot open, and he stared at his hand, now entirely splinter free. He turned it this way and that, and Twilight held up the tweezers, the little bit of wood still clenched between them.

“Oh. I knew that.”

“Sure ya did,” Twilight grinned, and Legend glared at him as he got to his feet.

He didn’t reply though, and after a moment of Twilight smiling at him, quickly made his escape, a muttered ‘thanks’ just barely reaching Twilight’s ears.

“You’re welcome,” Twilight called back cheerfully, and Legend turned into a bunny and darted inside, probably to hide the rapidly darkening color of his cheeks.

[spacenut334]

Shadowheart's Capture

Summary: Captured by Minthara in the temple of Selune, Shadowheart must please Minthara and Rugan until help arrives

Pairing: Shadowheart x Rugan x Minthara

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI, Dub Con

POV: 3rd Person

Words: 5400

Notes: Inspired by this artwork by Poar Art

Read On AO3

“Run!” Tav was shouting as they rounded the corner. Tav had a frantic look in their eyes and the party stirred from their hiding places at the sound. 

Goblins began spilling around the corner behind tav, four, ten, fifteen, Shadowheart lost count but there were easily thirty in the group. 

“Ruuun!!” Everyone prepared their weapons, and reached for their packs frantically, preparing for an escape. 

Laezel quickly notched and loosed an arrow. A whiz, plunk, and scream let her know it had found its mark in the leading goblin. But there weren’t enough arrows or enough time to stop them all. 

Shadowheart said a brief prayer and channeled her energy towards the now nearest goblin to Tav. Its eyes widened as its skin sizzled then burst into flame. “May Shar bless and keep you!” 

Gale had quickly flipped through his spellbook, found what he was looking for, and after some terse muttering and hand waving, a series of magic missiles erupted from his fingertips, shooting towards Tav, then flowing around them like water. Each missile found its mark center mass in six different goblins. They were bowled over, but quickly replaced by more. 

Tav was almost to them, but the goblins continued to gain ground. There was no way they were going to make it out of this camp and into the wilderness like this.

Everyone’s packs were on now and they ran through the winding passageways to the exit of the temple. A light pain in her hand made Shadowheart wince, but it was the least of her worries. She had nearly forgotten her weapon in the rush, but quickly grabbed the bladed mace and fell in behind Tav, Laezel, and Gale. 

They had decided to only bring a small scouting party to avoid attention, but Shadowheart was missing the huge flaming barbarian and her warlock companion right now. They ran slower than her and would provide one more chance at escape. 

The goblins had bows and throwing weapons but were showing remarkable restraint in not using them. Likely their orders were to capture alive if possible. It seemed they were anxious for any information leading to the grove. 

The exit doors were still open and they came closer and closer to freedom. If they could get out and shut the doors, Gale would be able to magically lock it and buy them the time they needed to get scarce. 

Gale was first out, then Laezel, and Shadowheart close behind. Tav’s foot caught on a rock they went careening into the ground just short of the door. Shadowheart’s first instinct was to leave them behind, but the device had chosen Tav, and she couldn’t allow it to fall into the hands of the goblins. 

A rock whizzed by her head as she ran back to Tav to help them up. There was no time, the goblins were too close. She grabbed Tav by the neckline and belt-loops and tossed them through the opening. She slammed the heavy metal door and shouted at Gale to lock it, before turning to face the coming mob. 

Tav screamed at Gale to stop and re-open the door, but Shadowheart could already see the faint magic lines and the clicking of the ancient locking mechanisms by unseen hands. 

“You’d better come back for me!” There was a muffled yell from the other side, but she couldn’t tell what they said. 

When she turned around the goblins were upon her. A crude wooden club bounced off her plate armor, she replied with her mace. There was a satisfying crunch where metal met bone. No time to savor it though, another wooden club hit her shield. She crouched to absorb the blow and swept at the legs. Breaking ankles and tearing tendons. 

The smell of burning hair hit her nostrils as a familiar burnt goblin rushed at her with a dagger. Clearly their restraint only extended so far. In a quick upswing, mace met groin and goblin met ground. 

The goblins hesitated, clearly expecting less of a fight from the slight pale half-elf. Shar didn’t raise a weakling, and they would pay in blood for their underestimation.

The tunnel provided a perfect chokepoint, as perfect as one cleric versus dozens of goblins can be. Four goblins gathered in a semicircle a few steps away. A slightly larger goblin with a gashed scar across its milky eye motioned to the group and in a guttural voice said: “aw’right ye gobbos! Let’s do this all at once! She can’t take us all!”

The hollow sound of a horn blew, there was a brief moment of silence and then they rushed at her. Her mace met one head-on, spraying black blood on its friends, but the others had closed the distance. 

She felt a club meet her thigh and dropped down, putting the weight on her other leg and holding her shield high to protect her head. Blows rained down on her shield, numbing her arm and distracting her from the scarred goblin’s carefully aimed blow at her sternum. Her vision blacked out briefly as she gasped for air, dropping her arms to recover. 

Two pairs of small but muscled arms grabbed her shield, two more her mace. She struggled but could hold them off no longer. The shield and mace were tossed aside as goblins moved in to subdue her. 

Wrong move. As one reached out to take her by the shoulder, she lurched in and met its soft pointed nose with her hard forehead, resulting in squeals blood flow. 

“Careful now! She’s still dangerous and the drow wants her INTACT!” 

The scorched goblin was standing up again, holding the shattered remains of his manhood in one hand and his knife in the other. 

“Tell that to my shattered knob!” He screeched. 

Shadowheart whispered one last prayer to Shar and the goblin went from a toasty brown to charred black. A scream caught in his throat, and face twisted in shock at the final moments of his life. 

She could feel she was drained now, and would not be able to pull that off again, at least not until she had time to meditate and recover. “Seems like your friend needs to cool off.” She uttered dryly. 

Apparently the humor was lost on the scarred goblin, she saw a mailed fist come for her temple and then blackness. 

As Shadowheart came to she felt rough rope bindings tying her wrists behind her back. Leather collar was being put around her neck and a rope weaved through. 

“Did the gods’ favorite little princess have a nice nap?” The scarred goblin sneered, and then yanked her to her knees with the rope. “Get up! The boss will want to see you”

Shadowheart stood and followed the goblin down the crowded hallway. Keeping her eye out for any opportunity to affect an escape. None presented itself though. 

The hallway spilled into a large open room with vaulted ceilings and Selunite iconography everywhere. There was dirt smeared on every statue and artwork from goblin head-height down. At least the goblins have some taste, she thought. She felt fear starting to work its way into her throat and she pushed it down. They needed her, and a high value prisoner with information would be treated with respect as long as she cooperated. 

Most of the group split off and watched some obscene branding ritual happening in the center of the hall, but a decent sized detachment of guards stayed with her to continue the journey. She felt a yank at her throat, she had slowed down to view the ceremony, but the goblins were still moving. 

Shadowheart saw a beaten and bloody man being pulled down from a metal torture device, they passed by a room with a pale man gently self-flagellating with a leather lash. Tight knots were at each end of the lash, and there was a lifetime of fresh wounds and old scarring. She recognized some images belonging to Loviatar, The Maiden of Pain. 

They passed by a skinny man in a cage getting slapped around by a very entertained female goblin, and then a series of tunnels leading to a library. Shadowheart spotted a thin yet regal female drow leaning over a pile of maps and documents and a goblin was whispering in her ear. 

“Apparently his body gave out before his mind.” She said in a low husky tone. “Brave, but foolish.” The Drow turned to shadowheart. “Is this the one?” 

“Aye mistress, she put up quite a fight. A few of our best are down because of her and her friends.” The scarred goblin said in an as deferent of a tone as he could muster. This drow terrified him. 

“Saying ‘some of the best goblins’ is like saying some of the smartest dung beatles, nothing of value was lost and I’m sure your kind are already replacing them.” Her tone was mocking, but there was a surface of icy death running beneath it. 

“Yes mistress.”

“Get out of my sight, I can handle this from here.” She motioned for the group to leave, after a brief moment of hesitation they did. 

“I am Minthara of House Baenre, I doubt that means anything to you, but just know I am exceedingly important and hold your life in my hand. And you are?..” The icy undercurrents were still there and Shadowheart chose her words with great care. 

“Shadowheart, just Shadowheart, I would shake your hand but…” She made a motion towards her tied wrists. 

“Ahh! An unfortunate but necessary arrangement for now. Now tell me just Shadowheart what brings you to us on this wretchedly sunny day?” 

Shadowheart shifted her weight from one leg to the other, testing the strength of her bindings before saying, “I haven’t the foggiest, I must have taken a wrong turn-”

A slap stung her cheek and she saw stars. “Do. Not. Waste. My. Time. Elf, tell me what you know about a druid grove, or a small hexagonal device, and mark me, I know when someone is lying.” 

Shadowheart hesitated, why should she care about some druids or tieflings? but a deep pang of guilt built in her throat when she thought of giving them up. I may lose the artifact if they find Tav in the grove, she thought. There was more to it than that, but Shadowheart didn’t have time to dig into the feeling. 

“I haven’t the foggiest.” She put on her most dismissive tone, and tried to look hurt that she’d be asked such a question. 

Minthara’s eyes narrowed. “I see you’ve chosen the hard way.” A smile curled at the edge of her lips. “Know this, just Shadowheart, I will take my time, I will enjoy this. You will know awesome pleasure, and extreme pain, but in the end, you WILL tell me what you know.”

Shadowheart could tell that Minthara believed every single word she said, a flutter of fear tickled her stomach again, Tav is already planning a rescue, I just need to hold out a little while longer.

Minthara Led Shadowheart by the neck back to the cleric of Loviatar. “Abdirak!” The cleric looked up, “I have a new toy! I may need you to keep her alive, she knows something and I don’t want a repeat of last time. I’m bringing the Zhentarim trader with me.

A tall human clad in leathers, and a yellow and green tunic stepped out from the shadows. His hair was pulled back tightly and fastened with a small leather band. He looked young but signs of stress and battle marked his features. He had piercing blue eyes, almost too kind to be with this group. 

“Rugan, at your service.” He reached out a hand to the one Minthara called Abdirak. The cleric sneered at the hand. “Ahh, Rugan at your service” This time he reached towards Shadowheart, but removed his hand awkwardly, noticing the bindings. 

“I’m Shadowheart, and I will be the last person you see before you die, if you lay a single hand on me.” 

Rugan’s eyes narrowed and hardened. “Don’t think because you’re a beautiful woman that I have qualms about this task.” 

Her heart skipped a beat, maybe this one isn’t too kind after all. 

Minthara pulled Shadowheart at the neck to the room with the torture device. She saw Shadowheart eyeing it, “Oh don’t worry, we’re not ready for that quite yet.” 

“Let’s get rid of this worthless armor.” Minthara motioned again to Rugan. 

This was the armor gifted to her from her dark mother, Shadowheart swore under her breath a few threats if the armor was misplaced. 

Rugan approached, Shadowheart feigned helplessness, when he was within arms reach, she aimed a fast kick right between the legs. Like a flash he caught the foot and lept to the side chuckling. “I expected as much.” 

He slipped behind her and one by one various clasps, knots, and buttons keeping her hefty armor on were undone, un-knotted, and unbuttoned. With a resonant clang her breastplate fell to the floor. 

When the first layer of armor was off he went to Minthara and whispered in her ear. She smiled and shouted. “Skrag! Bring some of your boys over, we need a hand!” 

The scarred goblin, Skrag, came around the corner with eight companions.

“Strip her!” 

For the first time since being captured Shadowheart felt the reality of the situation slowly sink in. Tav wasn’t coming, she was in the middle of enemy territory, and there was no escape. 

The goblins licked their lips and approached. She was wrestled to the ground as rough clawed hands pinned her arms and legs. She struggled against the arms but there were too many. One boot was torn off, then the other. 

A flurry of hands grabbed her mail and pulled it over her head. Shadowheart was now only in her torn camp clothes, skin tight leather trousers and a leather shirt with a plunging neckline she was beginning to regret more and more. 

The hands stopped. 

Minthara looked down at her. “I told you to strip her did I not?” 

A look of lust and delight filled the circle of goblin faces. “Yes, Mistress.” 

“Strip ALL of her!”

Shadowheart strained, “You filthy wretches!” 

They didn’t remove so much as tear apart her shirt. Two sets of hands on either side tore the shirt from the neckline to the waist, pulling away and revealing the milky white skin and her tender swollen breasts. A deep purple bruise was left where Skrag had knocked her over.

Claws dug into the legs of her trousers and the goblins yanked down, exposing a bounty of thigh and calf. Shadowheart held her knees together to prevent the trousers from proceeding further, but green hands grabbed her knees and thighs, pulling them apart and allowing the trousers to be pulled off. 

Shadowheart felt her last bits of dignity torn away as one of the goblins ripped off her smallclothes. 

She was completely naked, the goblins pulled apart her legs to show off the soft pink lips beneath. She felt herself lifted and more hands spreading her ass and the snickering and sneering as goblin, human, and drow viewed her most intimate spaces.  She felt hands pawing at her breasts, saw tented trousers and more hands working their way across her rump. She felt fingers moving towards her cunt and tried to roll away- 

“That’s ENOUGH!” Minthara’s voice cut through the lustful growls. The goblins looked almost pained, from Minthara, to Shadowheart’s exposed body, and back. But their will to live was stronger than their desire to fuck, and they quickly backed away as Minthara went to grab her wrists. 

“Goblins, such blunt instruments, but I use what the absolute provides. Why waste a fine wine on a common rabble?” With one hand Minthara held Shadowheart’s wrists behind her back, and with the other she slowly traced her breasts in concentric circles to the nipples before leading her hand down towards the space between her legs. Minthara circled her entrance, as Rugan watched. 

Shadowheart stifled a moan, and tensed as she grew wet. 

Minthara quickly removed her hand, bringing her fingers to her lips. Shadowheart felt herself being led by her wrists.

“We have all the time in the world, and I want to savor you. Or you could tell me what I want to know, and you can leave now with your dignity… mostly intact.” 

Shadowheart held her head high “Do your worst! I am the chosen one of Shar! Scum like you are unworthy of even looking at me!” 

“Defiant even now?” Minthara chuckled. “Well we will do much more than look.” Minthara and Rugan were both looking now. Shadowheart was unable to cover herself. 

I can’t show weakness, they can’t think they’re winning. She stood tall and proud. She would escape, she would return, and she would slaughter everyone here who had wronged her. 

Minthara produced more of the silk rope. She bound Shadowheart’s with a silken harness, looping and curving, over her shoulders, around her breasts, arms, stomach, and looping twice on her inner thighs, on either side of her cunt, leaving the impression of wearing clothes that covered none of the pieces they were supposed to.

Minthara threw a loop of rope over a hook above. “I’m not an unreasonable woman, I believe in the carrot and the stick. We shall begin with the carrot, and if you still prove to be unreasonable, then I will have to get.. Unreasonable” Minthara’s eyes cast over the metal torture device, and fiery bowl filled with red hot weapons. 

A small cloaked goblin rapidly approached Minthara, and she bent over to hear the message. 

“I must leave for now, but don’t get too comfortable.” She spun around and quickly walked back towards her quarters with the goblin trailing behind her. 

Rugan smiled and settled into a nearby chair, “I guess we wait.” 

Rugan stared at Shadowheart, naked, helpless, her soft supple breasts bound tightly by the rope. Shadowheart saw the length in his pants grow. “Don’t look at me!” Her face and chest flushed, but Rugan had already stood up and began to pull down his trousers. 

Rugan had his cock in his hand and was slowly stroking it while circling Shadowheart. She strained to keep him in view but he made his way behind her, and  she could feel his eyes on ass and her spread hole. She felt herself growing wet from the attention. 

Tav would never have looked at her the way Rugan was. She was a purely sexual object to Rugan, and the thought of that excited her to slickness.

Rugan was in front of her again,  Cock at eye level and twitching. Shadowheart’s curiosity got the best of her and she leaned out towards him. He met her mouth halfway and slowly swirled his head against her soft lips. 

She could bite it off, but Rugan saw the desire in her eyes and knew that wasn’t going to happen. He leaned down and rubbed himself against her erect nipples, pulling her breasts together with both hands and sliding his length between them. 

Shadowheart let a long bead of saliva drip down from her tongue to help lubricate the process and her insides hummed at the thought of being used by this man. Rugan brought himself back to her mouth, and she opened. He slid his length against her lips and tongue and she brought him in.

Rugan gripped Shadowheart’s hair and began gently thrusting, Shadowheart gagged initially but then slowed her breathing through her nose and accepted his length. She was a receptacle for pleasure. Rugan’s breathing grew ragged and his knees began to buck. 

He let out a sharp groan and Shadowheart felt a spew of hot salty seed covering her lips and tongue. She opened her mouth wide, catching as much as she could. She looked Rugan in the eyes and swallowed. She suckled on his tip, gathering the last bits of seed before he shuddered and dismounted. She felt, helplessly, as his hot liquid dripped down her chin and onto her chest. 

Rugan pulled up his trousers and returned to the chair. Leaving Shadowheart gasping. He pulled his cloak over his head and leaned back, feigning sleep, but Shadowheart could see the glimmer of eyes from underneath and knew she was still being watched. 

Shadowheart pouted silently, as her cunt pulsed with unsated desire.

Shadowheart felt the minutes pass to hours. The sun was gone, and broken beams of moonlight came in through the shattered rafters of the temple. She felt moonlight pass across her naked skin, and her hand began to sting again. 

Even Seluna has come to mock me, she thought bitterly. A cool breeze passed over her and goose pimples formed across chest, back, and legs. The heat of a nearby fire pushed back the cold though. There were jagged and sharp instruments amongst the coals, waiting to singe flesh and break bone. Shadowheart prayed that Tav would return before things got that bad. 

The sharp echo of approaching footsteps on stone brought Shadowheart to attention from her stupor. From the confident gait she could tell it was Minthara even before she had rounded the corner. 

“You should be pleased to know we’ve found your friends.” Minthara waited for a response that Shadowheart refused to give before carrying on. “One of our scouts spotted their fire and I dispatched a company to eliminate them. After all, why would I need them if I have you.” Minthara’s words were laced with venom, but her eyes were unabashedly exploring Shadowheart while she spoke. 

Shadowheart felt her face flush and hoped Minthara interpreted that as anger. She remained silent. 

“What’s the use of continuing to hold out? No one is coming, and the only one who can show you mercy… is me.” After more silence Minthara sighed, “Very well, let’s begin.” 

Abdirak emerged from the shadows with his leather flail in hand. “Mistress may I?” Minthara nodded and he approached cautiously. “We’re not so different, you and I, after all the Maiden of Pain and Mother of Shadows are kin.” 

Shadowheart felt as Abdirak slowly reached and dragged the leather lashes across her skin. She tensed where every knot met skin. She felt as he moved each individual lash across her breasts, tensing on her nipple and then passing over, they grew erect and sensitive at the pale human’s deft touch. Shadowheart felt herself flush again and Abdirak noticed. An amused look passed over his face as he continued. 

The cool leather moved down her abdomen and she tensed, body rippling in the moonlight. He lowered it further, past her curls, passing from thigh to thigh and rolling over her exposed lips with each pass. Shadowheart felt herself trying to move in, trying to feel more, the urge to fill her emptiness grew. 

Abdirak kept teasing, moving back to her chest and then down again. Shadoweart felt the blood rushing to her face and to her clit, and shivered from an equal mix of cold and anticipation. She felt herself leaking and running down one leg. Minthara and Rugan saw, and seemed  to grow anxious, or maybe aroused. They weren’t immune to desire themselves. 

Abdirak flipped the whip over and brought the hard handle down to Shadoweart’s knees. Slowly bringing it up and meeting at the apex. He moved the leather handle around her folds, and Shadowheart ground against it. She needed this, despite Minthara and Rugan being in the room, maybe because they were here. 

Minthara had moved her hand inside the breast of her plunging neckline shirt as she watched Abdirak preparing Shadowheart. Such a body blessed to a non-drow. What a shame. 

Shadowheart continued to grind on the leather handle, trying to introduce her bud to the gentle vibrations of the whip, but Abdirak knew that’s what she wanted and deftly moved to avoid the one spot she wanted touched most. 

She shook with frustration letting out a small whine, “Please?” Abdirak chuckled but continued to deny her. 

“Step aside” Minthara motioned Abdirak away, he pouted like a puppy having its toy taken away but conceded and stepped back, whip in hand. 

“Rugan, hold her for me” The rogue stepped behind Shadowheart, lifting by the thighs and spreading her legs to the awaiting Drow. “good boy.” Shadowheart felt Rugan’s hard bulge jutting into her back, and wished it could fill the growing pulsating emptiness inside her. 

Minthara drew some loose strands of silver hair behind her ears as she knelt down to offer a prayer to Shadowheart’s quivering folds. 

Shadowheart drew in a sharp breath as warm tongue met aching lips. Minthara was slow but deliberate and quickly moved to Shadowheart’s dripping clit. Shadowheart couldn’t hold it back, “Fuck!” She moaned as the drow drew her in, sucking, and swirling her tongue. 

Shadowheart felt the pressure inside her building like a pot about to blow over, “Stop, if you don’t stop I’ll-” The drow sucked harder and Shadowheart burst. Her body was wracked with spasms of pleasure and the drow refused to stop, Shadowheart was dripping down her chin. The waves continued and Shadowheart let out a scream. “FUUUUUUCK!!!” The goblins in the center of the building stopped to stare at the scene unfolding. 

With a few last weak spasms, Shadowheart went limp, the drow stood and pulled her into a kiss, “Taste yourself, pathetic human.” Minthara grabbed the Shadowheart’s hair tightly and forced her mouth open, going in for a fierce kiss. Shadowheart tasted the sweet musk of her pleasure on the drow’s lips. Lightly spasming once more. 

“What do you think, Rugan, would you like a turn?” Shadowheart felt him twitching against her, he was an uncontrolled fire on the inside, but outside he just said: 

“If you wish, mistress.” 

“I do.” 

Shadowheart hung like a ragdoll from the rope as Rugan let her down and started unlacing his leather jerkin. Minthara moved in and  led Shadowheart to a table where she was roughly pushed down by Minthara. 

Rugan had flung aside his leathers now and pulled his tunic over his head. He had broad tightly muscled shoulders. A faint scar ran across his abdomen, and he had light curly hair running from his chest and trailing to his tented trousers. Shadowheart bit her lip in anticipation.

Rugan looped his thumbs in his trousers and pulled them down. He was already hard at the sight of her, and the friction of Minthara’s actions. Shadowheart traced his length with her eyes, beckoning him to come closer. 

“Gods you are beautiful.” He nearly moaned.

“I know.” was her only reply. 

Rugan slowly pulled on his cock while he looked from Shadowheart’s eyes, to her heaving ample breasts, to her dripping  cunt. He stepped forward, wrapping one arm around Shadowheart’s back, and the other he reached around to grab a healthy handful of rump. Rugan pulled Shadowheart to his waist and she felt his hardness throbbing against her. 

She ached to be felt, to be seen, to be filled, Rugan could do all of this at once, and she wanted him. Rugan rocked back and forth, coating himself in her juices and using his hand to swirl the head of his cock against her folds. Shadowheart gently moaned, and felt her face flush again. 

Rugan held his member and worked himself slowly inside. Shadowheart gasped, and scooched in to meet him. He throbbed inside her and held for what felt like an eternity before thrusting. Stars twinkled in Shadowheart’s vision and she moaned again, desperate for him. 

Rugan had both hands on her ass now, gripping so hard she thought it may draw blood, and ramming into her again and again. Shadowheart arched her back, grinding her pelvis against him. Rugan’s breathing grew ragged as he kept up the pace. 

Shadowheart’s attention had been so focused on Rugan that she didn’t see Minthara had stripped down. Her lavender cheeks were flushed and her small breasts rose and fell heavily. She had her legs spread gently and was feeling herself as she watched Rugan entering Shadowheart. 

Shadowheart welcomed the attention, and gave Minthara a look that said, come hither. Minthara approached, one hand still on herself as she walked. Rugan kept his tempo, but was flushed from the effort of holding back. Minthara reached in and caught Shadowheart’s mouth in hers. They breathed eachothers ragged breath. 

Shadowheart felt the heat from Minthara’s lips, and the previously unfelt desperation to have and be had. Minthara tapped Rugan motioning to switch places, and Rugan complied. Minthara moved in and mounted her thigh, cunt spread and already soaking wet. Shadowheart felt her knee and thigh slicken as Minthara rode her, then Soft fingers plunged into her darkness, and they both grew closer to Climax. 

Rugan came to the side of the table. He cock was slick with Shadowheart, and it was twitching from uncompleted pleasure. As he stood next to her, Shadowheart shifted positions and caught him in her mouth. Rugan groaned in pleasure, it was met by a groan of Shadowheart’s as the drow introduced a new finger and a deeper push. 

Shadowheart brushed her tongue against him, sucking and drawing Rugan’s length further in. He wanted to thrust but she toyed with him. Pulling back to prevent it. She still had a little control of the situation after all. Shadowheart swirled her tongue right at the base, and felt the small bundle of nerves contract and his member engorge even more. She tasted drops of his salty pleasure, but held him on the edge until she had hers. 

Minthara’s pace lost its pattern, as she began to spasm to completion. Shadowheart was close behind. Her walls closed in around Mintharas fingers and she arched her back more. Minthara’s vibrations became her vibrations. 

Minthara slid off, one hand still on herself, and Rugan took the opportunity to go back between Shadowheart’s thighs. Rugan’s desperate cock entering her sent renewed vibrations of pleasure through her body, he thrust desperately for only a few strokes. 

Shadowheart felt as Rugan exploded inside her, his hot sticky seed filling her and moans of “You’re beautiful.” On his lips. She felt him leaking out of her and onto the table below. 

She panted back: “I Know.”

Minthara hooked Shadowheart’s leash over a hook in the ceiling and left her there, limp. Rugan’s seed slowly drained from her dripping wet cunt. 

While she bathed in the afterglow, another goblin had approached Rugan, something about a delivery. Rugan made his excuses, but quickly redressed himself. He gave Shadoweart’s bare body one last longing look and then hurried away.

Minthara walked over to the now much more subdued Shadowheart. “First a taste of pleasure, then a taste of pain. I have you here as long as I need-”

There was a commotion coming from further in the temple and unmistakable roar of an enraged animal. A bloodied goblin came sprinting in and shouted. “It’s the adventurers, they escaped our patrol and freed Halsin.” 

Shadowheart saw Minthara go pale, and without a word sprinted, still naked out of the temple in the opposite direction of the approaching clatter. 

Tav had come back, and the whole crew was there this time. There was a chorus of screams, grunts, cracking bones, and cries for mercy, they were always cut short by a roar and then crunch. 

A heat and smell of sulfur grew stronger before Karlach poked her head in the room. 

“What the everflaming fuck happened here?!” She gripped the rope above Shadowheart’s head and it fell to pieces from her raging fire. Shadowheart had to quickly step back to avoid being scorched. 

She quickly gathered her scattered belongings while the flaming giant stood guard by the door

Shadowheart was dressed and hurried out the door to find Tav and company finishing off the last screaming goblin. A huge bear stood beside them and then shrank slowly into the form of a large elven man. 

She ran up to give Tav a hug and gently mouthed, “Thank you.” Tav nodded, and the group began scrounging for whatever loot they could carry back to the grove.  Karlach didn’t say the state she had found Shadowheart in and neither did Shadowheart.. Karlach because she thought Shadowheart was traumatized, but Shadowheart stayed silent because thinking of what had happened in that cell sent chills of pleasure down her spine, best not make Tav jealous. She still thought of Rugan and Minthara inside her and thought to herself I will repay this indignity and more quietly with a fuck they’ll never forget.

[thoughtportal]

Flowers are so present in our lives that we almost do not see them: sheathed in paper in every market, plunked in a vase on a table in any cafe. But while they are quotidian, they are also monumental; in many cultures, they memorialize the most important days of our lives, from graduations and promotions to weddings and funerals. They are vital to Catholic rituals, Hindu festivals, Buddhist temple offerings and Mexico’s Day of the Dead—and also, via chrysanthemums, to the quasi-religion of U.S. college football homecoming games. (Mums are funeral flowers in parts of Europe and Asia, which might be a comfort to the losing team.) We invest them with so much meaning that we demand they always be perfect—although like any crop, they are fungible and fragile, subject to weather, diseases and decay.

And like any product, they are subject to the lure of cheaper production offshore. The movement of American manufacturing to countries with fewer regulations over land and labor is an old story, reenacted in products from furniture to cars to food. But the relocation of flower growing was not an accident of global economics. It was deliberately fostered by the U.S. government, part of the 20th-century war on drugs.

On a low hill near the coast of Maine, the fresh petals of double daffodils shake frills of gold and peach in a gusting breeze. It is the middle of May, a clear blue sky overhead, and the lacy burgundy foliage of peonies and new stalks of twiggy curly willow are poking through swaths of black landscape fabric. Against the walls of a greenhouse, seedlings of cosmos and celosia, lisianthus and snapdragons rise in plastic trays. Mud season is barely over, but the turf is vivid green.

Those fragrant, frilly blooms will make up wedding arches and table settings and bouquets, the mainstays of the profitable farm and floral studio that farmer Bo Dennis, 35, has built since he bought this parcel several years ago. “When people come to us, we say, this is what we’re good at: local flowers that are sustainably grown,” he says, tucking a curl of light hair back under his beanie with muddy hands. “Sometimes I do get clients that say, ‘We want all hydrangeas and all roses, and we want them in May’”—a date when those popular flowers won’t yet have bloomed in Maine. “I will say, ‘Great! Have a good celebration. I don’t think we’re the vendor for you.’”

What Dennis grows won’t be found among the blooms that cram the entrances of supermarkets, big-box stores, downtown florists—most of the places where people buy flowers in the U.S. The bouquets that fill those spaces overwhelmingly come from equatorial countries, such as Ecuador and Ethiopia, where cheap labor and minimal environmental regulation make growing affordable. Those flowers are part of an enormously successful international market that sells blooms thousands of miles from their fields of origin and earns more than $25 billion every year.

But pesticides and other agrochemicals required to sustain that scale of production can injure workers and their families. One ongoing study of children in Ecuador whose parents work at flower farms has documented deficits in attention and eye-hand coordination, particularly after periods when these chemicals are heavily sprayed. Children born to women who work in floriculture regions have higher-than-normal rates of birth defects, another study found. And the risks extend to people around the world. In Belgium, florists with imported flowers had unhealthy levels of pesticide chemicals on their gloves, levels high enough to burn the skin if it wasn’t protected. And in the Netherlands, prolific use of antifungals on the country’s signature tulips has fostered the emergence of deadly drug-resistant fungi.

The remedy for at least some of these problems is rising in small U.S. operations such as Dennis’s Dandy Ram Farm and others in North Carolina and Utah and throughout the country. Dennis came to floriculture out of a desire for economic self-sufficiency and career-long concern for the environment. He and other growers are building a new, surprisingly lucrative agricultural model—a “slow flower movement,” akin to the Slow Food movement, that offers a cleaner, greener alternative to modern floral production. They aim to protect ecosystems and build new economic pathways while bringing a bit of beauty—ungroomed, imperfect, unpredictable—back into the world.

Flowers are so present in our lives that we almost do not see them: sheathed in paper in every market, plunked in a vase on a table in any cafe. But while they are quotidian, they are also monumental; in many cultures, they memorialize the most important days of our lives, from graduations and promotions to weddings and funerals. They are vital to Catholic rituals, Hindu festivals, Buddhist temple offerings and Mexico’s Day of the Dead—and also, via chrysanthemums, to the quasi-religion of U.S. college football homecoming games. (Mums are funeral flowers in parts of Europe and Asia, which might be a comfort to the losing team.) We invest them with so much meaning that we demand they always be perfect—although like any crop, they are fungible and fragile, subject to weather, diseases and decay.

A bag at Maine’s Dandy Ram Farm protects a delicate dahlia from pests, avoiding the use of chemicals.

Jesse Burke

In the 1990s, when cocaine flowing from South America was the main focus of drug interdiction, President George H. W. Bush proposed measures to boost legal businesses in the drug’s most important production areas. A 1991 law lifted or reduced tariffs on thousands of products produced in Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. Cut flowers were on the list, and it gave them an enormous boost. U.S. flower production shrank, and the market for imported flowers skyrocketed.

Take roses, the U.S. national flower. In 2002, according to Department of Agriculture data, 157.2 million homegrown roses were sold in the U.S. By 2019 that shrank to 17.2 million. Revenue from homegrown roses plunged as well, from $58.9 million in 2002 to $13.3 million in 2019. “About 25 years ago approximately 85 percent of what was sold in the U.S. was grown here; today it’s about 22 percent,” says Camron King, CEO of the trade group Certified American Grown. That decline represents an economic burden—and, given the resonance of flowers, an emotional one, too. King feels that weight when he watches patriotically colored wreaths of red, white, and blue carnations being laid at sacred military sites such as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. “There aren’t commercial-level carnation producers here in the United States any longer,” he points out. “Those are imported flowers honoring our American fallen heroes.”

Multiple global trends have benefited offshore flower growers: larger planes, easier refrigeration, low-cost labor and land. But so has freedom from the rules that protect U.S. workers and consumers. “In California, but also in many other states, there are very strict regulations in terms of pesticides,” says Gerardo Spinelli, a production adviser at the University of California Cooperative Extension San Diego County. “Being in compliance is expensive.” But overseas, “these regulations are not there or are a lot less strict.”

Jose Ricardo Suárez, a physician and epidemiologist at the University of California, San Diego, saw the changes the tariff exemptions brought. His parents, both academics, are from Ecuador. The family moved around, but when they were in his parents’ home country, they often visited Pedro Moncayo cantón, a county perched in Ecuador’s Andean foothills. Suárez remembers the high green landscape and how abruptly it changed in the 1990s: “All of a sudden, these greenhouses started popping up in many different parts of the county.”

Kate Del Vecchio collects deliveries at the Maine Flower Collective.

Jesse Burke

In 2008 he founded the Study of Secondary Exposures to Pesticides among Children and Adolescents, known as ESPINA for its acronym in Spanish, to explore whether children in Pedro Moncayo were affected by living in the center of greenhouse production and having parents and family members employed there. “We found what we call take-home pesticide pathways, in which the workers are exposed, and then those pesticides adhere to their clothing or their hair and skin, or maybe they bring home tools, or they bring some pesticides to use in their own backyards,” Suárez says. “We’ve also looked at the proximity of homes to different spray sites. We tend to think of greenhouses as totally closed, but the fact is that they’re not: They have windows because you need some circulation of air, so the pesticide is not contained just within the crop.”

The study launched with a cohort of 313 children between four and nine years old and then expanded. Approximately half of the kids lived in the same household as workers from flower plantations. The children contributed blood and urine samples, underwent medical exams, and participated in neurological and behavioral assessments. The team began publishing results in 2012. From the beginning, they found problems in the children of flower-farm households that those with no farm connection did not share: first, changes in enzyme levels that affect neurotransmitters and indicate pesticide exposure—and later, effects on learning ability, depression, thyroid function and blood pressure. In one especially poignant result, they found that children linked to flower farms experienced months-long damage to attention, self-control, and eye-hand coordination after one of the biggest spraying episodes of the year: the lead-up to the harvest to make Mother’s Day bouquets.

During reassessments, the investigators recruited additional participants to the cohort, topping out at 554 children and teens and collecting fresh samples of blood and urine from both new participants and long-standing ones. They repeatedly found evidence of exposures to pesticides, demonstrating an ongoing problem. “There haven’t been any changes in regulations when it comes to pesticide use,” Suárez says. National political interest in the issue has waxed and waned, he adds, but local governments have consistently supported their agricultural workers as well as his research.

Suárez and his fellow investigators have tried to do so also. His parents, physician-epidemiologist Jose Suárez-Torres and anthropologist Dolores Lopez Paredes, created a local organization, Fundación Cimas del Ecuador, that gathers international funding for educational exchanges and local initiatives. Perceiving that flower production doesn’t produce anything nutritious and also sends its products out of the country, the foundation sought to demonstrate another vision of agriculture, creating an organic produce farm where more than 3,000 teens and young adults have received training in agroecology. “You have to give workers an alternative,” Suárez says. “You can’t just say, ‘Well, don’t work in flowers.’”

Other researchers have focused on risks run by the workers themselves. Two decades ago epidemiologist Jinky Leilanie Lu, now a research professor at the University of the Philippines Manila, documented physical and neurological symptoms—chills and fever, dizziness and headache, for example—in about one third of workers whose jobs were mixing and spraying pesticides on flower farms. In 2009 researchers at the University of New Mexico and the University of Michigan reported on high miscarriage rates among the large number of women who worked in the Ecuadorian flower industry. They had a 2.6 times greater risk of miscarriage than other women. In 2015 a paper about flower greenhouse workers in Ethiopia uncovered a series of health troubles. The country had experienced an explosion of rose cultivation over 10 years thanks to its mild climate and high elevation, going from a tiny industry to the fourth-largest exporter in the world. The research found that a large number of workers had rashes and other skin problems, and some had chronic coughs and shortness of breath.

The colorful flowers are grown in season on local farms.

Jesse Burke

The perils posed by extensive pesticide use on flower farms outside the U.S. do not stay confined to those properties and their workers. In 2016 researchers in Belgium, who were alarmed by reports of flower workers’ illnesses, published a study on the hazards of flowers after they were cut and shipped. The blooms were not subject to strict rules imposed on food, because they are not a crop intended for eating. In two studies, the scientists tested flower bouquets sold at florists and in supermarkets and found levels of fungicides and pesticides—especially on roses—that could be harmful to the human nervous system if they were absorbed through the skin.

To ascertain whether any real risk existed, in follow-up research the scientists asked a group of florists to wear cotton gloves for several hours on two consecutive days while trimming flowers and assembling bouquets and then analyzed what the gloves had picked up. They found 111 different agricultural chemicals, mostly pesticides and fungicides, present in concentrations up to 1,000 times higher than are allowed on produce. Several were present in such high concentrations that they represented both immediate and chronic risks to the florists’ health, capable of causing skin burns and eye irritation, risking damage to a fetus or exposing a breastfed child. The researchers noted that wearing gloves while working and not eating or smoking with flowers nearby would reduce the danger.

In the most troubling example, chemical use on flower farms has reached far beyond the farm environment, and farm workers and flower handlers, to affect people not involved with agriculture at all. In the early 2000s a group of physicians in the Netherlands began to notice a worrisome pattern in the sickest patients in their intensive care units. People whose immune systems have been undermined by illness and repeated rounds of drugs are vulnerable to what are called opportunistic infections, triggered by organisms that don’t cause disease in healthy people.

A new greenhouse at Dandy Ram Farm holds snapdragons, zinnias, and many other flowers grown using organic farming principles.

Jesse Burke

But within 10 years of the drug class debuting, that trend reversed. ICU patients began dying again from invasive aspergillosis; when experts investigated, they discovered the fungus had developed resistance to azoles and was no longer vulnerable to the drugs’ attack. In critical care medicine, it is not unusual for infections to become resistant after rounds of drugs. But these azole-resistant infections were occurring in people who had never received those antifungals—and their organisms displayed an identical genetic pattern even in patients hospitalized many miles from one another.

An informal strike force of physicians and microbiologists assembled to investigate the problem. If patients were suffering from azole-resistant infections yet had never received azoles in health care, the fungi that had taken hold in their bodies must have been exposed to antifungal compounds somewhere else first—and that exposure must have been common enough, across the Netherlands, to exert the same selective pressure everywhere at the same time.

The answer, it turned out, was flowers: the tulips that the Netherlands is famous for and the other bulb-making blooms, lilies and hyacinths and alliums, in which it leads the world. At the same time that medicine was benefiting from the new class of azole drugs, agriculture had been using a class of fungicides based on the same chemical structure. Bulbs planted in the Netherlands, grown to flowering and then harvested for sale around the world, were dipped into azoles or sprayed with the fungicides to protect the investment they represented. That blanket distribution had found its way to Aspergillus in discarded plants and compost heaps of trimmed foliage, and the spores of the newly resistant fungi had been breathed in by patients and made them untreatably ill.

By processes that no one has fully defined—simultaneous evolution, or international sales of plants and bulbs, or fungal spores carried on the wind—lethal azole-resistant Aspergillus spread worldwide. It is a persistent danger, says Paul Verweij, chief of medical microbiology at Radboud University Medical Center in the southern Netherlands, one of the first researchers to identify the problem. “The rate of occurrence is quite stable; it is not going down.”

Bo Dennis (left) and Catalina Rodriguez (right).

Jesse Burke

In the U.S., it is much less likely that small flower farmers will create risks for their workers or their communities. These small growers don’t have the land or equipment to field thousands of acres of identical flowers that may be overwhelmed by a single disease or pest. Nor are small growers compelled by contract to produce thousands of perfect stems to catch the market for graduation or Valentine’s Day. Both of those circumstances can drive up agrochemical use.

“The market has pretty much bifurcated into two streams,” says John Dole, a professor of horticultural science at North Carolina State University and an adviser to the Association of Specialty Cut Flower Growers. (“Specialty” designates less common flowers, outside the market domination of roses, chrysanthemums and carnations.) “We have the very large international growers, who ship primarily through Miami. They focus on low-cost production. They are primarily supporting the big-box stores, which would be grocery stores and mass-market wholesalers. Most U.S. growers are not facing competition from Colombia and Ecuador, simply because they’re growing different products.”

Out of preference and for differentiation in the marketplace, many small-scale flower farmers follow organic principles, such as no synthetic fertilizers or pesticides, although they may not pursue the years-long process to get USDA organic certification. “Getting that designation is expensive, so a lot of people say that they grow responsibly, sustainably,” says Val Schirmer, president of the specialty growers association and a founder of Three Toads Farm in central Kentucky. “Most of our growers don’t want to use pesticides. They are much more likely to use beneficial insects and to improve their habitat, like for birds.” (Instead of the USDA route, some farmers opt instead for Certified Naturally Grown, a peer-reviewed process developed for small farms that allows growing flowers for which no organic seed is available.)

Dennis harvests a field of dahlias, each flower covered in a bag to shield it from the tarnished plant bug, a crop-destroying insect.

Jesse Burke

None of that would matter, of course, if small farms could not sell their product. “When I first started in this business, I would load my flowers into the back of my pickup truck and drive around to florists, and they would refuse categorically to buy local flowers,” says Kate Swift, a flower grower who has operated Cedar Farm Wholesale in New York’s Hudson Valley since 1997. “They felt that the quality was inferior. That’s how strong a hold overseas production had on the psyche of the buyer.”

By 2014, though, a USDA analysis pegged floriculture as the most lucrative product for most small farms (under 10 acres) in the U.S. that specialize in a class of crop, outpacing livestock, poultry and produce in earnings per acre. In 2024 two thirds of people responding to an annual survey by the National Gardening Association said they would preferentially buy local flowers to support family farms and keep agricultural jobs in their regions. Small flower farmers found customers first at farmers markets and among members of community-supported agriculture programs, then at local florists, and finally by linking up with restaurants and event designers where they could charge a premium—in some cases, as at Dandy Ram, by becoming farmer-florists themselves.

To accomplish that, the farmers had to persuade their clients to embrace a new aesthetic: less polished and more primal, twining and frondy, founded on blossoms that might be too lush and soft to endure weeks of refrigerated storage but could be guaranteed to look and smell like nothing else. “I’m trying to convince other floral designers that what they really want are locally grown, beautiful, interesting, unique flowers,” says Stacy Brenner, a Maine state senator and one of the proprietors of Broadturn Farm in Scarborough, Me. “Trying to push them to think about shape and color and less about specific blooms, that you can make things look certain ways with color and texture, and you can use local flowers to do it.”

In the floral design barn, Dennis arranges cut flowers.

Jesse Burke

Prinzing lives in Seattle, infamous for its short, dark, winter days—yet in the wet worst of that season, she would walk into local supermarkets and encounter bright cellophane-wrapped bouquets that looked plucked from a summer field. The contrast jarred her. She wrote a book in 2012, The 50 Mile Bouquet, to support local flower production, and then a second the next year, Slow Flowers, borrowing the “slow food” nomenclature to provide a manifesto for local production. In 2014 she founded the Slow Flowers Society and directory to help consumers find designers and producers. It has 750 members now. “If someone was tied into understanding where their food came from, it wasn’t much of a leap for them to say flowers are a legitimate form of agriculture,” she says, calling slow flowers an attempt to “redefine what is beautiful and redefine that if you live in the seasons—which is the slow food ethos as well—you are not going to have everything all the time, 24/7, 365 days a year.”

The benefit of the emergence of U.S. slow flowers extends beyond supporting the farms themselves. By offering an alternative to foreign flowers, they are creating economies where their products and their vision can find a home.

Cosmos and other cut flowers are made into bouquets at Dandy Ram Farm.

Jesse Burke

Before the collective began, the closest wholesale flower market was two states and 130 miles to the south in Chelsea, Mass., in Boston’s infamous traffic. “There was one in Bangor years ago, and it closed down,” says Sofia Oliver, the collective’s operations manager, tugging down a knit cap to protect against the chilly fragrant air. “Which I think was part of the reason a lot of growers and buyers started working together to get this collective started.”

Every week local flower growers—41, on this May afternoon—post whatever looks ready on the collective’s private site, and designers peruse the offerings and place orders. On a morning after orders close, the collective’s vans take off on long loops around the state, scooping up harvested flowers and delivering them to the shed for sorting. Once they are matched to their orders and rebucketed, the flowers go into the shed’s coolers and get delivered the next day. It makes up a web of selling and buying and connection, an economic network that, thanks to local flowers, stitches together the state.

The new economic opportunities that small farm flowers represent stretch across the country. Take Utah, where flower farms have proliferated from 18 in 2018 to 199 in 2023. Floriculture may fit well with local norms because it allows women to develop home-based businesses. “We have a lot of women who are household managers and primary caregivers,” says Melanie Stock, an associate professor and extension specialist at Utah State University’s College of Agriculture and Applied Sciences who surveys the industry. “It is such a premium, high-value crop, and they are entrepreneurs, so they are finding these small parcels of land and making it into a profitable business. It helps families out of underemployment without imposing associated childcare costs.”

And at its best, flower production allows farmers to extend to others the opportunities they have developed for themselves. For Dennis, owning Dandy Ram offers the possibility of bringing more LGBTQ people into agriculture. He and his partner have set aside some of their acreage to lease to brand-new queer farmers, creating an incubator for those who cannot yet afford their own. “A big reason why I keep farming is to build community,” he says, “so we share land with a few people who are learning how to grow.”

The collective action, the support for others, the community building—as much as the flowers themselves, they are acts that bring beauty into the world. For flower farmers, it is especially poignant that these investments in the future arise from something so ephemeral. “It may look very glamorous from all of the things that people see and post online, but it’s definitely still difficult,” Oliver notes. But the blooms are worth it, she says: “Flowers are like food for the soul. They fill a different kind of need. Some people might think of them as frivolous, but they bring people joy.”

[anruraiocht]

She was the first one down, and Etie genuinely felt a little bad for it-- it seemed like the other girl just couldn't catch a break in the battle, and essentially got dogpiled before she had much of a chance to retaliate. The archer quietly takes a seat next to her, extending an untouched apple in her direction as she munched on her own. "Hey, sorry for the rough treatment," She began, albeit slightly muffled by the fact that she had stuffed her mouth before approaching. "How're you feeling? Brought you a little something to cheer you up, maybe."

The very same archer that had felled her in battle plunks herself down next to Miranda between rounds. She brings a peace offering with her: an apple. It joins the juice box in a slowly growing untouched pile.

...Does she look like a small child or perhaps a horse? Is that why people keep trying to bring her snacks and drinks?

"If you would not offer the same sympathies towards your enemies on a real battlefield, I do not desire them either." After that miserable showing on the field, there is not much point in trying to save face now, but she straightens her back regardless. "I am not such a delicate girl that a scrape and a few bruises are the end of the world. The healers here are very skilled."

It's a general statement, but the way her eyes sweep over the medical tent suggest she means certain people in particular. Not having met the gazes of those people, she turns her attention back to the other girl.

"It happened because I am still powerless. I sorely overestimated how much stronger I had become in the past year. That is all." She clears her throat. "But I will have you know that I am a mage, however! It isn't as though I cannot defend myself at all, it's just that physical weapons are..."

[zoeology31]

Decided to mess around on Baseball Reference the other day to practice my... data sifting skills, I guess? Anyway, this is an exercise to find every time Nick Castellanos of the Tigers/Cubs/Reds/Phillies has hit a drive into deep left field to make it a 4-0 ballgame.

As great as the extended "Castellanos has an Absol-like ability to homer when something unfortunate happens" meme is, I'm not compiling a list of all his home runs, there's 220 of those counting the postseason. Instead I'd like to find every career home run of his that fits the criteria of the original meme (deep left field, 4-0 ballgame). There's a couple video compilations out there that do this, but they're all a few years out of date and I'd like to look through the data myself to see if anything interesting was missed.

Unfortunately there's not a good way to search a baseball database via the score before or after a particular play, so I have to manually go through all 12 years of Castellanos's B-Ref game logs. Here's my heuristics for this process:

For a given season, sort the game logs by HR to reduce scrolling, since we only care about games he homered in.

Check the final score. If Castellanos's team scored less than 4 runs, no need to even check the box score.

Otherwise, click through and look at the linescore to see if Castellanos's team scored at least 4 runs before the other team scored any, thus enabling a midgame 4-0 score.

If so, scroll down to the play-by-play to find Castellanos's home run(s) and confirm the score and direction.

Here is an initial list of every home run hit by Castellanos to drive in the 4-0 run, even if the total runs scored on the play made the score greater than 4-0, in chronological order:

6/7/2014: 3rd inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

7/30/2014: 1st inning 3-run homer, RF, 6-0.

4/10/2015: 5th inning 2-run homer, RF, 5-0.

7/22/2015: 3rd inning grand slam, LF-CF, 5-0.

8/19/2015: 3rd inning grand slam, LF, 7-0.

8/24/2015: 1st inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

7/17/2017: 2nd inning 2-run homer, CF, 4-0.

9/8/2017: 3rd inning grand slam, CF-RF, 4-0.

6/16/2018: 5th inning 2-run homer, LF, 5-0.

8/30/2019: 2nd inning 2-run homer, LF, 5-0.

9/3/2019: 5th inning 3-run homer, RF, 5-0.

8/19/2020: 5th inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

8/13/2021: 6th inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

9/11/2021: 3rd inning 2-run homer, LF, 4-0.

6/28/2023: 2nd inning 3-run homer, LF, 5-0.

9/15/2023: 1st inning 3-run homer, LF, 4-0.

9/20/2023: 4th inning 2-run homer, RF, 4-0.

9/24/2023: 4th inning 2-run homer, LF, 4-0.

And narrowing down specifically to drives to deep left field to make it a 4-0 ballgame, we are left with:

6/7/2014: 3rd inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

8/24/2015: 1st inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

8/19/2020: 5th inning solo homer, LF, 4-0. (Bonus: the extremely normal call from the opposing broadcast)

8/13/2021: 6th inning solo homer, LF, 4-0.

9/11/2021: 3rd inning 2-run homer, LF, 4-0.

9/15/2023: 1st inning 3-run homer, LF, 4-0.

9/24/2023: 4th inning 2-run homer, LF, 4-0.

That's two with the Tigers, a nearly five-year gap between occurrences, three with the Reds, and two with the Phillies, for a total of seven times. Yes, he's done it four times in three full seasons since the initial meme incident, after only doing it twice in six full seasons before that.

There's no real rhyme or reason to this distribution; Castellanos has hit more home runs on a rate basis since 2020, but had a long enough career before that to accumulate more total home runs. Intuitively, factors like team quality and ballpark affect the frequency of opportunities to hit a 4-0 home run, but as we can see from the larger list above, Castellanos's overall homers to drive in the 4-0 run (18 total over 10 seasons) are distributed roughly equally throughout his career. Those homers have just happened to match the exact meme factors more frequently since 2020. Baseball magic?

Also of note, that first qualifying home run after the meme one happened the at-bat after Castellanos got plunked in the shoulder, and the second one was, as you can see, on the anniversary of 9/11. Featured on both those videos is the Reds play-by-play announcer who replaced Brennaman, John Sadak, aka the guy losing his mind on every Elly De La Cruz highlight video (here's some good examples). Blessing in disguise, honestly, he makes Reds games fun to tune into.

This is an Elly De La Cruz post now, actually. Watch those highlights. He's so cool. Baseball is the best.

Bonus: In his young career, De La Cruz has hit one (1) deep drive to make it a 4-0 ballgame, on 7/30/23, though it was to right field. As a switch-hitter who therefore bats lefty the majority of the time, he will homer to left field much less frequently than the righty Castellanos, but of course he'll do lots of other stuff too.

[i-will-cry-you-a-river]

We have the tradition that Santa Claus and Krampus come during the night and when kids wake up on the sixth of December, they either find nice things (from SC) or birch/switch (from the Krampus) in their boots, depending on how they behaved during the year. I wonder, does leaving the Krampus himself on somebody's doorsteps means that they were naughty or nice...

December was probably the worst time of the year. He used to love the Christmas season, he used to be the type of person who changed the entire decorations from Halloween to Winter Wonderland on the first of November, but…

Yeah.

Not anymore.

He couldn't stomach the cheerful snowmen and twinkling lights. Nor could he bear to witness the disgustingly, sickeningly sweet family of his best friend. Wei Wuxian was probably the only reason he survived, but if he had to spend more than a second with him, his adoring husband and cute kid, he would kill himself.

He had a list of more and more morbid ways to do that.

He was just joking! But no, not really.

Nie Huaisang sighed. Walking into the kitchen, he just took the whole tin of cookies with himself instead of refilling his plate. If he couldn't just fast-forward his life to January, at least he could suffocate himself with the delicious chocolate chip cookies Jiang Yanli baked.

With another weary sigh, he plunked down into the soft armchair. Picking up the only reminder of better times, his fingers brushed through the soft fur. The plush bear with a scowling face and tiny saber was the only thing that survived the fire - aside from Huaisang.

Sometimes he wished he could have died then and there.

Most of the time he wished they wouldn't have taken in him.

Closing his eyes, he wished he could have slept through the whole season, waking up sometime in the future. Or not even waking up. He would have been fine with not waking up at all.

He let himself be pulled into the waiting arms of the blessed darkness.

Minutes, then hours passed, Nie Huaisang deaf and blind to the world around him. Wind crept in from the outside, unnatural cold freezing frostwork on the windows. Nie Huaisang shivered, burrowing himself into the armchair, but he didn't wake up. Not until the footsteps that echoed in the sudden silence.

No.

Not footsteps. Hooves.

Nie Huaisang froze, eyes wide with fright. His throat was constrained, and his heart was beating as if he'd run a marathon. Silent, like a mouse, he rushed towards the door. He knew he shouldn't do it. He knew the menacing presence was there. Yet, he couldn't stop himself. It was as if his body was not his; he watched in terror as his hand moved without his accord to open the door. It opened slowly, torturously slow, adding to the terror of uncertainty.

Nie Huaisang gasped as a creature formed from the darkness. Huge and horned, hooved feet and sharp canines unveiled themselves. But they weren't the reason for Nie Huaisang's weakening legs, tear-filled eyes, and tattooing heart.

“Da… ge…” he whispered, his voice filled with anguish.

“Hello, didi.” A deep voice growled, different, yet so similar to the beloved tone of his brother.

Tears slid down his cheeks, he extended his hands. Trembling fingers pressed against furred skin, and it felt like time stopped around them.

“Da-ge,” he whispered again.

Sharp nails skimmed over Nie Huaisang's cheek as the monstrous form of Nie Mingjue tried to clear his tears away. “I'm here, didi. I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere without you.”

His left hand cupped Nie Huaisang's chin, a clawed thumb affectionately rubbing over his jawline, accompanied by a deep, possessive growl.

“But- how?” Nie Huaisang was shivering, not from the freezing wind, but from the emotions he tried to repress for so long. Nie Mingjue must have thought he was cold, because he wasted no time in reaching down and scooping him up in a princess hold, just like he used to do when Nie Huaisang was a kid. While he was higher, furrier, scarier, and much, much bigger, those protective arms and loving, gentle touches were the same. His big brother was the same.

“I'm here now. Does it really matter how I became the Krampus?”

Nie Huaisang supposed it didn't, not really. He could just count it as a Christmas miracle. The only thing important was that Da-ge was there. Krampus or not, goat-legged and furred and scary-looking or not, he was still his beloved Da-ge.

Nie Mingjue carried him to his bed, laying him down gently, so lovingly, it brought tears to his eyes. Since Nie Mingjue's death, feelings like love and safety were basically non-existent for Nie Huaisang. But not anymore.

“I missed you so much,” he confessed, pulling down to his bed his big and menacing-looking Da-ge with his arms wrapped around the Krampus’ neck. The bed creaked and gridded, but it bore the added weight of the monstrous form.

“I missed you too, didi,” Nie Mingjue rasped. His breathing tickled Nie Huaisang's neck and did other things to him he'd rather not admit. Feeling the big and strong body next to him, knowing that the only person he'd ever loved more than anything in the whole world was there and not going anywhere was a heady feeling.

Then, he felt the tip of a clawed finger trailing over his side and he let out an involuntary moan. His Da-ge was incredibly warm and real and he smelled so good! Similar to how he used to, but muskier, earthier, and it was almost intoxicating.

“A-Sang,” Nie Mingjue growled, and grasped Nie Huaisang's hip, pulling the much smaller body almost on top of him. Nie Huaisang squealed, but soon relaxed against the furred body, squiggling until he found the perfect, most comfortable position, with one of his legs between Nie Mingjue's, and an arm thrown over the huge body.

“Didi,” snarled Krampus. “Don't play with fire, unless you are ready for the consequences!”

Nie Huaisang's heart froze, his mind supplying him with memories of fire, burnt hands, and darkness. He felt like he was suffocating until gentle hands brought him back to the present.

“I'm sorry,” Nie Mingjue mumbled. “It's okay, didi. You are safe. Da-ge is here.”

Nie Huaisang’s breathing slowly normalized, and his body went lax against his brother's. He let out a whine, needing more comfort; he needed his Da-ge!

Krampus rumbled as he pressed his hand against Nie Huaisang's back, gently rubbing it, careful that his claws wouldn't hurt the human. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You are safe,” he repeated like a mantra. “Da-ge loves you.”

Nie Huaisang smiled against the broad chest, rubbing his face against the furry pectorals. Yes, he was safe; yes, he was loved.

“Didi loves you too,” he mumbled, blinking up to his brother with huge, innocent eyes. He knew very well that those were Da-ge's kryptonite.

“You minx,” Nie Mingjue grunted as his hands tightened around Nie Huaisang's hips. Lightning struck through the younger man, he felt like he was going to die if he couldn't get more of that delicious possessiveness. He always adored being Nie Mingjue’s number one, to be his priority over anything and anybody else.

“You want this,” the awe in Nie Mingjue's voice was almost palpable.

Nie Huaisang nodded, “I love you, Da-ge. I always wanted this… I always wanted you.”

There was something feral about the way Krampus growled, and kissed Nie Huaisang like a hungry beast. Teeth gnashed together, lips pressing against each other, submitting to the shared passion they hid for so long. A wayward hand groped Nie Huaisang's round ass, another clawed his shirt as if it was nothing but paper. Furred arms rubbed against his sensitive skin, adding an extra factor to the already mind-blowing experience.

Nie Mingjue explored Nie Huaisang's upper body, caressing his unblemished skin, and trailing sharp claws over his neck. Nie Huaisang could feel the growing erection against his thigh, and he knew his brother could feel his excitement too.

“Haa,” he gasped for air as they broke their kiss. The canines, he expected. But the elongated tongue that could explore places… that was new. He shivered as said long tongue slithered out of Krampus’ mouth to rub against his neck, his hips rutting against Nie Mingjue's stomach.

“Didi,” whispered Nie Mingjue almost reverently. He pushed Nie Huaisang onto the bed, climbing over him, towering over him like the big mountain he was. Nie Huaisang’s pants followed the same fate as his shirt, sliced through and discarded without care. He wanted to huff and puff and grumble about that, but honestly… he has countless other pants. Who cared about them, when he had Nie Mingjue covering his body and pleasuring him?!

He could hear a pleased purr as the last fabric that covered him was torn apart, and lips were pressing against his. It was a quick, but dirty kiss; drool was dripping from Nie Mingjue's tongue as they parted, and he didn't hesitate to kiss deeply another part of his didi. It was strange and weird and slick, and Nie Huaisang wanted more. His hips thrust forward to feel more of that long tongue, to feel all of it inside his body. It was sleeker than any of his toys, but it felt much, much better. He could barely wait to feel Nie Mingjue's cock if his tongue already felt like Heaven.

Nie Huaisang fisted his blanket first, mouth open and panting, but as he looked down, not wanting to miss a thing, he had a better idea.

He grabbed Nie Mingjue's horns with his hands, and he was convinced that they were there only for this reason. “Fuuuck,” he whined as his body took more of Nie Mingjue's tongue. Warmth flooded his body, legs tensing and toes curling at the unfathomable pleasure.

Nie Huaisang cried out as Nie Mingjue pulled away, leaving him teetering on the edge of completion. “Da-geee!” He screamed with unfulfilled desire.

Hands were groping him with naked want, and Nie Mingjue dove un for another mind-melting kiss. One of his knees slipped between Nie Huaisang's thighs, pushing them apart so he could fit there. He was a big man in his life and an even bigger man as Krampus.

Nie Mingjue's tongue flicked against Nie Huaisang's nipple, pebbling the sensitive flesh, making him squirm, and gasp and whine for more.

He didn't have to wait for longer, before he could fully process what was happening, Nie Mingjue was hovering over him, his own clothes thrown away, showing off his muscled form. Even with the dense fur, sharp claws, and huge horns, Nie Huaisang's mouth was watering at the sight of his beloved brother kneeling between his legs, his well-endowed cock ready to bury itself into Nie Huaisang's body.

“Gimme! Now!” He whined like the spoiled brat he was for - and because of - his Da-ge.

“So impatient,” Nie Mingjue shook his head in mock disappointment but followed his didi's order. Nie Huaisang gasped as the tip of Nie Mingjue's cock grazed against his aching hole. Nie Huaisang's body went rigid with fear that he might be too tight without fingering himself first since the last time he used one of his toys was hours before, but before he could voice his concerns, Nie Mingjue suddenly pushed in.

It was painful, a bit more painful than he was used to, but it was also so fucking deliciously good that he didn't care about that. He would whine and pout the next day and guilt his brother to pamper him properly, but that time he wanted nothing more than to feel the whole length of Nie Mingjue's cock inside of him. Nie Mingjue started thrusting, shallow first, then, as he found that spot that made Nie Huaisang see stars, he thrust harder and deeper. The pain was just an afterthought for Nie Huaisang, especially when Krampus’ hands were touching him, caressing him, gently scratching him as if he wanted to mark him.

Nie Huaisang moaned, cursing under his breath as Nie Mingjue fucked him. He wanted more. No. He needed more.

“That's it. Good boy, take what you need,” Nie Mingjue said in a rough, husky voice when Nie Huaisang ground his hips forward to get more of that amazing cock.

The pace shifted as Nie Mingjue became rougher, fucking him like he owned him. Nie Huaisang supposed that wasn't that far from the truth; he really was Nie Mingjue's.

“Da-geee,” Nie Huaisang cried out as his brother ground into him. Clawed hands held his ass for a better position, fucking Nie Huaisang's ass as if he never wanted to stop. The younger man's moans became broken, just a mess of grunts and whines and soundless gasps. He reached up to grasp the horns with his hands to meet his brutal pace with his own movements.

“Yes, didi! Just like that!” Nie Mingjue rasped. After a few more thrusts, he came inside Nie Huaisang with a loud growl. The rush of pleasure was enough to push Nie Huaisang over the edge. Toe-curling, dizzying, earth-shattering pleasure ran through Nie Huaisang. He could barely feel his brother's cum filling him uncomfortably full, he was just floating on air. It was like falling and being drunk and feeling the happiest he'd ever felt mixed together into the perfect cocktail. Nothing mattered, only them.

When Nie Mingjue finally pulled out, fatigue claimed Nie Huaisang. He was halfway to Dreamland, when he heard, “Sleep, A-Sang. I'll be here when you wake up. You will never be alone anymore, I promise. Sweet dreams, didi.”

Nie Huaisang felt whole again, full like never before. Before this, he hated Christmas, he despised it, but in the end, Christmas miracles really did happen. There would be no more lonely days for him, not anymore.

[elizabethplaid]

Tryin' to get some nice family portraits, and this gal just walked right in front of the camera.

I get so frustrated as I try to find "just the right" pose for my sims. I use CC pose packs, but the facial expressions are either too serious or too goofy for my needs. The serious ones don't look so great on elders.

I've started futzing with combining single-sim poses and (partial) group poses. The draped-arm pose is from a group pose, while the hand-at-head is a solo one. I keep coming back to @ratboysims pose packs, as I can often interchange poses, as long as they're in the same position (eg left, middle, center)

If I wasn't so stubborn about getting "physical" copies of the pictures (eg objects you can display in their house), I'd work on getting more family portraits. I had some really pretty ones from Harper Ivey's family. Alas, with 8 sims in the family, there's no one left to work the camera!

Pics of Harper's family below the cut, as I seem to have forgotten to post them:

Obligatory body horror of everyone standing in the same place.

The Henford-on-Bagley world is so gorgeous. No need for a fancy background. They're just in their front yard.

I think this was 3 separate poses. You can tell by how they're each clustered together.

Middle kid was sorta plunked down in the middle, using a separate solo pose.

Harper's 3 older daughters are in more of the "group model" poses, but each from a different pose.

I really liked this family portrait, centered around the couch. There were a lot of options, and I really liked how many spots there were for toddlers and kids.

Iirc, I had multiple sims in the same pose, so they could hold all those toddlers.

Again, had the 2 children in the same pose, so the "line" could be extended. Otherwise, I think the original pose had 1 child and 3 toddlers.

I really love Harper's kids, but I think playing in that world made it extra fun.

Fun fact: When you "take photos" in the game to get photo-objects, the game takes a wide-view screenshot at the same time. So whatever cropping you had in mind is lost.

You also can't make more "prints" from a photo, so you have to take multiple at the same time if you want different sizes.

But wait, there's the photography skill! Some of your pics turn out like shit if your skill is low. What do you do?

... Suffer

On the bright side (sarcastic), I have tons of screenshots of my game that I never bothered sorting through, cropping, or deleting. So many I never posted, after my big spree a couple years ago.

[voraciousvore]

In the Belly of the Giant (23/39)

Chapter 23

Joey chugged another coffee as he watched the small red dot that represented the human bait blinking on his computer screen. Humans couldn’t walk very fast, having such short little legs, so the dot didn’t move much as it crawled sluggishly across the live map screen, close to the school. Joey had been observing for a couple hours now and was beginning to feel disheartened. He knew, logically, that he needed to be more patient, but didn’t know what he was going to do if his plan failed. He didn’t have any leads in the investigation. The last thing he wanted was a cold case when so many lives were at stake, including Eren’s. 

Ray came into the room, chowing down on a family-size bag of chips as a late-night snack. “Anything new?” he asked, offering Joey some chips. Joey sighed, shook his head, and snagged a handful of greasy crisps, stuffing them into his mouth. As he crunched the chips with his teeth, he gazed with an empty expression at the screen, as if he were watching a program on TV. He tried to stay focused, but his eyes were glazing over with boredom and fatigue. His extended stint of long, stressful hours and late nights were wearing him down to a nub. 

Abruptly, the slow-moving dot jumped and changed course, darting swiftly in the opposite direction. Joey snapped up, his fatigue vanishing into smoke. Ray was jolted out of his stupor with Joey’s jerky motion. The two cops watched the dot, spellbound, as it raced across the map. There was a pause, and then the dot picked up speed even more, faster than even a giant could run. The human was in a car. 

“He’s-he’s been taken!” Ray exclaimed. “It actually worked! They took the bait!” He sounded surprised. Though he hadn’t admitted it out loud to Joey, he didn’t think the kidnappers would just be hanging around all night waiting for a victim.  

Joey jumped out of his chair, grabbing Ray’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go!” 

Ray used his superior bulk to pull Joey back into his chair. “Whoa, hold on there cowboy. We have to see where they’re going first.” 

“But-” Joey began to protest. 

“Don’t be stupid, Joey,” Ray interrupted, more serious this time. “There’s no point in intercepting them before they reach their hideout. Have patience.” 

Joey slumped, resting his elbows on the computer desk, and glued his eyes to the screen. From the direction the car was moving, he assumed they must be going to the wreckage that made up the bad area of town. Suddenly, the little blinking dot disappeared. Joey blinked, wiped his glasses, and gripped the monitor with both hands. The signal had been lost. 

“Shit!” Joey cursed. Just then, the dot blinked back to life on the screen. Joey was stunned to see that now there were two dots. One stayed in the car, and the other lay motionless on the side of the road. With the two trackers in the shoes separated, the signal was weaker, each dot flickering with irregular pulses. 

“What happened?” Ray asked, confused. “Why are there two dots?” 

Joey covered his mouth in horror. “What if... he got torn in half?” He jumped up out of his chair again. “We need to go!”  

This time, Ray didn’t protest. He grabbed a nearby officer and plunked him down in front of the screen. “Watch this for us, please. Keep us informed.” Joey and Ray sprinted out to their police cruiser and rushed toward the location of the immobile dot. Joey was scared to see what they would find. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if the human had been killed because of his harebrained scheme. He imagined having to call up the man’s wife and inform her of her husband’s death, and the thought churned his stomach. 

They pinpointed the source of the signal and parked the cruiser close by. Joey didn’t want to accidentally run over the doctor, if he was injured in the street. They got out of the car and searched the asphalt for any sign of him, dead or alive. The closest streetlight was burned out, so Joey swept the area with a flashlight. He spotted a miniscule object near the gutter and crouched down to investigate. He was surprised to find the pair of pants he had the human change into earlier. The pants were crumbled up but intact, without any bloodstains or indications of violence. Joey searched nearby and found a sock, so microscopic that he wouldn’t be able to tell what it was if not for the distinctive shape. 

Ray rejoined him, carrying a speck of something in his palm. Joey had to squint to discern it was the doctor’s shoe, with the tracker inside. He was relieved to see there was no foot ripped off inside the shoe or anything grotesque. The shoe was as small as the nail on his pinky finger. The cops glanced at each other with confusion. 

“What happened here? Why did he take his clothes off?” Ray questioned. “There’s no blood, so at least they didn’t shred him to pieces. I hope they weren’t doing anything nasty and perverted to him.” 

Joey paled. “Do you think they knew about the trackers we planted on his person?” 

Ray shook his head. “Doubtful, considering one of the trackers is still in the car. Although…” He looked down at the diminutive shoe, dwarfed by his palm. “Human shoes are so small. Maybe they missed one.” 

“If they figured it out, he’s in danger! We need to rescue him!” Joey cried. Ray acknowledged Joey’s concerns with a tense nod and called up the officer he left by the computer back at the station. He asked for an update. As he listened to what the officer had to say, his eyes widened. 

“Joey, they traced the other tracker to that abandoned industrial park up the road. However… they lost the signal again. We’ve lost him.” Ray hustled back to the cruiser, Joey on his heels. “We need to find him, stat!” They jumped in the police car and skidded off. As they followed their fellow officer’s directions to the last known location, Joey scanned the surrounding area from the window for anything notable or unusual. 

Ray slowed to a stop in the middle of the road. Joey looked at him questioningly. “This is it,” Ray said. “We don’t know where they went from here.” Joey surveyed the area. All he saw were rows of abandoned buildings that were falling apart, old warehouses, ancient industrial equipment eaten away by rust, and dirt lots. No cars in sight. Woe crept into his heart. He had failed. 

“Drive up the road a little ways,” Joey suggested, not willing to give up yet. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a clue.” Ray piloted the cruiser up the road, to a four-way stop. 

“Which way?” Ray asked. 

“I…” Joey glanced down each road, then groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know!” Black despair flooded over him. He was never going to find Eren. Dr. Rajak was going to die. The poor human teenagers would suffer a life of slavery. All because he had ruined the investigation; he hadn’t thought through what might go wrong. He slammed his fists onto the dashboard with frustration. “Damn it!” 

“Hold on, Joey,” Ray mentioned, staying more levelheaded. “We need to think. We can figure this out. Put ourselves in the minds of the criminals. If we had a hideout, where would it be?” 

Joey tried to puzzle it out, but his mind drew a blank. He was beginning to spiral. He clenched his fists hard enough for his nails to bite into his skin. Just as he felt like screaming, a recent memory surfaced in his mind. They had been in this area just a few days ago. He had seen suspiciously nice cars, hidden in a gravel lot next to a warehouse. He connected the dots. 

“Ray!” Joey shouted. “I know where to go!” 

Ray grinned. “I knew I could count on you, Joey!” Although the industrial park looked different in the night, they managed to locate the familiar route and find the same warehouse. Just like before, there were several slick, expensive, black cars parked alongside it. Ray parked the cruiser in a discreet spot and Joey made a move to get out. As usual, Ray had to grab his arm and tug him back. 

“We need to call for backup,” Ray insisted. “If that is really a gang hideout, it’ll be like storming an armed fortress.” Joey immediately realized the sense in his statement and picked up the radio to call all his cop buddies. Before long, the warehouse was silently encircled by police cars, like sharks drawn to the smell of blood in the water. His co-workers had brought with them a veritable arsenal of gear and equipment for assaulting the building. Joey hoped his hunch was correct; otherwise, his boss might not be too happy with him for wasting resources. 

The police converged on the building and covered all the exits. Joey’s adrenaline was coursing through his veins. He had trained for this sort of situation in the police academy, but he had never been involved with storming a building full of hostile enemies in real life. He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, though, because the signal was given. Joey and Ray pulled the pins on the flashbang grenades they were holding and tossed them through the door, then shut the door and turned away to block out the light and noise. 

The police charged into the building, guns raised, to swiftly incapacitate the stunned criminals. Joey ran through the chaos and blindly bull-rushed the first giant he encountered, a hulking brute of a man. Using his momentum and the element of surprise to his advantage, he knocked the man to the ground, pinned his arms behind his back, and cuffed him. Another muscular giant was behind him with a knife drawn, but Ray knocked the man over before he could stab Joey in the back and placed him under arrest.  

The police had blindsided the gang, so they were able to successfully and efficiently subdue the dangerous men without any casualties or significant injuries. Joey hauled the bigger giant he had tackled to his feet and dragged him out the door to the police car. The man was fighting against him, cursing and shouting and frothing at the mouth. His voice was familiar, but Joey couldn’t place where he had heard the man talk before. Joey, pushing him forward from the back, looked over his fancy pinstripe suit and realized he must be someone important. He caught a glimpse of the giant’s face and felt a jolt of shock. 

“Principal Greenwood?!” Joey balked. Mr. Greenwood stopped yelling and scowled at Joey. He didn’t know Joey, but he figured he must have been a student at the school. Joey boiled over with rage. Mr. Greenwood had harmed his girlfriend while at the school, and now he was here, linked to her disappearance. He tightened his grip on the cuffs until his knuckles whitened and slammed Mr. Greenwood against the car. He wanted to beat this man to a bloody pulp. 

“Joey, buddy, don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Ray warned as he dragged his own prisoner next to Joey. “It’s not worth compromising the investigation.” Joey gritted his teeth and nodded, indicating he understood. The officers recited to the detained criminals their rights and locked them up in the backseat of their police cruiser. Once that business was taken care of, Joey rushed back inside to see if he could find Eren. 

When he entered the warehouse, he saw that several of his coworkers had already begun the process of securing the drugs, weapons, and other contraband. One of the officers came up and slapped Joey on the back. “Good job, man! This was an excellent find!” Joey didn’t say anything in response, as he was too distracted and not receptive to praise at the moment. He looked around until he spotted the human cages and hurried over. He prayed desperately that he would find Eren. 

One of the giant police officers was already systematically unlocking the occupied cages to free the humans. All the humans had been stripped naked, clothed only with the wretched slave harnesses. Joey helped remove the harnesses, peering closely at the humans and inside each cage for his girlfriend. Dr. Rajak had been freed before Joey arrived by the cages. He looked shaken and didn’t talk much. Joey thanked him profusely for his help; he gave a weak nod in response and requested he be taken back home to his wife. Joey called somebody over to help him out and give him a ride home. 

While all of the humans were suffering from their terrible experience, some of them were clearly not used to giants. They were terrified of all giants, even the police officers who were trying to help them. Joey could only assume they had been taken from the human side of the wall and had no prior experience with giants. The idea that they were sold by their own people to horrible giants filled Joey with sadness. Joey wanted to help them, but he recalled how he had caused the human at the hospital to faint and held himself back. Fortunately, the humans who knew that not all giants were bad worked to coax out the others and make them more comfortable. 

Joey had to turn away with bitterness when he finally accepted the fact that Eren was not among them. He was too late, assuming she had been here with the others. He cursed himself angrily. He saw the warehouse a few days ago and had his suspicions, but didn’t act in time. He might have been able to save her. He left the warehouse, oblivious to his surroundings as he stumbled back to the police cruiser and leaned on it numbly. Ray joined him a few minutes later. 

“Joey… is everything okay? Did you find her?” his partner asked. 

Joey burst into tears. 

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

[chaosworthy]

↳ @familylightfox asked: Knowing full well, just from that look alone, that he wouldn't be getting away that easily from his niece; Volt met the family outside after they had unpacked and come back down. It was so much easier to move the massive wings this way. He knelt down and extended a hand to Lyra with a smile. "'S alright munchkin." Once she took his hand, he moved one folded wing closer to her fingers. She could explore to her heart's content and he opened the wing fully to playfully cover her with it. All before reaching in with one hand and plunking a long white flight feather with only a minor look of discomfort. He held it out to her with a smile. "Somethin' t' hang in your room."

  {➹} – THIS TIME LYRA was on her own two feet as they went through the lobby and outside where Volt was. But just like before she seemed star-struck by the massive wings, though to be fair so were her parents. Namely her father and in that moment Mina wished she could have taken a picture.

Like father, like daughter.

Awed as she was Lyra had no problem being brought closer and offered the wing to touch. Like with Bolt she was gentle but her eyes sparkled with pure wonder and the sound of her laughter followed as she was all but engulfed by the appendage. Just when it seemed her eyes couldn't get any wider that feather was presented. And she took it with a squeal, beaming up at the hybrid.

"Unca Volt pretty."

Hopefully he wouldn't take the laughter from her parents as a bad thing.

[eclipseawningsystems]

10 Things You Need To Know Before You Purchase a Retractable Awning

A retractable awning is a major investment for most homeowners – typically running between $4,000-10,000+ for a fully custom made, professionally installed unit. Before you plunk down your hard-earned cash, consider these 10 key factors. Doing your homework can save you time and money, and help to avoid more of life’s headaches.

1. Who are you purchasing from?

With this size investment, you’ll want to check out your local dealer(s) with the Better Business Bureau and request references from your area. No matter how good the product is, the dealer selection is almost as important. You can also check Angie’s List for unbiased consumer feedback.

2. Do they do their own installations?

Does the dealer stand behind their own installations or do they farm it out to a subcontractor? Do they warranty the installation for a period of time? Does their warranty include any service work or future adjustments?

3. What kind of fasteners are they using to attach this 200 to 400 pound unit over your head?

With today’s construction and materials constantly changing, make sure your installer is using a minimum of 3/8” wide shaft lag screws. Depending on the material to which the installer is mounting, the length of the lag screws is also an important factor. The goal when installing is to reach the center of the house’s framework after removing all exterior materials that can be com-pressed – typically foam board under vinyl siding.

4. Is the fabric 100% acrylic?

Most acrylics will not rot, mildew, or excessively fade, and are the same color/pattern on both sides. Popular US distributed brands to consider are Sunbrella, Dickson, and Sattler. Some awning manufacturers will carry private label fabrics which are produced in Europe or Asia. A 100% acrylic fabric sewn with UV stable thread should last 8 to 12 years with maintenance (cleaning).

5. Warranty – is it prorated or a full warranty?

Some companies online only offer prorated warranties while others will provide full coverage throughout the warranty period. If a future claim needs to be made, a full warranty can save you a lot of out-of-pocket expenses.

6. How is the awning going to operate?

Initially, the price of a motor may seem high as compared to a manual, hand crank operation usually included in the unit price. With a motor, you typically operate the awning with a hand-held remote or wall switch. You’ll use your awning 10 times more often with a motor than a hand crank. Somfy, the industry’s leading supplier has the research to back up this claim.

7. Where is the awning assembled and what is the source of the frame components?

Most quality awnings are assembled here in the United States. They’re made to order and typically take a week to two weeks to produce. Some companies save money by bringing in lower quality units and components from China. As with most outdoor products, many China produced components will not withstand the diverse US climate evident in peeling paint, faded fabrics, or rusted fasteners – just look outside at things that are falling apart, where did they come from? I’m betting China. With retractable awnings, you do get what you pay for…! Pay a little more to avoid the disappointment of low quality and shorter lifespan.

8. What applies the spring force in the retractable arms?

All retractable awnings rely on a spring-loaded folding arm that exerts outward pressure to keep the fabric tight. When you extend an awning, think of it as slowly letting off a brake. The real work is when you go to retract the awning. It is much harder on you (when manually-operated) or the motor to retract the awning due to the internal arm springs you’re now stretching. Typically the springs apply tension using three methods – cables, chains, or belts. Cables can be stainless or galvanized, PVC-coated. Chains are typically the size of what you would find on a bicycle. Belts can consist of Kevlar material or multiple smaller cables encased in PVC. Most will claim between 20,000 and 100,000 arm cycle durability.

9. Are you buying a national brand rather than a retailer’s own assembled awning?

Locally assembled retailer units have potentially two major issues: first, they typically change up their product souring based on who they can get the best deal from year to year. This may cause issues in the future with the availability of frame components rendering the awning totally inoperable. The second issue, if they go out of business, where would you get service or parts from? Most leading brands maintain the products for many years and if your local dealer goes out of business in the future, they can recommend another one in your area.

10. Do I need an optional protective hood?

A hood is recommended if the awning is roof mounted (on the roofing surface) or mounted on a wall without protection, i.e. soffit or eve above it. The hood will keep the first 6 to 8 inches of fabric clean so when you roll out your awning, the fabric looks clean and color consistent. If it’s a motorized unit, it will provide an extra layer of protection from the elements, especially water from entering the motor. Typically water damage to the motor is not covered by the warranty.