#poor Ash continues to see things

[theoryandahalf]

Lee: "You can't just say we were sharing spicy messages!!"

Matt: "We can share spicy messages! Is that a bad thing?!"

Lee: Ahh...Might have to call HR

Ash: "No Matt, he means like SPICCCYYYY"

Matt: OHHHH

Meanwhile Rachel from HR:

[inknopewetrust]

𝔉𝔬𝔬𝔱𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔰

summary: in the blistering summer evening heat, you and felix play a little game. [felix x fem reader. WC: 2.6k]

warnings: smut. minors dni (18+ only). p in v, fingering (fem receiving), saltburn bathtub, slight voyeurism, dirty, dirty talk, some degrading language, not the dirtiest thing but still like… kinda hot?

Though the sun had set long before, the lingering scorch of the sun sat like a film on your skin. Its thin veil dry and aching to shrivel against the boiling water of the tub. You felt the sticky nature disappear under the trails of steam that painted the surface of the water.

A bead of sweat pebbled from your temple to cheek to chin to neck.

But you lit a cigarette anyway. And if you listened close enough, you could hear the crackle.

A blistering bud sizzles; the porcelain was drawing cool waves against the skin of your arms and for once, in the vast nothingness of the bathroom, the heat that rose from its surface made the ghosts vanish.

It made them disappear in house once home to Kings.

Now, as it boiled under the night sky, it was home to something other. It had bled itself into the walls and the ghosts wished to witness not the haggard scrounging of wealth that festered within.

But you imagined Henry the Eighth liked to stare as you bathed. They all did. Felix had told you that once a few summers ago.

How they all wanted to touch you in the ways that he did. How they wanted to whisper in your ear that they were better than him. No one truly was and it kept you crawling back with the poor souls who got sucked into a heated whirlpool of pity each and every summer.

Nevertheless, you envisioned Henry in the corner itching to touch.

They all trembled to flutter their hands onto your skin, onto your breasts, squeezing pieces of you dipped below the waterline.

If his ghost could smile, Henry’s ghastly teeth gleamed.

‘Fuck off, Henry,’ you saw the paunchy apparition lounging in the chair in the corner with a bead of sweat dribbling from his own temple.

Oh, envy, King Henry.

A bit of ash fell onto the tiles below.

“You’re making a mess of it.”

You tapped the cig on the side of the tub as another bit of ash wilted to the cold floor.

Felix hummed.

Stocky Henry vanished. If you gazed toward him, Felix’s eyes bore deep. Heavy and brooding, downcast at a peak of what existed beyond the bubbled suds.

Dinner had long passed. Everyone was supposed to be in bed.

He could feel you in inches. The soft skin of your back, the plush thighs that laid between his own. A hand of his traced over the skin of your collarbone gently as the ash continued to drift.

You were nearly on fire. In the swelter of the stone walls and the patterns of the paper before him, you glowed in a red sweat.

“You’re letting it die.”

“I was thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

“King Henry.”

“King Henry?” Felix’s voice peaked. His head leaned to rest on your shoulder, his smile leaving a trail as it grew. His nose drew a delicate line on your dampened skin.

You liked Felix in this way. So quiet and removed. But Saltburn always kept pace in the background.

“Yes, King Henry,” his hand glided along your own, gently taking hold of the cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The smoke of the puff rose high into the air beside you. It’s curls twisted like your insides aching for a touch too far but never too close.

“I like to imagine them sitting… staring at us now.”

“Now?” Felix questioned. “So erotic in an ugly tub. I can see him now,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “he just popped one. Can’t you see it? In his trousers there.”

You grinned. Your laugh filled his chest with a shuddering life. So fulfilled and free yet trapped in this same world as he.

And he was never far away. Here, in Saltburn, always waiting in the same shadows for the opportunity to strike while the others weren’t around. No sister or friends or parents or mewling poor fighting for his attention. They were retired for the evening; all snuggled in beds with curtains drawn and fantasy dancing in their heads.

“He isn’t the only one.”

You tipped your head to the side. The profile of your face meeting his forehead as he dipped his own downwards. The cigarette still burning from his fingertips. It was a mere bud now.

You could feel what waited for you on your lower back.

“I can feel that, you know?” You feigned an innocence he liked. Keen and blatant, but cunning with sin.

“Is it Henry that makes you feel that why?” You whispered, lips ghosting his chin.

Felix breathed in deeply. The same chest that shuddered with joy in anticipation.

Every summer.

The excitement would stir within his bones as the gates would open wide and beside his family would be the one steady thing he had everything to give.

“I hope,” Felix hushed, “for your own sake that’s not the fucking case.”

“So it’s me?”

Felix groaned as you pushed against him. The gentle pressure of your body arching into him without a touch, he begged to put his hands on you.

The cigarette fell to the floor in its end.

Felix took his hand and turned your head back to face him with a firm grip on your jaw. The water around you sloshed. It cleared the bubbles from your chest.

“I want to play a game,” he suggested in a dusty, breathless tone. “Want to play, darling?”

“Can I win?” You suggested. His hand loosened, letting the fingers dance along the column of your neck before beckoning up toward your mouth once more.

His index finger traced the outline of your lips. In a slow glide, Felix pulled your lower lip out slightly, gathering the wetness with his finger before inching it back to the space where your lips had parted.

You kissed his finger with your tongue as it found purchase in the suction of your mouth. The plushness of your tongue, the slight drag of your teeth as it emerged from between your lips.

“I don’t want to play if I can’t win, Felix,” you whispered.

His eyes now hooded with a thick want. He watched his finger redraw the lines of your lips again as you begged with doe eyes to win. A near child’s play of a woman’s ability to seduce.

“You can win,” Felix huffed as his other hand snaked itself from the edge of the tub to your torso under the water. “But I’ll need you to be quiet. We have guests and as much as I do love our dear, sweat guests, I can’t have them imagining the way I fuck you, can I?”

“No,” you relished in the way his hand returned to the base of your throat and squeezed with the slightest amusement. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Felix smiled at you. Your heart squeezed in the same way your cunt ached for his fingers to gather the strength to follow through.

“What do I win?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. You just have to be quiet.”

You smiled deviously that the thought.

“I can’t see how we’d be able to look a boy like Ollie in the eyes if he heard the sounds that come out of your mouth.”

His hand swooped past your center and to your leg, drawing one over his own which sat you straighter in his hold. You felt his cock jump at the pressure of you pushing on him. Felix flitted his finger tips from your knee to waist, switching hands to bring his wet palm to your breast while the other perched your opposite leg over his other.

The pebbled nipple was taut as he kneaded the skin in circles. He pressed down hard, pulling up on your nipple to elicit the sounds he wanted so badly to hear but knew you’d repress.

You were like him in many ways. He too wanted to win a game of control.

With you in his hands like a play of putty, he felt in control but with one hand on the wheel.

As he palmed your breast, his hand gripped your thigh. His mouth traced a pattern of hot breath along your neck as his tongue relished the salty sweat that had gathered at its leisure. The goosebumps that rose from your skin welcomed his breath kindly.

“I want this house to ourselves,” Felix moaned. “So we don’t have to be quiet.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” you asked him, placing your hand over his own and bringing his fingers to you. He cupped your heat as you groaned, guiding him back and forth to gather the wetness he could feel different from the water of the tub.

“Tell me what you’d do to me.” You spoke faintly. “Tell me and I’ll be quiet.”

You guided one of Felix’s fingers in you as he shushed the sounds that threatened to speak themselves into existence.

He put his lips on your ear as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you with a slow glide. So plush and tight, he thought to himself. It sucked him in and dared not to spit him out.

“I would fuck you on the floor,” he breathed out against your cheek. “I’d spread you wide and taste your sweet pussy as the sun bathes the floor. And when I’m done, we go to the pool-“

Felix pulled out his finger, tracking it along your folds before going in with two. You arched against his back, drawing up as he pulled you back down and rested his hand on your waist.

You curled the toes of your right foot down the edge of the tub.

“-we’d go to the pool and sit out in the sun. You’d give me head in one of the chairs and I’d paint your fucking face with my cum.”

You clenched around his fingers. His thumb pressed into your clit, another jolt aching to send you squirming but he held you down as he patterned circles on the gentle flesh.

“You like that, don’t you?” He breathed in the smell of you. “And maybe we’d go for a walk through the maze after dinner. I’d fuck you in the center and you could scream as loud as you fucking want. No one could get to us. No one would hear us.”

“F-F-“

“No, no, no, shh,” Felix shushed. “Good girls only win by being quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, clenching onto his fingers again as a strangled ‘fuck’ tumbled out of his lips. He could imagine the coil building. Felix wasn’t going to let you finish alone.

Felix pulled his fingers from you and felt the disappointment in the wither of your body.

“But I don’t want to imagine what’d I’d do if we were alone,” Felix blanked. “Turn around.”

As the water sloshed around you, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. Like you, Felix had sweat beading from his jaw that glimmered in the red light of the bathroom. He looked intoxicated, entranced but in control of what he could.

“I want to see you ride me like the fucking whore you are.”

You weren’t a whore. But for Felix, you could be anything.

At the nape of his neck, you gripped the back of his hair and drew his head back as your other hand gripped him under the water.

Hard and lengthy, his cock was a welcome intrusion every time. You pumped him in your hand slowly. The sounds of water creating currents was soothing against the sounds of your battered breaths kissing his own. You lifted yourself on your knees, leaning against Felix as he squeezed your ass tightly, watching as you lowered yourself onto him under the water. Slender and veined, your cunt molded to him like art. You both would never tire of the feeling so profound.

It would never be like this with anyone else.

Loose pants left his lips as you sat completely full of him. A fit for a King in his own home, he supposed. Once you had settled with him inside, you moved above him.

The water moved languidly too. Meeting the fiery skin of two intoxicated minds too oblivious to see the peering eyes between the crack of a door.

“Right there, baby, right there,” Felix mumbled as you rose again and again, drawing him in and out as he stretched you with every swell and spur he could muster on his own.

“You’re such a good girl, darling. So good for me.”

You could peer down at him from above. Your breath fanning his face and lips but never seeking to truly kiss him as your hand tangled in his hair.

Bits of water spilled over the tub and splashed onto the floor. It soaked the ash tray and the speckles of ash and bud that littered the floor.

“Don’t stop baby. Don’t fucking stop,” Felix crooned in the room’s empty sounds. Only the pleasured sighs and gasping breaths filled the air.

You bounced on his cock with a measured pace. Each stroke of his manhood against your velvet walls lured him deeper into you, entangled with the missing links of a year gone by.

“Felix,” you broke the rules to whisper in his ear. He was taken away by the insatiable need of his rapture. He listened. He beckoned to your call.

“Tell me that you love me.”

From the shadows, Oliver Quick felt his blood run as hot as the sun. He loved Felix.

“I love you.”

Whom did not love him back.

“Tell me you need me.”

He was enamored by the idea of Felix.

“I need you.”

Who was enamored with the idea of Oliver.

“And what do you want from me?”

He was taken by the sight before him.

“I need you to cum, baby. I need you to fucking cum for me.”

Oliver was taken by the gleam of your skin. The way Felix’s throat bobbed as a strangled groan escaped his lips and the way your own melted onto his forehead in a silent struggle to come down from a high.

You placed both hands on his slender chest, careening like winged victory in a heated satisfaction.

Your fingers shook.

He had never seen a woman shake so elegantly before. The tremble of your lips as you breathed in shaking respite, the jolt of your shoulder blade as Felix ran a hand up your back.

Oliver licked his lips at the sight.

Felix lifted his head from its position against the tub. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled away in the slightest.

And Felix smiled.

You returned the grin with one of your own as his still sat erect inside of you. The bubbles of the tub had long ceased to exist and the water that was left was filled with the combined spent of you both.

“I don’t think I won that one,” you chuckled quietly, pushing hair out of Felix’s face before cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I’ll take pity on you, I guess.”

“The water’s gone cold.”

Felix kissed the inside of the palm of your hand. He cherished the high that lingered.

“The water’s gone cold,” he repeated. “But we could stay here forever.”

“Pruned and sweaty? Not a chance in fucking hell, Felix.” You laughed a bit too loudly. Oliver disappeared at the groan Felix let out as you pulled off of him.

You stood before him as the water dripped from every piece of you. Marbled and finite of the most precious carvings he only wished to hold forever.

As you exited the tub and the throb of him began to settle, you grabbed his linen shirt from the floor, draping it over you as it stuck to the wetness of your skin.

“The bed is just the slightest bit more comfortable.”

And you disappeared behind his doorway with call for more as the walls of Saltburn added another sordid story to add to it woven trims.

But it was never just the walls of Saltburn watching.

A/N: as always, the best gift of reading is likes AND reblogs and why not, we love comments too. Thank you for reading and feel free to check out my other works on my masterlist here. xo

[tojipie]

can i request y/n’s reaction to toji going to jail? like was she there for the arrest.. how did toji break the news?

partial continuation to this ask !

his crime is finally revealed ! mwahaaha. if i printed out every comment asking me to assign him a crime to go along with his prison sentence i’d be able to cover the state of texas. probs my longest work! and this isn’t even that long so what does that say about me? (poor work ethic)

prison bf series linked here !

content: angst, hurt/comfort, lots of fighting, themes of incarceration

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“can i ask you something?” you mumble, rolling onto your stomach to address your boyfriend face to face.

toji pauses, then nods, blowing an acrid plume of smoke towards the ceiling before passing you the cigarette he had pinched between two fingers.

a buzzer sounds from the tv in front of you followed by a sea of excited cheers.

“fuck!” he curses. bringing his fist down on the mattress. “i have 6 grand on this fucking match.”

you wait for his hand to unclench before tapping him, reminding him of your inquiry.

“yeah— yeah. what’s up?” he mumbles, squeezing the fat of your arm affectionately. toji takes what’s left of the cigarette back from you, stubbing it out in the marble ashtray on his bedside table.

“you never told me what you do for work.” the implication hangs heavy in the air as you wait for him to explain, the last bits of smoke around the two of you begin to dissipate. you realize he’s gone rigid.

“business, lots of things.” he says curtly, fishing a pack of marlboro reds from the side hesitantly. you hate when he does this, keeping his hands occupied so he has an excuse to not speak to you.

“right, but like..” you start, growing frustrated. “what kind of business.”

“real estate… y’know.” he smacks the carton against the butt of his hand, then fishes out a stick.

“property management. investing and all that.” he sounds a little more confident this time, cupping a lighter to his mouth with a cough.

you tear yourself from his arms and sit up on the bed, eyes cast on his. you practically feel his stomach drop from how he looks at you, movements laced with caution and hesitance.

“put that out.” you tell him. “stop playing games with me.”

“what?” he laugh’s incredulously, still trying to maintain his confident facade.

“do you not think it’s fucking weird that i don’t know where all your money comes from? do you even pay for this fucking house?” your patience had officially run out, you were pissed.

“nonono— hey— hey c’mon.” toji grapples for your hands, quickly trying to calm you down.

“you don’t do fucking real estate, do you really think i’m that stupid?” your accusation renders him speechless for a moment as he thinks of what to say.

the older man’s expression twists as guilt starts to usher in. he extinguishes the roll-up in his hand, flicking it into the ash tray on your nightstand before reaching for you softly.

“baby..” he chuckles, snaking two palms around the curve of your waist. “don’t be like that.”

“i know it’s illegal. i know it is and i’m not even mad, toji. i’m not .. i just want to know.”

he sighs, running a hand down the side of his face.

“you think just because we eat good that i wouldn’t ask questions down the line? do you think i’m fucking stupid?”

“no.” he whines. “no, fuck. c’mon.” you smack his hands away as he reaches for you once more, tearing yourself off the bed and out into the hallway.

you hear your name boom behind you angrily as he calls out for you a final time. glass shatters against the ground as he mutters to himself, heavy footsteps pacing back and forth.

─

you’re not unaware of toji’s presence as the older man stands in front of your curled up form on the couch. it’s dark, probably just after 3am. too dark to see his expression, though you know he’s frowning.

he lets out a quiet sound of realization as you turn over, rucking the blanket over your head to drown his presence out. the windows are open, you can feel the chill of the night breeze, even under your comforter.

“i can’t let you sleep here, pretty. that’s not right.”

you stay silent, holding your breath as you wait for him to either leave or fess up.

it’s quiet for a while. you slowly feel yourself being pulled into the precipice between sleep and awareness. an all-consuming warmth makes its home in your chest before you’re quickly struck back awake, heart jumpstarting at the sound of his voice.

“i invest in properties.” he whispers, kneeling beside you so you can hear him more clearly.

“i make investments in properties and then i let people store.. product there.” you know he isn’t lying to you this time. you feel it in his tone.

“product?” you grumble, your voice laced with sleep. you know exactly what he means, you just want to hear him say it.

“drugs, baby. warehouses.”

it’s quiet once more as you mull over what to say back. were you surprised? hardly. you knew what you were getting into as soon as you got involved with him. were you mad? well it was still hard to tell.

“ok.” you mumble curtly, throwing the covers towards your feet and stalking towards the master bedroom. you knew now, and that was that. you gathered there was no reason to keep fighting about it.

toji stands a little too quickly, watching your form disappear up the stairs.

“wait—” he starts, head spinning at your sudden acceptance. “wait really?”

“just come to bed.” you holler, sighing dryly to yourself at the sheer ridiculousness of it it all.

─

toji had a plan in place even before you’d found out what kind of business he was running. if anything were to happen to him, there would be a fund stored overseas for you to dig into while he wasn’t there to put food on the table.

he’d thought of everything, put measures in place that normal people wouldn’t even think of before it was too late.

he had your shared house put under a family member’s name, hired private security to watch the perimeter of the house 24/7, urged you to use a fake ID in public to conceal your real name, and never ever took you to work meetings.

it just wasn’t enough.

it wasn’t enough to keep his phones from getting tapped. it wasn’t enough to stop an investigation from being launched, and it simply just wasn’t enough to keep him under the radar and out of a prison cell.

you wailed like a baby when the bailiffs snapped those silver cuffs on his arms and led him out of the court room, crumpling to the floor and babbling nonsense towards the judge’s podium like it would somehow change the course of what just happened.

7 years in a federal penitentiary. and that was nothing compared to the sentence they would’ve gave him if his men hadn’t taken half of the fall for him.

toji didn’t look at you.

he didn’t so much as spare you a glance as you sat there on the carpeted floor, screaming into your hands while the bailiffs tried to pick you up off of the floor.

he didn’t say anything to you as you kicked and scratched your way towards his lawyer, hurling expletives and threats to the one person who was tasked with maintaining his freedom.

he didn’t look because he couldn’t.

he couldn’t look at you, his only girl. the girl he’d marry someday, the one he’d raise a family with. he couldn’t look at you because if he did he might risk breaking down right then and there.

he might risk grabbing you by the arm and booking it, going underground for the rest of your lives while his name slowly climbed up the nation’s most wanted list.

he could do it, without question. he’d be more cautious this time. but that just wouldn’t be fair to you. he was done roping you into his mess.

you were young, gorgeous, too good for all of that trouble. you’d worked all your life to get by until he met you, slowly letting down your walls, letting him spoil you like you’d always deserved. and what kind of man would he be if he took that away from you and forced the two of you into hiding?

toji felt himself crumble as reality began to sink in. his stomach dropped with each dreaded step towards his holding room. this was no joke. this was his fate and there was no getting out of it.

“wait.” he tells the bailiffs, whipping his head towards the direction of the courtroom in a panic. he wasn’t the boss anymore. these men didn’t answer to him.

“wait, fuck. wait!” he groans, barreling his way back down the hall. he needed to see you, needed to say goodbye. there’s no telling when they’d let you two visit or if you’d even be able to communicate. god, this was real.

god, he was a coward for giving you the silent treatment. he deserved prison just for that.

toji grunts as he’s tackled to the ground, gloved hands securing shackles on his ankles.

“get offa me. get off— fuck. i wanna see her.” he groans, thrashing as security circles his form. “nonono let me see her! fuck— fuck!”

all he can do is listen to you wail as he’s dragged down the hall, screaming out to you in hopes you hear him.

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taglist ! <3 🏷️

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[crypticminx]

Enemies to lovers au ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Felix Catton was a popular student body that seemed so utterly artificial to you.

From his lean, supermodel like body to his outrageous facial piercing and even his ridiculously expensive clothes—everything seemed to irk you to no end.

Even the man’s whole life and every teeny bit of information you heard from gossip sounded like something that sprung from an unrealistic movie.

What made it even worse was his attitude, one that wasn’t too far off from the cocky cliche types you had no patience for in high school.

While you would sit and mind your own business, your mind attentively focused on the information in your textbook, you’d see him happily stroll on by—his hand always intertwined with a girls, of course. It almost infuriated you how those girls would chase him around like love sick puppies, a poor character trait on their part.

There were so many other men on campus, but only one Felix and that was the problem.

Felix this and Felix that, couldn’t you escape him for just one second?

It appeared not, as when you found yourself smoking a cigarette to escape the party filled atmosphere for a quick minute on the balcony of a flat, which belonged to someone’s name you didn’t even know, in walked the man himself.

“Got a light?” he asked you, interrupting the peace that was supposed to be your only moment of freedom from the obnoxious drunks inside.

Taking a minute to observe his flushed face, a result of one too many beers, you hesitantly handed your lighter to him after fetching it from your purse.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking a few clumsy seconds to light the cigarette poking through his lips.

In perfect unison, you both painfully stood in silence, keeping your distance from each other as nicotine would slowly trail down both yours and his throat and release with each exhale. The two of you creating quite the cloud of foggy smoke.

“I’ve seen you around, y’kno,” he took a small drag, gently tapping off the ash growing on his cigarette.

If this was his way of starting a conversation as an attempt to bring you home with him, he was doing a miserable job.

“I’ve seen you too,” you replied, sounding disinterested as you continued to face the distance ahead as opposed to Felix.

“Always got your head in a book, drinking beer by yourself,” he slowly dragged his feet as he circled around you. “…giving me dirty looks whenever you have the chance.” You couldn’t see it, but you knew he had to be sporting one hell of an arrogant grin.

No, he wasn’t trying to take you home, he was flat out insulting you.

Rolling your eyes with a disdainful expression, you tossed the remaining cigarette to the stone cold ground, crushing its entirety in one stomp.

Okay, if he wanted to play this game, so be it.

“What’s your point,” you questioned him with hostility, feeling your blood boil when his face was sporting the exact look you pictured it to.

“My point is,” he swallowed, his structured jaw clenching, “even with all the drinking I’ve done, I can sense you don’t like me.”

You found it comical, not even ten minutes with him and he was getting to all the nitty gritty. You absolutely pitted any girl who spent more than twenty minutes with him. you could probably name a few.

“And do I need to like you, Felix?” You inched yourself closer to him, not caring if you crossed some sort of stupid boundary that was created between the two of you.

“No no, of course not darling,” he shook his head while you cringed at the subtle name calling. “But nobody likes a bitch.”

Oh, he was a fucking piece of—

“However, you’re the fine exception.”

Your eyes squinted with confusion, finding yourself surprised that you weren’t about the cuss the tall man out. Instead, pure tranquility roamed through your composure as your mouth didn’t budge.

“What if I kissed you?” He interrogated you, his voice was loud and serious, not one ounce of alcohol collided with his system to say the things that flew out of him. “Would you still dislike me then?”

“Excuse me?” You aggressively spat out, starting to feel more frustrated than full of your previous rage.

“I said, what if I—“

“I heard you!” you profoundly interrupted him, coming to your senses that all your douchey assumptions about him were right.

“Wait,” he called out, almost sounding desperate like he had some good point to be made.

You refused to let this silly conversation continue for any second longer. Dashing straight for the the door, but one swift tap of your shoulder and suddenly you found your back against the brick wall and Felix’s lean arms alarmingly barricading you from exiting.

“I also know that you’ve got the highest grade in our lit class.”

Great, so he was gonna make some joke out of that too.

“And when I read your work that was on display, I found myself in love with how beautiful your writing was.”

It was a simple assignment. A poem based on a classic Shakespeare play, you just happened to have chose a midnight summers dream. Felix’s favourite.

“You….,” confused eyes scanned him up and down as you tried to picture him reading any sort of literature, “like poetry?”

“I like pretty girls who can write,” he flashed a confident smirk before his body mindlessly pushed him to do something he hopefully wouldn’t regret.

He leaned his tall frame down to the perfect level of letting his lips slowly embrace yours. The second you felt the softness from them, you wanted to pull away with all your might, but a weak part of you felt curiosity win you over.

As his tongue danced away with yours in circles upon circles, the taste didn’t stench of alcohol. Instead there was some sort of sweetness to it, something that made it all seem worthwhile.

Closing your eyes in an amused way of defeat, you savoured the moment from the long kiss. Soaking up his touch that maybe felt too alluring once his hands smoothly made way to your hips. You could feel the ambience of enjoyment twinkling it’s way in the air and you wondered how the hell you got here.

Felix was as good of a kisser as he was an asshole.

Breaking free from a passionate kiss turned make-out, you witnessed a side of Felix that almost made every negative aspect of him vanish from the depths of your mind. You trailed back to the very feeling that was his lips on yours and you wanted to possibly continue as you noticed Felix looked just as stunned as you.

Until—

“Felix, mate,” a man with piercing blue eyes and dark locks popped his head out the door, looking at the two of you dusting yourselves off while trying hide your sheer content that sprouted in the form of rosy cheeks. Luckily, his pal didn’t seem to pay any sort of mind. After all, this was typical Felix behaviour.

“Been looking for ya, get your ass inside and have a shot with me!”

“Duty calls,” Felix whispered in your ear, holding your soft hand for a quick second before letting go, even though it was clear he didn’t want to.

As he was about to part ways from you, he stopped before he turned to you for one last time before the two of you would go your separate ways into the long night ahead.

“See you around, if you’re not too busy with all your books.” He blew you a cheesy kiss.

You didn’t say anything to his antics, instead you tossed him your final smile, while on the inside, you were squealing with foreign joy.

Fetching another cigarette to help you process what just happened, maybe he wasn’t so bad after all…

[fuctacles]

Witch Hunt

for @steddie-spooktober "witch" & @stevieweek "i don't know about this one..." prompt which i've altered quite a bit but used it twice so it kind of evens out, right???

E | 2568 | transfem!Steve (goes by Eve), witch!Steve, demon!Eddie, medieval fantasy, some arson and murder boyfriend vibes, magical srs, possible continuation, im sorry for all the lore | Ao3 more spooktober: "would you please stop trying to scare them?"

Eddie hated his job. Not only the human realm was much colder than Hell, but also, the Deal didn't always work. The success rate has been increasing each time, but it still pissed him off when nothing happened after he's been freezing his balls off for hours. He was starting to think all his fur was just decorative. 

When he had arrived at Heimdall's, the guy threw him a skimpy tunic that barely covered his privates. 

"Is this the only one you have? You can see my whole dick and balls in it," Eddie had complained, but beggars can't be choosers and all that. 

He wraps the fabric tighter around himself when the next gust of air moves clouds away from the moon, making the pile of debris in the clearing visible. Time passes and Eddie waits impatiently, tapping his hooves against the ground, and idly picking stray grass blades from his tail. It seems like the pile moves a couple of times, but it's just the wind disturbing it. 

A distant clock tower strikes midnight, and finally, the ash pile moves and keeps on moving, until a hand emerges. Eddie straightens up, his tail twitching in interest. 

The ashes start breathing, the charred remains get knocked down and a coughing fit raises a dark cloud into the air. She'll be spitting soot for hours, but at least she's up now, another success for the statistics. 

He decides to take pity on the poor girl and steps away from the fence he's been perched on, making room for his wings. With two good swats, the dirt is gone, leaving a slightly dirty, very naked woman in the middle of a charred circle. 

He raises his eyebrows. 

"These fucking perverts burnt you naked?"

She finally notices his presence, her red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly to clear her vision, and stands up on shaky legs, still low on energy after her resurrection, barely maintaining her balance. Suddenly, Eddie doesn't seem to matter anymore, as her hands fly to her chest. 

"What...?" she murmurs to herself.

Eddie tilts his head, watching the human with curiosity. Usually, the arrival of a demon gets a bigger fanfare, he's almost insulted, but he waits patiently. He already did for so long, and now he has something pretty to lay his eyes on for once. Witches usually came with ugly meat sacks, even after their resurrection. 

"Where the fuck is my dick?!"

Ah, yes, that would explain it. The naked thing, too.

"Do you want it back?" Eddie asks because he's a demon with manners. 

"No!" she protests immediately, eyes snapping up to him from observing her crotch. "No," she adds softer. "I like it like that." Her hand reaches down to inspect her new parts, so Eddie takes it upon himself to swat it away with his tail.

"Hey!" 

He tsks, his long tongue slipping out to flick in a warning. 

"Let's not put any more dirt in your holes, okay?" he berates her. Regretfully, he shrugs off the tunic he's been wearing and throws it at the girl. "For your modesty, m'lady." 

She glowers at him but slips it over her head anyway. What was small for the demon, doesn't do much more for a human, especially not one with the curves that she has. She wrinkles her nose. 

"Is there even a point? You can see my whole—"

Eddie slaps her hand preemptively. 

"Hey! I wasn't even touching it!" 

"Your hand was too close."

"No, it wasn't!" 

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"Let's clean you up and then you can touch it all you want. You have a river in this ditch?" he asks, nose twitching in the air. He turns at the same time the witch points her hand. 

"To the left of the village." 

Eddie's eyes stray to the cluster of houses she seems determined not to look at.

"Do you have anyone left there?" he asks curiously.

"Not anymore," she scoffs, taking off towards the river. 

Eddie has to follow her, he can't risk losing a witch, but an urge flares inside of him that he has to let loose. He claps his hands together and starts rubbing, sparks flying until a fire forms in his palm. He bounces it from one hand to another and nuzzles it with his finger, always happy to work with the little guys. When he feels the witch is watching him, he refocuses and whispers to it:

"Go, little one. Do your worst."

The flame flies off his palm, aided by a push from Eddie's phantom wings. 

She doesn't ask, only eyes him curiously, but he pushes gently on her back to prompt her into walking along his side. 

"It's gonna take a while," he says without any other explanation. 

The walk isn't long, and soon she's handing over the tunic and dipping into the lazily flowing water, dark like ink but glittering with the reflection of stars above. The night sky is probably the only thing Eddie misses in the Underworld. 

He sits on the plush grass, observing as the witch dunks under the surface and rubs her skin until it turns pink. It still contrasts with the water like it's made of the finest porcelain. 

"I guess you're clean enough to explore now," he says as her movements slow down like she's already contemplating it. She must be, he can taste her curiosity from his spot on the river bank.

"You're gonna sit there and watch?" she glowers at him.

"Of course," he answers matter-of-factly. "I'm a demon."

She huffs, but this time it sounds more amused. Her hand travels down her body.

"What's your name, witch?" Eddie asks, resting his chin on his hand. 

"Stev—" she hesitates. 

"Eve?" he picks up curiously. That would be hilarious. 

She kind of nods, kind of shakes her head. 

"I was Steven, then I went by Stevonne, but..."

"That's okay, take your time," Eddie reassures her. "This is your Rebirth, you can pick any name you like."

She hums, and he can see her hand making slow, circling movements under the water. 

"I like Eve," she admits.

"Yeah?" Eddie perks up with a smile. "You can call me Eddie. It's nice to make your acquaintance, Eve."

She smiles and opens her mouth to say something, but her attention is pulled somewhere above Eddie's shoulder. The water starts glowing orange. 

"Looks like the little guy is having fun," he hums, not looking around. The glow of fire looks better on Eve's skin anyway. 

The river carries distant cries for help, a reminder that it's not just a big, pretty bonfire. 

"Don't worry, he'll get them all," he says.

"I'm not worried," she assures quickly. 

Eve's fixated on the fire consuming her village, her eyes full of awe and the reflection of flames. She's glowing in the now orange water and she looks gorgeous reflecting Eddie's carnage like that. She'll look breathtaking among hellfire. 

"Maybe we could spare some," he wonders out loud with a lazy smile. She looks back at him. "So we can hunt them down later. The way they hunt my new favorite witch."

She smiles, mean and thrilled. He'll have to fight fang and claw to keep her.

"Maybe we could." 

They look at each other for a long while, until his eyes dip. 

"You done?" Eddie looks pointedly at her stilled hand. She sighs with frustration. 

"It's way different from this angle," she complains. 

Eddie laughs out loud, the sound echoed by the collapsing church that used to tower over the townsfolk. 

"Need a hand?" he offers, rolling his eyes when she eyes his claws with distrust. He flicks out his tongue instead. "Need a tongue?" 

Eve's totally on board for that, clambering out of the water, her hazelnut hair dripping over her curves. The wet shine on her skin reflects the dancing flames and Eddie would be in love if he knew how to.

"Weren't you appalled that I was watching you just seconds ago?" he laughs at her, a little bit mean, but he already knows she can take it. 

"Turns out I like that," she shrugs without shame, making Eddie's smile grow. The sight of his sharp teeth doesn't deter her either. In an instant, he has a lap full of a human, or at least as much of one there was left in Eve. He has her tits right in his face and he wouldn't be a demon if he didn't give them a taste, licking the river water off her skin. She sighs, fingers tangling in his unruly mane of hair, seeking purchase in his horns. He groans when she grabs them, and wraps his arms around her, pressing into her skin so he can flip them around, and lay her down in the bed of grass. 

Her yelp turns into a delighted laugh and Eddie trembles with the sound. They don't make witches like that anymore. Free and open to the joys of life, ready to frolic and mingle with the things Unknown. Christianity made it so hard for demons and fae to get laid. 

He presses hot kisses down her torso, spends extra time sucking around her navel, then nibbling around her mound, hiking her thighs higher and higher, nosing at the crease there, inhaling her scent, until he gets to his destination. It takes two, three expert licks for Eve to lock her legs around him and scream into the night. 

Eddie gently laps up around her hole, her juices too precious to let fall on the grass below. Her breath hitches and she trembles but doesn't move away. 

"Do you want more?" he asks, black eyes searching for an answer. 

Her eyes are still full of fire.

"Yes."

So he gives her one more, then three, until he loses count and his tongue is numb and Eve's but a puddle of human-shaped limbs underneath him. When he laps at her entrance, drunk himself on her smell and taste, she spreads her legs invitingly, eyes blown and impossibly wide, sparkling with flames. 

They stare into each other's dark eyes as he slithers his tongue inside. He rubs against her walls, searching for her face for a reaction, but she's too out of it for anything more than an involuntary twitch of muscles. However, when he moves away, she seems disappointed. He crawls up her body to properly look at her face, but before he can say anything, she lurches forward.

Kissing is not something he's used to in such circumstances, but he indulges anyway, letting her tongue inspect the sharp points of his teeth, and maneuver his hand on her breast. He squeezes, laps, and sucks, letting himself get lost in this new dance. 

"You know," he says when she breaks away to restore oxygen. "I don't do that outside of sealing a deal," he admits.

Eve blinks at him owlishly. 

"You don't kiss just for fun? Aren't you a demon?"

Eddie barks out a laugh. 

"I guess kissing is too tame for our tastes." 

"What's your taste?" she asks, curiosity radiating off of her in hot waves. 

He hums, caressing her side.

"Insane witches, apparently."

"What do you do with them?" she presses on, her leg moving dangerously high up his body, the coarse hair of his thighs not enough to deter her.

"Well, personally..." Eddie likes to play with his food, a habit he couldn't shake since his childhood, so he rolls away from Eve to lie on his side instead. To placate her, he starts playing with the hair that grow low on her belly. "I collect the resurrected witches and show them around. You'll get a tour of Hell and any other realms you wish to see, and then I'll help you settle wherever you feel like."

With every word, the pout on her face only grows. 

"You're not keeping me?" she asks, playing up the whine in her voice, but he knows there are genuine feelings behind it. 

"Witches aren't meant to be tied down," he explains apologetically. "They're free spirits abusing the laws of reality." He reaches for her hand to press a kiss against her fingers. "It's a power best wielded in solitude."

She pries her hand away and sits up.

"Why would I want the power if I can't share it? Don't witches have like... familiars? Or something?"

Eddie frowns.

"A witch of your power doesn't need one. They're meant to amplify and aid spells, and you're pretty much on the same level as a common demon."

"Are you a common demon?"

"Yes," he nods. 

"So we can't make a deal?" she presses on. 

His frown deepens. 

"Why would you want a deal with someone equal in power? Deals are made between a master and a servant."

"But is it not possible? Can't I have an equal by my side? A partner in crime?"

Maybe he should backtrack on her being his favorite. She's asking too many questions, ones he's not used to from a freshly reborn witch. He sighs. 

"Technically you can, but it's an exclusive deal. You're tied for eternity, you belong to each other. It's not a common practice," he says, playing off what he's been told and overheard. "Master-servant contracts have an expiration date and are easier to break. I'm not sure a deal like that could even be broken."

Eve wraps her hands around her knees, processing the information. 

"So I could tie a demon, or an equally powerful being, to myself for all eternity?" 

Somehow, Eddie doesn't like the idea of Eve making a deal like that with a random demon. He nods, though.

"Yes."

"Let's say I'd want to do that with you, right now. How would that look?" she asks curiously. 

He thinks about it, imagines it, and it pains him deep into his core. 

"A simple deal is sealed with a kiss or a blood pact. A deal between equals requires an intercourse."

"Huh."

The idea doesn't seem appalling to her, which doesn't surprise him at this point. He can feel her eyes sliding down his body.

"You're not going to find my dick like that," he says with amusement. 

She huffs but doesn't budge, searching his gaze instead. 

"Wouldn't you want to make me yours? And you mine?"

Eddie considers it. 

"I never thought about it before," he admits. "Is that something you'd want?"

She lays back on the grass with a sigh. 

"I'm just tired of being alone. Of nobody staying. You're the nicest person I've met in years, and you're not even human." He laughs at that, and she turns towards him with a smile. "You burnt a village for me." She frowns. "Unless you do that for all the witches."

Eddie quickly shakes his head. Too quickly.

"Only the most mistreated ones," he admits. 

"Is it a pity thing, then?"

"No," he protests again. "I wanted to do something nice for you."

Eve smiles. 

"Thank you."

He smiles back, and when he leans down, she meets him for a lazy kiss. 

"Would you make me yours?" she asks when they part and the offer sounds alarmingly tempting. 

"You should meet other demons before making a commitment like that," he says, and she rolls her eyes. Then, his ears twitch as he finds the perfect distraction for them both. 

"You ready to hunt?" he smiles down at her, wide and dangerous. "Someone escaped the fire."

ko-fi

[bibucktrashpanda]

Princess

A little Buck/Tommy ficlet inspired by a friend sending me an instagram post of a puppy rescued in a fire who becomes a fire-dog. Tommy is mentioned and doesn't actually appear. This hasn't been beta'ed and is just a quick little something I wrote in a few minutes. Death is mentioned briefly but happened earlier.

Summary: Buck finds something unexpected while inspecting a yard after a fire.

Buck finds the puppy on his sweep of the extensive backyard. It’s a miserable call, a fire tearing through a new residential development neighborhood at 2:00am. Another firehouse is battling the fire itself and the 118 have been called into assist. Buck and Eddie are sweeping one of the early houses hit by the inferno. The house and its occupants are are all gone, lost to the blaze or the smoke or both. He and Eddie are silent as they search for stray embers but all that remains is ash.  Buck is examining the backyard, which seemed to have been spared to make sure that no sparks escaped that could flare into a wildfire, when he hears the whimpering. 

He stops, unsure if he is hearing things. 

“Buck, clear! Lets go!” He hears Eddie call and he waves a hand towards the other man as he bends down to the ground. Nothing, he goes to stand, crossing the sound off as his imagination when he hears it again, coming from under the hydrangea that has taken over this corner of the yard, wedged between two fences. 

He shuffles over and lies down to look under the leaves. He points his flashlight at the base of the bush and almost startles when two bright eyes shine back it him. 

The puppy is tiny, dirty and stuck, chain and collar tangled in a broken branch. It’s shivering and stretched as far as it can go, pulling on where it is stuck.  It’s hard to see much of the puppy in the dark but he thinks the puppy might have been tan at one point. The ears look darker but that could just be the darkness of the bush. The chain ends in a spike that has clearly been pulled out of the ground. The puppy is straining against the collar and Buck can see little scapes covering the poor thing.  

“Hey there, little one.” Buck murmurs and reaches slowly out with his hand. He knows better than to just grab at a strange dog. He places his hand close but not within biting distance and absently notes that his hand seems to be bigger than the puppy. “Look at you all safe under here. I bet you ran when things got scary.”  he continues, trying to soothe with his voice. The puppy stretches its head as far as its collar and the branch will let it and sniffs at his hand before giving it a tentative woof. 

“It’s okay, I know, my hand is big but I promise am very nice and love dogs.” he whispers and slides his hand a little closer. The puppy yips and nuzzles into his hand before wheezing. 

“Well, aren’t you friendly.” He strokes his fingers over the fur that is probably soft when clean and turns his attention where the collar and chain loop tightly around a large branch at the base of the bush. He doesn’t like the sound of that wheeze and wants to get it out of there pronto. There isn’t enough space to work it but he thinks he will just be able to unclip the chain from the collar freeing the puppy. 

“Buck, let’s go! Bobby is waving for us.” Eddie’s voice is closer than it was. “What are you doing under the bush? Did you fall?, are you communing with flowers?”

Buck ignores him for a second stretching his other arm under the bush to hold the puppy still as he uses his right hand to just flick the catch open. The puppy tumbles forward and Buck catches it and carefully tugs it out. 

When he has space he adds his other hand to help support the puppy as he straightens up from out of the bush. 

“What the hell?” Eddie says and crouches down next to him. 

“I heard a whimper.”  Buck says. The puppy has flopped over, seemingly exhausted and he gathers it close to his chest.  

“With your luck it could have been a rabid raccoon.” If Buck had a free hand he would have stuck his middle finger up at his friend, but Eddie isn’t exactly wrong. Eddie has grabbed Buck’s flashlight and aims both towards but not at the puppy. In the light Buck can see that none of the scrapes are bleeding anymore. 

“Just a puppy tangled up.” He cradles it and stands, Eddie steadying him. A quick glance under her tail reveals the puppy is a she. “She’s a little scraped up and she was wheezing a little. But I am not sure if that’s because she was pulling on her lead and it bruised her throat or if it is smoke. She could use some medical attention.” The puppy is blinking quickly, fighting sleep and he rocks her a little, crooning at her. “It’s okay pretty girl. You are safe now.” Eddie reaches over and checks her tag. 

“Her name is Princess, because of course it is.” Eddie releases the tag and steps back. 

“She is 100% a Princess, aren’t you?” He coos. Her eyes are pale and he can see under the dirt that her face is mostly which but with black freckles on her snout. Her ears are huge and fuzzy, one flopping over while the other stands at attention. Her tongue hangs out as she pants a little. She is definitely a bully breed, with a distinctive thick head.

He doesn’t realize he is smiling down at her until a flash distracts him. He looks up and Eddie has the flashlights propped in one arm, one of his gloves between his teeth and his glancing down at his screen has he texts away. 

“What are you doing?” Buck whispers since Princess has given up on fighting sleep. 

“Texting Tommy a photo of his new kid and my new god-dog.” Eddie smirks as he continues texting. 

Buck would argue but he knows that if Princess is okay, and doesn’t have family, she will be coming home with him. 

“Yeah.” He grins up at Eddie. “Let him know I am going to be late getting home? Someone has to take this pretty girl to the vet.”

He cuddles her close as they make their way back to the truck. He doesn’t think Tommy will object. Their new house has a big backyard, and if he does, well Buck is sure he can convince him somehow. 

[littlemissvincentvega]

Hii could u write a part 2 to the morning wood hopper fic? Maybe hopper accidentally bumps into the reader at a bar and he takes her home and Yk… 😏

MORNING WOOD pt. 2 / a perv!hopper one shot

PART 1

a/n: OMG i finally wrote something and it is the part 2!!! i'm going to do part 3 soon (might start writing it tonight) it will most likely be the finale of this little miniseries thing with hopper. but i had so much fun writing this and i hope y'all enjoy ♥ also also i'm in the process of setting up the tumblr tips thing bc i am Poor and somebody asked me about it aaaages ago :) thanks @nonsensecynical for the request and the inspiration for doing the part 2!!

18+ explicit content / perv! jim hopper x fem!reader

cw: alcohol, smoking, sexual themes, general perviness

Wisps of smoke left his nose like an angry bull. He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray in front of him, watching as the ash fell into it. It had started out clean and empty, but since Jim arrived a small pile of cigarette butts had accumulated there. He nursed his (sixth? seventh?) drink, focused on the melting ice cubes that swirled around the glass.

"Need a drinking partner?"

Hopper looked up from the bar, his eyes widening a little when he saw it was you. Of course it was. He'd jacked off to the thought of you that very morning, so why the hell wouldn't he have to deal with speaking to you as if he hadn't just mentally fucked you into next week? "What?"

You snickered slightly and shifted to sit beside him at the bar. Unbeknownst to Jim, you were already a couple of drinks in, which was why you were so calm about approaching him. You'd considered this a few times before after seeing him drink his problems away, but today was the day you grew a pair, for some reason. "Are you having another drink?"

"Probably," came his mumbled response. He looked at you, "Why?"

You pretended not to notice his gaze drop briefly to your breasts and gave him a coy smile. "I'll get your next one. You look like you need a drinking partner. You're always in here by yourself."

"(y/n), I couldn't ask you to do that," Jim said, sitting up to look at you properly. Why was a young, beautiful thing like you bothering to speak to him? He arched his brows. "By myself--? That's by choice, not because I don't have friends, you know."

"You didn't ask me, I offered. I'm buying the Chief of Police a drink. Least I can do for you doing your duty," you grinned, ignoring his further comments. He closed his eyes in annoyance, sighed through his nose and begrudgingly agreed.

-

"Let me give you a ride home," Hopper told you an hour or so later, sliding the empty glasses toward the barkeep. "Least I can do after you bought me a single drink."

You grinned upon seeing a smile twitch on his usually stoic face, then slid on your coat. "I didn't tell you to pay for my other drinks. I just... let you do it. It's fine, I'll drive myself home."

"No, no-- not happening." He was already ushering you out, a large hand hovering near your lower back. The bitterly cold air of the evening woke you up slightly, and you grimaced at the change in temperature. "I'll hafta arrest you for drink-driving. Wouldn't want that."

Being slightly merry, you bit your lip into a smile of mischief and eyed him. "Would that involve you putting me in handcuffs?"

That kinky little shit. I knew it. Hopper stared at you for a few moments, then continued to whisk you to his truck. "Yes."

Jim helped you into the passenger side of the truck, closed the door for you and then made his way to the driver's seat. He cleared his throat and glanced your way. You had slid your coat down your shoulders just a little to allow the cold air around your breasts. And yes, he could see your nipples trying to poke through the fabric of your shirt. Dark gaze lingered on them for a moment before he cleared his throat again and switched on the engine. "Thanks, uh, for keepin' me company tonight," he mumbled.

"Oh-- don't mention it. It's nice to not drink by myself for once."

"You there a lot?" he queried, taking a look behind before reversing out of the parking spot.

"Mm, sometimes," you hummed, popping the cap off of your lipstick and topping it up in the mirror. Hopper wished you wouldn't do that. It was making his mind go to places, places it had been that same morning. Making him think about how beautiful you'd look with those beautiful plump lips wrapped around his cock, pumping and sucking...

And then you broke his trance with a question. "Should you even be driving?"

"What?"

You returned the lid to your lipstick and put it in your handbag. "You're technically drink-driving, Chief."

God. Stop calling me that. He glanced your way, a gentle smirk tugging at his lips. "What'd you just call me?"

Brows arched, you stared at him and tried to ignore the pulsing between your thighs. After a short pause, you answered him, albeit a little quieter. "Chief."

"Exactly. I'm the Chief of Police, I can do what I want." And what I want is to fuck your brains out.

You simply rolled your eyes and chuckled a little, opting to look out of the window. Jim took that opportunity to steal a few glances at your body, the way your skirt perfectly hugged your hips, how the low-cut top showed off your delicious breasts. How he'd like to grab them, knead them, suckle on your perfect little nipples. He swallowed thickly, making an attempt to ignore his twitching cock. No, not twitching-- it was throbbing.

When you turned to look for any packs of cigarettes Jim had laying around his car, it wasn't difficult to see what he was trying to hide. It only made your core ache more for him, and from what you could see, he was big. You diverted your gaze from it quickly, locating the cigarettes, and sparked up. The first exhale definitely helped to calm you down, but it was barely a distraction from how sopping wet you felt.

The rest of the ride was quiet, almost awkward considering how you were both feeling (unbeknownst to each other), but Hopper broke the silence when he pulled into the trailer park. "Which number are you again?" he mumbled. He knew the number.

"Right there." You pointed at your trailer, which was painted light blue (a DIY job Eddie Munson had helped you with, much to Steve's dismay).

Hopper pulled up at the side of your home, hands resting in his lap to conceal what was going on down there. A small smile was given to you. "Home sweet home."

You noticed that he didn't turn off the engine, which was a slightly disheartening, but your horny little brain had other plans. One hand rested on the door handle and you looked across to him, eyebrows raised. "Aren't you gonna walk me to my door?"

Oh, God, why? He looked mildly annoyed, staring at you silently for a moment. "The free ride home not enough?"

"Nope." You flashed him a grin.

Rolling his eyes, Jim switched off the engine and exited the car. In his mind, he was hoping his erection had subsided a little, but he knew full well it wasn't going away until he took care of it. All he had to do was pray you didn't notice. "Alright," he helped you down from the truck, savouring every moment his hands touched your body, "five more steps and you're home safe."

"Huh, chivalry isn't dead, after all," you joked, walking with him to your porch. You fumbled to grab your keys and began to unlock the door.

"Sure," he cracked a small smile again. You were sweet-- he found you to have a decent sense of humour, too. "Uh, thanks again for keepin' me company."

You removed the key and opened the door, looking up at him. "You're welcome. Do you want to come inside for a bit?"

For a moment, Jim's eyes widened and he fell silent. He looked inside, then back to you. "No, I should get goin'. Got stuff to do."

"What stuff?" You held his gaze, subtly ran your tongue along your upper lip.

"Y'know-- laundry. Got some, uh, dirty dishes--"

But he was cut off. Your hand, much smaller than his, had found the outline of his erection, and you were gently rubbing it through his work-slacks. "What else?" you breathed, watching the poor man try to catch his breath.

He swallowed thickly, all too aware of how heavy he was breathing. Gaze dropped to watch your hand, then slowly rose to capture all of the beauty your body held. His eyes finally met yours again. "Gotta take a shower... maybe it can wait..." Without warning, he pushed you inside and slammed the door behind you both, shoving you against the nearest wall. It made the framed photos there shake, but Hopper didn't care. You squealed with surprise-- his cock rubbed against you as his lips met yours, all hunger and pent-up frustration and passion. He groaned against your lips, only pulling away after a few seconds to catch his breath and look at you. Yes, it was clear. You both wanted the same thing.

-

PART 3 COMING SOON!

[hollisxwrites]

Hi, can you do a short piece for Luke Castellan x reader, where Luke saves a mortal reader from a monster and they fall in love please?

as long as i'm with you, hero

gif is not mine!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST!!!

word count: 1.1k

warnings: one singular swear word, reader calls luke a pretty boy, slight mentions of violence, overall just fluffy and cute, probably a little ooc and definitely doesn't follow the main plot.

summary: after luke saves the {reader} from a horrifying monster, they fall in love. that's it, that's the plot.

Before I even knew it, a creature I had only ever heard of in myths was approaching me. I was terrified when I saw the Antaeus, an ugly, brooding, red creature nearing where I sat on a bench in Central Park. I looked around, hoping someone saw the demon too, but no one even looked up. I felt crazy, deranged even, hoping, and praying to any and every god I knew possibly existed. I didn’t want to die today. I was frozen onto the cold, metal bench, not knowing whether to run for my life or not, wondering if I was hallucinating all of this. The creature was ten feet away from me. Well shit. I thought. I didn’t know I was dying today. 

Suddenly, as the creature continued to tramp towards me, a young man, about my age, in a highlighter orange tee-shirt ran at the monster head on. I was shocked. I thought I was the one who could see the horrible thing, but apparently, the handsome boy with the dark curls could see him, too. His sword slashed at the creature, but every wound the boy inflicted on him was healed by the Earth. I guess Gaea was his mother. The boy, then coming up with a strategy, jumped up on the monster and hoisted him up with his...what is that? Flying shoes? Then, he sliced the head of the monster, and it turned into ash. The boy fell to the ground with a sickening smack. He didn’t move, so I rushed towards him. No one in the crowd looked at the poor boy, except me. Could no one see what was happening except me? I rushed to the boys side, kneeling down on the ground. I placed a hand on his chest to make sure his heart was beating, and it was. His breath was steady, but it looked like he must of fainted from impact, possibly having a concussion. I couldn't tell if he hit his head or not. I shook him slightly, and then again, when eventually his eyes fluttered open, and oh my god, his eyes were stunning.  

“Are you alright?” I asked, concerned about the boy. He winced a little bit when he tried to sit up, obviously embarrassed to be lying flat on the cold ground.   

He sighed and winced at the sun that was directly in his eyes. “I’ve been better. Who are you anyways? Did you see everything that just happened?” 

I nodded my head. “Yeah. I feel like I’m the only one who saw the Antaeus until you came out of nowhere.” 

“Well, I guess you’re just different, like me.” He met my eyes, and I swear I could feel my heart beat out of my chest just looking at this stranger. “What’s your name?” 

“My name is {reader}. What’s yours? Thank you for saving me, by the way. I would probably be dead by now if it wasn’t for you.” 

He finally sat up to meet face me, ruffling his hair, trying to make it look a little more presentable, I assumed. “Luke. Luke Castellan. And, you’re welcome. Never hurts to help a pretty person like you.” 

“Nice to meet you, Luke.” I said, blushing slightly. “Now tell me, what just happened and why could I see something no one but you could?”  

That day, Luke told me all about the world of demigods, Greek myths, and gods, and how everything that I have been told about them is real. He told me that his father, Hermes, abandoned him to fend for himself a long time ago, and now, nine years later, he was here, fighting off monsters for a camp that he felt didn’t appreciate him.  

Something else I discovered that day was that I am in love with Luke Castellan. His dark eyes and scar on the side of his face that I wanted so badly to kiss, and his demeanor of confidence that I learned was a ruse all made me fall deeply in love with him.  

All of this happened six months ago, and now, this mysterious demigod who saved my life is my boyfriend, and I am an honorary member of Camp Halfblood, due to my inclination to see through what the people at the camp call the mist, which put me in danger. The camp was beautiful, and I learned skills such as sparing, archery, and sword fighting. I spent time with Luke on the beautiful sunny days that seemed to last forever at the camp. 

I was walking across the archery field in my camp tee-shirt and bathing suit, using my hand to cover my face from the sun. I was alone, or so I thought, when all the sudden I heard footsteps following me to the lake. I looked back and saw the beautiful face of my even more beautiful boyfriend. I paused my walking and let him catch up to me. He picked me up in his arms and spun me around. I let out a joyful laugh, holding on to him in order not to hit the ground. He sat me down carefully and looked into my eyes, smiling his gorgeous smile that captivated me all those months ago. 

“Hi.” He said, smiling down at me. The sun hit his face at the perfect angle, illuminating all his features that I loved so much. He looked like a god, and I guess that was fitting, because he technically was partially one.  

“Hi, pretty boy.” I replied, in awe of him. My hands rested on his shoulders as I continued to admire every part of his face. My fingers went up to trace the scar on his face up and down. He relished the feeling, leaning onto my hand. I moved to caress his face, embracing his warmth.  

His eyes fluttered to my lips, and I smiled at him, pressing my body closer to his. He pressed our lips together, and every time, I felt blissful. He tasted like sugar and sunshine, and he was so gentle and soft with me. He started to press kisses all over my face, causing my face to warm up, not due to how hot it is. He placed one more lingering kiss to my lips, grinning into me. He grabbed my hand.  

“Let’s got swim, sweetheart.”  

“Anything as long as I’m with you, hero.” 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to my neck as we walked. I hoped in this moment that these days of sunshine and my pretty boyfriend never ended.  

[cassafrasscr]

I continue to have so many thoughts about Ashton.

I've seen a handful of posts accusing Ashton of being selfish and power-hungry, and I don't think that's completely inaccurate, per se. I don't think it's fair to frame it as Ashton just wanting power for it's own sake without considering the larger context of the threat they're facing.

Let's look back on the Hells' first battle with Otohan.

Ashton was almost completely useless in that fight. He got knocked out twice in the space of a few rounds. Which, no shade. With her Echoes in play, Otohan was almost able kill Keyleth (a level 20 Archdruid, plus her elemental Wildshape) in a single round.

Ashton's whole job is to tank hits and deal damage. With an enemy that can deal out enough damage in one round to put the tank out of commission, his ability to mitigate damage to the rest of the party is severely hampered (if not cancelled out completely).

The only reason Ashton didn't also die in that fight is that his friends healed them enough that they could get back up again, and they were able to make a run for it before Otohan started going back to kill the PCs she had already knocked out.

And that was just Otohan. One of Ludinus' right hand generals, sure, but still nowhere near as strong as Ludinus himself (or even Predathos, if it gets released). Even once they defeat Otohan, the fight that's still in store for Bell's Hells is near insurmountable.

Taliesin has said in a previous 4SD (don't remember which one, sorry) that this fight was the moment that Ashton realized just how invested with this new group they had become. The moment he couldn't protect his friends was the moment he realized that he finally had the family he'd been missing... and by then three of them (Orym, Laudna, and Fearne - probably the PCs Ash was closest to at the time) were dead.

Not only could Ashton not protect his friends, he also ran. He left his friends behind and half of them ended up getting killed. I think Ashton may feel they left their friends for dead in that moment, the same way the Nobodies left him for dead after the Hexum Heist.

Now, I'm not sure I would necessarily equivocate these two situations - this is just where I think Ashton's head might be given recent events. I don't think he would see any significant difference between the Nobodies leaving him after his fall, and him running for his life during the Otohan fight. If I'm remembering correctly, this is also around the time that Ashton really started to double down on their "Nobody gets left behind" rule.

Now that Ash is aware of how much he cares about the other Hells, he will do absolutely anything to keep them. Bell's Hells is too invested in the fight against Ludinus to turn back, and Ashton is never going to leave them again. So if the Hells won't abandon the fight, and Ash won't abandon the Hells, their only option is to get strong enough to keep their friends safe.

So of course Ashton took the Shard of Rau'shan when Fearne didn't want it. No one else seemed able or willing to take it, so Ashton charged ahead with his decision the way he tends to do.

Was it arrogant and hubristic? YES. Was it a power-hungry thing to do? YES. Was it wrong to keep it secret from the rest of the group? YES. But there's not a single force in Exandria that will make Ashton regret taking that shard if it helps him protect his friends even a little bit.

It also feels fitting to me that one of the few things Ashton can't protect them from is his own poor decision making.

[vanmarkus]

Inspiration Saturday 📸

This wip is loosely based on this post of mine and based on the initial outline I expect it to total out around 20k, but I have like 3 much longer fics on my list before this, so it probably won't be written any time soon, but it wouldn't leave my mind today, so!

After a serious injury on the job, Eddie takes up light duty as the temporary Instagram Manager of the LAFD and even though he's now physically healed, he's still not ready to return to active duty. The job has its perks though; namely the new guy who joined the 118 shortly after Eddie left.

Tags and a longish snippet under the cut 💛

“Hey Diaz, sure you don’t want in on the action instead of playing around with your camera?” Buck asked, lifting his helmet a little, probably to see Eddie better in the harsh sunlight.

He had ash smudged all over his face, giving him a ragged edge that Eddie thought fit him just a little too well. His turnout coat was open, revealing just how tight his shirt hugged his body underneath.

“And what if I prefer the camera?” Eddie asked playfully. “And I told you to call me Eddie.”

“Not until you tell me what it’s short for.” Buck grinned at him teasingly and Eddie clicked the button on his camera again, to capture the way the sun hit his laugh lines; sue him, the man was gorgeous.

Buck had this weird thing for nicknames and though Eddie found it kind of endearing, he didn’t really understand why Buck didn’t just ask the team what his name was if he wanted to know so badly — maybe it was part of some kind of game that Eddie never learned the rules for.

“You know this year’s calendar is coming up.” Eddie said, lowering his camera back down to his chest.

“Yeah? Are you the one shooting it?” Buck stepped in closer, still holding the jaws of life in his hands while everyone continued packing up behind him.

“Why? Would that make you wanna do it more or less?”

Buck chuckled lightly, before swiping a gloved finger across the tip of his nose, leaving yet another black mark there.

“I don’t know. Am I gonna be the only one taking my clothes off?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively and Eddie only had time to roll his eyes jovially before he was cut off by Hen.

“Stop riling up the poor guy and help us put these away, I’m starving!”

“I’m n-not rili—” Buck stammered, all his earlier bravado suddenly gone.

“Come on Buckaroo, it’s lunch time.” Chimney chimed in as well, walking past them and dropping his medkit into the back of the ambulance.

Buck looked back at Eddie and shrugged sheepishly. “Duty calls.”

“Yeah... I gotta upload these too.” He lifted his camera with a sigh, indicating the pictures he just took.

“Well, I hope you got my good side.” Buck smiled at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes and Eddie just grinned back at him.

As if you have a bad side, he thought to himself.

“Buck, come on!” This time it was Bobby who yelled over, so they both knew that they ran out of time.

“Coming!” Buck called back, still not taking his eyes off of Eddie. “Take care, Diaz.” He added gently before he finally turned around and jogged away, leaving Eddie standing in the middle of the road, watching as the engine and the ambulance pulled away.

“Yeah, you too, Buckley.” He mumbled to no one in particular.

I was tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz and @watchyourbuck thank you mwuah 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @daffi-990 @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @jamespearce9-1-1 @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @evanbegins

[intriga-hounds]

some updates

i’ve been really busy lately. so busy i don’t really engage online a whole lot anymore. i feel pretty disconnected from dogdom in general, but also from the silken world. then again, every time i dip my toe back in, i just think, “oh yuck.”

work has been going well, but i’ve been so stressed about making things go well that my hair is falling out and my health continues to be poor. planning on seeing a dermatologist and hopefully getting more exercise back into my life soon. honestly everything is going really well except my body finding new ways to let me down lmao

planning on breeding ponzu mid spring, and i’m determined to make that a source of joy instead of more stress. 😌 she has appointments with three different vets next month to get things rolling: regular vet for titers/vaccine updates, repro vet for consultation, and our sports vet to get her fat n buff before her pregnancy. i’ve been revisiting avidog and puppy culture and myra’s books among other things, plus just enjoying my good girl. with @pippindot’s help, we landed our first choice stud and i’m very very excited about the temperaments that i know will come out of this pairing.

baz is excelling at nose work. his instructor thinks very highly of him and said he has been progressing “by leaps and bounds.” he loves it and it is a fantastic outlet for him. due to his severe temperament issues, bazzy’s world has continuously gotten smaller the past three years, and i’m thrilled that with nose work, we’ve managed to make it a little bigger.

sivi is feeling a bit left out, so he’s coming to work with me on friday while i finish grading finals and cleaning up my classroom. he’ll get to do a few nose work hides and do a big sprint on the baseball field, but best of all, he’ll get me all to himself for the day.

as for ollie, i am missing him. i still go to let him out every morning and he isn’t there. i picked up his ashes today, so it finally feels permanent. luckily, caring for him to a ripe old age, plus knowing with certainty i made the right choice has made things easier.

i am sooooo ready for a break. this will be the first time i have no grading, planning, or presenting to do since august!!!!!!!

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 20 - "Emotional Angst"

((First part here))

Possessed of a barbarian but fatuous dignity, the Mmatont decided we heathen visitors unfit to meet his gods. Instead we met the sacrifice. Having left most of his blood smeared down the central corridor, he was now the colour of old snow, a fringe of the same grey pressed sweatily to his moribund brow. His eyes were too blue, like daubs of wet paint on a doll.

Silver caste. I knew with one glance at his shredded midsection that he'd be dead soon, but it felt rude to say. I kept my distance and waited for our guide to return. My friend was more excited.

"Woah there," Rahm soothed, darting towards the boy on invisible legs. He was coiled in the corner, surely in shock, breaths shallow and gaze half-lidded, fixed on something I was sure only he could see. Rahm knelt to feel his pulse, try to pry his arms from his stomach. "Who are you? Let me see your injury."

At first the boy didn't answer. Then a hard blink returned him to our shared reality, and he gave a start at my friend's complexion.

"Creshit!" The word exploded from him like the curse it is in the Northlands. "Creshit!"

"Perhaps he is not interested in a relationship, Raptor!"

Undeterred, Rahm reached out again, but the Silver would not be still. "He'll bleed out faster if you continue to vex him. The Soud called him a trespasser captured for their god. I think if we are to be courteous guests and responsible researchers that we must observe-- but not disturb. You'll stain your coat with blood besides, and we are very far from a competent laundress."

"It is barbarous!" Rahm protested. He looked to me for a reaction I am afraid it was not in my nature to display. "What manner of senet is their god? What manner of monster?"

"I do not know, but in my vast experience with monsters, a gentleman is best served to remain on their good side. Leave its entrée be."

Betimes I did love the Raptor's righteousness. By day he bore on his shoulders responsibility for all of Ethelmik's spellwrights. An upright man of the crown, honest and reliable as the pole star. But by night, and in his idle hours… oh, a mouthy and licentious bird perched near his ear and he did not demur to its gifts nor its advances. All because…

Ah, yes.

The Silver did seem that age.

"He's not yours," I said. Rahm was watching the poor fool and seeing someone else. Another boy struck down not so very long ago. An overzealous son he'd been powerless to save. "He's not yours. He…" Somewhere in the aether hung proper poetry that would soothe a father's grieving heart; but I had not worn heels today; it was beyond my reach.

After some time the Soud returned with two men. Bloody knives were stuck carelessly through their girdles. Showy butchers, these, which made them seem to me clownish and base. But I was not the one they grabbed and carried away. And I was glad enough that our torch-bearing Soud directed us down a separate hall. We found less blood there, but even less light. I felt my spirits dampen and Rahm had retreated to his thoughts.

Perhaps inviting him on this little quest had been a mistake. Iori had told me as much but she was hysterically protective of the man, stifling as the swollen quilted cloak she'd sent him away in. Yes, their son had died, but men died every day! In fact it too often takes the death of someone we love to wake us to the reality of our own mortality! Rahm's heart was blackened, yet from the forest fire, always such vibrant gardens grew. He would be inspired to do greater things than run that piss-poor and dying town!

Death was the gods' crime. But the impetus of a great mind!

In hindsight I realise I was very fortunate that our environment at the time distracted me from giving any of this voice. I was still brilliant then, but it was a wild brilliance. My forest fire still was smouldering. The garden had burst through the ash but I had not yet learned how to cut it back.

Our guide removed a ring of keys from his belt. I was delighted. Keys! How quaint to a spellwright, who could pass through solid substance like a fly through a beaded curtain-

But this door before us was a DOOR. Thrice my height and ten times the width of my shoulders, I could feel its strange effect on the khert through even my obtunded Jet palms. And how beautifully carved it was! Roots and lizards, mushrooms and leaves, drooping pink flowers strew across it like a fumbled box of sweets...

One of the lizards scampered from the Soud's torchlight. Then the leaves rustled.

No! This was not pymary and no glamour. This door was not carved at all. We stood before a portal of living wood! A vital growing slab of First Timber, its branches braided and intertwined like a woman's hair, its rich green boughs thirstily drinking the newcome fire glow.

"Amazing," whispered Rahm. He splayed his gnarled and ringed fingers against it impossible lustre. The Soud laughed at we simpletons, reached for a lock hidden deep inside the branches. With the celerity of long custom, he pushed the magical gateway open, then closed it behind us. Its report was a weighty, whispery sigh; the queerest noise, and I have not since heard its like again. We foreign wrights with our fish faces all agape were ushered deeper into the mountain.

"Look there," my friend directed. I followed his gesture. The ceiling here was low stone, but throughout we spied roots no thicker than a pencil burrowing as if through pavement. They connected in some unseen way with the door, but also disappeared ahead of us, veering here and there into other locked passages. A senet network of roots - like a khert-hub network! - joining this entire buried facility together.

Marvellous. Rahm grunted humourlessly. "The Wand'ring Roots didn't go extinct, Bastion; they retired north."

"At least one of them," I agreed, "Strange sort of senet to make a god. Can they even fuck it?" I said it to coax a rise from him, but his expression was impenetrable. I relented and added: "How do they know what it wants?"

"That's never stopped the Gefendur."

A second door of Living Wood soon arose, but at this one's centre lay embedded an abstrusely designed lock of… First Timber, I think. I could not recognise the texture. The pymaric appeared wholly separate from the door itself which indicated to me it was an ensorcelled lock rather than another that accepted a primitive key. These savages were savvier than the torches and gory knives led one to expect. The Soud laid his palm flush and began a spell: "Heed me Great Khert…"

But then I confess, by the Lady's half dozen, he followed the invocation with words I did not know! Lord Bastion Winalils, well down the jagged road to becoming one of the greatest spellwrights to ever live in this blighted world, did not know this pissmop's fucking spellsong! "Are you speaking backwards," I asked him in disbelief, "Are you trying to be a clever big sod? Is this some bespoke gruftgramary to cloak a cypher?"

The Soud ignored me-- infuriating! The passion of the child denied and the scholar frustrated invigorated me to all but grab his yellow hair and beat an answer out him!

Old Tainish - the language of our arts - is long dead and supplanted by the New, but all the time we wrights are turning over ancient sources looking for lost vocabulary. New Material references are valuable - there are many southern animals that simply cannot be directly targetted because the Northern Tains and their Tainish had no word for them - but most valuable are the lost operations. We know today from surviving texts by the conquered old nation's priests and academics that pymary once had more expansive uses - uses that we think only were possible with operations or perhaps entire packages that were lost when the old Aldish kings razed their lands. Once in a very great while, this technology is rediscovered, and on those bright days the world sings in celebration.

You must understand, dear reader, that these discoveries are true revelation. These discoveries enable pymaric technologies that save lives, that better lives, that drag Man by inches up from the muck. Little children could be choking and dying of the Weeping Plague today - at this moment! - who might otherwise be saved by treatments developed from a pymaric operation recorded on mouldering sheepskin at the bottom of some ancient Tainish wine cask.

The Soud finished his spell. A jaunty musical response tinkled from the unlocked door. "You'll find answers here," he invited, sweeping his arm towards the black room beyond. It smelled unfathomably old. "And no answers at all."

((Last part here))

[unforth]

We are one Iowa caucus into the absolute shitshow that is going to be the US 2024 elections, and I'm already sick of seeing takes downplaying the risk that Trump and his fascist followers represent.

Look. Around 1900, my mother's grandparents immigrated to the Lower East Side of New York City. They brought with them children born in Europe (Poland? Ukraine? which country they were in depends on what year we're talking about) - we're not 100% sure they were THEIR children, even, but there were three, and they were young, and they came. But my great-grandparents had siblings, parents, cousins, uncles, aunts, huge families. And while my understanding is that an attempt was made to convince those folks to move to the US, none of them ultimately opted to.

They all kept in touch as they were able, exchanging letters and pictures, but through World War 1, through the 20s, through the Great Depression, through the worsening situation in Europe in the 1930s, my entire extended family who chose not to immigrate...continued to stay.

I think we all know how this story ends.

I have an entire family photo album of people whose names I will never know, because after every single one of them died in the Holocaust, my great-grandparents and grandparents couldn't bear to even label them. And they were PEOPLE, poor, vibrant, eager to maintain connections with their loved ones abroad. One was a Klezmer musician, and we have photos of him with all the different instruments he played. They're so real on the page, and they all ended in ashes.

And you know how that started? Fascism started with every inch allowed, with every well-intentioned moderate who tried to maintain a middle position even as the whole ground shifted right beneath their feet and even "middle" became extreme, every "no that change isn't coming fast enough, I want instant full improvement NOW" liberal who felt that doing nothing was better than accepting a slower improvement in the (truly awful!) post-World War 1 living situation in Germany.

Most of the members of my extended family also downplayed the risks. They never imagined that the worst could happen to them. They never fathomed how bad things could become.

And now I have their example always before me to know and to scream:

I KNOW HOW BAD THINGS CAN BECOME. I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FAMILY THEN.

I WILL NOT LET THAT HAPPEN TO MY FAMILY NOW.

People look at me like I'm crazy when I say I've got our passports ready (and have had since before the 2020 election).

Look. I don't know what will happen if Trump is elected, but there's a very real possibility he will, and he's been extremely clear about saying what he'll do. He did a lot of the things he said he'd do last time. I expect he'll continue to do the things he says he'll do. And the things he say he'll do will lead to the deaths of more people than we can imagine - in the US, in Palestine, throughout the world.

Don't tell me there's a middle ground here. Don't tell me I'm over-reacting. Don't tell me the worst won't happen. Don't tell me the risk is mild. Don't tell me we're safe.

We. Are. Not. Safe.

The lives of dozens, hundreds, of members of family were lost in the 1940s amid the horrifying statistic "6,000,000 dead Jews."

I will not let my life (as a Jew), my wife's life (as a disabled woman), my son's life (as a biracial boy), my daughter's life (as a biracial trans girl), be part of the statistics that come from our a second Trump presidency.

If you won't vote like YOUR life depends on it, vote like someone ELSE'S life depends on it, because IT DOES.

And if you can't even do that much, at least shut the fuck up and stop spreading your poison around. You're wrong. The danger is real. Downplaying it now won't make your conscience feel any clearer when it actually happens, and comforting everyone else downplaying it will just make you that much more complicit.

[a-song-for-ages]

Down Bad

Mix of hotd series and the books idk maybe

Somewhat eventual willem blackwood fic (age gap of like 13?)

no beta we go down like canon jon snow (he's dead)

pronunciation of daenerys that is used: dy(die)-nair-ris

Summary:

Daenerys Velaryon sees her mother dressed as a nun and knows she's up to no good but decides to let the Queen do as she pleases without interfering. (If only all parents had such children.)

Pt. 1

"Mother," her voice was soft, and still, and it cut through the air like ice. There was no warmth in it, not when she seemed to walk upon on her mother and her dragon - the less sensible of the two dressed like a virginal woman of a Faith she had little love for.

"Di," her mother turned, hair spun like the silver of the moon and gold of the sun - a stark contrast to her own, the black of night, the image that brought upon her family the scrutiny of lesser men and hisses of poisoned vipers awaiting to strike - nevermind the colour of their eyes, so light, her own, so dark, her brothers, and yet, contrasting and complimenting that wine of her own mother's.

Daenerys supposed if she and her brothers were the Targaryen children of Jahaerys and Alysanne reborn again, there would have still been doubts of their parentage, regardless of any dragon born to them in the cradle, or not.

Daenerys also supposed that if Visenya Targaryen had to appear to court in her ashes and declare them legitimate, she would have been questioned. And oh, the poor soul who would dare to do so. Daenerys thought of the three Maesters slain by her son, upon their questioning of his right to rule from the Throne. Would they have rathered he hid in the shadows and rule as the Hightowers did, when her grandsire had turned old and frail, tended to by maesters of their own, sending no word of when he succumbed to death?

There was no word to describe what she felt.

Luke. Dead. Arrax. Dead. Grandsire. Dead. Visenya. Dead.

Dead, dead, dead... dropping like ashen leaves of a weirwood tree.

"I am only going for a... ride," the queen's confidence had slowly died upon her mouth as she noted the pitched black of her daughter's eyes. They were calculating, and cold, and predatory, assessing her the same way Rhaenyra assessed those she had yet to consider as enemy, or ally. A dragon anticipating a hunt.

"If you were, then you would be wearing riding leathers," she said coolly, a brow only raising as the darkness dimmed in her eyes. "But you are not." Then there was a slight tilt to her head, and oh, how Rhaenyra saw her own self in her daughter's stance.

Rhaenyra regained her composure, and stopped her fingers from caressing the cool silver of her rings, when her daughter continued to drawl.

"And while Syrax is so stubborn to have you come to her for a ride," she paused, the dragon trilling a song in the air at the mention of her own name, maw opening the slightest in what would have looked like a gum-filled smile of a child who had gained recognition for a silly act... save for the fact that from Syrax's gums, came came black sword-like teeth protruding straight into one another. "She has come to you."

"A farewell, then, perhaps," her voice was casual, and her shoulders were laxed, but Rhaenyra knew, if anything, her daughter's mind often contradicted what she showed on her body.

"But to where?"

Daenerys had then folded her arms over her chest, and lowered her chin and looked pointedly at her mother - as she did to Jace and Luke and Joffrey and Aegon and Viserys when they were caught mostly by her, trying and failing to do what only she could. (Silly things, Rhaenyra remembered, like stealing the marbled balls from the Council room of her father's... back in King's Landing, when they were so very young, and her father was hale as a horse.)

Rhaenyra shut her eyes and considered telling her daughter the truth, before she decided against it. The less that knew, the better... but that did not mean she would be any less honest to her daughter, who had a most unnerving ability to tell when someone was lying. (And mostly, in her youth, when those light eyes she seemed to get from Aemon Targaryen, if what Rhaenys said was true, would train themselves upon a person, it felt as if she was mostly seeing through them, not at them. It had unnerved Rhaenyra when little Di was a babe, but she slowly grew used to it, until she found herself hoping to hide a thing from someone... and then she would find those ghost eyes of her daughter set on her.)

"I cannot say," she said, swallowing indiscernably, "but I trust that you will keep the knowledge of my venturings to yourself -"

There was a slight smile on her daughter's lips, but it was so bare that Rhaenyra knew it could disappear as quick as a feather on the wind.

Her daughter only nodded, rolling her eyes as she, "So a fool's errand, then."

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, and flexed the hand to her side, breathing out and deciding, "Mayhaps we shall see... I will only know once this course has been taken and done with."

Daenerys did not look entirely convinced otherwise, but Rhaenyra trusted her daughter to keep her secret, as was the habit of theirs, protecting each other's, not as mother and daughter often did, but as something other. Like friends. Like sisters... if Rhaenyra was to have one that would be entirely hers, and not her father's or Alicent's or anyone else with whom she had to share with... then yes, that was what her daughter was to her... and Rhaenyra was never sorry for it. Neither was her daughter, who had only looked slightly annoyed, but accepting and trusting of what her mother had planned. Even if she didn't know the half of it.

Approaching her daughter, Rhaenyra took her cold hands and rubbed them warm, bringing her only daughter to look to her, now, a slight frown had made its way to her lips.

Rhaenyra hated seeing her daughter so displeased, and said, "I will be back before the week's end."

Daenerys's displeasure only grew, as she turned to look away from her mother, not entirely thrilled at whatever information her mother sought to hold from herself - from Jace. She knew once her mother's disappearance became known, he would be the most wroth of them all. And it would only be her who would have to deal with it (now that Luke... Rhaena, Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys were all gone.)

Rhaenyra pulled her daughter in for a tight hug, and Daenerys reciprocated, holding her arms tight round the stiff grey clothes of her mother, and laying her head on her chest. I hope you know what it is you are doing.

"Do not die," was all she said, and when Rhaenyra kissed her daughter on her forelock, Daenerys had pulled away the slightest, eyes larger than a full moon, and shining with worry for all the dangers that could possibly present themselves to her mother.

"Do not worry yourself," Rhaenyra said, smiling at her daughter as she caressed the side of her face. "I will not." And Daenerys seemed to relax in the slightest at that.

"Have Syrax take flight near wherever it is you are to go," Rhaenyra looked as if she were to consider contesting that advice, "or, as far as she can take flight without raising enemy alarms. If she should not do so, then I shall, though only she would know when your life is threatened."

Rhaenyra smiled at her daughter, holding her face in both hands now, and she said, "If this will ease your worry, then of course," and she kissed her daughter on the head, before turning to give Syrax a last look - the she-dragon crooned and shook her head as Daenerys would when she walked out from the sea, body soaking wet, eager to reach the warmer waters in her room...

Rhaenyra turned back to her daughter, and with one last touch of her palm on her cheek, she left.

Daenerys hadn't watched her mother walk away. She hadn't said any goodbyes... hadn't liked any of it, ever since both her fathers departed themselves from her life. (She remembers the many men she considered a father figure... let it be her own grabdsire, or the White Cloak Ser Harrold Westerling, who served her own mother from the time long before she was a babe. They were all either gone now, to the Stranger or Balerion or the Sea or the Roots of the earth, or so far from her that she could not hope to hear their breaths.)

Instead, the young princess looked on into the sapphire eyes of her mother's dragon, and only thought, 'You best protect her when the time calls for it,' which somehow managed to elicit a huff from the she-dragon, who stretched her wings and gave her one last look before she took flight.

No doubt, the dragon named after the Goddess of festivities and drink had seemed to say, 'As if I have not done that my entire life.'

And Daenerys smiled then, ever so slightly, the air around her cold, but the warmth in her palms providing some comfort to her.

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter two: crimes of passion

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter One

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon)

🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

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

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

Chapter Summary: Astarion determines what spell struck his consort.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“‘I truly loved her,’ the vampire admitted quietly, pain showing on its normally stoic face…But then it seemed to rally its strength, and its chill gaze nailed me to my chair. 

‘I misjudged her totally,’ the vampire continued, its voice now virtually emotionless. ‘...And do you know? I think the pain I felt was greater than hers.’”

-Van Richten's Guide to Vampires

“W-who are you?” Naomi stammers. 

She lies stiff as a corpse in his Astarion’s arms. Mindlessly, his fingers stroke her bloodied hair from her face. His brow knits in disbelief. “What did you just say?” 

Fear floods her wide eyes. Astarion feels it wrapped tight as a noose around his neck. It seeps into the straining threads of their bond, starting a slow drip of his own trepidation. 

His spawn, Emilia, staggers into the throne room, chest heaving. “Master -- the spell, it--”

“Which spell?” He says, his tone cutting. “What was that? What did the wretch do to her?”

His burning stare shifts to the culprit in question. Or rather, what’s left of them. Sand spills from the sleeves of the crumpled, lifeless robe. It’s all that remains of the wizard who cast ill will upon his consort. 

Rage scorches Astarion’s stomach, flaring with his nostrils. They sting with the acrid stench of ash and stale magic. Pieces of parchment smolder nearby -- bits of the spell scroll. Under his eye, Emilia stoops to salvage them, snuffing the flames with the heel of her shoe.

Instinct tells him his other spawn still lives. He’s acutely aware of Zylar’s unconscious shape sprawled in his periphery. A cursory glance at the human shows no wounds, and no sign of a weapon drawn. It makes Astarion’s lip curl with disdain. Did the Fist lift even a finger to defend his mistress?

What answers might Astarion find, prying the nails free of those same fingers?

“What did you do to me, vampire?!” Naomi spits.

Astarion’s stomach plummets, dropping with his dumbfounded gaze. His consort glares back at him, defiant, her own fangs bared. A cold, strangled laugh bursts from Astarion’s lips. “What an utterly ludicrous thing to say!”

“What I meant to say before, Master,” Emilia interjects hesitantly, “is that she may not be herself. I’ll need a few moments to work out the specific spell. But that kind of magic isn’t meant to harm anyone physically. It was meant to ail her mind.”

Astarion’s laugh twists into a simmering snarl. The elf flinches, but says nothing further as she kneels nearby, stretches out her hands, and begins the incantation for identify. Her dark hair shifts to hide her expression, but Astarion’s sure he sees her trembling. No matter. There’s only one other person in this room who does matter.

“My poor, poor consort,” he hums, soft and cloying, mulling over the stricken state of her mind. 

His own thoughts snag on the thorn-sharp fear turning their link into a prickling, untenable tether. Tenderly, he reaches out to graze her consciousness the same way he might tuck her hair behind her ear. But the surface of her thoughts is scalding. He bites back a hiss, recoiling from the connection. 

They’ve had ill feelings before. They’ve shared rage, aired grievances, vented disappointments. All of it dissolves in the balm of their bond. Through it, he feeds her consolation. Comfort. And in the same manner, she soothes the fleeting but many frustrations of the most powerful vampire the world has ever known.

At times, she’s been reluctant. At others, he’s been stubborn. But sooner or later, with or without coaxing, they both succumb to the salve that is each other. 

Coaxing it is, then. Her mind hurts. Astarion can feel the throb of the pain echo back inside his own skull. His presence in hers must feel like pressing into the wound. If only she could grit her teeth past the ache long enough to feel the healing he could bring. 

Be brave for me, darling. He thrusts the thought towards her, a sweat sprouting on his brow with the effort. It bobs back against his will, repelled towards him as the like ends of magnets would be.

 Naomi’s eyes flit to the wizard, narrowing, before boring into his again. 

“Don’t you fret,” he coos, a tight smile upon his face. “We’ll have you sorted in--”

BANG.

Thunder drums against his heart, bounding erratically against his ribs, cracking against the back of his head. The noise and pain of it is brief, but the shock sticks like a knife. The whole room shudders with the impact, gritty trails of debris pattering down the sides of the wide pillars.

Incredulous, Astarion cranes his neck upwards, peering down his own heaving chest and splayed legs. Naomi’s palm is still outstretched, still pulsing with the booming magic that sent him reeling. Her jaw sets with steely determination. His hangs slack as he blinks back at her.

“Darling,” he huffs, propping himself upright, “There’s no need for--”

The air warps before his eyes. Reedy noise bursts in his ears before it’s swallowed by a swelling, resounding--

BANG.

The nearest pillar splits in the center, marble breaking as easy as tree bark. The crack races from the floor to the ceiling. A looming shadow falls across his face. Astarion rolls from it. Stone slams the throne room floor like an angry fist. The pillar shatters to rubble before his eyes.

“Oh, gods below!” He snaps, scrambling to his feet. He dusts his trousers off irritably. 

What the fuck is she even casting with, anyways?

Ah. He catches the glint of it, on the ground, strewn among the rock: the little gilded harmonica, set with onyx inlay, glittering with diamonds. A trinket some might call priceless. Something small and subtle enough, she could keep it on her person always. He’d given it to her so she could always have the full might of her magic within reach at a moment’s notice.

She must’ve dropped it when she released the spell. She must’ve been staggered by her own strength. Astarion clicks his tongue. Poor, poor Naomi.

Her eyes meet his, and then dart to the harmonica. She lunges. He’s faster. If he didn’t feel so deeply for her plight, he might’ve relished her helpless gasp. Her implement crunches to pieces beneath his heel.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” he sneers. “You’ll have another. Once you’ve come to your senses.”

Naomi recoils, glassy-eyed, sniffling. Astarion sighs tightly, averting his gaze. Still, the sound of her crying needles him relentlessly. Emilia ogles them both, her mouth agape, and her hands far too still for casting.

“What spell is this?!” He demands. “Dominate monster?”

He’s seen such spells turn friends into foes before. He’s used similar tricks to turn a fight in his favor. Something caused Naomi to cast harm his way. Her mind must be ill, indeed. She’d never do something so stupid, otherwise.

The notion stokes the building ire in his belly. Someone meant to play a trick on him. Someone meant to kill his consort in the process. More the fool them. He would never harm a hair on her head. 

“By your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours,” Emilia says gravely. “It’s not a domination spell.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” Naomi sputters.

Astarion speaks past her. “What spell is it, then?!”

Emilia blanches. “I-I don’t know yet master, I--”

“Then stop gawking and finish what you started!” 

Metal scrapes over stone. Astarion’s attention jerks towards the snapping fireplace. A pitying smile lifts his lips.

He moves in a blur and arrives before Naomi can brandish the iron stoker she snatched. For a moment, his fingers close, warm around her cold ones. At once, her grip retracts, the flickering flames dancings in her glare.

He cocks his head. “And what do you think you’ll do with that, hm?”

Her throat bobs. Astarion tenses, watching her lips quiver. But no song spills out, and no spell with it. Instead, she darts towards the open doors.

It’s no matter at all to reach them first.  The doors close with a thud like distant thunder. A loose piece of marble drops from the ceiling in its wake, crashing among the other rubble. Naomi flinches with the impact. As he nears her, she flees again. This time, she scurries towards the credenza in the curtained alcove, seizing a bronze candelabra in a vice grip and wielding it in front of her.

“Cute,” he trills. She glowers under the praise.

Astarion follows at a slow stroll, hands behind his back as he takes long, wandering steps after her. Naomi’s chest heaves with every click of his heel against the marble. He imagines if she still had a heartbeat, it would match his movements like a metronome.

She’s a sight to see, even in this state. She’d gotten dressed, sometime between when he left her at the piano, and when he found her in distress. It’s a shame, really; now, her dress is in a state, too. 

Her black skirt hangs in tatters, the golden hem torn. Blood dries in inky trails down her face, marring the freckles that powder her lilac skin, smearing over the trio of birds tattooed on her left cheek. Ragged waves of white spill free from her braided bun. Her eyes sear like red coals, her pearly fangs bared. In the same room where she slayed a man only hours before, she’s reduced to a bristling, angry alley cat.

It’s the sort of caricature the cattle think of when they picture a vampire’s bride: a pretty, promising thing, plucked from the vine of life, sullied with violence, and enslaved to indelible hunger.

Sand pops beneath his shoes. Astarion comes to an abrupt halt, still several feet away from his bride. He peers down at where he stepped, gaze skimming the glittering flecks dotting the floor. There’s another small pile of sand just a few steps away, far from where the wizard disintegrated.

Did you fight back, my darling? Astarion’s throat thickens. If she did, she still failed.

“Who are you?” She barks again, her throat hoarse. “What do you want with me?!”

Astarion turns towards her slowly, a sudden weight in his jaw, his feet anchored in place. Their bond is a knotted bramble in his chest. Her questions, her distance, her bewilderment -- it all sinks in like thorns.

“Master -- Master!” Emilia shouts.

“Yes?” He says sluggishly, as if surfacing from a deep dream.

“It’s her memory. They’ve modified her memory!”

“I can see that now. How long does it last?”

“Until it’s dispelled. But--”

“Do it now,” he snarls. He can’t suppress his own shudder at the sound, not when it makes Naomi shiver before his eyes.

“I-I can’t! I’ve already tried, the spell is too strong!”

“Try again!”

“You’re not casting anything,” Naomi shouts, voice wavering. “Not until you tell me what’s happening!”

“Of course, my love,” his voice melts at once, his hands open at his sides. Astarion dares a step towards her, and then another. Naomi tracks him warily, as any prey would a predator.

They can’t take her. Not from him. All else is immaterial. Temporary. Her wishes will be sated, her memories restored. But she herself can never be stolen from her sire.

She can never not know of him!

Astarion grits his teeth and braves the bond again. He speaks aloud as if it’s a spell. An incantation that will make way for him in her head, and wake remembrance in her heart. 

“Naomi, my dearest one, it’s all right. You’ve been hurt. But you’re home. And I’m here. I’ll see to you. Just as I always do.”

Like a moth to a flame, she’s drawn to the sound of her own name in his mouth. Her shoulders ease by only an inch. An inch is all he needs; he can turn to mist at a moment’s notice, and slip between the slightest gap. In his mind, he does so now, seeping harmlessly through the prickle of her unease, stroking petal-soft through her thoughts, and filling them with words of soothing.

In the flesh, he stands before her, riding through the ache that comes with the sight of her tears. She blinks back at him, quivering. That simply won’t do. He reaches out a tentative hand towards her cheek.

When they touch at last, he thinks of the melody she played for him just this morning. The smooth crest of the piano, silky like the feel of her skin beneath his. The song poured through her fingertips effortlessly. Just like the effortless, instinctual comfort of his caress. 

Her music is a thread; he lets it weave from his memories through her mind, reeling them together again. Naomi can tame raw magic into songs with her hands, her mouth. Astarion knows only one instrument. She can make the sweetest sounds from just the barest brush of his lips to her ear. But the one he lets filter through her mind now is the soft, contented hum that lives in her head when her hand is in his. When they’re together. Home.

Happy.

He lets the bliss swirl within him, flowing over so it can fill her, too. He’s so taken by the tide of it, he nearly misses the flash before his eyes. 

Dread presses down on him on all sides, sharp and sudden like discordant keys. Her mind tears free of his. The music cuts. Astarion drifts, breathless, weightless, shapeless. 

Mist.

He materializes again, his hand withdrawn to the fresh, hairline slice across his own cheek. A single drop of blood gleams from his finger when he pulls it away. He turns it over, studying the little ruby bead in disbelief.

The candelabra clangs at Naomi’s feet. She’s traded it for his own dagger, stolen from his side as he provided comfort at hers. It’s the same twined blade he’d taken from his own sire: Rhapsody.

“MASTER!” Emilia cries.

Astarion’s head jerks up in time to see the flare of Emilia’s firebolt ripping towards Naomi. Orange light bathes her skin. He smells it as it singes, even before the impact. 

He can feel it scald, as if his own insides are aflame.

“NO!” He roars, lunging towards Emilia. “You vile little--”

A dash of silver whips through the fire like rogue lightning. 

Emilia gags, staggering backward with the dagger’s impact. Blood spurts from her throat in a feeble fountain. Her knees buckle, and then she wilts over, choking as Astarion watches.

Knife-throwing was never Naomi’s forte. Stealing them was. And stabbing with them, sure. But not throwing. He taught her that trick. Before Astarion, she could hardly hit a tree from mere feet away with a thrown blade. Before him, she never would’ve lodged Rhapsody directly into the heart of a vampire spawn at such distance and disadvantage.

He made her swifter. Sharper. Stronger. And set her above all others he made after her.

 He turns towards his panting, panicked bride. Naomi scrambles backwards frantically, seizing the candelabra again in a white-knuckled fist. Her eyes are mirrors of terror. 

He can tell from the look of her, she didn’t know. Didn’t think. It was instinct. She doesn’t remember learning, but her body does. Some locked door, in the back of her mind, houses all the violence she has at her fingertips.

Behind him, Emilia dies a quick death, if a lonely one. He’s certain when it happens, in the same way he knows Zylar yet lives. The master she reaches for saves no sympathy for her.

And even for Naomi, he’s reaching his limits. It takes a concentrated effort to force his tone steady.

“I rather wish you hadn’t done that, dear,” Astarion bites out. 

Naomi clutches her cheek with a muted whimper, the steam still furling through her fingers from the burn.

His eyes widen, the leash on his rage loosening. “You’re hurt!”

He can’t have that. He won’t have that. He has minimal magic in his arsenal, now that his wizard lies slain by his lover.  Which means, for the moment, whatever meddling happened to her memory will remain.

Even if Zylar were to suddenly wake, perhaps Naomi would simply slay him, too. Perhaps Zylar would be stupid enough to harm her as Emilia had, from some misguided, masochistic instinct to play as Astarion’s protector. The thought alone makes his stomach roil. 

What a waste.

Already, Naomi strings a breathless song beneath her lips, one he hasn’t heard her murmur since their days on the road with tadpoles in tow. She’s not as strong of a caster without her instrument implements, but she’ll fight until she can’t. He knows this. He knows that steely, stubborn glint in her eye. 

She’ll kill his other spawn, his servants, whoever tries to stop her. She can’t kill Astarion. She’ll hurt herself trying. More than she’s already hurt.

He can’t have that.

Astarion takes a step towards her, heartbeat slamming his ribs hard enough to crack a mere mortal’s. He never told her he could do this. He tried to bury it somewhere she’d never see, but Naomi always had a talent for resurrection. 

Relentlessly, she warmed every cobwebbed and shadowed recess of his mind. Woke his secrets out of the soil, and kept them as her own. He didn’t want her to know he could. Didn’t want her to know he’d never do it.

If you have to, I’ll understand, she’d said one day, unprompted. I trust you. 

He’ll never forget it. They laid sprawled in the gardens, twined in each other, like the ivy wrapped so tightly on the trellises. Astarion with his fingers wound in her hair, Naomi plucking a rose free of its petals, one by one.

I had to, he’ll say, someday, perhaps in just a short few, when this temporary mess is all over. You were hurt. You would’ve hurt yourself. I wouldn’t have it. I’d never hurt you. I lov--

His mouth opens, closes, and opens once more. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Naomi…”

He hates that he sounds like a fragile spawn again. Something small and sniveling. He hates the word he says instead of the three that dance along the tip of his tongue. He’s rarely said what he longs to aloud. She’s always known it anyway, as well as the back of her hand.

But now, she stares at him scared, as if he’s a stranger. As if he’s a mere monster. As if she isn’t one, too. 

There’s only one word for it.

“...Stop.”

She does at once.

He expected to see the compulsion ripple through her, to hear her gasp before his command took hold, or see the realization snap through her eyes. He doesn’t. His will is instant. The only gasp he hears is his own ragged burst of breath.

The lesser spawn always chafe under his orders. A wince. A hiss. An eye roll. A token display of defiance before total acquiescence. 

Not her. Naomi trusts him. Perhaps that trust still lives in her bones like marrow, even as her mind is void of it. She is a stunning statue at the heart of their throne room, blood and rubble and destruction strewn around her. If it weren’t for the fear frozen in her eyes, skewering him like shards of ice, she’d be perfect.

Astarion stumbles towards her, his forehead coming to rest against her unmoving brow. This time, the chill of her touch offers him no comfort. Instead, he feels the threads of his thoughts slipping, like the weight of her hand leaving his to hang empty. 

The bond doesn’t feel like brambles any longer. At least the sting was a feeling. Instead, it dangles loose within him, over a plummet of unknown, unfathomable depths.

“Rest, my sweet,” he whispers. His voice cracks like glass through the middle.  “This will all be over soon. Everything will be as it was. You’ll see.”

Naomi’s eyes flutter shut as her body drops slack into his waiting arms. The candelabra slides from her limp grip and clatters against the marble. Abruptly, the room is quiet. A grave silence takes his hall. For a few moments, he simply stares at the woman dangling in his grasp. As if, any moment now, she’ll wake as easily as she fell into trance, and pull him from this nightmare, too.

Footsteps barrel down the corridor towards the throne room. The sound shatters that last, fragile hope he clung to. By the time Claude arrives on the threshold, panting with a sweat upon his brow, Astarion feels about ready to break the gnome in front of him just as viciously.

“My Lord,” Claude spews breathlessly,  “the patriars, they-- oh, oh my. Emilia! And the mistress! Is she--?”

“She’ll be fine!” Astarion screeches.

Movement catches his eye -- not Claude cowering, as he should, but Zylar, finally stirring in his periphery. Rage rips through him anew. Astarion rounds on the dazed spawn without hesitation.

“Get. Up.”

Zylar lurches upright like a puppet on a string. For an instant, his head lolls back before it jerks forward with a sickening pop. His eyes are heavy with sleep, unfocused even as the rest of his body reacts, at once, to Astarion’s orders.

Astarion doesn’t hesitate to deliver the next one.

“Go to the overlook. Lock yourself in. Throw the key into the pit.”

Like the shock of cold water, the command rouses Zylar into wide-eyed panic.

“Master--wait -- no! Not that place! I didn’t--”

Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits.

Zylar squirms and sputters and writhes. Suddenly, he straightens, as if he traded his spine for a steel rod. He marches forward, militaristic, and leaves the room without further protest.

“And you,” Astarion sighs, eyes flitting to the gnome ogling him from the doorway. “Go dig yourself a grave.”

He doesn’t bother compelling Claude; the man has always chased this carrot of his own volition.  There’s no doubt in Astarion’s mind Claude will remain a weak, insufferable little cretin so long as he survives. 

But he’ll be a loyal one. And loyalty is something Astarion is suddenly short of.

The day has left Astarion with an ill consort. A dead spawn. Another that’s ineffective at best, traitorous at worst. And a room full of fucking patriars to coddle. He’ll have to return to them soon. He scowls as he peers down at the blood flecking his fine shoes. He’ll need to clean himself up, first.

He steps over Emilia’s seeping corpse, climbs to his own throne, and deposits Naomi there with the utmost care. He lets her head lie against the armrest, legs dangling over the other, while her own seat remains vacant as it always is. As he draws back, Astarion stifles the foreign urge to rub the strange, permeating pain throbbing through his temples. The past hour has been one headache upon another. On a normal day, Claude would be one of them.

It hasn’t been a normal day.

The gnome practically wriggles with glee. “M-Master, you m-mean--?”

“If I didn’t,” Astarion sneers, “I wouldn’t have said it.”

“Thank you, Master! Thank yo-- I-- oh!”

Astarion heard the old crone coming far sooner than Claude did. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Later, he could come up with some excuse the other patriars would believe as to why she left their meeting early.

Thessa Gray was the only one of them that had the gall to demand explanation when Astarion left them so suddenly. The tiefling’s carmine complexion is grayed with age. On a normal day, she’d be too old, too ornery for Astarion to even consider, and nevermind the complications that come with making spawn out of such a notable matriarch right under Duke Ravengard’s nose.

But she’s a sorcerer of some renown. Emilia couldn’t dispel the ill effect on Naomi’s memory. Perhaps Thessa Gray can.

Whatever the tiefling  expected to find when she followed him, it wasn’t this. 

“What in the hells happened here?!” Thessa gasps, a hand flying across her heart.

Astarion can hear it hammering out its last beats at breakneck speed.

“Claude,” Astarion says, wetting his lips. “Dig two graves, won’t you?”

A/N: Naomi is really out of commission for five seconds and Astarion immediately starts turning the town. 🤭

The first bit of this fic focuses more heavily on Astarion POV by virtue of Naomi having A Time, but we will be getting into her POV next chapter. I don’t know if it will end up as an even split or not, but the POV frequencies will fluctuate with the plot.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did. 💜

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

[seecarrun]

They were traveling together again. Just like old times.

“If Misty gets back and sees that thing on her sleeping bag, she’s going to kill you.”

Ash waved Brock off, continuing to admire the little joltik that found its way onto Misty’s sleeping bag. “I’ll shoo it off before she gets back.”

Brock raised an eyebrow. “She won’t be long.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ash drawled, still all eyes on the joltik. “She won’t even know. And it’s not like I put it there. It’s not my fault it crawled on her stuff. It chose her.”

Brock sighed, shaking his head and stirring their dinner. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” he asked under his breath with a smirk. Ash either didn’t hear or ignored him. Pikachu gave the joltik a little, staticy nuzzle.

Sure enough, barely a few minutes later, a rustle sounded from the woods around the clearing, signaling Misty’s return. Ash pouted, but made to gently wave the joltik from the bag.

It didn’t move.

“What?” he asked himself, giving it another wave. “C’mon buddy, time to go.”

The rustling in the woods got closer, but the joltik stayed where it was.

“Okay, Joltik,” Ash tried again, waving a bit more fanatically with a nervous little chuckle. “Bugs kinda bug Misty, so for your own safety…and mine…let’s go ahead and head off now.”

When the joltik still didn’t move, Ash made panicked eye contact with Brock, who met his gaze right back cockily, as Misty’s light humming started becoming more audible as she got closer.

“Okay, no more messing around,” he announced, finally grabbing the end of Misty’s sleeping bag and shaking it a little. “Let’s get a move on, Joltik.”

When it still didn’t move, and the humming and rustling were just outside of camp, he gulped and shook the sleeping bag a little harder and faster. “Come on!”

“What happened to ‘it’s not like I put it there. It’s not my fault, it chose her’?” Brock asked knowingly in a very poor imitation of Ash’s voice. Ash sent him a glare and continued shaking.

He was still in the middle of shaking the sleeping bag wildly as Misty walked onto the campsite, her hair damp and loose, brushing her shoulders, and a towel thrown over her shoulder, her green eyes widening as she took in the scene. “Ash!” she gasped. “What are you doing with my stuff?!”

“There’s a joltik on your sleeping bag!” he exclaimed, still shaking it around frantically.

Misty’s eyes widened, clearly spotting the little yellow blob amongst the pink and blue of the fabric as the color drained from her face. “Get it off!” she cried.

“What does it look like I’m doing?!” Ash shot back. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder!” she shrieked, jumping behind Brock.

Brock, still calmly stirring their dinner, grinned. “You know, it was on there for, like, ten minutes before you got back to camp,” he told her.

Misty’s attention immediately whipped back over to Ash. “What?!”

“Traitor!” Ash yelled, still whipping around the sleeping bag to no avail. Finally, he grabbed an empty pokeball from his belt and tossed it into the joltik, catching it in one try.

The trio stared down at the pokeball, laying comically still on the ground in the wake of all the chaotic commotion.

“You caught it?” Misty breathed, in what Ash could only assume was disbelief, rather than awe.

“I guess so,” Ash answered with a shrug. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m welcome?” she gasped. “You did the exact opposite of getting rid of it! You caught it!”

“It’s not on your sleeping bag anymore!”

“It’s worse! Now we’re stuck with it!”

“I could release it!”

“Are you?”

“Well not anymore. Not if you’re gonna be so ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful?! You’re the reason it was there in the first place!”

Brock took a sip of the stew and shared a fond yet exasperated look with Pikachu, who sighed and shrugged his little shoulders.

Some things never change.