#ski slop

[junkologistsgoods]

Vintage Cat's Meow Village Series NY New York Set - Lake Placid Ski Slop, Lake Placid 1932 Olympic and Onondaga Court House NY

[beaudesoleil]

this is what happens when you leave me in a room unsupervised

[robertbelcherjr]

Whitney Whitebottom has the most perfect nose side profile ever it’s so perfect MWAH kisses it so much

[thedreamlessnights]

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

[nexusrasp]

It's the apathy that absolutely does me in. Artists, bands, music industry people, shitposters on Instagram - everyone's been banging on about what a total shitshow Spotify is, has been and continues to be for a while now, and it's largely just been met with an almighty shrugging of shoulders, and carrying on, because 'well yeah, but I've got my playlists on there, and I like my Spotify wrapped!', despite the arms tech investments, despite the meagre royalties, despite the sacking of their editorial team, despite the [demonetizing any song lower than] 1,000 plays thing, despite the creaking tech that's full of bugs, despite the adding audiobooks so they could argue for an even *lower* royalty rate, despite the general cheapening and disconnection of music, despite the explosion of shitty AI slop, despite one man masquerading as many different artists being responsible for a huge royalty payout by juicing the system, despite the literal owner of the platform claiming that 'content' doesn't take any money to make these days, despite everything, despite all of that. But people just think it's a bit of fun. And you can scream it from the rooftops, but it's hard to snap people out of it. I mean, I'd understand if spotify was the only game in town, but it's clearly not - you've endless supplies of streamers if that's what you want. Hell, you could even just go back to buying things too, but if you want to keep streaming, you've so many other options - Tidal, Deezer, Apple, Bandcamp, Amazon, even fucking YouTube - it's not hard to just switch up. It's the weakest amount of pressure that's ever been applied to anyone's life, but people still seem so resistant, so hesitant to ditch it.

Gavin Miller, aka electronic musician worriedaboutsatan, "what were the skies like when you were young?", december 2024

[cryptotheism]

i remember on your last blog you went on a bit about your writing process/how you got amber skies out every week, ive been meaning to go back and read that to get myself back into writing everyday but given how tumblr search functions (or doesnt) i can't find it! if its not asking too much, if you remember the post(/s?) would you reblog it, or do you mind just talking about how you get such a massive amount of writing out all the time?

I don't know what post you're talking about specifically, but I'm happy to talk about it!

I will say, I pay the bills because many many people are currently paying me to sit down and crank out 2k+ words every day for various projects. That certainly helps motivate me to write, and take care of myself so I can effectively write every day. (Eating, sleeping, resting taking time to consume a wide variety of media and mediums.) My relationship with writing is professional now, and it's taken serious a lot of work and luck to get here.

Basically, the key to my speed is that I don't edit anything. If you've ever done automatic writing as a warm-up, that's basically how I write everything. After several years of practice, it means that my first drafts are about as good as most peoples 5th.

I never really deal with writers block, because I've come to find a sort of perverse joy in cranking out unedited slop. If I can't think of what to write next, I often find myself making it bad on purpose just to get through the scene. All writing is re-writing! It is far, far easier to fix slop than it is to try and perfect as you go.

I got my start by basically waking up early, and taking my laptop to a cafe before work. My rule was 1000 words or 4 hours, whichever came first. I would get a large drip coffee and just see what sorta unreadable tripe I could make. Sometimes people liked it.

[darlingstarkey]

think later - the album (pt 1)

series masterlist

summary - y/n, formerly a pogue princess, finally had her big breakthrough and got signed to a record label in LA. little did she, her boyfriend rafe cameron and the rest of her friends know how things would really change as soon as she becomes famous.

authors note: these are fillers while i make up the next few parts. obviously not mandatory to read, but it gives more insight into characters <3 part 2 of the album is tomorrow!

wc: 2.2k

warnings: swearing, mentions of sex & suggestive language (mdni!), sweet!reader, slightlytoxic!rafe, snooping, diary reading, invasion of privacy, jealousy, angst, fluff fluff, soft!rafe (i might be missing more).

miss possessive: 

y/n wrote this song after one of rafe’s famous parties at tanneyhill. this was probably a month into the couple dating. she couldn’t help but feel territorial as she saw a blonde try her hardest to include herself in a clearly rafe's boys-only conversation.

giggling too loud at rafe’s comments, leaning in closer to him and batting her fake eyelashes at him, she was clearly trying to pounce on him. rafe of course, shrugs the girl off and continues his conversation with topper and kelce. 

after about two drinks, y/n gets enough of seeing this girl trying to get with rafe even after his continuous efforts to swat her away. sliding swiftly next to rafe, he drapes his arm around y/n’s waist like it’s second nature. 

the girl — god knows what her name was, stood there dumbfounded at your swiftness. y/n immediately makes eye contact with the girl and cocks her eyebrow up at her. “and you are?” y/n says sarcastically. don’t get me wrong, y/n is the kindest soul in the world and wouldn’t hurt a fly, but when it came to her rafe, she did NOT want to share. 

“lily.. and you?” the girl strikes back. stiffing up her back as if she's ready to fight for what she wants.

rafe on the other hand, looks down at you and only you during this interaction, absolutely fueled by the jealousy that is coming from you. you rarely got jealous, so this was a SHOW for him in itself.

“i’m y/n, rafe’s girlfriend. is there a reason why you’re trying so hard to get with my boyfriend right now? you could have anyone else in this party.” 

“oh y/n- i’m not..” lily stated but was quickly cut off. she was stunned by the situation she put herself in. obviously a touron, she had only heard of rafe cameron and y/n. after all, how scary could you be?

“oh, like you weren’t trying to give him the fuck me eyes? like you weren’t just about to put your hands on him? right babe. you might as well just turn around and take home the next guy who walks in.” y/n struck back. 

rafe, topper and kelce watched this interaction happen intensely, never seeing this side of the sweet y/n before. 

the girl scurried off to look at the floor or ceiling, knowing that even looking back at rafe’s direction would be the biggest mistake of her life.

“damn, doll. didn’t know you had that in you.” rafe smirked.

with pleading eyes, you look up at him and take his hand to show him exactly how lucky he is to have you. 

“sorry boys, we’ll be back!” y/n calls out to topper and kelce, who were just abandoned by the couple. 

2. sports car: 

the song that everyone thinks is about charles leclerc, but in reality, y/n wrote this right after rafe had bought his new ferrari. it was a bargain with ward of course, get a good business deal for the company and he’d get whatever he wanted. of course he chose the sexiest car ever; a gorgeous red ferrari. and he had the perfect passenger next to him at all times, you. 

“let’s go ride!” y/n would always say to rafe before they would drive off to various locations on and off of the island. 

seeing rafe drive that damned ferrari was intoxicating, almost addicting to watch. his big hands would grip the steering wheel while the other rested on your upper thigh. his hair would flop around in the wind perfectly, and his ray bands would rest on his perfect ski-slopped nose. occasionally while driving, he would look over at you with that damned smirk, knowing exactly what you were thinking.

you couldn’t help but write about how much sexier (how was this possible?!) he got after acquiring the damned vehicle. your imagination couldn’t stop itself from thinking about all the places you'd fuck him.. in the alley in the back, in the center of your bedroom, with the windows rolled down, on the corner of your bed, on the beach, or he could even do it on his own while looking at her (this has happened before, to his admission). 

3. what’s your problem?

one that should have probably not made the album. it was raw, emotional, full of anger and heartbreak. and sadly, this it was about rafe. shortly after their breakup, y/n couldn’t help but feel some sort of hatred towards the kook king. 

what did he think, he was some sort of god? he seriously fucked your life up after promising to stay with you through the hardships and especially through your up and coming fame. god, what was his problem? 

he left you feeling confused, hurt and unwanted. and knowing the previous version of rafe (well, from rumors from around the cut) you just had used this stereohype when it came to him breaking up with you -- he never cared, he just played you, etc. you were wrong.

crying in your room, you wrote this song out of imagination. lying to yourself within the lyrics like they would somehow cure you from the pain that you were enduring from the breakup.

“my mom said she don’t like you, should’ve seen that as a sign.” lie. your mom adored him. she would make him his favorite dinner every time he came over, try to scrounge up any kind of gift to make him, always gave him the biggest hug when he walked through the doors.

“thought i caught you smiling the night that you saw me cry.” lie. rafe would never smile when you cried, he would soothe you until you felt like you didn't need to cry anymore. whatever problems you had, you were very explicitly emotional about them, not afraid to cry. he was always there to pick you back up.

“i don’t give a fuck about you like i used to.” biggest lie of them all. you loved him, and you knew you always would. 

4. means i care 

written after your first argument with rafe, you two quickly learned that you had completely different communication styles. 

this song though, was specifically about how rafe communicated with you and felt about you. 

“if i cut you off, it just means i care.” he explained as he showed up at your doorstep in the pouring rain. the fight was stupid, like really fucking stupid. so stupid that you both couldn’t even remember what it was about if asked about it present day .

pulling you into a hug, you were obviously hesitant as you rested in his arms. "rafe, that doesn't excuse you ignoring me for days after one little argument. you can't just up and leave when things get hard with me." you mumbled into his shoulder, pulling away while looking up at him.

at this point, you were both drenched standing outside of your house.

"i know. i just.. tend to run away when things end up in even the smallest fights. but i promise you that i don't want it to be that way y/n. i adore everything about you. i just.. shut down because i feel like this is going somewhere. like actually." he says, looking deeply into your eyes.

later that night, after rafe had left, you sat confused with your feelings. you didn't forgive him easily, so you turned to the only person who knew rafe better than you did.

sarah.

"its just all he knows, y/n. it's not you i promise." she defended her brother. "if overnight he ends it, and runs away without a mention and ghosts you, it means he likes you the most." she explained.

you listened and learned exactly what she meant, using this moment to better understand the love of your life.

5. nostalgia

this one was personal to y/n. growing up a pogue meant that her family struggles were the most evident problem in her life. barely having any food on the table, her dad barely earning enough to make rent, and most of all, her mom going on and on about what her life could've been.

her first week in LA, she had a phone call with her father in which he reflected everything he had felt towards the changes in their lives. but, he also reflected on the regret that he had about his own. a previous kook, your father took the wrong turns during his teenage years.

it was always that, what could have been and what was lost. it was never what was happening in the present. everyone always had nostalgia, even towards experiences that had never happened.

you took your pen and paper, and wrote it to life. funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up till i lost ya...

this was a song that rafe had heard over a facetime call that same week. he was stunned at your ability to harmonize and strum at your guitar, impressed by your ability to write out your feelings into a melody that was heaven to the ears.

although he loves ALL of your songs, this one pinches his heart a little more because of how much he could relate to it.

6. greedy

you and rafe didn't start off on the right foot, it wasn't love at first sight really. it was more banter and bickering. sass and cockiness.

he was rafe cameron after all. but still, you didn't let him in that easy.

it was at a bonfire on the beach, where you were finally dragged out of the house by sarah and kiara -- "girls night!" they screeched.

"i've been trying to talk to you all night, but i still don't know what you're about." rafe said frustratedly at you. "you'll never know much past my name, cameron." you smirked up at him.

this game of cat and mouse was entertaining, you couldn't help keeping up with it as he tried to dig into you and learn about you. his eyebrows furrowed as you give him the driest answers about your life.

"are you seriously this stubborn, or is it just an act? i seriously cant tell if you like or hate me." he said. you giggled and threw your head back drunkenly.

"no, i don't hate you, rafe. but you're gonna have to work a little harder to get me."

"god, are you gonna put me through hell just to know you?" he sighed and ran his hands through his hair, frustrated with the beautiful mysterious girl that was in front of him for the first time.

"who knows. but you're a cutie, cameron. i would want myself too." you winked at him as you walked back to your group of friends, who were confused as to why you were talking to rafe in the first place.

7. exes

this one was written by y/n's alter ego back when she was a teenager. never had an ex in her life, she hadn't even kissed someone before.

hearing stories about the girls at school go through the same rotation of going through boys, kissing them, breaking up with them, and changing their minds like origami. this was one of the first songs you ever wrote and honestly you had forgotten all about it.

the way rafe found out about this song was...very rafe like. although he was always your soft, sweet boyfriend, he couldn't help but be a little intrusive when he saw your song book out in the open. it was one he had never seen before, no one had. it was your oldest one and was hidden in a box underneath your dusty bed frame..

that was until you needed some inspiration with a new song and brought out the pink polka-dotted journal in which you accidentally left out.

it was like it was screaming his name. 'read me. read me. read me.' chanted through his mind.

when you went downstairs to chat with your mom about what you and rafe wanted for dinner, he pounced at the chance.

"yeah, we hooked up, then we broke up, then i said you really hurt me, but i still got your number and your necklace, kisses to my exes.." rafe read. his eyes widened with every word that he wrote. who was this? his girl? writing about her previous boyfriends? who could she have dated? its not like he can ask her, they'd only been dating for a month.

"see something you like?" you giggled as you stepped foot next to him. startled out of his mind he snapped the book together.

"n-no." he mumbled and set the book down. but before he could fully place it down, you took it from his hands and smiled at the slightly smudged pages.

"i'm a wild ride that never stops.. wow 15 year old me was reallll creative, huh?.." you laughed at the lyrics. rafe was dumbfounded.

"what do you mean?" rafe choked out.

"rafe, these aren't real lyrics. do you even know me? you were my first everything. its all something i made up." you looked up at him smirking. his serious demeanor quickly changed.

"well thank god for that." he sighed, as he cupped your cheek and kissed your lips passionately.

-

taglist: @madkohi, @yesshewrites1, @grapejuice32, @leotapes , @givemylovetoall, @inlovewrafe, @bee-43, @larvalerius, @masongetinmybed, @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not, @mystargirl-interlude, @eddxemxnson, @sqfewrd, @pogueprincesa, @frankoceanluvr11, @raeven-marie43, @marleymarleymarleymarley, @mindfulmesses, @akobx, @spenceatiny18, @fluoxetinys, @lolxdswag123, @st8rkey, @ethanthequeefqueen, @drewrry, @jjmaybankmylovee, @disaster-rose, @sunshinedaisy21, @chillgal135, @amterasuu, @wtfisastiles, @sassyvillaintrophy, @bananaminn, @barnesboo1967, @pi4st81, @stvrkeysgal, @yktayy9669, @yesterdaysproblemm, @rafesbuzzcutseason, @dylsdaily, @jjasmiineee, @imjustagirl713, @voidangxls

xo, dylan

[vallification]

porco galliard headcanons!!!

notes: au/noncanon oriented, some apply to canon too, maybe a few mature themes!!! may be slightly ooc because i’m not super familiar with porco but i’ve been Trying okay

let me know your thoughts!!!

porco’s eyes are definitely a brown-hazel, but he won’t let you forget that they’re actually hazel, NOT brown

he hates the nickname “pock” until everyone starts calling him pock.

his sense of style is everything that’s trending, however he does style it with a liiiittle bit of personality

he’s very easily influenced

porco loves watches and stacking necklaces. he has a few hand-me-down watches and necklaces but he likes to thrift them too

he’s a silver guy but if the swag requires gold he doesn’t mind

porco loves photography and has a fancy camera. he likes street/city photography and any sort of scenic view. sometimes he’ll take candids of his friends if the natural composition is appealing

porco also loves architecture. he likes taking pictures of buildings, drawing buildings, and designing his own buildings. he prefers to use rulers for the straight lines but is inhumanly good at freehanding them

he wears glasses, clear roundish-squarish ones

he loves being outside. he loves skiing and snowboarding

it’s hard for him to make tight bonds and maintain friendships, so he’s close to pieck and his brother but not many other people.

socializing one on one with someone he’s not well acquainted with is draining for him, so he prefers to socialize in large groups like parties

porco can be kind of a dick. he’s not evil or anything, he’s just not very welcoming or friendly.

porco loves leather-bound sketchbooks and buys them if they appeal to him. however, he can’t seem to fill them up— when he buys a new one he forgets the old one

he likes customizing his phone case, laptop, and mirrors with random stickers. he won’t go out of his way to buy stickers but when he has one he’s sticking it to something

he loves mints and takes them with him everywhere. he also keeps a bag of toiletries with him. you’re never going to catch him smelling gross.

porco has a very dry and sarcastic sense of humor

he doesn’t have a sweet tooth at all, he’s a savory kind of guy and likes all things pickled and spicy.

he has a strict fitness regime, gym and diet included. porco is the protein-slop eating gym dude who doesn’t care what his food looks like as long as it meets his macros

he does Not like being teased or joked about, even if it’s all in good fun.

porco definitely takes himself too seriously but it’s hard not to when he feels like he’s competing against marcel.

he hates when people talk loudly on the phone in public. it ruins the vibe

he’s a pc guy and loves rpgs. he’s played alllllll of the elder scrolls and fallout games

porco can be rather passive aggressive and that tone of voice/demeanor is hard for him to shake

porco would definitely run track and play basketball. he didn’t make the football team. he always wanted to play but refused to be a bench warmer

porco could hold a grudge against a fucking ladybug.

by the way, a lot of these were inspired by @/jeanbie’s teen porco headcanons!!!

[bellavida-loll]

the people have spoken

warning: absolute slop. like, cringe. like, this shii bad. but i hope i can improve. read under the cut>

Bellavida's Neslin fic: Chapter one of one/none

Tamlin, high lord of the Spring Court, sat in his ruined manor and thought of blue-gray eyes.

He couldn't help but remember them, the eyes of his almost-bride. Couldn't help but recall the way they had seemed to make the pool of starlight shine brighter that afternoon, the way they glittered Under the Mountain with pure liquid fear that made him ache for his power  just so he could rip off Amarantha’s cocky grin, the way they fixed on him with newfound light when she came back to life.

The way they seemed to look right through him in the days after.

The way they melted with relief when he rescued her from Rhysand.

The triumph in them after she ran back to his side.

He didn’t miss her, though,or at least that was what he’d been telling himself since the day she razed his court-after all, it couldn’t possibly be good form on a High Lord’s part to pine after usurpers. What he missed, he told himself, were all the things she had ruined for him.

Like hyacinths, which he used to love when he could look at them without imagining how they would look in the High Lady of the Night Court’s hair, highlighting those damned eyes. Or one very specific painting in the ruins of his grand hall he couldn’t help but think would have been much better if Amarantha’s killer had painted it.

Or overcast skies, dark with the promise of rain. How many times had he lay in the grass outside his manor, looking up at the sky, relishing the earthy smell of the wind as it blew past his face, almost tasting the raindrops on his tongue, and feeling, like he rarely ever did, like he was free?

He didn’t miss his almost-bride. She was happy, and that was enough. But maybe if he had her back his favourite things wouldn’t hurt so much.

Though he supposed he should look at the bright side. He’d always wanted time to himself, to pursue the things being the High Lord would not allow him to. The Cursebreaker had given it to him in spades.

It was a terrible pity he occupied nearly all of it with her and her deceitful eyes.

A faint rustling pulled him out of his reverie. He was momentarily startled-sometimes it was easy to feel like he was the only thing that still lived in the Spring Court-and then uninterested. But the sound seemed to be attuned to him, somehow-no sooner would he slip back into his mind than it would return. There was something almost…insistent about it.

Or maybe the youngest Archeron sister had driven him mad.

Whatever the case, he found himself getting off the floor, ignoring the way his bones cracked, and going to investigate the sound. It was probably nothing, but it couldn’t really hurt to leave the manor, could-

A heap of something landed on the floor in front of him-then before he could fully process the situation, unfolded into a fae woman.

A fae woman with hair the colour of honey. 

A fae woman with eyes the colour of despair.

“Let me into your manor,” she said, haughty despite the slight shake in her voice. “Now.”

But not her. Not his almost-bride.

“Well?” snapped Nesta Archeron, head tilting to one side. “Now that you’ve had your fill of staring at me, can we go?”

There was a glint in Nesta Archeron’s eyes. And maybe it made him the biggest fool in Prythian, but Tamlin couldn’t help but think that for all his love of the clouds, it wouldn’t be so hard to learn to love the lightning.

@matrixsss thank you again for all your encouragement, i wish i had a friend like you irl

[game-boy-pocket]

Just watched kind of a humbling and vindicating video that I thought I’d recommend.

It bothers the crap out of me how fixated people are on how “dark” Majora’s Mask is compared to other Zelda games, but I understand it’s not without reason.  I do still think people exaggerate it though and don’t really pay much mind to the other non-gameplay related merits of the game.  It’s kind of left a sour taste in my mouth but I really should not let that happen, it’s stupid to let the way other people talk about a game affect my own enjoyment.

On the other hand, I often see a lot of MM fans pretending other Zelda games are just cheerful frolics through flower fields to try and make MM even more spooky and that’s hard to ignore for me, they undersell how dark other Zelda games are, especially OOT, which always felt like a pretty heavy game to me. 

Another thing this video touches on that kind of bothers me with Zelda fans is the way Zelda handles darkness in general.  I have witnessed many fans saying they want a fully mature Zelda game that’s just all drab like Twilight Princess but with splashes of blood, strong language, and adult themes to go with it.  I can’t get behind that, and when I speak up about it, people think I’m just against darkness in Zelda in general. But really, I think what makes darkness in Zelda appealing is when it’s in stark contrast to the rest of the game.  Would the Shadow Temple have had the same impact in OOT it did if the entire game was dead grass, grey cloudy skies, and rotting corpses wandering the overworld? I don’t think so.  Zelda should be a light hearted adventure series that will occasionally come out of nowhere with a terrifying sucker punch of horror, or it will just be more edgy slop.

The video is a bit timely, because I’ve been casually replaying Majora, I just beat Snowhead the other night.  Kind of taking my time with it between other games and hobbies.

[marmalice]

Do you have any 3d modeling tips or tutorial recommendations? I find your stuff super impressive! Not that I don't adore all the more Joy Ang-styled models, but I also rly like how ur models are still in your own style. Super cool!!

I've been thinking about this one a lot because I've been using Blender for so long I literally cannot imagine not knowing how it works lmao.

Ummmmm YouTube is your friend. Tutorials to literally last you a lifetime. To give you some keywords to research my modeling style is hard surface / subdivision modeling and then i sculpt with multiresolution, this is hard to start out on tho because you're basically combining every step you would take one by one if you go the sculpting / manual retopology way. Sculpting on top of that being infinitely more intuitive. But I fucking despise retopo so I usually never go that route. Royal Skies has good rigging tutorials with a little bit more advanced subject matter but he also makes a lot of clickbait slop so just navigate to his tutorial playlists. Watching speed models is also a really good resource if you're a visual learner. Ducky3D seems at first like slop as but you pick up some neat tricks that will deepen your understanding of certain concepts inside Blender. Exactly the same goes for Polyfjord but maybe less slop.

For general advice it's really easy to get very overwhelmed fast so you should try to view / break a big project like a character model down into smaller projects like making the model, texturing it, rigging it and eventually making an animation with it. Set clear, achievable goals for yourself or you'll never finish anything.

A lot of this is also just determination. There will be a lot of times where it'll feel like bashing your head into a wall and anything in 3D takes a shit ton of time to get to look nice. Worst part is that it'll probably look like ass until it's done. If you ever feel stuck just walk away from it and watch more tutorials.

[hthebard]

If I see you posting AI slop of birds that don’t exist when real birds that defy belief in their beauty are all around us, I hope you never see lifers ever again. May the skies be perpetually empty for you😡

[memoirsofasim]

Tackling the expert slop at high intensity. Unfortunately though there was no bad weather in sight so they did not complete the last requirement of the Extreme Sports Enthusiast aspiration. However, they did max their skiing skill!

Final summary below.

Mt Komorebi Sightseer (completed)

Extreme Sports Enthusiast

survive 3 wildlife attacks unscathed ✔

achieve L8 skiing skill ✔

successfully complete high intensity skiing on an expert slope during inclement weather ✖ (Celeste & Alonso)

Final Summary: I thoroughly enjoyed the trip to Mt Komorebi! I've played there with other sims so I knew what to expect. It can be so peaceful and relaxing, but on the other hand very intense with the skiing and rock climbing.

They made three attempts to climb to the highest peak of Mt Komorebi. A few times I ran out of time and was focused on the tasks and didn't realise in some parts you only have to complete a few tasks and can then 'move on' up the mountain. After the 2nd attempt I had them read for ages and skill up on rock climbing because that is what was causing them to have injuries. Alonso reached L8 and Celeste reached L9. Celeste ended up being the team leader on the climb. 🦸‍♀️

I extended their stay a couple of times in the hope for bad weather so they could complete their second aspiration but it was too late and I wasn't about to put them (and me) through another winter.

They both received the Mountaineer trait (Celeste-Expert, Alonso-Middling) and also gained the Frequent Traveller lifestyle. Alonso maxed his fitness skill and completed his bodybuilder aspiration 💪 during their trip, he received the Long Lived trait.

Thanks for following along! 💗

[theladyofbloodshed]

Neris prompt-

Nesta and Eris attending a HL meeting after taking over as High lord and lady of Autumn and having to deal with the NC except they get backed by all the other HLs from Tamlin to Helion and Kallias cause the true nature of IC is now visible to everyone after Nesta left with Eris (idk if this is understandable since my English is weak).

Over a year later, here it is! This is set after the events of my fic A Court of Tangled Flames.

***

A heavy deluge of rain soaked the paths, turning them into a slopping mess of mud and leaves.

Nesta winced at the weather from her window then turned back to her looking glass on the vanity to finish pinning up her hair. ‘Some would say this weather is a bad omen.’

On the bed, Eris lounged with one of the dogs. He crossed his ankles. ‘Would they?’

‘Yes. I think we shouldn’t go.’

Last night, she had started on a new book that was rather good and she wanted to spend her day reading that instead – especially with gloomy weather surrounding the Forest House.

‘The amazing thing about Prythian, my love, is that the Dawn Court will have entirely different weather.’

Sometimes she loved that smile he wore, sometimes she wanted to smother him with a pillow when he smiled at her. Eris remarked that it was a miracle she hadn’t yet done it. He was flashing the smile now. In the corner of her vision, she could see his reflection in the mirror.

‘Stop smiling. It’s unnerving.’

‘Hm, am I unnerving you or is the looming family reunion? High lords have never swayed you, so one has to think it’s your family.’

Nesta turned in her seat to point at him. ‘One of them is my family. One is unfortunately a marital relation. The rest are sycophantic followers who, very occasionally, enter my orbit.’

She rose at the same time as her husband. They were always in synchronisation with each other which a bond did not facilitate. Eris was right, of course, as he always was. The last time the high lords had gathered, she had warred with herself whether to tell her story or not. They’d spent the time bickering amongst themselves until Azriel and Feyre had lost control of their sense and attacked the Autumn Court. Then, she’d managed to get her dearly departed father-in-law to take notice as her story spilt out of her. No, it wasn’t the high lords that Nesta cared about. It was the ever-insufferable Night Court.

Eris helped her into her heavy gown for the meeting. It was a beautiful thing of gold and red that firmly signified her allegiance. His fingers smoothed up her back as he fastened each hook around the small buttons. Since marrying, Nesta found that she did not want a servant’s help to dress when her husband was always ready and willing to assist – especially with undressing.

A kiss was pressed to the top of her head. ‘All will be fine. No need to worry.’

‘I will retract my claws.’

Eris gripped one of her hands then brought it to his lips. ‘I love you, claws and all.’

***

The rolling hills and golden skies of the Dawn Court greeted them. A delegate from the court received them as they winnowed into the balcony then showed them to the large atrium with the stunning pool in the centre. It was just how Nesta remembered from the pink lilies floating on the surface to the white and gold fish darting through the waters. Only this time she was with another court. Her court.

If they arrived on time, Eris felt they were late so he had an annoying habit of arriving everywhere early. It meant they were the first court – except for Dawn - assembled. For once, Nesta did not mind the punctuality. It gave her a chance to make her greetings then settle into a chair beside her mother-in-law who rested a comforting hand on top of her own.

It wasn’t the Night Court in general that had a bubble of worry growing in her chest, but the potential for them to goad Eris. There had been no contact between them since the bond had been severed with Cassian, not even a single letter from Feyre regarding the babe. The Autumn Court had been flourishing under Eris’ rule and change had been staggering. What he would propose today would either be met with anger or laughter.

The Winter Court arrived next so Nesta played her role as the lady of her court, greeting them formally after Eris had, then Day and Summer came. At the sight of Tamlin winnowing in, Nesta held back her surprise enough to greet him too. She could see the beast behind his eyes that he struggled to contain. When the Night Court arrived, they looked suited to a ball rather than a meeting. Feyre and Mor’s dresses dipped low on their chest. She held her breath as Cassian came into view. Even as Eris took her to say her formal greeting to the high lord and lady, neither she nor Cassian could look at each other. It was a relief to be back in her seat.

‘You have gathered us, Thesan, get on with it,’ clipped Helion.

Thesan swept his head across the room. ‘I am merely playing host as a neutral ground. Eris?’

Confidence seeped from her husband once all eyes settled on him. He made it look easy. Everything that Eris did seemed effortless but Nesta knew he’d have imagined this meeting in a thousand different ways, ran through every possible outcome to be prepared for it. ‘Though not our jurisdiction, I would like the high lords of Prythian to offer aid to Hybern.’

As expected, a hush fell across the room followed by a low laugh from Helion.

‘Surely your father’s treasury hasn’t been so depleted by his successor that you cannot offer aid?’ asked Rhysand. ‘Why should we give up our own wealth for a country that has warred with us for centuries?’

‘When the call to arms comes, every citizen must defend their country. We know it well enough,’ continued Eris. ‘We rallied to your call, Rhysand. Many in Hybern were faced with the choice of killing or be killed. Many did not want to go to war. They had a king who would slaughter their families if they didn’t.’ He paused for effect. Nesta had heard this speech rehearsed whilst she was in the bathroom. ‘There are children there. Children without a leader, without any sort of guidance. That country hangs on the edge. Groups are vying for power still, playing tug-and-war with a country full of innocent fae. I’d like to offer aid to the ones who just want a life of freedom and peace.’

As they expected, it was met with scorn from some.

Feyre folded her hands into her lap. ‘So that I understand it, you would like us to open the doors to our courts so Hybern can sweep in?’

‘You had no problem doing that to my court,’ said Tamlin.

‘You unlocked the door for them.’

Tamlin raised his brows, gaze settling on Cassian. ‘How does it feel? Your high lord stole my bride. His court,’ a jerk of his thumb to Eris, ‘stole your mate.’

The words hit Cassian like an arrow to the chest. Nesta saw it pierce him – the sudden involuntary recoil, the breath that caught in his throat.

Despite the heat flushing her own neck from the attention on her, Eris showed no signs of trouble. He merely smiled in a gesture of innocence reserved for a child. ‘You cannot steal something that never belonged to another. I’m afraid that what happened was my darling wife told her sister that the child inside of her would kill her – a fact they all knew but neglected to tell their high lady.’

‘Eris,’ warned Rhysand.

‘Apologies, I’m not finished. The high lord threatened to have his general’s mate killed so a fitting punishment was to have her walk until exhaustion caused her to collapse. I merely happened to reach out a hand, offer a different life. And to show no hard feelings between our courts, a wonderful healer of mine helped deliver the babe. The Night Court has an heir and a high lady. We are all won that day, didn’t we?’

Eris had no problem airing other’s dirty laundry. He had been trained in the Beron Vanserra school of humiliation and misery. Nothing could ever embarrass him; Nesta knew because she had tried. This revelation was clearly news to the other courts gathered. Usually, Nesta wouldn’t want her own story shared. She did not want pity for the punishment she was given. She just wished it hadn’t had to happen for her to fall in love with Eris.

Breaking the silence, Eris clapped his hands once. ‘We are not here to discuss my beautiful wife – although, I assure you, I could talk of her until the rivers run dry and the skies bleed black because there is nobody in this world that I love more.’

That struck something in the Winter Court. Not anger or annoyance, but almost envy. Viviane had nudged her husband. In a low voice she muttered, ‘Why can’t you talk about me like that in public?’

All eyes were on the usually cool High Lord of Winter who had a pink blush creeping over his thin cheeks. He cleared his throat. ‘Why should we offer assistance? Your land is vast enough, Eris.’

‘Indeed, it is,’ he confirmed. ‘I will take any as many as I can who want to be there.’

Mor scoffed. ‘Bolstering your armies?’

‘They will be Autumn Court citizens in time. The option to serve will be there just as the option not to will also be theirs. I am not a tyrant, Morrigan, nor am I a high lord who sees my court as a disposable force.’

So much for needing the Night Court on side, Nesta thought.

‘And you believe you will be able to control them all, Eris?’

At Rhysand’s words, Eris made a show of laughing. Ever the dramatist. ‘Control them? You make my court seem like a mindless rabble. There hasn’t been an uprising in the Autumn Court since… Oh, no there never has been one. I wonder when anybody could tell me the last time the Illyrians staged a rebellion? Last week?’

Her brother-in-law’s lips thinned. From Feyre’s expression, Nesta knew they were having a private conversation through their mental link. She knew Eris was pushing them too quickly so prodded his knee in warning as subtly as she could manage.

Tarquin exhaled as he ran a finger around the rim of the glass he held. ‘We can take in some refugees. We still have ones from Spring who have settled.’

‘We want to decide though,’ added Cresseida. ‘We’ll organise a meeting with the first batch to ensure they’ll gel well in our court.’

‘Indeed, emissary.’

A long, heavy silence followed. The solar courts tended to be close-knit with each other, but the Night Court had the largest free land for Hybern’s innocent fae to settle on. There were many females without their husbands, their fathers, their brothers, their sons. Children were without parents. This was beyond a wicked king. This was about innocent fae whose lives were uprooted by a war they had no part in. With no monarch on the throne, the country lacked direction. Eris could have been vile and proposed seizing their throne to gain control of an unstable land, but he did the honourable thing. It was only a possibility now with Beron gone.  

‘Spring can take some.’

Nesta uttered a thank you before she could stop herself. Tamlin’s words had shocked her. Her gratitude shocked him in return.

The pressure built on their final seasonal ally. Viviane had wound her hand into her husband’s, squeezing it in a pattern like a pulse. Eventually, he caved and let out a wearied sigh. ‘We can take some, though the Winter Court isn’t for everybody.’

Cressieda grinned at him. ‘They can always visit the Summer Court for a vacation.’

‘Only if we are invited too,’ countered Viviane.

Although Helion was a friend to the Night Court, they had brought their own weapon with them to sway his decision. Eliška leaned forwards in her chair to catch the male’s gaze. He had been stealing enough glances at her throughout the proceedings already.

‘Helion, what of your court?’

Nesta had never seen the male so flustered. A few words from Eris’ mother and he was entirely undone.

‘My court.’

‘Your court,’ she said, voice sweet and soft. ‘Will you help us?’

With the love-struck expression that had clobbered onto his usually collective face, Nesta thought that Helion might offer up his entire court if Eliška asked.

‘Whatever you need,’ he said, eyes never leaving her face. ‘I give it freely.’

Thesan shook his head. ‘We cannot take them here. We already have many from the Continent here, but we can offer financial aid to the courts who are helping to re-settle.’

‘Thank you for your generosity,’ replied Eris.

Begrudgingly, Rhysand spoke though he did not seem happy about the decision. ‘As a gesture of good will, we will also provide financial aid. Our emissary will discuss the figure with you later.’

‘Could Lucien not make it because he’s still walking down the ten thousand steps in your house?’

Nesta knew that Eris shouldn’t have said it. He had no reason to bring that house up. But her lips still pressed together to stop a laugh from sneaking out. She could laugh at these things now. Her life in Velaris had been a misery, but her darling Eris had managed to tease out some comedy from it all that did make Nesta laugh or roll her eyes from time to time.

‘They must have very tall houses in your court. As long as my niece-’

‘Elin is not your niece,’ said Mor, a finger pointed at him.

‘I understand that relations in the Night Court can be confusing if you consider the general your brother that you also have sexual exploits with, but you are only a loosely related cousin of the high lord. I am married to the sister of your high lady, making me Elin’s uncle. The high lord’s daughter is my niece by marriage.’

Rhys stood up, the rest of them following suit, and shook his head. ‘This meeting is done.’

‘Farewell.’

‘Couldn’t resist, could you?’ Nesta muttered.

‘I never can.’

[annoyinglyobsessive]

Day 13 - ski

CW - nothing :)

Words - 112

“Your telling me youve never been skiing” james said, looking at regulus, who was holding the ski pole in a white knuckled grip as he looked at the slop infront of him. Regulus shook his head.

“Well why ddint you say anything,” james said, confused.”

“You just seemed so excited, and i didnt want to ruin that,” regulus said quickly.

“Honey you could never,” james said, taking regulus’s hand in his. “If you dont want to do this we can go inside,” he suggested, but regulus shook his head.

“No,” regulus said and james smiled. “We came all the way out here, i want to try.”

James smiled, “lets do it then.”

@jegulus-microfic

[donnerpartyofone]

I just saw this poll that was apparently the product of a debate among non-Americans as to whether or not summer camp is real. Americans were supposed to select one of several answers describing how real it actually is and what their direct experience is with it (like "I've been to one" or "I've heard of them but never known anyone who went"), as if to prove their claim. One option suggested it was only for rich people. Never in my life did it occur to me that the reality of summer camp was up for debate, but I also never thought about the economics of it. As a kid I was just glad I didn't have to go; forced-fun is really hard on me still, I hate even friendly competitions because I am literally incompetent, and I couldn't imagine being in a situation where I wouldn't ever be alone for days or weeks at a time. We had to go to band camp, which was just a day thing at school for a month or so, and I'm sure that was a combination of our parents just wanting to get rid of us and also wanting us to have extracurriculars on our record. But it never occurred to me that proper sleepaway summer camp was out of our price range, probably because wealthiness was not part of the cliche of summer camp.

Like, the 1980s was the era of a film subgenre called snobs versus slobs, a prime example of which is the movie MEATBALLS, which pits kids at a working class summer camp against the rich jerks at a much ritzier camp nearby; the stereotypical vision was that summer camp is for everyone, but the rich people versions are less wholesome, farther away from the American-as-apple-pie camp experience god intended. I also recall a Saturday morning cartoon called Camp Candy, in which John Candy was the beloved counselor of an earnest little camp that was under threat from a rich developer--again here, money is the enemy of the salt of the earth, egalitarian decency of summer camp. ERNEST GOES TO CAMP involves scrappy juvenile delinquents at a camp that is antagonized by a greedy strip mining corporation, so money is only a theme insofar as "camp" represents something common and honest that is antithetical to contaminating wealth. The standard summer camp narrative is most often about underdogs trying to save something they love, and not about rich people either finding their souls or getting their comeuppance (unless they're the bad guys who are generally not "real", sincere campers). Personally, my closer cultural connections are with FRIDAY THE 13TH and SLEEPAWAY CAMP, which take place in rural New Jersey; nowhere is there the idea that Jason Voorhees' mom was rich, and although there's evidence of wealth regarding the first family you meet in SLEEPAWAY CAMP, the prevailing image is not of snotty prep school students, but of regular, somewhat coarse suburban kids who don't mind skinning their knees and getting their hands dirty and eating cafeteria slop dished out by a filthy pervert.

I do get the idea (just now, from searching the internet) that summer camp is exorbitantly expensive nowadays due to inflation (and probably escalating greed, just like with everything else), but even though it can involve room and board etc for days or weeks, I never acquired the prejudice that camp in general was only for the upper crust, like I'd assume about ski school or uh sailing lessons or I don't know what. And I mean there's a lot of stuff like that in mainstream media, where e.g. blue collar families have homes and possessions that are WAY too nice, or something like that. It's just something film and TV creators do to make things more inviting and less depressing, I think, and that can skew popular conceptions of how expensive certain things actually are. But I'm looking at a Reddit right now confirming my perception that versions of summer camp were available to middle class Americans in the 1960s-80s, and that the idea that the price tag of it would compete with college tuition is pretty recent. But it's still funny to me how often I see people on here assuming that if they've never personally experienced something, no matter how often they've heard of it, then it's probably not real. That's some protagonist syndrome shit right there. Just because you've seen an artificially enhanced version of something on TV doesn't mean it's a fake idea contrived to make an idiot out of you. You can do that all by yourself.