#the flints of memory lane
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girlzoot · 1 year ago
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I like things to be story-shaped. Reality, however, is not story-shaped, and the eruptions of the odd into our lives are not story-shaped either. They do not end in entirely satisfactory ways. Recounting the strange is like telling one’s dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can color one’s entire day. —Neil Gaiman/The Flints of Memory Lane/Fragile Things
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truerhearts · 1 month ago
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˗ˏˋ ★ ― MASK part 1 of 3
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𖤝 astarion x fem!reader
𖤝 3rd person, 8.9k words
𖤝 summary: the gang is celebrating a victory in a tavern in rivington. you're not feeling too great because astarion is entertaining some woman and has left you to sulk in the dark. you end up confronting him about it, in turn piercing the mask he wears and exposing the vulnerability he hides beneath charm and cruelty
𖤝 warnings: toxic jealousy, weaponized sex talk, verbal abuse...? (idk he does get kinda mean at some parts... deflection, you know),
𖤝 rating: 18+: sexual themes (just talk, no outright sex) , mature subject matter, coarse language, reader discretion is advised ~
𖤝 masterlist | ao3 | requests
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The cobblestones of Rivington shone slick beneath the lamplight, the rain having passed just an hour before, leaving the streets smelling of petrichor and something faintly sweet – sugar-roasted almonds from the vendor down the lane. The sky, bruised and dusky, held no stars tonight, only low clouds drifting like sated beasts overhead. The glow of lanterns fluttered outside shopfronts and taverns, golden and swaying in the breeze. Laugher echoed down alleys, warm and loose in a way that it hadn’t for days. Somewhere, a lute plucked a slow, meandering tune, drifting in and out of earshot like memory.
It was the first time in a long time that they had an evening to rest. They were triumphant in their endeavours that day, and that was cause for celebration. Instead of being holed up at camp, they all decided that they would celebrate in town, a nice change of pace. Lucky they were that they had a proper roof over their head when the rain came pouring down. Despite the weather, the ale was still poured, and the tunes were still hummed, something that they would have had to sacrifice if caught in the rain at camp.
(Y/N) was just outside the tavern, leaning against a wall, half-shadowed by the curve of the doorway, arms folded and shoulders damp where the roof’s runoff had missed the mark. Her cloak clung to her back, damp at the edges, the scent of wet wool and street smoke curling around her. She watched her friends through the open window: Karlach, already two mugs deep and trying to arm wrestle Minsc, who looked visibly torn about whether to win or to let her. Boo was by his ear, most likely whispering to him to never risk defeat. Wyll had sidled up beside Jaheira in conversation, offering some charming story that had her smiling in a rare, softened way. Gale was pontificating to Shadowheart, who looked more interested in her wine than his stars.
Near the end of the table, Lae’zel and Minthara were deep in what could only be described as a cold war in motion — voices hushed but clipped, eyes sharp, postures stiff with restraint. Minthara’s smile was a blade, all too ready to cut, while Lae’zel’s growl of a retort thrummed just beneath her breath. Each stood as if ready to lunge at the other with a word too far. Between them, Halsin sat, patient as stone, hands calm on the table and gaze steady. He spoke low and measured, attempting to pour reason like water between two flints. Whether it was working or merely delaying the inevitable, (Y/N) couldn’t tell.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and stories, with camaraderie hard-won and fleeting peace. It was a rare thing. And for now, it was enough.
But… there was one missing from the table.
Astarion.
He was the reason she was currently outside in the cold.
He stood near the hearth, the tavern’s firelight gilding him in gold. His hair was perfectly in place with that maddening sort of carelessness only he could manage. Neat and effortless. Especially cruel, considering he couldn’t see his reflection. He looked relaxed in the way that only he could: chin tilted just so, eyes half-lidded, lips curled faintly around nothing in particular. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, untouched more often than not — more prop than pleasure.
He wasn’t alone
A woman stood near him, hands not quite touching, but close enough that the air between their fingers hummed. Her dress was a burnt red; all silk and lacing and purpose. Her smile was one of precision. (Y/n) had seen that sort of look before, on nobles and sycophants alike. She knew what it meant to covet such a glittering thing.
Astarion’s head was tilted slightly, the white of his shirt collar brushing his jaw like the whisper of a secret. He didn’t touch the woman, but his presence alone was intimate. A show, maybe. A game.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
(Y/n) felt the tight pull in her stomach, familiar as a wound pressed too soon. She told herself she wasn’t watching – but she was. And not just with her eyes. She was measuring the tilt of his posture, the way his mouth moved when he smiled, and that glimmer in his eyes that turned her like a moth towards flame.
Not tonight, though. While he was still the flame, the moth fluttering towards him was someone else.
(Y/n) felt rather stupid, needing to remove herself. It shouldn’t be affecting her like this, yet it did.
The woman laughed again, softly this time, almost conspiratorial, and leaned in to whisper something against the shell of his ear. Astarion didn’t flinch. He inclined his head slightly, amused, a phantom smirk touching his mouth. Whatever she said, it wasn’t clever enough to draw more than the mildest interest.
But he was playing along, as he always did. It was natural for him, years, decades… centuries of practice. It was practically etched in his soul, so much a part of him like the undead blood that ran through his veins.
Her fingers ghosted along the line of his sleeve, trailing down to the crook of his elbow. (Y/n) watched him allow it. Watched the slow blink of his eyes, the small shift in his weight that made him look just a little more like a man interested. He could look at anyone like they were the only one in the room, and right now, that spotlight was turned on someone who wasn’t her.
The woman retracted her hand from his sleeve almost as quickly as she graced it, simply… testing the waters.
A sparkle caught her eye. The fire and candlelight throughout the tavern lit up the girls’ earrings, twin ruby teardrops that winked in the lowlight. They matched his eyes. A coincidence, it must have been. (Y/n) couldn’t look away, not from the earrings, not from him. Her throat tightened.
The door creaked beside her, wind catching it like a breath, and she turned from her post just as Karlach stumbled out with a tankard in hand. Her cheeks were ruddy, expression flushed with joy and ale. “There you are!” She beamed. “We thought you’ve gone back to camp!”
(Y/n) didn’t say anything at first. Then she breathed. “I’m seriously considering it.”
Karlach noticed the tone in her friend’s voice. She quickly looked through the window and witnessed what was causing her so much grief. She turned back to (y/n). “Aw, c’mon. That’s nothing. What does she have that you don’t?”
“Less blood under her fingernails probably,” (Y/n) muttered with a wry half-smile, but her voice lacked venom.
Karlach followed her gaze again. Astarion and the girl were perfectly centered in the window. “He’s just being polite. You know he is. All the dramatics, all the charm. It’s his being, his essence. Hardly a promise.” Karlach said, trying to comfort her.
“Maybe,” (Y/n) said.
The warm light of the tavern spilled out onto the street as drunk couple pushed the door open wider, taking it from Karlach’s hand. They stumbled out and giggled up the street as they went.
From the tavern door, music filtered through a fiddle, a flute, a drum or two, the pulse of joy. And laugher again. His.
Astarion laughed in layers. The polite one, with closed lips and arched brows. The amused one, full-bodied and smooth like aged wine. Then the real one, which was rare and dangerous and beautiful.
She had heard that one only a handful of times, but not tonight. Not yet at least. And that was perhaps a good sign.
Karlach gave her a look of concern, eyebrows knitting together. “Come inside,” Karlach said, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. “If I’m going to lose at arm wrestling, I want you to be there to lie about how close it was.”
(Y/n) peeled her eyes away from the scene causing her grief and gazed up at her Tiefling friend. Despite all her fire and bluster, Karlach was always gentle when it counted. She never pushed, never pried, just stood solid beside her like a wall that wouldn’t give. (Y/n) had kept most things close to her chest, especially the messier parts of her heart, but Karlach had come to know them anyway.
Karlach warned her once, not to get tangled up in something like this. She’d seen the edges of it coming before (Y/n) let herself fall to desire. But even now, with her hurting and uncertain, Karlach never said “I told you so.” Never let judgement slip through. Just stayed beside her, doing what she could to help her hold the weight.
“It’s too cold out here anyways.” Karlach added.
(Y/n) gave the window one more apprehensive look before settling: “Alright,” She smiled, half heartedly, but it was a smile nonetheless. She followed Karlach inside, brushing the water that had collected on her sleeves. The tavern smelled of smoke and bread and something vanilla-sweet from someone’s perfume. The warmth hit her like a wall, the contrast of it from the cold outside was like a welcoming hug from an old friend. Her leather boots, the ones that had seen everything, thudded softly over the worn-out wooden floors as she moved past the bar, past the laughter, towards the edge of the hearth where Astarion stood, the woman leaning in just a little closer now, further testing the boundary.
He hadn’t noticed her. Or he had pretended not to. He was good at pretending.
(Y/n) paused near a column where she had a perfect view of both scenes: her friends and him. She tried to keep her focus on the laughter and banter happening at the table all her companions were at, but she couldn’t help but steal a glance at her midnight lover every now and again.
Astarion leaned slightly against the mantle, elbow cocked, fingers cradling his wine elegantly like he always did. The woman laughed again – sharp and syrupy. Her hand lingered near his forearm, not quite touching, but close enough to suggest familiarity, invitation. That was the trick with women like her: never overt. Always circling. Letting the moment stretch with tension.
And Astarion, ever the connoisseur of tension, let it stretch. He angled his body to her, nodding slightly as she spoke, smiling down at her. It was the smile that got under (Y/n)’s skin – not lascivious, not mocking, just… gentle. Gentle int the way he rarely was unless it meant something. Or maybe, she only thought that because she wanted it to mean something.
How cruel we are to ourselves sometimes - these self-inflicted wounds, assumptions being the knife that carves.
The woman pressed in again, just slightly, a lean of the hip, a flutter of lashes that had all the subtlety of a thrown blade.
He shifted his weight again, following the flow of their conversation, head tilted in mock contemplation. That smirk bloomed slowly, as if unfurling for her alone. He said something low, a murmur too quiet to catch, and the woman laughed again, her body swaying towards him. From her post, (Y/n) watched with her jaw set and her breath shallow in her chest.
Karlach, for all her good intentions, might’ve done her a disservice by dragging her back inside. In hindsight, staying out in the cold would’ve been kinder. Inside just gave her a better view: The scrape of the woman’s nails against her own glass. The tilt of Astarion’s mouth – something tight underneath the curve. The shift in his shoulders, too fluid to be natural. He was performing. He always was. But that didn’t make it easier to watch.
She tried to peel her eyes away, but she couldn’t, like witnessing a beacon tower fall, stones crashing, fire spilling down the hillside—dread rolling through you because its light once guided you home.
She heard a quiet voice in her ear: “Want me to set her dress on fire?” Shadowheart asked, voice pitched low, half-joking. Half. “I could just… drop a candle nearby.” She mimicked the movement as she walked to the other side of the pillar.
(Y/n) managed a breath of a laugh, bitter at the edges. “No. It’s silk. Probably expensive.”
Karlach soon approached as well, the three of them now watching the two with contempt, trying their best to be subtle.
“Hey,” Karlach said, nudging (Y/n) gently. “Stop sulking about. Come join the rest of us.” She tipped her mug towards her, and (y/n) graciously accepted it, taking a big swig before handing it back.
(Y/N) forced a breath through her nose, wincing at the bitter liquid. “I’m fine.” She forced out.
Karlach took the mug back. “You look like you’re out for blood.” She said, taking a swig herself.
She let the words hang for a moment before replying. “I’m not jealous.”
Karlach snorted. “Did I say jealous? Just ready to knock her teeth down her throat.” Karlach’s skin blazed. “Hey if it’s a fight we want I’m all for it!”
“I’m not—” (Y/N) sighed. “He can do what he wants. We’re not…”
“Together?” Shadowheart interjected.
“...Anything.”
Karlach gave her a long, skeptical look, then exchanged glances with Shadowheart then turned toward the hearth again. Her brows furrowed. “Right. So, you’re not ‘anything’ yet he just invites himself into your tent every night.”
The words slipped out sharper than she meant. There was heat behind them. She caught herself too late, jaw flexing as the fire in her chest sputtered.
Her breath came out in a low hiss as she reined herself back in. “Shit. Sorry.”
She looked over at (Y/N), searching her face, expecting anger—but found only a hollow kind of calm.
Karlach's shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of her just as quickly as it had flared. “I just hate seeing you like this, you know?”
(Y/N) said nothing. The woman by the fire said something low and throaty, tilting her head to whisper near Astarion’s ear. He didn’t lean away. Didn’t laugh, either. Just listened, his expression unreadable in profile. But his hands didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Didn’t reciprocate.
Still – he stayed.
“Still think he’s being polite?” (Y/N) asked, quieter now.
Karlach didn’t answer. Shadowheart, instead, let out a soft breath through her nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff.
“Watching you two play these games is becoming… tiresome. I worry about you, you know.”
(Y/N) blinked, about to protest “I-”
“We worry about you because we love you. You kind of matter to us.” Karlach interjected.
Shadowheart shrugged a shoulder, watching the firelight flicker across Astarion’s face. “He’s not yours. Not really anyone’s for that matter. But if you want him to be…” she glanced sidelong, voice softening without losing its edge, “don’t expect him to read your mind. He’s clever when it suits him, but when it comes to himself? Blind as a bat in daylight.”
She took a slow sip from her goblet before continuing.
“He thinks he only has one thing to offer. Charm. That pretty face. A good time and a well-rehearsed laugh. That’s the shape of his worth, in his head. So maybe,” she paused, “he’s just waiting for someone to prove him wrong. To want the parts, he doesn’t perform.”
(Y/N) looked down at her hands. They felt empty. Useless. The kind of hands that longed to reach for something but didn’t know how. She wanted those parts of him. She had seen them. He had let her in, but he was still guarded.
Shadowheart continued one last time: “But you deserve someone who won’t play these games. Perhaps its… not your job to fix this one.” She sighed.
Astarion laughed again—an elegant sound, bright at the surface. It was dangerously close to sounding like the real one. But she knew that one. It was the one he shared with her when she said something stupid or told a horrible joke. Or that time a matriarch of the house handed her an “heirloom”:
She had pulled him aside, beaming with delight “That old matriarch just pressed something into my hand and said, ‘May your union be fruitful. This must be a good sign, right?’”
She opened her hand.
 It was a dried fig.
A single, wrinkled fig.
“Perhaps it was passed down to her and now she’s given it to me!” She beamed.
Astarion managed to hold it in until they were alone under the arbor, and then let out such a deep, rich laugh that he nearly had to sit down.
(y/n) thought she’d go feral if she heard that laugh tonight.
The woman then took it upon herself to place a hand on his bicep. His hand caught her wrist, gently. He placed it back down to where it rested before, off of him. He smiled at her as he released it, fingers slow to fall away.
And then, he glanced sideways, just once, towards the pillar. Towards her.
His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze lingered half a heartbeat too long. A slip.
(Y/n) dropped her eyes.
Karlach noticed his glance. She understood what he was doing, her nose wrinkled at the thought. “You don’t have to do this,” Karlach said gently. “Stand here and watch him. Torture yourself.”
“It’s not torture.” (y/n) muttered.
But it was. And it wasn’t just jealousy. It was grief, maybe, for something almost real. For all the nights they’d spent alone after everyone else went to sleep, the lamplight between them, with quiet breaths and wordless looks and hands that sometimes hovered too long in passing. All those moments where something real could’ve happened. Should’ve. But didn’t.
Because neither of them asked for it. It was a simple arrangement, and it had been working.
But now here he was, letting himself be wanted by someone else, and it stung much more than she could have anticipated.
Shadowheart placed a hand on (Y/n)’s forearm, pulling gently. “C’mon, (y/n), there’s plenty of merriment to be had with the others. I’ll get Gale to enlighten you of the time he enchanted a bottle of wine to pour itself and nearly flooded Elminster’s study.”
But as Shadowheart spoke, (Y/n)’s gaze stayed locked on the scene unfolding across the room. She couldn’t help it Something root-deep kept her still, like her body was waiting for the scene to finish, for the punchline of a joke she didn’t find funny.
The woman was saying something now, playful and light. Astarion nodded, eyes never quite meeting hers. Then she reached again—this time toward his chest, to the lapel of his coat.
Her stomach twisted like it was going to be sick.
The woman’s hands landed, touching the lapel graciously.
He grabbed her hands in his, gently removing them and saying something to her, something the three weren’t able to catch. He was still smiling, but the woman’s smile began to melt off her face.
Whatever he said made the woman pause, blinking. Then she laughed again, but it didn’t sound quite as real. She nodded, waved a hand in mock dismissal, and turned away—vanishing into the crowd like spilled wine soaked up by thirsty floorboards.
And then he was walking toward her.
(Y/n) didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, not properly. The distance between them closed with the soft brush of boots over old floorboards. The tavern kept moving around them—drunken cheer, the slosh of ale, someone calling out for another song—but in that moment, she heard none of it.
And then there he was. Astarion stopped just short of her, the firelight catching in the angles of his face—cheekbones sharp and proud, his eyes gleamed like rubies, far prettier than those earrings. She was mesmerised.
“Ladies,” Astarion said smoothly, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Might I steal our dear friend, (Y/n), for a moment? Just the two of us—if you’d be so kind.”
His voice was velvet, each word dipped in civility, but there was a quiet edge beneath it, more personal than performance.
“I promise to return her… eventually.” He gave a half bow.
They both turned their heads to their friend, who was looking everywhere else. The floor, the ceiling, something interesting on the mantle of the fireplace. Shadowheart and Karlach then exchanged a quick glance, before reaching a mutual understanding.
“Alright,” Karlach was apprehensive. “We’ll be at the table whenever you’re done.” She said to (Y/n), giving her a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Shadowheart didn’t say anything. Her eyes widened for a split second, mouth tightening into a thin, uncertain line—then just as quickly, her face smoothed back into its usual calm, like nothing had happened. She sighed and gave (Y/n) a quick hand squeeze before departing.
Now it was just the two of them. The most alone two people could be in a bright, lively tavern.
He took a moment before speaking, letting the silence settle between them like dust in a sunbeam. His eyes lingered on her, tracing the way her hair fell, a little messy from the rain and humidity, curling at the edges, yet somehow falling just right. His gaze drifted to her clothes, worn at the seams, the fabric softened by time and travel and their many conquests together,  but clean, carefully kept. It was no silk dress and ruby earrings, but she’d made the effort, and over the time they’d spent adventuring together, he had come to realize that he appreciated that more than flounce and luxury.
Finally, his eyes landed on her hands, where her fingers were picking nervously at the skin around her nails. He smiled, quiet, almost fond, and exhaled before speaking, dragging his eyes back up to hers.
“My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched for her alone. “You’ve been sulking in the shadows all evening. Planning your next dramatic monologue, or were you simply enjoying the view?”
He was teasing, but his voice carried an undercurrent. He wasn’t as amused as he pretended to be. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to her lips, and then back up with studied nonchalance. A dance, still. But one where the steps were starting to falter.
(Y/n) arched a brow. “I wasn’t hiding. I was giving you space to… mingle.”
“Oh, how generous.” His smile widened, flashing just a little too much fang. “And here I thought you were about to throw a dagger at that poor girls’ back.”
She sighed. “Would have been wasteful. Besides, you looked like you were enjoying yourself.
“Did I?” Astarion leaned slightly closer, voice dropping, the scent of him curling into her senses—amber, spice, and the faintest edge of copper. His gaze didn’t leave hers. “Tell me, what did I look like, exactly?”
The question landed between them with a quiet stillness that hadn’t been there before. No smirk, no veneer. Just naked curiosity, raw and bright beneath the practiced charm. For once, he didn’t know. And he wanted her to tell him. It was… unlike him.
She swallowed, not knowing how to approach this. Especially with the heat so obviously rising in her face. “You looked…” Her throat tightened. She looked away, not at the hearth or the people or the woman who was gone now, but at the line of his collar, the stretch of skin just beneath his jaw. “Like someone who knows they’re desired.” Her eyes turned back to his.
Astarion huffed a quiet breath, more amusement than laugh. “Well now- there’s a word. Desired. Is that what you were feeling, watching me with her? A touch of… jealousy, perhaps.” The words fell from his mouth mellifluously. Like honey laced with basilisk venom.
She looked back at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She had fought many a battle, but none harder than the one right now, trying to keep her blush at bay.
“Oh, darling.” His grin curled. “I don’t need to; you just did it for me.” He was becoming more amused with every second that passed.
A moment went by. Then he said, low, “I suppose I was curious if it would make a difference to you.” His eyes scanned her face. “And well… I guess I have my answer.” His eyes were half lidded, smirking down at her.
Fuck. Him.
Her chest tightened, a bitter fire curling up from her ribs. How dare he toy with her like this – like she was some game, some prize to be tested and discarded at whim? She wanted to spit words sharp enough to wound, to tell him exactly what she though of his cruel little performance.
But her body betrayed her.
Her breath caught, uneven, and despite the anger blazing in her veins, her gaze didn’t look away. Instead, it moved to his lips, and then back to his eyes. Something was burning behind his dark gaze – a predatory gleam that made her stomach drop, and a treacherous heat bloom somewhere lower. The corner of his mouth twitched, barely containing triumph, and she knew with sickening clarity that every racing beat of her heart, every shallow breath, was exactly what he'd been waiting for.
She hated that.
Hated how every cruel smile and teasing glance still pulled her closer like gravity. Hated that she wanted him to mean what he said, to want her as badly as he made her feel.
Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into palms, trying her hardest to repress those feelings. He was playing with her. She shouldn’t stand for this. “You’re impossible,” she said, voice rough, edged with frustration.
Astarion’s smirk softened to a near-smile. “That’s what you like about me, isn’t it?”
Her jaw clenched, but her pulse thudded hard, betraying her resolve.
Then, almost too casually, he added “Besides, you seemed rather cozy yourself earlier – what’s his name, the one who kept calling himself your valiant shield or some other self-congratulatory nonsense?” He suddenly became very interested in his nails as he spoke, avoiding eye contact.
She pondered for a moment. Who exactly could he be talking about? Then, she blinked, startled. “You mean Corwin?”
“Ah, yes, Corwin,” Astarion echoed, deliberately flat, as if something distasteful sat on his tongue. “Funny for a man who introduced himself to me no fewer than five times throughout the course of the day he and his entourage ‘allied’ with us, I still can’t quite seem to care.”
“So that’s what this is about.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this your idea of keeping score? And, for the record, he said our valiant shield, not just mine.”
He tilted his head. “Oh please, we know he meant your valiant shield.” He adjusted his footing. “Just an observation, dear. You looked awfully pleased when you were going over the battleplan together and looking at that… horrific mess of a map our favoured Wizard of Waterdeep threw together.”
She remembered then—earlier before the battle, when she'd been studying their crude map with growing frustration, trying to make sense of conflicting landmarks. The parchment was creased and smudged with ink; the notes layered in hasty corrections that only made it harder to follow.
Corwin had wandered over, drawn by either curiosity or the look on her face. “Trouble deciphering the cartography?” he asked lightly.
She huffed. “Something like that.” She turned the map in every direction, frowning. “Gale got a little overexcited with his plan. There are at least three different routes scribbled on here, half a dozen crossed-out annotations, and I’m pretty sure those lines in the corner are just a haiku about the terrain.” She slammed the map down on a table nearby with a sigh. “We don’t have time for this… we need to attack while we still have an advantage, where is he?”
“Mind if I have a look?” He stepped in beside her, close but not presumptuous, and gently tilted the map up with one hand. He examined it thoughtfully before speaking.
“I think Gale might’ve been having a very spirited conversation with a bottle of wine when he drew this.”
He pointed to a sprawling ink blot. “This bit here? It’s either a mountain range or the unfortunate result of a magical sneeze. Hard to say.”
She hadn’t meant to laugh, but it escaped her anyway, sudden and genuine, caught off guard by the absurdity of it. The kind of laugh that shook her shoulders and warmed her chest, if only for a moment.
Corwin smiled, then shifted to stand beside her more fully, one shoulder brushing against hers as he took the edge of the map to steady it between them. “Alright,” he murmured, tone dipping into something more focused, “let’s see if we can make any sense of this mess together.”
His hand moved along the lines, pointing out possible paths, and his arm occasionally nudged hers as they worked. When she turned to respond, she found him already looking at her—eyes intent, soft at the corners. Her heart fluttered when he didn’t look away.
Then, almost as soon as she made eye contact with him, there was a shift in the air. Not loud or obvious but present all the same. The way hairs on her neck stood up, the weight of someone’s focus settling over her like a shadow she hadn’t noticed stepping into.
She’d felt eyes on her, a glare that was sharp and assessing. She looked over the edge of the map. Astarion had been watching beneath the shadow of a tree, cleaning the blade of his dagger with slow and deliberate strokes. His eyes were piercing, and he stood with a particular posture he held when something had genuinely gotten under his skin. His usual performative charm had dissipated, replaced by something cooler and more distant. When their eyes met, he turned away, suddenly fascinated by the intricate carvings on his dagger hilt…
Now, as she stood in front of him, it was beginning to make sense. But though it made sense, it wasn’t right. Her actions weren’t intentional, his were.
She opened her mouth to retort but soon closed it.
Instead, she curiously let her gaze drift across the tavern, past the clusters of rowdy patrons and fluttering candlelight. She knew he was here tonight, and it didn't take long to find him. Corwin sat a few tables away, apart from his companions who were deep in their cups and louder stories. His tankard sat untouched before him; his broad frame hunched slightly as he leaned on his elbows. His dark waves were pulled half up lazily, letting loose strands fall around his rugged features.
He had been watching.
Their eyes met across the smoky air, and her breath caught. There was no pretense in his gaze, no calculated charm or layered meaning. Just honest want, patience… yearning.
A breath hitched in her throat.
Astarion’s eyes tracked hers with predatory precision, his posture shifting before a word was spoken. He saw Corwin too – saw the way he looked at her. He knew that look. It was a look Astarion knew intimately, had cultivated in countless victims over the centuries. The look of someone utterly, helplessly enamoured. And maybe that’s what did it. His posture changed, a small and precise shift.
Then, he stepped closer to her, possessively. His free hand found the curve of her waist, fingers resting just beneath her ribs, firm, but not forceful. A quiet claim. Her heart leapt at the contact.
She turned her head, found his face in profile. He wasn’t smirking now.
“Astarion,” she said, low.
He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, sharp and unblinking. If they were daggers, Corwin would be nothing more than shredded skin and organs. “What?” He asked, quiet, almost flat. His thumb shifted slightly against her waist, a barely-there motion that betrayed the calm in his voice.
She hesitated, caught in the electricity of his touch. “You don’t get to do that.” She looked up at him with wide, confused eyes.
“Do what?” Now he turned, head tilting with feigned innocence. “Stand beside you? Surely even I’m allowed to do that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“So, I’m the villain now, hm?” he murmured, dry. “For touching what I clearly shouldn’t want. How predictable.” His gaze went down to her lips before settling back on her eyes. “If it’s bothering you so much,” His grip on her waist loosening a bit, “you’re free to step away.”
But she didn’t. Her feet stayed planted. He tightened his grip again, triumphantly.
He smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
“You’re twisting this,” she said, her voice taut, barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who brought her in. And now you’re – what?” Staking your claim because someone else dared to look at me?” She scoffed. “The… entitlement is just… truly something else entirely.”
His brows lifted slightly, like she’d suggested something outlandish. “Entitled, am I? How fascinating.”
She exhaled hard through her nose. “Don’t play stupid. You’re better at pretending to care than pretending you don’t.”
That landed. Not obviously—his expression didn’t crack—but something behind his eyes flinched.
He leaned in, so close his breath kissed her jaw. “You’re awfully upset for someone who insists they aren’t jealous.”
“Jealous?” she scoffed. “Please.”
“Oh, of course. You were just admiring the way she draped herself over me. Were you perhaps taking notes from her?” He tilted his head, faux-thoughtful. “What was it you said? ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself.’”
Her jaw tensed. “You’re twisting this. Again.”
“You were the one sulking around the darkest parts of this tavern like I’d wronged you somehow,” he said, eyes dragging over her, not unkindly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you standing there, looking at me like I’d betrayed something that never belonged to you in the first place?”
She stepped back half a pace. The air was stifling.
He didn’t follow.
“You think you’re untouchable,” she said, quietly. “But you’re not. You just make yourself impossible to reach.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “here you are. Still trying. Still pining after me like a lovesick puppy.” He laughed in the most cruel way. “It’s rather cute, actually.”
That stung more than she wanted to admit.
Her eyes scanned his face, looking for any semblance of… something. Any cracks on the surface, just anything. But the mask was still on. Tight. The silence between them was pulled taut like a bowstring.
Then he glanced past her, and she knew without turning that he’d again found Corwin in the crowd.
His voice cooled. “Your knight is still watching.”
“He can watch all night if he likes, this reckoning isn’t for him.”
“And what am I being judged for now?”
And she stepped closer, barely an inch, not threatening, just closer. “Going for the throat whenever people try to get close.”
He went still, lashes low, like he’d blink too slow and reveal something he couldn’t take back. Then, dryly, “What? Is that a dig at me being a vampire?”
She was hurt, and he was about to feel it. “It’s tragic, really. You could have been loved. You were almost loved.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but it wasn’t steady either. “You turned yourself into the very thing he wanted you to be.”
Something in his eyes tightened. Quiet, but on the verge of collapsing.
“You keep pretending you’re the one in control, breaking hearts and pulling strings. But I’ve seen you. You twist every bit of tenderness into something ugly before it can stick. You twist and corrupt, just so you don’t have to wonder if it might’ve meant something.”
His jaw ticked but said nothing. She wasn’t done.
She tilted her head, softer now. Crueler for it.
“You don’t push people away because you don’t care. You do it because you care too much. And you think if they get too close, they’ll see the rot underneath.”
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
He scoffed, the mask slipping, but he gripped onto it tightly. “Rot, darling? You want to talk about rot?”
His voice hardened. “You, who told me I was the only thing you needed? Who said you think about me all the time — even when you wish you didn’t?” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You’ve whispered things to me no one else has ever heard. Things you wouldn’t even write down. Things you’d never dream of telling anyone.”
He laughed lowly. “How being bit by me was the most euphoric you’ve felt in years. You crave me. I’ve corrupted you. Spread my rot to you.” He nodded over to Corwin while keeping his eyes locked onto hers. “He looks at you with such devotion and he doesn’t truly see what’s lurking beneath the surface.”
She stood strong, as if his words weren’t affecting her at all. He needed to hit lower, risk a cheap shot for any semblance of a reaction.
Astarion’s lip curled, he bent down, agonizingly slowly, his breath hitting her ear as he spoke such… vile words: “Do you think he’d still look at you like that if he knew how you sound with your legs around my waist when you’re pulling me in for more?” He stepped even closer, voice dropping like a blade. “If he saw all of the marks, you begged me to leave?”
Her pulse thundered, racing so fast she was sure he could hear it. But she didn’t flinch. And he wasn’t satisfied with that.
He tilted his head, eyes raking over her. “Do you think he could stomach the way you claw at me? The scratch marks you leave on my back? The way you bite when it’s good – when you forget yourself. When you forget your name? I’ve ruined you, love.” He smiled, fangs on full display. “You haven’t seen me. And you don’t fuck like someone who wants to be cherished.”
Her breath caught the words stinging with a burn in her chest she had never felt before. Tears threatened to leave her eyes, but she swallowed thickly, keeping them at bay – now the new first hardest battle she’s fought. Her heart had been flayed to oblivion at the hands of someone she cared about more than anything else, but she remained composed to the best of her ability, keeping her gaze locked on his.
Her voice cracked, barely audible but fierce. “I’ve seen you—every broken, dark piece—and you don’t fuck like someone begging to be forgotten.”
That wiped the grin right off his face.
She stepped in, chest brushing his, heat blooming in the space between them. “Say what you want, keep playing whatever game this is. Tell yourself that you don’t care. That whatever this is doesn’t matter to you. That saying those horrible things to me will make your feelings go away.” Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, her eyes glistened, tears gathering on the edge but not falling, her voice dipped, low and lethal, barely more than a growl. “But let’s not forget: you’re the one slipping into my tent every night—and the one who lingers just before dawn, long after the act should be over.”
She let the silence stretch, sharp and suffocating.
“Don’t insult us both by pretending this is just about pleasure. I know how it feels when someone’s only chasing heat.” She tilted her head slightly, gaze steady. “That’s not what this is. Not for me, and certainly not for you.”
Her voice dropped, almost kind. Almost.
“You touch me like you’re asking for something you don’t have the words for. Like you’re trying to feel real.” She laughed. “When you think I’m asleep and you wrap your arms around me and pull me closer.”
A breath.
“You make love to me like it’s the only honest thing you’ve ever done. And it’s killing you.”
She leaned in closer. “But go on then.” She murmured. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want me. I need to hear it from your mouth, right now. Then I’ll stop pining after you like a lovesick puppy.”
His silence was thunderous.
Because they both knew he couldn’t. So, he just stayed silent. There was no lie slick enough to escape his mouth this time.
He swallowed thickly, trying his best to keep the mask on, but each word had been a blow, wearing him down further and further. He ran a hand through his silver locks, gazing all around the room, looking like he needed an escape.
After an uncertain moment, he miraculously composed himself.
He laughed. Quiet and sharp and bitter, so bitter, like a blade unsheathed. Then he leaned back, speaking just loud enough for her to hear him over the swell of the tavern. “My! The pup has grown its own little fangs!” There was something in his eyes that wavered.
She opened her mouth to reply but he quickly interjected.
“You know,” he murmured, almost too soft to catch, “for someone who claims not to care, you’re awfully desperate to be wanted by a monster.”
He pulled back further, smiling like it didn’t cost him anything to say that. Like it didn’t cost him everything.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I might start to believe you.”
Then—he turned.
And walked away before he could say something foolish.
Not that it mattered—he’d already said too much. Not enough. Something in between. Whatever it was, it left a sour taste in his mouth and a tightness in his chest that he refused to name.
He didn’t storm off. Gods forbid it. He walked. Smooth. Measured. Elegant, even. Just another night in a tavern. Another game played.
The tavern noise swallowed him. Laughter, the low buzz of conversation, the clink of mugs and cutlery. He’d performed in rooms like this for centuries. Played a part. Played a dozen. Tonight, was no different—except for the part of him that refused to be tamed, the part that still burned with the heat of her gaze, her words, her presence.
He reached for a bottle that sat open on the bar, uncaring for whether it was claimed. The bartender was startled. He didn’t apologize; he never did. He just tipped it back, letting the sharp burn drag down his throat like punishment. Wyvern Whisky.
He kept pressing on, eventually making it to a side door, pushing through and out into the damp cold outside. The door shut with a slam behind him, leaving him with the quiet of the outside. There was no sound other than the occasional breeze whisking through the streets and alleys, the occasional drop of water splashing to the cobblestones below, and the muffled chatter and music from the inside of the tavern.
Though the cobbles were still wet, the sky was clear now, revealing an ocean of stars that broke through the darkness above. The moon shone full and bright.
He moved around to the side of the building and propped himself up against the wall, letting his head loll back against the stone. The angle tugged at his throat, exposing it to the stars above.
He tightened his grip around the neck of the bottle he was still clutching. He drank again, not for the burn but for the quiet it offered, the edge it dulled enough to stop the words from echoing so loudly in his skull.
Bits and pieces of their disastrous encounter replayed in his mind. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm, trying to relieve himself of the memories, but his mind was relentless, grasping on to whatever it could. He dwelled on it.
He dwelled on her.
She looked at him like she meant it, like she saw him. And that was the worst part. Not her words, though gods, those were bad enough. Not her accusations, or even her ultimatum.
It was her eyes.
Steady even when he was trying to tear her apart. Even when he hurled that filth at her, dragged the sacred into the gutter. He’d half expected her to slap him clean across the face, to strike him, to leave. Hells, he would have welcomed that. But she hadn’t flinched. She stood there and looked at him like she still wanted him, even after everything. Like she knew the words only came out because he was hurting.
And he… he’d wanted to kiss her. He’d nearly done it. Right there in the middle of the tavern. With her glaring up at him like that, lip trembling from fury, love, heartbreak…
He wanted to take her mouth with his and pour all of his desperation into the kiss. He imagined the softness of her lips, how the taste of her would drown out the bitterness clawing at his heart. How one desperate kiss might speak the words he was too afraid to say aloud.
But he didn’t. Because this was safer: Making her hate him, walking away.
He ran a hand through is silver curls, tugged at the roots until it hurt.
She deserved better. Gods, it burned in him like the fire of the hells, that truth. She deserved better. Someone who could hold her at night without needed to escape before the sun broke over the horizon, ushering in the dawn. Someone who’s love didn’t come sharpened like a dagger, who’s ever vulnerability wasn’t a trap waiting to snap shut.
He thought of the knight, Corwin. Face twisting with disgust at the thought. He thought of the way he looked at her. Not like a prize, or a conquest, or even a mystery to solve. Like she could say anything, be anything, and he’d stay. She’d never have to watch her words with him. Never have to wonder if tonight would be the last time she was let in.
That man could offer her something whole.
But Astarion? He was just a ruin with an attractive face and a silver tongue.
A bitter laugh slipped from his lips. He tipped the bottle back again, letting the whisky bite. He welcomed the sting.
“Are you truly this daft? Gods, I had much more faith in you.”
The voice was familiar- melodic and cool. Shadowheart didn’t raise it, didn’t bark or accuse. Just spoke, simple and clear, the way one might to a disobeying child.
Astarion didn’t move. Not at first. He stood like a statue. He moved his eyes towards her voice, not moving his head. One arm hung loosely at his side, the half empty bottle threatening to slip from his pale fingers.
Shadowheart stepped closer. Her footsteps light, but he heard them like thunder.
He brought the bottle to his lips again as she approached.
“And here I was, honestly hoping you two might kiss and make up tonight. You hadn’t said a word to each other since before the battle.” She looked less than pleased, crossing her arms as she analyzed him with her piercing gaze.
“Yes. Well… she was busy all day. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Hm yes, and you made things better by toying with her feelings for months and then making a show of yourself in there tonight.”
He brought the bottle back down, turning to look at her, face unchanging as he swallowed the bitter liquid.
His mouth twisted into a smile, his voice honey and glass. “A momentary lapse in decorum. How dreadful of me.”
She laughed bitterly. “It wasn’t a lapse.”
Another sip. He smiled without teeth. “Well, I do have a flair for the dramatic.” He bowed sarcastically.
“Astarion-“
“Really, darling,” he cut in, his voice smooth but tight. “Is this going to turn into a tender intervention? Will you… take my hand and tell me I’m better than this? That love will fix me if I just let it?” He stared at her through a half-lidded sideways glance, all mockery and venom. “Do spare me.”
Shadowheart held her ground. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t roll her eyes. She just watched him with that infuriating steadiness of hers. “I’m trying to understand.”
He barked a laugh. “A doomed venture.”
“You two are a study in contrasts, aren’t you? Everyone sees it: the banter, the way you gravitate toward each other. They see a bond, deeper than your usual amusements. Dare I say, a couple, even. You usually manage to keep up appearances. But tonight, in the tavern—”
“What about it?” He snapped, voice sharp now. His mask was slipping yet again. “I said a few things that were unpleasant. Heaven forbid. We all need to be told the truth sometimes.”
“I’ve seen you chase people off with half as much venom,” she said, voice quiet. “But I’ve also seen how long you stare after her when you think no one’s looking.”
That stopped him cold. Just for a moment. His grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. Shadowheart saw it—the little crack in the polished marble.
But then he moved again. Smoothed his collar. Tipped the bottle lazily in her direction.
“You’re imagining things,” he said, but it was softer now. Less bite, more ache.
Shadowheart took a tentative step closer. “You care about her.”
He let out a breath—sharp, almost a laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. His head tipped back to rest against the cool stone wall again, eyes skimming the stars he could no longer feel.
“She’s already got a knight trailing after her like a devout little pup,” he said, almost idly. “Polished armor, pristine intentions. All very noble.”
He twirled the neck of the bottle between his fingers, watching the last inch of amber liquid catch the moonlight.
“I mean, honestly. Did you see him? At camp earlier, and tonight. That boy practically shines. The type to write sonnets. Save orphans. Die with his heart unbruised.” A pause, then a scoff, quieter now. “What could I possibly offer? A crypt full of corpses and a half-decent smile?”
The mask was slipping fast now. Something raw shimmered beneath the sharp edges—longing, maybe. Or fear. Or both. He could feel it bleeding out of him, and he hated it. Hated that Shadowheart saw it. Hated that she had stirred it loose in him in the first place.
He straightened, suddenly needing motion, something to chase the stillness away. He took another drink and winced.
“Do you know what it’s like?” he asked, voice harder now, defensive. “To want something so badly your entire being bends toward it, claws at it, but you’ve spent so long being a monster that you don’t know how to be anything else? So instead of trying, you cut deep enough to make sure no one ever looks too close?”
No response.
He tilted his head toward Shadowheart, eyes narrowed but glinting.
“She deserves someone who doesn’t flinch when she says kind things. Who doesn’t—” he stopped, jaw clenching, looking away. “Someone who doesn’t wake up beside her and wonder when she’ll realize she made a mistake.”
The silence thickened, pressing in around them.
“And the worst part?” he said, voice quiet now, almost confessional. “I thought maybe… maybe if I held her long enough, if I touched her just right, I could simply… trick her into staying.” His laugh cracked around the edges. “How pathetic is that?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“I can’t offer her anything real,” he said, cold again now. Detached, as if he could will the words into armor. “Just nights full of pretty lies, sweet words, and half-truths she wants to believe. Eventually, that stops being enough.”
Still, Shadowheart said nothing.
He glanced at her, irritated now by her restraint. “You can say it, you know. Call me cruel. Call me selfish.”
But she didn’t. Just held his gaze.
And that hurt more than anything else.
So he forced a grin, all sharp teeth and forced nonchalance.
“I’m fine, truly. This brooding little spiral? Just a bit of melodrama. I’ll be back to myself in no time. Back to playing the scoundrel. Breaking hearts. It’s what I do best.”
He turned his back to her, running a hand through his silver curls once again.
“I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m drunk. Or maybe it’s just easier when I know she’s not here to hear it.”
He hesitated.
Then, barely a whisper: “She makes me feel… something. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
He realized it the second it left his mouth.
He froze.
It hung there, damning, far too close to truth.
A second passed. Then two.
And just like that, with a snap… the mask slid back into place. He laughed again, hollow and sharp, eyes glittering with self-loathing.
“But not to worry. I’ll ruin it soon enough. I always do.” He paused, eyes narrowing at a certain realization. He looked up at Shadowheart again, smiling an utterly joyless smile. “Actually… I think I already have.”
He tossed the empty bottle into the alley wall with a clatter of broken glass.
Shadowheart didn’t flinch at the sound. She only watched him as he turned to walk away.
The silence pressed in as his footsteps echoed through the quiet street. Maybe that was the worst part—that she still didn’t say it. Didn’t condemn him.
And gods, wasn’t that terrifying?
Because if she wouldn’t damn him… then maybe he’d have to stop doing it himself.
જ⁀➴
𖤝 a/n - PHEW i've read this thing probably about 50 times now and need to post it because I'll never stop adding things ! Thank you for making it all the way to the end, it really means a lot to me!
good news! I am working through part 2 :D please keep your eye out for that! I really hope you enjoyed it, I poured my heart and soul into this one again
oh also, I try to write astarion in a way that aligns most with how vampires/vampire spawn are in the D&D universe... but sometimes I kinda justtttt..... go off script for the sake of emotion, tension, and raw visceral imagery ;)
next chapter
masterlist | ao3 | requests
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danielfeketewrites · 6 months ago
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Short stories I've read in 2024.
Reading:
Interstitial Insecurity by Colin Baker (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
The Slyther of Shoreditch by Mike Tucker (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
We Can't Stop What's Coming by Steve Cole (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
Decoy by George Mann (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
October in the Chair by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
One Virtue, and a Thousand Crimes by Neil Gaiman (in Doctor Who: Adventures in Lockdown, en)
AI. Artificial Incompetence. by Stuart Hardy (at stubagful.medium.com, en)
The Time Traveler's Cookbook by Angela Liu (in Cast of Wonders #533, en)
Grounded by Una McCormack (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
The Turning of the Tide by Jenny T. Colgan (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
How The Marquis Got His Coat Back by Neil Gaiman (published as a standalone publication for some reason, en)
A Long Way From Home by Akemi Dawn Bowman (in Magic The Gathering: Outlaws of Thunder Junction, en)
Things She Thought While Falling by Chris Chibnall (on the doctorwho.tv website, en)
Životní příležitost ("Opportunity of a Lifetime") by Lucie Hřebečská (in Pevnost #264, cz)
Citation Needed by Jacqueline Rayner (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
The Battle of Little Big Science by Pamela Rentz (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
Sita Dulip's Method by Ursula K. Le Guin (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
Great Joy by Ursula K. Le Guin (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
The True Story by Pat Murphy (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
Mrs. Sorensen and the Sasquatch by Kelly Barnhill (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
Pain Management by Beverly Sanford (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
A Study in Emerald by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en, reread)
The Truth of Names by James Wyatt (in Magic The Gathering: Fate Reforged, en)
Kruphix's Insight by Kelly Digges (in Magic The Gathering: Journey Into Nyx, en)
Six Months, Three Days by Charlie Jane Anders (in Plameňák na konci léta, cz translation)
Letters from the Front by Vinay Patel (in Doctor Who: The Target Storybook, en)
The Shadow Passes by Paul Cornell (on BBC's Doctor Who (2005-2022) website, en)
Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
The Flints of Memory Lane by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Written in the Book of the Woods by LJ Geoffrion (in Reckoning, en)
Closing Time by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Bitter Grounds by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Other People by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Keepsakes and Treasures by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Good Boys Deserve Favours by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Strange Little Girls by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Harlequin Valentine by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
The Mapmaker by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
The Problem of Susan by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Feeders and Eaters by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Diseasemaker's Croup by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Goliath by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Pages From a Journal Found in a Shoebox Left in a Greyhound Bus Somewhere Between Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Louiseville, Kentucky by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
The Dusty Hat by China Miéville (at Salvage, en)
Nový den ("A New Day") by Iharo (at Iharo's blog, cz)
How to Talk to Girls at Parties by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Červená nitka ("A Red Thread") by Iharo (at Iharo's blog, cz)
Modré květiny ("Blue Flowers") by Iharo (at Iharo's blog, cz)
Lízátko pro hosta ("A Lollipop for a Guest") by Iharo (at Iharo's blog, cz)
The Sunbird by Neil Gaiman (in Fragile Things, en)
Jenom kapičku ("Just a Droplet") by Iharo (at Iharo's blog, cz)
In the Lost Lands by George R.R. Martin (in Nečekané variace, cz translation)
Nový den ("A New Day") by Trym (at Trym's blog, cz)
Červená nitka ("A Red Thread") by Trym (at Trym's blog, cz)
With Morning Comes Mistfall by George R.R. Martin (in Nečekané variace, cz translation)
The Simple Things by Joy Wilkinson (in Doctor Who: Adventures in Lockdown, en)
He's Behind You by Dave Rudden (in Doctor Who: The Wintertime Paradox, en)
The Secret Lives of the Nine Negro Teeth of George Washington by P. Djèlí Clark (at Fireside, en)
Listening:
The Hoxteth Time Capsule by Paul Davis (in Doctor Who: Short Trips, en)
The World Tree by Nick Slawicz (in Doctor Who: Short Trips, en)
Chug the Tea Leaves, Chuck the Ads by Tim Chawaga (in Escape Pod #938, en)
Punk Voyager by Shaenon K. Garrity (in Escape Pod #937, en)
Red Kelly Owns the Moon by Shaenon K. Garrity (in Escape Pod #575, en)
This Wooden Heart by Eleanna Castroianni (in PodCastle #833, en)
Help Summon the Most Holy Folded One! by Harry Connolly (in PodCastle #339, en)
Shrine to the Ink Goddess by Monte Lin (in Cast of Wonders #520, en)
Three Monsters That Are Not Metaphors by Dani Atkinson (in Cast of Wonders #477, en)
Said the Princess by Dani Atkinson (in PodCastle #722, en)
Deep Down in the Cloud by Julie Nováková (in Clarkesworld #137, en)
The Adventure of the Three Students by Arthur Conan Doyle (on YouTube, cz translation)
What Cats (and Dragons) Do by KT Bryski (in CatsCast #3, en)
The Adventure of the Empty House by Arthur Conan Doyle (on YouTube, cz translation)
All the Better To Taste You by Marisca Pichette (in PodCastle #834, en)
Rise and Fall by George Mann (in Doctor Who: Short Trips Vol. 1, en)
Shadow of a Doubt by Paul Cornell (on the Doctor Who: LOCKDOWN YouTube channel, en)
The Shadow in the Mirror by Paul Cornell (on the Doctor Who: LOCKDOWN YouTube channel, en)
The Invention of a Cat by Carolina Valentine (in CatsCast #25, en)
Sting of the Sasquatch by Darren Jones (in the Doctor Who Audio Originals series, en)
Oneirophobia by Todd Keisling (in PseudoPod #943, en)
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deepdarkconsumption · 1 year ago
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★BE A BOSS: OBJECTIVE COMPLETED
General Content Warning for: Violence, blood, guns, knives, smoking, drugs, alcohol, wounds, fire, possible body horror, etc.
Just another kin bastard out here.
Don't mind me. Dont worry about it lol
fyi for u 3edgy5me kids - Im an adult. fuckin. stay in ur lane and be safe bc ur only a kid once. dont make my mistakes. seriously.
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➥ Myth / Wraith / some kin names work (namely Zeitgeist or Infinity)
➥ it/its or he/his
➥ 1997. so. adult.
➥ Got a memory span like a goldfish on a bad drug trip
➥ just a fuckin weird bastard tbh
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other blog tags + list under the cut of who/what I was lol
Other Blog Tags
#Shit I Sent In Yo - #DeepDarkConsumption.txt
#Aes - #Art of me - #Decor - #Fashion - #Food - #Haunts - #Info - #Kinfession - #Positivity - #Self Care - #Shit to buy - #Shitposting - #Stim - #Stimboard - #vid
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My Theriotypes + Otherkin (alphabetical)
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➥ Black-Billed Magpie - #magpie
Having multiple 'types that had wings is a pain bc getting the feeling of astral wings doesn't HELP especially when 3 of the 4 were all feathered wings. heck-
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➥ Deep Sea Monster - #dsm
A bio-luminescent catfish-gator-serpent creature. (Best way I can describe my appearance lol.) Very large/long. Rarely came up to or near the surface. If I did, it was at night and usually to sink any passing ships or submarines. I lurked in caves deep underwater and hoarded stuff from sunken ships and subs.
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➥ Demon - #idt
Super unconventional demon here. Like not in the hellfire and brimstone sense - like the inter-dimensional traveler who liked fucking shit up and messing with others, to the point where it often resulted in disaster and death.
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➥ Miniature Goat - #goat
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➥ Yellow Mongoose - #mongoose
I do feel a strong connection to any mongoose, however.
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➥ Void - #void
ohman how to explain- I was some kind of void-dweller. I can feel wings of some kind, nothing really like birds or bats or bugs, just wings? When I get anxious in a shift, I get a glitchy, staticy, spaced out feeling, in my body, in my brain, moreso than normal. It also feels very militaristic which doesn’t make sense like ??? maybe its b/c another kintype? Maybe not?
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My Fictiotypes (alphabetical)
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➥ Claudia Donovan - #Donovan
Warehouse 13, mostly canon compliant? I think?
Still working out if I was in an AU or not but so far, the events of the show seem fairly accurate?? IDK man memories are a bitch tbh. Should probably rewatch it again-
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➥ Cut-Out - #roughnecks
Starship Troopers: Invasion, noncanon fictiotype.
Do NOT follow if this exact fictiotype is shared.
Mobile Infantry Soldier. Rico’s Roughneck’s platoon. Nick-name was Cut-Out. I remember I had screwed up somehow & getting my unit killed. I was the only one who survived. The war lasted about another decade afterwards. I was forced into training new recruits, despite my protests.
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➥ Flametrooper - #Flametrooper
Star Wars sequels, noncanon/background.
Just another background flametrooper, really. All I remember is the heat of the fire, and the harsh smell of chemicals. Mostly sensory memories, nothing visual of note.
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➥ Flint - #Necro
Dragonfable, noncanon fictiotype
Unsure on doubles, please ask.
I mostly used Necromancy with some Pyromancy at times. I remember a mostly dark blue and black colour scheme and I know that damn dragon was black with deep blues. Fucked if I know anything else about it.
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➥ Point Blank Member - #gm
Saints Row, noncanon fictiotype.
Do NOT follow if this exact fictiotype is shared.
I didn’t really work with pimping and drug dealing, though I would escort others at times. I worked more in enforcement and similar. I wasn’t a gang boss, but I was sorta high up in the ranks. Rival gangs did not like me lol I was a vicious bastard :p
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➥ Project M6, Codename: Infinity - #asset
Marvel Cinematic Universe, noncanon fictiotype.
Do NOT follow if this exact fictiotype is shared.
Originally I thought M6 was just a sona but NOPE I was wrong about a kintype oops. I absolutely did not volunteer for experiments. I was kidnapped by Hydra and they ended up experimenting on me a lot, and brainwashed to the point the only identity I had was what they gave to me. I ended up being captured by SHIELD prior to CA:TWS. This whole life was a shitshow lol
Usually at least in some form of a partial kinshift for this one. Def would say this is my strongest one. Welp.
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➥ Zeitgeist - #Acid boy
Deadpool 2, mostly canon compliant?
Do NOT follow if shared
I don't recall how I died but I also don't recall much of the canon shown? So I think the outcome of X-Force was different than shown in the film. I was a bit of a jerk, and I know I didn't consider myself to be a nice person despite having a mostly chill yet chaotic vibe. I also remember smoking a lot, because it was the only thing that got the taste of that acid vomit out of my mouth.
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abirdinabirdcage · 3 years ago
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I like things to be story-shaped. Reality, however, is not story-shaped, and the eruptions of the odd into our lives are not story-shaped either. They do not end in entirely satisfactory ways.
The Flints of Memory Lane, Neil Gaiman
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hpqueerfest · 3 years ago
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CREATOR REVEALS!!
First, I want to thank all of our amazing creators this year! You all created 16 incredible fan works! Queer Fest is one of my favorite things to run and you make it all the better.
And so! Reveals beneath the cut:
The Knowledge of Possibilities - for @unsuspicious-nobody creator: @bifuriouswaterbender rating: G word count: 3413 summary: Narcissa thought everything at Regulus and James' wedding would go according to plan, but naturally Sirius messed that up. Naturally he decided last minute that Narcissa needed to dance with Lily Evans. Narcissa barely knew her, and of course, this was going to upset the Black family matriarchs. As they started dancing, though, Narcissa found she didn't mind.
[ART] Queerness & All Forms - for @shonxiuwan creator: @digthewriter rating: G summary: Queernes and all forms of it is accepted in the magical world. We celebrate that.
[ART] Not like the other ��girls” creator: @digthewriter rating: G summary: Millicent tried to be feminine her whole childhood. As she got older, she realized that the muggle concept of "butch" was right for her.
Quidditch Stars Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint on Coming Out Together: Exclusive Tell-All (Daily Prophet, August 3rd, 2001) - for @yourtokentrophywife creator: @sleepstxtic rating: E word count: 11,017 summary: The story of how Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint fell in love, as told through scenes from their lives and an interview from the Daily Prophet.
Rosmerta’s Special Brew - for @thistlecatfics creator: @lumosatnight rating: T word count: 6035 summary: Let me invite you, dear reader, into a story about love and longing, growing and growing up. About recognising what society wants and saying To hell with that. A story about finding your true self, no matter who or with whom that may be, and never letting doubt swallow you whole.
This is a story about how Madam Rosmerta, of the Three Broomsticks fame, became the unofficial Queer Crisis Counselor for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft, Wizardry, and Wixenry.
Or, 5 times she helped other baby gays + 1 time they helped her.
no present like the moment - for @hawksquill creator: @leftsidedown on ao3 rating: T word count: 1482 summary: She’s alwasy been a moon child; the language of the skies came to her naturally. The language of the earth has to be learned. She is learning.
I Miss You creator: @mean-whale-writes rating: T word count: 2414 summary: Sirius remembers Remus. He wishes he didn’t.
Crown Enterprises - for SiriuslySapphic creator: @storyof-eden rating: E word count: 2841 summary: Hermione was the best, and everyone knew Narcissa employed only the best at Crown Enterprises.
These Fragile Bodies of Touch and Taste creator: @hawksquill rating: M word count: 9863 summary: The year is 2014 and the Ministry of Magic has decided to relaunch the Triwizard Tournament to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the fateful tournament of 1994-1995. The new tournament reunites former champions Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, who haven't spoken in years. Reliving the memories of their own traumatic tournament forces the two men to confront a few things: Harry hates being an Auror, Cedric regrets sending Harry to the graveyard alone, and there's an undeniable spark between them.
Love is Blind as a Bat - for @hawksquill creator: @diandrastrikesback rating: E word count: 11,834 summary: Severus Snape is convinced to participate in a gay reality dating programme. What could go wrong?
Becoming creator: @polyjuicedpadfoot rating: M word count: 8792 summary: When Teddy asks one day how his father knew he was bisexual, Remus finds himself going down memory lane.
On Christmas Card Terms - for @vocative creator: @hermioneclone rating: M word count: 24,392 summary: The last thing Draco expects when Astoria and Lovegood drag him to a Muggle gay bar is to find himself spilling his darkest secrets and dancing the night away. Has he found the man of his dreams at last, or will his past continue to haunt him no matter how hard he tries to be a better person?
Nothing Else Needed To Be Said - for @lumosatnight creator: grey_kenaz on ao3 rating: T word count: 2496 summary: Genderfluid Sirius trying to hide from his parents and Regulus showing his support in his own (secretive, sneaky, very Slytherin) way.
A series of moments when Regulus shows that he recognises Sirius' fluidity while leaving Sirius somewhat baffled as to what exactly Regulus means because he's a Slytherin and nothing is going to be forward. Just a bit of brotherly bonding and a look at how the wizarding world reacts to gender fluidity.
Let’s Wait Until After the Wedding - for @the-kellephant creator: @cheyla-v rating: G word count: 2464 summary: Harry doesn't know what's more difficult: coming out as gay to Ron or to tell him he's in love with his brother.
He does know one thing for sure—he won't be telling him until after Ron and Hermione's wedding is over.
Varda, Thou Art There creator: @justtoarguewithyou rating: M word count: 10,769 summary: Remus vomits into a trash bin, thinking about how Dumbledore had promised to help. But in the end, no one helped. Dumbledore had forgotten him, most of the Order was dead. As “Age of Consent�� begins to play, Remus’s fingers tap along to the beat that he can feel through the floorboards. Near the end of the song, Bernard Sumner’s voice lowers, and he sings, “Lost you, I’ve lost you, I’ve lost you, I’ve lost you…” Remus blinks away tears, thinking of the boys he’s lost. He’s lost all his boys.
The Persistence of Memory creator: @deliciousblizzardshark rating: T word count: 7292 summary: When Draco can't live with his guilt and his grief any longer, he does the only thing he can think of; he makes a potion.
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artemiseamoon · 3 years ago
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Don’t Look Back: A black sails au
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I revisited this 💕 one of the first fics I shared here (2020). I went through and did some clean up on it, but not anything too deep or involved bc I didn’t have time.
Still, through revising it, it was so fun to go down memory lane and revisit Nakala, Charles and the rest.
I have deleted the cross posted chapters (on tumblr), so now this fic is only on A03. The tumblr masterpost for this fic links back to A03.
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I have two other unpublished and unfinished black sails fics. I don’t know when I’ll get to them, but when that day comes, they’ll both go to A03. One is Max x ofc focused, the other is Captain Flint x ofc. Of all the ideas, Don’t Look Back is the most special to me, esp Nakala’s story.
Chapter one preview
“Nakala never saw a pirate ship with her own eyes before that day. She heard the tales, let her imagination run wild, but nothing compared to the reality of it all. She was still amazed, even in her near-death state.
One Pirate, in particular, caught her attention. He was one of the first she spoke to once she found her words. Shortly after boarding the ship, the rescued people became uneasy, worried.
In an attempt to soothe them and seek answers, Nakala stood and approached the two men who seemed to be in charge, "They need to know where we are going. Rightfully, they're afraid."
The man with the long dark hair and light eyes held her gaze, a blank expression on his face despite the storm in his eyes, "To Nassau."
Nassau.”
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seriouslysam8 · 3 years ago
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Legerdemain Sneak Peek
Attention: This chapter has another trigger warning this week for references to suicide. I just want to prepare you all.
Chapter Twenty-Three: The One with Macmillan
James sighed as he pressed his wand against the front door of his home in Cornwood, his wrist swirling to unlock it. He pushed the door open and he had never been so glad to be home. He had been putting in long hours at the office to try to find evidence against Greengrass, Macmillan, and the Flints. They had successfully been granted arrest warrants for Marcus and Wesley Flint, but his dad had been insistent that they keep quiet the information they had on Macmillan. They didn’t want to spook him or cause any issues dealing with Albus’ case until they had concrete evidence to force Macmillan into recusing himself from the criminal panel and the Wizengamot trial which had been set for November. James understood why they needed to have all their Hippogriffs in a row, but he wanted his revenge now rather than later.
Riley had left a light on in the entryway for him. He slung his Auror robes over the bannister before he made his way towards the kitchen, loosening his tie as he went. He nearly groaned out loud when he saw a plate of food sitting out on the island for him with a little note sitting next to it. He grinned as he grabbed the note, sitting down at the island as he read.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’m not a poet master,
But I do love you.
- Riley
James laughed as he tucked the note into the breast pocket of his jacket before he pulled the plate towards him. He had written Riley poems for as long as he could remember, begging his mum to help him in the early days of their relationship to impress her. He could remember his dad laughing at their rhymes as the two would go down memory lane of all the poems Ginny used to write. One time, Harry had disappeared to his office and came out with a container filled with various cards and poems that Ginny had written him over the years. James would be lying if he said he didn’t steal some of her best lines. He had been particularly proud of the poem he wrote Riley to ask her to the Yule Ball in his seventh year when the Triwizard Tournament had come back to Hogwarts.
He inhaled his dinner as he hadn’t had time to stop for lunch that day. After washing his dishes with a flick of his wand, he made his way upstairs. He paused in the hallway as he heard babbling coming from Henry’s room. He had barely seen his son in days since he had been getting home after Henry’s bedtime routine. Despite being exhausted, despite it being nearly eleven at night, he made his way into his son’s nursery and saw Henry sitting up in his cot and chewing on his security blanket. Henry gave him a smile and clapped his hands when he saw James enter.
Henry grabbed onto the bars of his cot and bounced as James crossed the room. “Dada! Dada! Da!”
James grinned as he reached into the cot and pulled Henry up. He situated the tiny boy on his hip as his lips pressed against his unruly bedhead. Henry snuggled against him, his little arms locked around James’ neck. James swayed him back and forth.
“There was a broom,” James sang in a soft voice. “In the middle of the sky. It was the fastest broom. That you ever did see. And the Quaffles fly all around and around. And the Quaffles fly all around.”
There was a rustling that caused James to turn around. He saw Riley standing in the doorway to Henry’s room with her arms crossed over her chest. She watched him with a smile on her lips, her eyes sparkling in the dim lighting. James only smiled back as he continued onto the next verse of the song, overcome of memories of his mum singing the same lullaby to him and his siblings when they were little.
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allthingsfli · 8 years ago
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lailoken · 4 years ago
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“The Lord and Lady of Norfolk
The magic of the land rises from beneath the rocks and I the soil on which we walk, and into which we allow our roots to grow. It is the basis of everything we do, for it is from this Earth that our trees spring and our herbs draw their nourishment. It provides building materials and the kinds of human activity which take place governs in any given locality, and so informs the culture which develops, in the mundane and the magical spheres. The solidity of granite or the smoothness of slate may suit the magic of some practitioners, who are then born to, or drawn to, such areas and landscapes, and learn to dance their spells to the ancient music which pulses from deep within the ground.
Those who work well in Norfolk are generally people who thrive on the magical twin influences of the white and grey powers of the Lady of the Chalk and the Lord of the Flint. If one peels back the geological layers of the county, there are other soils and rocks to be found here too. There is the Kimmeridge Clay from the Jurassic, which forms a fine, bluish-grey mud, the Lower Greensand of the Cretaceous, which forms the beautiful carstone, used for the distinctive buildings of parts of West Norfolk, or the Gault Clay, clearly visible as the red rock band in the wonderfully striped cliffs at Hunstanton. These have their practical and magical uses, often specific to the areas of the county in which they are found. The Chalk and the Flint, however, have a county- wide appeal, a greater visibility and much clearer mundane, practical and magical uses.
Of course, Chalk and the Flint are not exclusive to Norfolk. They are to be found in Yorkshire to the North, where the Iron Age Parisi tribe carved the Chalk warrior figures (Stead, 1988). They are present on the slopes of the Gog Magog Hills in Cambridgeshire, on the Downs of the South, the slopes of the Chilterns and all along that magical trackway, known as The Ridgeway. In Wiltshire, the Chalk is honoured with the magnificent Horse carvings in the hills, while Wilmington, in Sussex, has its Long Man and Dorset its Cerne Abbas Giant. However, such forces have a different feel, depending on other features of the locality, best understood by the practitioners of those areas. Their manifestation here in Norfolk takes on a special form, of far greater complexity than that of "mere" geology. That is why, when we call upon them, which we do in every ritual (for it would be rude not to), we refer to them by the titles of Lord and Lady of Norfolk, although they go by many names, some of which are known to us and others which remain a mystery. These beings are the most ancient ones, the Earth beneath our feet, our firm foundation; they profoundly influence what grows and flourishes on the land and what might just wither and die.
The Chalk and the Flint predate humanity by such an unfathomable length of time. When we pick up a piece of either from the ground, we feel that human beings are just children in the context of such ancient beings, and that our individual lives are miniscule in such a vast context. Yet these forces are also so much part of our everyday lives that they are, on one level, comprehensible and approachable. After all, since our arrival in these lands, they have shaped the development of our culture, what we grow, the tools we have used, how we build and express our spirituality, as well as the form and shape of our magic. We see and touch them every day, whether we choose to notice them or not; they are ordinary and yet hold the keys to the greatest of mysteries.
Revelations:
Sometimes the Lord and Lady of Norfolk choose to reveal their presence in a moment of drama or of great beauty. In the late afternoon, on a late Autumn day of blustering storms and spectacular bursts of sunshine, they may appear as a rainbow, or even a double rainbow, against grey white clouds. On a warm morning of sunlight, sand and gentle waves, they may show themselves in the dark and light sheen of a sea-washed Oyster shell. There is a clear and discernible distinction between the ordinary loveliness of the natural world and an announcement of the proximity of these deities, which can take the breath away, inspire an outpouring of creative work, or provide confirmation that we are heading in the correct direction, magically.
On one occasion, we had just completed a Maytime ritual with a large group of people, when one of our number glanced up and noticed a pair of Woodpigeons on a Sycamore branch, cooing and pecking each other's beaks. "Look," she said, "It's the Lord and Lady of Norfolk", and we all gazed up into the fresh green foliage and knew that she was right.
Such revelations can take many forms. At Thompson Water, one Spring, three of us stood on one of the fishing jetties, watching a Heron in the Reeds, Egrets in the trees across the lake and Terns performing their aerial acrobatics above our heads. We had planned a musical offering for the spirit of this place. One of us sang and I played a wooden flute I had brought with me, especially for this purpose. As the last notes faded away, an enormous Grass Snake appeared, swimming right towards us, paused by the jetty, and seemed to acknowledge us before disappearing under the murky water. This was a blessing indeed. We have sought this magnificent creature on subsequent visits, but have never seen it again, not that we really expected to, as this was obviously a manifestation of the presence of deity.
The Lord and Lady may appear in any form, at any season. One dark, moonless night in Winter, we were driving along a remote country lane in North Norfolk, having just completed a piece of protection work, when a magnificent Stag stepped onto the road right in front of the car. We stopped. He inclined his head just slightly and gave us haughty look before continuing on his way, in a slow and stately fashion, closely followed by the rest of his herd. We knew this to be a blessing on the work we had completed. Then, to add to our delight, rounding the next corner, we were greeted by the sight of a mother Cat playing, in the middle of the road, with a large litter of kittens. We stopped again and enjoyed watching their antics, in the beam of the car headlights. They continued their game for some time, until the mother decided that was enough and carried her kittens, one at a time, into the safety of the hedge. These are not small, forgettable incidents, but real treasures, which we store in our memories as the rewards for our magical work.”
Of Chalk & Flint:
A Way of Norfolk Magic
by Val Thomas
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kajaono · 4 years ago
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Oooh you're gonna watch black sails? Can't wait to read your opinion (probably in tags and posts right?) as the story slowly unfolds. It really is one of my fav series. Historical and queer u know? Anyway i don't mean to bother or pressure you with this, i just saw your post and couldn't help but grin because i know :D and i also agree with your thoughts so far. Btw did you read treasure island? Or perhaps watch it? Since you seem to know the story. Or at least you informed yourself before starting to watch or sth? Idk im just curious. Have a good night :)
Hey nonny,
it is actually bedtime here, but I needed to answer your ask. Because boy, did you opened a memory lane here
Here in germany, there is this really big newspaper and they gave away audio CDs with popular european book, many years when CDs where still a thing. Robin Hood, Robinson Crouse, Around the world in 80 days AND.... Treasure Island.
Treasure Island was allways my least favorite... because so many people died a horrible death. Also many characters i deeply loved :( But I was also allways fascinated by the story itself.
I remeber the whole story, and I also remeber that I also back then shipped a few characters really hard. My tiny bi heart was already strong when I was 8/10 years old
Sadly I do not remeber all character names anymore, so I will definitly confuse characters while watching Black Sails. So I will listen to the story again once I am back home and get my hands on CDs again.
But I never expected Black Sails to be a gay reaure Island fan fic and I am so in awe?! First episode and I am so sold?! I am swimming in all the memories. And also Flint covered in all the blood?! I am a tiny bit kinky for such stuff!
Please stop me. I am sorry.
Good night to you too
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hpdrizzle · 5 years ago
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Drizzle 2020: Week Three Round Up
[ART]
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Title: First Kiss in the Rain Pairing: Ginny/Pansy Summary: Sharing an umbrella
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Title: As the seasons change Character:: Remus Lupin Summary: A trip down Memory Lane for an old wizard or witch - looking back on their life. One memory per season.
[FIC]
Title: sugarcane in the easy morning Pairing: Ginny/Pansy Summary: "I mean, it's not like there's anything special about Ross," Pansy continues. "Why do the most beautiful and powerful women go for the most painfully average men?" Title: A Loss of Control Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hugo Weasley Summary: Bored at yet another Ministry charity event, Hugo goes for a wander and finds himself with someone he never expected to. Title: Weathering The Storm Pairing: Ginny/Blaise Summary: Ginny’s invitation to her first quidditch match as a Harpie has Blaise a bit nervous. The storm brewing in the sky is almost as strong as the storm brewing in his heart. Can they both survive the match and its aftermath? Title: I want to feel the thunder (I want to scream) Pairing: George/Luna Summary: Sometimes things don't need to be said, but they're nice to hear anyway (especially when it stops your boyfriend from turning into a frog every time it rains). Title: Key to my heart Pairing: Draco/Harry Summary: Harry Potter gets locked out in the rain. He goes to his neighbour Draco Malfoy for help. Title: Anchors In A Storm Pairing: Hermione/Draco Summary: Draco’s current mistake—well, it wasn’t simply one, but three—was a chain of seemingly unconnected events that, when spliced together just so, made one hell of a shit storm. Title: How It Falls Pairing: Ron/Pansy Summary: Pansy Parkinson wants to live life her own way, but her mother has other ideas—specifically, she wants her to marry a certain type of wizard. Title: Under Adverse Conditions Pairing: Ginny/Pansy Summary: With most of the castle away at Hogsmeade, Ginny and Pansy use the time to fly together. Title: (You've Gotta) Taste The Rain Pairing: Draco/Harry Summary: Harry can't take the rat race anymore and quits Auror training just before graduation. He hopes a move to the country will bring him what he's looking for. He doesn't factor in a wandering neighbour who turns out to be very familiar. As the rain continues to pour, things get heated. Title: Queen of my heart (long may she rain) Pairing: Hermione/Draco Summary: Draco likes Granger./Granger likes books./This could be useful. Title: heartbreak was never so loud Pairing: Marcus/Oliver Summary: Oliver starts out wanting to help Flint fit into the team. Somewhere along the way, he loses his heart to the large, surly Beater. Title: time, curious time Pairing: Remus/Sirius Summary: "Do you still remember how it started?" he asks. "How could I forget?" you ask back. Title: The Locus of the Fracas Pairing: Draco/Harry Summary: Harry is assigned community payback, and it's all Malfoy's fault.
Thank you to all the members who are actively keeping the fest going. We do have plenty more for you for Week Four, so don't think we're done yet! We are most certainly not. Lots of rarepair love and popular pair love to be had. ENJOY these entries!
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adramoetic · 4 years ago
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I like things to be story-shaped. Reality, however, is not story-shaped, and the eruptions of the odd into our lives are not story shaped either. They do not end in entirely satisfactory ways. Recounting the strange is like telling one’s dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can color one’s entire day.
Neil Gaiman, “The Flints of Memory Lane”
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jadedbirch · 4 years ago
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For multishipper challenge, IDK if you've already started Leonardo but if so, do tell me who you ship him with. Otherwise, I'm guessing a trip down the memory lane won't hurt - all your ships for Flint. ;) (I know we've had other shows in common (besides Revo) but my brain is glitching rn too and I'm drawing blank atm.)
I haven't had access to Leonardo yet 😭😭😭 But I'm sure I'm gonna ship him with everyone because he's BEAUTIFUL
Flint:
1. Silver
2. Thomas
3. Miranda
4. Madi (but like bff style)
5. Utley!
6. Tragic fling with Dooley
😁
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archaneanscribe · 4 years ago
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A Firefly In The Hand
Some pre-canon/pre-relationship Forsython, Forsyth trains at night, remembers a local tradition, and Python reminds him that he'll never be alone.
The moment Forsyth’s plans set into motion was after he heard his parents exchange goodnights the room over. He kept his eyes shut, but began reciting one of the old veteran’s war stories in his head to keep him awake for the next thirty minutes, listening closely for any noises in the house. When the only sounds he could hear was the distant bleating of his neighbor’s goats, he shrugged his blankets off and hopped out of bed.
Moving as quietly as his feet would allow, he made his way over to the window and pulled it open, climbing up and out into the quiet darkness.
Sneaking through the village late at night wasn’t a new activity for him by any means, nor was it for any of the local youth. During the summer, a mass of fireflies would light up the sky every year, and it was regional tradition to catch one in your hands and make a wish that was certain to come true, but the younger children were sent to bed long before they appeared. This, of course, began a long standing and unspoken custom to sneak out after everyone else had gone to bed. Forsyth remembered those evenings fondly, catching one for both him and Python (who couldn’t be bothered to do it himself) and gleefully refusing to share their wishes.
Usually, he would wish to become a knight one day, but there were other, even more secret things he hoped for too.
Tonight, however, he wasn’t off to hunt for fireflies, but train. If Father wouldn’t let him do it during the day, he would just have to do it when he was asleep.
It wasn’t long before he had made his way out to his favorite clearing in the nearby woods. It was a fairly open area surrounded by a ring of tall, hardwood trees, with many bushes scattered around for him to hide his training lances, lantern, and bandages for worse case scenarios (he often had to forcibly enlist Python to help him come up with reasonable excuses for the injuries). He never put his things in the same spot to avoid detection, effort that his best friend told him was unnecessary as no one was even looking for them, but that was Python, who told him any effort was unnecessary. 
At the moment, his stash was nestled into a wild blackberry bush which will lay dormant for another month or so, where they had spent many a summer afternoon ruining their dinner. He pulled out the crude wooden lance, which only looked anything at all like a weapon because the blacksmith from the next town over had taken pity on him when he was in the village for a horseshoe delivery and helped him carve it.
That was how most of the adult’s saw his aspirations. Just a child’s fantasy to indulge in, even as he grew into teenhood.
He gripped his lance tighter. 
After lighting the lantern with his flint and stone to give the night some small illumination, he took the frustration of never being taken seriously out on the invisible enemies laid out before him, swiping at them in his best mimicry of the forms in his book on combat. His father tried to take it away from him, but his mother had always felt bad and returned to him later on.
More pity.
“Haaaah!” he let out a huff of exertion as he lost his footing, sliding forward an inch further than he had meant to and nearly falling.
“Really? This again?”
As he righted himself, a familiar voice emerged from the darkness, and Python came into the dim lantern light, arms behind his head in judgemental nonchalance, “Yer pop is gonna be mad.”
“I know that. And you should know by now that won’t stop me,” he replied, swinging once more, “I do everything he asks of me all day, so I can do what I want at night.”
Python shrugged, taking a seat against one of the thick tree trunks. it was a common enough occurrence for his friend to join him, as he would often be up anyway, choosing to instead nap throughout the day like a cat. His parents weren’t all too fond of the behavior, but unlike Forsyth’s family, they had long given up on changing him.
“You know I’m all for doing whatever it is ‘ya want,” he said with a dismissive wave, “I just thought you might need the reminder. You actually seem to care when he yells at you.”
Forsyth paused, glaring down at the dirt like it had wronged him, “I don’t care about his opinion so much as it’s suffocating to be there when he’s angry. We just aren’t going to see eye to eye, which I’m fine with, but he refuses to accept it.”
A jab, and a snicker from Python.
“Are you picturing an enemy soldier, or your old man?”
“Both.”
They shared a laugh at that. Despite their differences, and how often they would get on each other’s nerves, if there was one thing he could never be in Python’s presence, it was dour.
“Any success with hunting lately? he asked conversationally as he resumed, now focusing more on his footwork than his lancework. It may have been hard to believe, but out of all the teenagers and the village, Python easily had the best bow arm, and thus the hunters always forced him to tag along. Forsyth suspected the only reason he gave in is because hunting had significant down time compared to carpentry.
"I guess. Been seeing a lot of wild boar lately, but I don't think I'll tag along for that. A lot of work I'm not willing to put in."
Forsyth scoffed, "Two boar could feed the village for a week and a half! If you helped, it would save you a lot of work in the long run."
Python hummed in consideration, snuggling into his relaxed position even more like he was barely listening, but Forsyth knew he was actually thinking hard on his words. One of the few things he would put effort into was the saving of effort, after all.
"We'll see. It's a problem for tomorrow."
"If you," step, jab, "Always," step back, block, "Put off," downward swing, "Your problems," upwards swing, "Until 'tomorrow', then you'll never get to enjoy 'tomorrow'."
"Your form was off in the middle there, more shoulder, less arm," Python pointed out, and Forsyth adjusted accordingly, "That might be true, but if yer always doin' everything today, then you can't enjoy the moment. Either way you lose something, and I'd prefer to reap my benefits before I'm old and wizened."
Shaking his head, it was Forsyth’s turn to shrug, "I will never understand you as long as I live."
"Feeling's mutual, pal."
And for the next few minutes, there was silence between them. When they were younger, their time was almost always filled with antics, arguments, and mutually prodding, and there was still plenty of that, but they were now able to enjoy long periods of quiet together. 
Of course, nothing lasts forever.
"Python, look!" Forsyth called out, letting his lance arm relax, "Fireflies!"
True to his word, a group of fireflies formed a small bundle of light that was hovering near and on the bushes.
"They're a little early, but it is getting to be that time," Python supplied, getting up and brushing the dirt off his posterior, "Reminds me of when we were kids, staying up too late to see the lightning bugs."
"You're right..." he put his training lance aside, Forsyth reached out to trap two in his hands, a much easier task as a sixteen year old than a nine year old.
Python walked over to him, smiling in a soft way Forsyth thought might exclusively be for him, but didn't dare be so bold as to be sure of that, "Caught one for me too, just to finish the trip down memory lane?"
"Maybe I just want two wishes for myself."
"Ha!" Python gave him a friendly jab in the ribs, "You'd never be that selfish, it'd give you a stomach ache. Though your lofty dreams need as many wishes as they can get."
Forsyth’s heart fell. He often forgot that even his best and longest friend also saw his dreams as silly.
He did his best to sound chipper, "I think I'll just let them go this time. No need to rely on some bugs when I've got hard work!"
As he opened his hands to release them, he felt something, or rather someone, force them shut, "Hey now, what's all this about? That ain't like you."
"It's nothing."
"Don't give me that. Nothin, is ever just nothin' with you."
"You're being awfully pushy about this. Why do you even care?"
Even in the low lighting, Forsyth could see a unique flavor or anger flare in Python's eyes at that, making a feeling bubble in his gut he couldn't name. The look was gone as soon as he saw it, but it wasn't something he would soon forget.
"Dealing with you normally is already more work than I feel like doin', and it's double that when you're mopey. Better put the work in now than be forced to deal with it later, right?"
That's what Forsyth always said to him.
"It's- No one takes me seriously. Not my parents, not anyone else in the village, not even you. I won't give up no matter what anyone thinks of me, but I would rather not be dismissed anytime I open my mouth. My dreams aren't just some joke!"
"Forsyth," Python tightened his grip on his friend's hand, making Forsyth worry he was killing the poor torchbugs, "Listen. I do think what you're tryin' to do is impossible. But I know you're serious about it. I take everything you do seriously, even if they're wastes of time. Have I ever tried stopping you?"
"...no."
"And have I been there for all the nonsense?"
"...yes."
"Am I here, keepin' you company because I know that you get unto yer own head on nights like these, when I could be in my comfy bed back home?"
"Yes."
Python released him, so he could in turn release the fireflies, thankfully alive, though likely quite annoyed, "Then that's that. I would love it if you learned to settle for a little less, but I'm never gonna get in the way of your big dreams. Yer gonna need someone with a good head on their shoulders to keep your big old noggin' from floating away anyhow."
"Python..." Forsyth grinned, much more like his normal self, "I'm sorry for doubting you. Lazy layabout you might be, bad friend you are not."
"Glad to see your common sense came back. While we're here," he smiled mischievously, "Why don't you tell me what you wished for?"
"It won't come true if I do!"
And like that, they argued amicably until their exhaustion finally caught up to them (and Forsyth’s father was an early riser, so he had to return soon), and they walked back to the village together. 
Forsyth hadn't come out here to find fireflies, but he had, and even better, rediscovered that no matter what he might feel in the moment, he'll never be truly alone.•
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inexpensiveprogress · 5 years ago
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10 Churches
To some people church visiting might be the last thing they want to do with their free time, but here I have made a list of some of the most interesting churches in East Anglia that you might want to see. I also listed them in a driverable order, heading northwards.
Church of the Holy Trinity, Hildersham, Cambridgeshire CB21 6BZ
Holy Trinity, Hildersham's earliest parts date from 1050. The church has many fascinating features; a 13th century font, 15th century memorial brasses, including a rather beautiful skeleton brass; the chancel is filled with Clayton and Bell victorian murals and stained glass windows and an alabaster reredos by Rattee & Kette.
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Church of St Cyriac and St Julitta & St Mary's, Swaffham Prior CB25 0LD
I chose Swaffham Prior because there are two churches and because of the beautiful stained glass windows. One is a war memorial depicting planes and signal stations. Both churches have round towers. 
Both churches were established by the early 13th century. Initially separate parishes, their benefices were united in 1667. In 1743 the nave and chancel of St Cyriac's were restored, but by 1783 the church was in a dilapidated state, and services were being held in St Mary's. By the 1790s the roof of St Cyriac's was collapsing, and it was overgrown with ivy. However, in 1779 the tower of St Mary's had been struck by lightning, and in 1802, when builders were working on the tower, part of it collapsed. It was then decided to demolish St Cyriac's church, other than the tower, and rebuild it. Work began in 1806 to designs by Charles Humfrey of Cambridge and the church was re-consecrated in 1809. Towards the end of the century, work was carried out to restore St Mary's. 
Both churches are run by the Churches Conservation Trust.
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St Mary, Huntingfield, Suffolk IP19 0PR
Though rather hard to find and to get to down narrow lanes this church has one of the most joyful painted ceilings in the country.
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Huntingfield Church is beautiful outside because of the porch but inside it benefits from a painted ceiling. It was painted by Mildred Holland, the wife of William Holland who was rector for 44 years from 1848 until his death in 1892. The church was closed for eight months from September 1859 to April 1860 while she painted the chancel roof. Tradesmen provided scaffolding and prepared the ceiling for painting but there is no record to show that she had any help with the work, and legend has it that she did much of it lying on her back. We may imagine Victorian ladies wearing tight laced corsets and many petticoats, and wonder how she managed the ladders, scaffolding and hard labour of painting. She had an adviser on her schemes, a Mr. E. L. Blackburne F.S.A., an authority on medieval decoration.
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St Mary the Virgin, Burgh St Peter, Norfolk NR34 0DD
The church dates from around 1200 and the tower is late 18th century, apparently inspired by the Ziggurat temples of Mesopotamia which had been seen by William Boycott, the second of the five Boycott rectors at the church. William’s son Charles was the famous Charles Cunningham Boycott, a land agent in Ireland during the troubles and who gave his name to the English language. The tower is strange and almost alien, it looks more like a construction from a film than anything else. Made of red brick the base of the tower is lined with knapped flints. The rest of the church is like thatched making them a curious pair.
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Holy Trinity Church, Blythburgh IP19 9LP
Blythburgh church is famous for it’s angeles on the ceiling, similar to ones found in Willingham and March. A beautiful building with a tower people can climb to see a view of the church interior from above. There is a marshland walk with a view of the church many local artists paint.
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Saint Andrew’s, Covehithe, NR34 7JJ
The first of two ruins I have picked out, Covehithe is on the Suffolk coast and thanks to the Cliff errorsian, closer each year.  A ruin with a church inside it is a beautiful location and to me feels more like those oil tanker boats one can see on the horizon in the sea from the cliff. 
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St. Michael the Archangel, Booton, Norfolk NR10 4NZ
The first time I saw this church my instinct was to laugh, it was such a presence on the landscape it looked more like it was made for Lord of the Rings. A beautiful church with a unique design.
This amazingly decorative and extraordinary church was the creation of one man - eccentric clergyman Reverend Whitwell Elwin - a descendant of Pocahontas. A friend of Charles Darwin, Elwin not only raised the funds for the building, he also designed it - without the help of an architect - borrowing details from other churches throughout the country. Some of his models can be identified; the west doorway was inspired by Glastonbury Abbey, for example, but the slender twin towers which soar over the wide East Anglian landscape and the central pinnacle which looks almost like a minaret, seem to have sprung solely from his imagination. The result is a masterpiece.
Inside, he filled his fairytale creation with angels all modelled on the rector's female friends! The wooden carved angels holding up the roof are the work of James Minns, a well-known master-carver whose carving of a bull's head is still the emblem on Colman's Mustard. The delicately coloured stained glass windows also show angels as a series of musicians with flowing hair and pretty faces. Edwin Lutyens, the distinguished architect who married the daughter of one of Elwin's oldest friends, said the church was "very naughty but built in the right spirit". You may love the church; you may be outraged by it, but you cannot remain unmoved by such an exuberant oddity.
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St Lawrence's, Castle Rising, Norfolk  PE31 6AG
One of the most Norman looking churches it feels out of time. Beautiful in decoration and style it has a beautiful font and the Castle still stands nearby. 
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St Peter’s, Wiggenhall  PE34 3HF
A ruin on the edge of the canal drain that stops the fens from flooding, St Peters is a wonderful location to cycle to from Kings Lynn.
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