#there's just that stretch of NOTHING a quarter of the way through the book

[reiderwriter]

Pent Up

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer tries to comfort the newest team member through their nightmares, but the scene he walks in on is as far from a nightmare as you can get. It's practically a wet dream.

Warnings: Day 29 of Kinktober - masturbation, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, commands, slight BDSM themes, penetrative sex, reader is desperately horny, allusions to cheating/STDs, fingering, etc.

A/N: So close to the end now! Here's another kinktober original. You can find the rest of the months' works on AO3 under my account name (reiderwriter)! If you enjoy it, please leave a comment or reblog! It means a lot.

If you were to be asked what the worst part of a break-up was, you'd probably answer the months of sexual frustration afterwards.

It'd been weeks since you'd been able to itch that particular scratch, and you didn't know how much more you could take it. Having unceremoniously dumped your boyfriend three months prior (cheating bastard as he was), you'd found yourself swamped with work and unable to enjoy any two-person sexual pursuits.

Truth be told, you'd never really quite gotten the hang of pleasuring yourself either. Sure, you knew what you liked in bed, but your fingers weren't long enough to reach where your boyfriends had, and you grew easily tired of rubbing as the lonely hours of the night stretched out.

But with four months of pent-up frustration, you really were on the edge of losing it.

And it was all because of Doctor Spencer Reid.

Your boyfriend had gone around telling everyone who would listen that he was the reason you'd broken up anyway. He had said that he just felt too insecure in a relationship where you were off doing who knows what with your fellow FBI agent in various motels around the country. He left out that his insecurities seemed to disappear when he found himself in bed with one of his gym mates. Or his own coworker. Or his brother's girlfriend. Or one of the numerous other women you'd eventually traced back to him.

Needless to say, you'd wiped your hands of him and immediately ran to your OBGYN to make sure he didn't leave behind anything that lingered. And then you'd sat down and thought about the accusations.

Spencer.

He was attractive, smart, pretty funny at times, and weirdly cute at others. Your ex-boyfriend accusing you of sleeping with him was genuinely the first time that you'd thought about him in that way, though.

But now it was all you could think about. You woke up in the morning with the vague idea of his lips on your chest, tongue twisting and teasing your nipples slowly. You sat through the drive to work absent mindedly, wondering how long he'd last in bed. Meetings were the worse, where you stared at him blatantly and openly as he rambled through whatever new information he was giving out that day, wondering exactly what he'd taste like.

And then you took yourself home to your lonely apartment and tried to recreate those thoughts in your head as you rubbed yourself to release. It was a daily routine you were, for all intents and purposes, horrified by. Not that shame stopped you, though.

It was mid-week, and you'd spent the last three days stuck in a motel room after work, as you helped with your most recent case at the BAU. Three days of being in very close quarters with Spencer, who coincidentally happened to share a wall with you.

You'd tried your best to hold off and not touch yourself with so many of your coworkers around, but a little bit couldn't hurt, and with the clock on your bedside table reading somewhere between three and four am, it was a chance you were willing to take.

The sounds that Spencer could hear through the walls were so quiet at first that he almost missed them. If it wasn't the dead of night and if there had been other noises outside as well, he might have thought nothing of it and gone back to his book.

But the little gasps and moans sounded painful and worried him. Every new member of the team had nightmares at some point or the other, and he hadn't heard you mention them yet. Standing up from his chair, he placed his book face down on the small table and walked to the wall separating your rooms.

Putting his ear to the wall, he could hear everything much clearer. Your laboured breaths, the small moans, the sound of the sheets being tossed this way and that. It sounded bad. Pulling a jacket on, he stepped out of his room and knocked on your door.

You were only growing more frustrated with each flick of your wrist, head filled with images of Spencer over you, whispering in your ear as he stretched you out, or with his head between your legs as you grasped his hair, not willing to let him go.

You were so close to your release that you didn't even register the calls from the other side of the door. You didn't hear Spencer trying the door handle either after hearing a particularly loud groan from inside.

It's not until he's opening the door and calling out to you that you realise that you've been caught.

“Y/N, you need to wake up. You're having a n- oh my god.”

“Spencer!” Throwing the bed sheets back over your naked body, you scramble up the bed as he stops in his tracks, the door having swung closed behind him.

“You didn't lock your door.” He said, trying to maintain eye contact but failing dramatically as his eyes fell. First to your chest, then lower to where your fingers still sat between your thighs under the covers.

“I didn't think anyone was going to walk in.”

“Evidently. I wasn't supposed to see that.”

“No one is supposed to see that, Spencer,” you sighed, letting your head flop down against your pillow again as your hands came up to your face in embarrassment.

“I'm sure your boyfriend would disagree.”

“What boyfriend, Spencer?” You looked him in the eye again then, surprised to see that he'd relaxed slightly. He was a few steps further into the room, hands resting casually in a crossed position against his chest as he leaned against the wall.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realise-”

“That I got cheated on? Don't sweat it, I wasn't exactly broadcasting it at the office.” The corners of his lips turned down in a frown as his eyebrows knitted slightly together.

“If you…if you ever need to talk, I'm Bere. You know, good listener.” You're not sure what it is that makes you say it, bit the words are out of your mouth before you have the common sense to stop them.

“I don't need to talk, Spencer, I need to get railed.” In some sort of divine punishment, your tongue ties as soon as the final word leaves your lips, leaving you sat wondering why the hell you would say that.

Silence fills the room as you sit waiting for a reply until you look up to find Spencer trying his hardest to control his expressions. He can't hide the flush creeping up his neck, though, or the stiffness in his movements.

“It seems you were doing fine by yourself.” You let yourself relax slightly into the conversation as he lets his gaze fall further and further down your body.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same as when someone else is doing it, is what I mean.”

“Well, how were you doing it? Maybe there’s something else you can be doing to help?”

Gently, he lowers himself to the edge of your bed, slowly running a hand up the sheets as you stare at him, eager to see where he takes this new line of movement.

You hold on to them still, keeping yourself covered, until his eyes meet yours once again.

“Show me.” The demand is simple, but you find yourself utterly compelled. The sheets gently fall away as you suddenly sit bare in front of the man, legs spread wide as you anticipate his next move.

“I said show me. You need to touch yourself.” Your mouth dropped open in protest but you can see already that he's not listening, eyes entirely focused on your pussy.

You decide against protesting, and with a deep breath you let your hand fall back down between your legs, taking its place on your clit and beginning the slow strokes from earlier.

His gaze is curious, looking like he would on any other tough case as you bite your lip to avoid moaning out.

“Your touch is pretty light, put some more pressure on your clit.” Your body is suddenly obedient and listens to him more than it listens to your conscience and suddenly you’re gasping and moaning again as your wrist works up and down.

“You have two hands, right? Try touching your breasts as well. Your nipples look a little neglected right now.” You listen again, and you’re surprised at how right he is.

You’re sure that with just his instructions, you’d shortly find yourself reaching a climax almost as satisfying as any you’d had with your ex, and he hadn’t even touched you.

You're so lost in your own pleasure, that you don't notice that he's palming himself through his own pants until you hear him hiss through his teeth.

“Spencer, you can deal with that here, too.” For a second, you assume him to bolt, the expression on his face betraying his discomfort at being caught. But he doesn't.

Instead, you watch him unzip his pants and pull out his hot, thick cock, staring slack jawed as your hands keep working over your own body.

“Fuck you’re so big.” You gasp as your eyes train themselves on the small drops of precum glistening on the tip of hs cock as he finally relieves some of the tension in his body.

Watching him distracts you from your own climax, suddenly curious about every noise he makes, every look on his face, the need rolling off of him.

“Why did you stop?”

You don’t bother answering his question, not even looking up from his cock as he stops stroking himself, wondering if he’d messed this delicate situation up by pulling his cock out.

“Please let me sit on it.” You whimper out, surprising even yourself with your whines.

“Are you sure?”

“Spencer, I’ve not had a dick inside me in months. Hell, I’ve not had one that size inside me ever. I want you to fuck me, please.”

He doesn’t need anymore convincing, suddenly pushing you back down and pushing his pants down further again.

“You can’t sit on it, but I will satiate your curiosity.” He pushes in suddenly, and you’re suddenly gasping at the stretch of it.

This is it. This is what you’ve been unable to do for yourself. This is what his hand feels like on you, how his cock feels pulsing inside of you. You’re discovering all these new sensations and suddenly you’re thoughts are empty.

Having both started yourself off, you feel like it takes only a few minutes of his very hot and intense thrusting, for the both of you to come undone.

He lets you cum on his cock, then quickly pulls himself off and rolls away to spend himself in your sheets.

You both sit there panting for a second, side by side, neither of you saying a word as you come down from your highs.

That is until you can stand the silence no longer and have to blurt it out.

“He thought I was cheating on him with you.”

“What? Who did?”

“My ex. He said he was only cheating back because he was sure you were fucking me while we were on cases.”

“... That might be my fault.” Your gaze snaps to him quickly, confused as he stares at you sheepishly.

“I think Morgan’s exact words to me were ‘stop staring at the newbie like she’s the porn magazine you found in the woods as a kid’ and they were swiftly followed by, ‘Morgan, Reid, meet my boyfriend.’”

He looks guilty, but you just laugh.

“You’re only as guilty as I am. I’m sure if you'd have caught any other member of the team in this situation…”

“Please don’t put that thought into my head.”

“All I’m saying is that Rossi definitely wouldn’t have let you stay or told you he needed rail-”

He cuts you off by pressing a kiss to your lips.

“That’s enough conversation for you, too.”

He pulls the sheets up and over the two of you again, and you’re content at the way his hands caress your skin as you do anything but rest up.

[short-honey-badger]

Phantom Pain 11 - Mihawk

Hello darlings. I'm sorry it's taken forever to get another part out. I hope you enjoy some filthy heavy petting/smut with Mihawk and Shanks as an apology! ❤️

Masterlist

The day you meet Dracule Mihawk will be a day you will always remember. And that day would stretch on for nearly a month while the other captain stayed with the Red-Haired Pirates. If asked why, Mihawk would purse his lips and shrug a slim shoulder, his voice nonchalant as he informed them that he was merely bored.

Through the bond you shared with said Captain of the crew, you could tell that Shanks was overjoyed to have the other man on board the ship. You couldn't help but soak up the bright feelings your soulmate radiated like the sun baking you on a clear day. You'd heard about the swordsman before. Your lover could talk to a brick wall if you left him alone long enough, but you digress.

The warlord made you nervous. There was something about the way he stared at you with those golden eyes that made shivers strike down your spine and straight to your core. Shanks hadn't said anything about your random spikes of lust, but you could also feel how curious he was on his side of the connection. You refused to acknowledge how knowing those brown eyes were every time they caught you after Mihawk had taken your attention.

You were weary to be alone, Mihawk, and your gut served you well when the man in question waltzed into the quarters you share with Shanks, seemingly having tracked you down. The redhead wasn't here, your soulmate busy with captainly duties, and so not around to protect you from this devilishly handsome man and his heated looks.

“There you are,” Mihawk sneers and saunters forward to take the book you're reading out of your hands. You stare at him in shock, too stunned to move at his bold actions. The dark haired man, for of course he's only wearing his trousers and an open shirt, smirks down at you, long fingers gripping your jaw and angling it up to face him, “Hiding away again, like usual.”

You stare at the man, lost for words for half a second, before your temper flares and your expression shutters into a scowl, “I'm not hiding away. It's just hard to get any reading done out there without getting in the way of the crew.”

If it also had the added benefit of not seeing Dracule, well, that was just a coincidence. However, it looked like your luck had run out, or his patience had run thin.

“All I hear are excuses, Amor,” Mihawk drawls, and then he is crowding into your space, stepping in between your thighs and looming over you. His hand forces you to bend your neck, making sure that you are watching him. The sudden change up makes heat flare in your stomach, and the pirate smirks at the way your eyes glisten with barely hidden lust.

“I wasn't born with a soulmate, you know. So, I was never bound to that cognitive instinct to find their other half. I am free to bed who I want when I want.”

His voice is low, sultry even, and it has fire racing up and down your spine as you stare up at Mihawk. You lick your lips, desperately trying to push the feeling of molten arousal that threatens to consume you away.

“And what does that have to do with me?” You curse yourself and your shaky voice.

The smile that Mihawk gives you is nothing less than sinister, and a gasp rips from your throat when his free hand lands on your thigh and slides up to the apex of your legs. His thumb finds your clothed clit and swipes over the throbbing nub. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“It has everything to do with you, Darling.”

On the deck, Shanks prods the bond he shares with you, his brow furrowing and his cheeks pinking up when he feels the electrifying lust from your side. He latches onto it shamelessly, cock hardening in his pants and attention immediately tuning out whatever Yasopp was trying to say to him. The redhead had wondered why Mihawk had asked where you were, and a smirk crossed his face. He knows why now.

The feedback from your pleasure was just as intense for Shanks as it was for you. He could feel each little sigh you made, each ripple of lust whenever Mihawk did something in particular you liked.

Shanks excuses himself. He needs to see this in action, not just feel it.

The connection between you and Shanks is wide open, allowing the two of you to feel everything that the other one is. His cock is aching by the time the captain reaches his quarters, precum leaks from the tip and stains the front of his pants. He pushes open the door, and the sight he's greeted with is almost enough to make him cum.

Mihawk has you splayed out on a table, shirt up around your chin, and pants completely missing. His lips are wrapped around a nipple, and he's got two fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt. Your face is one of pure bliss, eyes clenched shut and mouth open as you hang onto the table for dear life. Shanks stumbles over, his forehead slick with sweat when pleasure zings through the bond.

Mihawk curls his fingers just right, and you let out a choked sob when he presses against that spongy spot that makes you see stars. You hear a low, masculine moan and force your eyes open to see Shanks collapsing in a chair. He has an amazing view of your cunt, and he sends you a grin when he catches you looking.

“Hey, baby,” He rasps, and your eyes zero in when he tugs his cock from his pants, a low groan falling past his lips when he strokes his throbbing length, “Having fun?”

Mihawk doesn't give you a chance to reply. A yelp escapes you when he bites down on your nipple, and he raises his head to send you a soft glare.

“Don't pay attention to him, Amor. I'm the one between your legs. Don't forget that.”

You can only nod dumbly, brain less than mush, and Mihawk smiles at you in satisfaction. He leans back down, lips leaving behind dark marks around your chest and then up to your throat where he bites down. Shanks sucks in a sharp breath at the same time you do, his hand stuttering as pleasure spreads through his body like a tidal wave. He watches the other man start kissing down, lips by passing through the valley of your breasts and the soft flesh of your stomach for a far better prize.

His tongue is an inferno against your sticky pussy, and Dracule groans deeply in appreciation when he tastes you. His fingers speed up, the faster pace bringing forth a wave of slickness that Mihawk slurps down like a man starved. You keen and buck your hips, that coil in your lower stomach tightening to the point of desperation.

“It's okay, baby,” Shanks croons, and you roll your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes, “Come on his tongue, sweetheart. I want to watch.”

His filthy words are what does it, and that tension snaps. You toss your head back, thighs tightening around Mihawk's head and pressing his face into your cunt. The man just groans in pleasure, tongue lapping at your folds as you ride through your orgasam.

Shanks hisses, the overlapping pleasure from your orgasam makes his own feel like a star was being born. Hot cum shoots from his cock, painting his hand and dripping down to splattering against the floor. He saves as much as he can, and then stands to shuffle over to where you're still catching your breath.

He shoved his filthy hand in your face, those brown eyes completely black as he met your eyes. Mihawk gets your attention when he gives one last lap to your dripping pussy and rises to his feet, golden eyes shining in the low light of the cabin.

“Clean him up, Amor. We're not nearly finished here.”

[sicksadgames]

As the Sun Forever Sets - Terror in the time of the Telegraph

It’s nuts I’ve been working on this game for over 4 years at this point. As the Sun Forever Sets is for sure my biggest and most capital G Game. It even has a publisher and everything. It’s also my first game! Wow! It's been tough, though. We'll get into it!

Britain, 1899

As the Sun Forever Sets is a survival horror sandbox based on the War of the Worlds, utilises the Forged in the Dark ruleset, and is about ordinary people surviving a Martian invasion of Victorian era Britain. We play to find out how they rise to meet the storm of destruction, the ways in which it shapes them, and if they survive to see a new world emerge, or die amidst the rubble of the old.

In the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign, the British Empire stretches across a quarter of the globe, and under the guise of genteel progress and civilisation, it commits theft and murder on a global scale. Britain itself is on the verge of the modern era, the Second Industrial Revolution pushing people into the cities to drive the factories and forges owned by the greedy industrialist class. But beyond the common causes of humanity and unbeknownst to the men who impose their rule over it, vast wheels have begun their inexorable turning. Across 40 million miles of void, the Martian invasion hurtles Earthward. Screaming across the stars, instruments of annihilation unlike anything believed possible lie ready for assembly, alongside the Martians themselves. They are truly inscrutable beings, but their intent is as clear as it is terrible – they will suck the literal and figurative blood from the Earth, and nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of humanity will be enough.

If this sounds cool to you... well, you gotta wait, it’s not done yet. Sorry! But you can come and hang out in the Sick Sad Games discord, where I post excerpts and occasionally organise playtests.

The Hard Times of (Old) England

Be warned, this is a long one - over 4000 words (if you don't have a Tumblr account, you won't get to the end before it starts bugging you to register one, so go read this on Medium instead.) It turns out when you work on a game for a long time, you have a lot to say about it. Strap in, grab your gin and laudanum, and let’s destroy an evil empire just by existing.

Thanks to the wonderful @hendrik-ten-napel for taking a look over my disorganised thoughts.

(Potential) Spoilers for: The Bear, The War of the Worlds, The Last of Us, Children of Men, Threads, When the Wind Blows, Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs, The Thing.

Roleplay in the Pre-Post-Apocalypse

TTRPGs love a good post apocalypse. It's understandable - gas up and ride glorious on the legally distinct fury road, run a commune of like minded weirdos in the ashes of the old world, go digging through retro-futuristic ruins to find retro-futuristic treasures. Who wouldn't want to do any of these? But As the Sun Forever Sets is about an apocalypse as it begins, not after it’s over. 

There's a lot of crossover, of course. There’s a focus on similar things - disaster and spectacle, relationships and trust, scavenging and survival. But the bonus of the world not yet being over, is that we get to roleplay out dealing with that terrible, inexorable reality.

HG Wells wrote a book about blowing up all the places he used to live, and it's a banger. I was surprised to find there wasn't a TTRPG based on the War of the Worlds, being the tantalisingly public domain ur-alien invasion story it is. As the Sun Forever Sets is very explicitly an adaption of it, to the point that before I came up with the name it almost got released as The War of the Worlds: The Roleplaying Game (lol). I'm glad I didn't, doing my own thing has meant both me and the people playing are way more free to fuck around without the expectation that it must adhere to a canon.

The book is good, strikingly modern feeling in parts, and obviously massively influential - so much science fiction can be traced back to our nameless Narrators tormentuous trek across the south of England. But Wells’ prose is typical Victorian - overly wordy and florid (any book that contains the word “ejaculating” meaning “to shout” might be difficult for readers who aren’t used to the style), so when it comes to recommending an actual adaptation, there’s only one true king. Whenever I bring up Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds, the usual reaction from anyone outside of the UK is to say "... they made a what?"

My mom was very keen to get me into musicals, but nothing really stuck until she tried this, the secret best War of the Worlds adaption (sorry Steven Spielberg, but you were doomed from the start.) It's the bombast and drama you'd expect from a disaster film, the horror and pathos of Wells’ classic, all expressed through vivid narration and sick nasty prog rock - wailing guitar and crunchy 70's synths operating at full effect. It's not completely faithful to the book, it doesn't matter. It’s the best.

Ah yes, the film bro's favourite mid 2000's film. Did you see that sick oner? That’s six minutes without a cut, that means the film’s good right? Children of Men is a slow burn apocalypse, dressed up like a world that’s already ended. Plenty has been written about all the little ways the film is prescient about the state of the UK - the slow belly-crawl into facism and nationalist fervour, the particularly British decay and class divide exacerbated by the desperate times, even the willful ignorance and the explicit sense that everyone’s just given up, it’s all here.

All that thematic stuff seems like it’d be really relevant to As the Sun Forever Sets, right?

Unfortunately, we are in fact here to talk about the long takes. The unbroken moment-to-moment action scenes evoke The War of the Worlds to a tee. Theo navigates danger with the same fraught tactical tension as War of the World's Narrator - dashing between doorways, groping for an axe handle in the darkness, desperately trying to start a car as assailants sprint towards him. What’s the best way out of this situation? How do I get from here to where I need to be? He lives his life in rolling, fleeting 5 second intervals, because he’s forgotten what it means to think in the long term - about the future, and what it might hold.

I was always fascinated and terrified by the idea of nuclear war. I guess it comes from watching a lot of 90’s disaster movies, but those are often ultimately fun romps where the day gets saved at the end, or at least the main characters find themselves alive and well at the end of the saga of destruction. Instead, As the Sun Forever Sets asks you to reflect on the horror and sadness present at the end of the world. Things are going to change forever, and change is always hard.

There’s not many clips of Threads and When the Wind Blows online, so it’s a little hard to demonstrate their particular nuclear inflected pitch black darkness. They’re grim - Grave of the Fireflies grim - differing in focus but united in their horrible impact.

When the Wind Blows is a story of an elderly couple living in rural England when the bombs drop, based on the comic by Raymond Briggs. Yes, The Snowman’s Raymond Briggs made a film about 2 lovely grandparents dying of acute radiation poisoning. Jim and Hilda are completely unprepared for what’s to come, their only reference is the Blitz - terrible in its own way, but not a patch on the scale of death they’re about to experience.

They survive the blast and wait for the good old British Government to arrive to save them, as it did in the 40’s. Slowly liquifying in the nuclear fallout, they hold onto each other and keep their spirits up, eventually making the decision to clamber into the paper sacks they mistakenly believed might protect them from the blast. Clutching their medical cards and birth certificates (for the ambulance, sure to be along any minute now), Jim mumbles painfully through a final prayer that morphs into a misremembered Charge of the Light Brigade, and they slip into a perpetual slumber together.

The most tragic part is Jim and Hilda’s unshakeable faith that their government is there for them - ready to catch them when they fall - borne out of Britain’s post WW2 renewal but absent in the 1980’s of the film’s plot, and the Britain of today. It’s a masterful film, shockingly sad, but the shock is the point.

Instead of aiming for your heart, Threads aims for the head. It’s a drama that aims to be as accurate as possible to government research into what a nuclear war might look like, plainly and forensically setting it out without any thought of softening these hard facts for its audience. Rather than focusing on a personal story, Threads flits around several groups of characters - minor government figures and ordinary families. Like Jim and Hilda, they too are woefully unprepared for the end of the world, and those in charge know there’s no way the UK could ever be ready for such a thing.

As mundane life is quietly intruded upon by news updates detailing far off geopolitics and the subsequent escalation that leads to war, the tension rises subtly then suddenly, like a spacecraft on the launchpad. People we’ve seen pottering about their normal lives are maimed and evaporated in the subsequent shocking nuclear exchange, whilst stark statistics flash on the screen - the hundreds of thousands instantly killed, how long the millions more fatally irradiated have left to live, the woefully inadequate tonnage of stockpiled food to feed those who survive. Each zero hits like a gutpunch.

And when you think the film must nearly be over, it keeps going. 1 week later. 1 year later. Threads grinds to an excruciating halt 13 years after the bombs fall, after year upon year of failed harvests from a destroyed earth barely able to support a population level equivalent to medieval Britain. At one point, mute children watch a warped and scratchy VHS of classic kids educational programme Words and Pictures on a TV powered by a steam generator.

The friendly presenter spells out the word “cat” through the thick veil of static, accompanied by a picture of one - an animal the children watching will likely never see. As they watch with blank, emotionless faces, the image of the cat fades to one of its skeletal form. “A cat’s skeleton” the presenter enthusiastically intones. The unrelenting bleakness might feel like a punishment, but Threads doesn’t mean it to be. This is just what would happen, after all.

Love in the time of the Heat-ray

In fact, someone in a Reddit thread said As the Sun Forever Sets “wasn’t just endless misery” and I’m glad that comes across. I wanted there to be moments of tenderness, quiet joy, anger, frustration, love and loss to punctuate the action and the horror.

People are messy and complicated even at the best of times. Under pressure, this is amplified a thousandfold - a little crush becomes a whirlwind romance, small disagreements become full blown fights, and not fully understanding someone might transform them into an enemy in your head.

The little town Bill conspires to be left alone in ends up comparatively untouched by the horrors going on elsewhere, as untouched as anywhere can be in The Last of Us. He hated the world anyways - so he isolates himself as he prepares for it to end, and it makes sense that his life only really begins as the show does. When Frank arrives, Bill is forced not to just engage with the broader world outside of his little enclave, but in the act of truly living in it.

There’s no prepper’s guide to romance. A human heart can’t be field stripped for maintenance. By choosing to exist as a vulnerable, emotional being, Bill opens himself up to a different kind of apocalypse. Frank becomes the flowering vines that slowly crack the flat concrete wall of a world that Bill created, and when those vines die, the wall can only crumble. It’s so fraught and lovely, delicately yet absolutely gut wrenching. At least their apocalypse was one they decided to have together.

“I’m old. I’m satisfied. And you… were my purpose.” - "Long Long Time”, The Last of Us

While several of my TTRPG writing friends were gushing about how great The Bear is, Em Acosta, author of the wonderfully inspirational Exile pointed out something super interesting - a lot of the show is about how you deal with people you’ve found yourself stuck with. No matter how much they piss you off, or whatever they do wrong, there’s something that means you can’t ever let them truly exit your life. They’re there, like it or not, until the bitter end.

Turns out this is very similar to how As the Sun Forever Sets handles Player Character relationships. In both it and The Bear, nothing’s ever truly resolved between characters - every relationship is like a cooking pot perpetually simmering. You might’ve apologised, made a truce, or just ignored your issues for so long that they seem to disappear, but no matter what, you’ve got to keep your eye on that pot.

Because suddenly a crisis will hit, and someone says something, or a diceroll comes up bad and all of a sudden the pot boils over and things are once again fucked. You storm out, start screaming, throw a fork. Even in the worst case scenario where a Character leaves because they’re absolutely sick of the rest of the group, they might show up at the end of the game for one last scene. Who knows how you’ll all feel at the end - nothing is ever truly fixed, and only the dead are truly broken. 

“I quit, chef, is what’s going on. You are an excellent chef. You are also a piece of shit. This isn’t on me. Goodbye." - “The Review”, The Bear

I’ve talked about The Thing a little before, John Carpenters sweaty, paranoid antarctic masterpiece. Along with the incredible effects and the (mostly) restrained use of action and bombast, the thing that makes... The Thing work is that the staff of the stricken research base lack any and all emotional intelligence.

It’s sort of the ultimate reverse Dudes Rock movie. Nobody knows anything about each other, so when their bodies and minds are colonised by the titular chameleon from outer space, they’re just another stranger to the rest of the crew. I’d ask you a question only you would know the answer to, but uh.. I don’t know anything about you. Whoops!

Over the course of the film, the whole operation falls apart as they try their best to work together to deal with the alien interloper, but their complete lack of ability to trust or relate to each other - present even before the crisis they find themselves in - is their ultimate downfall.

That final excellent shot of MacReady and Childs sat in the snow at the end of the film as their compound burns around them is the subject of a lot of unnecessary theorycrafting youtube videos, which kind of misses the point. Each suspects the other, but ultimately it doesn’t matter if one of them’s a Thing. One stranger is the same as another. Why bother getting to know each other now?

“Well...What do we do?” “Why don't we just... wait here for a little while? See what happens.” - Childs and Macready, The Thing

Science Fiction Revenge Fantasy

I’m not a historian, but the parallels between 1899 and now are pretty plain to see. Increasing class disparity, a lack of political will to help those in need, rampant cronyism and profiteering. As long as you’re in the place for it, roleplaying in a fictionalised version of the past to air out the issues of the present can be super fun and cathartic. You’re not expected to get a degree in British history to make it work, either.

The title is a play on the phrase “The Sun Never Set on the British Empire”, and it’s plainly stated in the book that Britains Empire acted as a mechanism of genocidal oppression, and that the Martians are here to end it - intentionally or not. It’s appealing as a premise on the face of it, but it goes a little deeper. Memories of Empire echo across time in Britain like the ringing of a malevolent bell, a cause celebre for braying Tories and fascistic right wing cunts (two very close circles in the venn diagram.)

We used to be a great country before this woke nonsense. Things were better back in the old days. The DEI contingent is trying to destroy our noble past. Yada yada yada, fuck offff. I’m sure someone somewhere will accuse me of “wokewashing” the past for including explicitly trans and queer characters as part of the book, along with the historical facts around how we fit into the oppressive Victorian conception of sex and gender. Unfortunately for them, we’ve always been here.

To be a little pretentious about it, every game of As the Sun Forever Sets reaches back into the past and cuts the myth of a glorious and benevolent Empire, and the good old days enjoyed within it off at the neck, purely in the act of beginning one. That sparks a little joy for me. Destroying a racists dream is fun, even if it’s only in the abstract.

A horror game about the most literalist Victorian industrialist imaginable hearing the phrase “Eat the rich” and getting right on that. I’ve not played Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs despite fond (??) memories of playing The Dark Descent in a room full of jumpy friends, and seeing Dear Esther played live on stage, with a live orchestra and narrator - an exquisite way to experience that game.

The mechanical chops of Frictional Games mixed with the narrative verve of The Chinese Room, how could this game be anything less than incredible?

After The Dark Descent I fell off’ve the “scary guy chases you around” genre of game until Alien: Isolation revitalised it, and the reviews of A Machine for Pigs were mixed - kind of boring, middling gameplay, too dark - so I never went back. I was planning on writing a little about its vibe - dark, gothic Victoriana that rhymes nicely with As the Sun Forever Sets - but after a bit of research, Mandus’ quest for his missing sons strikes an unexpectedly resonant and terrible chord.

The writing and voice acting is phenomenal, Mandus’ split consciousness - the self you play and the other half of him that’s seen the horrors of the forthcoming 20th Century and is compelled to act, imbued into the myopic machine he built - is extremely compelling. He feels compassion for the poor and wants to save them, but they fill him with fear and disgust. He knows the industrialist class is killing the world, but feels a deep shame in the fact that he counts himself amongst them. So his machine grinds the rich into meat for the poor, who it distorts into grotesque pig homunculi and forces them to operate the machine’s inscrutable workings.

It’s Mandus’ twisted way of saving the world - kill the rich for their crimes, enslave the poor for their own good, all hail the new machine/god/manager of the 20th century. It’s a neat reflection of the way modern politicians contort themselves to the whims of big business and AI snake oil salesmen to avoid doing the simple and obvious things that’d better the world. It’s a nightmarish refutation of Victorian Liberalism, that only the upper class know how to fix the problems of the lower class. It’s brilliant, and we should play it. 

"Do you hear me Mandus? This is what you planned! This world is a machine! A Machine for Pigs! Fit only for the slaughtering of pigs! Whores, beggars, orphans, filthy degenerates. Pigs all. But I will purify the streets, cleanse this city, set the great industry free. I will clean the world, make it pure." - The Machine, A Machine for Pigs

Song of the Year, of the Century

Not long after I came out as trans, I was asked what (in an ideal world) would make transition easier. I replied - never having to leave the house. One day I'd shut the front door as a man and another day, months or years later, I'd open it again as a woman, neatly sidestepping the terror of being perceived in a notoriously transphobic Britain.

In 2020 I shut that door and didn't open it for 4 months. At work, I remember calling the nearby shelter to donate our excess hand sanitizer and toilet roll, figuring out at the last second how support workers could take calls from their already isolated clients via their mobile phones, and fixating on the steady stream of scared coworkers leaving early. Tearfully, I felt the urge to hug those that remained as we locked up, before we remembered we probably shouldn't.

I've never been more aware of the minutia of moving through a space on the way home - How many people had their hands on this handrail? Have I touched my mouth or eyes without realising? Is anyone in the office already sick? Or on this train? How many more people are going to die? - My heart was in my chest, I heard the blood whoosh through my head to the beat of my steps on the pavement. At home, I realised my boyfriend had to go into work the next day. After he went to sleep, terrified he might die, I cried.

"I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down." - "The Heat Ray", The War of the Worlds

Writing As the Sun Forever Sets was my way of coping with the disconnect with the world I felt, the fear of both Covid and the rising transphobia kept me inside even as the lockdowns eased. That feeling of throbbing death creeping at the window took a long time to wrestle under control, and getting deeply obsessed with a big project became part of that process. It seems incredibly maudlin to make a TTRPG dealing with darkness and death during a pandemic that killed (and continues to kill) millions of people, but I suppose I’m kind of a maudlin person.

“I haven't written a song in a month, So I'm playing the same chords again. I know I need to get lost in the moment, But I get lost before it begins. Fingers stretching out into space. Reaching as a thought slips away.”

It also burnt me the fuck out. After years of constant work and testing (beginning long before Evil Hat picked up the game), I ran out of steam. I spent the months after Evil Hat’s public playtest ended not really able to write anything ATSFS related at all. The game kind of froze - I knew what I wanted to change or fix or add, but the moment the google doc opened I couldn’t make myself start typing. It was incredibly frustrating to have the switch flip from endless obsessive writing to constant nothing, and I don’t think I truly recognised the burnout I was feeling until recently. It turns out spending years staying up past midnight writing is bad, who know!

A lot of Forged in the Dark games don’t get finished (or more accurately, get stuck in perpetual development), something that the excellent and dearly missed +1 Forward podcast recognised in their episode collecting their thoughts on the FITD games they looked at back in 2021. I think that’s because, at least to me, writing a Forged in the Dark game is like trying to hold a plate of spaghetti without the plate. It’s deceptively simple at its heart, but the system squirms when you poke at it - write one thing and it affects 3 other things. Tug one piece of pasta out and you lose a meatball without realising it.

When I listened to that episode, I took it as a challenge. Part of me now wonders if it was a curse. I'm being hyperbolic, of course. But a little part of me did think it might be better to give the game up.

That’s not going to be As the Sun Forever Sets' fate, thankfully. Evil Hat has been there to support me when I’ve felt guilty about shifting another deadline or replying to a check-in email with another late “Not much progress this month, sorry!” The frozen writers block is thawing, and I’m so tantalisingly close to finishing the final text. This blog is part of that process, another chip in the icy dam.

The wheels of dread Martian terror turn once again, and it feels good. Part of that is down to not beating myself up about a lack of progress. The more important part came when I realised I felt able to return to the world again - living in it, not hiding from it. Staying connected to it, even when there's times I'm not able to inhabit it physically. Covid, Britains particular brand of transphobic brainworms, and the shadow of Empire all continue to exist, and so do I - a weird maudlin transsexual woman - in spite of them all.

“The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the sweetness of the air!” - “The Stillness”, The War of the Worlds

You made it!

Thanks for sticking with my messy thoughts. If what I talked about here sounds cool to you, please stop by the Discord, we'd love to have you. Look forward to seeing As the Sun Forever Sets come to a crowdfunding platform of Evil Hat's choice (I assume backerkit) at some point in the future ♥.

[thus-spoke-lo]

cw: nsfw [minors dni]; afab!reader [no pronouns mentioned] wc: 1.1k

Zoro had never really paid much attention to the way strangers looked at him, never gave much thought to how townspeople would gasp and giggle and make furtive comments to each other as he passed by. On the rare occasion he paid them any mind, as he walked through vendor stalls of some island village, waiting for the rest of the crew to finish their shopping, he assumed it was the swords and the sullen demeanor that caught their attention—surely a man carrying three blades with a veneer of seriousness painted on his face would be enough to turn a few heads. It never really occurred to Zoro that the titillated whispers and sideways glances would have anything to do with the way his biceps twitched when he’d place a hand protectively on his sword’s hilt, or how his t-shirt hugged the muscled plane of his back in just the right way.

It never really occurred to him, at least, until he found himself a little perplexed by the way you ogled him while he lifted weights on the deck one afternoon. The midday sun beat down on him, perspiration dripping down his temples, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging desperately to every hill and valley of sinew across his body. He glanced up now and again to where you sat on the other side of the deck, tucked into a corner, knees pulled to your chest and a book held tightly in your hands. He kept catching your gaze as you observed him, your glance quickly flitting back down to your book or some spot just to one side of him or the other. He let his focus shift a little from his training to watch you out of the corner of his eye, noticing how you stiffened with every bicep curl, cleared your throat exaggeratedly as he turned his back to you to do squats, started to fidget as he lifted the hem of his shirt to his forehead to wipe it down, exposing the rivulets of sweat that trickled down the ripples of his abs. He panted a confused “huh” as he saw you finally scurry away, slinking up the stairs towards your quarters.

It didn’t take long for something to stir within Zoro, for an inescapable tingle to grow at the base of his spine every time he made you squirm at the sight of his powerful, muscular frame. He found himself brazenly pursuing your attention, going out of his way to flex his forearm when handing you a basket of rolls at dinner, or popping his chest muscles absentmindedly as you handed him his basket of laundry, or stretching just perfectly so that his shirt would pull up at the bottom, exposing the sinewy contours of his stomach, the mesmerizing v-shape carved into his lower abdomen that led your gaze to where you knew it shouldn’t go on full display. You were maddeningly adorable, he thought, when you pressed your thighs together, shifting uncomfortably as you watched him from a distance, trying less and less often to hide your lustful gazes. Zoro was ravenous for your objectification—so what that you were silently drooling over him like he was nothing but a brawny hunk of meat, reducing him to just his strong shoulders and the hard slab of his belly and his powerful legs? He couldn’t remember ever feeling so desired, so blatantly and obviously thirsted after, and it gave him a high that was better than anything he’d ever felt before.

Zoro’s head was hazy with addiction as he set about pulling off his grandest scheme: coercing you into some clothing store on the next island, telling you that yours was the only opinion he could possibly trust when it came to fashion. His cock twitched with anticipation as he tried on shirts that all were mysteriously a size or two too small for him; he could barely suppress the depravity in his grin as he watched you melt into the floor at the sight, nodding and smiling nervously as you averted your gaze from how the fabric strained as it stretched over the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. You were just too fucking cute, Zoro mused as he stepped back behind the curtain, the outline of his cock now visible in his pants. You were too damned adorable, the way your eyes widened at the sight of him, and he started to wonder just how easy it would be to fuck the shyness out of you. It took everything in him not to grab you by the wrist and drag you into that cramped fitting room with him, just to see if you were still as bashful and sweet when he pulled you onto his lap and stuffed his aching cock in you. He’d spread your legs over his steel-cabled thighs that you loved so much, holding your head up nice and high with his hand gently wrapped around your throat, pressing up into your jaw, so you’d have to watch yourself get fucked in the mirror, watch him fuck up into your shamelessly drenched cunt. Instead, he quietly gave himself a few quick strokes before steadying himself and trying to contain his overflowing lust; he wasn’t ready for it to end just yet, not when he enjoyed the tease, enjoyed watching you get heated and seeing the impatient longing written in your irresistibly guilty smile.

You’d both get what you yearned for eventually, he mused as he guided you out of the store, insisting with a wry smile that you wrap your arm around his lean waist so you’d stick together and neither of you would get lost; after all, his desire could only be contained for so long, and he feared that your poor heart might implode if he teased you much more. You’d both get what you needed, he thought, fantasizing about how you’d look pinned underneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands drifting over his bronzed skin—your fingers tracing along the veins in his arms, nails digging into the sinew of his shoulders, hands groping at his chest as you clenched around his hardness, grasping at him as he stretched you deliciously. He wondered if you’d be so shy when you couldn’t escape him, when he was all there was, when his thick cock throbbed deep in your needy cunt, or if you’d finally let go and unabashedly worship at the altar of his body. Zoro assured himself that he would find out soon enough just how fucking incredible you felt as he utterly ruined you, but for today, he wanted nothing more than to bask in your adoration of his impressive form, and chase after that indulgent high just a little longer.

[uchihabbynic]

Trafalgar Law x Crewmate! Fem Reader - Caught

Warning: NSFW, porn with v minimal plot, (m) self pleasuring, Law is forever a mess with his emotions but we love to see it 🤧 🖤

As the journey to Wano Country drew near, Law allowed his crew to indulge in a bit of fun to reset and recharge before their next voyage. Lately, Law had been so frazzled in your presence, letting the taboo that is his crush consume him in ways he wasn't accustomed to. Women were usually a non factor for the Captain of the Heart Pirates but he’d known you for quite some time now and you were practically his right hand; A position that wasn’t to be taken lightly and not easily given. 

The level of trust the Captain had in you was unmatched and everyone around the two of you could see the vastly different ways Law interacted with you vs. the rest of the crew. Some would chalk it up to longtime friendship, but his crew knew him better than anyone and could easily see through the lingering stares, the gentle but unnecessary touches - even the way in which Law spoke with much more care towards you. Granted, this had only been a recent occurrence but he wasn’t nearly as sneaky with his feelings as he thought he was. 

The icing on top of the cake was when a pipe leak was discovered in your sleeping quarters and Law didn’t hesitate to offer up his bedroom - just temporarily, of course. When the suggestion was made in front of the crew, you happily agreed to stay with him but this didn’t come without the snickers and giggles from the other crew mates; Bepo being the ringleader. Law roared at his subordinates to go make themselves useful as he felt his cheeks rapidly heat up, embarrassed that your shared proximity had turned his loyal steadfast crew into an all out circus of hoots and hollers. 

This was already coming off of Law feeling unlike himself all week. It was bad enough that he began to think about you in every decision that he made - every time he managed to lay his head on his pillow and even the moment he opened his eyes in the early hours of the morning, you were his first and last thoughts. But, just 3 days prior to you moving into Law’s bedroom, he could have sworn he heard the faint cries of his name roll off your sweet tongue between the cold, metal walls separating your quarters from his. 

At first, he was sure it was a dream after having nodded out with his face in a book but those faint, melodic moans were oh so real and indeed kept him up all night. Trafalgar cursed himself, feeling shameful that he'd begun to look at you differently, think of you … differently; letting the sinful thoughts he normally kept buried in the innermost crevice of his brain, come flying to the forefront of his mind. 

Frustrated, Law began to assume you were teasing him on purpose with the way you’d parade around the bedroom with nothing on but his yellow Heart Pirates hoodie that just barely covered the top of your plush thighs. When he first noticed you’d stolen his hoodie one evening before dinner, his mouth practically hit the floor, not expecting to see you wearing his clothes. He felt his heart drop to his ass, eyes shifting nervously when he saw the way your curves stretched the hoodie in all the right places. 

Needless to say, the man had been a flustered mess all week. 

Fortunately for Law, you decided to join the rest of the crew for a night out at a local tavern giving him the time and space needed to recompose himself. He was a Captain and your respected leader. What did he look like indulging in perverted childlike fantasies? 

At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. 

As you were preparing to go out for the evening, Law stepped outside your shared quarters to give you the privacy you needed to get dressed, however; when you made your grand outfit reveal, the Captain swallowed harshly - throat feeling painfully dry and constricted. You practically knocked the air from his lungs when he saw the way in which the ribbed bodycon material clung to your hips or even the way your cleavage spilled out the front - only to be contained by thin straps that hung off the shoulder. 

“You’re going out wearing that?” Law frowned, examining you from head to toe, awkwardly clearing his throat, realizing that his question came off way more forward and controlling than he intended for it to. 

“Mhm.” you responded casually as you ran your fingers through your freshly curled hair. 

“Something wrong with my outfit?” you asked back, slightly annoyed at Law’s tone as you turned to face him, letting him get an even clearer view of your fit. 

Law immediately shifted his head to the floor, hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat. How stupid! He thought to himself.

“Course not. I-” Law stumbled over his words trying to make sense of what he meant to say, in a futile attempt to not make an even bigger fool of himself. “Bars can be unsafe you know, just … be careful is all.” Law managed as he regained his stoic demeanor. 

“Thanks, Dad-” you said sarcastically, but instantly covered your mouth at the snippy comment that flew out at your superior without even a second thought. “I mean, Captain.” you quickly corrected yourself, nervous that you’d be scolded for being a smartass. 

Law’s words got caught in his throat as the nickname dripped from your tongue. His mind was clearly in the gutter so much so, he glossed over the fact that you were being a bit too sassy for his liking. Law just grumbled and made his way to his desk, burying himself into his studies, the way one always does on a Friday night if you’re Trafalgar Law. 

As much as he convinced himself that this was about your safety, a nagging, intrusive voice in the back of his head decided to surface. 

What if someone else had caught your attention? 

With the way you looked in your dress, there was no way that other men wouldn’t take notice and that didn’t sit right with Law. He wasn’t your boyfriend so what could he really say or do besides sulk and drown in his own pity that he wasn't man enough to ask you out himself and accompany you to the tavern. 

12:30am struck the clock and Law had been alone, isolated in his bedroom for some time now. Hunched over his desk with only a small warm-hued lamp to provide light; there were papers, highlighters and books scattered about as this was certainly not an unusual scene for the Doctor. Gray irises slowly disappeared under tired, heavy lids as he found himself zoning out more than usual.

As he leaned back in his desk chair for a break, his mind took a sudden turn. Sounds of your needy whimpers and cries rang out in Trafalgar’s ears, replaying the way you desperately called out his name a few nights prior. Law could feel the room closing in on him. His button up shirt felt a bit hot and his signature spotted jeans felt more constricted than usual. With a quick glance down, it was evident that he’d gotten turned on from the thought of your fingers being knuckles deep inside of your sweet cunt, pleasuring yourself, mere feet away from his bedroom. 

Law sat back and exhaled deeply trying to calm himself and the primal urges he often suppressed. However, he’d been so overstimulated; truly drunk off you these past few days that he needed to relieve this pent up stress. It was slowly bubbling for days to come, often having been ignored, but the way his cock was now painfully pushing against the rough fabric of his jeans, Law knew something needed to be done. 

Just one time wouldn’t hurt. 

Law decided to peek over at the clock once more. He knew that the crew would be out for at least 30 minutes more and figured a quick stress reliever would do the trick. 

The Doctor fumbled with the zipper on his jeans, instantly shoving them down just far enough to release his strained cock. With a sigh, Law palmed the thick outline of his member, savoring the feeling of the soft cotton providing friction against his swollen tip.  

For once, Law completely let himself go as he rested his head back on the comfortable leather pad of his chair. Pulling his cock out completely, he gave it one slow, experimental stroke, hissing from the contact. 

He immediately got to work, spitting on his hand and placing firm tattooed fingers around the base of his cock, stroking himself at a steady pace as he thought about you being on your knees in front of him in that pretty little dress you wore out tonight. How sweet it would be for those luscious lips to be wrapped around the tip of his cock, suckling with such force and intent that his eyes rolled to the back of his head. 

Law’s breathing began to increase and quiet grunts left his lips as he let his head lull backwards, eyes squeezed shut and jaw slack, fully embracing this much needed alone time. Law wrapped his fingers around his cock a bit tighter as he picked up the pace, fucking himself with his hand. Images of your mascara-run tear stained face filled his mind as he envisioned that his warm, wet hand was your mouth sucking and slurping fervently as he shoved himself down your throat. 

“Fuck … keep going, love. Just like that.” He panted out, desperate whines finding their way past his slightly chapped lips. Law’s chest heaved as he began pumping faster, bringing himself closer to his release. 

“God, Y/N-ya, you suck this cock so well …” The words sensually left his mouth with each pump.

Wet squelching sounds bounced off the metal walls as Law mindlessly fucked his hand, wishing it was your sweet mouth. He so desperately wanted to shove his cock down your throat, mercilessly fucking your face and release his creamy seed all over your delicious tits. 

His vision began to blur as he found himself on the edge of his orgasm, mindlessly using his other hand to fondle his balls, tugging gently while simultaneously focusing on the tip. The pleasure was overwhelming and Law knew he wouldn’t last much longer. It wasn’t often he relieved himself so he knew the load would be massive. 

The pornographic sounds of his pleasure echoed in the metal room as he struggled to keep his grunts under wraps. Your name now tumbling from his lips like a wicked chant with every pump. Beads of sweat gathered around his hairline, causing some of his jet black locks to stick to the sides of his face. With just a few pumps left, he knew that his hand would soon be filled with his milky essence. 

As Law brought himself to the cusp of orgasm, there was suddenly a knock at the door causing him to be distracted from his last few strokes. Startled, he released the grip on his cock but it started to involuntarily twitch, spurting tons of thick cum all over his hand and his lap. Law’s unexpected hands free orgasm hit him so suddenly, his fist flew to his mouth biting down, to ensure there would be no sounds made as he rode out his high. 

“O-one moment!” He called out to the guest on the other side of the door, praying that his shaky breath wasn't obvious. Law scowled and scrambled to find tissue underneath the piles of books on his desk, desperate to clean up the evidence of his arousal and pull his pants back up. 

As Law hurriedly zipped his jeans, he walked to the door casually, hoping that his delay wouldn’t raise any red flags. To his surprise, you were standing on the other side with a lust blown expression on your face.

“Everything alright?” you asked hesitantly, hoping that the flush on your face would be written off as too much alcohol and not the fact that you’d been listening to Law pleasure himself for the last 10 minutes. Your legs were like jelly, your mind was clouded, and the arousal that pooled between your thighs was fierce as you were sure your ears didn’t deceive you.  

“Yes, all good here.” Law managed to keep a composed poker face, now stepping aside to let you inside of your shared bedroom.

 “How was your night out? The crew behave themselves?” Law did his best to keep the casual conversation flowing. He was slightly fidgety because he had no idea how long you’d been standing outside of the door before you actually decided to knock.

“Crew was fine.” You said casually, as you stepped inside and examined the bedroom only to spot a balled up tissue left in the corner of Law’s desk. 

“How about you? Good evening?” You initially figured it’d be best to play dumb. You knew Law was an anxious man and being put on the spot was something he hated the most but with the performance he just put on, there was no way you’d let an opportunity such as this slip by. 

Law plopped down on the bed, rubbing his face, exhausted from the orgasm that washed over him moments before you came in. “Yeah, I uh, caught up on some late night reading … you know how that is.” Law was lying straight through his teeth because why would he admit the truth, right?

Suddenly, you kicked off your heels without saying a single word in response. You slowly brought your body across the bedroom until you were standing directly in front of Law, who now had a confused look on his face. 

“You know Captain, if you wanted it … you could have just asked.” You said softly with a small smile. You blamed the alcohol for your boldness as you forcefully gripped the front of Law’s muscular shoulders and pushed him on his back. 

Law’s eyes practically bulged out of his head, a look of pure horror ran across his face as he began to put two and two together. 

You heard. You heard everything. 

As Law tried to process a million emotions a minute; embarrassment, shame, guilt, all at once - suddenly a look of calm caressed his features. Eerily calm. He realized that he was exposed and that there was nothing he could do to deny this so he in fact, decided to play along. A sly smirk grazed his lips. 

“Y/N-ya…” the deep, gruff tone in his voice sent shivers down your spine as you listened to him say your name with so much lust and desire. 

“Yes, Captain?” you said sweetly and batted your eyes innocently as you began to crawl onto his lap, straddling him in your tiny dress, red lacy thong peeking through.

“Show me exactly what you were doing in your room the other night…” Law demanded, his voice sounding sexy and smooth like silk as he looked up directly into your eyes. 

“And don’t you dare play dumb with me…”

tags: @jordyn-degas @unsuretater-simp 🖤

[elllisaaa]

in desperate need of horny bf sunghoon who catches me reading in bed and is doing The Most to get my attention, but i don’t want to give in so easy 🙈

he settles between my bare legs, placing the back of his head on my lower tummy, babbling some random things he believes will make me drop my book, but they don’t. his hands are playing with my thighs, and it’s so obvious how turned on he is, because of his non stop needy gripping and hungry gaze, literally kissing my feet at this point!!!

“let me just finish this chapter” i tell him over and over again, loving the way he dramatically rolls his eyes, until he sticks his tongue through my panties and it’s not that easy to ignore him anymore

literally been thinking about this for days!!

also sidenote: i have a feeling he’d be the type to always whine about how is it possible that those books are more entertaining than him, but also building you your dream library ~

it's so funny how we're both losing our minds over sunghoon lately lmaoo ! i think the "one more chapter" thing is universal because i do that all the time and still read at least 3 more 🤭 now to the point... horny sunghoon is one of my biggest weakness so i'll need to share all the thoughts you ignited in me sweetie 🤭

SUNGHOON was frustrated, it was obvious from the way he was huffing beside you for the past ten minutes. you tried not to smile, because you knew exactly what he wanted, but it was so much funnier to have you pleading for your attention. 

so you stay focused on your book, ignoring how his fingers caressing your thighs make you shiver, ignoring how badly you want to bury your hands in his hair and play with them. you wanted this afternoon for you and the last quarter of your book, but your boyfriend seemed to have another plan in mind. 

sunghoon couldn't take it anymore. he wished to spend his weekend rolling around in bed with you, not losing you once again to a stupid book. he wanted to be annoyed and mad, but he was so horny that all he was able to do was turning around and place teasing kisses on your inner thighs. it was not helping him calm down when all you were wearing was one of his shirt and a pair of panties. 

"babyyy ! pay attention to me."

his tone was so whiny, it was almost funny how far it was from his usually collected persona. that's why you loved having him all needy for you. you locked eyes with him, seeing nothing but desire in them before looking back to your book.

"one more chapter hoon, i promise after you'll get all the attention you want."

but sunghoon knew you too well, knew that you were lying because you weren't able to just stop at one chapter and always needed another one, and another one. so when you told him the same sentence for the forth time, he had enough of waiting patiently and begging for your touches : he had to win you over your fucking books. 

when his head dropped down lower you already knew that you got him exactly where you wanted him. sunghoon kissed your pussy over your panties a few times, getting even more annoyed at your lack of reaction. he had enough of you pretending to be busy with your book when he could clearly see a grin stretching out your lips. 

"you really love playing with my nerves don't you, huh ?"

he didn't give you a warning before getting rid of your panties and finally getting a taste of your sweet cunt. at this point, he was making out with your soaked pussy, chuckling against you when you let out a quiet whimper, the vibrations feeling too good against your clit. you couldn't concentrate anymore on the words in front of your eyes, ultimately tossing your book to the side and taking a hold of sunghoon's hair as you felt yourself cumming. 

"now who's more interesting, baby ?"

his lips and chin were smeared with your juices, pupils blown out and the bulge in his sweatpants was painfully obvious and you thought that your boyfriend never looked hotter than when he tried to prove that he was better than your silly books.

sidenote : sunghoon always criticizes, but he would absolutely do that for you and i see him clearly buying you 24 books from your pal and making you a book advent calendar. because, yes , he always complains about your obsession and rolls his eyes whenever you mention a fictional man, but he'll do anything to see the sparkle in your eyes when you get a new book. he'll be here to shed your tears when you cry about the angst and he'll religiously listen to you ranting about how you had predicted the plot twist. in conclusion : he's weak for you.  

[bxrbieq]

Hotel, Motel - Chris Sturniolo x f!reader

i’m so sorry this is so late i need to lock in but i hope u all enjoy!

mdni 18+

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: smut, cursing, Chris calls you ma

Touring with the triplets and appearing at their shows had been crazy fun so far. You didn’t know them super well but the fans had really enjoyed the collaboration and the content that came along with it. 

The shows and traveling were super fun, but the tour bus was getting old for everyone, and being in such close quarters with one of the finest men you’ve ever encountered was taking a toll on you. Hence a hotel being booked for the night. 

Cranky and exhausted, you all drag your bags into the lobby to check in. It should’ve been a super simple process, and it was… up until Nick was handed only 3 sets of room keys, instead of 4. 

The room pairings were already set up, Nick and Madi, Matt and his girlfriend, while you and Chris each got your own. 

Nick tried to ask the front desk attendant about the mistake, but apparently nothing could be done last minute. Fuck. You’re stuck with Chris for the night. 

Nick looks at you sympathetically, “Do you wanna squish in with me and Madi? I’m sure we could make it work.”

“It’s alright, I can just sleep on the couch.” You say, trying to not seem nervous. 

“I’ll survive as long as you don’t snore” Chris giggles. 

You roll your eyes while internally freaking out. How in God’s name were you supposed to survive the night sleeping in the same room with him? His constant playful teasing and subtle touches were already enough to drive you crazy. 

Your terror-induced thought process continued up until the elevator stopped at your floor. You all find your respective rooms and Nick pats your shoulder after you all exchange goodnights. 

Unlocking the door in silence, he leads the way in and flicks the light on. Immediately, he turns his head back at you and smirks. 

“I hate to tell you this, ma, but uh.. there’s no couch…” he says before chuckling to hide the slight blush growing on his face. 

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You push past him to check and it’s immediately confirmed, the only thing to sleep on is a queen-sized bed. 

You jump to problem solving, “Maybe we can call the front desk and ask for extra pillows and blankets? Then I can just make a nest on the floor.” 

“You know I’m not about to let a lady sleep on the floor." he says, taking a seat on the bed. 

“Well you probably need the rest more than I do.” 

“It’s not happening, if you want we can set up like a pillow barrier between.” He says taking off his shoes and stretching, his shirt lifting up just enough for you to see the waistband of his boxers. 

“It’s fine, just don’t start cuddling with me, freak.” You say jokingly while grinning at the man in front of you. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He says, making you tense up a little before he laughs it off. “I’m gonna take a shower, don’t wait up.”

Naturally, you wait up. You can’t manage to sleep with the image of him in the shower haunting you. The thought of his soap hands running through his shaggy hair, his torso dripping with water while his strong arms flex, his cock- before you can finish your thought, the shower turns off and you hear the door open. 

You readjust and try to look nonchalant, but as the door opens and Chris emerges you lose your cool again. 

He comes out shirtless with only a towel wrapped around his waist hanging low. Low enough for you to see the V shape underneath his stomach, leading into his light happy trail. He’s still got little drops of water on his chest. His hair’s still wet and messy. 

It’s literally a painting. 

“If you wanna fuck me just say that.” You’re snapped out of your trance by his quip, followed by him chuckling. All you can do is blush, but quickly roll your eyes to try and protect your dignity. 

“You’re annoying, put a shirt on.”

“Is that really what you want, princess?” Jesus christ. His little nickname makes it impossible to ignore the heat between your legs. 

“Yes, Christopher. And some underwear, please.”

“If you say so.” He smiles, walking past you to sift through his bag. After grabbing them he goes back to the bathroom and you take the opportunity to change into some boxers and a big tour shirt. 

The next hours are spent mutually scrolling on phones trying to sit as far from each other as possible on the bed. The energy was weirdly tense in the room, not just because you were both only in underwear and shirts. 

Out of the silence Chris leans over, “Yo watch this video.” He outstretches his arm making him roll over to face you, propping himself up on his other arm. 

As the video plays in front of your face, you can’t help yourself from staring at his veiny forearm. He looks so strong… you wonder what it would look like while his fingers pump in and out of you, his arm straining. This was getting out of hand. 

“Y/n?? Did you even watch the video?” 

“Oh yeah it was super funny!”

“It was about a missing dog? You really weren’t watching, were you?” You freeze. 

“Whoops. Distracted sorry.” 

“I figured,” he says and drops his phone on the bed, scooting a little closer. “Too busy staring at me.” he says with a little smirk, looking up at you. 

“God shut up” You respond, picking up a pillow and whacking him lightly.

“You know it's true, ma. You think I don’t notice how you look at me? How you squirm when I touch your back? Hell, 2 seconds ago you were bright red just from seeing me shirtless.” He’s looking at you with darker eyes, as he lightly reaches to cup your knee with his much larger hand. 

“Now I’m embarrassed.” Was the only thing you could come up with in your state of shock. 

“Don’t be, hun. There's a reason I flirt with you.” He sits up now, right next to you. 

Avoiding eye contact while he turns his head to look at you, “I just didn’t want to ruin the tour and I didn’t think you would actually take any interest I mean-“

“Shut the fuck up” He says as he places his hand on your jaw and turns your head towards him, pulling you into a kiss. 

This cannot be real. 

His thumb grazes your cheek as he nips at your bottom lip. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

He smiles into the kiss and you giggle, he takes his opportunity and deepens the kiss slipping his tongue in. 

Chris rolls on top of you with his hand still on your cheek. You take the opportunity to slide your hands under his shirt. He groans lightly into your mouth before breaking the kiss to sit up and takes his shirt the rest of the way off.

 As he's sat on top of you now shirtless he looks down at you with soft eyes.

“I’ve been waiting to do this since we met.” 

“What’s that?” You ask

“Get a good look at your tits, sweetheart.” He says and slides your shirt up your stomach, revealing your chest. 

“God they're even better than I imagined.”

You grin and slide the rest of your shirt off. He wastes no time taking a breast in each hand. If the night's teasing hadn’t been enough, his large hands massaging your tits had you squirming underneath him. 

“Fuuck you like that, don’t you, ma? Like when I play with you?” He’s still sitting up, looking like a greek god above you while he straightens his arms to reach you. 

You nod in response and bite your lip. Chris starts tweaking and lightly pinching your nipples making you audibly moan. He wets his lips a little and leans back down again to kiss you. The feeling of his chest against your bare skin is so intimate. 

Breaking the kiss you pant underneath him, but before you can say anything he spits in your mouth and reattaches as you swallow. His hands roam your body and he places one to cup your heat. 

“Chris don’t tease… just touch me.” 

“I guess you’ve waited long enough.” He adjusts in order to slide your pants off revealing your soaking pussy. “Such a good girl, you’re already so fucking wet for me.” 

He takes his middle and ring finger and slides them through your folds. Bringing them to his mouth he lightly sucks your liquid from his fingers. 

“God you taste so fucking good.”

He takes his hand back down to rub your clit while propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at you. He circles it softly with perfect placement making you grind into him while letting out breathy moans. 

“I’m gonna put my finger in, ok baby?” 

“Please oh my god” He grins hearing how your voice quivers. Chris’s middle finger slides into your hole, immediately increasing the pleasure tenfold. He curls his finger in between thrusting in and out. 

“You’re doing so good for me, ma” You groan underneath him as he scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you for him. “Look so good underneath me.”

“Fuck please keep rubbing me Chris I’m close…” He understands and speeds up his pace rubbing your clit with his thumb as he fingers you.

 “You’re so tight, it's gonna feel so good inside you. You want that, princess?”

His praise egged you on as you nod in agreement, feeling yourself heat up as your orgasm approaches you.

“I want you to cum for me baby, ok? Cum all over my fingers.” His words push you over the edge as you tighten around his fingers and cum with a final high pitched moan. 

He pulls his fingers out and gives you his charismatic grin before locking his eyes on his fingers and separating them, seeing how your slick stretches. 

“Jesus christ, you really do like me, ma.” 

“Maybe a little.” You giggle and glance at the strong cock outline in his pants. “You want me to take care of that for you?” 

“I mean if you insist, gorgeous.” He winks and you assist him in taking off his boxers. He finds his place on top of you and his cock rests on your stomach. He leans in to kiss you lovingly. 

Leaning back again he takes your legs, placing your ankles on top of his shoulders. His cock now against your pussy slightly poking at your soaked entrance.  

“Please put it in.”

“So desperate for me, hm?” 

“Yes god please just fuck me.”

“Oh, you’re begging for it?” You blush and can’t bring yourself to resist. 

“Please Chris, I need you. I just want you inside me.” 

“There ya go.” He grins, taking his hand down to guide himself inside you. His tip enters you and you already feel the stretch. He groans at the newfound warmth and continues pushing into you. Once he bottoms out, he looks at you with soft eyes. 

“You ready?” 

“Fuck yes.” you say as he thrusts for the first time making his way deeper. 

His grip on your legs gets harder as he slowly moves in and out. Closing his eyes and biting the inside of his cheek a little to stifle a moan. 

His thrusts start to get faster as he watches you moan and cuss underneath him. His angle helped him quickly hit your g-spot, making you even more soaked. 

He twitches inside of you and lets out occasional whimpers. In between the both of your noises you could hear the slapping of skin and how wet you are as his dick slides in and out. 

“You’re so fucking tight I dunno how much longer I can last, ma.” He groans. 

Chris maneuvers his hand down to your clit to bring you closer to your orgasm.  

He keeps rubbing as he slides in and out of you. His panting and intensity only eggs you on. 

“M’ so close.” You whimper as his movements get sloppier.

“That’s it, hun. Cum for me. Show me how bad you really want me.” 

He continues hitting your g-spot as you feel your orgasm approaching. The sight of Chris over you sweating and groaning above you sends you over the edge as you clench around him. 

“Fuck such a good girl.” He pulls out and strokes his soaked cock a few more times before shooting his load onto your stomach and chest. His dick twitches a little above you before he rolls onto his back next to you. 

“You’re fantastic.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Chris.” He smiles and looks over at you. 

“Not bad? I guess I’ll take it.” You laugh and reach out to play with his hair a little.

“I think it’s my turn to shower.”

“Can I join you? I’m not one to just stare like a creep… unlike someone I know.” 

“What do you think, smartass?” You giggle and hop up, racing him to the shower.

[thana-topsy]

I’ve lost count of who all has tagged me in a WIP Wednesday post, so THANK YOU all my beautiful tesblr buddies. I was very busy yesterday, and today was hectic as well, so I’m rolling in late.

I’ll double whammy my wips and include some art and some writing. The brainrot continues, and I believe it to be terminal at this stage.

Urag with an undercut. Urag With An Undercut.

And here's a snippet from the fic I'm currently working on featuring these guys again some more:

---

“Thought I might find you up here.”

Enthir took another long drag from his cigarette, his eyes trained on the lights of Winterhold, winking like distant stars across the dark chasm that separated the city from the college. He exhaled, the wind snatching away the smoke as soon as it left his lips. “Were you looking for me?”

Urag leaned against the wall to his right, upwind. “It’d been a few days since I’d last seen you slinking around the grounds.”

“Business in town,” Enthir said by way of explanation. “Been staying at the Hearth.” 

He saw Urag study his profile out of the corner of his eye, but Enthir didn’t look at him. “There’s more to it than that.”

Fuck you, old man, Enthir thought. He sighed and put the rolly out on the stone wall before flicking the butt over the side, watching it fall down into the darkness. “Got a visit from an old… friend.” He tongued the inside of his cheek. “Troubling news.”

“It never ends, does it?” Urag said with a sigh.   

“Apparently not.” Enthir arched his back, stretching until his sternum popped. “I’ll tell you more. Inside, though. Not gonna freeze my nuts off over all this.”

Urag followed Enthir back to his cramped quarters in the Hall of Attainment. He wasted no time making himself at home in one of the chairs, toeing off his boots and propping his feet up on Enthir’s bed. Enthir paced around the room, organizing some of the bits and bobs he’d left lying around—shuffling papers into stacks, dropping loose jewelry into various boxes. 

“I’ve long known the Guild has been going through hard times,” he started to explain. “Thanks to the near-endless business of our colleagues, I don’t have to rely on them as much as I used to. The new Arch-Mage had me nervous for a while there, but I think we’ve reached an understanding.”

“Wickwing is no Savos,” Urag agreed. “But she’d make an enemy of herself if she tried to push you out of the college. She’s smart enough not to mess around with the established order of things, so long as it’s good for the school.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Enthir muttered. 

“Did you step away from the Guild when it started going downhill?”

Enthir paused, looking down at the book on the top of the stack in his hands: The Nightingales by Gallus Desidenius. “You know when I stepped away from the Guild. And why.”

Urag grunted, but said nothing else on the matter. “So why’s their business your business all of a sudden? Just wash your hands of them. You’re doing them a favor, the way I see it. A fence this far north?” He clicked his tongue in lieu of finishing his sentiment. 

“That’s where this friend comes in.” He shoved the books one by one onto the shelf over his desk. “Karliah.”

“Karliah.” Urag repeated the name, as if thumbing through the dusty catalogs in his mind for the association attached to it. “Ah, right. Gallus’s woman.”

A needle of pain in Enthir’s chest made him wince. “Yep.”

“Didn’t she–?”

“Nope.”

Urag grunted again. “Well, that certainly shakes things up.”

[prismaticfaery]

Sleepless

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Description: Late hours, books, and insomnia draw you and the stiff Lieutenant together.

Rating: T+

A/N: So, I had written something previous on Ghost and pregnant!Reader. I wanted to give Reader much more background and I think previously being a field medic fits perfectly for her. I’m giving Reader the nickname “Peach” for cute reasons. I’m already writing a part two to this because omg. I’m sorry if it’s crap lmao.

Your body and brain were betraying you again. The exhaustion of course was hitting you like a ton of bricks but you still could not feel the sweet reprieve of sleep. Restful sleep, that is. You could hear the loud snores down the hall from all of the other soldiers, it’s something you’d grown quite used to over the years of being in the military, but this was a very new group of soldiers you were growing used to. Sometimes you could completely ignore and drown them out, but tonight was different. Your mind would not shut off.

Bringing yourself into a sitting position on your bed, you could feel the chill of the wintry air through your drafty window. You placed a hand on your bedside table, searching in the dark for your watch, placing it on your wrist and fastening it once you found it.

2:16 am.

Quietly grunting as you toss the blanket off of your body, lifting yourself off the bed to find your fluffy slippers and in the search for your slippers, finding your knitted beanie and loose fitting knitted cardigan, and hoping it was okay to keep your sweatpants on around base with it being the middle of the night and most people were dead asleep, you decided to take off to the hangar where there were benches and tables you could relax at.

You stopped at the mess hall first, grabbing a styrofoam cup and a bag of black tea, carrying it to the hot water dispenser and filling it nearly to the top. Blowing on the water as the tea bag steeped, you silently padded to the hangar, the air nipping at your cheeks and nose as your view was now met with humvee’s, and an assortment of planes and jets.

Spotting a table to your liking, you sank down onto the bench with a sigh, placing the hot cup of tea on the table in front of you. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a book resting to the far end of the table, in completely new and neat condition, the pages were not fluffed and not a single crease on the front or back covers. Stretching your arm, you grab the book and bring it close to you.

The Chrysalids by John Wyndham.

Remembering that you had read this particular book in your AP Literature class in high school, you hum and open the book to the first page. You didn’t know any of the soldiers well enough yet in this post to know who could possibly be into this type of book. Your thumbnail had made its way into your mouth, your teeth biting down softly as your focus locked onto the words in the book. Post apocalyptic dystopian novels were quite a fascinating read, and you had nothing better to do in your wide awake state.

You hardly paid any attention to your tea that was by now lukewarm. You were already a quarter of the way done with the book, as it wasn’t a very long book in the first place. The joints in your fingers were locking from the cold air, and you were going off on a guess, but your nose and cheeks were probably a fine shade of red too.

A large dark figure sauntered into your peripheral, and soon lowered down to the seat directly in front of you, “you seemed to have taken a likin’ to my book,” a gruff and heavy English accent made your body visibly jump and look up from the book.

“Sorry, it was just sitting here on the table and I wanted to indulge a little. I didn’t think I would get so carried away,” you sheepishly lower the book to meet the light hazel eyes of your Lieutenant, Ghost.

You drew in a deep breath as you noticed how different Ghost looked when he wasn’t in all of his field gear. He wasn’t even wearing his usual black paint around his eyes, nor his skull balaclava and mask, just a normal black balaclava with a black beanie. You could see his blond eyelashes perfectly. He was still a hulking figure but much less intimidating.

“Peach,” Ghost’s deep voice called out, breaking you from your thoughts.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” You gulped, breaking your stare.

“I asked if you had slept any this evening.”

“No, sir. It’s normal for me to have sleep troubles and disturbances, I can function pretty well on little sleep. Comes with the job,” a puff of air comes from your nose as you stifle a chuckle, alluding to your job as a forever exhausted medical professional.

A hum escapes Ghost’s balaclava as his eyes lower to the cup of hot tea in his large hands, the black gloves he wore creaking as his grip tightens,” I guess we’re kindred spirits in the sleep department”, he turns his head to the side, carefully lifting his balaclava to take a quick sip of his hot tea.

Ghost’s chin was freshly shaved, though his calculated lifting of the balaclava he obscured his face with showed nothing else. Not even his mouth.

Now you were begging for more from your mysterious Lieutenant. From the time you were brought on as a member of his squad to now, your interactions were few and far in between, and you often questioned why you felt such a need to grow closer to him, but you would often fight yourself on that matter because he was your superior. Though a friendship couldn’t possibly hurt anyone, right?

“Do you read often, Lieutenant?” you eyed the book on the table, then met Ghost’s eyes again.

“As often as my job allows me to,” he quipped, and you knew damn well what he meant.

With how busy Ghost was, you wondered just how often he was able to enjoy his hobbies, if he even had any to indulge in besides of course reading. Many soldiers joked around and said Ghost was a robot and that there were hardly any human qualities in him, yet here he was, sipping a hot tea, and admitting to being a reader. His usual commanding and stoic demeanor was lightened, and you could see emotion in his eyes without the black paint smeared around his eyes. You daresay it made him look so much more attractive, though you could see clearly that he had bags, the light purplish hues accentuated by the dim lighting of the hangar.

“What’s your favorite book?” you piped up from the comfortable silence of the quiet hangar.

“All Quiet on the Western Front,” he looks you in the eyes.

Laughing quite loudly, you say: “I think I kind of saw that coming.”

You could almost see a glimmer of his eyes crinkling in the corners, like he was smiling under his obscuring black mask. All Quiet on the Western Front seems like the kind of book he would enjoy. It’s a book that’s setting took place during the first World War.

“What about you, Peach?” He raised his cup to you, nodding.

“Oh, for sure [book name].”

“That’s a very you thing, with how much I’ve gathered from you so far.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat, your nerves getting the best of you, but playing it off coolly, you reply with: “have you been watching me, sir?”

“As much as I can— I like to keep tabs on my soldiers,” Ghost was now looking you in the eyes, noticing almost immediately that you had grown nervous, he decided to add on sneakily: “with you being new and all…”

Your mind raced, the stomach full of fluttering butterflies gnawed especially hard as you sat and watched his eyes scan you over before clutching his cup with both hands, eyelashes now downcast as he watched the steam float up from his hot tea. The nervous tension was thick in the air, not just from you, but from him as well.

A shiver jolted up your spine from the chill of the hangar, your body visibly trembling under your loose cardigan. Ghost tilts his head, wondering why you were wearing such little layering in such freezing temperatures. He stands from his seat on the bench and unzips his gray fleece jacket, revealing a tight black thermal shirt underneath, gray and black ink shading his left wrist– tattoos. You often forget how little you knew about everyone on the new team you had been placed in. Making his way behind you, your eyes never leaving his dark and muscular form. You felt his jacket wrap around your form, the large fleece jacket radiating with the smell of expensive cologne, natural musk, and dead leaves, the warmth from his body still clung to the material.

“You didn’t have to do that, sir,” you looked up at him, his tall form turning to walk out of the hangar doors.

“You keep it– and the book, bring them back when you find yourself unable to sleep, I’ll be here.”

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

its been itching my brain for a while so if you could please give me something to chew on—do you have any headcanon's for A, like what he (she?) might've behaved like or looked like? I'm really just asking for a nice sandwich and I love the ones you've made (Alphard) and would appreciate another

That time @therealvinelle and I made a character out of fucking nothing.

I assume you mean A from the Death Note universe? Sorry, I've got nothing for you.

The thing about what @therealvinelle and I did with Alphard, and why it worked, was the single solitary detail we did get, along with a few others, paints an incredibly detailed picture to work with.

I only have about five things on hand, but good god, do I get to see that man's entire fucking life.

We just don't have the same for A.

What We Know About A

A is introduced in Death Note: LABB, for those super Death Note nerds who read the novel like I did. There's no mention of either A or B in the manga or in the anime.

A and B were the first gen successors to L, before Mello and Near, and the premise of the novel is that "wow, that successor program was a really shitty idea even before it was a shitty idea!" in that of the two a) A couldn't handle the pressure and killed themselves b) B couldn't handle the pressure and turned himself into a physical clone of L, then sought to make a case so complicated L couldn't solve it, culminating with lighting himself on fire. The great irony being L had so little interest in dealing with it himself, he makes Naomi Misora do all the work/all the talking to 'Ryuzaki' without supplying any pertinent information or saying anything more than "uh huh, wow, such detective, such good, Misora" and only at the end admitting, "yeah, that wasn't me, that was my rampaging successor, but good job catching him."

A is years dead before the novel begins, and gets a one-off mention by our totally unbiased narrator Mello, totally, as being B's rival for the position of successor who at some point before it could be decided killed himself.

But let's try to bullet point it.

A Was Chosen: Nationality

First, we know A is at Wammy's.

We don't know exactly how Watari/Roger recruits for Wammy's, how you are selected to enter the 'successor' program, or even the scope of just where they draw successors from.

(I don't have vol 13 on hand at the moment, but I believe it only went into the ethnicity breakdown for L, not even nationality, and it's...

When asked about L's ethnicity, creator of the series Tsugumi Ohba responded, "I think of him as a quarter Japanese, a quarter English, a quarter Russian, a quarter French or Italian, like that." Ohba said that L is the most intelligent character in the entire Death Note series because "the plot requires it." He added that he personally views L as "slightly evil." - from the wiki

Rock on Ohba, rock on with your.... "quarter Russian, Japanese, French/Italian, English".

I also love "slightly evil" from a man who has multiple "torture X character" arcs.)

Given we only see four characters who went through some variation of this program in the manga/anime (L, Near, Mello, and if we even count him Matt), it's really hard to judge. We know Beyond Birthday, by the time he meets Naomi, looks similar enough to L that the entire premise of the book is "oh wow, that's totally L and Naomi doesn't know, oh wow he's doing all the things you--TOTAL SHOCK IT WASN'T L AT ALL"

But if we have to choose, and we have to do this in a way that fucking makes sense given how borders work and that "no, Roger, you can't just take random orphans from any country you like and stick them in your Batman orphanage" then A is either from Britain, maybe Ireland, or if we're really stretching things maybe Western Europe.

Other places are possible, and they could bullshit their way in getting A to England, but there's also the fact that A is chosen for this program. It's unclear just how much searching Wammy's does for talented orphans who will fit the role of L (having the level of intelligence Watari and co. are looking for, the drive and desire, and being the world's most super genius to recreate the success of L).

Now, the manga/anime implies that they had very high standards. L is the greatest detective in the world, Near as his number one successor to is eventually able to defeat Light and is an extreme deductive genius.

If you want to play that game, you can't just use the orphans that happened to be in your orphanage to start with. You have to look for them and either a) wander around orphanages/newly orphaned children and test them for their suitability b) pick up orphans that they've heard of who have nationally/internationally been so impressive they meet the criteria.

Now the thing about b is that doesn't happen often (and probably not at the impressionable ages that Wammy's needs to both a) give the orphan the training b) convince a near adult "YOU SHOULD TOTALLY BECOME BATMAN WOULDN'T THAT BE SUPER COOL?!")

...

To sum this up, A is probably from Britain, maybe Ireland.

A Was Chosen: Age

Alright, A was selected, as gone in above from what we see of Mello, Near, and Matt, they got roped into this when they were very young. They're very young appearing AFTER the six-year time skip when they've been doing this long enough that a) this is their major goal in life and the only thing they can think of b) they have an intense and bitter rivalry c) Matt has already been weeded out. L, too, we have a brief image of him as a six-year-old or so (possibly metaphorical), implying he and Watari have been doing this for... a while, and that L was set on this path very early in life.

Both A and B were very likely young children when they started this program in earnest. Personally, if I had to write a fic... I'd say ten at most.

Now, this doesn't tell us much about when A dies, but we know that B is an adult man by LABB, Naomi never remarks upon him looking like a teenager. We also know he's able to impersonate L, and more (and this is important), the L we see in canon.

The entire L gimmick of the book is that we, the readers, are given the impression this is L (except for the weird eyes, that's weird). It's important that this isn't necessarily L at the time, but what we the readers would recognize him as years later during the Kira case. We, in canon, see L in his mid 20's. This means that B in the novel was at least passing as in his mid 20's. Could be he's younger, could be he's older, but what it does mean that A, if at a similar age only either reached a) very young adulthood b) teens.

Personally, given the pressure, the suicide, and the fact that the rivalry had been bitterly ongoing at that point, I'd say A was likely a mid/late teenager when they killed themselves.

A Was Chosen: Intelligence

A must have been good enough at whatever tests Wammy's did to gauge whether they had an initial aptitude for becoming an L candidate.

Now, we've seen the types of things Near is good at and that are heavily implied put him above Mello. Near is very good at intelligence tests, puzzles, and so on.

It's not unlikely that A was tested with very similar things and that A must have reached some threshold to be considered a promising candidate in the first place.

A Was Chosen: AMAB

Now, this one's more headcanon, but I go into this here. I think, either through overt or unintended bias, Watari/Roger would gravitate towards selecting AMAB individuals as opposed to AFAB.

I don't think A would be an exception.

Also, Viz translated the gender into English as "he", so take that as you will.

The Eternal Prince/Eternal Rivalry

Now, the trouble with A and B, being so early in, is that L was a very young man at the time and either not much older than they were or even younger.

L had already by this point reached international acclaim as the detective L, continued to gather for himself detective personas surrendered by rivals, and was showing no signs of stopping or slowing down.

So, how exactly are A and B supposed to become L? Either they somehow prove they're better than him, when he has the benefit of a) experience in the field b) connections with law enforcement and a working relationship with Watari c) all the resources in the world or L miraculously dies.

Not to mention we know, canonically, that L is vicious and would tolerate no competition for his title.

Mello notes this himself (though is a... biased... narrator) that the first gen were throwaways, they were the trial training run for the REAL successors, Mello and Near.

Regardless of what Mello thinks, the fact remains that A and B were both aware that to be L themselves, L had to go, which showed no signs of happening.

Not to mention they're still infighting with each other, quite viciously, so that they can at least be next in line.

Not only is this a tremendous amount of pressure, but it's utterly pointless pressure.

B was the type of person to react to this with a "FUCK YOU DAD", in that he tried to make a case L couldn't solve to finally prove he was superior to all of them.

A, for this or perhaps other reasons, killed themselves. We don't know if this was the sole reason, but it would certainly be a large factor.

TL;DR

A was likely born or at least orphaned in Britain, A was young when chosen and young when they died, A was likely good at logic puzzles/intelligence exams at a young age, A was highly likely to be AMAB, and was in a doomed competition where their entire self-worth/point of their existence hinged on a pointless struggle that neither they nor B could ever conceivably live.

But considering, that's really not much/what you were asking for.

[greenhorn-art]

Keep Your Head Up to the Sky (As Your Day Unfolds) by alphera [Twitter]

Illustrated by Shirou_UOHS @shirou-oh-sakura

Fandom: 全职高手 | The King's Avatar

Rating: General Audiences

Category: M/M

Words: 9 270

Time is rarely kind, and impossible to escape. At the ripe old age of 30, Han Wenqing retires from the Glory Professional Alliance and moves forward the only way he knows how: fearlessly and without hesitation.

About the Book

FONTS: Coelacanth, Segoe UI Emoji

IMAGES: Illustrations by Shirou; pastel sky ID: 7007221 from Rawpixel; dark blue sky ID: 7044483 from Rawpixel; Han Wenqing & Desert Dust image from The King's Avatar Wikia; Ye Xiu & Lord Grim image also from TKA Wikia; Glory card png also made by Shirou via Discord

MATERIALS: regular ol' printer paper (8.5"x11", 20lb, 96 bright); ~1.5mm chipboard; Neenah cardstock (8.5"x11", 65lb, bright white); Iris bookcloth (Madeira colour); paper from Gilded Ink paper pad by Recollections; waxed linen thread (30/3 size, white); wheat paste (1:4 flour:water)

PROGRAMS USED: typeset in Affinity Publisher 2; endpapers designed with Affinity Designer 2 and Affinity Photo 2; imposed with Renegade's Community Imposer (settings: Quarto, snug against binding edge, signatures of 2 sheets).

Text & QR codes printed with colour laser printer (duplex, flip long edge), images printed with inkjet printer (HP Envy 5055; one sheet at a time, single sided, place facedown in tray)

BINDING: quarto (quarter-letter) size, sewn board binding with french link stitch and breakaway spine.

.

Absolutely LOVED this story! I've reread this one a number of times, and keep going back for more. Alphera's writing is so good! Ye Xiu is the series protagonist so things usually follow him, which makes it refreshing to see a story through Han Wenqing's eyes. And the author does it SO WELL! AHHH!

It's been a while since my first read-through, but I'm pretty sure this was the first TKA fic that I actually downloaded and started typesetting. Absolutely chuffed to have it finished! (Love me some growth-- the typeset looks a LOT better than my earlier attempts!)

RAMBLES

Another sewn board binding and breakaway spine! Since this isn't my first go at it, the construction of the book was considerably faster and smoother than my last one. It's just as well, because I ran into a speed bump that stretched out how long it took to typeset and print.

The culprit: (very pretty) illustrations. My laser's colour printing capabilities are shot to hell, so I used my inkjet for the artwork. This involved creating 3 copies of my typeset: 1) the completed typeset; 2) just the text, images hidden; 3) just the images, text hidden/white. Then I ran them through the imposer and printed the text version. The real issue was figuring out how to feed the sheets through my inkjet printer to print the images where I want them. Had to go one page at a time, single-sided. (Just need to place sheet facedown in the tray. So flip along vertical axis.) It took a while, but I got there in the end. And the results were SO worth it! 😊

For the scene breaks I left them as written. I had tried inserting images of the Glory Logo and account card, or using crossed swords emojis ⚔️, but nothing I tried worked as well as what the author did. (It's really neat! Different characters were used to indicate the direction of the timeskip: >>>> for a jump forward in time; <<<< for a flash into the past; and ==== for regular scene breaks, a 'next' rather than 'before' or 'later/after'.)

The cover and endpapers were based off of Shirou's fantastic cover illustration of HQW and YX walking hand-in-hand down a beach at sunset. The art itself is phenomenal so I had it stand alone as a frontispiece and didn't do anything fancy with the title page. For the covers, I looked through my decorative paper stash for something red or black to represent HWQ or Team Tyranny. What I found was paper with pinks, oranges, and purples similar to that illustration -- and that was that. I liked how the colours matched the art, and the gold splashed across it. (Gold for victory, gold for wedding rings and a happy golden future together.)

(Sidenote: I love how the beginning of the end of HWQ's career as an e-sports player "starts with a tingle in his ring finger", leading him and YX to taking the next steps in their relationship and eventually getting married 💍🖐)

I went with a red bookcloth for the spine because it's a common team colour for Tyranny, Excellent Era, and Happy. It also represents good fortune, courage, passion, and love -- things that come to mind when I think about YX, HWQ, and HanYe. The particular shade of red I used is Madeira. It's darker than Ruby Red and leans a little cooler, which suits the decorative paper more.

The endpapers use two background images (overlayed, adjusted, using multiple blending modes) and some images of HWQ and YX from The King's Avatar Wikia.

The background images are from Rawpixel -- I was just minding my own business looking for images of clouds and maybe some mountains to represent overcoming challenges/glory/looking up to the sky, when I found some clouds with the same sunset colours of Shirou's art. Figured it was too perfect, and if I'm going to lean into that design-wise, I might as well go whole hog and full-ass it. Then I found a starry night sky to add some darker blues and stars to it to match. After that it was a matter of overlapping them and positioning them to fit. I also grabbed some images of HWQ and YX from the King's Avatar Wikia and added them to it because HanYe. (After removing the backgrounds).

[doe-writes-stuff]

A/N - Some more action this time around. I don't write too many of those types of scenes, so with any luck they are as thrilling as I hope them to be! Please enjoy, and thank you for your continued support through my Sam Coe Hoe Era &lt;3

WARNINGS: Strong language from reader, space battles.

With the grav drive activated, the threads of space and time shot by in an inspiring painting of bright lights. Distant stars and planets, shooting by as if they were inches apart instead of lightyears. You’d dimmed the interior lights to get the full effect, the silence a fitting backdrop for the show in display. Times like this, you’d often wonder how anyone could go their entire lives not traveling the expanse of space like this. What a view they were missing out on…

Lounged in your cockpit to wait out the travel time to the next system, your eyes watched the black sea fold before the ship as you traveled forward. Cora had stayed up to watch the sight a few hours previously, jabbering on about anything space-related she’d read in her most recent books, but now both her and her father were asleep in the living quarters one deck below. Good. After the non-stop missions you’d run searching for artifacts, they both deserved the rest.

Barrett and Gideon were likely in the rec room just down the way from the sleeping quarters, shooting the shit while you traveled your course to your destination. There was little for them to do while the grav drive was engaged, but you felt it necessary to keep to the day and night shift rotations, if only not to butcher any sort of routine sleep schedule for your crew. Better that than to be unprepared in the case of an ambush from Spacers or, even worse, the Crimson Fleet.

Vasco, of course, didn’t sleep. But you’d set him to cataloguing and organizing the ship’s cargo after your latest expedition dealing with Spacers who’d taken over an abandoned mining facility. To the victor went the spoils, as Sam always liked to say. Better that those damned pirates had less equipment to work with, anyway. Like vultures, they’d eventually flock back to where their dead fell, collecting any supplies left behind and likely picking up where they left off. At the very least, selling off their armaments was an acceptable repayment for the inconvenience of having to deal with them almost everywhere you landed.

Drifting away with your thoughts, three rapid beeps drew your gaze to the navigational projection screen in the cockpit of the Razorleaf. The final stretch of your journey was nearly finished. Sitting up straighter in your chair, you stretch your shoulders and neck, letting out a sigh at the relief it brought.

You press the button to intercom only to the rec room—so as not to wake your two sleeping companions. “Approaching the Sagan system, ETA 20 minutes. Prepare for grav drive disengagement.”

There’s no immediate indication that anyone had heard you, mostly because there was no need to scramble to stations with this much prior warning. Out of habit, you glance over the system statuses. All nominal, nothing of note to be concerned about. After a few minutes, you hear the sound of boots on the rungs of a ladder, and Barrett is the first to speak as he takes his place somewhere behind you.

“Evening, Captain.” His deep, naturally-booming voice sounds all the louder in the small cockpit. You can hear his smile without having to look at it.

“Barrett.” You greet with a small twist in your chair and a nod. Then, a thought occurs to you, and a grin plants itself on your face. “So, who won?”

“I did!” A voice calls from just below the ladder, and Gideon is next to emerge from the below deck. His smiling face says all as he straightens from the rungs. “Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“If I recall, it was a stalemate.” The dark-skinned man retorted with a chuckle as he took his seat. “But if it helps you sleep at night, we’ll say you win this time.”

“Stalemate? Hardly.” Gideon took his place at the opposite crew station, turning in his chair to point at his board game opponent. “I was a few turns away from capturing your FOB, and your production facility was surrounded.”

“I think you mean to say ‘strategically positioned,’ my friend.”

You turn back to the command console as they continue debating who in fact had come out victorious this round of Star Frontiers—if memory served right, Barrett was still up 4 to 2 with Gideon—and begin settling in place for entering the system. There were still several minutes to go, so you sat and relaxed as the ship counted down the necessary time left.

Eventually, another beep from the ship’s console alerted you the the immediate, impending disengagement of the grav drives. With a loose grip on the throttle and another on the steering mechanism—it wouldn’t be the first time you’d damaged the hull because of some asteroid field suddenly manifesting into existence in front of you—you watch as the grav drive’s timer ticked down to zero.

As it disengaged, you felt that familiar pull of gravity deep in the pit of your stomach. The ship didn’t falter or shudder, but the painting of lights and lines as you’d traversed through the fold slowly lengthened and morphed until you caught a view of the star system of Sagan. All this in the blink of an eye.

So fast, in fact, it took you a solid two seconds to adjust to the change and notice the fleet of ships now pinging your proximity scanner. Too far away for a solid visual quite yet, but you preferred to be overly cautious in known Crimson Fleet territory.

Gideon’s concerned voice floated over to you. He must have noticed too. “Uh, Captain-?”

“I see them.” You say, eyes narrowing out into the endless black, speckled sea of space. You just manage to see the tail-end of their thrusters against the darkness. With one touch of a screen, you initiate a data scan of the ships. Before the report even comes through, your communication array is already pinging with an incoming transmission. In the distance, you see the group move to face your direction.

You hesitate before accepting it. The voice on the other end is…predictably malicious. “We’re going to make this real simple for you. Let us board and you might all live, or die to the vacuum of space as we blow your ship to bits.”

Probabilities are running through your head, but apparently the silence in those precious few seconds isn��t what he was wanting to hear. “You have until my ship gets within missile range to respond.”

“Barrett how fast can the grav drive re-engage?”

“We’d need about 10 minutes for the fuel tanks to be refilled. Vasco!” He commed directly to his robot companion from his station. “Whatever you’re doing right now, drop it and get us refueled as soon as you can. We’re about to have trouble.”

“Acknowledged.” Is the robotic, tinny response.

Too long on the refuel. The Crimson Fleet ships would be upon you by then. You bite your lip, cursing this whole situation. The math wasn’t in your favor, either in engaging in combat or attempting a retreat. That left you with little choice…

Leaning forward, you tap the button to transmit your own message. “This is Captain Y/N of the Razorleaf. We…will prepare to be boarded.”

You could hear Gideon make an astonished sound behind you, but ignore it in favor of listening to the pirate’s response. “Wise choice.” The transmission cut off with a blip, and the cockpit is silent for all of one second.

“Captain, how-“

“I’m not letting them onboard this ship, Gideon.” You reassure with a firm voice, any and all relaxation leaving your shoulders as you straighten in your chair and strap yourself in. “They’ll find that out soon enough. Redirect some power from the grav drive to shields and engines while Vasco refuels.” You’d sooner die than have them anywhere near the inquisitive young girl you had onboard.

Speaking of…remembering that your two other companions were still sound asleep below deck, you hit the full-ship intercom to wake them. “Sam and Cora, strap into something down there and brace for evasive maneuvers. Five Crimson Fleet ships inbound. Repeat, Crimson Fleet ships inbound.”

Once again, there’s no signal to tell you that they heard your com, but you trusted that Sam had woken up at the very least and sprung to action. The group of ships had continued their way towards you, their hulls painted with the signature skull motif growing more visible as the distance between shortened.

With one slow inhale, and carefully controlled exhale, your hands take control of the steering and thruster throttles. The odds weren’t exactly in your favor here, but with any luck, the element of surprise will give you enough of an edge to make it through.

You weren’t about to let Cora die a gruesome death in space. You weren’t about to let Cora die at all. Fuck that and fuck these pirates.

The fleet of ships drifted closer, their speed now slowing in preparation to connect to your docking bay. Crimson Fleet ships were always designed to intimidate, and you had to admit, they were doing their job. Large guns and missile mounts alongside their hulls made for quite a threatening picture. Had this been a merchant or exploration vessel, you doubt you would have had any chance at all.

Gideon says something, but in your concentration, you don’t hear him. A few more seconds…they drift closer. You swallow, anticipation and trepidation in equal parts buzzing just under your skin.

There’s no signal or sign to cause you to engage the engines at full thrust with your boost enabled. It came out of nowhere, and the Razorleaf shoots forward out from the group of ships that had been preparing to box you in. You’re pressed back into your chair, the pressure grounding you as you spin the Razorleaf on a tilt, the distant stars shifting in your cockpit’s view.

Gideon half cursed and praised the sudden change in velocity, but otherwise remained quiet and focused at his station. Barrett was unusually silent, but you were thankful for his lack of interruption or witty quip that was so typical of him. Now wasn’t the time as you began your flight away from the pirates.

Another incoming transmission pinged on your communication array, but you simply denied it, not bothering to give the pirate anymore of your attention.

It would be too much to ask to cleanly get away from the fleet without them firing a single shot. It’s less than a minute before you see the first of the laser fire shoot past your ship and out into the space beyond. With a flick of your wrist, the Razorleaf banks and plummets below their firing line, sending them to chase you through the emptiness of the black sea.

Having Sam around had definitely improved your overall piloting ability. The man was a wonder behind a command console, and you silently thanked him for all of the skill and knowledge he’d seen fit to impart upon you on your travels together. You maneuvered the ship with ease, so familiar with its ability that it felt no more than an extension of yourself, in a way.

Your console blared to life an angry red, alerts coming at you full force. ‘Enemy Missile Locked-On’ it spat at you, and you cursed.

“Shields at 86 percent.” Barrett reported, then because he figured you’d ask, “Vasco, how long before we’re topped up?”

“Should current velocity conditions persist, refueling will take an approximate 16 minutes, 39 seconds. Recommendation: stabilize current flight trajectory to decrease time required for completion.”

You feel the rumble and impact of the missile against the ship’s shielding, but your tight grip on the steering mechanism means you barely tilt off your current course at all, weaving around empty space to throw off their targeting as best you could. 

“Shields?” You ask through gritted teeth.

“49 percent. Those things ain’t no joke.” Barrett mentioned.

“Another one of those is gonna put us in a bad spot.” Gideon mentions with worry in his tone. He’s right, though, and you know it.

With few options at your disposal, you make the realization that evading was only going to last you so long. The Razorleaf had superior shields, but under the onslaught of 5 ships’ weapons systems firing upon you at the same time, they would melt away in minutes just the same as any other ship.

Offensive action was now required.

“Gideon, divert all power from the grav drive to main weapons. Keep shields and engines at their current level.” You order, settling as best you can in your chair. “Looks like fighting is our only way out of this now.”

“Y-yes, Captain.”

She knows what she’s doing.” Barrett chipped in, just as your weapons all clicked online. “Don’t start doubting her now.”

You release a steadying breath, focusing on nothing but the impending fire fight. The throttle seems to hum in reassurance beneath your fingers, and with a resolute prayer to protect those you loved most in the deck below, you activated the boost and shot forward.

4 seconds, then 5, passed as you gained ground in front of the chasing ships. Then, right at the end of your boost, you addressed Gideon. “Cut all engine power.”

Thankfully, he didn’t voice his confusion this time, and simply followed orders. Just as the engines cut off, you jerked the throttle to the side, spinning the. Razorleaf in a free-floating turn to face your attackers. For all of 7 or 8 seconds you continued drifting forward, but space shifted in your cockpit view. This was a risky maneuver, but one that you had successfully employed before.

And then the pursuers came into view as you finished your 180 degree turn. Seeing the ships coming closer with the lasers still firing your direction, you shout once more. “Engines full power!”

The Razorleaf burst to life, the velocity once more shoving you back into the seat and propelling you forward. With a direct line on the first of the approaching ships, trigger finger clamps down on the gear like a vise, shooting the lasers from your upgraded main guns straight into those of the Crimson Fleet vessel.

“Enemy guns down.” Barrett reported proudly, but you’re already onto the one behind it by the time he finishes his sentence, managing to get a lock-on to the ship. A well-placed EM shot took down their shields, and your follow up laser blast no doubt damaged some parts of their hull on the port side.

At your current speed, you shot past them with a tilt of your steering mechanism. The whole thing lasted barely 12 seconds, but it had slowed down to what felt like a lifetime. Barrett, shields?”

“41 percent. Looks like you disabled the second ship. Only 4 more to go.” He reassured with something akin to pride in his voice. You manage a small grin, but don’t let your attention up from the stars before you.

More laser shots hit your shield and past it off into the black sea. More evasive maneuvers puts you in a better position to return fire, though it’s little more than a dogfight. Time passes strangely; what feels like an eternity is mere seconds and the span of a breath, and in the moments of breathless waiting you swear it happened in an instant.

The second ships sparks and explodes in a shower of metal debris in similar fashion to the first, your EM weapon making quick work of the shields, only to be followed up with a barrage of laser fire. Only 3 ships remained, and your shields had so far held steady at 37 percent.

Another missile lock-on warning blares across your screen, sending the adrenaline up a notch. Another boost and you’re suddenly out of range of the enemy’s targeting. Really, tangible hope begins to blossom in your chest as the third ship falls. Your wing grazes some of the debris, and you grit your teeth against the reverberation it sends through the ship.

“Fuck!” You shout, nearly colliding with one of the remaining Crimson Fleet ships as you attempt another evasive roll and bank to get away from his companion’s laser fire. Something loud bangs as you pass, and Barrett cursed under his breath just loud enough for you to hear. “Status?”

“Shields at 9 percent, Captain.” His sentence is punctuated by more laser fire, and he shakes his head at his screen. “Make that 6 percent.”

“These fuckers…” You mutter, angry that they’d been laying here in wait to begin with. Angry that the Crimson Fleet even existed. Maybe once all this artifact business was done, you’d reconsider the SYSDEF’s offer after all. At this point, you’d do anything to see them all wiped from the universe.

Another swift roll of the ship and you shoot forward through the bits of debris through one of the already destroyed ships, making sure to avoid the biggest parts just in case. Your shields wouldn’t hold up much longer, and especially not with the 2 remaining ships still firing at you. Luckily, one comes into view in your cockpit, and your EM weapon was ready to dole out its deadly effects.

This one doesn’t take out the shields, rather the engine. Just as well, you think, leaving the ship to stall out in empty space as you continue on with the last ship in pursuit. Another angry beeping sound alerts and diverts your attention.

“We’ve lost shields.” Barrett warns.

“Now or never.” You tell yourself, bracing for a risky move yet again. “Gideon, cut engines!”

Once more, you feel the Razorleaf lose momentum just as you pull up sharply on the throttle. The view of space tilts in your cockpit as you circle around to face the final working ship. You feel and hear as your ship takes damage, but you can’t focus on that until later. With another sharp order, your engines are back online and your weapons are full-blasting in the direction of the enemy ship.

Amongst the beeping on your console and the the celebration of Barrett and Gideon as the Crimson Fleet ship suffers an explosion—one of your lasers must have hit something vital—you can barely hear anything at all. Your ears ring, what from no one knows. But you sit there, adrenaline still coursing through you as you slow the ship to a more gentle velocity.

The command console still blares, but you shakily reach for the com. “Vasco, damage report.”

“Shield generator and port-side KE-42 Cannon sustained moderate damage. Left wing sustained minimal contact damage. All other ship systems nominal.”

“Any damage below deck?”

“Habitation units sustained no damage.” Then, as if he predicted what exactly you were trying to get at, he added, “Life signs for Sam Coe and Cora Coe are nominal.”

“Thank god.” You whisper to yourself, finally leaning back and unstrapping yourself from the pilot seat. “Vasco, please resume refueling the grav drive. Gideon, reroute power from weapons back to the drive, and Barrett, do an extensive scan of the area to make sure there aren’t any other ships coming to back up those ones.”

You received a smattering of affirmatives from your crew, before slumping forward in your seat. Your legs felt like jelly and the rest of you buzzed with the unused adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

Barrett must have noticed your sorry state, because you feel his hand on your shoulder after a moment. When you look up, he’s smiling at you. “That was some damn good piloting.”

“Thanks.”

He gestures to the rest of the ship behind him. “Go on and have yourself a rest, Captain. Gideon and I will handle it from here.”

“But-“

“If we need you, we’ll let you know.” He implies, not giving you the option to refuse. And truthfully, in your shaken-up state, you’re in no position to either. Nodding your acceptance, you somehow manage to stand and make your way towards the ladder to the deck down below. After all of the rolling and moving, it feels strange standing and walking on a static deck. The space seems to sway around you.

However, your head spins before you make it all the way. Dizziness overtakes you, and you sink down onto your cot just feet away. The bed is firm beneath you, but it’s enough to get your bearings on. You plant your face in your hands and exhale a shaky breath, elbows propping you up on your knees.

You’d nearly lost everything. You’d nearly lost your crew. You’d nearly lost Sam and Cora. That scared you more than any number of Crimson Fleet ships baring down on you. It had been too damn close. Too fucking close for your comfort.

Another shuddering breath escapes you, ears still ringing and hollow after such an ordeal. The weight of responsibility, to protect the ones you love most, presses ever downward on your shoulders and back. It would crush you if you let it.

Instead, a gentle hand is upon your back and a gentle voice draws your thoughts from spiraling downward. “Hey. You hangin’ in there?”

It feels like too much to lift your head and look Sam in the eyes. Instead, you simply allow your muscles to shake and shudder as the last of the adrenaline leaves you in a rush. You can’t speak, words failing uselessly at the tip of your tongue. But Sam seems to understand, and simply sits beside you, rubbing smooth circles into your back.

“C’mere.” He says, pulling your arms easily until you’ve buried your face in his leather jacket and wrapped your arms around his back. Maybe he knows where your anxiety was originating, because he whispers all the reassurances he can into your ear. “We’re alright. Cora’s alright. A little motion sickness maybe, but we’re still breathin’, darlin’.”

A deep breath fills your nose with his scent. Familiar and safe and just like home. Hearing him speak, feeling his warmth and the beat of his heart underneath the layers of his clothes…you slowly begin to use them to ground yourself back to the present, away from a possible reality where you all floated lifelessly through the dark empty void of space for eternity. No, Cora was alive. Sweet Cora and her father that you held so dear.

You feel the rumble of the grav drive come to life somewhere on the ship. Vasco must have finished the refueling. That revelation does ease some of your nerves. You lift your face away just enough to speak. “It was so close, Sam.”

“Yeah, but no cigar.” You feel Sam prop his chin on your head and pull you in just that little bit closer. “Five ships…Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”

“More like crazy…”

“A bit of that too, maybe.” You can practically feel the smile when he presses a kiss against your head. “But hey…Any day we aren’t space debris is a win, right?”

You sigh, deciding to let the man comfort you for once, letting go of some of the stubborn guilt that tried eating away at you. It was warm and comfortable, and right now, nothing sounded better than a nap. “Right.”

“Get some sleep, ok?” He encourages, pulling away so he can finally look you in the eyes. Pride and warmth swims behind them, and you can’t look away. Eventually you nod, and he flashes a wider smile, bringing your head closer to place another kiss, this time to your temple.

“We’ll all be here when you wake up.” Is his promise. One you know he would always keep.

[cosmictapestry]

A48? 👉👈

A48. tentacles

hi sorry it's so lonf and that there are feelings .

morphienne prompt list + fills here

Lucienne, sorting through some new additions to the library, opens to the middle of a newly drafted graphic novel—and promptly shuts it, surveys her surroundings—and then opens it again.

It is always gratifying to see how many mortal desires can only be captured in the imagination, satisfaction only met in dreams. Sexual fantasies are no exception. Still, she would rather not be seen reading pornography on the job.

The woman in the story is a skinny little white thing, drawn with an exaggerated delicacy that accentuates the obscenity of the slimy, muscular tendrils that invade her orifices. Her expression is twisted in bliss, stretched as it is around the tendril plundering her mouth. Lucienne thinks the whole ordeal looks grotesque. Then she thinks it's rather interesting.

She stares for longer than is strictly necessary. The image on the page shifts and resizes, revisions that haven't been made yet, blurry in the way of unfinished things. The following pages are more of the same, the girl suspended in the air, pinned to the ground, braced against a wall, helpless and beholden to the tendrils' whims. It is very interesting.

Interesting enough that when Lucienne feels Lord Morpheus sweep into the library, she does not try to hide her discovery. Instead she holds it up higher, knowing that in a second's time he will be looking over her shoulder to see what's so captured her attention. Indeed, his shadow falls over the page not a moment later.

He says nothing while she flips through, pausing on a particular image of the tendrils retreating and leaving one to flick gently at the woman's clitoris while she trembles and spasms. The tenderness of it is striking. Lord Morpheus gives a thoughtful hum. "Bipedal humanoids rarely take interest in body plans different from their own," he says. "It appears humans are becoming lenient. Moreso than most of their predecessors."

"Surely you've seen as much in their dreams," Lucienne murmurs, tracing the length of one tendril with her thumb.

"Of course. But to imagine and to produce art are very different things," Lord Morpheus steps out from behind her, looking now at the rest of the bookshelf where, presumably, they'd find more of this content.

Lucienne glances at him without turning her head. "Have you known many bipedal humanoids with such interests?"

"Not personally, no," he says, and his eyes wander back to the open graphic novel.

That seems a shame, to have the King of Dreams as a lover and not explore all the possibility he contains. Of course, knowing him, there's every chance that he would find something in that request to hurt his pride or otherwise make him uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "And. Are you. Interested. In such things?"

Lucienne bites her lip to stop herself from grinning and possibly scaring him away. His request that he could not voice. That makes perfect sense, too. "I cannot say I've ever indulged in this act, in particular." The nature of soft spaces in the Dreaming, and indeed in her own quarters, means that raw dreamstuff is at the command of the imagination. And there have been many an attractive shape to fall in and out of style in the universe. "But I am interested."

She makes him sweat, just a little. He stands there and shifts and looks at the shelf, then back at the book, and not at her at all. "With me?" he asks, finally, in a tiny voice.

The grin breaks onto her face despite her best efforts. "Yes, with you, silly man," Lucienne puts her hand to his sleeve, stretches up to kiss his reddened cheek, which he grunts and huffs about. "Only your slimy tentacles will do."

His noise wrinkles; she kisses it, too. "They need not be slimy," he protests. "And those are tendrils, not tentacles, besides."

She laughs and waves him off with a gentle swat on his arm and a tap on his arse, too, for good measure, and when he disappears from view it's with an amused glare.

Their night begins normally, with Lord Morpheus stepping into their room and Lucienne already there, meeting him with slow kisses to coax out the worries he's sure to have let settle in.

The room looks much the same as usual, which she wonders about until he pulls back enough to speak. "I was thinking. Perhaps. They might come from under the bed," he says. His gaze flickers across her face nervously. "If you are comfortable with that. We might change the narrative from there."

Lucienne pauses heavily. She cards her hand through the hair at his nape. "Why would I not be comfortable?" She has seen everything there is to see in all of time and space. Though that matters little in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, she does not scare easily.

"I think I will enjoy this immensely," Lord Morpheus says, and the predictability of it threatens Lucienne's careful neutrality with compassionate-but-agonized exhaustion. He is asking, as he often does, if she is sure. "And the thought that I might not be. Suitably attentive. Is frightening."

Lucienne hums, plays with his hair, aches for him. He is never less than exactly as attentive as she wants him to be. But, oh, who knows what might happen, if he feels too good, if he likes it too much. "Have you experience with similar practices?"

"I do predate bilateral symmetry," he says, faux-offended. He tips his head forward to avoid her eyes and arch his neck into her hand. He enjoys her attention for a long moment before he speaks again. "I remember. How it felt. To be so close."

Her thumb traces his jaw, nail digging soft into the clenched hinge until he relaxes. "I am not afraid of you enjoying yourself," she tells him. Her lord's shoulders lift on a sigh, because he thinks that isn't what he's talking about. "I've known you by every name, and I'd know you by every shape." She brushes under his eye to feel the flutter of his lashes, then lifts his face to hers. "And I would welcome you as close as you can get."

He's moaning before he's kissing her, feverish hunger, like the limitations of finite-limbedness are only frustrating now in anticipation of something more. He wastes little time with her clothing, taking slow, significant care only in sliding down her knickers, gripping her under the thighs and lifting her, bracing her on his hips with his bulge grinding into her. He doesn't stop kissing her while he walks them to the bed, and she pants to keep up, tongue lolling lazily with his, the friction on her clit honey-sweet and rough until it is gone altogether.

Lord Morpheus lays her down in the sheets, bare and hazy and wanting, and when he retreats entirely to sit at the foot of the bed he leaves her skin buzzing. Draped in soft black, one knee drawn up to his chest, gaze unwavering, he is completely still, taking in the image of her, an offering. "I'm right here," he tells her. She knows he is. His hands are clasped in full view and she feels him touch her.

She turns her head to see the expansion of her lord's material aspect. The width of an inkpot, warm and firm, slippery-wet, soft as velvet, a slip of darkness wraps her wrist. From there it coils up, its course seemingly predetermined, to slide smokelike between her fingers and coil in the palm of her hand. Lucienne stares at it, matte black muscular pulse of shadow, and she notes that it is shivering.

Lucienne sits up, the tendril thrumming in her hand. Its tapered head lifts, seeking, reaching for warmth. With her other hand she strokes along its length, down to where it disappears over the edge of the bed. She looks up when she hears her lord's breath catch. "How sensitive is it?"

He swallows and twitches and pulls his robe closer around himself. "It is. Me," he mumbles. That is the encouragement she needs to lean forward, lips softly parted, and kiss the top of the tendril's head. A shiver runs through him. Gently she draws the tip into her mouth.

Lord Morpheus gasps and rocks and whispers her name. The tendril pulses hot in her mouth and squirms deeper like it has no choice. It is silken-soft, sweet-tasting, muscular and firm on her tongue. It is not thick enough to fill her mouth but it makes a valiant effort, folding on itself, trying to stuff its way in. She pushes forward, makes herself gag on it. He sobs out and pulls back. "Lucienne," he gasps.

Lucienne waits, the tip of the tendril resting on her tongue, and she watches him. He is sweating already, and he pulls his robe away, leaving him in soft shirt and trousers that have begun to stick. He pushes one hand back through his hair while he catches his breath. "Can I—more?"

Her heart soaring, her core aching, she takes him back into her mouth. His head tips back, throat bobbing on a broken groan. Lucienne is too busy watching a bead of sweat course down his neck to notice a second tendril appear until she feels it slip, thick and supple, under her breast. It slicks her skin, touches the other breast, tweaks the nipple, wraps it and pulls.

Lucienne arches her chest into the touch, forces the tendril in her mouth deeper. Wet heat grips her left ankle. She suckles on the length in her mouth—it's getting thicker, swelling—and it calms her while a matching shadow takes her right ankle. Her legs are drawn apart, slowly, and she watches her lord's face, watches the way his nostrils flare when she is spread for him.

Her wrists are grabbed next. Sweetly she is guided back in the sheets, laid out and spread open, squeezed in meaty rhythmic pulses, slick pulses and caresses on her breasts and in her mouth and all across her prickling skin. She groans with her mouth stuffed full and shakes when she feels a push at her core.

The tendrils feel so strong, unshakeable, and the one that teases her folds is no exception. Smearing slickness, heat and pressure, maddening soft texture so tender and teasing, playing, thrusting between her lips, flicking her clit. It's thinner than the ones that tie her down, and as it slips inside her, it feels so nerve-shatteringly smooth and good that her eyes roll.

She's choking, drooling, and she feels—a second tendril, twining with the one inside her, entering her, dragging, throbbing, until she is full, strung through on either end, stretched all around him. He is whispering, now, asking her—"can I lift you? Please, can I—" and she can do nothing but moan and scream yes through their dreamscape.

More tendrils, thicker ones, embracing her waist and upper arms and thighs, lifting her up off the bed, sitting her up in the air. More tendrils stroking her all over, a thin one playing with her clit, another sliding in the cleft of her arse, another between her breasts, leaving her skin shining. Her lord watches. Dream-gravity forces her down on the entwined tendrils and she clenches and comes on them until she cannot tell whose pulse she is feeling.

Still reeling, she is maneuvered above the bed, stretched out, wrists lifted above her head. All she can hear are her own stricken sounds and wet slipping and his ragged, desperate breath. A new, thin tendril plucks at her arsehole, rubs at it, worms its way inside. Her legs spread and twitching, she cannot even struggle to get more contact.

He pulls an orgasm from her like that, with sharp insistent thrusts, until she squeezes hard enough to almost force him out. Then she is horizontal, the thick tendrils binding her arms to her sides, her arse spread, and then she is upside-down, one leg dangling helplessly, and then, eventually, at some point, she is back on the bed.

Lucienne gasps and heaves and the tendril in her mouth slips from her. She feels the graze of soft fabric, not so different from living shadow, as her lord climbs atop her and kisses her shocked-open mouth. He pants and quivers and ruts against her inner thigh. "Please," he gasps, shoving his trousers down, heedless of the copious mess inside, smeared as it is over his cock and thighs. "Please, Lucienne, can I—"

He's wetter than his tendrils are, nudging at her clit, mouthing at her jaw. She's possibly never seen him so desperate. She is exhausted. With the last of her strength she reaches down with a newly freed hand and touches him. His hips jump and stutter and he sobs into her neck when she guides him in alongside the tendrils already inside her.

The stretch is immense. It makes her cry. Overwhelmed, stricken, shocked, she arches her back, takes him, barely, speared impossibly. She comes when he bottoms out. He does, too, when she spasms and grinds him into his own tendrils, squeezes him in soaking heat.

The tendrils do not withdraw. They lie together and pant and shiver and are still. The tendrils disappear entirely, and Lucienne is left loose and open, fluttering around him. "Thank you," Lucienne whispers. She takes his face, pulls him up to kiss away his tears and smooth his fear. "Well done, love, thank you."

[holdmecloser-gandydancer]

@blupjeansweek day 1: Refuge

The sky opens up in a fickle instant. A moment ago, nothing but blue skies and fluffy clouds. The next, Barry’s clothes are getting soaked through and he’s looking for some kind of refuge from the storm. 

He ducks into the first structure that has something more substantial than a thatched roof. Lucky for him, he finds himself not in a private residence with an unhappy homeowner, but inside a cozy bookshop. Cozy is putting it gently; he's certain that there are more books than there are square feet in the shop. Precarious stacks loom taller than his head, small trinkets sit where they can find purchase, and handwritten signs vaguely outline some organizational structure. 

He can't see any kind of checkout desk or register. He assumes he's not intruding; the door was unlocked, after all. 

The shop smells mildewy, a signifier of a good bookshop. More signs lure him further into the shop, promising more books in branching rooms and rarer books downstairs. 

Thunder cracks outside, loud enough to make some of the stacks wobble. Further in it is.

He's several twisting hallways and branching rooms in when he sees another soul. A dark brown cat with tan stripes and intense brown eyes. It's perched on a desk, sitting like it owns the place. 

Barry keeps himself at a distance; doesn't want to risk an allergy flare up in such tight quarters. But he smiles at it. Truly he's cursed with his allergy whilst being fond of cats. It's never an allergy foisted upon cat haters, that's for sure.

The cat meows at him, almost expectantly. 

"Hey! Hi! I'm just checking the place out."

The cat meows again. More interrogatively this time. 

"I'm Barry." He sneezes, though whether it's from the dander or the rain, he isn't sure. 

The cat seems satisfied with this answer and stretches, walking its paws up a stack of sturdy hardbacks. One goes toppling off the stack. Barry bends down to pick it up, but a voice stops him. 

"Oh, I got that, don't worry about it!"

By the time Barry straightens up, the cat is gone and in its place is a beautiful woman, sitting on the desk, putting the book back in its place. 

If Barry were in some kind of fantasy novel, he'd remark on the similarities between the woman and the cat in a way that's somehow more than just people looking like their pets.

But that'd be silly. 

She smiles at him. "So. Barry. Are you cool?"

A frown. No? Historically, no. "Yeaaaaah," he says, surely so convincingly. 

"Just trying to see if you're a narc, dude."

"Not a narc."

"You sure? You gotta tell me if you are. That’s the law, probably."

"Hundred percent not a narc."

"Cool! I'm Lup. If you promise not to get rain on them, you wanna come down to the basement and see the collection of rare books I've got? I also have a pretty dope coffee maker down there, if that sweetens the deal for you." She pauses and ponders. "This isn't like, a Cask of Amontillado situation, I promise."

Barry laughs in spite of himself."Uh. Yeah, yeah, Lup. I'd love that. Promise not to rain on the books." In fact, he feels remarkably dry now. Weird. Must have been in here longer than he thought. 

"Dope! Follow me," she says, disappearing from sight with a remarkable speed. 

In fact, he doesn't see Lup trotting downstairs, but the cat from earlier. 

"Um. H-hey Lup? Are you the cat? Because you gotta tell me if you're the cat! It's the law, probably!" He gets no answer.

He follows the cat, of course. He thinks he has to. 

[theluckywizard]

Happy Friday, for Hawke: My armor falls apart, as if I could let myself be seen, even deeply known. Like I was already brave enough to let go

Hi Blue, thank you! 💖

For @dadrunkwriting I thought I'd write Hawke's arrival at Skyhold from his perspective in my long fic universe.

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Varric, tiny bit of Rose Trevelyan

Rating: G

WC: 737

Hawke sits.

The stool lists with creaks and cracks of protest as it settles under his armor-clad weight. He chuckles in agreement; the travel had been harder on his body than he anticipated in spite of keeping up with his training. He stretches his legs long before him, pushing his heels through the straw and dusty manure bits of the stable floor. 

She’s still in his line of sight, striding with arms swinging toward the upper bailey of this storybook keep, the light in her left hand like a firefly in this twilight. She sneaks a look at him over her shoulder and catching his gaze quickens her step across the yard. He’d perked up from his sleepy years of hiding when he’d been summoned by letter, but now he’s wide awake. It’s her.

Violet the Weathervane Adjuster. 

oOo

Hawke keeps his hood up as he crosses the same bailey after doffing his plate and making sure a stablehand knew to pamper Rosco properly after such a harrowing trip. There’s no hiding himself, imposing brute he is and over the years he’s learned the best way to knock back attention is to cast overly earnest smiles and wave awkwardly. Nothing unnerves people more. But Skyhold is so alive with focused activity that nobody glances at him for more than a second, and he makes his way to the upper bailey without the smallest interruption.

He just has to make it to the blazing codger who told him where to come, wherever he holds court around this crumbling bastion. Hawke flags down a young man who crosses purposefully from the gatehouse toward the inner keep— too young to be a recruit but old enough to know his way around such a place— and pitches him a silver to locate Varric Tethras and send him to upper bailey to meet with one C. Huckles, purveyor of fine cinnamon rolls.

It only takes ten minutes.

“You’d better have a Maker-damned cinnamon roll, Huckles.”

Hawke stands from the wall where he’d been leaning, chewing on one of the wood splinters he fashions for himself when he needs to keep his hands busy. He spits the splinter and grins, bending low to squash the dwarf against him tightly.

“You’ll have to settle for me,” says Hawke, feeling the heat of tears teasing at the corner of his eyes. “Fuck I’ve missed you.” Three years, ten months. Letters were a poor sodding substitute.

“How’s Sunshine?”

“Good, good. Glad to get me out of her hair no doubt.”

“How many wrong turns did you take?”

“Six and three-quarters."

"Better than I expected."

“So this Rose creature,” says Hawke, bouncing his brows.

Varric grumbles a sigh. “Inquisitor Rose Creature, to you.”

“When can I meet her?”

“I’ll grab her at breakfast and bring her somewhere discreet,” says Varric. “I have to warn you though. She’s read the book.”

“Maker.”

“What can I say, it’s a sensation,” says Varric with a dusty chuckle.

“I suppose I’ve got my work cut out for me. Setting the record straight.”

“Something tells me you’re going to have the time.” Varric kicks a saddlebag. “This all your shit?”

“Got a place for me to crash?”

“How’s a bedroll on my floor sound? Got a fireplace at least. Can’t say the same of most others around here.”

“Do you snore the way you used to?”

“Worse.”

“Sold.”

oOo

Hawke stares at the cobweb dressed joists above him, hands tucked under his head, a tumbler of tasteless brandy out of Jader on the stone tiles beside him. The nightmares that crowd his memory have stuck like scale and mail all over him for so long that a smile spreads across his face unfettered. They’d spent time together. And Lady Violet— Inquisitor Rose— had knocked the armor clear away and seen him. He’d been ready for it, but his courage rose with each collective moment beside her. He wanted to tell her all of it. He wanted to listen to all of it.

“I’ve seen you like this before, Hawke,” says Varric, setting down his reading. “As sure as the alignment of the moons. Even the Maker is like ‘ah shit, not again.’”

“Mind your book, old friend. I haven’t felt this good in years.”

“I’ll rain on your parade tomorrow then.” Varric’s fatherly assessment is always a given.

“Perfect. I look forward to your withering reality check. But for now. Self-indulgent flights of fancy. And shitty brandy.”

[youwouldntlietopapa]

For kissing prompts: kitchen counter makeouts with Secondo? 👀

omg, okay this got way longer than I meant for it to. And there is just SO much terrible Italian (thanks, Google Translate). If you have an ao3 account, I will be posting it there also, with translations.

Includes: Making out (obv), light dom/sub, biting, hair pulling, heavy petting, romance, fluff, domestic fluff

+18 MDNI

______________________________________________________________

It had been a long day. Made even longer by the grey skies and the endless rain. The sort of day you’d have given anything to have spent in your own private quarters, curled up with a blanket, a book, a cup of tea, and Secondo. But, as he loved to remind you, duty comes first. Those things were for the evening. When there weren’t a hundred trivial things that everyone felt deserved his immediate and complete attention.

But, at least, it’s evening now. He is in the bathroom, cleaning his paints off, settling in for a quiet night. No parties, no functions, no people. The best sort, as far as you are concerned.

The kettle begins to heat and the rain taps on the windows. You stand in the kitchenette of his rooms, leaning against the counter and staring into your empty mug without really seeing it. Too lost in your thoughts to really take in anything around you completely. Too comfortable and safe in your space to bother keeping your guard up. The soft click of the kettle shutting off as it reaches a full boil is just enough to pull you out of your reverie. Reaching for the handle without fully paying attention, your finger touches the hot metal exterior. Too late to stop the burn even as you snatch your hand away, hissing painfully.

“Sei ferito, amore?” Secondo’s deep voice is soft and gentle. How such a big man can move so quietly is beyond you but, as always, he simply appears behind you. Taking your hand and inspecting it carefully. His lips brush your fingers. “È stato il bollitore a ferire il mio tesoro più prezioso? Vuoi che lo faccia distruggere e smaltire per te?” His tone may be lightly teasing, but you know that he would, in a heartbeat, if you asked.

“Non posso incolpare il bollitore per la mia goffaggine, il mio cuore. Inoltre, sono sicuro che ora sa chi è il mio protettore e ci penserà due volte prima di farmi del male di nuovo.” You slip your hand from his and cup his cheek, stretching up to kiss him softly. “La prossima volta, però, lo voglio morto.”

He chuckles, kissing you again, more firmly. “Qualsiasi cosa per te, mia regina oscura.”

It’s so easy to melt into his kiss. The spiced scent of his soap and the lingering cologne. The warmth of his hands and the press of his body against yours. His shirt hangs open and your hands are already exploring every familiar curve and faded scar. Running through the dark hair. Slipping around his back and hugging yourself to him. “I have been waiting all day for this.” You smile against his lips, barely whispering for fear of breaking the spell. “To have you all to myself.”

His hands catch your waist, lifting you up to the counter top. Even sitting up there, he still stands taller than you. “Always so eager for me, Amore.” Secondo smiles, brushing your hair back from your face, and cradling the back of your head in his large hands to kiss you deeply. Amaro still lingering on his lips. No amount of willpower would be enough to hold back the moan he drags from you. His own rumbling growl matching the weather outside. “Aspettando tutto il giorno. Così pazientemente. E ora eccomi qui. Tutto tuo.”

“Secondo…” You say softly, hooking your legs around his waist. Delicately tracing his jaw. Staring back into his mismatched eyes. “Il mio bellissimo, perfetto, amato Secondo…”

He’d never admit it, never even hint at it, but you know him too well not to see it. Nothing warms his heart so much as loving praise. Hearing the words without hesitation or condition. And, most of all, knowing he can trust them to be true when you say them. He doesn’t smile or say a word, but as your love and devotion wash over him, you can feel him relax, the tension in his jaw and his shoulders melt away. It speaks louder than words ever could and you hold the warmth of it close to your heart.

“Io sono tua. Solo il vostro. Ora e sempre.” Your hands massage into his shoulders, working out the knots as you kiss along his jaw.

“Solo mio.” His hand spreads over your lower back, pressing you closer to him. The other slides up into your hair, gripping just tightly enough to feel the tug. Secondo leans in closer, kissing just below your ear and running his tongue over your skin. His mouth trails down your neck, biting at your shoulder and earning a soft hiss from you. Sucking firmly until a bruise begins to bloom. “Indossando il mio marchio in modo che tutti sappiano di tenere le loro sporche mani lontane da ciò che è mio.”

“Sì, signore.” Your nails dig into his back and you whimper softly. One hand slides down to grab his ass. “Se qualcuno osa, gli taglierò la mano e te la presenterò.”

His grip on your hair tightens, tugging your head back, growling louder. When he claims your mouth, you submit without hesitation. Moaning into the kiss as his tongue rolls against yours. His hand on your back keeps you pinned in place, pressed against his chest. One hand, however, slides between your hips. Running over the front of his trousers. Feeling him pressing against the fabric constraints. Secondo grunts as your hand works over him, not even attempting to free. You’ll pay for it later, you’re sure, and it will be worth every moment. Tormenting him just a little as the opportunity arises.

“Sai cosa ottengono le ragazze cattive, vero, Amore?” He asks huskily, breaking away from your kiss with a wicked glint in his eye.

You look up at him with your biggest, most innocent doe eyes. “Mi? Cattivo? Sicuramente no, signore.”

He smirks, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Cosa malvagia, sei. Sempre alla prova della mia pazienza.”

“Allora è una cosa molto buona che tu mi ami così tanto.” You give him a sly smile and lean closer, kissing along his collar bone. Nipping softly at his neck. Your hand runs over his warm skin, across his chest. Finger circling his nipple almost lazily. “Quasi quanto ti amo.”

“Quasi?” Secondo chuckles softly, letting you enjoy yourself. Slowly snaking a hand between your legs. “Dubiti di quanto ti amo?”

Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you. It takes a moment to get your composure back. “Mai, signore. So solo quanto ti amo e non riesco a immaginare che qualcuno abbia mai amato un altro tanto quanto io amo te.”

“E quanto è quello, Tesoro?”

When you look up at him, he meets your gaze, waiting. Your own gaze is steady and confident. Enough to have his complete attention. Even his fingers stop their teasing. His heart pounding under your hand pressed to his chest.

“Più di tutto l'oro e i gioielli del mondo. Più di tutti i pesci del mare. Più di tutte le stelle del cielo. Più della vita stessa. Io sono tua. Chiedimi di ridurre in cenere il mondo e lo avrò in fiamme al mattino.”

For a long moment you both stare at each other. Secondo, frozen in place. Not moving or blinking or even breathing. All at once grabbing your hips and lifting you up off the counter, holding you against himself. His mouth claims yours again, fiercely. Your hands hooking behind his neck and returning the kiss with the same ardent passion.

“Satana, ti amo. Ucciderei per te. Morirei per te. La mia vita è tua, mia oscura regina. La mia Lilith.” He says breathlessly, pulling away just enough to look you in the eye.

“Saltiamo il tè e ci rilassiamo sul divano e andiamo subito a letto?”

Secondo closes his eyes and shakes his head, chuckling at your ridiculousness. “Si.”

“Sì, subito.”