#they are built like planks of wood

[gayestcowboy]

genshin impact has done irreparable harm to the men’s boobs loving community. none of those men have boobs. their boobs are not big. if they got a letter grade in breast size they’d all be the fucking valedictorian

[featherlouise]

Breakdown of Lace's outfit and the power of some well placed ruffles!!

Also a sliiiiightly updated version of her design

[starlooove]

Bedtime

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[ottpopfic]

I like to think about Camp Half Blood and how its probably full of old hidden kid structures

It's an ancient sacred valley, that has trained and housed children for thousands of years, many of those kids coming from artisan backgrounds and gods. Kids build things, kids make forts and rope swings and tree houses. Kids need hidy holes and pretend play boxes and secrets.

I like to think about walking in the CHB woods, off the trail in a place you think dryads have only ever been to. And then you come to this tree with wooden planks nailed to it. You look up into this old oak and above you is a few more boards, just enough to make good seating hidden in the branches. There are initials carved in the bark, no one you recognize, and doodles on the boards. You don't know who built it or when, was it put up last year or fifty years ago, but someone dragged 2x4s miles and miles through the trees and made a place just for them. Your reminded that this place has always been here, that so many half-bloods have come and gone, but all throughout the valley there are still echoes of them

‘I was here’ says the little jerry-rigged bridge over the creek, ‘I mattered’ says the rope swing into the lake, ‘Even if I'm forgotten’ says the crumbling fort in the woods, ‘I left something behind’ says the initials in the tree

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1924 uh, er...roof is a bargain for $240K. It's located in Garden City, KS and has 2bds, 2ba.

Not bad, right? The entrance actually reminds me of an earth ship home. This is a nice, sunny, plant room with a built-in seat.

It must've been remodeled b/c it's giving mid-century modern vibes. The living room is spacious, has a great fireplace and a built-in desk with a storage armoire and wood plank beamed ceiling. I like the tile floor and the lighting, too.

Needs a good cleaning, some decor, and it will be a beautiful room.

This is unique- doors open to reveal a terrace to the plant room.

There are so many interesting features to this home, like a large walk-in closet.

There are also open levels. Lots of them.

More stairs. Could this be a bedroom? There's a full bath and a curtain for privacy.

The bath was definitely remodeled in mid-century. Look at the sinks.

Lots of shelving in the hallway. At least I think it's a hallway.

More stairs.

Look at the bathroom sink in there- it's in a recessed box-like structure with a light.

This is the dining area with an overhead chandelier and built-in cabinets.

And, the kitchen.

It's nice and on one of the upper levels, so the window has a view of the room below.

Kitchen and dining room.

The family room has a lovely fireplace.

Across from the family room is another open area. I don't know what you'd use that for. Maybe a home office.

Through the doors of the family room, there seems to be a small loft area and more stairs.

On the way down the stairs there's a planter.

This house is like a maze. Looks like a closet and bath.

And, down here is the laundry room.

I like this house, but right now I'm lost. I think it's the stupid photos they took.

At last, I think I found a bedroom.

We're back in the plant room. If you look up, you can see one room above and another room below.

The back of the property has a large cement area and fence.

Inside the fence is a huge dirt yard and a cement patio.

There's a shed, too. It really needs some landscaping and looks like there's plenty of room for a garden. It's an 8,681 sq. ft. lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/901-E-Pine-St-Garden-City-KS-67846/77195908_zpid/

[oneafter909]

right off the bat, paul would have no more than a B cup, and if you think otherwise, you can take it up with me in my inbox but just know my opinion on this is staunch and unwavering. similarly, george harrison would be built like a 2x4 plank of wood in any universe, including those where he has tits, so he has mosquito bites he has that natural top surgery chest that many would kill for he has no rack. and no ass, obviously, but that’s unrelated. john and ringo both have that shit going on however. like hey man my eyes are up here. now, as for whose are bigger, this is a complicated question, because it ISSS john! at first. at FIRST john and ringo are in a very fair and noble tit off, both of them within a similar range but john just barely edging ringo out of the competition. however, once john gets heroin thin, all that goes away, and his tits would fall to just barely larger than paul’s. sad! well, that just goes to show you……….

[kodared]

✰ Stanford & Borrower/Anomaly Reader ✰

fears not enough they have to tear him apart.

Chapter 1/?

Wordcount: 2,057

➤ Summary Based on the borrowers of many universes! I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't know about borrowers, let me be your guide into a world I've loved since I was young. ✰Written because I saw the severe lack of borrower content in Gravity Falls fanfic, i hope you enjoy <3 ✰ - ★Updates irregularly! I write when I want ★

★ - Also on AO3! - ★

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58879087/chapters/150070549

The cottage you moved into was poorly constructed and had many openings to various rooms because of the peeling wallpaper. It was partially why you chose to reside there after many weeks of venturing the forest once your parents kicked you out. 

You lived with your parents in a tree until they decided it was time for you to make your way in this world. Oh, how you could imagine the looks on their faces if you told them the mess you got yourself into this time. 

Your family chose the safety of trees and burrows rather than living in the walls of creatures that could kill you without so much as a flick of a wrist. 

You wouldn't call yourself one for adventure, quite the opposite. Humans terrified you to your very core. You’ve been a first-hand witness to what they are capable of. When the cottage was in the process of being built you watched many trees torn and splintered by their impossibly large machines. 

You rather despised humans. What you didn't despise however was routine and having access to food much easier than foraging. 

Life in the cottage was relatively peaceful, it was about as peaceful as you could get for being only a few inches tall. You swore your species was doomed to fail if it wasnt for humans influence. 

The scientist who lived in the cottage was paranoid, that much was obvious. Even when you first moved in after being kicked out he stayed up much too late and consumed too much coffee to be considered sane. You brushed it off because, after a few days of scoping out the walls of the cottage, you realized he had a very precise schedule that made borrowing easy. 

He would wake up early, and go to bed late. Usually uttering to himself before going down into his basement to do who knew what. It gave you a lot of time to yourself, and a human with a predictable schedule was hard to come by. Most had kids or animals, both very dangerous to someone like yourself. Fortunately, this human only seemed to have one friend who came around periodically, but they stayed downstairs. 

You had noticed that night you were running low on thread and crackers, and the human was in his basement. Of course, night turned into day much quicker than you predicted. 

The shock and horror of hearing the vending machine door open while you were in the middle of climbing up into his shelf literally by a thread still shuddered through your body even now. 

…So what if you screamed and ran off despite him shouting for you? So what if you have to move homes? It didn't even matter much to you that when you let go of the thread you landed on your foot and wrist wrong. 

The faint memory of his hand reaching for you did rattle you to your core, despite how much you insisted you could escape him even if he did grab you. 

The way his eyes bared into your very soul, the way even his shadow in the early dawn lighting engulfed your entire body. Your shaking hands as you pried the loose wood plank off the wall just as you could feel his body heat emitting from his hand radiating on your back. 

… 

 …You push the memories away lest you give yourself another panic attack. You tried to not let it bother you much, though you would miss the plentiful amounts of jellybeans and other snacks he kept on the shelves. 

No. What bothered you the MOST was the fact every little detail, every little move you made before you ran off into the wall, was now being documented. 

You looked down from the crack in the wall with a grimace. There was a foul taste in your mouth as you saw the human below taking vivid and rigorous notes while sitting at the kitchen table. His pen scratched the page so hard you believed it would rip. 

The red journal he carried with him was the bane of your existence. If any information about you or your species was going to become mainstream, it would doom your life as you knew it. Not to mention shatter any dreams you had of a normal life. 

You weren't in any position to do anything about it yet. The effects of the adrenaline pumping through your veins were slowly ebbing away. Leaving a dull ache in your head and a nasty sprain on your wrist and ankle. 

With a sigh, you pushed off the wall and made the long trek back to your room. Deciding that before leaving, you had to get rid of the page in his journal. He had to leave it unguarded at some point. 

Your room in the walls wasnt much, but you spent a lot of time working on it. You hollowed out a space inbetween a few support beams and insulation and put a few pieces of cloth on the walls. 

The pin cushion you called a bed practically screamed your name as you pushed your makeshift cloth ‘door’ open. You broke off a piece of a cracker you swiped a few days prior and shoveled it into your mouth before collapsing on the bed. 

Getting that journal was your only hope. Ignoring the chalky residue left in your mouth by the dry cracker sleep soon found you. 

… 

That man did not leave his journal for one moment. 

It's been two days since your last encounter with the human. You tried so hard to stay patient in the walls and bide your time until you could get ahold of the cursed page, but your rations were running short. 

So you threw on your satchel and stabbed a needle in your pants just in case he was out. You used to not carry it, but you weren't taking any chances. 

Pressing your hands to your eyes you tried to gather courage as you walked in the dark pathways of the walls. You tried not to think about what would happen if you were caught by the scientist. 

You’ve seen him take creatures like yourself down in his basement, and they never come back up. 

Despite this, you still for whatever reason chose to stay. You wished you never stayed. More than anything you wished you had just found a nice, abandoned burrow like your cousin had, and stayed in the woods. 

In your frustration you kicked a piece of rock, it hit a nearby pipe with a satisfying twang. 

There were more predators in the woods but atleast they would just kill you. There was no telling what the human would do if he caught you. 

Taking a deep breath you consoled yourself, if you played your cards right and stayed out of sight this would turn out like it usually did. 

You would take a few crackers and leave, that's all you had to do. 

As you pressed your hands against the wall and shakily pushed, you felt the loose wood disconnect with a satisfying crack while you poked your head out.

You squinted as the bright light from the kitchen flooded into the wall and onto your face.  

Everything seemed completely normal, which should have relaxed you, but it merely put you more on edge. 

This human wasnt normal. There was no reason everything on the countertop was tidied away. He usually left dishes in the sink, and from where you stood you saw none. 

You where about to slink back into the wall and go out a different time before you heard his voice. 

“...It was bipedal!- have you ever-” 

You were quick to pull yourself back into the wall, your hand slipping on the wood and giving yourself a splinter. You sucked in a breath and held your yelp as you heard footsteps coming closer. 

“I know, you haven't stopped talking about it for three hours..” 

The other human's voice sounded southern, you recognized it as the main resident's friend, or ���associate’ he sometimes said. 

You could hear them picking up various glasses and cups, if you had to guess the humans were probably making more coffee. Your hypothesis was only confirmed as you heard the cursed machine whirr to a start. 

You finally let out the breath you were holding as you felt the splinter that now lodged itself in your palm. Wincing as you continued to listen. 

“I know, I just wish I was able to capture it! I could put a more accurate sketch, what if its the only one of its kind?” 

Predictable as always. 

“Ford, I'm sure you already went scarin’ the thing half to death. I wouldn't be shocked if it left,” 

Ford. The scientist was named Ford. As you picked at the splinter you internally berated the name, yours wasnt much better but atleast your parents loved you enough to not name you Ford. 

…Maybe you where being a bit mean. 

“I doubt it, more than likely I can catch it again early morning. It seemed shocked I was there, it more than likely has a schedule it keeps to.” 

Or maybe you weren't mean enough. Seriously who did this guy think he was? You had half a mind to march out of the wall and stab his stupid hand.

You didn't bother listening to the rest of their conversation, too preoccupied with picking at the splinter. Trying to pull it out with little to no light proved itself to be difficult. 

You could head back to your room, but the string lights in there had limited battery, and you tried to save it for only special occasions. 

To your relief, the pair left a few minutes later. Only when you heard the vending machine door clunk shut did you press against the wood plank. 

Using the small sliver of light provided you pulled the splinter out with your nails, flicking it away before turning and looking at the counter. 

…He left a dish. 

A dish in front of where he last saw you. A dish full of various snacks, ranging from two jellybeans to crackers and cheese. 

You weren't some domesticated house pet. You scowled at the dish as if it had personally scalded you before walking past it. 

You walked quietly despite there being no reason to. Wishing you had your fish hook and thread to get up on the higher shelf. 

You could manage without it though. You only made it a few months prior so you were skilled enough to find some scraps on the counter usually. 

To your dismay, though he seemed to have done a thorough cleaning, and without your hook you had no way to reach the shelves above to gather your food. 

You pressed on and walked over to the sink, careful to balance on the edge. You looked at the faucet and walked over to the handle. Gently and carefully push it just a smidge before taking out a small thimble you used for water. 

After drinking your fill and putting the thimble away, you turned the water off. 

…Not fully though, he could deal with a leaky faucet for a few hours. 

You where going to go back empty-handed until your stomach growled looking at the crackers he left out. 

Surely taking one wouldn't hurt, if you left a message. 

You picked up one and stuffed it into your bag, contemplating taking a jellybean but deciding against it. Right before you went into the wall you kicked the dish off of the counter. Shattering on the floor with a satisfying clatter. 

Snickering to yourself you slinked off into the walls. You’d check back on the human that night to see if he left his journal on his desk this time. 

… 

A few hours later Ford had finally gotten to a stopping point with his research. Thoughts of the little creature in his walls beckoned at his mind as he rode the elevator up. 

He sent Fiddleford home with a goodnight before practically sprinting into the kitchen, seeing the mess left by the mischievous thing. 

One thing on the counter caught his eye in particular. 

As he picked it up he examined it thoroughly. 

A small splinter of wood, ever so slightly tinged at the edge with red. 

“...Fascinating..” 

---

Thank you for reading!! Ill more than likely be updating this when i can, but be assured Chapter 2 is already being written with plans for three others!

Hope you Enjoyed!! My Askbox is always open if you want to hear me ramble more about borrowers! V●ᴥ●V

[eddiesxangel]

Take Me to the Lakes | E.M x reader part 5/6

Summary: This summer was supposed to be the summer to work at your favourite place in the world with your best friend. But things take a turn when it isn’t your best friend you end up working with.

Master list

cw: angst, dirty smut and more angst. 3.9k words

You’ve been grappling with yourself for days. The emotional turmoil is akin to a never-ending struggle. You are torn between two opposing forces—one driven by love, passion and desire to be with Eddie while the other grounded in reality. You know that leaving this idyllic bubble of happiness will mean facing the challenges and complexities of real life, which is causing you mental and emotional anguish.

You do, in fact, love Eddie. You have ever since you laid eyes on him. Even back then, pure infatuation turned into lust, which in turn made you fall in love with him all the same. This makes this decision that much more difficult to swallow. Your pride and reputation meant everything to you, but how could your two worlds coexist? 

You played along, pretending to ignore your worries when you were around Eddie. You wanted to take advantage of all the time you had left before summer ended. Only a few more weeks, time was running out, yet it stood still when you were with Eddie. Eddie made you feel safe and wanted. Eddie makes you feel alive and free. You always felt a sense of calm whenever you were with Eddie. There was something about him that made you feel like you could be your true self around him without any fear of judgment. You never had to put on a façade or pretend to be someone you're not. 

Eddie was your well-needed reminder that you don't have to be perfect to be loved and accepted. He appreciated you for who you were, flaws and all. Being with him was a source of comfort and reassurance you could always count on.

No matter how much you try to push it away, that little warning bell in your mind keeps ringing. It reminds you of all the things that could go wrong. It's like a constant companion that never leaves your side, always lurking in the back of your mind. 

The fear of the unknown was overwhelming and paralyzing at times, especially at night when you were alone with your thoughts, making you feel helpless and trapped.

With Eddie, you felt like you could let your guard down and be yourself. Eddie was also judged and tried; he was nothing of the man everyone blamed him for being, but you were only you; you couldn’t make the town see him for who he truly was. Or maybe you could? But the burden would be too much, ruining the status you’ve built up your whole life. Was it worth the risk? You know Eddie would risk it all for you, but deep down, you wouldn’t be able to do it for him…

—

Today, you were on Field duty with Robin, Ashton and Eddie. Not much had happened besides the four of you supervising the soccer game between your groups. So when you and Eddie asked them to cover for you for about twenty minutes, they reluctantly agreed. 

You and Eddie snuck off to the barn because you were running out of places to have sex. The cabin was mysteriously boarded up the last time you tried sneaking off, so you needed to get creative. 

“You’re always so horny” You giggle as he grabs your ass.

“It’s not that I’m horny…you’re just that sexy, I can’t help myself.” 

“Shut up and kiss me,” You giggle. 

Eddie presses you up against the raw wooded planks of the barn wall. It was stuffy and hot in there, but you only cared about Eddie. Eddie made you feel alive, wanted, and protected. You wanted him to feel the same. All thoughts are thrown out the window. You don’t worry about getting caught; you don’t worry about life after camp; your entire being is absorbed by thoughts of Eddie.

“I want you in my mouth.” You moan as Eddie kisses you deeply. You’ve made it to the barn and pulled him into a dark corner. 

“You wanna get on your knees for me, Princess?”

“Mmmmmmm,” you drop down, quickly taking off the tiny green gym shorts of the camp uniform. 

You could smell Eddie when you pulled down his shorts; the pheromones made your head spin. Sure, it was hot and sticky, but you needed Eddie's sweaty balls in your face. The stench of the barn didn’t even phase you as your mouth watered for him.

“Sucha’ good girl, f’me,” He praised as you took his hard cock in your mouth. Slowly, you swirl your tongue around the deep pink head before taking more of him in your mouth. 

You pine for his affection, his touch, but mostly his words. 

You and Eddie discovered you were both pretty nasty when it came to fucking one another. Eddie loved that you could keep up with him and his dirty fantasies. 

“You always wanna be a good girl for me, don’t ya, princess.” 

“Yes, Daddy.” You say before going back onto his throbbing cock.

Eddie’s head falls back as your lips latch back onto his leaking cock.

“Fuck that’s good” Eddie slowly thrusts his hips into your mouth so his cock hits the back of your throat. “You’re perfect, Y/N.” 

Hearing him say your name makes you pine even more; the butterflies it gives you only makes you want to be all that much better for him, to him. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” You hum, pulling away to work his cock with your hand. 

Eddie can’t hold off any longer. You didn’t have much time, and someone might walk in any second. 

Without warning, Eddie quickly stands you up and walks you over to the back wall. You let out a small whimper because you aren’t done yet.

“You were being such a good girl, don’t make me punish you.” He growls low in your ear. “You want your little cunt fucked, or not? Want daddy to make you feel good?”

You nod your head silently. 

“I know, baby girl, you just need your little pussy to be played with, huh. Is that it?” He caressed your cheek before manhandling you onto the hay bail in the corner of the barn. 

You squeak when Eddie flips you and covers your mouth with his large hand to keep you quiet. 

“Shhh, we can’t have anyone walking in now, can we?: 

You silently shake your head no, and Eddie's hand falls from your mouth to grip the fat of your ass. 

“I want to do bad things to you,” He growls. 

“So do them” You push your ass into him.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” He tugs on your cotton shorts. 

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” 

“Better for you, no?” You smirk.

A low curse leaves Eddie's throat before his hands dip lower.

“You always get this wet from sucking my cock?”Eddie glides his hands along your wet folds. “Yes, Daddy,” you gasp as his fingers make contact. 

A loud screech is heard in the distance, probably a camper playing tag, but you and Eddie freeze. You both are brought back to reality; you don’t have any more time to waste. 

“I want your cock inside me, please” You reach as you look back over your shoulder to kiss him. 

“We might get caught.” 

“Good, then everyone will know I’m yours,” you smirk.

“You freaky little minx” Eddie slides his cock between your soaked folds before slowly pushing his way inside. Inch by inch, he stretches you out. 

Even though you’ve been fucking like rabbits, your body still needs time to adjust to its size. 

“You okay, baby?” 

You bite back hiss; it burns so good. 

“Yeah, just give me a minute. 

“Don’t think we have a minute, Princess.”  

“What? You going to blow your load already” You giggle, only making your already tight puss get tighter around eddies cock. 

“No, we are running out of time; Birdie and Rooster will kill us if we don’t hurry.” 

“Fine, then fuck me like you mean it.” 

The brush of Eddie’s thick cock on your inner walls was something you would never get used to. He would make you forget about everything and everyone that wasn’t solely him. Not your life outside the camp, not the pressures you felt of being perfect, not the way you are made out to be the Princess of Hawkins and certainly not the weight you felt in your chest when you think of life with Eddie after summer is over. 

All those hours you spent dreaming about being with Eddie, you never thought it would come to fruition, so you never thought about the consequences if it did happen. Now that you’ve claimed you both have claimed each other as their own, you’re struggling with what to do once you return to the real world. 

Would your parents accept him? No. You knew for a fact that they worked hard to get you where you are today, and they would never understand how loving Eddie makes any sense.

But none of that mattered right now; none of that even crossed your mind because Eddie had a way of making you feel like you were floating on a cloud of euphoria. 

“You still with me, Princess?” 

“Mmmhhmm,” you bite down to keep from moaning. 

“You know I love those sounds you make, baby, but we gotta stay quiet. 

“I’m so close, baby, please.” 

Eddie came to know your body almost as well as you did. He knew you needed extra attention to help you get over the edge, so he reached down to work your clit with his rough, calloused fingertips.

“Shit, baby, you’re so close. I can feel your pretty little pussy squeezing my cock so good.” 

“Please,” You beg as you grab Eddie’s wrist to brace yourself for your orgasm. 

“Come for Daddy.” His breath brushes past your ear, and you melt under his grasp. Your body quivers as your pussy clenches, and your brain spits out endorphins through your body. 

Eddie’s not far behind; the grip in which you clamped down on him was so delicious he couldn’t help it. Without thinking, he came inside of you, making sure all of it was pushed up far inside. 

“Did you just?” You ask breathlessly. 

“Fucking take it” He thrust every last bit of his seed into your pussy. 

“Eddie,” You whined. 

“What baby girl?” 

“I—I’m going to be all messy; I don’t even have panties…” you can already feel it dripping out of you. 

“Good. I want you to be thinking about me for the rest of the day.” 

You want to wipe that cocky smirk off his face. You would have to walk around with a puddle at the bottom of your shorts… 

“There you guys are!” It’s been like thirty minutes, so let's go!” Robin scolded, and you hiked up your shorts around your ankles. 

You hear a “gross” as she walks away, and you and Eddie can't help but laugh. 

“I’m so done covering for you guys; this is getting way out of hand.” Robin said as Eddie rejoined his campers and Ashton by the creek.

“Birdie, I’m sorry, we got carried away.”

“You always get carried away.” She rolls her eyes. 

She was right. Your relationship with Eddie was distracting you from your responsibilities.

“I’m sorry, I promise. We won’t sneak off again. I owe you so many times. Whatever you need, I got it.” 

Her facial expressions soften. “Fine. Only if you really do promise me?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“What about lover boy?” 

“I also promise he won’t do anything to misbehave.” You smirk “during camp hours.” 

“You think we have time to stop by the cabin quickly before dinner?” You mumble. 

“Yeah why?” She glanced at her watch 

“Uh… I need to change my shorts. 

“Ugh gross, ”

—

As the weeks passed, your and Eddie’s relationship became more serious. He would like to take you on dates after hours. Even if nothing was around, he thought of ways to get creative. Much of it involved stealing from the kitchen and borrowing the projector from the supply cabinet for movie nights, but none of that mattered to you. What mattered was that he put in an effort you could only dream about. 

Last night, you snuck off to his van. There was a mattress, blankets, and some pillows. Eddie insisted you sleep together all night and set an extra early alarm so no one would notice you’re not in the cabin. 

It was risky, but you caved. How could you say no when he whispered sweet nothings into your ear while also telling you what exactly he would do to you in the privacy of his van? Eddie had a way of getting you to do anything, not that you minded. The last thing you wanted was to get into trouble, but you wanted to sleep next to him. To feel his body next to yours, to hold you. 

As you awaken from a deep slumber, you feel surprisingly well-rested. You slowly open your eyes and squint as the sun's bright light peeks through the van's windows, illuminating the small space. You realize that you're tangled in the sheets with Eddie, and a wave of happiness washes over you. As you take in the sight of him sound asleep beside you, you can't help but smile.

However, your joy is quickly interrupted by the nagging thought of the alarm that was supposed to go off. You push it to the back of your mind and take a moment to appreciate this peaceful, intimate moment with Eddie. You know that time is running out, and you must make the most of the time you have left together before it inevitably comes to an end.

You've realized that this time together is incredibly precious and fleeting. The pressures of reality are beginning to weigh heavily on you, and you understand that things won't always be this easy once you return home. With only two weeks of summer left, it's important to treasure every moment together.

You hear your name being yelled out in the distance, and you panic.  snap up quickly, reaching for Eddie's writs to see it is already 9:45 am. You’re supposed to be on the clock. 

“Get up, oh my god.” You find your shirt and pants while Eddie stirs.

“Baby, get up! We are late!” You shake him some more, and Eddie snaps awake. 

“What?? what?!”

"It’s almost ten we slept in!” You yell, throwing his shirt at him. 

“Bambi?!” You hear your name yelled along with Eddies. 

“Fuck” you’re freaking out as you scrambled out of the van, Eddie following close behind you. 

When you stepped out, Billy was there. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He smirks.

“Billy, please, don’t say anything.” You beg.

You knew Billy had not gotten over things. He would still comment when Eddie wasn’t around; he tried more than once to get you to come with him instead of Eddie. 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s already camp hours; everyone has been looking for the two of you, and it seems you’ve been fornicating on Camp Murdock’s dime.” 

“Billy.” You warn. 

“What’s happening?” Eddie joins you once he is fully dressed. 

“You tell me? You and you’re little whore here—“

Billy didn’t get to finish before Eddie charged at him. He tackled him to the ground. You scream for him to stop, and you beg as you watch the two men roll around in the dirt, watching their fists make contact with one another’s faces. 

Your screams must have been heard because Robin and Steve came rushing over, along with a few others, including Carol.

“Please stop! Eddie, baby, please, he isn’t worth it!” You cry. 

You watch Steve and Ashton pull the two men apart, holding them back. 

“What on earth is going on here!” Carol yells once the commotion stops. 

“I don’t know, boss? You tell me,” Billy smirks. “Found these two playing hooky, and the next thing I know, I’m the one getting sucker punched.” 

“You little—“ 

“Stop,” Carol cuts off Eddie before he can continue. “Is that true?” Carol turns to you with a look of disappointment in her eye.

“Not—No, not exactly… our alarm didn’t go off, and we accidentally slept in…” You look down ashamed. 

“Our?” She raises a brow to you. 

“Uh— mine and Eddie’s…”

“How exactly did that happen?

“We didn’t sleep in our cabins,” you mumble, embarrassed that you were dumb enough to risk this. 

“I’m very disappointed in you Y/N.”

“I’m so sorry; it will never happen again,” You try to speak, holding back your tears.

“You’re right; it won’t happen again because you, gentleman…” you watch as she turns to Eddie and Billy, “Are you going home.” 

“What?!” They say in unison. 

“You can’t seem to be civil; we can make do with only a week and a half left.” 

“But Carol—“

“That’s final!” She turns to you. 

“As for you, young lady, I’ll give you a warning… I like you, Y/N, and seeing as your little boyfriend is leaving, I would like to think the tardiness will correct itself.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” You bow your head in shame. 

This was not like you; you don’t break the rules, you don’t disappoint people, and you definitely do not get into trouble. 

“I don’t want to waste any more time. Get back to work...and boys, pack your things. I want you out by lunch."

—

You rush over to Robin to return to your campers, whom Nancy and Cassie are looking after. 

“Girl, what happened.” Robin looks at you worried. 

“We slept in; Billy found us in the van and called me… it doesn’t matter— and Eddie attacked him.”  You sniffle. 

Robin hugged you and tried her best to comfort you, but it was useless. Everything was ruined. 

You went through the motions the rest of the morning until lunch. You decided not to eat so you could say goodbye to Eddie. 

Billy had already packed up and left while Eddie brought his stuff to the parking lot. 

“Baby,” you whisper, trying not to startle him as you walk up to him from behind. 

“Hey.” He sounded annoyed. 

“I’m sorry, I tried to tell you we would get in trouble, but I—“

“I get it, it’s my fault, and now I’m being punished. It is what it is.” He flung the duffle into the mattress where he made love to you the night before. 

“Eddie, listen to me,” you beg.

“What?” He snaps at you. 

“Oh my god, this is exactly why we can’t be together when we go home. You’re too unpredictable, and your temper is too hot.” You snap back at him.

"What do you mean we can’t be together when we go home?” His face fell. 

“I—I”

“You were planning on breaking up with me when summer was over?! Was that it? Perfect little Princess can’t be seen with the town freak! God forbid I taint your reputation.”

“Eddie—wait.” 

“So what was your plan exactly? Make me fall for you just so you can rip my heart out? You’re sick, y/n.”

“No— please let me explain!”

“I care for you, don’t you get that!

“And I don’t!? God, Eddie, I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen.”

"If you told me that yesterday, I would have believed you… but now…. I feel like I don't even know who you are." 

"Believe me, please.” You beg, “I love you."

“Then act like it!”

“I can’t, don’t you get it? I can’t be me at home. Have you ever seen me like this in Hawkins?” You pause for his response, but he stays quiet. 

“Exactly, no. and there is a reason for that!”

“This isn’t high school anymore; the world is much bigger than Hawkins. You can be whoever you want. You don't have to please mommy and daddy anymore.” 

“I can’t”

“Why? Give me one good reason.”

“I—I—just…I can’t.” You really couldn’t. Eddie was right, but you were so scared. You were a coward. 

“Fine, I’ll save you the trouble. We are done. That’s what you wanted. You’ll return to your perfect life and move on without me.” 

“Eddie, please,” You cried. Tears were blurring your vision as you watched him get into the van. 

None of this was supposed to happen this summer. You were supposed to be with Ashley, getting over Eddie Munson and not falling more and more deeply in love with him, only to break your own heart. 

You made a terrible mistake.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. I have a long trip ahead of me.” he slams the door shut. 

“Baby, please,” you grabbed his door handle to open it, but it was already locked. 

“Let go.” He tells you when he rolls down the window. 

“Can’t we talk about this? Please, you need to understand,” You begged. 

“No, I understand it perfectly, baby; you don’t want me.” 

“Baby, please, I am so sorry. I love you. I didn't mean it!” You cry. 

You cry and cry, and Eddie can no longer watch. He is hurt, he is broken, and he can’t watch you sob any longer, so he puts the car in drive. He didn’t believe you when those three words fell from your lips.

You froze as Eddie drove off without so much as a goodbye. This was not how you wanted things to end. You didn’t want things to end. Eddie was the best thing to happen to you. You needed him in your life. You could not go through life without him now that you’ve had a little slice of heaven with him this summer.  You fucked up; you fucked up badly and needed to fix things. 

tags: @winchester-angel @josephquinnsfreckles @lemme-slytherin-that-dick @emma-munson @littlexdeaths @siriuslysmoking @peachysink @nailbatanddungeon @leelei1980 @daisy-munson @taintedcigs @take-everything-you-can @strangerstilinski @bl0ssomanddie @seb-buckybarnes @chickenandsheep-blog @lokis-army-77 @ali-r3n @erinekc @rowanswriting @snowflowersstars246 @micheledawn1975 @princesatracionera @bells-28 @kellsck @ezzynf @oneforthemunny @brxkenartt @ktiutsa @sofiaadela @guineveresghost @nabiiturner @eddiesguitarskills @comeonatmebruh @sky-full-0f-fl0wers

[trudemaethien]

Kyrimorut

I’ve just done another reread/skim of the repcomm books for details of Kyrimorut for @ossidae-passeridae, who encouraged me to do a write up for reference. Some of these facts are explicitly stated, scattered throughout the series, and some are my own surmises. (My main conclusion is that KT considered architecture just about as carefully as the TCW creators did the GAR ranking system. lolsob)

So. In this essay I will

Kyrimorut, Kal Skirata’s refuge for his clone sons, was called a bastion, and frequently described in siege terms. It was also referred to as a homestead and a farmhouse.

“It was yaim—part barracks, part hotel, part married quarters, part farmhouse, the archetypal Mandalorian clan home.”

This stronghold was located in the heavily forested northern hemisphere of the planet Mandalore, a few hours flight north of Keldabe City, within 100 kilometers of a small town called Enceri, and just south of a lake. It boasted a main house and numerous outbuildings, including at least one medical laboratory, animal pens, and a hangar large enough for multiple craft.

Rav Bralor, another of the Cuy’val Dar, rebuilt it at Kal’s request during the war, and it was finished enough by a year in, to house some members of their group temporarily, but was still undergoing renovations up to the last moment before they moved in. She used droids to aid in the construction. The building was composed of brick, wood, stone, and rammed earth, and the (probably local, veshok) planks were joined with interlocking joints. The interior walls were plastered and painted, likely with naturally derived mineral paints; one room was mentioned to be “honey-colored.” The windows were narrow, described as arrow-slits, and the doors were unpowered hinged wooden slabs. The whole thing was large, and the rooms were characterized as airy and roomy at various points.

The layout seems to have been vaguely circular, or a circle of chained hubs, with a central karyai. The lobby was another hub, and there were both surface and underground passages connecting the hubs, radiating out like “the spokes of an eccentric wheel.” For this reason I think there were two floors in the main house with one above, the other underground. There was also a sheltered circular atrium off the main hub, with a roof that slid back, where they roasted meat.

The house had gutters and down-pipes to deal with snowmelt and rain, and given the nearby lake, they would have to have a good vapor barrier for the underground portion. Since the place was rural rather than urban, it was largely quiet, and the homestead's acoustics were such that sound carried well. This indicates to me that likely only the exterior walls were fortified of heavy stone and rammed earth; interior walls were more likely built of wood and plaster and easier to modify if they had some need. Power was unreliable in such a remote setting, so they used wood fires for heating and cooking; everything smelled of wood-smoke. The entire structure was designed to be unnoticeable from the air, and the clearing was not visible until the last moment upon aerial approach.

The karyai was the main living room. In one scene, Kad played on the floor with toy animals (nerf, bantha, shatual, nuna, jackrab, vhe’viin) Atin had carved from veshok wood, Wade Tay’haai played a purple-painted bes’bev (sharp flute), and Rav Bralor brought throat-searing tihaar for everyone. She lived on her own clan’s farm a few kilometers away, and had brought Yayax squad, who mostly stayed there, to visit Kyrimorut. They were learning carpentry from manuals, as one does.

People had their own rooms for sleeping, with couples sharing, along the corridors. Arla and Uthan’s rooms both had exterior windows. Quarters were pleasant, plain but comfortable, with generous mattresses on the beds and a table for personal use.

Then there was a room Etain thought of as the interrogation room, so that’s uhhh lovely.

It’s unclear whether the large table where they gathered for communal meals was in the karyai, the kitchen (which was separated from other areas by a door), or some other room. Wherever it was located, it was possible for someone seated at the table to lean back without getting up and fetch a bottle of tihaar from where it was stored. The table was made of a single large slab of veshok wood, and was big and sturdy enough to use for surgical operation, dismantling engines, or seating a whole clan of armored Mandalorians. They sat in chairs around this table, and Kad sat in a highchair. They used porceplast plates, and mugs for ne’tra gal, a sweet black beer. The head of the household summoned everyone to the table for meals.

The kitchen contained a fireplace and hearth, a chair (where Kal slept), ovens and stovetops, a conservator, enough workspace for at least four people at once, and an adjoining storage area. The kitchen could be a busy, noisy, bustling place, but it was separate from other living areas; people sometimes went there to avoid others.

The 20-30 occupants ate constantly and prodigiously, and never seemed to be lacking. The food was described as filling but not elegant, and was heavy on the protein. They consumed a lot of game; Lord Mirdalan the strill was an animal native to Mandalore and a hunter. Roast shatual, nerf, and roba were mentioned, and they would leave a joint of meat on the table to be eaten all day down to the bone (I shuddered in food hygiene). Fish from the lake were fried in a pan, and they made broth from gihaal, dried smoked fish with a pungent aroma stored in metal containers, one of the staples of Mandalorian ration packs because it kept for years without refrigeration. Also what Kal called Kaminoans, but that’s another story!

We were worried they only ate meat for a while until we came across some vegetables. Kad had pureed kaneta at one point, and for breakfast boiled grain porridge and shirred eggs were on offer. Jilka diced amber root for some dish. Mealbread rolls were also plentiful, and there was a vat of stew at one point. Listed imports via Ny Vollen included flour, grassgrain, pickles, powdered milk, sacks of denta beans, soap, dried fruit, and a bantha bone which was hard to get on Mandalore. The roba they raised themselves.

The roba pen had multiple animals witht at least one boar and one sow with a litter, and despite having veshok posts and walls, the gate was left open. I’m extrapolating that these animals were semi-domesticated and allowed to forage for food but came home to their pen for safety at night. There were rail fences, crop fields, and plans for raising nerf on the property as well. Outbuildings were mentioned frequently, but this was one of the few actually described.

Notable native species mentioned were the large, ancient veshok trees, which were evergreen, hardwood, and straight enough that the table slab was cut out of one large piece. They were ice-glazed and dripping in the spring thaw, so presumably had some defenses against freezing and exploding, or breaking under the weight of the ice, and they populated all the way up to the the polar cap. There was underbrush and bushes, and groundthorn weed, which was very stubborn and difficult to remove entirely. The roba would have helped with uprooting this as they foraged. Vhe’viine were small rodents with white winter coats that lived in burrows in the fields.

The medical laboratory behind the main house (it was necessary to walk around the bastion after exiting to approach it) was a mobile genetics lab/agricultural trailer of the sort usually used for breeding livestock and at racetracks. It was occupied first by Ko Sai and later by Ovolot Qail Uthan. Mereel acquired it, and Mij Gilamar stocked it with stolen/black market medical equipment. When Uthan took over, they built her more lab space. There were rural veterinarians in the community as well; Etain mentioned getting a cryocontainer for a sample from a neighboring farm.

The hangar was situated in a shallow slope to the north of the main house, half-buried in the soil and disguised with netting. It was large enough to house several craft at a time, including Ny Vollen’s ship, Mereel’s speeder, and the Aay’han, among others. Swabbing down the compartments of the Aay’han, replenishing stores, and prepping the ship for the next flight managed to occupy most of an afternoon for four men.

The lake was also to the north, and I believe it was a very large lake, functioning as a heat-sink. It had not fully frozen despite the bitter winter, described as minus eight and thirty degrees colder than tropical (although the temperature scale is not mentioned, it’s likely celsius because of the author’s background). There was ice extending from the shore like a pier, but also mist rising above it in the early morning and frost on the shore, even though layers of snow deep enough for feet to crunch through the surface were mentioned elsewhere at various times. This led my friend to speculate that there could be geothermal activity in/under that lake. Kal and Walon Vau were planning to build a memorial on the near lake shore featuring the armor tallies of fallen clone soldiers.

There was granite in the area, which also gave support to the concept of historical volcanic activity. Their yard sported four chunks, each large enough for at least two people to climb up and perch upon, which had erupted from the surface long ago and been worn down to a weathered polish. Winds came in off a nearby plain. A clear (muddy) area large enough to play mesh’geroya was also near the house.

Enceri had at least one cantina, there was a landmark grain silo at the edge of town, and it was big enough to host a bustling market square, despite being described as more of a trading post than a town. There they could buy, among other things, preserved vegetables, engine parts, and local triple-distilled tihaar, which could double as degreaser for said engine parts.

If they needed more than Enceri had to offer, they could go south to Keldabe. Landmarks of note there included the River Kelita and the Oyu’baat tavern. The Imperial garrison was located near Keldabe.

“But then Mandalore itself was one big contradiction, with heavy industry and shipbuilding sitting cheek-by-jowl with farms that hadn't changed in centuries, sophisticated electronics and ancient metalworking skills side-by-side in the same suit of armor.”

Established clan homes seem to be the usual way of things despite Mandalorians supposedly being nomadic. Their “temporary” structures being wattle and daub also indicates the nomad thing to be a bit of a fallacy. Even so, they had planned a possible relocation for Kyrimorut in the worst case, a bolt-hole on Cheravh. Jaing had taken to calling it offsite hot standby.

So that’s Kyrimorut, which means Final Haven, where Kal Skirata and his chosen family hunkered down in the aftermath of Order 66. My friend says it’s basically Aberdeen, down to the detail of players getting plastered mid footie limmie game. I gathered these details from four books (Hard Contact does not mention Kyrimorut) and compiled them for anyone who’d like to make use of the rundown. Oya!

[allzelemonz]

Bears: Bill Williamson X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘guy’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: reader mentioned to be a bigger guy, honestly just two bears fucking, real simple, robbery, forced proximity, groping, oral sex, face sitting, anal sex Summary: After being split from the gang, you get lost between Bill’s legs.

It wasn’t the intention of Dutch to get the gang split by the tracks, but that’s what happened. He, Arthur, and Javier on one side while you and Bill ended up on the other. The train roars past after the failed attempt to stop it and law is already shouting over the hill. Whatever orders Dutch yells are drowned out by everything else. The horses were spooked, leaving you to push Bill along the hill to hide in the trees as the law scrambles to find whatever outlaws linger. They spit the others through the passing train cars and bolt around, forcing the others to run.

“Ah, shit.” Bill grumbles. “Ain’t no way ta catch up now.”

“Camp’s that way, can’t even risk running into trouble without Dutch finding out.” You glance around, looking for a solution. “There’s a cabin.”

“Spendin’ the night? All the damn whiskey’s in my saddlebag”

“Do you want to risk running into the law right now?”

Bill huffs, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and beginning the trudge into the trees. You look back towards the tracks and take note of the minuscule retreating figures. Your horses should find their way back here now that it’s not so loud and you’ll hopefully be back at camp by noon tomorrow at least.

Following after Bill, you find the cabin you spotted to be more of a small shack. Big enough for a single hunter out here alone, but certainly not for two grown men. Bill eyes the bed as you step through the doorway and falls onto it before you can even suggest an alternative.

“Think I’m entitled to a good nap.” Bill sighs, putting his arms behind his head.

Not even a second later, the weak legs give out under him and bed planks fall to the floor. Bill flails, ending up a pile of clothing and hair among the broken wood.

“Looks like no one gets good sleep, great job.”

Bill scoffs at you, rolling himself out of the mess of wood. “Ah, shut it, thing’s made like a cheap shelf.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have jumped on it.”

Bill scowls up at you from the floor, his face already red from the situation. “I ain’t jumpin’! Damn thing just ain’t built right!”

“Just sleep on the floor, Williamson.” You sigh, kicking the wood against the wall to make room for both of you on the floor. “Ain’t like we don’t both sleep on the ground most nights anyway.”

Bill grumbles as he does when sober and grumpy, but he curls up on his side and tries to sleep all the same. You settle yourself next to him, not much room with all the broken bed taking space. Still, you both find sleep easily after the long day of failed robbery.

Sometime in the night your eyes open, moonlight blinding you for a moment as it streams through the cracks in the poorly built shack. There’s a weight on you, nothing that hasn’t happened before when bunking so close to another member of the gang. Bill has his arm slung over you and his body pressed to your back. Not as clingy as Arthur the last time you ended up sharing a tent with him, but still not easy to wiggle away from.

Nonetheless, you try. But after just the slightest movement, you feel that all telling hardness poking at your leg. And when you still, Bill cuddles closer, bringing the feeling of his whole length up against you. Even from sitting against his softer leg, you can guess how big it really is. Just the thought of it makes your own dick twitch to life in your pants. When bunking with other gang members, you had never been presented with this situation, but something about Bill getting hard and cuddling up to you makes you want to take care of two problems in one.

You twist on the floor, turning onto your back and shake Bill awake. He groans and grumbles before opening his eyes and staring up at you sleepily.

“Wha’ is it?” He slurs.

“You got a hard problem, Bill.”

Bill’s brow furrows for a moment before he feels it against his leg and his face instantly goes a little pink as he blinks rapidly. “I… that… that happens to every man at some point, i-it don’t mean nothin’!”

“Relax.” You say softly. “You have no idea how okay with it I am…”

“You…” Bill stares for a moment. “You’re…”

“Let me help you. Whatever you want.”

“…ain’t a trick?”

You shake your head. “Ain’t a trick.”

Bill shuffles a bit on his side. “So… so I could just… maybe, uh… get on ya an’…”

“Yeah.” You nod, settling onto your back and letting your legs part naturally. “I’m just as hard, don’t worry.”

Bill’s eyes trail past your gunbelt, his hand not hesitating to reach out and squeeze at the bulge like it had a mind all its own. You let your head rest back against the floor, grinding gently back against Bill’s squeezing hand. He seems transfixed by it, just watching the bulging fabric move as he plays with the hardness underneath.

His voice comes out like a croak, quiet and hoarse. “Can… Can I sit on yer face?”

The thought of getting lost between Bill’s thighs and drowning with his dick down your throat makes your voice shake. “Yeah…”

Bill looks up at you like he expected you to beat the shit out of him for giving the suggestion, but in the next few seconds he’s frantically tugging his pants off and throwing his gunbelt aside. You place gentle hands on his thighs as he climbs over you. The thick legs settle on either side of your head and his length dangles just above your face as he looks down with such lit up eyes you’d think he found a million dollars.

You give his thighs a gentle squeeze and Bill shutters as your fingers cling into the thick skin. He takes himself in hand, leaning down to press his tip to your lips. You open without question and press a soft kiss to it, bringing a choked moan from Bill. He leans forward, pressing himself into your mouth as he leans over you. It slides in like it’s home, his hips keeping it out of your throat for now but quivering in anticipation. His stomach presses against your head, giving you the perfect chance to inhale the deep scent of sweat and strong body odor from his groin.

The quivering gives way as he starts to move, letting all his weight onto you as he thrusts down your throat. You relax yourself, letting everything swallow you as Bill simply loses himself in fucking down into the wet hole between his legs. He loses it fast, frantically chasing the feeling building in his gut as he drowns you in thick skin and bushy hair, both topped with sweat and now messed with spit.

You grip onto his ass, stilling the jiggling skin in your hands and squeezing hard as you try to get him as far into your throat as possible before he finishes. Bill encloses thick thighs even tighter around your head, his balls settling down across your chin as he cums down your throat. Little thrusts and twitches escape from his hips as he tries to milk himself through whimpers muffled by his arm. Then he settles, spent and satisfied.

You rub gently at his ass, letting him recover before he picks himself up. He sits up, looking down at the sight of his dick slowly withdrawing from your mouth with hooded eyes. You take a breath through your nose and close your eyes, letting the taste of sweaty gunpowder linger while it can. Bill shifts above you, his weight moving down to your legs from your chest and you can feel his hands unfastening your pants.

Just as he’s pulling you out, you open your eyes. A string of spit falls from his mouth and lands perfectly on your tip. You shudder at the cold, but Bill's hand follows to spread it over you and the shudder is joined by a groan. Bill pumps you a few times with hard squeezes before he climbs over you again, this time settling himself over your legs. Words catch in your throat as he sinks down onto you, his ass so warm and tight it makes your vision white for just a second. You sink into him until he’s sat right on your legs, his hole so wet it must have been pre-prepared.

“Bill…” You groan as he lifts himself up. “You… you’re wet?”

He drops his hands to rest in your chest, squeezing your pecs through your shirt as he starts to bounce in earnest. “Yeah…” He groans as you hit that spot just right. “Stretch before a job… then find something big after…”

You watch, a bit in awe as Bill bounces on you. His body moves in turn, stomach and all jiggling in a way that makes your own stomach twist closer to release. “Damn, you’re so good, Bill… soft and— shit!”

He sinks down into you again, grinding down into your lap and squishing your balls against his ass. “Yeah, you like a big man, don’t ya?” He chuckles, a hand coming up to unbutton his shirt so you can see his hairy torso properly. “Knew you would… heavy guy like you just wants someone that can take him.”

He starts his pace again, the sight of his bare chest and stomach jiggling with each bounce makes your hands reach out on their own. You grip at his stomach and watch as your hands disappear into his chest hair on the way up. It takes only a few more bounces, just a handful of times to sink into Bill, before you’re cumming into him. He makes sure to put all of his weight into you, taking you as deep as possible while you coat his insides.

Your vision is blurry for a moment after, but you feel the loss of heat and know Bill has rolled off. Between rapid blinks, you can see him on his back beside you, a hand on his bare stomach as he pants but with a huge grin plastered on his face. You shuffle closer, tugging his arm until he’s rolled on his side and cuddling into your chest. He’s sweaty and overheated, but everything is too blurry and your brain is still buzzing. You just hurry your nose into his hair and press a kiss to the balding spot on his head before drifting to sleep.

[angel-girldick]

Thinking about a Changeling that gets cursed so that every few days she transforms into the sexual desires of a random creature nearby. In her naturally chosen form she just looks like a pale Human, all shy and pure, built like a wood plank. Then suddenly and without warning, she turns into a busty blonde Elf with tits that tear right out of her leather armor. The next week, she becomes a muscular Tiefling with a massive cock that she couldn’t hope to hide in her tight riding pants. Later on it’s a Goblin, then a Satyr, then even a Mind Flayer.

She tries to shapeshift right back before anybody notices. But it always seems to happen in crowded places, so she always gets at least a few weird stares. She can‘t even tell whose fantasy she becomes most of the time. At first, she tries to convince herself that she hates it. But she can’t deny how hot it is.

She starts morphing her tits and hips and ass bigger in her natural form, hoping her party won’t notice if she does it slowly enough. If her tight, flat armor is going to get destroyed anyway, she might as well opt to wear a busier, curvier design, right? Then she starts adding the features people seem to like the most— sensitive Elf ears, handlebar Tiefling horns, a dexterous Dragonborn tail that draws attention to a bouncy Water Genasi ass. She tells her party she’s just experimenting and trying new things. They aren’t convinced.

It’s not too long until one of her party members catches her in a clearing near camp. She’s got a Lamia tongue wrapped around a giant Centaur cock, one clawed hand fondling her massive tits and the other furiously rubbing away at a fat swollen pussy. She becomes the party’s stress relief toy after that. The curse wears off after a while, but she never tells her friends— it’s just too tempting to suddenly and “accidentally” turn into their exact type in the hopes that they’ll pin her down and fuck her right then and there.

[trafficlife]

AITA for committing mass arson after my ship was burned down?

I (age is irrelevant, M) spent a lot of time building a ship for my soulmate (age is irrelevant, M). We aren't soulmates by choice, exactly, but we've grown to like each other and we work pretty well together. But anyways, the ship was built entirely out wood planks and I made it all by myself. I named it the Relation Ship because I'm just so witty like that. So clever and tall and handsome, but I digress, that's not the point of this post.

I put a lot of my blood, sweat and tears into that ship—not literally, though, that's disgusting—and somebody decided to burn it down!

Well, I came up with a new motto: "ship burns, everything burns" and I pulled out a flint and steel and started lighting everything ablaze. Very quickly, the world became nothing but a scorched wasteland! And, well, people are upset about it. But I doubt they're even half as upset as I am now that my ship is gone.

I've yet to find the person who burned for my ship, but once I do, I'm showing them no mercy...

But am I really the asshole here? Personally, I think that they're getting what they deserve.

[baathos]

There's something about facing long term, chronic illness and disability, at least with my pretty common mix of traumas and tendencies, that makes it easier to dismiss the slow, aching trauma of it in the face of the sharper struggles of people in your life.

It is both too big and made up of too many small things to grapple with and explain. You might be very used to putting your feelings and needs aside. You might be very used to having your feelings and needs dismissed. You might be used to a deep sense of responsibility for other people's emotions and wellbeing. You might have built up, slowly and desperately, scaffolding around your mind and body to shore up all your crumbling stones and mouldy beams. It's mostly watertight, and not getting much worse fast. It'll hold for now, it'll hold for now, it'll hold for now.

Your friend's cracked window or broken fridge or or or or any other sharp immediate crisis takes precedent.

And it feels good? It feels like getting out of the ruin of your health and quality of life and visiting someone else's house and tidying up a bit or taping up some cardboard and calling the landlord. There might be longer term structural stuff to address, the fridge might be broken because of the electronics or the window might be cracking because of structural pressure but the immediate problem is solved, it's fixed, everyone is happy and says thank you.

And once upon a time you were that friend, but then the windows kept cracking and the crises piled up and the electronics kept breaking things and the landlord cut corners when they put the wiring in and there's a missing structural support beam and and and

You find yourself gesturing at this ruin, made watertight and kept standing by scaffolding and tarpaulins and seemingly randomly placed planks of wood and it's so far from a home and you've kicked the can so far down the road and the scaffolding is starting to warp and rot and rust and the tarpaulins have holes and there are buckets around your bed and blooming black and white on all your clothes. You gesture wordlessly because words cannot be enough. There's no explaining yourself that explains well enough the depth of the damage or the cost of it's repair or how utterly out of your depth you feel. It's not an emergency. It's not a crisis. It's the rest of your life and the only home you can build. The people who understand can't help and the people who can help can't seem to understand.

[bluegekk0]

Vyrm family house - Outdoors

Like I said in the past, I wanted to make separate posts for the Sims build of the Vyrm house, to show more pictures and talk a bit about some details that I wanted to point out.

I'm starting with the outdoors, the small area around the house.

The house is quite big, made primarily from timber logs and wooden planks, with a reddish roof. In drawing form it would have some of the design elements from the Dirtmouth houses from the game, this is as close as I could get to it in The Sims. It's located near the edge of Dirtmouth on a hill (so pretend there's mountains and woods in the background)

Near the entrance, there are many crates and barrels full of materials for building and crafting, as well as firewood bought from the lumbers and stored in preparation for colder months. Right by the entrance, you can find hunting racks where Hornet leaves what she caught to dry and be stored later and a leather tanning rack. To the right from the door, you can find a small well.

As you follow left to the entrance, you'll see a cart which delivers goods to and from Vyrm's shop. Speaking of the shop, this is where you'll likely spot the sign with the name of the shop. The entrance is right behind the corner, with windows through which you can peek inside. Right next to the shop is a small smithing area where Vyrm works with metals needed for some of his creations

To the right from the little smithing hut you'll find a small path leading behind the house, towards a small fireplace spot. This is where the family often spends evenings together, telling each other fireplace stories and enjoying some food under the stars.

On the opposite end of the house is where Holly's little garden is located. They spend a lot of time here, especially during warmer months of the year where they tend to many kinds of flowers, and even some vegetables. The bench is there for anyone who wants to relax, allowing them to enjoy the smell of the flowers and even observe the Forest Maskflies, a species of Maskfly that lives in the woods surrounding Dirtmouth, which often visit the little house built by Vyrm.

---

That's all for now, next I'm going to show some of the bottom floor of the house, including the living room and the kitchen. :)

Next post (Bottom floor)

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 15 - Sharing

The rogue makes a connection.

On AO3.

“Why in the sweet hells would I have a rock?” Astarion says.

The bag of sparkpowder makes sense. It’s hard to screw that up. But then she wants a stone, and while he pilfers nearly anything he can get his hands on (to sort through later, mind you) that doesn’t extend to rocks.

“I need to test my theory,” she hisses back at him.

The underground beastie lurks beneath the dirt. Its heart beats slow and strong, and he can’t help but wonder what it’s blood would taste like. It seems simple enough to him: light the bomb, throw it, and run in the opposite direction.

But his illustrious leader keeps mumbling something about “tremors rules” and it makes absolutely no sense to him, but when has that ever mattered.

“Throw one of your own trinkets,” he says. She’s even worse than him about grabbing whatever isn’t nailed down.

“That all got washed off.”

Ah. Right. That. The little, inconsequential thing he might have had a hand in.

Gods. Her and her theories. He knows she’s got at least one, phallus-shaped trinket she could sacrifice. But it’s too much fun to tease her about it, and honestly, it’d be a shame to lose such a quality item.

Of all the things in all the planes, this weirdo beside him took her phallus when she was kidnapped. It’s hysterical.

So he sighs and reaches into his pack. Rummages around until he finds something cool and smooth. One of his empty blood jars—they’re all empty at the moment. He hands it over.

And she leaves him holding it. In silence. Is she judging him? Because it feels like she’s judging him.

“Ahem,” he says and jiggles it.

“Huh,” she says. Articulately. And finally takes it from him. “You have gotta take better care of your stuff.”

The beastie shifts down there. He can imagine it eyeballing them.

“Really?” he says. “You’d like to discuss sanitation right now?”

“I’m just saying. Between this and that bed plank…”

“The one you’ve been sleeping on with no complaint so far? Having ousted me? You’ll have to forgive me, darling, for wondering what your point is.”

He’s…aware all the others sleep on bedrolls. He knows they exist, and that they’ve run into plenty more. He could have plucked one up for himself. But sleeping in comfort was for that bastard’s favorite. Or for when Astarion was put to work. He complains about the lack of a feather bed because it’s expected for the image he’s built for himself: the decadent hedonist. And in truth, he thinks it might very well be nice to rest in one fully clothed for a whole night.

But camping in the wilds with other monsters and an illithid parasite, with the lingering fear of being hunted. No. That’s a luxury he hasn’t been able to afford.

She’ll be wondering about that, however. Even if she never complained, he knows she must have questions. And…he…he almost wants to tell her? For some boggling reason. So he hedges, reveals only part of it. “I don’t like bedrolls. They’re, ah, too soft. The dormitory beds were little better than wood anyway, and those were a luxury compared to the kennel floors.”

“Kennels?” she says, with a strange tone.

“Oh yes. Whenever any of us earned punishment, Cazador sent us to the kennels for correction.”

She silent for a long, long time. During which her heartbeat spikes almost louder than he’s ever heard it. It’s a pathetic excuse, he knows. He shouldn’t have told her. It’s not worth her fragile, mortal back pain to tolerate his sleeping arrangement just because it sends his reverie to places he’d rather not go.

Then she says, “Your plan for that fuckface. Do they include ripping off his head to shit down the back of his neck.”

“…no?” he says. But it sounds incredibly delightful. And vulgar. Maybe once he’s pulled that bastard’s intestines out and draped them around his neck like a festive garland?

“Right. I, uh. Sorry. For snarking at you.”

Again with apologies. It does strange things to him. Things he can’t trust and doesn’t like.

“We,” he says. Trails off. Has to clear his throat for some reason. “You could, ah, lay a bedroll down for yourself. If you wanted.”

There. A compromise. Prevent her frail back from splintering to pieces since they’ll have to keep sharing until they find a bloody waypoint stone.

Then, very softly (and not just in volume, as they’ve been whispering the entire time) she says, “If you’re okay with that.”

And everything in him is unsettled, so he reaches into what he knows, splays a hand over his chest, and says, “Well, I was born for decadence, darling. We’ll just have to make do until then.”

He’s beginning to feel strangely…exposed on the inside. As if he sits in that blood-soaked clearing, in flickering torchlight, with an oozing hole in his chest large enough she can see straight into his lungs.

He needs to paper over that hole with his usual charm, in hope she’ll stop looking into him.

She hums. Then, in an atrocious mimicry of his accent, says, “As m’lord requests.”

He ought to bite her for that level of cheek. But they’re rather stranded and low on medical supplies, and if one of them stumbles and falls off, they’ll be eaten by some huge, armored monster.

So he lifts his eyebrows and drops his lids in the way that almost never fails to bring the first soft brushing of a blush to some tipsy tavern-hopper. “You know, my dear, I could grow very used to the sound of that.”

Without the accent, preferably.

But she continues to drive a wedge between herself and most of his marks (the successful ones, anyway) and instead of leaning in or sliding her fingers across his own, she only snorts and says, “Yeah yeah, y’big dork.”

Which doesn’t translate as anything, but the shape of that word sounds ridiculous and she’s certainly mocking him. Only, once again, her tone carries a smile, and not a trace of coldness or cruelty or disgust.

Something shifts below them. The beastie stirs. And it must be visible enough for his leader to catch, because her fingers start drumming on her thigh.

“What’s the plan, darling?” He’s close enough the warmth of her skin almost soaks into his cold cheek.

But she doesn’t shiver or shy. She’d focused on a murder, which means she notices little else, despite her earlier flinching away. He tilts his head to try and better hear what’s behind them. Someone needs to watch her back. Or listen, anyway.

“So,” she says. Pauses as she does, while her fingers slow to a rhythmic ta-tap-ta, ta-tap-ta. “So I’m thinking we chuck that blood jar as far as possible to the left.”

“We?”

“I’ll get to that. We throw it—”

“Why can’t you throw it, darling? On account of having functional eyes.”

She takes a breath in through her nose. Which she does when she’s annoyed and trying not to show it. He’s fairly certain she thinks she’s being subtle when she does it.

“Astarion. You’re an archer. Your biceps is bigger than mine.”

It’s not the time. He knows that. And yet…?

“You think I’m big?”

It’s hard to describe the sound she makes. It’s rather like an artificer automaton plowing into a shrub, all of it somehow emerging from low in her throat.

“Would you just—”

He’s already standing and slipping in front of her (finding the ledge with his booted toes). “Go on and aim me, then.”

In between all the mortal peril, he’s gotten somewhat used to her bare palm on his. She’d had no qualms about grabbing it an hour ago. But the monster hides below, and she’s back to plucking gingerly at his armor. He nearly says something about it, but in a rare burst of generosity (she’s been through a lot) he lets her turn him in the direction she means him to throw without making any kind of comment.

She hands him the emptied blood jar. “Think you can toss that a hundred feet out?”

He can do a lot better than that. And then another, even rarer flash of planning comes to him, and he finds himself saying, “And after that?”

“If it goes after that, you throw the grenade. Um. In the same spot?”

Even she seems to realize how challenging that’s going to be. Tossing a jar into the distance is nothing. But hitting the same spot again? Blinded? He can’t help it. “Bit of a long shot, darling, even for me.”

He’s certain she’s staring at him. Then she sighs. Doesn’t roll her eyes (well, she probably did) or call him an idiot or order one of his siblings to slap him.

Just says, “Mmm. I…might have an idea for that?”

And oh, does she sound ever so tentative.

“We can, y’know, share thoughts and all with the brainworms, huh? And I saw bits of where the others were that one time. So…?”

Oh dear. She’s actually suggesting what he thinks she is. She’s going to let him into her head.

It’s a double-edge blade, he knows. An opened door with an open invitation can let anyone or anything through. Both ways. And he’d felt her horror when he slipped into her mind that night. When she panics, she curls herself into a tight, impenetrable ball to their shared illithid connection. To say she’s wary would be one of Astarion’s greatest understatements, and he has many.

She’s suggesting she lower her defenses (and his). Maker herself (and him) weak.

“Are you certain?” he says. While he collects the weaknesses of others—it never hurts to have too many weapons in one’s arsenal—he’s aware of a certain…similarity (how disgusting) between them in that respect.

“I mean,” she says. “I got enough water for another day, maybe. What’re the odds of the others finding us within three days of that?”

So she’ll be letting him in, then.

There’s a joke, there. Inviting in a vampire and all. But her voice is tense enough he keeps his tongue behind his teeth and only says, “If you’re sure, darling.”

“This’s probably gonna be fast. Got no idea if it’ll even work. But I’m thinking we pull a Kevin Bacon on it—you chuck that jar, see if it goes after, and then light and toss that bomb right on top if it does. How long do them things burn?”

The wick is short. “Not long.”

“Mmm. So the second it swallows that shit, we book it for the crevasse.”

“And if it chases?”

“Run faster?”

“And if it catches up?”

A pause.

He swears.

“It wouldn’t cross to this mushroom we’re on and that was something I could hop. If we can reach that crack, I think we’ll be good.”

Astarion sighs. “Well, I suppose that’s better than sitting here and drinking from your corpse.”

Even though he could, technically, survive well until the others found him. Whether or not they’d put much effort into it—especially after he sits and watches their glorious leader die—is up for debate.

And…the thought of sitting in the dark silence again is wretched. Especially the thought of listening to his only companion’s heart race, weaken, and then stop.

Dead blood is disgusting.

(he doesn’t want to listen to her die)

Astarion rolls his shoulders. Flexes his fingers. Readjusts his grip on the bottle. Then, “Whenever you’re ready, dearest.”

She takes a few breaths, this time. Rustles quietly. Mutters so softly he only picks out bits of words. Then the brush of her mind against his own.

He leans into it.

It’s rather how he imagines swimming (having no actual memory of the deed). A sort of weightlessness and jostling about. Two people trapped in a very small pool trying not to slosh each other too much.

It’d be easier if they’d just grab each other (we are one, the tadpoles yearn; become Us, become Whole). But the both of them can only pluck at the others’ clothing in an attempt too steady themselves.

Until Astarion loses his patience and finally reaches for her.

Outrage. Fear. Teeth, teeth BITE IT.

Yet his leader manages to reign in her more feral instincts. Begrudgingly lets him ease into her until their outlines blur—

Astarion blinks. It takes a moment to make sense of anything. A new body, a new sense.

He’s…seeing, in a fashion. Shapes and colors. Blue and black. So much black. They’re shadows, he realizes. The dark of the Underdark.

He blinks again, only it’s her blinking and turns his head—

Their bodies revolt. Not one, but two and that’s wrong, it’s not how it’s meant to be, they are a Whole. The moving throws off that synchronicity.

“Jesus fuck!” they say and their stomachs give a queasy flop.

But they need to see around them, so they try again, and they’re angry about it; so, so scared about it. But they got to. It’s a necessity. There’s a birdshark (a what?) waiting to bight off their feet and leave ragged, spurting stumps at the ankle.

“You are a morbid thing.”

“Fuck off.”

More gloom. Details lost. A darker slash to the right (think it’s a crevasse; lord jesus please be a crevasse).

“Darling, your eyesight is shit.”

“Just fucking throw it!”

To the left, then. A dark gap between two, soaring mushroom stalks. They’re rather beautiful, like this. Shining softly in the dark.

They lift an arm, the glass cool in their grip (it’s crusty inside?) (of course, that’s what blood does, darling). It still smells faintly of said blood (that clawing, biting hunger that never goes away) (a spike of something disgustingly soft and they both shove that down in mortification).

Take aim. Feel their own doubleness. Test their arm a few times. The disorientation settles faster each time as they adjust. Cock their arm.

Throw.

The bottle goes spinning off. They already hold the grenade in one of their hands, which they pass to themselves. Eyes move when the other commands to look down. The gap between the mushrooms and the boulder. Track down to the ground below. Along the route they’ll need to run—

Movement.

A surge in the dirt. That low thrumming noise—

“Holy fuck you hear everything—”

Of course they do. Poor, deaf thing she is.

The birdshark surges towards the clank of the jar. Fuse. How short? When?

They gauge the distance. Peer with eyes that fail far too quickly. They have to blink several times. Look around the churning dirt because their sight is atrocious.

“I got perfect twenty-twenty vision you ass.”

Now. Now.

“Ignis!”

The wondrous magic leaps to them. A cat after a string of yarn. An opened valve. Rushes to them and fills them and surges along their arm to ignite a ball of flame in their palm and it really is magic, fuck me.

They light the fuse. The birdshark closes in on the decoy.

“Throw it!”

So they do.

And then there’s no time to untangle themselves because they need to run and they didn’t think this part through, didn’t know they’d be so enmeshed (it’s terrifying) (it’s glorious) (oh god).

They have to run.

Their feet move. All of them. Two pairs and two bodies of a whole running, sprinting, stumbling. They reach out to steady themselves, the cavern rumbling as the birdshark plows on.

As the birdshark stops. It’s tremors rules. It’s gotta hear their pounding footsteps oh sweet hells fuck.

The bomb goes off.

Slaps them stupid. One of them falls, hands cradling ears that hurt and hurt. Claws at them, even. Have to get up, have to go, go!

Scrambling and kicking. The birdshark is quiet. They must have blown it to pieces! It never works in the movies, fucking run.

What’s a movie…? Oh. A wonder. They want more, want to delve in and view the memory of them all—

Get your fucking ass up and moving!

They close the distance to the crevasse. But they’re already flagging. A body unused to this: impact lancing up shins, air clawing at their throat and a cramp stabbing them in the side and they can’t, they can’t go any more. You have to, darling. Up! Get up!

Then. Oh then.

A hissing and rumbling anew. Not towards their distraction, but towards them. It’s failed (told you!) The bomb failed (fucking horror movie rules you fucker) and now it’s coming for them and it’s real fucking pissed.

That puts a pep right back into their step. They’re closing. Even as their body screams. As their feet drag and their lungs burn and they force themselves on. They run. They run for their lives.

Closer. Closer.

They can feel the birdshark now. The ground shivers right on their heels. Right beneath their feet. It’s going to come up right between their legs and chomp off their bullocks—

The ground ends. Drops off in a sheer cut.

They leap.

One lands badly. Feet slide out and their battered and abused left knee twists and pops and gives out. They barely manage to catch themselves on bare palms that rip open on hard stone.

The other doesn’t land. They hit. Fold over a ledge of stone that knocks the air out of them and knocks their thoughts with it. They hit so hard they become two for a moment. His leader scrabbling for a handhold as her feet kick in the terrifying nothingness of the crevasse.

She’s going to fall. Be swept away because he cut that rope and let her.

Shock. Horror. She can still hear him. She can see that memory, the knife sawing through that straining rope and the way he knew it was damning her and he did it without a thought. They stare at each other through her eyes.

Something flashes orange to his left. Some fungus. It throbs once. Twice. Swells up shockingly fast. Oh. That’s probably bad.

“Ast—” she starts and their fear is a shared thing, a rampaging beast thrashing in both their minds.

The mushroom explodes.

He sees it. The flash. And barely registers that before the blast swats him. His leader yelps and her legs flail. She’s going to slip, going to fall and it’ll smash her leg bones up through her pelvis and shish kabob (what?) right through her bowels and into her liver.

But it’s him who feels the ground fall away. Who tumbles, is blasted right off their little ledge.

He falls.

And he falls.

And he falls.

Everything in him goes rather numb. Goes still and silent. But something else rages up inside him and it takes him the span of a thought to realize it’s her, his illustrious leader: her panic. Her terror.

Not because he’s leaving her to die again (as she feared he’d do, oh, he’s really failed hasn’t he). It’s not for her. She’s horrified…for him. His safety. His unshattered (for the next few moments) body.

She’s afraid for him. Despairing, because she cannot reach him, cannot stop this, can only watch him fall.

“Astarion!” she screams.

It’s honest. It’s genuine. No guile or secondary motivation. She reaches out through her tadpole as if to hold him, shield him somehow simply because…because she wants him to not be—

He hits.