#this is barely a manip

[teruel-a-witch]

that time Steve took his 'partner' to his aunt's as his wedding date :) (after they got dressed together at his house ;))

Danny: what's with the fluffy green flower?

Steve: I just like it.

Max: ah, Detective Williams, I believe Commander McGarrett is doing homage to the tradition started by Oscar Wilde when a green carnation was worn by men who ...

Steve: Max, I beg of you, please shut it.

[frogkicks]

THEM

I haven't done a screenshot edit manip thingy in years! These were always so fun.

[imperfectloved]

ㅤ       ◟⟡   ㅤׅㅤㅤANTPHNE   ↗️↗️↗️↗️   ??

@harvies

[partywithponies]

"Um you can't ship those two animated woman they barely share five minutes of screentime" Back in my day they didn't even need to be from the same movie. They didn't even need to be from the same time period. The Disney femslashers of old could craft a beautiful sapphic love story out of any two characters and a dream. There used to be gifsets and manips and fanart and fanfic and AMVs as far as the eye could see. We used to feast for weeks on cold table scraps retrieved from the floor and now you would judge and belittle someone for snacking on reheated leftovers from a plate? For shame.

[esther-dot]

Sansa's Sworn Shield 3k by @kittykatknits

“You could play come into my castle with her, she likes that game,” Rickon offered helpfully. Jon desperately wants an evening alone with his wife. Unfortunately, Rickon is determined to protect his dear sister from Jon's less than honorable intentions. Challenged to yet another duel, and running out of champions, Jon decides to find another way to solve his problems so he can finally come into Sansa's castle.

The pursuit of non-bath time happiness 3k by @captainbee89

After Jon refuses Gendry's ask for Arya's hand, citing the fact Sansa was not yet betrothed, Rickon observes and, with the help of Shaggydog, Ghost and Arya, comes up with a plan to have Jon realise he should court Sansa himself. And if it were to result in Jon being less strict about bath times, that was totally coincidental!

Goodbye Means Going Away (And Going Away Means Forgetting) 2k by @vixleonard

Memory is unreliable. No one understands this better than Rickon Stark.

corresponding manip by @norrlands-nonsense

what this palace wants is release 26k WIP by @bravegentlestrong

When Sansa and Jon show up at Bear Island, Rickon is already there holding court as King in the North and planning a war with Lyanna Mormont. They look exactly like the parents who he lost. Once Jon and Sansa take over the whole ruling-the-kingdom thing, Lyanna and Rickon use their political capital to parent trap Jon and Sansa.

No Smooth Road 4k by @maybetwice

Jon and Sansa are in love. It ought to be as simple as that.

His King's Command ficlet by @vivilove-jonsa

“Sansa wants a babe. You should give her one.” Jon had been cleaning Longclaw but glances up at his king, his ten-years-old cousin, who is staring at him expectantly with his arms crossed.

Rickon's Refuge 1k by @vivilove-jonsa

On those nights, Rickon feels like a child of eight, not a man grown. On those nights, he seeks out Sansa, a tolerable replacement for the mother he lost, the one he barely remembers now, though that is not in his conscious thoughts.  She lets him lie in her bed.  She will stroke his hair softly and sing.  He's never told her but he likes that.  It makes him feel safe and loved and like he still has a mother who isn't a faded memory.   “Rickon? What are you doing in here?” He scowls at the deep voice even though he loves him. “What are you doing in here?!” he asks sharply in reply to Jon’s question, the petulance plain in his tone.

Marry Me In Some Old-Fashioned Way 2k by @blackholeofprocrastination

A misunderstanding with Rickon leads Jon to reconsider his future at Winterfell and his feelings towards its red-haired mistress.

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON SIX - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - SALTY TEENS - POST CANON - next time -> HISTORICAL: 1930S

[somewhereincairparavel]

General Jason Grace headcanons ⚡

⚡ I feel like he's kinda sensitive. He isn't the crier type of sensitive tho but since he's super emotionally attuned to body language reading and stuff, he gets a little hurt easily, sometimes misinterpreting someone's behaviour to him, so maybe if one of his friend's start getting snappy with him because they're having a bad day, he'd actually be pretty damn upset about it, but would hide it.

⚡ Also also, this man HATES being yelled at. Sure, he's been trained harshly and stuff but he's very hard on himself too so I feel like if someone yells at him (like in an argument or something) the poor boy's whole day would be ruined.

⚡ This is also why I feel like he NEVER raises his voice harshly at anyone even if he's super super angry because he knows how much damage yelling can do.

⚡ But. He can still manage to be terrifying if he's mad. He'd have that intense icy stare directed at the person (I'm pretty sure this is canon and is pointed out by multiple characters in the books). And his voice would be steady but VERY firm and strong. Kinda like a strict dad.

⚡ Also, his eyes would get a slight shade lighter if he's super angry. Like he usually has bright electric blue eyes right? It would just turn into ice colured ones.

⚡ Okay I feel like before they all go to bed, he'd go check on everyone in the Argo ii to see if they're comfortable or if they need anything, etc. definitely an overbearing mother friend tbh. He gets this habit from camp Jupiter where he was kinda in charge for cabin rounds since he was centurion.

⚡ I hc him to have like lemony yellow hair, instead of platinum or golden blonde. It's not too light but it isn't dark either.

⚡ Why do I feel like sun tan literally never affects this guy? Like for instance, I totally hc that percy gets tanned pretty quickly, but this man's skin just wouldn't budge. Instead of his body getting tanned I feel like his hair would get a few yellow shades darker instead lol

⚡ I felt like he'd be sunburnt instead tho. There would be blotchy pink patches on his face and arms after he comes back from the beach.

⚡ He definitely LOVES his roman baths, could spend hours in that bath (honestly if u guys have seen traditional Roman baths, you'd know that they look like a spa day DREAM omg) so he would feel super disoriented when he has regular baths in chb instead and would miss Roman baths SO badly.

⚡ Like the Roman baths literally ease his muscle tension after a long day. It would be like the only part of the day in camp Jupiter that would actually feel relaxing for him.

⚡ He's such a foodie okay. Remember how he kept munching on his brownies religiously when the crew were in such a dangerous situation? ("Pass me the brownies bro") or when he loved the sweet stuff the snake people had made for them? Like food just makes him forget his duties and be a kid for once.

⚡ Which leads us to our next hc, he has such a sweet tooth! (Tho I feel like this was aluded many times in the books aswell). Like he's every dentist's nightmare tbh. He has like teeth stains which he'd deliberately try to get rid of by aggressively brushing his teeth (it does come off lol)

⚡ As opposed to what people usually assume about him. Jason is secretly such a hopeless romantic tbh. Nothing like his dad in that category. Remember how he snuck Piper out the window, led her into his secret rooftop passage simply to recreate their first kiss under the stars, since Piper was super upset about it being fake? Yeah, he hates upsetting his s/o. he's like super thoughtful and plans stuff like these days ahead so he doesn't forget :(

⚡ He's such a people pleaser even with people he barely knows, and the effect only doubles when he has a partner tbh. Like if his partner doesn't like a particular place? He won't like it either. So he needs someone to encourage him and tell him it's okay to like something the others dislike.

⚡ Which is also why I think that he'd be easier to emotionally guilt trip and manipulate. :(( somone wrap him up in a fluffy blanky pls

⚡ As opposed to canon, I feel like Jason only dislikes Camp Jupiter, not New Rome itself. He ADORES that place to shreds. I feel like instead of settling in a mortal area or something, he'd definitely stay in New Rome for long-term living (bc screw canon, him wanting to leave new Rome all together seems SO ooc to me idk) some parts of his roman self would ALWAYS be there tbh. That place was practically his home. Also, he only wants a peaceful, monster free life right? New Rome would obviously provide with all that, yk since they have a strong barrier for the city to prevent invasion.

⚡ He would have an aptitude for sculpting statues and stuff. He'd love to do it as a hobby, not like an architect or something like annabeth tho. He made such cool dioramas for his shrine ideas, so I feel like he just pours his heart and soul into making cool sculptures.

⚡ He would totally study in law school. His dad's legit the god of justice, he's a great speaker, can hold debates calmly, can canonically hear both sides of an argument before coming to a decision, seems very lawyer coded.

⚡ But he'd also be a good history professor. Have yall heard his yapping? Leo called him professor Grace for how much dedication he goes into explaining roman history. And he genuinely LOVES it. A very passionate teacher material to me.

⚡ Also, all he wants is for his partner to listen to him talk :( he has SO much to say but he feels like no one listens, so hed literally cry if someone takes interest in his long explanations (kind of like annabeth in this tbh)

⚡ Also, Octavian can NEVER argue with Jason because that man is just THAT good at smart and witty answers that even octavian saw him as a threat.

[sapphicscholar]

Inaugural Hacks Fandom Gift Exchange!

Hello, hello! This year, we are launching a winter gift exchange for Hacks! Styled like other major femslash gift exchanges, you will sign up with 2 prompts, which will be assigned to another participant, and you will in turn receive the prompts of another participant. These prompts will be shared individually in early November, and you will have until December 20th to create and post a fan work (fic, art, gif sets, manips/edits, fanvid) for one of those prompts!

I’ve posted an FAQ below, and you can sign up to participate at the following link: https://forms.gle/RG6uofVYvV9HvNyQ7

~~~

Event FAQ:

Can I sign up if I don’t write fic?

This event is for all kinds of fan creators! The form will give you an opportunity to check off what kinds of work you are interested in making (fic, art, gif sets, and/or vids). While we will be using a sorting mechanism, we’ll add tags to prompts to help ensure folks signing up to create vids or gif sets won’t be given someone whose prompts are nearly impossible to fill in that medium.

Can I sign up and drop out later?

Please don’t! For this kind of event, drop outs pose a big problem! Rather than having a simple theme day where anyone can post, a gift exchange means your prompts have been assigned to someone else (who will gift you a creative work), and you have gotten another participants’ prompts. Making sure that no one is left without a gift on reveal day means that someone will have to race around to fill your prompts at the last minute.

So should I just not participate if I don’t know if I’ll have the time?

One thing you can offer to do if you’re one of those people who loves the adrenaline rush of a looming deadline is to let me know that you *might* be interested in being a pinch hitter in case we do have drop outs or situations where life happens. This doesn’t obligate you, but it lets me know that I can reach out near the deadline to check in and see if you’re up for it!

Can I use AI to help create my gift work?

No. While other fan events may have different rules, for this event we ask that you not use AI at any stage in creation (idea generation, drafting fic, creating art, editing, etc.). These kinds of events are designed to foster community; we put time, energy, and real creative labor into making something to gift to another, and there is far more value in something with a couple tiny quirks or typos of handmade art than there is in the cold sterility of AI-generated outputs. Generative AI is, per the admissions of its own creators, possible only because of the non-consensual theft of vast troves of creative labor via large scale data scraping. These workers have been neither paid nor credited, but their labor is lining the pockets of corporate billionaires who continue to decimate the environment in an era of worsening climate catastrophe while exploiting invisibilized, barely paid workers in the Global South. Anyone found to be using AI will not have their work posted in the collection and will be barred from participation in future fan events.

[forzaferraris]

UH OH ! cl16 .

[ masterlist . series masterlist . part i ]

PAIRING : charles leclerc x female reader TYPE : smau & written

WARNINGS : (chapters will have their own specific warnings, these are just the general warnings.) cheating, not on reader. established! relationship charles x oc. coarse language. age gap! reader is 22. smut, chapters will be marked as such, minors do not interact. set during the 2023 f1 season. multi chapter fic. a gross abundance of italics. charles inability to accept the hard truth within his relationship. negative social media comments. poorly made manips. barely famous reader.

FACECLAIM : reader will be portrayed by madison beer

SUMMARY : there are a lot of things in life to regret. like your eighteenth birthday, drinking more than you knew you could handle, the aftermath of blue-coloured vomit and the killer headache the morning after; or perhaps that time you find yourself being all too easily agreeable to attending your friend's partners birthday . . . you shouldn't have met him. still, you did, and now here you are. . . feeling all too foolish.

TABLE OF CONTENTS : estimated dates are subject to change due to my schedule. chapter one — gorgeous ( wednesday february 7th ) chapter two — untitled ( undecided ) chapter three — untitled ( undecided ) chapter four — untitled ( undecided )

authors note : this is very much a work in progress, i'm putting feelers out for interest whilst i draft the first chapter, hope y'all enjoy ! — add yourself to the taglist here !

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Drive [Car Sex Trope]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB Reader

Trope de Sept Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Car Sex situation 1. Characters bone in a vehicle. That's it. "You take Matt in a beat up rental car to a parking lot in Jersey so he can experience learning to drive. Things get steamy."

Warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio). No use of Y/N. AFAB Reader. Unprotected P in V, Oral (F receiving), Creampie.

WC: 1,701

AN: Thank you all so much for all the love during my September Trope event! It was fun, but I'm exhausted, so you probably won't be getting a lot of new stuff from me for a while after this. Writing 17 fics in one month was a lot. Thank you all again, it was a blast! I'm already churning up ideas for next year...

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on this site to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platform I currently post anything on is Tumblr. Thanks!*

“Brake is the left Matt, the left!!” you shouted, gripping at the dashboard as the car whizzed around the parking lot

“I know! I know!” he argued back, effortlessly spinning the steering wheel

“Do you?!”

“I’m blind, but I still know my left from my right!”

Being in a car in an empty parking lot with a blind man behind the wheel was maybe not your best idea, even if that blind man had enhanced abilities.

It all began a few days before, after several rounds of beers at Josie’s, of course.

“What do you mean you didn’t go to prom?” you asked Foggy, flabbergasted at his confession

“I asked the most popular girl in school and of course, she just couldn’t handle all my charm and swagger, so she turned me down and I just didn’t end up going.”

Thus sparked the discussion on normal teenage things you’d all missed.

“Well, I never knew the joys of having one of my parents teach me how to drive.” Matt commented

“Ugh that’s so sad.” you replied “That was one of the greatest joys of my teenage years. The day I got my license; stepping out of the DMV and getting in the car. All the freedom of taking your parent’s car for the first time, getting to go anywhere you wanted.

“I was doing that when I was barely 8. It’s called the subway.” 

“No, no. A car is so different! It’s just… I can’t even describe it!” you exclaimed, a little tipsy from too many pitchers of Heineken

So here you were, in an empty parking lot of a closed down Best Buy in a suburb in New Jersey, in the most junky rental car you could get. Determined to give Matt the experience he missed out on. 

The windows were rolled down so Matt could get a better 360 “view” with his senses. Only a few light posts were scattered through the parking lot. So fortunately, there wasn’t much to avoid. With no other cars or people around, Matt had total freedom to experience the thrill of learning to drive.

Your heart was thumping out of your chest with every turn and bump in the cracked pavement.

Honestly, it wasn’t because he couldn’t “see” out the windshield, it was because he was being his usual reckless self and driving how you imagined a teenager behind the wheel for the first time would. God, you suddenly felt sympathy for all the times your father took you out when you were 16 to teach you.

He hit the brakes hard with a screech, sending you flying towards the dashboard.

“What, what!?” you exclaimed

“Sorry, I’m still getting used to how touchy the brakes are. There’s a bunny.” he nodded toward the windshield

Sure enough, a rabbit came prancing along at least 20 feet in front of the car, totally oblivious to his not so narrowly avoided doom.

“I think that might be enough for today.” you groaned

“No! I’m having fun! Aren’t you?”

You narrowed your stare at him and crossed your arms, knowing he could sense all the tells of your body that fun was not the word to describe your feelings towards this experience.

“C’mon sweetheart, relax yeah? I really appreciate you doing this for me.” 

He leaned across the center console to give you a kiss. The car lurched forward as he pressed his lips to yours.

“Keep your foot on the brake, Matt!” you chided

“Alright!”

He sat back upright, maneuvering the gear shift into park and ratcheting up the parking brake.

“Better?” he asked with a raise of his brows “Can I kiss you now that the vehicle is safely not in motion?”

“Yes.”

A grin spread across his face as he leaned toward you once more, this time adding a firey passion to his kisses.

“Come here.” he said, lips hovering over yours, pulling you to straddle him

Pliable to his touch with only a few kisses, you slotted yourself across his lap easily, finding the hem of your sweatshirt and tossing it into the backseat.

His lips moved down your already heated skin, sucking and biting at your neck and collar bone. 

Just as you were about to release a lusty moan, your rear accidently bumped the steering wheel causing it to let out a loud wail.

You and Matt jolted apart, crumbling into a fit of giggles at the sudden interruption.

“You know, that’s another teenage experience I never got as a city boy” he murmured low, hand reaching up to stroke your face

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Sneaking out with my girlfriend and having sex in the backseat of my crappy car.”

“Matthew…”

“Parking lot is empty, no one around. We could roll the windows up and make it steamy in here…” 

You had to giggle at the thought, though he was right, as New Yorkers there weren’t many places to have a little fun outside the apartment where you wouldn’t get caught.

“Alright,” you agreed “roll the windows up and meet me in the back seat.”

That was always the joy of being in a relationship with Matthew, he never let things get stale or boring and always found a way to make any situation flirty and fun and sometimes, like right now, downright sultry.

He tossed his glasses onto the dashboard while you climbed through the gap between the front seats. He joined you, sitting side by side on the bench seat and resumed your makeout session.

“Matt…” you mewled as he traced his tongue along your neck and jaw

“I know sweetheart, I’ll take care of you.”

He slipped a hand behind your back to remove your bra, taking time to lick and suck each of your nipples as the fabric fell away.

Your skin tingled with every movement of his lips across your body. Anticipation of what was to come alighting a fire in your belly as you arched your back into his touch. 

He pawed at the fastenings of your jeans, desperate to get you bare for him. Obliging, you helped him remove your pants and kick off your shoes, leaning back to lay on the seat beneath you.

The upholstery of the worn backseat was not the most comfortable of sensations against your body, but as soon as his rough hands were kneading at your thighs and spreading them open, the nuisance of it left your mind.

Satisfied with the state of arousal you were in, he finally reached his hands to where you wanted him most, moving your panties to the side and dipping his head down towards your pussy.

“Oh– god.” your moan was strangled as he teased your clit with just a brush of his tongue

But he didn’t tease for long, grasping your hips and pulling you in one motion towards his mouth. Heat spread across your already warm skin when he finally licked a long stripe through your folds. Pulling you firm to his heated mouth to lap and suck, he let out a lowly moan against your core. It reverberated through you and sent a shiver up your spine. As he sucked and kissed at your clit, you could feel your orgasm blossoming beneath the surface. Growing steadily until he added two fingers into your heat, causing your climax to explode out of you.

With a cry of his name, you came apart. Matt continued to work you through it until you were a panting and sweaty heap beneath him.

He sat back on his heels as you watched, still too blissed out to do much, and removed his shirt as well. Your slick covered the satisfied smirk that spread across his plush lips. 

“You want some more, baby?” he cockily asked

A docile whimper was all you were able to squeak out, nodding your head as he freed himself from his pants.

He sat back on the seat and you clambered to climb on top of him, sinking his length into your ready cunt in one motion.

Your simultaneous moans reverberated around the cramped space. His length felt so perfectly filling, you were tempted to just rest there a while and enjoy the sensation. But the desperate whine that escaped his lips had you rolling your hips, drawing more moans from the both of you. He leaned back, head falling against the seat and eyes pressed shut as he got more and more  lost in the bliss of your body while you rode the both of you to ecstasy.

Both of your skin was damp and sticky and the labored breaths you let out between lust-filled kisses had the windows sufficiently fogged up, just as Matt requested. If anyone were to have driven by, they would’ve known exactly what was going on in that car.

Your fingers tangled in his dark hair and he shuddered at the feeling, causing his lips to part as he let out a shaky plea.

“Keep– please, that feels so good. God, please keep going.”

As he thrusted up harder to meet the already consistent rock of your hips, the steady rubbing against your clit was driving you towards the edge quickly. You trailed trembling fingers up his muscled chest, finding grounding by grasping his shoulders leaving white indents with your fingers as you clung to him. His pace became more erratic, a sure sign that he was just as close to the cliff’s edge as you.

One more breathy beg of your name from him was all it took to get you there. This orgasm hit you as intensely as the last. Your walls contracted around him until he couldn’t take it anymore either, spilling inside you with a low groan.

You both stayed there a while, panting and catching your breath as you came down. Disheveled dark locks stuck to his damp forehead as he pressed it against yours. His beautiful hazel eyes darted around as he breathed you and this moment in and held you close.

“Well I’d say it is sufficiently steamy in here.” you said in barely a whisper, causing a chuckle from him

“We should get back to the city.” he replied

“Okay” you agreed “but I’m driving.”

[mmmichyyy]

hi, i couldn't stop thinking about ray's @whatthebodygraspsnot manip of ian burrowing his head under mickey's shirt, so i wrote this 🖤

- - -

“you’re doing it again.” 

ian looks up. blinks. “doing what.” 

mickey huffs. “you know what.” 

innocent green eyes continue to blink. “don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout, mick.” 

“the sniffing thing.” mickey isn’t going to indulge his husband’s clingy tendencies. nope. not today. “you’re practically inhaling my shirt.” 

“can’t help it.” the arms wrapped around mickey’s waist tighten. “you smell so good.” 

mickey rolls his eyes. “we use the same laundry detergent and soap.” 

“it’s more than that. i can’t explain it. you just…” ian pauses. “you smell like home. our home, y’know?” 

mickey flicks ian’s forehead with his thumb. “sappy fucker.” 

a hand slowly creeps under mickey’s shirt. warm, slow, so slow. on instinct, mickey bites his lips and leans into the touch, shuddering slightly at the skin on skin contact. 

“your skin is so soft, baby,” ian murmurs. lightly dances another hand up mickey’s chest. “like velvet. love your peach fuzz.” firm thumbs press down along mickey’s ribcage. “you bruise so easily too, like a peach…”

“ian…” words seem to escape mickey at the moment. “please…” 

ian shifts his body. hums softly, the tip of his nose lightly nudging mickey’s stomach, tongue swirling on the skin above mickey’s waistband. oh, okay then. 

…except instead of going down, ian moves in the opposite direction, up and under mickey’s shirt. doesn’t even bother to push the fabric aside, just burrows his head underneath without warning. all mickey sees when he looks down is a grey lump attached to his chest, tufts of red curls peeking through the neckhole. 

“think you mixed up north from south,” mickey breathes, except the air is momentarily whooshed out of his lungs when the lump responds by twisting gentle fingers around his hardened nubs, tweaking and flicking and breathing warm puffs of air on bare skin. every movement, every point of contact has mickey writhing on the couch, nails digging into ian’s shoulder blades. the sensations from just ian’s fingers and tongue has every cell in mickey’s body tingling, lighting up every nerve, heating up every expanse of skin.

suddenly the air in the room is hot, too hot, and mickey has a second of clarity in his hazy euphoric state to realize ian's lips have been glued to his skin for minutes? maybe hours? now, unrelenting with no signs of stopping. because of course his goofy puppy-dog of a husband would rather stay trapped and suffocate than deny mickey of pleasure. of course.

the t-shirt is quickly pulled down and ian’s head pops out of the neckhole, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. mickey swallows ian’s gasp for fresh air with his lips and embraces ian’s racing heart against his own, kissing and kissing until they both break down into laughter at how ridiculous and uncomfortable they are - sticky, sweaty, and sharing a shirt that’s stretched to its limit.

“you gonna get off me anytime soon?” 

ian presses the side of his cheek on mickey’s chest. closes his eyes. 

“no,” ian says simply, “i’m where i want to be.” 

and okay. mickey can live with that. 

[sarahowritesostucky]

Manip GIF by @odetolove95

📖"I Prefer Girls Who're Not Afraid to Cry"

That’s what Chris does - he worries. He worries that someday someone will catch on to what they do, what they’ve been doing for years. That someday, someone will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong intentions, and snap a picture of something that can’t be explained away as an interaction between friends and costars.

Rated: Mature

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Chris Evans (Sebastian x ofc)

Word Count: 4439

Tags: light dom/sub, dom Sebastian Stan, Sub Chris Evans, slight internalized homophobia, secret relationship, discussions of threesomes and polyamory, flirting, touching through clothes, teasing

Summary: Sebastian and Chris reconnect to discuss the possibility of sharing a woman and living their life in the open.

A.N.: this isn't shading Alba at all. It was written when Chris had just barely started to date her.

📖"I Prefer Girls Who're Not Afraid to Cry"

Part one highly recommended to be read first!

Sebastian’s in the middle of taking a dump when he hears his phone out in the kitchen. “Ah, crap.”

(Literally.)

But then the familiar ringtone registers, and he calms down, knowing that he’s not missing an important business call from his agent or some director. He craps in peace.

He brews himself another coffee and takes it into the livingroom, sinking down on his couch with a happy sigh. He checks his phone. There’s a text from Bo already. He’d stuck her in a town car not thirty minutes ago, with a kiss and a murmured command of, “Let me know when you’re home safe.” 

Given her proclivity for being a good girl, Sebastian is unsurprised to find her sweet and adorably obedient: “Safe and sound. Last night was amazing 😘😊,” waiting in their text thread.

"Good girl," he murmurs. He's still smiling over her, as he pulls up the last call received and taps the screen to call him back.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.” He sounds breathless over the line, must be working out. There’s some new project he’s signed on for, some historical drama with shirtless scenes.

“Hey,” Sebastian says. “You busy? I can call back.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Hang on.” There’s movement on the other end of the line, and a few seconds later it sounds like his face is pressed more firmly to the receiver. He’s settled somewhere, and his breath isn’t labored anymore.

“Are you still in the city?”

“Yeah. They’ve got three still in the running for the female lead, want me to do chemistry reads to narrow it down. Casting needs me for another few days." There's a pause. "... I thought I might stay a bit longer, though. See the sights.”

Sebastian hums, pleased. “You should.” In the distant background, he thinks he can hear weight plates being moved around. “Are you ... are you actually at a gym?”

His sigh crackles over the line, displeased. “The fifty-third street Equinox.”

“Wow.” Sebastian snickers. “And look: you’ve survived!”

“Don’t jinx it. Nobody’s bothered me. Yet.”

Sebastian still laughs about it. He doesn’t mind public gyms himself, but then again, he’s much more of a showoff (and not nearly as famous). “Do you want to go to lunch?” he asks, eyes slipping closed, digging his skull back into the couch cushion. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sorry, can’t. I’ve got meetings all afternoon.”

“Pfff. 'Course.” There goes Sebastian's excuse for skipping his own workout. He pokes at his abs. “I need to go for a run.”

Over the line, there’s the sound of water being gulped, and then a hopeful, “Dinner though?”

“Sure. Where?”

“Well, I was thinking that dark place. Georgie’s?”

Sebastian bites his lip, tickled at what he knows that means. Georgia’s is an obscenely expensive and very private Italian joint. It’s got dark corners, discreet staff, and cozy leather booths. … And it’s less than two blocks from Sebastian’s building. Still, he pretends to complain, teasing, “You don’t ask for much, do ya, Evans?”

Chris chuckles lowly, and the sound goes straight to Sebastian’s cock. “What, you think I’m easy, Stan?”

“I know you are.”

“Gotta make you work for it. I want you to wine and dine me.”

That’s not all you want me to do, Sebastian thinks. “I think I can manage that. Dessert after?"

"Always."

That low voice, purred into the receiver, is enough to have Sebastian's cock pulsing in interest. He sinks lower on the couch, right hand roaming over his leg, up to the crease of his inner thigh. “Eight o’clock?” he asks, cupping himself. Maybe he’ll jerk off before he runs.

“You damn Europeans and your middle of the night dinner times.”

“Shut up and come get cultured,” he says, throwing on an accent thicker than any he’s naturally spoken with in decades. It makes Chris giggle, which lights Sebastian up. “Seven,” he concedes, and Chris agrees. Neither one of them mentions the fact that they're going to wind up back at Sebastian’s place, after; that 'dessert' is just a euphemism for what they get up to together once they're alone. Sebastian all but confirms it when he says, “You can stay?”

“Yeah. The night.”

“The week,” he corrects.

Chris stays silent, and Sebastian can practically hear him worrying. “Well … I’ve got all my luggage, though.”

“So? Bring it.”

“Production’s put me up at the Conrad …”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “You gonna turn me down for the friggin' Conrad? Naw. Check out of your hotel, bring your luggage here. I don’t get to see you enough. I miss you.”

“Seb,” Chris says, sounding tempted, but wary. “What if somebody—”

“You haven’t been doing press, so nobody knows you’re in town. Come on. Have you even seen cameras?”

“... No,” he admits, still sounding worried. But that’s what Chris does: he worries. He worries that someday someone will catch on to what they do, what they’ve been doing, off and on, for years. That someday, someone will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong intentions, and snap a picture of something that can’t be explained away as an interaction between friends and costars. Last year, Chris' agent had sat him down and said something to him about it.

But Sebastian just calmly commands him again, “Come stay with me. It’ll be fine.”

“... Okay.”

His heart melts at the give in Chris’ voice, the trust. He’s a bit like Bohdana, in that regard. Sometimes Chris just needs to let it all go and let somebody else be in charge for a little while. And Sebastian knows how hard it is for him to do that, knows what it means, that Chris lets him be the one he surrenders to. “Hey,” he says fondly. “Be brave, little toaster. I’ll see you tonight.”

Chris snorts, Sebastian hums, and they end the call that way. Sebastian closes his eyes and sips the rest of his coffee with his hand still on his dick, feeling peaceful, considering jacking off. It’s probably nearing noon by now. He should go get his workout over with, but he isn’t in the mood to rush, too wrapped up in his thoughts about Chris. And Bo.

He’d bid her farewell slowly and lazily. She’d been so sweet in his bed that morning, all mussed hair and shy smiles and soft curves. Sebastian had thoroughly enjoyed the gentle, intimate process of kissing her awake and cuddling her between the sheets, speaking in decibels only used by lovers, reassuring her that she was perfect and that what they’d done was good, and right, that he wasn’t going to discard her now that he'd had her—all things that he'd known she needed to hear.

It’s been a long time since Sebastian’s been with a woman so beautifully needy. Bo’s no virgin. He can see that she clearly knows what she likes. But there’s a virginal quality to her that tells Sebastian she’s obviously never been treated right by a man, and she’s never been handled by one at all. That doesn’t make him mad or indignant on her behalf. Rather, it excites him.

Excites him, because that means he gets to be her first in more ways than one. He’s thinking about the sight of her laid out on his bed and whimpering so sweetly, as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajama pants. He plays with his dick lightly, getting harder, remembering his time with Bohdana last night and imagining how it would’ve been if Chris had been there with them.

Would he just want to watch, that first time? Sebastian thinks maybe he would. Chris is hesitant sometimes. He’s careful, mindful of other people’s judgements and expectations, mindful of himself. If Bo wasn’t overtly, aggressively sexual with him right out of the gate (which she likely wouldn’t be), then Sebastian knows Chris would move to the side, sit in a chair and watch, eventually touching himself while Sebastian took Bo apart on the bed.

He jerks off to the fantasy, picturing something very close to what really happened last night. Only in this version, some of his attention would be on Chris, too; glancing over at him while his hand is between Bo’s legs, smirking and tossing her panties his way, looking straight at him as he fingers her to climax. Maybe he'd decide to eat her out and make her come that way, too. He knows he'd go over to Chris, then; kiss him with his face still messy, give him a taste of her. Oh, and he can just imagine the look Chris would get on his face, if Seb could make her squirt in front of him. Fuck, he thinks, he could even drag Chris over and make him watch up close. He could teach him.

He comes with a low grunt, most of the mess contained inside his pajama pants. He pulls them off and wipes himself with a sated sigh, then goes to chuck them in the hamper. He starts the shower water running and shoots off a quick text to Don to see if he’s free for a run. Sebastian always pushes a little harder than he does when jogging alone. He hops in the shower, already in an excellent mood.

This thing with Chris, this “thing” that they don’t put a name to, has been going on for a long time. Sometimes Sebastian forgets just how long. (How many years ago were they shooting Winter Soldier? Ten? Jesus, they’re getting old.)

Ten years since that first kiss: middle of August in a trailer in Atlanta, boiling temperatures, boiling tensions, and Chris shoving him away with a “What the fuck man? I’m not gay!” 

Eight years since that second kiss: another trailer, a better kiss, this time with Sebastian so bulked up that he could easily wrestle Chris’ anger away.

Seven years since that first night: Salt Lake Comic Con, Chris busting into his hotel room, drunk and belligerent and falling to his knees to suck him off.

Yeah, Sebastian thinks, it’d turned into a regular thing after Salt Lake. So, seven. Seven years of fitting in moments together. Between cities, movies, relationships, the demands of friends and fans and family. Using their phones when the months upon months of separation pile up—texting the safe stuff and snapchatting the not so safe stuff. Missing each other but never admitting it, and certainly never saying I Love You. They live two separate lives, lives that don’t have space for them to make their “thing” any more than it is. Certainly not a relationship.

Sexuality’s a spectrum, and he and Chris each have their place somewhere on it. Sebastian knows they both fall way closer to the straight end of that spectrum than most men who’re sleeping with other men do, but not far enough to not warrant caution. Because being gay isn’t conducive to what they do for a living.

Oh, Hollywood is very accepting of those things socially, but the fastest way to kill a career as a leading man in film is to announce that you’re into dick. Roles dry up fast once you’re openly gay. It’s not homophobia, it’s marketing. No director is going to cast a guy for a blockbuster role if the audience can’t buy him as straight. Action, romance, and even in most drama films; sex is what’s being sold. Straight sex, to straight people, and a leading man is the main product. Women need to be able to picture themselves with him, men need to be able to picture themselves as him. That’s the business.

It’s something both Sebastian and Chris have had to come to grips with. Girlfriends but not wives are always encouraged. Hell, Chris’ agent even sets him up on the occasional date. Emily is a little more hands off with Sebastian, thank goodness. But she's made comments in the past about all the gay roles he’s taken on in his work— “One is fine, two starts to look suspicious, three’s a pattern," has been sure to let him know that he’d better be visibly pursuing women in the meanwhile. So he’s gotten into the habit of dating models. It’s helped to increase his sex appeal and cement him as a desirable lead for films, or so says Emily. Sebastian gets it, but it’s still annoying to hear his manager talk it up with such importance. He likes to think he gets roles because he’s a good actor. Imagine that.

He can’t even remember how many times Chris used to call him, back in the early days, upset and saying that they needed to stop doing what they were doing. An … interpretable picture had come out that showed the two of them embracing at a party. Now they’re careful. They’ve crafted a narrative and fed the media enough to ensure that they’re depicted as best friends, born from over a decade spent making movies together. Magazines print it, YouTube has compilation videos of it. No other pictures have ever come out.

Sebastian stands outside the restaurant and waits. He spots Chris coming down the sidewalk and smiles widely. They haven’t seen each other in months. Chris’ beard is gone.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He can’t pull him in and kiss him like he wants to. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets as they greet each other warmly. “Should we go in?” Chris asks, eyes roving up and down Sebastian, taking him in. “You look good.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Sexiest Man Alive,” Sebastian says, because he knows it’ll make him blush. It does.

Chris’ cheeks get gloriously pink and he shoves Sebastian’s shoulder as they go through the restaurant’s doors, laughing and telling him to shut the fuck up. The hostess gets a little wide-eyed when she realizes who’s standing in front of her. Sebastian’s not sure she knows who he is, but she definitely recognizes Mr. 2022. She can’t peel her eyes from Chris, and she gets real smiley, real fast, leading them back to the darkest, most tucked away booth in the house when Chris winks at her and requests 'someplace private'. “Your server will be right with you,” she gushes, seeming almost hesitant to go back to her hostessing duties. It’s cute, and it gives Sebastian more fodder for teasing once she finally does retreat.

“Gonna miss the beard though,” he muses, looking Chris over. He looks younger without it, always does. They settle in and ask the server for their usual; a bottle of wine and every appetizer on the menu. Sebastian was on chicken breast protocol not too long ago, so it’s a relief to be ordering calamari and bread and snails soaked in butter. He talks about the muscle he’s been able to put back on since his last role, how he thinks the weight loss aged him and he’s considering Botox. Chris talks about the table reads he’s in town for and the film he’s been forcing himself into public gyms for. He votes No for Botox.

“Seventeen-seventies,” Sebastian muses, once their food has come and he’s fishing out an escargot from its shell. “So like, breeches and wigs? Big puffy shirts?” He smirks across the table. “I can just picture it.”

Chris shakes his head at him, but he’s smiling. He likes being teased by Sebastian, and Sebastian knows this. “I’m getting nervous about it,” he confides. “I have to do an accent, which you know is not my forte. Then there’s the sex scenes.”

Sebastian can sympathize. He’s also shit at accents (other than those from Soviet bloc countries), and he’s done plenty of nudity. Full frontal, even. There’s really no way to make it not awful. And sex scenes are even worse: A film crew staring at your asscheeks and a bandaid taped over your junk while you pretend to give it to some chick. Sebastian would rather scoot around Athens naked a dozen times before having to do imitation thrusts. “There’ll be an intimacy coordinator,” he tries to console. “Talk to them.”

“Eh, they’re for the women.”

“They’re for everybody,” Sebastian corrects. “I’ve had my dick out enough to know.”

“Yeah you have.”

He points his teeny escargot fork across the table, stern. “They’re not just for the women.”

Chris reaches for his wine. “Speaking of women,” he segues. Their table is very secluded and the surrounding area dark, so much so that personal conversation feels safe, tucked away as they are in their little corner. “I ah, I broke it off with Alba.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows raise. “Oh?” He’d forgotten her name, but knows who Chris is talking about. “Why?” he asks, trying not to let his enthusiasm show. “I thought you liked her.”

Chris shrugs, looking down about it. “I did. I do. She’s sweet, but she’s borderline Gen Z, you know? She made some comment about Titanic being a “vintage” movie. It was too much.”

Sebastian nods. He gets it. And even though he’s happy to hear he has Chris all to himself again, he’s also sorry for him, because he knows how much the other man wants love, wants a family. They’ve never talked about their futures with other people. It’s just been an unspoken assumption on both their parts that eventually they’ll end up married with kids, no longer able to accommodate their “thing.”

But that’s part of this new idea that’s been percolating in the back of Sebastian’s brain. It’s not concrete, just a possibility, but being with Bo has put the idea into his head that maybe he could have his cake and eat it too, and maybe so could Chris. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, forcing himself to be bold. He meets Chris’ eyes. “Women, that is.”

“Oh yeah, how’d it go with that ah, that model you were seeing?” he asks, forced levity in his tone.

It makes Sebastian want to reach over and take his hand. Instead, he nudges their feet together under the table. “Hey.” He waits for Chris to meet his eyes again. “Bohdana,” he reminds gently. He hasn’t given Chris many details, but they have a policy of always telling each other about who they’re sleeping with. “She’s good. I really like her. She stayed over last night.”

Chris smiles. He’s trying. “That’s great, man.” He looks down again, sips his wine.

“Chris, look at me.”

He keeps his gaze on the table, focuses on choosing another few pieces from their various appetizers. “So, it’s getting serious?”

“Hey,” Sebastian says quietly, stern. “I told you to look at me.” Chris’ eyes snap up. Sebastian shakes his head. “It’s not serious. Not yet.”

“Oh?”

“Yet.” Beneath the table he slides his foot up, rubbing his ankle against Chris’. “She’s sweet,” he murmurs, holding his gaze. “Funny, gorgeous. Just wants a man to take care of her, though she tries not to let it show. And the way she responds to me is …” he trails off, letting the lack of words and his expression do the talking. He can see that Chris gets it. “And I think she wants kids. She’s said a few things in general conversation.”

Chris’ lips tick up. “Sounds like the whole package,” he says, thinking he’s hiding it well. But he’s as see-through as cellophane to Sebastian.

“Not quite. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He waits, takes a sip or two of his wine before he delves into the idea that’s been taking shape in his mind. He tells him delicately, “I think you should meet her.”

Chris immediately makes a face. “Why?”

“Hear me out.” He knows this has the potential to be a hard sell. “I think you’ll like her. She’s very pretty, you know. Nice skin, brown hair and dark eyes, cute face, petite. Just like you like ‘em.”

Chris is chewing something in his mouth. He chews it round and round, staring, thinking. He swallows and guesses, “... You want a threesome?”

“No. More than that.” Beneath the table, Sebastian slips his loafer off. “I want you to meet her. I think you’ll really like her.”

A shiver visibly runs through Chris’ body when Sebastian’s foot has made it all the way up his thigh, to the apex of his legs. “I don’t know what secret code you think you’re speaking in here, Seb,”

“I want us to share her.”

“Jesus—That’s what I just said."

“Need me to help you with that attitude?” Sebastian purrs. Chris’s eyes widen minutely at the threat, then go heavy-lidded. Sebastian smiles. “Hm?”

“I don’t think, it’d be a good idea,” he says, every word clipped and measured, controlling himself. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off. And the way we look at each other? She’d know.”

“That’s the idea,” Sebastian counters, sly. “Chris: we both like women, we both want that life—a family, home, kids. And we want each other. We’ve been separating ourselves into these different pieces, but maybe we don’t have to. Why not do it together? All of it?” Understanding starts to dawn on Chris’ face, and Sebastian nods. “Yes. You and me, and her.”

Chris' lips work a few times, speechless. “You want—”

“I want us to share her. Sexually, romantically, domestically. A life. Together.”

It takes a long few moments. First Chris just blinks at him, and then he scoffs out a mean little laugh, masking his nerves. Sebastian waits. Chris lifts his wine glass and gulps half of it down. He sets it down a little too roughly on the table. “You’ve been on what, two dates with this girl? Have you floated this little plan by her?”

“Six dates. And no I haven’t, but I will. And I think she’ll say yes.”

He scoffs and drinks more wine. He’s acting angry, but Sebastian can see him thinking it over, afraid to get his hopes up. “What about you and me?” he says. “People would know that we’re together. It’s still the same problem.”

Sebastian holds up a finger. “Ah, not quite.”

“How do you figure?”

“First of all, we wouldn’t have to come out about it right away. One of us could go public with her as his girlfriend, and since you and I are best hetero buds, it still wouldn’t be anything unusual for the three of us to be seen together.” Underneath the table, he lifts his leg, using his socked foot to massage Chris’ thigh. “Nothing scandalous. Then, one day—maybe not for years and years, who knows?—but one day, we come out as a throuple.”

Chris’ eyebrows go sky high. “A ‘throuple’?” he repeats.

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days. Polyamory, it’s all the rage.”

The eyebrows come down, replaced by a scowl. “Oh Seb, come on. Be serious,” he groans. The sound cuts off, however, when Sebastian’s foot presses up warningly against his balls.

“I am being serious,” he coos, voice like velvet. “What about that plan doesn’t sound perfect to you?”

Chris licks his lips. “Well she’d have to agree to it.”

“She will.”

“You don't know that. And I haven’t even met her.”

“Actually, you have.” Sebastian grins, excited to reveal this last bit. “She told me about it: how you two ran into each other at the gym.” When he sees that Chris is still confused, he elaborates, “She stumbled into you while you were lifting? You sat her down and force fed her juice and crackers?”

Chris’ lips part as he puts two and two together. “It was a granola bar,” he says weakly, and Sebastian’s heart flares with fondness for him.

“I talked about you with her. Briefly. Told her how you were my best friend, how we're very close." Chris snorts. "And she told me about how she thought you were cute, flirted with you, even gave you her number. I think she felt guilty for the flirting. It was like she was confessing it to me: her lust for another man.” With lighter pressure, he slowly rubs his foot against the crotch of Chris’ pants. His eyes bore into him while he does it, smirking, holding him with his gaze. “You’re getting hard,” he whispers.

“Y-yeah.” Chris looks like he’s really considering Sebastian’s proposal now, the anxiety in his face slowly being replaced by interest, disbelief … and maybe hope. “This is crazy,” he breathes. “Seb ...”

“I know,” Sebastian soothes. “I know it is. But we could do it—have each other, and our woman, and a family. Everything. A certain amount of privacy can be bought, and you have the money for it. Nobody would know until we want them to know. And even then, there’d be no reason for people not to assume it’s a M/F/M arrangement, with that F firmly in between the M’s. He tilts his head and watches as Chris absorbs everything he's saying. Gently, he massages his foot over his dick. Chris shivers. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“... You really think we can pull that off?”

“We’ve crafted a narrative before,” he offers. It’s not like it’s hard. All they’d have to do is act the part when they’re in public, call the paps on themselves when it’s convenient—both things they’ve already been doing for years. “So what do you say? You want to give it a try, come over and meet her one night? Feel her out?”

Chris has a brightness in his eyes as he thinks it through, and soon a smile sparks—hesitant at first, but growing. Under the table, his hand curls over the top of Sebastian’s foot and gives a squeeze, pressing it firmer against his erection. Sebastian moans quietly. Then, to his utter joy, Chris nods and says, “Let’s do it.”

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[farity]

Tell me, show me

Pairing:  Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: A conversation before the wedding 

Warnings: Smut.  Also, this excellent manip by the outstanding @kyloremus​

“There is no need for this, Aemond.”

“I did not ask for your permission, grandfather.  Excuse us.”

He grabbed your hand, dragging you out of the room, and you had to grab your skirts to raise them so you wouldn’t trip over the various layers.

“Prince Aemond, this is most unusual.”

He said nothing until you were in the library and he closed the door.  He turned to you, face impassive.  “I have agreed to this alliance for the benefit of both our houses, but I will be damned if I marry someone with whom I have only exchanged a dozen words.”  

You stared at him in surprise.  “I see.  Well, what do you wish to know?”

“Is there someone that you love?”  

Your jaw dropped for a moment.  “Would that make a difference?”

Aemond studied you for a moment.  His eye was fixed on your face, scrutinizing your expression, and you realized this man could see more with one eye than most did with two.  “Yes.  I wish to know where I stand in this marriage.”

“No,” you shook your head.  “There is no one.”  You looked at him, gathering your courage.  “May I ask the same question of you?”  One silver eyebrow went up for a brief moment.

“Affairs of the heart are something I have chosen to not entangle myself in.”  He spoke like he had given the concept much thought, and you laughed softly.  “What amuses you?”

You shrugged.  “I do not believe one chooses to fall in love.  It either happens or it does not.  You cannot force it and you cannot suppress it.  You may choose to not act upon it, choose not to feed the beast, but-”

“You believe love it a beast?”  He was smirking now, ,and you decided you’d rather stop talking about this if he was going to be dismissive of your views.  “Tell me.”

“Was there anything else you wished to know, Prince Aemond?”

“Hmm.  What are your interests, my lady?  What will you do to fill your hours here?”  He leaned back against the desk, long legs crossed at the ankle in front of him.  He really was most imposing, you decided, even without the eye patch.  Dressed head to toe in black, tall, that long hair making him almost ethereal.

You stopped thinking about those leather-encased legs and considered his question.  “Well, I like to learn.  I see you have a most expansive library and I would like to explore it, I would also like to help the small folk, maybe join some charity enterprise.”  It had been ingrained upon you the duties of those of high station towards the poor, and you had done much for the small folk back home.  You hoped to do the same here.

“I would not allow my wife to roam around Flea Bottom unattended,” he began, raising a hand when you opened your mouth to protest, “but, I would be glad to support your charitable works if you take at least two guards with you.”  His hands were also fascinating to you.  Long, elegant fingers, said to be deadly when holding a weapon.  You could discern some calluses on the palms and wondered how they would feel on your bare skin.

You nodded.  “That is most generous of you.”  

“Is there a question or request you wish to make of me?”

Oh no.  You were doing so well, not thinking about his legs or his hands, or those wicked lips.  A million improper ideas crossed your mind and you hoped - you prayed - they weren’t reflected on your face.  Taking a deep breath, you pushed an errant lock of hair back behind your ear.  “I would like to see your scar.”

A muscle twitched on his jaw, and he didn’t move for a few moments.  You began to wonder if this one request had just doomed your marriage, but then he pushed off from the desk, took a few, slow steps toward you, and reached up to pull off the eye patch.  He looked down at you, and waited.

Oh.

Seeing the parts of the scar not covered by the patch were in no way an indication of how cruel the whole thing looked.  And he’d been so young when it had happened.  He was still as a statue, letting you look, but when your hand rose to touch it, his own hand shot out to stop you.

“I will not have your pity.”

You gasped at the feel of his fingers encircling your wrist.  “You do not have it,” you replied softly.  “I do not pity you, Prince Aemond, but I do think it must have been a great ordeal for you.”

While he held your wrist in one hand, his other hand went to the clasp on his jacket.  It was warm here, with the fire blazing in the hearth, and having him so near was making you even more overheated.

He let go of your wrist and you realized that after the jacket was discarded, he was reaching for the ties on his tunic.  “Prince Aemond.”

He pulled off the tunic with one easy motion and you let out a breath.  

“You should know what awaits you on our wedding night.  I should not wish to frighten you.”

There were several scars across his torso, some had healed cleanly and faded into white lines, but some had remained jagged, the skin bumpy where it had knitted back together unevenly.  His hair fell forward, covering part of his shoulders and you reached up, slowly, to push it back.  Your fingers tingled when you touched the silky silver strands, but he didn’t move to stop you.  There were a couple more scars on his left shoulder, but not as long as the ones on his abdomen.  

You brushed your fingertips across the healed lines on his shoulder, felt his breath on your cheek.  He wasn’t touching you at all, and you tried to dismiss the feeling of disappointment.  You were practically in his arms, and he was only half-dressed now and his arms were by his side.  Maybe he didn’t like you.  Maybe he would never be inclined to feel anything for you.  

Well, might as well know that now than keep expecting him to someday fall in love with you.  You could find fulfillment in your work, your learning, the children you would have together.  You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on the smaller scar on his shoulder.  Sighing, you began to take a step back.

His hands were suddenly on your hips, preventing you from taking that step.  He said nothing, didn’t turn to look at you, and instinctively, you kissed the other scar.  His fingers flexed on your hips and you smiled against his skin.  

There was another scar below his collarbone and you brushed your lips against that one, too.  His hands left your hips, and you leaned down to kiss the two scars on his ribcage.  The two long scars on his abdomen beckoned, and keeping your eyes on his, you sank to your knees before him.

He pressed his lips together, but otherwise still did not move.  Putting your own hands on his hips, you kissed one long scar.  Aemond gasped, and you took your time tracing the ruined skin.  You looked up at him before moving to the other side.  You felt him getting hard against your chest and for good measure, you traced the last scar with your tongue, taking your time.  

Before rising back up, you let your chest brush across the front of his breeches, where he was getting harder and harder.  His hands were fisted at his sides, and you smiled angelically when you were face to face with him again.

His expression, usually so unreadable, was nearly feral.  A predator ready to strike.  

“Thank you, Prince Aemond, this has been a most stimulating conversation.”  You turned on your heel and walked out of the library.

* * * * * 

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[kittynannygaming]

[Dead Boy Detectives] Edwin's 1st kiss contest

Made with Easy-Peasy Portrait & some manips on Photofiltre

It all begun when Niko learnt that Edwin hasn't been kissed.

So, she decided to have a contest to find the perfect man for Edwin!

Edwin is not so sure about the idea.

First contestant is Charles Rowland, Edwin's best friend since 1989

Second contestant and happily on board with the idea: Thomas, the Cat King

Third and last (but not least): Monty, crow turned human, who can't wait to show Edwin's his new chart!

Crystal feels the disaster coming (and she's barely awake)

POLL TIME!

[blackjackkent]

Heading west from the gnolls and away from the smell of blood, Rakha is struck by a sudden new smell - much more pungent, and just as laced with death.

Smoke.

The village up ahead is burning, echoing with shouts of pain and terror. A small herd of soldiers in silver and red armor are swarming the courtyard fumbling with buckets of water or standing shell-shocked among the dead.

Rakha questions one of the officers. There was an attack by goblins and drow here. Probably the same that Rakha killed in the temple. She remembers that those out front were celebrating a successful raid.

The devastation they left behind is considerable. The smell of smoke is mixed with blood from the corpses scattered across the square. Luckily, the hunger they might rouse in Rakha's head is muted after the recent experience with the gnolls.

At the far end of the square is by far the largest building in the village, an enormous inn suffused with smoke and flame. Rakha can hear a woman shouting from inside, and several of the armored guards are wrestling with the front door in a panic.

"Keep pushing!" one of them shouts as Rakha and the others approach. "Duke Ravengard could be inside! On count of three - one, two--"

To Rakha's surprise, Wyll goes completely still, his eyes widening. "Ravengard? He's here?!"

"Yes!" bellows the soldier over her shoulder. "Now make yourself useful. Push, damn it! PUSH!"

Something in Wyll's expression has struck Rakha with an urgency to the situation that has nothing to do with the guard's shouting. Without taking time to think, she strides forward, slams her boot into a weak spot in the jammed door, knocking it backwards with a burst of thunder magic from the sole.

The door collapses with a shuddering BANG and all the officers burst into sudden frantic movement, darting into the inn. Wyll, too, breaks into a run, knocking past Rakha's shoulder as he hurls himself into the smoke.

Instinctively, she follows.

The shouting is coming from upstairs. The air is thick with smoke, choking, blinding; she can barely breathe, can't see. She follows Wyll unsteadily to the upper floor, where the officers have come to a halt in front of one of the doors.

What are they waiting for? Another burst of thunderous magic rolls around Rakha's fingers and she blasts it past the guards, shattering the door apart and releasing the trapped woman behind.

It's only when they're back downstairs again, out of the smoke and into the light, that Rakha can take a proper look at her. She's an elf, with dark green skin, wearing robes that would likely be fine if they were not soaked in the same sweat and ash that covers her body. And, apparently, Wyll knows her, for he bursts in before Rakha can speak.

"Councilor Florrick! Are you all right?" He sounds more worried than Rakha has ever heard him, even when talking about the tadpoles.

The woman starts to nod - then does a double-take. "Wyll?" Her eyes widen and her lips part in sudden shock as she takes in his devilish appearance; her gaze lingers on the rough place where his horns meet his skull. "By the Maimed God..." she whispers, horrified. "What's become of you?"

It's subtle, but Rakha knows Wyll well enough by now that she can see the way he flinches under her gaze. But his voice is steady. "A story best left for calmer days," he says firmly. "Now breathe deeply - are you in pain?"

Florrick draws a slow breath, lets it out, then shakes her head. "A scorched throat. A few hairs singed off," she says, with a crispness that almost reminds Rakha of herself. For how close this woman came to death, she seems remarkably self-possessed. "Nothing a bit of time and fresh air can't cure."

She doesn't wait for Wyll's response, but turns sharply to the officers all hovering nearby with anxious expressions. "Gauntlet," she says to the one who seems to be their leader. "A new duty calls. Drow have taken Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard - westward, if my eyes and ears can be believed. Report to the manip and send for reinforcements. We must find the Duke."

Rakha vaguely hears the collected officers making noises of concern and obedience - but her eyes have flicked back to Wyll and stayed there, because his expression has gone slack with shock. They have already faced down many monsters, but she has never seen him look so dismayed.

Instinctively she tenses, putting one hand behind her to rest on her quarterstaff. What danger does he see?

"No..." he whispers. "It can't be. You mean, they've taken--"

"Yes, Wyll," Florrick says, and though her tone is still grave and curt, there is a note of compassion in it. "The drow have taken your father."

The sentence falls like a lead weight into the conversation. Rakha blinks, Wyll's shoulders hunch. Shadowheart lets out a soft whistle under her breath. Lae'zel curses.

Rakha's brain works furiously through these new details. Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard. A leader with a title - and loyal followers, judging by the eagerness with which these soldiers plan to find him. She has heard Wyll speak before of the city of Baldur's Gate, the largest city in the area, and of its leaders in vague terms. Grand Duke is the highest among them. This Ravengard, then - Wyll's father - is one of the most powerful people in the region.

And Wyll has said nothing of it.

"Wyll," she says slowly, questioningly, "you are the son of nobility?"

Wyll frowns - yet another new expression, this one of deep bitterness. "The circumstance of my birth is no matter of pride - for neither me, nor my father." He draws a heavy breath. "But pride is no reason to refuse help to my own flesh and blood." His eyes fix back on Florrick. "How can we help?"

Florrick looks him over appraisingly, then nods. "Rescue Ravengard from his drow captors. Baldur's Gate needs him now more than ever."

Wyll nods gravely. "Trust us to see it through, Councilor," he says.

Rakha feels tremendously thrown by this new development. They already have other plans that need attending to - Lae'zel's creche, for one. On the other hand... if Ravengard was taken by the cultists, and Halsin and the Dream Guardian were right, then he has likely gone to Moonrise Towers, which is the same place they need to go to follow the cult to its source and exact a final revenge.

And... more than that... Wyll has helped her, and now he needs help. So she nods - almost without hesitation, in spite of the turmoil in her mind. "I'll rescue Duke Ravengard," she says sharply. "You have my word."

She feels, rather than sees, Wyll relax at her side.

Florrick nods. "Thank you." She smiles very slightly in Wyll's direction. "When the Grand Duke returns to the city, he'll hail his only son a hero." The smile fades, and she is suddenly all business again, looking at Rakha. "Approach the Towers with care. The land itself has been swallowed in shadow. I will seek reinforcements and join you when I can."

A pause, and then she looks back at Wyll again, and for a moment, the businesslike air melts off her completely, and she looks at him with the sober gaze of a concerned friend. "Remember, Wyll," she says, "'Courage is found in the battle against fear, not in the defeat of it.'"

"So Father said," Wyll says gravely. "I won't soon forget."

[starkraivennemad]

Not Exactly Somnolence

Greg Lestrade climbed into the sedan, took one look at Mycroft Holmes, and it was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Oi! When’s the last time he’s had some decent rest?”

-Cripes, you look like shite.-

Greg looked at Anthea as he sat next to Mycroft.

“Rest?” Anthea seated across from them huffed. “Can you define that for him?”

“Define it for him?” Greg looked between the two.

“I am unsure he is aware of the concept.” Anthea gave Mycroft a look that dared him to gainsay her.

“And good evening to you as well, Lestrade.” Mycroft, in his impeccable as usual three-piece suit sniffed as he placed a pile of papers in his briefcase and closed it. “I do hope you two are aware that I am sat here before you.”

After over a decade of knowing each other their formerly acrimonious relationship had slowly morphed into a genuine friendship, even if neither man ever said the words. Familiarity does not always breed contempt. They were now friends enough that even in the darkened confines of the sedan, Greg could see that Mycroft was running on fumes.

-Oh whatever intrigue happened these past weeks most have been a doozy.-

Greg was about to respond when Mycroft did a horrible job of stifling a yawn.  Greg barely managed to not let his jaw drop.

Anthea looked to Greg as if to say See?

In all the time of knowing the man, even at his most exhausted, Mycroft Holmes would rather claim an international emergency and reschedule their dinner than admit to so base a human need as sleep.  He most certainly would not fake, faking a yawn to get out of dinner.

-He did not want to cancel on me – again. Not a fourth time in a row.-

“You’re about to fall on your feet, Mycroft Holmes.”

“As stated, I am seated.” Mycroft pointed out, pocketing his phone.

Greg rolled his eyes . “It’s late and I appreciate you did not want to reschedule again, so…”

“Greg, It’s not too late, let’s go.”

“…I am the one cancelling.” Greg spoke over him.

Mycroft’s opened his to protest only for an unsuppressed yawn to escape.

"Pile on another yawn and say that again." Greg did something he never did before with Mycroft or Anthea: made an executive decision and gave an order. “Anthea , tell the driver we’re taking him home.”

“Belay that.” Mycroft countered.

“We’ll take you home, Greg.” Anthea said stubbornly. “Then I’ll make sure he gets home.”

-Oh, he is that done for that she’s siding with me on it? Yep, he goes home now.-

“No.” Greg shook his head. “That’s way on the other side of from where we are right now. We’re closer to his townhouse right now. We’ll take him home and I’ll taxi from there. You can pay the bill if it makes you feel better. You’re taking him home first.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Anthea shook her head adamantly. “I will get you home, first.”

“And when will you get home?” Greg questioned stubbornly.

“Pardon me?” Anthea pushed a lock behind her ear.

Greg looked at the woman. Whatever intrigue he will never know about has been happening, it has taken their toll on both.

“You’re just as knackered as he.”

“I am fine, Lestrade.” Anthea huffed.

“Really now?”

“Yes really.” She insisted.

“Anthea…” Greg sighed tiredly. “You forgot to refresh your lipstick.”

“What…?” Anthea stopped typing on her blackberry and placed a finger to her lips. She then cursed realizing she did that.

-Gotcha-

Her lipstick was fine, and they both knew it. It was a testament to her own exhaustion to have allowed that to happen. “Well done, Greg.”

Anthea rarely used his first name.

-That was a compliment indeed.-

“He’s correct, it’s not too late, but we are taking him home first and…” Greg’s most smug expression was wiped away when he felt an unexpected weight lean against him. 

Mycroft Holmes dosed against him.

“…Oh.”

Read the rest on AO3... NOTE: While I would love to take full credit for the artwork, it is a manip of fanart found in Pinterest. I posted around 3 in the morning and realized hadn't back traced the original when I woke up. I was able to trace it as far back as a tumblr reblog before things deadlinked. You can see the original art by Felixandria here.

[amateurenjoyer]

Consequence

Consequence, Chapter One (?)

Astarion x The Dark Urge In my first playthrough, Astarion did not ascend, and when I finished the game I became deeply preoccupied with Astarion's relationship to all those vampire spawn. I also wondered how his still fresh relationship with my Dark Urge (Kryn--a name I didn't realize already had meaning in the D&D Multiverse) might fare under new stressors. So, I began writing this fic, which is truly my first piece of fanfiction. It has since evolved into a separate project of its own, but I've decided to post (some of?) the handful of chapters I worked on, because I like them, and because the new project only barely resembles this one. Perhaps I am just trying to give myself permission to return to this fic in the future? We shall see. This was written before most of the story/dialogue patches were rolled out, so it begins right after the scene on the docks, and deviates from the end of game content from that point on. I don't really know who this is for, but maybe it is for you? WC: ~2900 CW: BG3 Spoilers, Blood, Physical Injury, Immolation, Death of a Child

Fires still rage in the Upper City, casting their light toward the sky and leaving all in a suspended, crimson twilight. It is night, I think, but I am in no state to risk testing that assumption. The ashes of burning patriar estates—a notion both enthralling and perhaps a little heartbreaking, if only for the destruction of so many grand and beautiful things held within their walls—coat the broken skyline and city streets in grime and soot. Illithid bodies pile up in squares and on street corners as Flaming Fists sort through the dead. Sinew from shattered Nautiloids hangs from rooftops and towers, and where the ships were not sundered into pieces, city blocks and their former inhabitants lie crushed beneath their weight. Chaos reigns Baldur’s Gate.

A weary Manip in armor stained with red and silver blood alike rallies precious little sympathy for some frantic, baby-cradling father, explaining that they haven’t found anyone matching his wife’s description, not yet. Unsatisfied, the man pushes his way past her, lurching toward the mass of long, shiny skinned corpses stacked waist high beyond the Fist’s impromptu barricade. Two other officers stop him. The man twists and shakes himself away from their grasp, moving with such reckless desperation that I am momentarily convinced that he might lose hold of his child and drop it head first on the cobblestones. Hungry, that brutal thought overwhelms me. I can nearly taste the mineral earth of the road mingling with blood, and my hunger begs the man to continue his carelessness. Perhaps the child would be better off. It’s mother’s fate was certain—the man and the Manip knew this as much as I, but they were too cowardly to accept it: her life had been cut short by a violent transformation, every piece of her identity shredded in an instant as a mind flayer emerged from the soft cocoon of her body. She died a monster, unidentifiable and soulless. A horrifying end, and one seen all across the city today, again and again and again.

The baby’s cries turn into a painful ringing in what remains of my ears, and with great effort, I roll my head away from the scene playing out on the street.

The Illithid threat had been thwarted, at least; the mind flayer’s body snatching was put to an end by a cohort of unlikely and utterly strange allies who, up until a few hours ago, had counted me amongst their number. We had been traveling and fighting together—questing, truly—for a season, infiltrating the cult of Absolutists that had grown around the Netherbrain at the center of the invasion. The cultists thought that they were hearing the voice of a new goddess, the Absolute, a divinity that would see the remaking of the world. It was our band of misfits that discovered the truth: like every other divinity, the Absolute was a disappointment, a monster in god’s clothing. Nothing more than an Illithid on a mission of conquest.

I suppose that in the long book of history, or indeed on the pages of next week’s Gazette should it ever come to print again, our actions will come to be lauded with the same enthusiasm and reverence as any of the Sword Coast’s mightiest heroes. The Saviors of Baldur’s Gate. Laughable praise, if laughter wouldn’t crumble my lungs into dust just now. I was never motivated by such lofty ideals, and save one or two of my companions who harbor more saintly notions of self-delusion, the same can be said for the rest. We were survivors, it was as simple as that. Even Kryn, our de facto leader, sought freedom from the forces working to control us above all else. The ambitious conspirators who had set this whole ordeal into motion had threatened our continued existence with their squirmy little parasites, turning each of us into a living incubator. Well, some of us were doing more living than others. Thrust together by circumstance, we did little else than search for a solution that would prevent us from sprouting tentacles and getting ripped apart from the inside by a mind flayer. Heroism had been a by-product, and one that I certainly would not be reaping any benefit from.

If future generations of Baldurians try to imagine the pomp and parades that greeted us in the days following our heroic deeds, they should do so with the understanding that the vampire spawn was absent for such celebrations. That Astarion Ancunín was instead treated to a slow, final death in some dark Lower City alley, wretched and alone.

Where is Kryn?

How pathetic I must look, slumped here, waiting for strength I know will not return. I test one hand, moving slowly. The sight of my skin—now papery ash and cinders, flaking away in tiny particles, floating through the hot air around me—well, it isn’t a comforting sight. Radiant pain greets me with every effort, and though I know my face fares no better than my hands, I cannot help but touch my ruined fingers to it. The spot sears at my touch, my cheek is like charcoal, and my finger the charred end of a smoldering branch, scratching. Underneath the brittle, peeling mess of my skin, I can feel my muscles tense and pulse, urging me to act, to run, to find the one spot in this city consecrated to my name and dig until I find solace. But I cannot meet my body’s demands, so I remain hideous and limp, hand falling to my side.

Gods, it just isn’t fair. Why should I be suffering again, alone in the dark? I had fought alongside the heroes of the day, and whatever uncountable number of lives that had been ended here in this city, I was part of the reason that number was not infinitely larger. Wasn’t I?

I try to be very still. If a passing rat mistakes me for a real corpse, I might be able to catch it.

Cazador would have loved this. As my master, he always took great pleasure in my agony, particularly when it was administered directly by him. But this? This was my own doing, and that would have been another kind of delight entirely. The irony would have given him tremendous satisfaction. Of course, he is no longer of this world, having been rendered into a fine dust at the end of my dagger, but that seems less of a victory now that it was all but certain that I’d be stuck here until the sun rose again and finished me off.

I had known that our collective decision to command the Netherbrain to eliminate itself would end my time in the sun, that the parasite which had somehow protected me from many of the afflictions of my curse would shrivel once it’s master was no more. I was prepared to make the sacrifice. I had Kryn by my side, as devout a partner as I could have ever hoped for, and the prospect of a sunless life seemed more bearable so long as they were willing to share it with me. Even so, as we recovered on the docks, the sun beginning its descent over the horizon, I had half-hoped that perhaps something would intervene on my behalf. Maybe the little worm behind my eye would endure, maybe some divine entity was finally paying attention now that I had done the world a good turn—several thousand good turns, really, if we’re counting. Maybe Kryn and I could have a chance at a life without any more sacrifices, the kind of life we were owed. Weren’t heroes meant to be rewarded for their do-gooding?

I had stood there, and hoped, and was reduced to ash. It did not feel like a reward.

Were my companions looking for me? Kryn surely organized a search, but the Lower City is dense and winding, and I had stumbled my way well beyond the open air of the docks, desperately outrunning the sun at my back. If anyone had been paying attention to the elf flailing helplessly through the streets of the Gate, I’m sure they would have found me to be quite graceless. Pale and frantic, I careened into shadows hoping to find one long enough to keep me safe until night, but they all seemed to slip toward me, shifting unhelpfully, and my mind was too ablaze with panic to trust that these little shadows would remain on my side. I ran wildly, darting from thoroughfare to side street, seeking some place smaller, darker, narrower, where time and shadow would ally with me. All the while, I burned, lit by some invisible flame. My energy spent, my body crumbling, I finally spied a sliver of proper darkness in the form of a narrow and bent alley, and hurled myself into it, slipping over my boots in the process. The tumble took more from me than I realized, and half-destroyed as I had become, I knew there was little chance of me getting up once I hit the ground. I had vigor enough to prop my shoulders against the wall, keep some sense of my surrounds, maybe snap at some mostly dead pest, but it now seems that I have burrowed myself a little too safely, and will be found shriveled under tomorrow’s noon sun by some stranger before anyone comes to my rescue.

Time stretches strangely as night sets in proper—still lit red-brown by the burning city—and the street beyond my alley empties. Bodies are carted away, Fists get new orders, and fathers with their babies get escorted elsewhere. The city still churns with chaos, the night punctuated with shouting and wailing, grief and mischief, but the sounds slip further away the longer I remain here.

My hunger keeps me company, at least. It is greedy, but this is nothing new. A vampire’s hunger cannot be sated, not in the way mortals understand their own appetites. It might be brought to heel by will or a master’s command, but when one is weakened, hunger’s aching thrum can grow so loud it drowns out all other thought. This greed, this intensity, is not without purpose. Though I am too far gone for blood alone to save me, enough could give me the strength to get to the little cemetery on the border of the Upper City, where a grave bearing my name waits to be put to use once more, a bed of ancestral soil for some healing rest. As I watch barely there stars struggle against the smoky sky, it is my hunger that keeps me alert, focused on the potentiality of this one task, ready for the last chance at saving myself. I wait for life to chance upon me.

A shuffling sound snaps my focus to the darker end of the alley, opposite from the street, where the shadows are deep and spill around a corner. There, in the crook, a creature hunched on all fours, stalking. It is all elbows and bony limbs, spine arched high above its head, which it holds at a painful cant. The creature has seen me, and pauses, holding itself tightly as it waits to see if I will run. It does not know that I, too, am a predator—though perhaps not in this particular moment. Two red eyes, small but bright, cut through the darkness. The sight is a familiar one, and though the face is unrecognizable, the wave of undeath scent that follows it confirms my suspicion. Another spawn, like me, but smaller, wilder. A child, and feral at that. The ache at my core grows dense at the realization.

The thing had been one of Cazador’s. Another sibling, of sorts. A tenday ago, it had been locked in a cell under the city, waiting to be sacrificed by our master. I had saved it from that fate when I destroyed Cazador, but it was not supposed to be up here. I had sent them all away, thousands of them, to—well, to some place safe from the sun at least. Why aren’t you with the rest? Why didn’t you go?

I try to make a sound, but only manage to wheeze out a dusty cough, losing more of myself in the process. The spawn is not deterred and draws closer, until its face is level with my own. It twists its neck so that our eyes are aligned, bones cracking as it moves. Gods, was I ever such a beast? At last, I manage a warning, some kind of pained hiss, my fangs bared, but I am too ruined for the thing to comprehend what it is seeing. It does not yet know what variety of horrors may befall our kind, so it does not recognize what I am, or what I am not. It mirrors me, drawing its lips back to expose its own fangs, all putrid yellow and rust. A horrid smile, tense in the wrong places. Dried blood, days old perhaps, is smeared across its mouth and nose. It has been feeding.

It slinks across my body, arms and legs bent like a spider. Pain screams through the spots where its body brushes against my own, but I cannot cry out. The little corpse hovers above me as it searches, sniffing for blood like an eager hound. It could feed from me, but it would not be fed. Vampires cannot sustain each other. Nothing to be gained, save a little violent delight to occupy its time. Why doesn’t it know? The creature cannot find a hint of living flesh on me, but it senses that I am some kind of being, something that might be consumed, and looks into my eyes again, assessing. Had the beast any sense it would move on, and through my gaze I do my best to urge it to leave, to find better prey. There was plenty of it crying in the streets.

It mightn’t smell life in my veins but it sees the intelligence in my eyes and that will be enough. A whiny growl spins up in its throat and the tension in its posture releases at last, as it springs toward my neck. I summon the last dregs of my strength to roll us both before it can make contact, pinning the small thing under my weight. I feel a crack in its sternum, and it screams out, a terrible sound. Not the sound of a monster, but of a child. The kind of sound that by design summons even those least willing to rush to an innocent’s aid. I make myself as heavy as I can and try to smother the thing, frantically trying to quiet it, but it will not be tamed. Its nails, thick and long with neglect, dig into my ashen face, carving out pieces. The pain is hideous, but I will not be ended by this wretched little pest. I pull back, one hand pressing its face into the ground, the other planted on its broken chest, and bear down on the beast’s neck with my fangs. Its throat is so small that even with only a thread of my vitality remaining, I crush it with a single bite. Its blood tastes sour, turns my hunger wrong, and I let go, spitting. Something that feels like silence fills the alley as the two of us go still, the child’s blood, thick and slow, pooling with the cinder ash remains of my own flesh.

I am catapulted off of the little corpse by quick, successive blasts of force rocketing into my side. The world is upended and everything spins into true darkness. I feel my body crash into one of the stone walls that had been sheltering me, but I do not feel any pain. Nearly all sensation falls away, as I spiral away from awareness. There are voices shouting, how many I cannot say. The voices float through the darkness, far from me, distant tethers I cannot grasp. Only one comes through with any clarity, a panicked, hoarse whisper, half-familiar, “Shit, shit, shit.” It drifts by me, out of reach.

Several moments of interminable length pass. Then I am flooded by something iron and sweet, buzzing with power. Voracious, my hunger snaps taut, pulling my mind back toward my body. I remember my fangs, and beneath them I feel the warm press of skin, delicate, with veins and tendons pulsing. A quickening heartbeat. A wrist. Kryn’s, smelling faintly of rain.

They’re saying my name, I think, but I am lost to the stream of blood, bright and warm as the dawn. The most sensational taste I have ever known. I am biting down hard, chasing the thread of life that beckons from Kryn’s heart, a loving invitation. I am being asked a question. It is difficult to hear. I am so parched. They are asking me for help. Help? But I am so weak. The buzzing intensifies, and I feel resistance. My fingers tense, I am begging Kryn not to pull away. "Don’t leave me." The wrist is wrenched away from my fangs, but some of Kryn’s kindness lingers on my tongue. "Godsdamn it! What do I do? Astarion!" They sound so desperate. How remarkable, that they summon such emotion for me. I should try to remember. There’s somewhere I should go.