#toil n trouble

[monotremedreams]

A selection of sketchy thangs

[cecexwrites]

Toil & Trouble Halloweentown

Welcome to the Ichabod Crane Institute for Troubled Teens, a second chance school for Witches, Werewolves, Fae and the rest. Has your little monster nearly exposed the entirety of Halloweentown to the humans? Have they used magic to blow up a classmate? Bitten and drank from all the neighborhood dogs? Then The Crane Institute is the school for you. With a team of highly trained professionals, we are prepared to teach your children how to survive in the normal human world.

[naffeclipse]

These Blessed Waters

Familiar!Eclipse x Witch!Y/N (SFW)

The villagers’ outrage and scorn scald your very flesh. They demand your death. The cliffside is barren of any gallows or burning stakes. You tremble in the sheer, misty cold of All Hallows’ Eve, stealing a glance downwards at the churning indigo waves and the black-blue sky brewing with a seastorm. White crests chop upon the sandy shore and crash against the rocks directly below the cliff’s edge the preacher and constable set you upon. In the distance, thunder rumbles.

Word Count: ~11,100 Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Death, and Suggestive Themes

A/N: It still counts as MerMay if it's in June, right? Oh well, I always carry the spirit of the month in my heart, and I will inflict all my AUs with it. This is a threat <3 I wanted to do a little twist on my Halloween fic, so while we're getting more familiars/demons, there are a few differences between this and DT&T. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Please be warned that there will be spoilers for Double Toil and Trouble within this. Content warnings are tagged!

[melanirana]

@naffeclipse regarding this post, i couldn't get it out of my head so I had to make it.

[piixelpaint]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @naffeclipse​!!! Happy Birthday to you, one of our very favourite writers in this wholesome fandom!! ☀️🌙

You have gathered hundreds of people around your exciting stories, making us hold our breath each time we read a new chapter you post. You inspire each of us to create our own stories, drawings, animations, to bring something of our own to this fandom. And you helped us find new mutual friends within it, with whom we may sometimes chat for hours on end. You yourself have become one of said mutual friends and it is always such a pleasure to write to you!

You are simply fantastic and we all sincerely wish you the best Birthday that one could have, knowing that you bring so much joy and inspiration to others!

// All credits and more under the cut! Please, do take a look! :) //

Unfortunately, we could not invite all the people who appreciate your writings to participate in this collaboration, as much as we wanted to. This was our first time organizing something like this, and we needed to limit the number of people. But, Naff, I think you yourself know very well that there are hundreds of people in this fandom who sincerely love you and your work and that this art piece would be much bigger if all of them took part in it :)  And on that note, a huge thank you to everyone who agreed to participate! Regardless of busyness and time zone differences, we all worked together and were able to finish this wonderful art piece!

Full List of Credits: Characters In Deep Dreams Between the Waves Mer-Eclipse - @themeeplord  Fisher Y/N - @pure-plum

Sleuth Jesters & AUs Detective Sun - @zelda7999 Detective Moon - @kibbits  Mafia Boss Eclipse - @miwachan2 Vigilante Y/N - @pure-plum Police Chief Eclipse - @lavenoon  Detective Y/N - @cero-sleep

Cryptid Sightings Cryptid Sun/Moon - @sillysaysnonsense Hunter Y/N - @lavenoon 

Double Toil and Trouble Demon Familiar Sun - @solitary-star Demon Familiar Moon - @chaotikanvas  Witch Y/N - @sanchensky Demon Familiar Eclipse - @clxckwork-sun-n-moon

The Writer Naff - @piixelpaint

Layout @themeeplord, @sanchensky, @piixelpaint & everyone for their great ideas and feedback!

BG & Comp @pure-plum

Organizers @piixelpaint & @sanchensky​

Special Thanks To Plum, who gave me (Piixel) the confidence to start this whole thing after I pitched it to her x)

___ Quick note from Piixel: This was honestly such a fun project to work on and to all my fellow collaborators, I have to give a massive thanks!!✨ You really made this project and this seriously couldn’t have come to fruition without your willingness, patience and seamless cooperation. So from the bottom of my heart, Thank you guys so so much!!

And for you, dearest Naff, I think this really shows how wonderful a community you’ve built around you! Not only with your masterful writing and charming stories, but also by being such a sweet, kind and giving person.

So here’s to you, Naff! Happy Birthday, babe! 🥳🎉❤️❤️❤️

(Closeups below ;)

[netherfeildren]

How to Endure Ardor:

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel teaches you how to love him.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; QZ Joel Miller; I'm saying this, but the setting is sort of ambiguous anyways, Stream of consciousness, Character Study, Alternating POVs; PIV sex; The troubles and toils of breaking up and then making up with a fucked up old man; Uncaring Joel; Mentions of painful sex; Toxic relationships or situationships or whatever you want to call it; I think I'm addicted to the idea of a Joel who'll never love you and I should probably see a doctor about it

A/N: she remembers how to write, who'd of thought!

Word Count: 1.3K

Read on AO3

This is a lesson:

“Tell me again,” she says, and it’s a begging.

A begging like what? Something that carries shame and smallness in the shape of it. Stay a little longer. It humiliates him for the wretchedness it pulls from him. Joel, please. Seeping blood the color of her supplication. Please, she says, please. And who else says please to him anymore? Who asks him for anything anymore but her? The only ones who ever had are long past and gone, and he can’t even barely remember they were ever really there to ask anything of him to begin with—can’t remember what it feels like to owe someone something and want to give it to them in a way that will actually make him. 

Tell me what again? That I want you? That I’ll stay? That I love you? I’ll come back, he says instead, the only thing he can promise and keep. And he wonders if it humiliates her too, the way he lies, the way he runs, the way he swears, the way he always comes back and comes back but never returns with the things she needs. A humiliation just like it is a begging. 

The thing they have: it’s strange, fickle, honest in its lies, very, very ugly. An ugliness that is shocking in a world gone to rot already. The sky doesn’t shine anymore and they bask in it. 

But also, and, the thing they have: it’s physical, saving.

This is obvious too, even if only to them.

He slides inside and you’re what? Hot and wet and slick, and—yes, a thing like a dream, but still only a thing. Something to have, something close to desire, but not quite, more like biological want. Woman turned possession. In his mind this is an excuse, a reason, a begetting. Like, what—like what? Like when you want a thing very badly but it is very bad for you, and you need to make up any excuse to have it, lie and lie and lie—to your mother, your best friend, the mirror—a begetting like that. Easy to understand only if you’ve been there. 

It started simple, it started like nothing, it started like the first time you meet someone and you know they’ll matter, you know they’ll mean something. So it started like what? Like a lie. 

Shifts at the QZ, long and toiling and reminders of the sort of life that died in an outbreak of monsters, only if for how unlike that past it was. Humans or fungus or—

—men who hurt—you, men who refuse your love, Joel Miller.

The crutch of your age, of you being weaker or smaller or in need, him being easily felled, wooed, easily conquered by something young and given without a try because there was never the opportunity for trying before. 

Now, it is like this: you take my cock and you take my come and you take my nothing, and I give so little and yet you still find a way to take and take and take, leech of a girl, dream of a girl, hungry. And with the excuse that it’s only in a way you contrive for your own self. But in the end, what does that make you? What do I make you into? 

These are the things he asks himself. 

Perhaps she goes away for a time, tries the route of escape, of variety. But when she inevitably comes back because addiction is riddled always in the same sorts of ways: did you try different bodies? Did you try different flavors and sounds? Did you look for me in all of them? 

The answer is usually yes.

At reunion’s turn: he rolls her over to face her, Joel, damp and panting and trying to be something—perhaps better, more honest—after a season of variety and honest attempts and shut eyes. He’s so hard for her, always is. 

Again: he slides inside and you’re what? His, undeniably. Not yours. Something to want but not desire because it’s too romantic a notion, and yes, there’s a difference even if he can’t put into words what that difference specifically is. Body and heart, perhaps, definitions that differ between disparate anatomical parts or levels of deniability. 

Nothing either of you have ever been able to put into words when lust and love aren’t things you can even say out loud for the shame of them, even if they exist within said same anatomy. 

You come together, the season passed, the separation passed but still kept at hand for the next time the closeness becomes too much. 

“Tell me again,” she says, and this time he remembers what she’s asking for.

“I fucking missed you, baby. Missed this pussy.” Because he can’t say it’s her heart he missed. Because Joel Miller does not have honesty in his arsenal. 

He spreads you wide, knee to shoulder so it hurts and pulls, so it’ll be sore and reminding tomorrow. The slap of his pelvis against the back of your thighs is obscene, wet and lewd, a string of girl cum keeping you connected, such togetherness, curve of your ass to the root of his cock—the two of you are together again. 

You know what I thought, when I tried to go away, you say. He doesn’t want to know, but he doesn't tell you so either, only slides in again, the mouth of your womb right there, threatening. I’m never going to feel like this again, and I hate how certainly I know that. He wonders if the unsaid part is that he’s the recipient of that feeling, the hate. 

He wonders if the pinch inside him is hurt. He wonders if the throb is love. 

All he says because he can’t say the rest is, I missed you, I missed you, and if he could look himself in the mirror—something that’s twenty years past lost—he’d ask: are you alright? Just tell me you’re okay. And it sounds in your own voice and with your own care and the feel of your own warmth. Is there anything I can do?

Other times, he sees himself through your own eyes, and then he knows for certain that the throb is love 

So he makes up for lost time, hard—and if it was a thing he knew how to be— loving. Mouth to cunt first, primed and soft and begging, making you come again and then another once more, then inside of you. Slow, splitting you open, red cunt like a wound, balls slapping wet, pulling out to watch the gape of the space he’s carved for himself. His cock is so hard and missing you something desperate. And he’s reminded of what it is to really miss something in a way he hadn’t been in twenty years of apocalypse, he’s forced to realized that it’s been so long since he’d had something to love that he’d not realized the feeling of missing that long past someone had gone away, only faint memory remained. 

Violent, is what this makes him after that realization—thrusts turning hard and punishing. How dare you give yourself to me? How dare you then take yourself away? You come around him again, the gift of your orgasm. How dare you not be able to accept the little I’m able to give when I’m trying so desperately fucking hard to give you even just this? 

He fucks you mean, he fucks you in the way of a man who doesnt know how to say the things he needs to say, in a way that’s confusing, that could make a less discerning woman feel only the hurt. 

But then again, you know him.

Fucks you in a way that is a little bit like love.

And so, amidst all of it, there is an honesty amongst the lies. A truth unspoken that they both know—I’ll come back because I need you, because you’re the only one who can give me the things I'm not strong enough to ask for out loud. 

You’re not sure which of the two of you is the one saying it.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[augiewrites]

"secret admirer" - dead poets society (part 4)

summary: y/n finds yet another note in their desk and sees something interesting on a late night walk home from the library

pairing: anonymous!dead poet x gender neutral reader

word count : 1.1k

previous | next

a/n: i think this is my favorite chapter so far—thanks for all the love on this story :)

Y/N didn’t receive another letter that week. Doubt was swirling in their mind—what if their admirer had lost interest? Maybe they met a real, feasible person and forgot about them. The endless swirl of scenarios was eating them alive. They needed a distraction, but they knew it wouldn’t do much for them. Their mind bounced straight back to their poet during any moment of silence.

They had taken Meeks and Pitts up on their offer to study with them, and they found themselves growing increasingly fond of the two boys. Y/N would be elated if their poet turned out to be anything like them.

Passion was a rare commodity at Welton, and dissent was especially hard to come by. Y/N had been beginning to feel as though they were the only person unhappy with being forced into conformity—or, at least, the only person willing to vocalize their discontent.

That changed as they got to know Meeks, Pitts, and, in turn, the random assortment of boys that popped in during these study sessions. They had forgotten how good it felt to speak their mind to non judgmental ears. Hell, even the ever-bashful Todd Anderson was slowly coming out of his shell in their presence.

The only issue, of course, was Charlie Dalton.

There was just something about the boy that got under their skin.

The line between confidence and arrogance was extremely thin, and Charlie was constantly teetering along that threshold. 

If there were a social hierarchy within the group, Charlie was at the top of it—and the boy was well aware. The other boys were often onlooking Charlie’s antics with a noticeable level of admiration.

Y/N knew that there had to be another layer behind—far behind—the boy’s often pompous attitude. After all, at every teenager’s core is a half-child that wants nothing more than to feel a sense of belonging. A level of vulnerability that most teenage boys don’t want being observed.

A level of vulnerability that Y/N didn’t stick around long enough to see in Charlie Dalton.

The boy in question was currently reciting an excerpt from Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.

“Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts

Should well agree with our external parts?”

Y/N couldn’t help but think that his voice was quite nice—velvety and assured.

They shook the thought from their mind and opened up their desk. A gasp was suppressed at the sight of a neatly folded piece of stationary atop their mess.

Eager hands unfolded the parchment as discreetly as possible.

Darling Y/N,

Did you know that you get this adorable wrinkle between your eyebrows when you’re frustrated? I love seeing it almost as much as the dimple of your cheek when you smile.

In shadows cast by moonlight's gentle gleam, A heart entwined in love's elusive dream. Captivated by a smile so divine, Another's joy, a radiant sign.

Each curve and grace, a sunlit dance, Ignites a flame, a tender trance. In stolen glances, a world unfolds, Where every story of passion is told.

A symphony in the heart's soft sigh, A love that blossoms, soaring high. With every grin, a melody sweet, Two souls in rhythm, destined to meet. I hope to see that smile again soon.

x, Yours.

Y/N’s entire body was buzzing as they flipped to a blank page of their notebook.

In crowds unknown, a face concealed, Yet a whispering heart, its fate revealed. Mystery veils, like a silent star, In the vast unknown, I find you, afar.

No words exchanged, no history traced, Yet in your presence, a love embraced. Falling in realms of the unseen,  An enchantment, profound and serene.

Y/N ripped the page out and left it on top of the clutter within their desk. They didn’t look back once when the class was dismissed.

_________________________________________

“We should probably head back to the dorms if we don’t want to get reamed for missing bed checks.”

Y/N and Meeks were the only members of their study group left conscious. Charlie was long asleep—spread across the seats of four chairs.

“That’s too bad,” Y/N grinned, “this is the first time I’m actually enjoying Dalton’s company.”

“You always enjoy my company, Y/N,” Charlie muttered with his eyes still shut, “don’t lie to poor Steven.”

“Whatever helps you rest easy.”

Meeks just shook his head. the ghost of an amused smile threatening his lips, “you live in the East wing, right? One of us should walk with you.”

“I think I’ll survive, Meeks,” Y/N said on a laugh, “you need to be getting back to tuck Pitts in, anyway.”

The two exchanged good nights and good lucks on the Latin oral the next day before Y/N left Meeks in charge of rousing Charlie.

_________________________________________

It was uncharacteristically warm for late January, and Y/N decided to take the slightly longer scenic route back to their dorm. They would happily be chastised for getting back slightly after curfew if it meant they were able to be outside for a while and still be able to feel all their limbs.

A hushed giggle floated across the courtyard, snapping Y/N out of their thoughts. They spotted a familiar head of shaggy brown hair accompanied by another with perfectly curled blonde locks.

“Knox, really,” another giggle, “I have to go.”

“C’mon, Chris. Just a couple more minu—” his head snapped toward the sound of Y/N’s soft footsteps. The panic in his expression quickly melted into relief and a sly smile.

“Hurry, Chris! Hide,” he gently pushed the girl behind him, “we have a spy on our hands.”

Y/N stuck their hands in their coat pockets, feeling as though they were the one caught instead of the couple before them.

“Just an innocent bystander, I swear,” Y/N shot them a sheepish smile.

Chris nudged Knox, looking much more anxious than the boy.

He startled, glancing between Chris and Y/N with a soft, “oh.”

“Chris, this is Y/N—a friend of the poets,” poets? “Y/N, this is Chris, my girlfr—”

“His friend,” Chris interrupted, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

Knox held a hand over his heart, feigning offense, “she’s just in denial. Girlfriend.”

“Denial is probably the safest option here. Smart woman,” Y/N smirked at the boy, “I should be getting back. I’ll let you two…finish up here.”

Y/N barely registered the pair’s goodbyes as they walked away. Their thoughts were in overdrive.

I guess it’s not Knox. I should have realized that sooner. I guess that pathetic poem really wooed Chris. Y/N laughed lightly to themselves. What did he mean, “a friend of the poets”? 

The more Y/N found out, the more confusing it all felt.

~~~

part five

[justporo]

A Scorching Letter

Brimsterton | A Staevstarion Regency AU

PREVIOUS PART | MASTERLIST | AO3

A/N: Yes hello, I know I haven't posted something I wrote in quite a while. Let's just say I've been busy, but mostly behind the scenes. This however I had written quite a while ago (end of June I think) and I need to get back into the saddle again with posting. So here we are, another trip into Regency AU with @velnna's beloved Staeve (thanks as always for letting me stick him in a costume) and Astarion. Picking off where we left off after the chaise longue incident.

Summary: With a lot mixed feelings after what almost happened between them, a scorching letter is written that reveals genuine truths and brilliant emotions. But the response might not have been what either of them had hoped for...

Pairing: Astarion/Staeve Wordcount: 5,1k Warnings: light implied nsfw

-----

Hands hastily tore open an envelope. On it, in elegant cursive handwriting that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone but Astarion’s, a name was written, boldly and with gold ink even: Staeve Brimstone.

Shivering fingers took several pages from the torn away paper and unfolded them. Immediately, it was visible that the letter had been written with a plethora of intense emotions: some parts seemed barely readable as if the pen had scarcely made its way across the paper in hesitancy. Others were quite obviously written with such vigour, that the sheets were almost torn and stained with blots of ink from a pen that had been pressed too harshly and hastily onto the paper - way too eager to get out the words.

The hands holding onto the letter kept trembling as the letter was studied. It read:

“My dearly beloved Staeve,

It seems we’ve gotten ourselves in quite the compromising position, haven’t we?Apparently, we do have a knack for this kind of thing, don’t you agree? It is nothing new for either of us, truly. How often have we gotten in trouble for something over the years? Quite frankly it might be a big part of the reason why my parents will finally be sending me off to the continent. I figure they fear what two - now grown - young men could get themselves into. And wouldn’t they be right?

A million times have we conspired together. A million plans. A million times it was us against the world. Together.

To our own surprise we haven’t always been discovered. But then again too often than we would have hoped. And yet we have always gotten out of a cornered situation.

This time it is different though.

I take it your sister hasn’t taken notice of what has happened that night. Or it might be that she doesn’t care - I was never able to read her well. And I do not dare to push her on the matter.

What could have happened had we been discovered in that moment? Truly discovered?

But to be quite frank that isn’t what I am concerned with. Not if I am being honest with myself.

You know I am a man of few regrets, Staeve. But I do regret having left like I did that fateful night. My mind kept whispering malicious things to me while my chest was burning, set ablaze by you and your lips. My heart was prepared to scream it all from the rooftops. But yet my anxious mind had me flee like lest we be found out.

But yet my heart keeps burning, the flames impossible to smother. I promise you I’ve tried. Only to find them flickering higher, brighter, hotter, whenever I tried.

And it has been hard to calm it for even just a moment since that fateful night on that chaise longue.

In the end, it has won over my mind even quicker than I thought as I still feel my chest burn with every single beat of my yearning heart. This is what my mind has been toiling with. This and the enticing idea of what would have happened had we not been disturbed, this impossible game of “what if”.

Would we have lost ourselves within each other, unravelled by our hands and touches. Would we have been void of words with only our bodies to speak the yet unspoken? Would we have gone all the way into oblivion together torn and then reformed together. And all to only be unravelled again and again until there had been nothing left but strings?

Strings we might have been able to have knitted into something new, something thoroughly intertwined?

Only the heavens may know.”

The words at the end of this page were thin; anxiously so. The author’s worries and fears clear already by how the words seemed to trail off at the bottom. In hopes perhaps, that they could just be shaken off the page lest they fall on deaf ears.

The next fresh page though started with bold writing again, even bolder than before. The written words proud, tall and unashamed:

“But I do know this: at night I lay unable to sleep with that blistering desire inside of me, slowly scorching me from the inside out. And when the heat becomes near unbearable, I lay there with nothing but the moon as a witness, touching myself while imagining - hoping - it was you. My hands wandering down over my own body and finding pleasure so easily and quickly - so intense - as they stroke and caress. Simply because it is you in my mind. The thought of you nearly enough to lose myself time and again.

I know I am a sinner for this, for my thoughts and my actions. But could a sin truly feel this heavenly? If this is what hell feels like, I will let it take me, gladly. I would welcome doom with open arms for just my actions, but truly, I’d much rather be doomed together with you, Staeve.

The feeling of your mouth on mine has been imprinted on me. I cannot forget it. I will die with the memory of your soft lips on mine on my mind as the last breath leaves my earthly body.

You've touched me a thousand times - a hug, a tap, a taunt - but not like this. Never like this. Not with that enticing intention, not with that need: giving, pleasing but also taking -  possibly all of me. And if I’m being true and honest to myself: I would give you all of myself - body, mind and soul. You may take it all!

Do you feel the same? Because even writing this letter I feel how restless my fingers are, how they itch to touch you again as well, how they need to feel you again: your lithe body, the skin of your face, your silken hair.

I just want to feel the warmth of you again, enveloping me, your body moving against mine as we fall together, endlessly.

And when your hands know me by heart, I want to feel your mouth all over my skin, tasting me before swallowing my confessions to you directly from my very own lips and tongue.

I want you to know me as deeply as no one has before. I fear no one else could ever understand me like you do anyways. And I hope, dearly, this is what you want too. I surely know it’s what I want with you: knowing you inside and out, better than myself.

Back in that moment it surely felt like that.

But memories are fleeting, fickle little things. Already I am questioning if I really saw the same yearning in your eyes I keep feeling in my very soul. But then again, it's not like this only transpired yesterday, hasn't it? Hasn’t this all been brewing for what feels like an eternity?”

Up until this paragraph the writing had been bold, the elegant cursive letters leaning so far it was easily distinguishable that they had been written without pause. Words that had  been too powerful to not let out.

But those next ones were more hesitant again. The pen had been pressed down to start many a time and then hastily taken off again, judging by how several blots and scratches of ink clouded the first letter of the next sentence.

But in the end even these words had found their way - either way:

“I reckon you know the feeling in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm approaches - when the tension is so dense it makes your hairs rise up. When the whole world seems to hold its breath, awaiting the inevitable.

Aren’t we just like that? Awaiting what deep down we have known for so long?

Aren’t we inevitable?

How long have we been like this? In that terrible limbo of potential and not yet made resolution?

Only for it to unload in but a blink of an eye, lightning hitting us both, scorching us through and through, down to our furthest depths - setting us brightly ablaze where light has never even reached before.

There is no way in which we could ever proceed, pretending as if we both haven’t been changed forever in this moment, changed at our innermost core - wouldn’t you agree?

At times I fear that all it would have taken was that one night. One night of scorching flames to then see the fire smothered. This - us - nothing but a quick intermezzo, a short crescendo that is quickly muffled and not to be heard again.

But whenever I think I’ve forgotten about this, about you, for a just moment, there it is again: the thought of you, impossible to get out of my head.

You are always there with me, Staeve, with every breath and every step.

You didn’t just light a candle inside of me, you started a wildfire.

And I welcome it - with all the heat, all the power, all the destruction it might bring but also the all encompassing warmth it might spend. I welcome it to be consumed by it!”

Before the final words of the letter there was generous space left. Quite obviously the author felt the need to let his final words take up room. The final conclusion to the letter read:

“I am in love with you, Staeve Brimstone.

I am in love with you - and looking back it feels like I have always been in love with you. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you up to the my last moments on this earth.

And even more than that: I need you. I fear I cannot live without you.

And even though it might be selfish - but we both know that I am -: I hope you need me too.

I hope to love you, Staeve, forevermore. And if I’m fortunate enough, that you will love me too.

Forever yours,

Astarion”

As eyes ran over the last page, the hands holding the letter had begun to tremble. They were gripping the paper so hard by now that knuckles showed white.

Then when the end had been reached they were shaking so much no word could have been made out anymore. The grip was crinkling up the paper now. Up until the pages were deliberately being crumpled angrily, pressed into a ball of paper, letters and emotions alike forced into an indiscernible mess.

With a few steps only, the way was made to the lit fireplace and the pages were given to the flames. The fire eagerly licked at the papers, ate it up until there was nothing left of the words and the long suppressed feelings they had finally expressed.

~~~

The Brimstone family had sat down for dinner. Or at least for their approximation of it. Viscount and Viscountess Brimstone were idly enjoying their dinner talking a bit of business, politics and gossip. Meanwhile, their son Staeve was more enticed by the workings of a small golden mechanical beetle his father had brought him as a souvenir from one of his business trips than by the meagre meal of roasted pork and vegetables he’d thrown onto his plate as more of an afterthought. The sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows as he had discarded his doublet long ago to be able to move better and one of his suspenders threatened to give up on its job as it was dropping off his shoulder in his hunched over position. He had wholly reengineered what dinner time meant for him, much to the grievance of his parents. But dozens of tries to change first the boy’s and then the young man’s behaviour had failed. So at some point they had given up as long as he knew to behave when guests were over and was still honouring the family gathering times.

That usually meant that he was at least present during family dinner times, physically at least. But he’d only eat later, once it had all gotten cold. And then would sneak into the kitchen to grab seconds when he would have realised once more that tinkering around didn’t sate his bodily hunger. At least not enough.

His mother had long given up on trying to teach Staeve manners. When he had been a child she had been sure he would grow out of it. But once she had realised that his quirks had only been growing with him, she’d come to realise that it was for the best to just leave him be and hope for the best.

Only occasionally did she still try to enforce his older sister Nita as a role model to him. It never worked.

So, as Staeve was fumbling with his current project and his parents were lost in conversation, his sister Nita - void of any option to make dinner time pass any faster with her parents talking and her brother with his mind elsewhere - moved around some asparagus on her gold rimmed plate and wished she could’ve found an excuse to go eat with her younger siblings in the kitchen. Even they would have been a more ample entertainment discussing their playtime or perhaps their current tutor lessons.

That was until she thought of a way of hopefully grabbing Staeve’s attention for more than a fleeting moment.

“So, Staeve, have you found something to do yet, something to cope?”

Her brother’s tuft of green hair lifted shortly from where it had been bent over the small, intricately built beetle and some similarly delicate tool with which Staeve meant to dismantle the small object - thereby probably irreparably destroying it.

But the younger Brimstone shortly looked at his sister in irritation. Then his gaze snapped back to his hands and his workings and he began tinkering again.

“What?”

Nita rolled her eyes. “You know you are supposed to use full sentences, right?”

“Whoever has the time for that?”

“Ah see, he does speak in full sentences.”

Staeve grunted at his sister’s sarcasm but didn’t reward her with another glance.

Nita tried again.

“So have you?”

“I don’t think that was a full sentence.”

She was about ready to throw her fork at him, hoping it would drive the audacity right out of him - or at least take an eye. For a moment she debated just letting the silence draw out. But honestly she hadn’t been the one starting to be petty.

“You know, Staeve, I really get why even Astarion has decided to suddenly leave town when you’re being such a prick!” Nita almost shouted. That even had caught her parents’ attention now who immediately scolded her for her unladylike demeanour and choice of words.

She pouted, annoyed at how she had been the one being called out now instead of her brother.

And when she turned her head around again to throw him an angry glare she suddenly found she had finally caught his attention. Maybe even a bit too much of it because Staeve was now staring at her, eyes wide, face void of colour.

“What do you mean Astarion is leaving?”

Nita was about to snap at him again. But something in her brother’s gaze and his sudden stillness made her abandon the thought immediately.

“Didn’t- didn’t he tell you? I thought you always knew everything about each other.”

Immediately hurt flashed through Staeve’s teal eyes, too irritated to even try to hide it.

“Leaving when? Why?” Staeve’s voice was nothing more but a croak. A strand of hair had fallen into his eyes. He didn’t even bother pushing it out of his face.

Suddenly Nita felt unsure of what to do. Unsettled by her brother’s sudden burst of emotions. The only thing she came up with was snapping at him again.

“The Grand Tour, you idiot, what else.”

Staeve’s eyes widened even more. He set the small golden beetle and his tool down with a distinct thud, so hard, it even made their parents become silent and turn to their children in irritation.

“When?” Staeve simply followed up again. His words were terribly silent all of a sudden. Nita didn’t have it in her anymore to try and purposefully try and upset her brother. She threw a glance at the big mechanical clock - one of the few Staeve hadn’t disassembled yet: “I think right about now. They’re probably going to travel all through the night to catch a ship in the morning at one of the great harbours.”

Staeve didn’t wait for Nita to finish her sentence. He jumped up, almost making his chair fall over, staring at the clock. Their parents’ heads swivelled around trying to understand the cause of the commotion. But their son was already storming out of the room, not even sparing their scolding and quizzical looks another thought.

Immediately, Staeve made his way through the manor and down to the stables. As he rushed along servants, through a plethora of rooms and finally got outside, he realised that the weather was about to turn: an early summer evening threatening to bring a foreshadowing of yet far away autumn. The oncoming storm, announcing itself with distant thunder and dramatically darkening clouds, though, only felt like a fitting backdrop for what was brewing inside of him.

Questions filled Staeve’s mind as he made his way, and worries - and memories.

Every moment for the last couple of weeks since that fateful night had he basically been thinking about what happened. It only ever took him a split second to conjure up the scene again in his head: the last couple of breaths in which he had stared into Astarion’s eyes and how it had felt like he could see through them right to the bottom of his friend’s heart, the burning feeling of Astarion’s lips against his own and this desiring ache within him, physically and emotionally, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out.

He had been so sure Astarion had felt the same. And hadn’t his friend been the one looking up at him with such pleading in his crimson eyes, lips already parted in anticipation before they had met halfway?

But maybe Staeve was remembering it all wrong. He certainly must be. Why else would his lifelong companion leave him now unannounced?

Loads of feelings were forming up inside his chest, waiting to burst - like thunder after lightning had struck in the far off distance.

Staeve made his way to the stables to grab Freckle while his mind was somewhere completely else. He didn’t even stop to put a saddle or reins on her. A terrible premonition told him he hadn’t any time to waste. And the mare was used to being ridden like this, after all they were a well-practised team.

The young Brimstone led his horse outside and immediately felt raindrops seeping through his thin linen shirt and trousers. He couldn’t have cared less. Wasting no more time he jumped onto his mare’s back and with a click of his tongue and soft nudge from his boots they were off in a dash, cutting through the oncoming rain.

As Staeve thundered down the small trodden out road from the Brimstone estate towards the Ancuníns’ residence the rain turned from just a trickle to a pour - the kind that would turn grasslands into swamps for a good while after and dust roads into murky rivers. His mind was racing at an even more outrageous speed as the gigantic manor of his friend’s family came into view.

Lifting his head while holding onto Freckle’s mane as the horse felt his owner’s urgency and gave him her all, Staeve searched for the familiar sight of that one particular window with a light on inside, hoping it would betray his sister’s words. The one where Astarion often already had been peeking out of in wait for his companion to come by. The one where they had sat countless of times, talking, laughing, smoking some stolen cigars and choking on the burning smoke when they had been only boys.

But the lights were off.

And Staeve’s fears turned into all encompassing panic as he closed in on the giant building as he didn’t dare to let himself hope anymore. The rain around him had him fully drenched by now, his loose shirt clinging wetly to his body. Already he felt hot tears adding to the uncomfortably cold rain running down his face.

When he finally came around the manor, he found nothing but an ill-fated stable hand rushing through the downpour, perhaps tasked with a few last things before being allowed to flee the bad weather. Not even hesitating Staeve rode up right next to him making the poor boy shriek and stumble back from the horse making the gravel fly with a sliding stop.

“Astarion Ancunín?” he only managed to scream against the rain.

The boy just stared up at him, obviously too startled at the sight of Staeve like this. He probably looked like a madman. And he felt like one: not properly dressed, drenched to the bone on his equally aggregated steed. Even more so the more time he spent chasing down a man in this storm who so obviously tried to get away from him without him knowing.

But he needed to see him, at least a final time. One more try.

“The Duke’s son?” Staeve shouted again at the stable hand. And finally the boy seemed to have recovered from his stupor.

“Left. With his father the Duke, in the fancy carriage,” the answer came back, shouted against another thunder in the distance - the heart of the storm was coming closer.

Staeve’s chest clenched. Freckle became nervous beneath him. Even a well trained horse like her didn’t want to be out longer than needed in this weather. But just a moment more.

“When?” he screamed.

“Dunno exactly, couple of minutes, just when the storm started.”

Staeve needn’t hear more. Time was of the essence now. He spurred on his horse once more and left the befuddled boy behind who even forgot to finally rush inside and instead stared after Staeve racing off again.

The roads were already muddy, an endless amount of puddles strewn across them while Staeve made the decision to go for the hill overlooking the Ancunín lands, the one with the weeping willow. There he’d be able to see how far out they were already on the country road leading away from town.

But when he arrived at the foot of said hill and dashed on with Freckle, his horse slipped and almost took a tumble. And since his or his horse’s broken neck surely wouldn’t make him be any faster, Staeve slid off his mare’s back and continued on foot.

The rain kept pouring onto him as he rushed up the hill, his booted feet sinking into the wet ground. Several times he almost took a tumble when his boots sank in too deep. Illustrious curses that would have made his mother blush and his father scold him, left Staeve’s lips as he ran up the grassy hill as fast as possible, barely able to see anything anymore with the rain slashing his face. He didn’t even notice how the freezing cold crept into his body, his limbs, how his fingers began to become stiff. His whole body was shaking, as much from the cold and the wet, as from the feelings still burning inside his chest - the only thing still spending a bit of warmth.

Staeve reached the top of the hill and the weeping willow atop of it - honouring its name as rain kept dripping generously off its tendrils. Trying to wipe at least some of the rain out of his face and panting heavily from running, Staeve’s eyes flew along the road leading out of town, willing the carriage to be there, so he’d know he could still catch them. Or at least a glimpse, of him. To at least wave a last goodbye. Because he didn’t know when - if - his friend would ever return.

And he spotted the carriage. Right there, at the very end of what Staeve could make out. Just before it disappeared around a final turn of the road - and out of sight.

~~~

Inside the carriage Astarion was craning his neck only a little to see Ancunín manor slowly disappear behind the lazily sloping hills of the countryside as the wagon rattled along the road leading away from town. Now the ancient weeping willow was the last familiar landmark before the road would lead them along faceless fields and forests rushing past them, only there to be forgotten again in an instance. The storm was doing its part to make Astarion’s last impression of his home even more dull: clouds and the rain almost washing all of the colours out of this final sight.

This might very well have been the only time in his life when his heart actually ached at the thought of leaving home - or rather him.

Only a few weeks ago had he hoped to spend an incredible last summer with Staeve, his childhood friend. Especially as he had been sure of something new budding between them, something that could have meant them being more than companions possibly. Something that either might have been honestly terrified to explore. They could have gone down this road together.

But it seemed that instead of choosing this final adventure and what treasures and secrets might have been ahead, Staeve had chosen utter and complete silence. To his letter as much as his departure. Astarion had been unable to figure out what to make of it.

However, wasn’t the absence of an answer a response of its own?

Questions, regrets, fear and hurt were all swirling around inside of Astarion’s chest as he feigned indifference staring out the small window the rain kept drumming on. He was covering most of his face with his hand turned away from the other passenger in hopes it would make him look bored and hide his frown - and more than anything, the tears burning dangerously in the corners of his eyes.

Writing that letter, taking a leap of faith had taken nearly all of his courage.

When that kiss had happened after that invaded soiree, it had been easy. Fueled by the evening, laughter and lots of liquid courage it had been easy to fall into Staeve’s arms. It had been easy to be open about what had been building up inside of him for so long.

But writing this letter stone cold sober had been near impossible: opening up about everything that, all his life, he had been taught to keep hidden behind his orderly closed button border, tugged away behind a starched collar closed so firmly it made one choke. Admitting to desires that would make him a wretched sinner in the eyes of his family and society. And finally confessing his feelings to his lifelong friend, risking everything they’ve had. It had been taxing, hard, painful.

And in the end, apparently, he had paid the price.

In front of him, the Duke Ancunín kept talking about their travelling plans while Astarion could feel his heart get torn into pieces the further away from home they travelled. A piece of it begging to be allowed to stay.

“Son, it is a great honour that Monsignore Constantin will take you in for a few extra weeks as his disciple. He is very strict but he is the best,” the Duke repeated his words in a sharper tone when he noticed his son not paying attention. “He will make an upright man out of you, Astarion, I know it.”

“Oh, will he? I can barely wait,” Astarion replied with bitter sarcasm in his voice. His father, in response, was near boiling with anger at his son’s insolent behaviour.

“He has his methods, son, you will see. He will let none of your nonsense slip, I will make sure of it!” The Duke’s words cracked like a whip. But the young man didn’t care, his eyes were still trained on the outside, on the weeping willow becoming smaller in the distance. He didn’t honour his father’s wrath with another response.

The carriage filled with nothing but the sound of drumming rain and thunder rolling ever closer. When the older Ancunín apparently realised his anger would get him nowhere he tried a different route of grasping his son’s attention.

“Hasn’t the young Brimstone come to say his goodbyes to you, my son? Is that why you keep brooding?”

Astarion’s gaze snapped to his father, immediately betraying that he had spoken the truth. He felt how his brows drew together as pain flared up in his chest even more. Trying to get it back under control quickly he looked back outside the window as the carriage shook along the road in worsening conditions.

But his father had cracked right open what had been bothering him and finally Astarion gave up on trying to hide. What did it matter now anyways? The cards had been dealt.

The young Ancunín let his hands fall into his lap but kept looking outside as he felt how the tears in his eyes threatened to become overbearing.

“He hasn’t actually,” Astarion admitted. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Not since I’ve sent him a letter a while ago,” he continued, voice flat and emotionless.

“A letter? How uncommon for the two of you,” the Duke threw in with a tinge of irony coating his words like bile. In a knee jerk reaction Astarion’s crimson gaze burned in anger at his father’s vile words. But in the end he wasn’t wrong. The young noble resorted to throwing a last glance upon the willow up on the hill.

“Come to think of it though, my son, I do remember seeing the letter,” the Duke rambled on. “And I remember handing it over to the butler so it may get delivered quickly.” Astarion turned away a little further once more from his father as he felt his composure threatening to break fully. “A difference of opinions maybe?,” his father finished.

Astarion didn’t see the slight tilt of the corners of his father’s mouth as he let the words roll off his tongue, not hiding his distaste for the young Brimstone.

The young Ancunín only could feel the final nail being put into the coffin with his father’s final words. His last string of hope he had been holding onto snapped in two just like that.

“Possibly,” Astarion simply replied, kneading his hands in his lap, emotions threatening to overwhelm him fully.

“Maybe even more than that,” he added after a while as he finally let his gaze fall from the last sight of his hometown.

Had he averted his eyes just a moment later he would have made out the figure of a dark-skinned, green-haired young man appearing beneath the weeping willow in the storm. But like this, thunder cracked as the carriage took a turn and Astarion’s home and his lifelong friend went out of sight.

[monotremedreams]

An assortment of Toils for your troubles.

[kanekisfavoritegf]

Double Double Toil and Trouble - Nanami ♡

As always Minors, Blankblogs, and ageless blogs pl don’t interact! 🩷

Warnings: Smut, Edging, overstimulation, aphrodisiac(so drugging), professorsxstudent.

Your legs were folded into your chest, and you laid on your back as you let out moans so loud you were convinced the entire campus could hear you. And as Nanami plowed into you, all you could think was…

How on earth did you end up in this position?

Okay, well, you do know how. That stupid aphrodisiac. It was supposed to be a love potion. Norbara had you convinced it was going to work. You had meant to get him to raise your grade. It wasn't a long-lasting potion nor a dangerous one. One of your wizarding professors at Cat’s University for Warlocks was Kento Nanami, the only professor ever to give you a failing grade. You thought the love potion would last at least an hour so you could convince him to raise it. He was being grumpy and unfair as always. Even the best of students struggled to meet his impossible standards. The potion meant that both of you would have to take it at the same time, so now both of you were complete messes, panting and moaning for the other.

“What? You thought you’d be the first?” He whispered aggressively into your ear as if your moans weren’t reaching the doors of every class nearby.

“Huh?”

“You did this so I’d fuck you and what? Be impressed with how tight your pussy is so I could raise your? Oh fuck, Y/N” His moans were taking over, and so were yours. “You thought- fuck! You thought you’d be the first student I raised my grades for?”

“No, Kento.” You moaned, clenching down on him harder. He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and craving for him just as much as he was craving you. It physically pained you to be without his dick in you.

“Nanami.” He spoke, jerking himself off on his knees in front of your touch-craving body.

“What? Kento, please fuck me. It hurts.” You whimpered a little

“Oh, baby, I know. It hurts me, too.” His panting got harder and harder as he came closer to the edge. “But you have to call me Nanami or Sir. Are we clear?”

“Yes, God, please hurry.”

“Yes, what?”

“Kento!!” You screamed your whole clenching around nothing.

“Nanami! Say it.” He demanded

“Please.” He came on top of your face at your begging, his cum dripping down your face along with your tears. You needed him. “Please, Nanami. Please.” His dick still stood upright and erect, aching for your wet cunt just as much as you were for his dick.

“Good girl. Turn around. All fours. Now.” Wasting no time, you turned, spreading your legs for him and arching your back as much as you could. Shaking your ass side to side a little, tempting him even further.

A cool feeling suddenly hits your cunt as you wait for him. Dribbling down along the slit.

It was spit.

His spit.

He has spat on your cunt and was now toying with his saliva and your cunt with his middle and ring finger. Curling and pumping faster and faster until he couldn't take the pain from being outside of you for one more second. Pushing his cock into you all at once and wasting no time, he began thrusting. Like a man with no mind for anything other than fucking you, which he was, he plunged into you. Over and over. The loud paps of his skin hitting your sopping cunt, again and again, had you convinced everyone could hear and everyone would know.

“Oh fuck, you are addictive. You know that, right? God, I should have never let you take my class. Even without this potion-” His declaration was cut off with a groan, one that signalled his high was approaching. Leaving you moaning and moaning and moaning some more.

“Nanami, I can’t hold on anymore.” It came in waves, your pleasure and ever since he pulled out of you the first time, it had waned a little in power, but now that he was back inside the warmth of your cunt, it was like the waves amidst a hurricane. More powerful by the second, swirling and churning inside you, and one word, one breath, one more squeeze that Nanami made at your skin would have you falling apart under him. In the end, it was a kiss on your right shoulder as he whispered a soft, “I’m cumming, baby.” that took you to nirvana.

The potion effects didn’t wear off until well into the next day, around two in the morning, and when it did. Nanami did a transportation spell taking you home before leaving. Other than your apology and explanation for the original spell, no words were exchanged. He opted for silence as he made sure to get you to your apartment. And when you woke up later that day, you received an email telling you your grade had risen, but you had been transferred to a different class...

© All content belongs to @kanekisfavoritegf . Do not repost, modify, copy, post on another platform, or translate

Cat’s Kinktober ★ Masterlist

[naffeclipse]

Double Toil and Trouble

Chapter 3: Cat Tail Crook

Familiar!Sun/Moon/Eclipse x Witch!Y/N (SFW)

The question of the unnamed demon sits heavy on your mind. You, however, can’t unload it without fear of a hand covering your mouth. They haven’t told you it's safe. This morning you awoke to peace and two cats warming your quilt, then enjoyed the stroll that carried you three deep between the trees. Yet, your familiars stand tense. They watch the undergrowth as if waiting for a strike from a snake.

Word Count: ~11,600 Warnings: Violence and attempted abduction.

A/N: Returns to this fic with pumpkin spice, pumpkin bread, pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, and just a bumpy pumpkin.

Thank you so much for being patient with me! I'm so happy to return to this fic! Nothing says autumn like a witch and familiars and some unnamed third demon vying for your attention. Very spooky! I hope you're ready for a trick (and trick.)

[melanirana]

Cat boys🎵 Cat boys 🎵 na na na na🎵 Cat boys🎵

@naffeclipse lovely boys. I made them Maine coons because look at them! Fancy demons = fancy cats plus Maine coons are just realy pretty. Double Toil and Trouble go read it.

[cipher-the-sidhe]

Rolling around in a sand pit of ‘Weal and Woe’ and ‘Double Toil and Trouble’ (by @pure-plum and @naffeclipse respectively) and screaming. Something about these two AUs drives me absolutely insane and I want to squish warlock!y/n and witch!y/n together like two marshmallows.

[hpffwritersguild]

Comfort Zone Fest 2024 - Author Reveals!

(And round up)

All fics have been revealed, read, and screamed over on our Discord so here's the full list of works, and the authors who were brave enough to step out of their comfort zone for them.

Mon Eclair by @adam-my-adam Nothing by @sleepstxtic To Adventure by slytherinvamp It's Glamour, Not Algebra by cherrybirch He Follows by nockout Bird Feeder by @elisedonut Only me in the limelight by Lucigoo89 Cupid's Spiral by @maple-unicorn Ollivander & Thomas, Makers of Fine Wands by @rainstormradish Girls just wanna by @maesterchill Boots 'n' Bulges by @patriceavril Black and Brown by @annanother-thing Taskmaster: Magic Mayhem by @bluestringpudding Seen Unseen by Asphodel_and_Wormwood On Magic and Beds by @khb-writes Double, double toil and trouble by @serenaew Hufflepuff by @xslytherclawx-writes Interview for the Quibbler by Goddess47 Special Children by delfinestria Weasley & Weasley Ltd by @elliemarchetti Prop Me Up On The Table Like A Mannequin by DrWhoIsGinnyHolmes run boy run by @mirrorofliterature Breakfast every morning by @mkaugust bury me face down by beeprescott A knife all blade by @uncannycerulean

Congratulations to all of our writers this year! You did a phenomenal job. Thank you all so much for participating - hopefully we see you back for the next one! :)

[artstrosity]

Tis the season for spooky dice!

[spumoniidraws]

I had this idea about Gale and his mortality.

And rather Gale and my Tav. Tavrina is an elf. A high elf at that, meaning she will live 700-1000 years. That fact alone would be enough to worry Tav. She would dread the thought of him passing before she does. In all the rush of fighting the netherbrain, then running off with him to Waterdeep, getting married and living domestic life, I doubt it would have occurred to her as she fell head over heels for him. Humans live such short lives by comparison. As the panic sets in, she wants to find a way to extend his life. Gale mentioned Elminster is 1300 years old. Maybe he can help. Or perhaps Astarion with his knowledge of immortality. She would ask. She would become increasingly desperate, toiling away hours while Gale sleeps trying to find an answer. She doesn't know anything about magic, but she does know monsters. Maybe Gale would be willing to become a Lich? Small anxiety fits and mindless research to a problem she made on herself. How could she love him properly? It would be like loving a dog? Was any of this even moral? There are plenty of half-elves in the world right? Proof an elf can properly love a human....right???

Finally Gale finds her notes. Mad scribblings of rituals and powerful spells. Notes about their vampire friend. Notes about Elminster. Weave manipulation. He reads over them with concern, particularly at the word "Lich" circled in the corner. He consigns to sit her down with some tea and have a chat about mortality. -G: My love, I found your notes. I worry something is troubling you. You know you can always unburden yourself with me. -T: It's...its just thoughts. -G: Seems to be more than thoughts. A growing obsession rather. Your scribbles are filled with fervor and worry. Questions of immortality? Wish spells? Lich rituals? My dear, I fear you may be dabbling in things you don't know, and while I have never questioned your intelligence, this is powerful magic you're looking into. Your skills with a blade are unrivaled, but you are no mage. If you needed help with something, I am here for you. -T: It....it wasnt something I could ask you for. -G: Why not? Whatever could you be looking into that your own husband can't help you? -T: I was looking for ways to extend your life. There is silence as Gale tries to ponder what she is saying. Tav's hands grip her cup nervously as she continues -T: I am ..most likely...going to outlive you. And that thought stirred something in me. A fear in my heart. The thought of going through all of this just to lose you so soon. Even in the best cases you maybe have 60 years left or so. Thats....nothing. Her tone is somber and filled with sadness. Gale set's down his cup, then removes her cup from her hands and takes her hands in his. -G: Is that all that this was about? You're worried about me dying? -T: N-no! I'm worried about living the rest of my life without you! I'm worried about whether or not its even right for us to be together! You should be able to grow old with someone! Not watch as you age and your wife remains unchanged. You should be able to live a normal human experience! And my selfishness in loving you...wanting to have you to myself....It would be like how long a dog lives to a human. You're only here for a short time. How could I love you appropriately, knowing I will blink, and you will be gone?

Gale's face twists through so many emotions. Concern, love, disagreement, and then confusion. Did she just call him a dog? With a deep inhale, he would begin. -G: Perhaps, you are thinking far too little of our time together. And I would request that you stop that right now. His voice is firm and scolding. -G: Even for a pet, the love we have for them is immense and it is the only thing they know of us. For us, they are only a small part of our lives, but to them we are their whole life. Immortal gods who meet their every need. Pets don't reflect on their mortality or worry about whether they are loved. They simply live every day as best they can. And we love them all the more for it. His words trail into a whisper as he grips Tav's hands tightly. -G: Yes...one day I will grow old and grey, and however unpleasant it is to think about, die. But every moment spent with you, however long or short it may be, I will cherish it with every fiber of my being. His thumbs roll over the back of Tav's hands as he looks at his own hands. -G: I won't lie and say it hasn't crossed my mind that I would become old and grey while you remain as beautiful and as youthful as the day we met. And as senility and babbling set in-...well I know I already babble, but you understand...I imagined you might tire of me. I questioned whether or not I should spare you that pain and release you. But I fear my time with you has made me a bit selfish, and I wasn't prepared to have that conversation. I don't know if I ever would be. He pulls Tav into a kiss and leans his forehead against hers. -G: After everything that we have been through, every moment with you is a gift. I have never thought otherwise. Your love for me is unparalleled to any other love I have ever known. I have never doubted it. Not once. And I will cherish every moment, waking or not. And I will cherish you as much on my deathbed as I did that first night we shared a moment of magic. And it will have to be enough, for both of us. Because I have no intention of becoming a Lich.