#well. “enjoy” being used broadly

[shrekyaoi]

With the power of enough belief it could just be normal Makarov forcibly grooming roach not cat makarov

normal makarov licking normal roach? yeah i think i have that sitting somewhere on my computer

[pedgito]

Hi Ali!! I love your writing and I was wondering if I can request dom Joel punishing you by riding his boot??

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

summary | joel doesn't like gifts, you gift him new boots. [3k]

pairing | joel miller x fem!reader

content warning | 18+ content, as always: no use of y/n, soft dom/sub dynamic, boot-riding, degradation kink, unprotected piv, one (1) face slap, porn with absolutely no plot.

author’s note | original working title for this was new boot goofin' because i can't take myself seriously, idk what this is but enjoy. kel (@beskarandblasters) suggested the actual title for this so thank you babe ♡

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic recs

Three things about Joel you were intensely sure of—he was a strong lover. He loved hard and he cared even harder, always willing to put your needs before his own, even to an unhealthy degree in some cases. Two, he liked to be in charge. With his willingness to put you before him, it also lended him to enjoy the role of being dominant in the right situations. He kept a lot of himself locked up around everyone but you. Through the few years you two have become close and started this relationship—if you could call it that—there’s a solid understanding of each other’s needs. He provides the domineering nature you crave and you subdued yourself to him willingly when he puts the facade on.

At first, it never left the bedroom. You both enjoyed the disguise of the dynamics to make things flow easier, not allow things to stall out so quickly and you had all the proper safety precautions in place to allow you both the happiness you seeked out. But, as most things in your life, they seeped through the cracks and bled out, intermingling with the rest of your daily life.

Sometimes it was just a look when you’d say something in public that was indecent or a comment that made Joel’s face go hot, knowing that despite his openness in public, he was still a very private man. He reserved that side for you and only you. And he did so much for you—not just around Jackson, but in your own home. With him being the lead guy for patrols and having such a…special relationship with him, it lended for more leniency when you weren’t feeling great or needed a break from the hectic energy that patrolling liked to suffocate people with, always on the brink of danger. And Joel was always too handy for his own good—always finding a reason to fix up a broken something in your own small house on the outskirts of Jackson. 

Broken pipe? Fixed. Chair broken? Joel could shape you out a new one in a couple weeks.

Last week he had repainted then entirety of your kitchen cabinets because he thought they were looking a little dull—as if they weren’t run down from years of abandonment and like this wasn’t the fucking apocalypse. Despite that, you felt the urge to thank Joel. And not just thank him.

Properly. With a gift.

But—oh. Third thing, Joel hated gifts.

Despised them.

But, you weren’t always the best listener or rule follower.

A patrol with Tommy had you both scheming up an idea when you bring up the option of gifting something to Joel as a proper offering of appreciation, his hand resting loosely on the rifle slung around his chest, fingers tapping against the butt. 

“Well—you know, there’s a clothing store a few miles east,” Tommy tells you, “Ellie and I found it when we cleared out that hoard a few months back—lotsa clothes and shoes, mostly untouched. We could check that out? I need to grab a few things myself anyways.”

You nod easily, “Yeah—that pair he has is falling apart. It drives me insane.”

“Joel doesn’t like to let go of things easily,” Tommy comments broadly, “He’ll make do with what he’s got until it falls apart.”

“Well, he doesn’t take no for an answer when I tell him to stop helpin’ me so he’s gonna have to suck it up just this once.” You smile slightly, earning a soft chuckle from Tommy.

You hoped it would go over well—because Joel did need new boots and there was little harm in an innocent gift…right?

–

Joel is brimming with an energy that only accompanied him after long patrols, the ones that lasted a few days and kept him away. Away from his home, away from you. He doesn’t even attempt the trek toward his own house, rather taking the first right and beelining for your small house at the end of the neighborhood, squeezing his leather covered hands into fists.

He’s anxious, pent up—not with anger or rage, but just a need to release some built up stress. Fortunately, he knew the perfect way to do that. His boots squeak against the hardwood of your front deck, the tattered rubber around the toe of his boot hanging on by a thread as he kicks it gently into the base of the door softly, idle as he busies his mind and prays that you’re still awake.

You’ve been waiting for him all day, his gift hidden away safely as you yank the door open excitedly, nearly tripping over your own pair of haphazardly thrown shoes on the floor.

Joel lets out a soft oof as he catches you, chuckling at your bright and beaming smile.

“Someone’s excited,” Joel chides playfully, though his voice is gruff. He sounds tired, looks it too, “been missin’ me, baby?”

You nod immediately, “So much,” You press a gentle kiss to his lips as he kicks the front door closed with his foot, slowly removing his layers—thick coat falling first, then his thinner jacket he wore underneath to leave him in a thick thermal, his skin still prickling with the winter chill but quickly warming underneath your touch, “everything go okay?”

“Yeah—just a bad storm comin’ in,” Joel explains, ignoring how distracted you were, allowing the soft pecks to his skin as you pulled away, slowly inserting yourself into his line of sight, mischievous grin plastered across your face, “—what are you up to, darlin’?

“Got a surprise for you,” You tease playfully, feeling his thick, calloused fingers slip under the thin material of your shirt, subconsciously seeking some contact with you, “can you go sit on the couch and close your eyes?”

Joel didn’t take too well to surprises, but he trusts you. So, he nods quietly, though there’s a slight hesitance to him as he takes a seat on the couch, slowly unlacing his boots in your absence to relieve some pressure but not taking them off completely, the tongue of the boot hanging lifelessly over his even more pathetic looking laces.

He can hear your soft footsteps as they approach, bare feet against the wood flooring as the couch dips slightly and he feels something hard and solid pressed into his hands.

“Okay, open ‘em,” You tell him gently, watching as he blinks his eyes open, expression mostly unchanging—it wasn’t unlike him to have little reaction, but it did worry you slightly, “—surprise?”

Okay, terrible idea. Got it.

“Darlin’,” God, you’ve heard that tone before, body tensing slightly, “I thought I told you I don’t need nothin’ in return from you.”

“Joel—you’re constantly helping me,” You argue softly, “it’s the least I could do. Plus, you need a new pair.”

“That’s not the point,” Joel tells you, “I do that stuff ‘cause I like knowin’ you’re comfortable, that you don’t have anything to worry about while I’m away.”

“And I worry about you too,” You interject quickly, “Joel—it’s just a gift, it’s okay.”

Joel places them on the table in front of him silently, contemplating thoughtfully.

He’s made it clear on several occasions that he doesn’t like things in return. That he does these things without the expectation of anything in return, but he appreciates the gesture. Joel isn’t used to people caring for him and it feels odd to allow it. And he sees the nervous energy inside of you brimming, like you’ve made a bad choice and you deserve the punishment.

 Almost begged for it. 

Your fists curl nervously in your lap, waiting for any sign that Joel had to offer.

And when he doesn’t respond, you find yourself curling into him out of instinct. Thighs spreading out over his lap as his hands follow the trail from your knees, up your thighs, until his thumbs are settling in the crease of your pelvis. You attempt a gentle kiss, but he’s reluctant to return it.

“Did I do something wrong?” You ask quietly, a genuine curiosity in your voice.

Joel shakes his head slightly, but the hand guiding its way around your neck tells a different story, his fingertips rubbing against the softness of your jawline, forcing you to look at him properly.

“Nothin’ wrong, but I do think I need to remind you of somethin’,” Joel explains in a soft, but demeaning tone, “that when I tell you I can provide for you and don’t need anything in return—that I mean that.”

You wait with baited breath, blinking rapidly at how hot his breath feels against your skin, feeling your cunt throb with need, with an insatiable want for him.

“And since you wanna buy me a new pair of boots—well,” Joel chuckles darkly, feeling your fingers tighten into the thick fabric of his thermal, “you’re gonna have to help me break ‘em in.”

You look at him, perplexed. But, his pupils dilate under your gaze, the subtle shifting as he kicks off his old, tattered boots as nods subtly to the new pair behind you.

You sigh breathily, “Huh—Oh, you want me to—”

“Ride my boot, baby,” He tells you clearly, “Seein’ as it is my gift and all.”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation as you slipped from his lap, table skidding back deftly in the process—you grab for the new pair of work boots but Joel is quickly grabbing your face again, squeezing your cheeks sharply.

“Undress first.” Joel says, waiting for your nod of acknowledgement before he lets you go.

So, you do—layer by layer until you reach your bra, unhooking it with nimble fingers as he slips on his new boots. If this were anyone else, you would feel ridiculous. But, with Joel, there was something there, brewing on the surface. He respected you, but he also needed you to understand.

It was a little humiliating, but it wasn’t the worst thing.

Your fingers edge along the hem of your underwear when Joel stops your hands, “Keep those on.” He utters, his fingers dragging softly against the front of the cotton material until he’s cupping your pussy in his palm, soft wet spot growing in the fabric where his fingertips drag across—you’re enjoying this, clearly.

You lower yourself slowly, straddling his left leg with your knees tucked against the bottom of the couch he sat on, pressing your cunt against the cold leather of his steel-toed boot.

Joel relaxes then, arms spread wide over the back of the couch, fingers gripping loosely into the cushion. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart.” Joel comforts, sensing your brimming nervousness as your fingers trailed along his calf, the hard press of his boot right against your core and if you tried hard enough, it wouldn’t take long at all—knowing that even just a little bit of encouragement from Joel and friction could have you coming undone. But, he wants you to work for it.

You start slow, a subtle grind of your hips that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. You sigh softly at the relief, noticing the slowly growing smirk on Joel’s face that you’re trying to avoid, eyes falling shut slowly as you tip your head back, allowing a slow rhythm to start.

“Feels good?” Joel wonders, “Like the idea of me carryin’ somethin’ of you around with me?”

In more ways than one—by a simple gift from the kindness of your heart, but also the desperation of the slick that damped your underwear and painted a perfect mess over his boot.

You nod quietly, moaning softly as you angle your hips to allow the drag of your clit over the solidness of the boot, friction sending your eyes rolling back in your head, hands fisting into the thick denim and selfishly using it for leverage as you quickened your pace. 

“That’s right, baby—want you to think about coming all over my boot for me,” Joel encourages, “can you do that?”

Truthfully, you were holding back. Seeing just how much you could get out of him.

But, Joel catches onto your game.

“You need a little encouragement?” Joel asks curiously, chin cupped in his strong grip, nodding obediently. “Think you deserve that, baby?”

“Please—please, Joel.” You beg, “Fuck—please, I’ll do—”

“Don’t say anything, darlin’.” He warns, “Not when you don’t know what that means for you.”

He keeps your eyes locked on his, squeezing your cheeks gently when you start to fade, the slowly building tingle in your core that wasn’t as easily ignorable now, coiled in your belly and ready to explode. You lose yourself for a brief second, hand fisting into the slack bunch of denim atop his thigh, earning a dull but stern slap to your cheek to bring your attention back to him.

“Eyes on me, baby,” Joel coos, fisting the hard line of his cock under the strained denim with his free hand, looking slightly pained at how much he was holding back himself, “look at you—always eager to please, huh?”

You roll your eyes slightly—and Joel really doesn’t like that. His hand cradling the base of your neck as he holds you still, body pulled just centimeters away from his boot, leaving your pussy throbbing with a lack of contact that your body craved.

“Now you just look a little pathetic, don’t you?” Joel asks, “All needy for my fuckin’ boot—got her beggin’ for it, don’t I?” And you know he’s not addressing you directly, rather the pool of your own slick, shiny wetness on the toe of his boot that gives you away.

 He nudges it against your clit gently, earning a soft whine as you hips instinctively seek for friction—Joel takes a slightly more firmer stance, head cradling both of his hands as he holds you prisoner in his gaze, two thick fingers slipping into your open mouth and grinning at how pathetically and greedily you suck on the digits without having to be told, removing them with a loud pop and a thin string of spit that connects you to him.

And if he was a stronger man, he could hold off. But, he’s so weak around you he can’t even hide it. He lets go in an instant, reaching for the front of his own jeans as he shoves them down his hips until he can manage to slip his cock out over his underwear, fisting himself in an instant.

Staving himself on patrols was torture when all he could think about was you—so he knows it won’t take much. Hell, he’s surprised with how long he’s been able to hold off now.

You admire with a haughty gaze, slowly resting back against the base of his boot, watching his free hand slip under his heavy sack, massaging as he jerks his fist without much rhythm, blinded by his own selfish need for release.

“Keep goin’,” He encourages through a tight breath, “but don’t fuckin’ come, darlin’.”

Your hole clenches and flutters around nothing, wishing that it was his cock stuffed inside of you rather than the plane of his boot pressed against your pussy, the thickness of his fingers alongside the girthiness of his cock a blatant reminder of how deeply you felt him in the mornings and even days after, always fucked so throughly it had you reeling and constantly crawling back for more.

He jerks himself selfishly, eyes falling shut as he feels himself dragging too close to the edge, your moans gaining in intensity, knowing how pathetic you would both look to anyone else. But, there was no one to judge you here—and Joel was beyond feeling the need to be assertive, rather just needing you, to be inside you and have you snug around him and crying on his cock.

Joel pulls you out of your daze hastily, manhandling you until you’re back is flat against the couch, quickly shoving his jeans down far enough that they don’t become a hindrance as he pulls your underwear aside and slips inside of you with a solid push of his hips, the slickness of your cunt allowing no resistance as you both groan at how good it feels, eyes connecting for a brief moment before everything goes black…or white. 

Joel isn’t sure what he sees, but it only takes a few minutes of some hurried and desperate pumps of his hips as his cock nudges that particular spot deep inside of you that has you clawing at the bare skin you could reach, leaving red marks on his neck as he snaps his hips with a finality, coming with a low groan that has your legs shaking, bent nearly in half as he still manages to see through his own haze and drag his fingers over your clit—it doesn’t take more than a couple seconds before you're there, spasming around his cock with a sob, gasping at his overstimulating touch as he continues to press and circle your clit until you’re begging him to stop, his hips slowly pumping his cum inside of you.

Joel finds himself laying slack against you, pants down at his ankles as he allows your fingers to thread through his grown out curls from where his head rests against your chest, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

“I appreciate the boots,” He says after a while, “if that wasn’t already obvious.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” You giggle softly.

“Seriously, no more gifts, though.” Joel says sternly, “I mean it.”

You pout slightly and Joel catches it, his eyes flicking up to look at you.

“I’m makin’ no promises to that.” You tell him truthfully.

Joel chuckles softly, “Can’t say I expected you to, either.”

[chiiroptereh]

[Please zoom in, there's a lot of detail! And a massive file size...ouch]

Hi guys, long time no post! Been working on Art Fight and life stuff, but I've got something kinda fun for you.

This is a compilation exploring how a mortal Bill may interact with our world if there were still some kinda Euclidean instincts buried in there. Y'know, before the Book of Bill ruins all my headcanons >:P (EDIT: IT HAS BEEN READ. YAHOOOOOO)

Also quite an experimental piece as you can probably tell. Lots of details on both said headcanons and the art stuff under the cut, but I invite you to study the colorful texture yourself beforehand and think about what it might be representative of, just for fun because I got some really cool answers from my friends when asked :]c

TL;DR: the headcanon is that Euclideans have exceptional eyes for geometry. They find things like symmetry, tessellating patterns, graphs and fractals very aesthetically pleasing. If pushed into our 3D world, they feel comforted by the familiarity flat objects/spaces bring, as well as high-contrast patterns. Shadows especially are a familiar dimensional reduction that may bring them much comfort.

Bill would surely not be happy about these inclinations, constant reminders of a past long gone, but I'm not sure he's even aware of them here :P I think his ego gets in the way to the point where he just views these interests as common sense, which, of course, us lame humans just don't understand because we aren't nearly as cool as him. Of course he likes perfectly symmetrical leaves and staring at the kitchen floor, it's called taste, look it up!

And yet, he can't seem to shake the strange sense of melancholy he gets from viewing his own shadow.

~ End of TL;DR, long version below! ~

🔺 Headcanon Development

So, the catalyst of this idea was in relation to my friend and I's AU ( @love-triangles-au ). TL;DR, Bill's brought back mortal, meets another triangle named Y.V. (it's his hand holding the paper in the piece, actually), at some point they fall in yaois together, you know how it is. And, in writing a pair of triangles (or, more broadly, writing from the perspective of a different species), something I've had to consider was that you really can't get much further removed from a human being than sentient geometry.

The anatomical aspect was mostly figured out (see my piece on Bill's eye-mouth), but I wanted to consider what psychological differences might be at play. I wanted them to be weirder, more alien, double-so for Bill. At first I explored these possibilities through the lens of Bill and Y.V.'s relationship, specifically the question "what might a triangle find appealing about another triangle?"

Well, really the only things that came to mind were straight lines and symmetry, anything related to the geometric form of such a creature. That's more-or-less where that ended until the thought struck me that there's no reason this aesthetic appreciation couldn't extend to the rest of the environment, and then further when I realized, "wait, this is a species that is designed to live in a 2D environment. Like, they should seriously be really weird. I need to push this like 200% more."

So...yeah! I did some thinking and brainstorming with others and came up with a pretty long list of things a Euclidean in our world may be inclined to enjoy or find some level of comfort in. It's worth noting again that in this piece specifically this is a mortal/powerless Bill, so he can't really escape this Earthly environment. IF he's aware of these instincts at all (and that's a big "if"; when have you last been cognizant of your own instincts let alone known where they were stemming from?) I think he'd have snuffed them out in immortality and/or purposefully gone against them; he doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.

In order from left-to-right, top-to-bottom, here's an explanation for each!:

Flat objects such as paper are something he may find particularly engaging. It's basically 2D!

Tessellations are especially fascinating, and our world has them everywhere in the form of tile floors. Symmetry and such a predictable pattern...as the infinity of the starry sky might for us, the infinite potential of tessellations might invoke a similar sense of awe in him. Add on the maximum contrast of black on white kitchen tiles and the forms are only even better defined! A sensitivity to contrast would be very helpful for a 2D being navigating their environment.

Fields are flat and open, much like Euclydia itself. Laying flat may make him feel a little more at home.

More tessellation in the honeycomb of hymenopterans (bees, wasps and friends)! It helps that pain is hilarious.

The city is an absolute treasure trove. Rectangular buildings, precise architecture, square sidewalks and straight lines abound...he may as well be looking at a rainbow or an art gallery! I think a Euclidean's brain is very fine-tuned to mathematics, especially in regards to trigonometry. What may appear to be a straight painting might appear obnoxiously crooked to him.

Zebras are high-contrast :]

Another flat surface, another relaxing space <3

I think graphs are about as high as high art gets to most Euclideans.

I've touched on shadows before, and for good reason; truly they must be something borderline magical to the Euclidean and perhaps bitterly nostalgic.

This one kinda speaks for itself. Dweeb.

🎨 The Artsy Stuff

Lately I've been trying to find ways to fit more color into my work, as color is perhaps one of my favorite things in the world. My wardrobe is rather garish; my dad jokes that you could see me from space. My fursona is obnoxiously bright for a reason -- I feel my soul is a very colorful one!

I also realized recently that I don't actually know the exact style that speaks to me. I could talk about the phenomenon of the "style crisis" that many artists have all day, but in my mind the best cure for this feeling is to go against it entirely and begin stealing as much as possible.

So, I've tried to keep an eye out for more sources of inspiration everywhere I go, physical and digital. I've tried to train my mind into making a habit of considering, "can I do anything with this?" everywhere I go, and it recently paid off!

The glittery rainbowy texture you see plastered all over Billiam is this one, a photo-manipulated set of fruit stickers. I must confess I've been obsessed with this image for the past 72 hours, and this seemed like a good excuse to try it out!

I worried throughout the process if it might be so abstract that it loops back around to being horribly deliberate, if that makes sense -- like each sparkle was not a piece of a whole but rather an object in itself -- but it seems like that hasn't been a problem, so I'm grateful for that :Dc

I hope it can dazzle and delight you as it does me, but as long as you find it fascinating at the very least then I consider it a success! I really enjoyed hearing my friends' interpretations while workshopping it, and got tons of amazing answers from opal to kaleidoscope to fossilized bone marrow! I truly believe that the best art has some room for interpretation and it really excites me to be surrounded by that kind of creative energy that follows said pieces. That definitely adds to my pride in this work. It's weird, it's colorful, it's detailed and yet ambiguous. I'm feeling pretty autistic about it

Alright, I think that's about it. Thanks for listening!

[ashtheketchum]

●Just one night●

Daryl Dixon X fem.Reader

Era: Pre apocalypse

Summary: Merle and Daryl went to a bar to have a fun night. But then Merle found out that Daryl was still a virgin and he wanted to change that with a few "whores".

Warnings: +18 CONTENT, FEM.Reader, protected sex, against the wall, oral (f), Merle being Merle, mention of alcohol, mention of smoking, Insults, virgin Daryl, virgin Reader

Words: 3k

Masterlist!

_______________________________

PoV Daryl:

I had actually wanted a free evening, but of course Merle put a stop to my plans again. We had worked together all week because of his illegal business and I had to help him with everything. Now I couldn't even enjoy my Friday evening. We sat together in a bar, I had a whiskey while he had a cocktail. With a big grin he drank from his glass before looking after some women who were laughing and chatting at a table. "Well, lil' bro… how's your sex life?" "I don't know why ya should care." I just said coldly.

Merle laughed amusedly before leaning a little closer to me. His breath smelled of alcohol and smoke, it reminded me of the old man, but I constantly ignored this feeling. "Ya´re still a virgin, aren´t ya?" I didn't mind being a virgin, but I still didn't want to tell Merle. So I drank quietly from my glass while looking around the bar. But this only made Merle laugh again before he drank his glass completely empty and stood up. "Don´ worry, lil´ bro… I´ll help ya…" And with these words he walked away from our table.

Annoyed, I rolled my eyes briefly before I looked after him. He slowly walked towards the table where all the women were sitting. I somehow had a really bad feeling about this and when Merle pointed at me, I felt even more uncomfortable. Swallowing hard, I watched as the women looked in my direction, each one looking different from the next. After a few seconds, one nodded slightly and they all stood up. Only then did I see that there were three women. They were wearing very short clothes, you could almost think they were prostitutes. "Heyyyy, are you Daryl?" One then asked. Swallowing hard, I watched the women as they sat down next to me and in front of me. A few stroked my arms or leaned so far forward that I could see their cleavage. "Uh… I guess so?" I just said uncertainly. Damn it, I'm going to kill Merle.

The woman sitting next to me gently stroked my thigh as she moved closer and closer to my ear. Her breath gave me a cold, unpleasant shiver and I immediately backed away. "You're brother told us that you want some fun?" Ok, that question was definitely the reason to kill someone. I took a deep breath before shaking my head. "Nah… 'm good…" I said briefly. The women giggled quietly for a moment before tapping me again. Even though it was stupid, I looked at them again, but this time with an annoyed expression. "It's okay to be a virgin… just… how old are you again?" The woman sitting opposite me asked me.

Strangely, I felt a pressure building up inside me and I bit the inside of my lower lip. A stupid habit of mine. "Why?" I asked. The women looked at each other briefly before pointing behind them to their table. My gaze went there and I saw a woman there, about my age. She was staring at her cell phone and sipping a drink. She wasn't wearing such provocative clothes as the other women and she didn't seem as excited either. "This is (Y/N). She's a virgin too." The woman sitting next to me then said.

My confused look then went to her before I shrugged my shoulders. "'kay? And now?" The woman next to me grinned broadly before she stood up and went to this (Y/N). When (Y/N) sensed the presence of the other woman, she put her cell phone down and looked up at the woman. The woman who had just been sitting next to me pointed at me and made some hand gestures. Within a second, her cheeks turned bright red and she looked grumpily at her drink. "She's shy…" The second woman whispered to me. Grumbling, I looked at her briefly before looking back at (Y/N) and the strange woman. Reluctantly, she let herself be pulled towards us and the strange woman pushed (Y/N) onto the seat next to me.

PoV (Y/N):

Annoyed, but also unsure, I now sat next to this Daryl, who also looked at me annoyed. However, he didn't seem to be annoyed by me, but rather by my friends. We wanted a relaxed evening and suddenly they were talking about sex and relationships, even though they knew full well that I had never experienced either of them. "Hey…" I said quietly. Daryl looked at me closely for a moment before nodding at me and taking a sip from his glass. My friends laughed before nudging me lightly. "Merle, his brother, told us that Daryl wants some fun… this is your chance!"

I just rolled my eyes in annoyance before looking uncertainly at Daryl. His gaze was stubbornly directed at the table and he made no attempt to raise it again. "Merle, how much do we get?" My other friend suddenly asked. Frightened, I looked at all three of them grinning at the other man. This Merle also just grinned before walking towards us and putting his arm around one of my friends. "Well… for me it depen´s on how good ya ladies are in bed." He joked, which only made my friends laugh. I, however, looked at him annoyed and disgusted. Then his gaze went to Daryl and me. "And ma brother will pay her $200." Daryl just looked pissed at his brother before he stood up and grabbed my wrist. He roughly pulled me out of the bar, behind us we could still hear Merle and my friends laughing and talking.

"Where are we going?" I asked him when we were outside. Daryl rummaged around in his jacket pocket before he gave me $200. I looked at him in shock before he walked away. "Jus´ tell them, wha´ ya wan´." That's all he said. I should have been relieved that he just gave me $200 and that I didn't had to sleep with him, but somehow I was angry. I didn't wanted to be paid for sex and I didn't wanted to be paid for nothing. "What the hell? I'm not a whore, like other people." I snapped at him loudly. He stopped immediately and looked back at me, his blue eyes practically looking into my soul. "Wha'? Ya wanna sleep with someone, go an´ ask someone! I don' need this shit." And with these words he went to a motorcycle.

I immediately ran in front of him before he could even get to the motorcycle. My eyes stared stubbornly into his, but his eyes seemed much more intense. My knees went weak and my stomach tingled. "Wha'?" "Can you… at least bring me home…?" I asked quietly. Uncertainly, I pressed the $200 back into his hand, my gaze falling to the ground. Daryl looked at the $200 briefly before snorting loudly and nodding. Relieved, I watched him get on his motorcycle and then look at me impatiently. "Common." I stood quietly next to the motorcycle before climbing on carefully and slowly. Trembling, I held onto his shoulders until I was sitting behind him. Swallowing hard, I looked around briefly. "Don't you have a helmet?" "Nah, don' need tha' shit." And with these words he started the engine and drove off.

Startled, I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist and pressed my body against his back. Only now did I notice how broad his upper body was and that his hips were a bit narrower. But I couldn't really concentrate on it, I had my eyes tightly shut the whole time and my whole body was tense. Sometimes Daryl asked me where we had to go and I would lead him to my house with only quiet words. Daryl then stopped in front of my house, but I hadn't noticed that we were already there. With my eyes closed, I just waited for him to drive off again at some point. "Hey… we're here." I then heard him say.

I opened my eyes slowly before looking around. We were standing in front of my house, it was quiet, only the motorcycle engine was still running. I nodded slightly, nervous. "T-thanks… uhm…" Daryl just remained silent before he got off and looked at me impatiently. His blue eyes made me nervous, they made me tremble more and more. So when I wanted to get off the motorcycle, my foot got caught and I felt myself falling to the ground. But before I even touched the ground, I hit Daryl's chest. He had stood in front of me and wrapped his arms around me so that I didn't fall any further. With bright red cheeks I looked up at him, my heart was beating much faster and I couldn't breathe.

Daryl looked down at me, his blue eyes sparkled briefly and I felt his rapid heartbeat against mine. Our hearts were beating in sync, or at least it felt that way. "S-sorry…" After many seconds that felt like hours, I finally managed to say this. Daryl just grumbled quietly, but his grip didn't loosen. He just lifted me slightly so that I was now standing normally on the floor. In front of him. So close. I gently placed my hands on his chest, but I didn't push him away. My eyes looked deep into his and I could have sworn that his eyes became darker and more intense. "You wanna come inside…?"

How the hell could this happen? I wanted to have a nice evening with my friends and suddenly I was standing against my wall, in my bedroom. My pants were off and my panties pushed to the side, with a stranger from a bar between my legs. With one hand he held my panties away and with the other hand he held my leg, which he had put on his shoulder. Breathing heavily, I had buried my fingers in his short hair to push him closer to my throbbing cunt. "Fuck Daryl~…!" I managed to say, breathing heavily, while his nimble tongue quickly flicked over my clit and then sucked greedily on it. His eyes were always focused on my face, which kept twisting with desire. Sometimes I tried to maintain eye contact, but it was very difficult, my eyes kept rolling slightly backwards.

"Ya like tha'?" He purred softly against my pussy. Whimpering, I nodded quickly, his lips were now sucking greedily on my clit again. My breathing was getting faster and a certain pressure was building up in my abdomen. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum…~!" My words only made him suck harder on my clit before he pulled away and bit my inner thigh. Whimpering, I looked down at him as he sucked on my skin until a dark bite mark was visible on my skin. Then he went back to my pussy and let his tongue flick over my clit again. He did this until a huge wave of excitement overcame me and I moaned his name loudly. Besides my rapid breathing, I heard Daryl swallowing and moaning quietly, his vibrating tongue pressed against my clit, which made me tremble. "Fuck~…"

Daryl pulled away from me again, his lips and chin were slightly shiny, they were full of my juice. I was somehow embarrassed, but when he licked his lips clean and wiped the rest from his chin with the back of his hand, my heart started beating faster again. Without another word, he stood up again and pressed me harder against the wall so that my body pressed against his. "Ya got condoms?" He then asked in a rough and deep voice. The tone of his voice gave me goosebumps before I nodded slightly and kissed his lips gently before I pushed myself away from him to go to my closet. From there I pulled out a pack of condoms. "I wonder if they fit?" I teased him, with a slight grin. Behind me I just heard him snort in amusement before I heard his belt. It made me sad that he didn't take off all his clothes like I wanted, but I didn't want to pressure him either.

"'m sure they will." He growled quietly behind me. Humoring, I walked towards him with a condom in my hand. At first I thought we were going to bed, but Daryl had other plans. He grabbed my waist and pushed me back against the wall, his cock pressed against my inner thigh. He ripped the condom out of my hand, grabbed one of my legs and lifted it so that it was wrapped around his hip. He ripped open the package with his teeth before pulling the condom out and putting it on himself. Then he positioned himself in front of my entrance. I wondered how he knew so much about this. "Ya ready…?" Again his voice gave me a pleasant shiver before I nodded and held on to his shoulders. He slowly pushed his cock into my pussy and a loud moan escaped both of us. Daryl laid his head on my shoulder while I clung tightly to his shoulders and laid my head back. It was painful, but at the same time, desire was building up inside me and I was breathing faster and faster. "Fuck, you're so tight…" He growled softly in my ear.

While I got used to this new feeling of fullness, Daryl took off my shirt and covered my skin with kisses. He waited until I gave him a sign that he could move, and I did, after a few minutes. "Please, Daryl…~" These words seemed to be enough for him, because he pulled his hips back slightly before pressing them firmly against mine again. At first he moved slowly inside me so that we could both get used to this friction, this feeling. His shaft rubbed my inner walls while my inner walls rubbed his shaft and sucked greedily on him. Daryl had his face pressed against my shoulder the whole time, his hot breath made me arch my back. "You can move faster…" I whispered softly in his ear.

A quiet grumble escaped him briefly before he lifted my leg a little higher and then thrust into me faster. Luckily his other hand held my waist tightly, otherwise I would probably have collapsed in front of him. I closed my eyes and groaned so that I could feel this feeling better, and a pornographic moan escaped me. Who would have thought that sex could feel so good? And then also for the first time. Daryl's voice also got a little louder, he growled loudly against my skin, sometimes he moaned quietly. "So tigh´~…" His voice made me arch my back further. The movements became faster, our skin slapped together faster, our breathing became faster and my voice became louder.

His tip was constantly pounding against a magical spot that made me see stars. Even though my eyes were closed, they somehow rolled back into my skull, my fingers dug into his shoulders, which were still covered by his shirt. Even though it had bothered me so much just a few seconds ago, I didn't care at all at that moment. I just wanted him on me, inside me. "Daryl~! So good~…!" He only responded to my loud whimpering with another loud growl before moving even faster. Somehow he managed to move his pelvis against mine so that his shaft rubbed deliciously against my clit. A tight knot formed in my abdomen, which made me howl over and over again. "I'm gonna cum~…!"

Daryl moved his pelvis even faster now, if that was even possible. But Daryl was making everything possible at the moment. My voice got louder and louder, I couldn't get any words out and if I did, I shouted them very quickly. "Fuck, yes~! Yes, yes, yes~!" I put my hands on his neck and pressed my lips against his. For a moment I felt Daryl slow down, but he immediately moved at his own pace again while he returned my kiss. His growl against my lips made my inner walls pulsate more strongly around his cock and his cock twitched violently again and again.

"'m gonna cum too~…" He then growled softly against my lips. Daryl had closed his eyes and now leaned his forehead against mine. His lips were slightly open and a loud growl or a quiet whimper escaped him every now and then. "Fuck~! Daryl~!" "Fuckin' god~!" We both moaned at the same time before we came. My head spun and my vision went black for a moment before I hugged him tightly and held onto him, trembling. Daryl had pressed me tightly against his chest while he slowly lowered my leg. He stayed inside me for a while before he slowly pulled out and kissed me gently.

I hadn't expected this gentle kiss, but I returned it briefly before burying my face in his shoulder. "That was good…" Daryl only grumbled once quietly before he picked me up and slowly carried me to my bed. When he laid me down, he took off the condom and went to a trash can, into which he threw the condom. "Are you gonna sleep here?" I asked hesitantly. I didn't really want him to leave, but he had every right to. It was just a one-night stand after all. "Ya wan´ me ta go?" His voice was deep and much rougher. Although I was still sensitive from my previous orgasm, I pressed my legs together.

After just a few seconds I shook my head and looked at him pleadingly. "You can sleep with me…" It sounded more like a request than an offer, but Daryl agreed. He nodded briefly before lying down next to me and staring at the blanket. Swallowing hard, I looked at him before carefully laying my blanket on top of him and then turning away from him. "This was just… a one-night stand… right?" I wanted to hear from him what it was like for him. I hoped we would do it more often, but I would be fine if he never wanted to do it again. "… I dunno… I guess not?" He sounded very unsure, but the fact that he didn't see me as a one-night stand made my heart flutter briefly.

Before I could say anything else, I fell asleep, my eyelids were heavy and my whole body was tingling pleasantly. I could just faintly feel Daryl taking my hand in his and gently kissing my fingertips.

[vbecker10]

Laundry Day

How Could This Not Fit?! (Loki x fem reader Y/N)

Loads of Fun (Bucky x fem reader Y/N)

Pairing: Loki x female reader (y/n)

Summary: You and Loki are living together in the Avengers Tower and you've asked him to help you with the laundry. You decide it's the perfect opportunity to prank him but that might not have been a good idea... not if you wanted to sleep tonight that is.

Warnings: ... um nothing really, alluding to sex but not much

A/N: I finished my laundry and was folding (trying desperately to fold) my fitted sheet and I came up with this silly little thing so... enjoy 💚

You take a bottle of water out of the fridge in the common kitchen, laughing to yourself as you shake your head.

"Something funny in the fridge?" Tony asks from the island, looking up from his tablet.

You turn to him and open the bottle. "No, I was just laughing about something that could possibly get me in a lot of trouble with Loki," you barely explain.

"I have no idea what that means," Steve says as he and Bucky join the conversation.

You take a sip of water and set the bottle on the island. "I was tired of being the one who did our laundry all the time so I told Loki he needed to help me with it today," you start to tell them.

"Still not seeing the funny," Tony says sarcastically.

"I'm getting there," you wave away his comment and he chuckles. "So anyway, I told him to help and he did... an okay job of it. I mean, the dryer and him got in a bit of a fight but we finally got it done," you continue.

"Did he break the dryer cause I've gotta do like four loads of laundry tonight?" Bucky asks concerned as he pulls out the stool next to Steve.

"How could you possibly have to do four loads of laundry?" Tony turns towards him. "You own one hoodie and three henleys at most," he adds.

"Can we get back to my problem?" you pull their attention back to yourself. "I might not have much time left," you joke but you aren't actually sure how long until Loki comes looking for you.

"What did you do to him?" Steve asks, sounding concerned for your safety. Loki would never hurt you of course, he loved you too much, but when you annoyed him you always found it hard to walk the next day.

"Well, he put all the laundry away using his magic but I told him that was cheating. He said it wasn't and we went back and forth for a bit until I made him a bet," you smile. Loki could never resist a wager, especially since he always assumed he would win, and he usually did. "I bet him... something," you suddenly realize you don't necessarily want the guys to know the dirty things you promised Loki and they all look away awkwardly for a moment as if they understood that.

"Right, whatever... so the bet was for him to make the bed himself, without his magic," you tell them.

"Look, I still don't like him very much but, give him a little credit. I think he's smart enough to figure it out," Bucky says.

"Yeah, that doesn't really seem like a bet you're going to win, Y/N," Steve agrees.

"Well... I might not have except for one teeny tiny little bitty detail," you assure them.

"Which is?" Tony asks with a mixture of curiosity and agitation that the story is taking so long.

"I switched the sheet set," you say, they all stare at you confused and you sigh. "I gave him a full size set... and we have a queen bed. There's not a chance in hell he's going to be able to get the fitted sheet on and if he does manage it, I'll know he used his magic and still win," you smile broadly, proud of yourself for tricking the trickster God.

"Well that's a dangerous game to play," Steve says and before you can respond you hear Loki coming down the hall.

"Y/N," he says when he enters the kitchen. You swallow as your mouth goes dry, he does not look happy. "You cheated," he says without question.

"No, I was just..." you try to explain but he walks towards you, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

"You... cheated," he says slowly as he backs you into the counter by the sink.

"I mean, only a little," you say with a smile but he doesn't smile back. "And I only did it to make sure you didn't use your magic," you quickly try to explain.

"Um, I think we should go... literally anywhere else," Steve says as Loki grips your waist with both hands and keeps you pressed between himself and the counter.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," Loki says with a smirk, still looking only at you. Without warning he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder. You gasp and the suddenness of it and he uses one arm to hold you in place by the back of your legs as he turns to leave the kitchen. He pauses and picks up your water bottle. "You'll need to keep hydrated, it's going to be a very long night, love," he says as he carries you down the hall towards your room.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did 💚💚

@soubi001 @michelleleewise @harlequin-hangout @ace-of-gay @xorpsbane @mochie85 @sheris532 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @kkdvkyya @animnerd @peaches1958 @peachyjinx @theaudacitytowrite @lokiandbuckysdoll @winterfrostlovetriangle @high-functioning-lokipath @winniewings @pics-and-fanfics @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @lokisgoodgirl @mischief2sarawr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @lulubelle814 @crimson25 @goblingirlsarah @janineb86 @chantsdemarins @foxherder @tonystank8

[familyabolisher]

hi if u don’t mind me asking, could u please elaborate on your thoughts on the critique of contemporary anti-intellectualism (specifically on social media)? i’m legitimately curious and enjoy a lot of ur analysis and commentary i mean this in good faith :)

Broadly speaking, the philosophical concept of anti-intellectualism tends to critically describe the ideological + rhetorical relegation of intellectual production to an elitist practice fundamentally at odds with the interests of the layman; and, crucially, the treatment of these categories as fixities. I disagree with the propositions of that philosophical discourse as well, but that’s not always the form that the discourse takes on this website. On here, ‘anti-intellectualism’ is more of a vague catch-all used to describe anything from people who express frustration with the literary canon & mainstream schooling in ways that don’t coddle the sensibilities of people with literature degrees to people who come out with outright fascistic views on provocative art; it attempts to corral what are in fact very disparate positions and perspectives under the umbrella of insufficient ‘intellect,’ often shorthanded to ‘reading comprehension’ or ‘media literacy’ (or ‘[in]curiosity,’ a new favourite) without any materialist investigation into what we mean when we talk about intellect and literacy and a lack thereof or whether this is a politically expedient description of the dynamic[s] in question.

When I say materialism, I mean it in the Marxist sense, ie. as a counter to idealism—because what’s being described here is a fundamentally idealist (and therefore useless) position. The discourse of anti-intellectualism as it exists on this website relies on idealist propositions—people lack curiosity, they lack interest, they are ‘lazy,’ they are ‘illiterate’ where ‘illiterate’ is not a value-neutral statement about one’s relationship to a socially constituted ‘literacy’ but communicating a moral indictment, at its worst they are ‘stupid,’ ‘idiots’—these descriptors rely on an assumption of immutable internal properties rather than providing a materialist description for why things are the way that they are. These aren’t actionable descriptors; at best they’re evasive because they circumvent serious interrogation of the conditions they’re describing, at worst they’re harbingers of an inclination towards eugenicist rhetoric. The discourse casts those who are ‘illiterate’—which in this capacity means those who fail to perform conventional literacy, who lack a traditional education, who don’t demonstrate sufficient interest in classic literature—or the more unkind ‘stupid’ (which, frankly, is what people want to say when they say ‘illiterate’ or ‘incurious’ anyway, lmao) as socially disposable and places the onus of changing one’s behaviour (so as to not be cast as illiterate/incurious/stupid) on them rather than asking what conditions have produced XYZ discourse of social disposability and responding with compassion and ethical diligence; I hope I don’t have to explain why this is eugenicist.

The discourse also lacks an ability to coherently describe what is meant by the ‘intellectualism’ in question—after all, merely appealing to ‘intellectualism’ is a similarly idealist rhetorical move if you don’t have the material grounding to back it up—and indeed tends to dismiss legitimate critiques of intellectual + cultural production as ‘anti-intellectual.’ People love to talk about ‘literacy,’ but don’t like expounding on what they’re actually describing when they do so—the selection of traits and actions that come together to constitute a correct demonstration of ‘literacy’ are built on the bedrock of eg. an ability to thrive within the school system (a mechanism of social control and stratification), fluently speak the dominant language by which this ‘literacy’ is being assessed (in online spaces like Tumblr this is usually English), and engage with the ‘right’ texts in the ‘right’ ways where ‘right’ means ‘invested with legitimacy and authority by the governing body of the academy.’ Literacy is used as a metric of assimilation into hegemonic society by which immigrant and working-class children are made rhetorically disposable unless they demonstrate their ability to integrate into the hegemonic culture (linked post talks about immigrant families being rendered ‘illiterate’ as a tactic of racism in France, but the same applies to the US, UK, etc); similarly, disabled people who for whatever reason will never achieve the level of ‘literacy’ required to not have Tumblr users doing vagueposts about how you deserve a eugenicist death for watching a kids’ show are by this discourse rendered socially disposable, affirming the paradigms which already make up their experience under a social system which reifies ableism in order to sustain itself. (This includes, by the way, the genre of posts making fun of the idea that someone with ADHD could ever struggle with reading theory.) ‘Literacy’ as the ability to understand and respond to a text is difficult and dispersed according to disparate levels of social access, and a lack of what we call literacy is incredibly shameful; any movement towards liberation (and specifically liberatory pedagogy) worth its salt needs to challenge the stigma against illiteracy, but this website’s iteration of ‘anti-intellectualism’ discourse seems to only want to reaffirm it.

Similarly, the discourse dismisses out of hand efforts to give a materialist critique of the academy and the body of texts that make up the ‘canon’—I’m thinking of a post I saw literally this morning positing a hypothetical individual’s disinterest in reading canonical (“classic”) literature as an “anti-intellectual” practice which marked them as an “idiot.” (Obviously, cf. above comments re. ‘stupidity,’ ‘idiocy’ as eugenicist constructions.) People who will outright call themselves Marxists seem to get incredibly uncomfortable at the suggestion that there are individuals for whom the literary canon is not even slightly interesting and who will never in their lives engage with it or desire to engage with it, and this fact does not delegitimise their place in revolutionary thinking and organising (frankly, in many areas, it strengthens it); they seem determined to continue to defer to the canon as a signifier of authority and therefore value, rather than acknowledging its role as a marker of class and classed affects and a rubric by which civility (cf. linked post above) could be enforced. (I believe the introduction to Chris Baldick’s The Social Mission of English Criticism touches on this dimension of literary studies as a civilising mission of sorts, as well as expounding on the ways in which ‘literary studies’ as we presently understand it is a nineteenth-century phenomenon responding to the predictable nineteenth-century crises and contradictions.) People will defer to, for example, Dumas, Baldwin, Morrison, to contravene the idea that the literary canon is made up of ‘straight white men,’ without appreciating that this is a hugely condescending way to talk about their work, that this collapses three very different writers into the singular category of ‘Black canonical writer’ and thus stymies engagement with their work at any level other than that of 'Black canonical literature' (why else put Dumas and Morrison in the same sentence, unless as a cheap rhetorical ‘gotcha’? I like both but they’re completely different writers lmfao), and that this excises from the sphere of legitimacy those Black writers who don’t make it into the authorising space of the canon; and, of course, reaffirms the canon’s authenticity and dismisses out of hand the critique of loyalty to hegemony that the ‘straight white men’ aphorism rightly imposes.

The discourse operates on a unilateral scale by which the more ‘literacy’ (ie. ability to speak the language of the literati) one has, the greater their moral worth, and a lack of said ‘literacy’ indicates the inverse. This overlooks the ways in which the practice of literary criticism wholly in line with what these people would call ‘intellectualism’ has historically been wielded as a tactic of reactionary conservatism; one only has to look at the academic output of Harold Bloom for examples of this. People will often pay lipservice to the hegemony of the academy and the practices by which only certain individuals are allowed access to intellectual production (stratified along classed + racialised lines, of course), but fail to really internalise this idea in understanding that the critical practices they afford a significant degree of legitimacy are inextricable from the academy from which they emerged, and that we can and should be imagining alternative forms of pedagogy and criticism taking place away from sites which restrict access based on allegiance to capital. Part of my communism means believing in the abolition of the university; this is not an ‘anti-intellectual’ position but a straightforwardly materialist one.

A final core problem with the 'anti-intellectualism' discourse is that it's obscurantist. As I explained above, it posits the problem with eg. poor engagement with theoretical concepts, challenging art, etc., to be one of 'intellect' and 'curiosity,' idealist rather than materialist states. In practice, the reasons behind what gets cast as 'anti-intellectualism' are very disparate. Sometimes, we're talking about a situation wherein (as I explained above) someone lacks 'literacy'; sometimes we're talking about the reason for someone's refusal to engage with and interpret art with care and deference being one of bigotry (eg. racist dismissals of non-white artists' work, misogynistic devaluing of women's work, etc.); sometimes we're talking about a reactive discomfort with marginalised people communicating difficult concepts online as a 'know-your-place' response (eg. backlash against 'jargon' on here is almost always attacking posts from/about marginalised people talking about their oppression, with the attacks coming from people who have failed to properly understand that oppression; I've been called a jargonistic elitist for talking about antisemitism, I've seen similar things happen to mutuals who talk about racism and transmisogyny). All of these are incredibly different situations that require incredibly different responses; the person who doesn't care to engage with a text in a way that an English undergrad might because doing so doesn't interest them or they lack the requisite skill level is not comparable to the person who doesn't care to engage with a text because they don't respect the work of a person of colour enough to do so. Collapsing these things under the aegis of 'anti-intellectualism' lacks explanatory power and fails to provide a sufficient actionable response.

Ultimately, the discourse is made up of a lot of people who are very high on their own capabilities when it comes to literary analysis (which, as others have pointed out, seems to be the only arena where all this ever takes place, despite the conventional understanding of ‘media literacy’ referring as much to a discerning eye for propaganda and misinformation as an ability to churn out a cute little essay on Don Quixote) and have managed to find an acceptable outlet for their dislike of anyone who lacks the same, and have provided retroactive justification in the form of the claim that not only is [a specific form of] literary analysis [legible through deference to the authority of the literary canon & the scholarship of the nineteenth century and onward surrounding it] possible for everyone, it is in fact necessary in order to access the full breadth of one’s humanity such that an absence thereof reveals an individual as subhuman and thus socially disposable. A failure to be sufficiently literate is only ever a choice and a personal failing, which is how this discourse escapes accountability for the obviously bigoted presumptions upon which it rests. In this, all materialism is done away with; compassion is done away with, as it becomes possible to describe the multiplicity of reasons why someone cannot or does not demonstrate ‘literacy’ in X, Y or Z ways in the sum total of a couple of adjectives; nothing productive comes of this discourse but a reassertion of the conditions of hegemony in intellectual practice and the bolstering of the smugness of a few people at the expense of alienating everyone else.

As I’ve said countless times before, the way to counteract what we might perceive as ‘incuriosity’ or disinterest in challenging texts is to talk about these challenging texts and our approaches to them as often as we can, to make the pedagogical practices that are usually kept behind the walls of the academy as widely accessible as possible (and to adjust our pedagogy beyond the confines of ideological hegemony that the academy imposes), and to encourage a culture by which people feel empowered to share their thoughts, discuss, ask questions, and explore without being made to feel ashamed for not understanding something. The people who cry ‘anti-intellectualism’ because they saw someone on Tiktok express a disinterest in reading Jane Eyre are accomplishing none of this.

[mykoreanlove]

christopher.

writing is a funny thing - one moment you're deeply focused on your actual work, the next one you're fantasizing about riding bangchan heeeelp

here u go

______________________________________________________________

Loving Christopher felt juicy. Loving him felt nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time. Loving Christopher implied numerous butterflies in your stomach as well as intense tingles in your little toes. Loving him was adventurous and vulnerable. And you loved every second of it.

Silly, little kisses turned into deep feelings and promises of forever and ever. Before you knew it you were head over heels in love with him. His love engulfed your whole being, it was as if he was present in every cell of you. He swallowed you whole and you did not even notice.

And now you were his. You were his in this dim-lit room which was barely illuminated by a couple of fairy lights. You were his on this giant bed which was made specifically for the two of you.

Christopher was sitting in the middle of the bed, cross-legged, waiting for you. He watched your every move carefully with glistening eyes. His desire for you was as intense as the throbbing of his cock. You mounted him while wrapping your legs around his sculptured torso, facing him directly. His sensual, distinctive smell clouded your whole mind which made you barely notice anything else.

He put his arms around you and hugged you tight, sliding even deeper into you. A small grunt left his lips as he adjusted to the feeling of your dripping pussy swallowing him. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders – he was so strong, yet his porcelain skin was soft like silk. Your eyes studied his defined chest, admiring every curve and crease of his determination. You had never felt as intimate with someone as you had with him.

“Baby girl”, you heard him whisper gently. You peeked up at him, anticipation was running through your whole body. He smiled at you sweetly. “You are so beautiful, baby. How did I get so lucky?”

Funnily enough, you had asked yourself the same question over and over. Since you did not have an answer for him you chose to lean into a kiss. You felt so close to him – physically, as well as emotionally.

He deepened the kiss and started to move his hips which you gladly welcomed. Soft moans left your lips as you enjoyed every second of this. Christopher smiled broadly as he noticed this, too. “Do I make you feel good, baby?” You started rolling your hips in response, further deepening the position you were in. Your boyfriend was very well endowed; he never had a problem with filling you up and pleasing you to the limits. But it were those times when you both slowed down and were gentle with each other, vulnerable even, that turned you on the most.

Your rolling hips were met with his hard thrusts that made you lean back in pleasure. You felt him twitching inside of you, in return clenching around him even more. You needed Christopher like the air you needed to breathe.

“y/n, look at me.” You opened your eyes and looked at the handsome man in front of you. Your cheeks still turned red when he looked at you like that; like you were the most precious being to ever exist in this world. “Do you know what I love, baby girl?” You shook your head and waited for his answer. Christopher’s hand travelled down your body and landed on your heated pussy. He used his index finger to collect your juices before placing it on your clit; softly, only a slight amount of pressure. But that was more than enough for you to lose it. You gripped his shoulders harder and inhaled sharply; eyes automatically rolling to the back of your head. You felt his hot breath on your neck as he was kissing his way up to your ear. “I love making you feel good, y/n.”

Oh boy, and he did. He knew exactly what to say to you or rather do to you – you were putty in his hands. You started rocking your hips ferociously as you were in desperate need of more friction; in desperate need for him. “Hmmm, my beautiful baby likes that, doesn’t she? Tell me, do I make you feel good?”

“Yes”, you whimpered. He applied more pressure on you. “I couldn’t hear you, baby. Mind saying that again? Do I make you feel good?” His thrusts accompanied the strokes on your pussy, making you almost black out from pleasure. You full on moaned anything that came to mind.

Yes. - More. -  Chris. - Fuck. - Please.

He enjoyed seeing you like that; he lived for those moments. It made him feel powerful; knowing that no other man would ever make you come like he did. You were close and he knew but he was not done with you just yet. He wasn’t done toying with you; he needed you to crave him more. Hence, he stopped moving abruptly which left you staring at him confused.

“Wha-?”

Heat rushed through your body – a mixture of arousal and frustration at best. You grabbed his hand that was still lingering on your pussy and glanced at him with doe-eyes. “Don’t stop.” He looked into your pleading eyes and was about to explode. How can someone be that sexy yet cute at the same time? How could he ever deny you?

He whispered softly: “Do you want me, baby?” Christopher felt needy, he was aware of that. So what? He needed you to need him, too. He desperately needed you this instant.

“Yes, I need you. Now!” You looked down at your hand hovering over his and encouraged him to move again; to pleasure you again. “Where?” you heard him say. “Where do you need me?”

Him being needy like that was rare; if any you were the one that was craving him most of the times. Christopher on the other hand was always composed and assured; the embodiment of pure male energy. But sometimes he slipped up, and his vulnerable, softer side came through. And in moments like that you obliged happily, giving him the emotional satisfaction, he so badly needed.

You placed a tender kiss on his plush lips. “Need you here.”

Followed by another kiss on his broad shoulders. “Need you here.”

Your hand travelled down his muscular torso and stopped at the shaft of his dick. “Need you here”.

And finally, you placed his hand on your wet pussy and whispered seductively: “Need you especially here.”

Fuck, that was driving him wild. You needing him. You verbalizing your needs for him. You wanting to be pleasured by him. Christopher thought you were sexy before, but this took things to a new level. How the hell did he bag such a divine goddess? He chuckled at his realization before looking at you hungrily.

“Baby girl, let me satisfy your needs then.”

[anghraine]

thatinsufferableb-st-rd said:

@anghraine so i have read the books multiple times and am an avid fan of the movies. I enjoy both for what they are. I think the main difference is that Peter Jackson was very open about what they chose to cut and why from anything I've ever seen. They even have Sam give a nod to the book readers by saying "by rights we shouldn't even be here". No I'm not happy about what they did with Faramir and Glorfindel got jipped, and I would have lover to have seen Elronds sons but at the end of the day there were acknowledgments of what and why. Rings of Power to me has always come off as hiding from any criticism by using the shield of "well if you don't like it it's because you don't like POCs in it". To which I genuinely could not give a fuck less, like there are so many branches of elves that went different ways so that could make sense within what Tolkein established. But don't hide behind that when your writing is just "Sauron is evil. We know. And we know she knows. But we have to make it seem like she's the only one who Has A Clue so we must all try to shoo her off to make a plotline"

@lesbiansforboromir has already correctly and politely pointed out that you are doing the very thing we were criticizing in that post—intruding on ROP fan discussion to unfavorably contrast the show to the Peter Jackson films, while also applying a degree of scrutiny to ROP that the Jackson films are rarely subject to in a remotely comparable way and could not bear. Frankly, @lesbiansforboromir is nicer and more restrained than I am about this, but you chose to tag me as well, so I'll also respond.

We (lesbiansforboromir and I) were talking about being excited about costuming in S2 of ROP and disliking the fandom meltdowns over ROP's costuming looking (somewhat) different from the films' aesthetic. Since it had already come up in their discussion, I added that I'm not convinced by the anti-ROP contingent framing their seething hatred of the costuming and design as just caring so much about fidelity to Tolkien's vision. I pointed out that Tolkien fandom broadly cares far more about their preferred, film-influenced aesthetics than Tolkien's actual descriptions and gave some specific examples of this.

There's been a lot of talk, for instance, about how the universally long, flowing hair for Elves preferred by the fandom and used in the films is actually totally canon according to Tolkien even if it's rarely mentioned in LOTR proper. This is inaccurate. Galadriel's brother Aegnor is typically depicted in the fandom/film-preferred style rather than per Tolkien's description of his hair as "strong and stiff, rising upon his head like flames" (indeed, in general neither Aegnor nor anyone else is ever depicted this way, and this description rarely shows up in the lists of "no it's about ethics in adaptation" Tolkien hair quotes).

Tolkien repeatedly describes Elvish, peredhel, and Dúnadan women as wearing their hair bound up in braided coiffures with jeweled hair pieces/nets rather than loose and flowing à la the films and the fandom. Nobody cares, any more than they care about Tolkien's description of Arwen's clothing as soft, grey, and noticeably devoid of ornamentation apart from a belt and netted cap (i.e. the opposite of her highly elaborate film costuming and typically loose, unbound, uncovered hair in the films and most illustrations).

Meanwhile, my fave Faramir's hair is nowhere near long enough in the films or most art to mingle with Éowyn's as Tolkien describes. It's usually also depicted as blond, reddish, or brown rather than black as in the book; in Tolkien's LOTR, all described Gondorians have dark or black hair, with the only difference in coloring being that some Gondorians are dark-skinned and some are pale. Again, almost nobody in the fandom cares about this when they're going on about costume design and casting to reflect Tolkien's vision, and male Gondorians are overwhelmingly depicted with short or shoulder-length hair in the films and in Tolkien illustrations.

Popular depictions of Gondor, including the Gondor of the films, very rarely reflect Tolkien's description of Gondor's aesthetic as similar to ancient Egypt, the Byzantine Empire, and the Roman Empire. Film Gondor has, at most, extremely vague allusions to Byzantine architecture amidst the general and deliberate westernization of Gondor's design—as just one example among many, Tolkien's explicitly Egyptian-based design for the royal crown of Gondor is converted to a generically western European-style crown in the films and overwhelmingly in the fandom.

I then pointed out that it's been very noticeable that ROP haters tend to have a powerful double standard wrt fidelity when it comes to the Jackson films. For over 20 years, most film fans have been constitutionally incapable of tolerating even slight criticism of the films without jumping in to defend their greatness and condescendingly explain the most basic elements of adaptation. (Yes, we know film is not the same medium as text, we know changes are part of adaptation to another medium, we all know that, we all know that a word-for-word adaptation would suck and never be made, this is not new information and does not make the PJ films' every choice a good one.) Yet most film LOTR fans who vocally despise ROP display none of the charity towards ROP that they demand for the films (demand even from someone like Christopher Tolkien, a dead man the entire fandom is deeply indebted to, whose dislike of the films still leads to regular attacks on his character from Jackson film stans).

This hypercritical yet hyperdefensive tendency in the fandom is neatly illustrated by the fact that you responded to a conversation about the double standards in evaluations of ROP's costuming vs the films' to go on about how ROP is objectively bad for reasons entirely unrelated to costuming, how you're totally not racist (something nobody was talking about), and to quote you directly, "Like the show was just Bad." Truly, an incisive critique. Meanwhile, your concessions with regard to the Jackson films are mainly about extremely minor and defensible omissions like removing Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond rather than the serious and fundamental problems that lesbiansforboromir and I have with them, or even the ways they do pretty much the exact same things you're lambasting ROP for.

I mean, if we're going to talk about action hero Elves in ROP vs the Jackson films, what about the action hero-ification of Legolas in the films? He was described by Tolkien himself as the Fellowship member who accomplished the least, so super badass battle-skateboarding Legolas hardly represents fidelity to Tolkien's vision. Why should that get a pass while film-stanning ROP haters seethe about ROP!Galadriel being too special, even though Tolkien described her as one of the most special Elves to ever live and specifically as remarkably athletic and insightful?

Meanwhile, film Gimli is reduced to comic relief, the only dwarves taken seriously are conventionally hot ones in The Hobbit films, and Frodo's expressions of strength and fortitude are consistently removed to glorify other characters. Film Gondorians were deliberately designed to seem like useless tin soldiers (which they are in the films, as well as whiter and blonder than Tolkien wrote them) rather than the physically imposing and highly effective fighting force of the book. ROP imagining Elvish rituals upon approaching Valinor that aren't based in Tolkien canon but don't directly conflict with it is absolutely trivial compared to the films' handling of Denethor and Faramir.

The point is not that you, personally, are not allowed to like the films or dislike ROP despite all this. Many people do love the films, including most of my followers. They do have their strengths, though they are extremely racist and few film fans will acknowledge this without soft-pedaling it in some way (esp, since you brought it up, given the context of the truly unhinged degree of racism that has accompanied much of the broader discourse around ROP).

The point is that film fans who hate ROP are constantly showing up in our conversations to be "well actually ROP is just objectively bad, unlike the films, because the show has failings that are also in the films but it's totally different there because of the contents of Peter Jackson's soul" or whatever. The point is the absolutely glaring and obnoxiously hypocritical double standard of defensiveness about the films and obsessive nitpicking of ROP that leads to ROP haters continually going on rants to ROP fans that are unwelcome, uninvited, and usually (as in this case) irrelevant to what was even being discussed.

[liamlawsonlesbian]

Charles for the ask game! (Unless someone's asked about him already-- I didn't see it on your page but could be wrong.)

okay, so, I got this ask and went to the dumpling place down the street to get a bottle of diet coke because I was NOT going to answer this with a caffeine deprivation headache

Charles has the same group of friends he had in middle school. Charles get his hair cut by his mom before the Monaco Grand Prix every year, even though he had spectacularly bad luck at it every year until this one. Charles is obsessed with his cunty little dog. Charles has big red letters spelling L-O-V-E on top of his white piano, like some kind of momfluencer. Charles releases weepy piano music, because he needs an artistic outlet. Charles loves his home country with sincere fervor. Charles makes space to talk about the people he has lost in life. Charles is fast on track, and he pushes the car to its limits in ways that can fail spectacularly, but over the course of a season he gets to the limits of a car's capability better than anyone. Charles wears the fucking stupidest pants and he loves them so much. Charles can sass as well as anyone, and has an obvious, burning need to compete well, but seems to pride himself on being cordial with his colleagues, and seems to sincerely enjoy them, even the ones who aren't his particular friends. Charles is bighearted and self-critical and well aware that he can charm the pants off of anyone in three languages. Charles is far too online, and yet keeps using the goofiest filter known to man. Charles believes that he can win it all, and he wants to take anyone he's ever loved with him, and he makes me believe that he can.

the death of a parent is different for everyone. I don't know Charles's grief, and he doesn't know mine. but I do think it's a broadly (though not universally) applicable statement that it is easy, after your parent dies, to feel like your life will never be good again. Charles has made his life good, through sheer force of will, with a smile on his face. I love him so much.

[wri0thesley]

Only time pantalone stops yappin is to eat his beloved out. They deserve a reward for listening so nicely afterall!

It is the only time he's quiet.

Well. That's not strictly true; he's quiet sometimes, sleeping next to you fitfully. He's quiet sometimes, you're sure, at work - when you're not there. He probably listens to those people desperate enough to come to him, probably metes out his words carefully in meetings with other Harbingers to assure that he gets what he wants--

But you are very used to Pantalone's voice. You're used to him cooing and petting at you, sighing as he relates his frustrations with the day, gesturing and smiling broadly as he lets spill forth from his lips some brand new scheme or other.

He knows that you will not roll your eyes at him. He knows you will not ask questions he does not yet have the answers to; he knows you will look at him pretty and wide-eyed and adoring and listen to everything he has to say. You are a sounding board in a way that nobody else is. You are . . . perfect.

And perfection, he thinks, ought to be rewarded.

And what better way to reward you than with his mouth, when you are so good at paying attention to everything else that issues forth from it? His fingers, bejewelled, dig into the soft plump flesh of your thighs as he drags you into him. His glasses chain, equally bejewelled, jostles against the soft skin with every inclination of his head. The soft curls of his hair press damp against you.

He's not entirely quiet. He makes pleased little noises at how prettily you fall open for him; how readily you give yourself up, all slicked up folds and wetness smearing itself across his own full mouth. His tongue, clever and wicked and never-stilling, licks and suckles and drinks you in like fine wine from Liyue.

His eyes flash from between your thighs every so often; just checking you're enjoying your reward the way you ought to be. It is not as if you have much choice; naked on his silken sheets, head thrown back, sweat beading in the hollow of your throat, your face all hazy and pleasure-soaked and utterly guileless to anything but the sensations his tongue is dragging out of you.

His lips fasten around the swollen nub of your clit, coaxing it out, winning a whine and a jerk of your hips and your fingers twisting reflexively into those same sheets. You squeeze your eyes shut, whimpering, and Pantalone has to bite back a smile as he lets his tongue flicker over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

He will speak again, once you have come for him. Will be unable to resist silkily smoothly murmuring how good you are for him, how sweetly you give yourself over to his ministrations, how delectable you taste, how surely he must be the luckiest man in Snezhnaya to have such a delicacy in his bed to partake of whenever the need strikes him--

But for now, for this moment . . . there is your panting, and the lewd wetness of his mouth indecently loud in the charged air . . . and the Regrator's silver tongue is being put to a better use.

[anistarrose]

I think when a lot of queer people who aspire to marriage, and remember (rightly) fighting for the right to marriage, see queer people who don't want marriage, talking about not entering or even reforming or abolishing marriage, there's an assumption I can't fault anyone for having — because it's an assumption borne of trauma — that queers who aren't big on marriage are inadvertently or purposefully going to either foolishly deprive themselves of rights, or dangerously deprive everyone of the rights associated with marriage. But that's markedly untrue. We only want rights to stop being locked behind marriages. We want an end to discrimination against the unmarried.

We want a multitude of rights for polyamorous relationships. We want ways to fully recognize and extend rights to non-romantic and/or non-sexual unions, including but not limited to QPRs, in a setting distinct from the one that (modern) history has spent so long conflating with romance and sex in a way that makes many of us so deeply uncomfortable. And many of us are also disabled queers who are furious about marriage stripping the disabled of all benefits.

We want options to co-parent, and retain legal rights to see children, that extends to more than two people, and by necessity, to non-biological parents (which, by the way, hasn't always automatically followed from same-gender marriage equality even in places where said equality nominally exists. Our struggles are not as different as you think). We would like for (found or biological) family members and siblings to co-habitate as equal members of a household, perhaps even with pooled finances or engaging in aforementioned co-parenting, without anyone trying to fit the dynamic into a "marriage-shaped box" and assume it's incestuous. We want options to leave either marriages, or alternative agreements, that are less onerous than divorce proceedings have historically been.

I can't speak for every person who does not want to marry, but on average, spurning marriage is not a choice we make lightly. We are deeply, deeply aware of the benefits that only marriage can currently provide. And we do not take that information lightly. We demand better.

Now, talking about the benefits of marriage in respective countries' current legal frameworks, so that all people can make choices from an informed place, is all well and good — but is not an appropriate response to someone saying they are uncomfortable with marriage. There are people for whom entering a marriage, with all its associated norms, expectations, and baggage, would feel like a betrayal of one's self and authenticity that would shake them to their core — and every day, I struggle to unpack if I'm one of them or not. If I want to marry for tax benefits, or not. If that's worth the risk of losing disability benefits, in the (very plausible) possibility that I have to apply for them later in life. If that's worth the emotional burden of having to explain over and over, to both well-meaning and deeply conservative family members, that this relationship is not one of romance or sex. (Because, god, trying just to explain aromanticism or asexuality in a world that broadly thinks they're "fake" is emotional labor enough.)

Marriage is a fundamental alteration to who I am, to what rights an ableist government grants me, and to how I am perceived. I don't criticize the institution just because I enjoy a "free spirit" aesthetic or think the wedding industry is annoying, or whatever.

[scorpioriesling]

Once Upon A Dream

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairings: Azriel x reader

Warnings: Suspense, angst, light swearing, slight abuse

Summary: As the daughter of a malevolent king on the Continent, you were used to spending time alone. Sure, you had tasks to complete, but not much free-will was given under your father’s harsh rule. This wouldn’t stop your quest for something more; but for every good thing, a price must be paid. Would you allow yourself to be convinced -- by a fae of all beings -- that you're destined for more than a life within the castle?

SR’s Note: Guys… this idea had me itchingggg to start writing it, but I just get very very very busy and I procrastinate tbh. Seriously, I'm putting my whole ･ﾟ: *pusss･ﾟ: * into this one -- jokes aside, I’m just excited to share this idea and illustrate how I was piecing it together in my brain. I’m so excited for you guys to read it — maybe listen to Once Upon A Dream (this version, specifically) while reading it? We all love a good Lana moment. <3 Enjoy, my darlings. I apoligize in advance for any editing mistakes!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"Good morning Mrs. Julie," you say kindly, voice as soft as the rays of sunlight streaming through the small windows.

"Oh, good morning, child!" The short, aging kitchen attendant clasps one of her worn hands in yours and offers you a warm smile, and you smile broadly back at her. "Always a delight to see you so early in the day," she continues, releasing your hand to turn her attention back to the mound of settling dough on the counter before her that is beginning to rest. "Say, what are you planning for today, hm?" She asks, picking the sticky, yeasty mound from the wooden board and expertly working it between her palms. It's as unbothered by her touch as she is by the hustle and bustle of other attendants working in preparation around her. "I hear the weather is to be kind today." She winks, and you consider.

"Well, I was planning to tend to the garden... again..." she gives you a knowing look, hearing no different any other morning.

"And I assume you will eat your breakfast and brush your hair too?" You narrow your eyes playfully at her, but can't help the grin tugging at your lips as a chuckle escapes her lips.

"Maybe I want to go for a more disheveled look today?" You say sassily, and she bumps her hip with yours. You loose a laugh.

"Go on, dear," She says.

"Well, I heard father was planning a meeting with Graysen of some sort, which means he won't be here..." You allude. Julie's brows raise, but she doesn't take her eyes off of the dough she is kneading.

"Oooooh, so you are thinking of forging plans while your father is away then, hmm?" She coos. You scoff, pushing off the counter you had braced upon to fold your arms across your chest.

"Julie! How could you accuse me of such a thing?" You throw her a playfully incredulous look, which she returns with a mischedious grin.

"Because, my dear," she picks the mass of dough up, tossing it into a nearby bowl with a heavy thwop. "You forget that I've known you for... well, let's see, twenty three years now?" She glances sidelong at you, and you drop your arms, gracing her with another soft smile.

"Which is precisely why you are absolutely right," you say, as she grabs a wet cloth and begins wiping the loose flour from the worktable. You find one on a table nearby, clutching it and working to help her clean up.

"Y/N, no no no, you'll only ruin your dress dear," she tuts. You roll your eyes, and she shakes her head, taking the rag from your hand.

"Just because I am technically a Princess, doesn't mean I can't or don't wan't to help," you say. She continues wiping, smiling gravely at you.

"I know dearie. If you didn't, you wouldn't come down here to say hello each morning." A sad smile takes over your lips, and just then, the clock chimes. Your head turns, and you notice that it is nine on the dot. You had better be getting to the dining room to meet your family.

"You'd better be going dear," Julie seems to echo your thoughts aloud. You nod, making way for the stairwell and muttering polite hellos to the other attendants as they pass.

"I'll see you later on Julie -- have a lovely day!" You call as you begin the climb. It only takes a few minutes to climb the few flights to the main floor of the castle from the service kitchen, but as you swing the heavy door open, your eyes are met with none other than your father's from the end of the long table.

He says nothing, he only seems to stare right through you as you swallow the breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and pull the oak door closed. Graysen lifts his gaze from the table, eyes narrowing on you slightly as he shifts his eyes from you, to the clock handing from the wall, and then back to you again.

"You're late, sister," he says. You huff, squaring your shoulders and walking swiftly to your unassigned-assigned seat at the much-too-large dining table. You father takes a deep breath, and you stare sidelong at him, the cascading sunlight framing his stature like flames around an ember in a firepit.

Graysen continues to stare expectantly at you, and you fold your hands in your lap, tilting your chin as high as you can and let out a soft groan.

"Ughhh okay! I'm sorry I am a couple of minutes late, okay? I apologize. Can we just eat?" You ask, eyes dancing between your brother and father in question. Your father sighs, still not speaking as he reaches for the plate of crepes in the middle of the breakfast spread. You dejectedly look at Greysen, who only shrugs and flicks a few sausages onto his own plate. It isn't until a few moments of eating in silence that your father finally speaks.

"The meeting... today... Gray... we need to ask the Queens about the border and what we need to be doing about the, well, the problem were having. The slippage, rather." He says, eyes still downcast toward his plate. Graysen nods, seeming to know exactly what your father is speaking of.

"Mhm, sounds about right." He says through a mouthful of sausage. You furrow your brows. What are they talking even talking about? It isn't like they ever tell you anything -- to them, you're good for flittering around the palace and adding to the aesthetic of the place. They've never dared say it, but they don't need to; their actions say enough. You fear the woman your brother courts would only end up down the same path you're currently on, seeing how the last few have turned out anyway.

"I need you to take this seriously," Your father says. Graysen swallows, clearing his throat and wipes his mouth with his napkin. His eyes meet yours swiftly before boring into your father.

"Father... when have I ever not taken something like this seriously?" He asks. Your father shrugs, but continues to eat, his plate nearly clean. You glance at your clean plate, contemplating the right time to ask if you can leave the grounds. Your father barely ever allows for your free-will; and you doubt he'd let you go today. After a few more beats of silence, you decide what better time than now to ask?

Clearing your throat, you sit up staight in your chair. "Father, I wanted to-"

"You have flour on your dress, Y/N."

✧･ﾟ: *

The soft pattering of soles on marble sounds beneath your pacing feet for as you angrily step back and forth across your room. You've been in here since breakfast, and though its only been but an hour, you feel as though half the day has gone by. You were so sick and tired of your father never paying you any mind -- he never seemed to care what you thought, or what you had to say. It almost seemed like he believed you to not posess a brain in your head, the way he disreguarded his only daughter.

You're sure you've walked a ring into the floor by now, but when you look down, it looks as pristine as it did when you'd returned from breakfast of course. You huff, almost hoping for some sort of penalty for your father's actions.

Oh, he'd be getting a penalty, all right.

You had a good idea how the rest of this fine day would go; first, you'd trot through the gardens, as you always did to show your father you were keeping busy. Then, when he took your brother for whatever meeting they had, you'd venture as you pleased -- a punishable, hainous crime, truly -- and then, you'd return by sundown, as to not raise suspicion.

Plain and simple.

This plan was perfect enough, you'd decided as you ended your pacing tyrade and instead padded over to your expansive closet to choose a lighter, cleaner dress for... "gardening". Settling on a pale blue sundress that ended just above the knees and fit just right, you fastened your sandals and tied your hair with a bow. A once over in your full-length mirror painted the portrait of a princess, one your father would be proud of.

Or, one he would believe, anyway.

As you decended the grand staircase, you overheard your brother's voice from the foyer, and you halted, pressing your body against the railing. Leaning over ever so slightly, you strained to hear what he could be saying.

"No father, I'm not saying that," he sounded exasperated. "I'm just saying that if we have faeries coming over the wall, we are the closest thing to it, and the first thing we should probably be doing is checking any surrounding areas, rather than sending troops to the wall itself." He argues. You hear a huff, and you know its none other than your father.

"Right, but the Queens are saying that if we guard the wall, we stop this spillage of faeries into our land all together, then we wouldn't have anything to worry about to begin with," your father retorts. You furrow your brow. There he goes, using that word again. Spillage. They're speaking as though faeries are on the continent, on our lands? But, that wouldn't make any sense. What's the point?

"Why even come over the wall in the first place?" Graysen asks. Huh, you think to yourself. I was thinking the same thing. Maybe I am just as smart as your son, maybe it could be me going to these meetings, Father. You hear footsteps, and your breath hitches as you glimpse them striding for the front doors. If they so much as turned around, looked up...

"What do you think this meeting is for today, my boy?" Your father claps Graysen on the shoulder, and you decide to make your entrance. Stepping loudly down the stairs, both of their heads turn to face you, the ghost of a smile falling from your father's face when he sees you. Graysen only cocks an eyebrow.

"Going somewhere?" He asks hautily. You plaster the most sickenly-sweet smile on your face as you step onto the landing, and clasp both hands behind your back.

"Only the gardens," you say, meeting your brother's stare. "The hedges are quite overgrown, and the rosebushes need tending. Lot of work to do today." He only hmmphs, and your father's stone-cold stare doesn't falter.

"The change of attire is... appreciated." He says dryly. You nod, and he blinks. "We have a meeting to be off to. We should return after sundown. You'll do well on your own for the evening?" He asks without an ounce of actual concern.

"Of course, father." You say. He nods, turning to Graysen.

"We should be off then." And with that, he is opening the door and heading out with your brother. Out to some secret meeting that you can't and shouldn't know about for Gods knows why.

Out and away for you to finally enjoy some well-deserved freedom.

You watch as the last horse in the group attending with your father today is far enough from the palace that you cannot make out the shape anymore, and then practically book it to the back of the palace. Throwing open the back doors, prancing down the marble stairs to the gardens, you dance and twirl past every bush and weed and stone bench that you definitely will not be paying any mind to today -- well, honestly, these rose bushes are looking a little rough. You pull dead petals and bulbs off as you go, which only brightens the path as you make your way towards...

Wherever your feet carry you, you suppose.

Not before long, you've passed every rose bush. Every weed. Every overgrown hedge. You slow your steps as you skip past the last stone bench, realizing you truly are at the edge of the grounds, the large iron fence drawing nearer and nearer. It's rusty as you finally get in front of the latch, running your fingers along it. You still try your luck nonetheless, doubting it would be unlocked. You unclip the hook, pushing the heavy metal bars tainted coppery red with age and-

It opens.

You almost can't believe it.

You gasp, stepping through the small opening and looking beyond. All that is really out there is dense forest, and to be honest, you don't have much interest or experience in going out in a place like that. However, when you ponder, you really don't have much experience in anything, so would it really hurt to try something new? What was the worst that could happen -- you could see a bunny?

You take a deep breath, and then begin walking. The sun was high in the sky, and the tendrils of light falling delicately through the trees was... lovely. Peaceful. Out here, it felt so free, like you could do or be whatever you pleased without confinement.

Another twig snapped in the distance, and you whipped your head in the direction. You hated the way your heartbeat sped up, over a simple forrest creature. Shaking your head, you continued on, looking quickly over your shoulder at the palace that was growing smaller with each step you took.

It wasn't much longer before you decided to stop and rest for a bit, the walk tiring you out more than you'd thought. Your half-lidded eyes began to glaze over when they caught on something just across the way. It was... out of place, it, didn't... belong there. You sat up straight, senses heightening when you saw the figure move, the paleness a stark contrast to the lush greenery around you.

That definitely doesn't belong here.

"You need not be afraid," a voice rang out. You were on your feet in an instant, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes darted between the trees. Where did it go?

"Behind you, dear." You jumped, adrenaline spiking as a rush of fear flooded your system. You fell flat on your rear, kicking backward with your hands and feet. You barely registered with stood before you, the smile like a cat staring down at a helpless mouse.

"Allow me to repeat myself; do. Not. Be. Afraid." Your breath came out in small pants, and you stared at the man with pure terror in your eyes. He was a few feet from you, merely standing calmly and looking at you as though waiting for you to stand up. You took just a moment to regain control of your thoughts, remembering you were in fact in a dress, on the ground, and there was a stranger in front of you. You scrambled to your feet, dusting off the back of your dress and glancing sidelong at the man. He smirked at you.

"Very well then. I don't have all day; I did come here with purpose." You look at him incredulously.

"Whatever are you talking about?" You ask. He folds his arms over his chest.

"A proposition, really." He states. "I've been... noticing... you might be interested in something I have to offer." He states. You raise an eyebrow.

"Do tell." You say flatly. You clasps his hands behind his back, beginning a slow circle around you.

"I have the ability to grant you something -- a power, of sorts -- that I cannot posess myself. It's a very special gift, child, one some would," he leans close, and you stiffen. The air around you even seems to drop in temperature. "...kill for." You shudder.

"What makes you think I want it? Why me? How do you have this?" You ask, and then it hits you -- he is a faerie. He is fae, and he came over the wall. You turn, staring at him as he laughs cruelly.

"Ahh, so you've put it together then." You glare at him.

"What is your kind even doing on this side of the wall, huh? Don't you understand people like my father would kill you?" You spat. The man only grins wickedly.

"Precisely, which is why I am offering this gift to you, Princess," you straighten.

"With this new strength, you will weild shadows of emerald; posess strength, at your will; have the ability to forge your own magic, transform your own reality, and manipulate what is real," he explains. Your eyes widen. Was all of this true?

"And... why give it to me?" You ask.

"Lets just say... I have a war, I am heading. I am a King too, after all." He lets out a dark chuckle. You look toward the ground, thinking for a moment. Apparently you think too long, because he starts talking again.

"You'll be a good asset to have when I need it, and I couldn't keep this gift even if I wanted to." He scoffs. "Like calls to like, some joke... by the Cauldron-"

"Okay. I accept."

He grins, all of his decaying teeth exposed and you grimace.

"Excellent."

Thunder cracks overhead, the sky exchanging the sun for an overcasted gray pantone. You look side to side, the leaves and twigs around you rising from the forrest floor in a dance on a phantom wind as the breeze tornadoes around you in waves. It increases speed, and the man cackles, the crown on his head glimmering with the movements.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the motions, the sounds -- its all too much. More thunder whips overhead, the wind picking up and you open your eyes to watch as the man beging to recede into the windstorm.

"Hey!" You call out, reaching out a lame hand in protest. "Wait! How am I supposed to-" Another flash of lightning strikes the ground, inches from your fingertips and you shriek, retracting your hand and shoving your palms into your eyes. You can't help but fall to your knees, the ground biting into your flesh as your dress blows and tugs with the whipping winds around you. Tears threaten to fall, and you curl into the soft Earth, wishing it would drag you under.

You almost confuse your hairbow for the sensation of the cool, silky caress against your cheek. You instinctively reach up to touch it, a tear slipping free as you cry out. Peering up, you see wisps of smoky black amid the everlasting windstorm, threading through your fingers and softly caressing your face. You sob, the lightning overhead only drawing closer. The coolness of the smoke around your cheek, over your shoulder, and through your fingers brings a little comfort to the scariest moment of your life.

It only continues to get scarier as lightning streaks across the sky once more. This time, however, it doesn't span the whole sky. It's aiming right at you. As if you're in slow motion, you don't react quick enough -- the lightning continues to move at, well, lightning speed, as it hits the mark it was aiming for.

✧･ﾟ: *

You awake with a jolt, thrashing against the cool silken sheets wrapped around you. You're back in your bed, the soft hues of the late afternoon sun basking your room in an amber glow. Your eyes dart around the room wildly; how did you end up in here? How much time had passed? The last thing you remembered were the cool caresses of those shadowy figures as the tornado-like winds whipped around you-

You leap from your bed, landing on the floor as soft as a feline and feeling... lighter. You furrow your brow, checking yourself over. Stepping in front of your mirror, you didn't look much different; sure, your hair could use a brush run through it, but not much else was amiss. You let out a sigh of relief, the sunlight catching in the flecks of your irises, highlighting the emerald specks hidden in them.

Oh. That was new.

Then, you remembered that tiny, new little change.

The.. what had he called it? The gift, that fae had given you.

The King, rather. Oh so he said.

You chewed on your bottom lip, beginning to pace around like you'd done this morning. You thought up what you should do about this... predicament, you were now in. You'd learned of the war that was happening, or so this "King", had told you. He also said you would be an asset to him, which you still couldn't understand or come up with any explaination as to why.

You halted your footsteps. You'd spent many days in this room, in this palace, pacing, doing absolutely nothing but wasting time -- and if the threat of war was real, if that faerie was telling the truth, then you needed to find out more for yourself. Gods be damned if your father would ever clue you in on such matters.

You made way for the stairs, practically taking them two at a time, nearly floating down the staircase it seemed with the pace you were going. You continued to make haste, bolting for your father's study. The sky was streaking with tinges of purple and crimson, sign that dinner would soon be ready and your father would be on his merry way home soon.

You didn't have much time.

Heaving the massive doors of his study, your breath caught when you finally saw the interior. Sure, you'd caught glances inside every now and again -- but you were forbidden in this room, as was any servant, any maiden, even Graysen wasn't allowed in here. You knew, whatever you needed to find had to be locked away in here. You could feel it, although it was calling out to you.

Stepping in, you made way for the rows of books along the far wall. It was only dimly lit inside the room, but you did not have a problem seeing the titles as clearly as if the sun shone from the ceiling of this very room. Was this another condition of the gift given to you?

Scanning the texts, most seemed rather useless. There were a few that pertained to faeries, but you'd already been educated on the history of their kind -- that wasn't what you were in here for. You turned, peering over your shoulder toward the windows. A massive trunk sat, and every nerve ending vibrated with the call of your power drawing you to it.

You rushed over, dropping to your knees and popping the locks. Shoving the lid open, you found a single map inside. You yanked it out, letting the lid slam shut as you unrolled it.

The map had a few areas on it -- ones you'd heard of, but couldn't understand why your father would be keeping under such protection. The scroll featured documentation of the Continent, and above it; Prythian. It was divided into smaller sections, and off to one side there was another small island with the title of Hybern, and you didn't miss a large, red X over the area scribbled in dark ink. You rolled it back up quickly, tucking it under your arm.

You figured would suffice, and you would be able to work off of this and gather more information from the library, but as you made way for the door...

His desk. It was practically screaming at you, begging to be rummaged through. It was clean, pristine, and calling so loudly that you stopped dead in your tracks. Turning slowly toward it, you confusedly stepped closer.

"What am I... looking for over here?" You wondered aloud. You looked all around -- he had no papers on it, no boxes or locks stored near the floor. You ran your hands along the sides of it even, but it wasn't until you sat in his chair that you felt the exhaustion hit you. Wave after wave of intensity coursed through you, as if alerting you to take take take what was needed. You threw your hands in the air.

"There's nothing here!" You shouted, nearing your witts end at the empty desk before you. Your veins flooded with electricity, and you hissed at the pain. Why wouldn't it stop? Why wouldn't it all just... go away?

"THERE IS NOTHING!" You repeat, yelling into the empty air. "I CAN'T FIND IT-" You bring both of your hands down on the desk, bright green flames bursting from your palms as they make contact with the wood. You gasped loudly, the flares dissipating into thin tendrils of emerald smoke, similar to those from the forest earlier in the day. You stared down at the backs of your hands, not sure if you wanted to move them and see the damage you'd done, or keep them there and enjoy your ignorance for a few moments longer.

You shakily remove them from their planted position, only growing more confused when the desk below remained pristine. "What... the... Hell..." you mutter. You glance toward the ground, noticing a small tray laying haphazardly below. A few papers and quills lay scattered about, and you brace the ground, craning your neck to look at the underside of the desk.

It was secured underneath, you see. The force must have knocked the hidden compartment off of its hinges.

You pick up the tray and the supplies, laying them out on your father's desk to examine. Nevermind that there is a keyhole in the front, and no key in sight -- you wouldn't have been able to get inside the compartment anyway. Amid the papers, there are many pertaining to past trips that are no longer relevant; but a few on top of the pile catch your eye. Other than Graysen's birth certificate, a few of the other pages feature words like "Queens", and "securing the Continental borders" and "aligning with Hybern for the war"-

Your pulled from your amazement when you hear the unmistakeable sound of hooves outside the front entrance. Your blood runs cold, and you quickly shove the discarded papers back in the tray and jam it back onto its hinges under your father's desk. It doesn't fit quite right -- but it will have to do for now. You'd be dead if he caught you poking around in here.

You quickly glance around the room as you swipe the rather important documents from his desk as well as the map, and assure the room looks just as you found it. You're pulling the door closed, waiting for the soft sound of the latch when you hear the grand doors opening. Shit. The only way to your room is the grand staircase, and going that way will only ensure that your father and brother see you, contraband in hand. How are you going to get out of this one?

Think think think, what other routes could you take? You rack your brain, but can't think of any. Taking the service stairs would draw attention as dinner is about to be served and the attendants are using those at the moment, oh Gods how you wish you could just be in your room right now...

And just like that, you were.

You look around incredulously, dropping the map and the papers in shock. One minute, you were outside your father's study. And the next...

You were here.

But, how?

You nearly double over, bracing a hand on your dresser as the realization hits you with full force. The wood brashes against the wall loudly, and you hear your name in the distance. You shake your head, slowly as the gravity of the situation sets in. You can't believe this. What you've done. What you have done. What have you done?

"No... no no no," you groan aloud. Heavy footsteps sound outside your room, and you go into panic mode, pushing yourself from the dresser and kicking the papers and map beneath your bed. You're just in time -- within seconds, a quick knock sounds at your door and your brother is inching it open.

"Y/N? Are you... alright? In here?" He asks cautiously.

You clear your throat, smoothing down your hair and taking a seat atop your bed. "Yes." He opens the door wider, peering inside and gives you a bored look.

"Father requests your presence. Dinner is to be served in five minutes." He says flatly. You nod, trying hard as you are willing to mask every emotion swirling inside. His brow furrows, and he gives you one last quizzical look.

"You sure nothing is going on up here?" He asks. You shake your head.

"Nope." You pop the P, smoothing your skirt and he looks you up and down with distaste as he begins shutting the door.

"Don't be late this time."

✧･ﾟ: *

You barely get any sleep, tossing and turning all night as thoughts of your new gifts and new... self plague you. All night, you continue to have haunting dreams, visions of yourself displaced in Prythian among the monsters that lurk the lands from the stories you'd always been told. The faeries that had once kept humans as slaves, faeries who have a thirst for human blood.

But now it was you. You who had been tricked. You who had been a fool, and accepted such a curse from a fae himself only to become what you feared most.

How would you ever be able to tell your family? Your father, aligning with Hybern to take out the fae-kind, preparing for war where he would not bat an eye slaughtering anything other than human. Your brother, who's last courted female left him, taking to Prythian herself instead. You knew where his loyalties lied, and they most certainly weren't with you.

This agony continued for days, not that your father caught on. He never paid you mind anyway, so keeping your inner turmoil from him wasn't very difficult. It was the restless nights, the nights that you'd awake in terror, and constant thoughts of what may happen to you here that plagued you the most.

You needed to find some way out.

A few weeks since being given your gift per se, you were headed down to the kitchen one morning after a particularly harrowing night to greet your favorite person on the Continent, the sweet smell of fresh biscuits bringing a seed of joy to your morning.

"Good morning Mrs. Julie," you stated. Mrs. Julie turned from her work station, greeting you with her signature smile -- only for it to turn into a frown moments later.

"My, dear child! Have you gotten no rest in days?" She asks, taking your cheeks in her hands. She turns your face side to side, and you let out a yawn in confirmation. She tsk tsk tsks, shaking her head and dropping her hands. She turns back to her station.

"What's been keeping you awake, hmm?" She asks. You take a seat on a stool near the end of her table, watching as she works on icing a tray of fruit tarts before her. You breathe deeply -- Julie is your favorite, most trusted person in the world. Since your mother died, she took you in of sorts, always caring for and giving you the love you lacked from your other family members. But this? This kind of secret... it just might be something that is too much for her to handle. Is she knew you were a faerie, she may see you differently. You didn't know if it was something you could stomach.

"Is it... a male, perhaps?" She asks. You scoff, nudging her with your arm. That wakes you right up.

"Oh please, Mrs. Julie -- if I had a lover, you'd be the first to know!" You say playfully. She chuckles, continuing to ice.

"Well, dearie I don't know what you tell me and what you decide to keep is all your business," she offers politely. You don't know how to respond, so you stay quiet. She sighs, setting down the icing bag and taking your hands in hers. Her soft eyes peer into yours and she leans close.

"Y/N, if there is something troubling you, you know you can always talk with me, right?" She says quietly. You nod wordlessly, tears prickling the back of your eyes. Her eyes search yours in silent question, and you loose a breath. You know she is trustworthy, no matter how she might look at you after this, you know you need to talk to someone about your situation.

"Maybe... maybe there is, something." You say. She nods, looking down at the table like she knew you'd say that.

"Well, how about after breakfast when I take my break, we can meet in the garden? Talk about it?" She offers. You nod, and she pulls you into a tight hug. You let a single tear slip free, swiping it away before letting go from her embrace.

"Alright then -- run along, child. You don't want to be late for breakfast, now."

✧･ﾟ: *

As it turns out -- you'd worried over nothing. Mrs. Julie had listened to every word you explained, only offering you her undivided attention and words of sorrow for what you endured. She also offered her promise that she would do whatever was needed to help you, especially when you explained how you'd gone into your father's study.

"Human, faerie, royal -- Hell, you could even be one of those pesky buzzards that ravish the crops in the springtime, and I would still love you just the same, my dear." Her words nearly brought you to tears, and that's when you knew you'd made the right choice in telling her.

That night as you laid down, your head felt clearer -- the grasp and acceptance on who and what you are that much stronger. You hoped that tonight, you would finally be able to enjoy the splendor of peaceful sleep, as your eyelids began to slide shut...

A willowy, chilled breeze slipped past your shoulders, and you instinctively tugged at your duvet, wrapping it around the exposed skin. Moments later, the breeze slid past again, tickling your neck and dragging past your nose. You scrunched it, flipping over on your pillow to face the other side and gripped your blankets tighter in your fist.

Then, the duvet was yanked from your bed altogether.

You shreiked, eyes flying open as you scrambled to a sitting position. You were far from the lamp that stood feet from your bed, but you didn't need it. Through the moonlight pooling in from your window, you were able to make out the immistakable shadow of a body, leaned against the frame. Your heart rate picked up, taking in the sharp-tipped wings draped behind him. You raised a hand on instinct; familiar flames of jade eliciting with the motion.

The man stands to his full height, taking a step toward the bed and you lunge forward, braced on your knees and one hand as the sparks in the other only grow.

"Don't you DARE take one more step!" You hiss, and he puts his hands up in defense, but continues to walk frward slowly.

"Listen, Princess, there's no need to get all-"

"I SAID, STOP." You fire a line of your power towards him, but to your dismay, he easily avoids it, sidestepping. It lands upon one of the paintings handing on your wall instead, cremating it to nothing but ash. He watches, turning to you and whistling lowly as he halts his movements.

"Wowwwww," He purrs. "Were you really going to... incinerate me?" His head turns to you, and you glare at him through the dark.

"I most certainly was." You hop from the bed, landing with lithe precision and slowly approach the intruder. Soft cobalt stones glimmer in the moonlight upon the male's shoulders, one on his chest as your eyes roam over him. It is easier to make out his defining features as you draw nearer, and...

Holy shit.

"Well, if you'd done that, you wouldn't be able to size me up like I'm your last meal; as you're doing now," he responds with a chuckle. You scoff, and fold your arms over your chest. A heat rises to your cheeks as you remember you are in only a nightgown, and this is, again, a stranger. In your home. The flecks of chartruese return to your irises, and the handsome, winged man puts is hands up once more.

"Hey, hey. I'm sorry to have frightened you. But, it's not like I could've walked through your front door, you know, and I had to come during the night-" You shake your head, eyes dulling in color a shade.

"Who are you?" You demand.

"Azriel." He bends dramatically at the waist, and you roll your eyes. "Pleased to finally meet you, Princess Y/N."

"Uh huh. Why are you in my bed chambers?" You ask. He sighs, taking a step forward and beginning to pace. You fold your arms over your chest, sensing a long explaination coming with this one.

"Well, actually I came to talk with you. About... you." He says quietly. You raise an eyebrow, perching on the end of the bed.

"What about me?" You ask, feigning ignorance. You weren't stupid -- you were a human girl, given the powers of fae. Why wouldn't another of their kind come crawling in here to ask questions?

"You're... you've been changed. You've been given this power that you aren't experienced with, and-"

"And what? You came here to take it back?" You defend. Azriel looks at you, brows hung low as he frowns at you, annoyed.

"No, I came to help you navigate it." He states, fingertips pressed together. You sigh, leaning back on your hands. The action causes the thin nightgown to ride up on your thighs, and you don't miss Azriel's line of sight trailing along the hem of your dress.

"What makes you so sure I want your help?" You clip. Azriel clears his throat, looking down at the floor, then to the window he came through.

"You probably don't, and I get that, alright?" He sighs. Something in your heart strains a bit, and you feel a bit bad for being so rude with him. But... then you remember he came in through your window in the middle of the night. Unannounced. "But I am sure you've heard of what is to happen in merely a few days between the humans and fae alike, the war and... and you may very well get caught up in it."

His face softens as he takes a seat next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. It causes you to shift closer to him, and you nearly tumble right into him. Not that... you'd mind...

Focus.

"I... I've heard of the war..." You start. His hazel eyes gaze softly at you, and you continue. "When... when I was in the forest, and when I was, well, I don't know, when this "happened" to me," you gesture with your hands. "The male said I would be useful to him. But I don't know what he was on about. Or, why me? I don't understand. He kept saying like calls to like and he couldn't keep it himself -- whatever that means." A small smile graces Azriel's lips, and you realize how close in proximity you've scooted. You scootch back an inch, raising an eyebrow in question.

"What's so funny?" You ask. He turns fully to you, bending a knee to rest on the bed while his other leg remains draped over the side. The iridescent light of the moon is illuminating the planes of his face magnificently; the sharp curve of his jaw, the dark arch of his brow; those full, luscious lips...

"Allow me to show you." He holds out a hand, palm up, and you glance down at it. Dark, inky shadows curl around his arms and run down the tips of his fingers, swirling over his calloused skin. You can't help but lean close, so intrigued by his power so similar to yours.

"I've... I've seen these. Before, they were-"

"In the forest that day?" He finishes. Your eyes meet his, and the shadows extend, dancing up the soft skin of your forearms and twirling through the silky strands of your hair. You let out a small giggle as their featherlight touches retreat, slithering back to Azriel.

"You were there." You say quietly. He nods, a look of regret on his face.

"I'm sorry you have been put through... all of this." He says softly, his hand reaching to lightly cup your knee. Your eyebrows raise slightly at the touch, just a spark of what you felt that day in your father's office shooting through your veins at the contact. His eyes search yours, and you glance down at his hand, the burning inside only deepening when you notice the amount of scars atop it.

It doesn't matter who or what you are -- everyone has a past, you suppose. Your heart tugs on the fact that Azriel seems to have gone through quite a bit.

He notices your stare, and motions to move his hand back. You're quicker, grasping his fingers first, keeping his hand in place. The corner of his mouth tilts upward, and you can't help yourself from doing the same.

Ohh, what your father would do if he caught you like this.

Oh, what your father would. Do.

"Um," you say hastily, rising from the bed. "It is rather late -- and since you seem to be keeping tabs, you know I haven't been sleeping well," you say. Azriel stands, stepping close to you and you suck in a breath.

"Oh, I'll let you sleep Princess," he coos. "But we're pulling those documents out tomorrow night. We have to know what Hybern is planning, and if you want to save your father, and your people..." he saunters toward the window.

"How do you know that I..." You peek under the bed. Sure enough, the documents and the map are all there. Azriel chuckles.

"They like to call me a spymaster. A Shadowsinger," he says. You simply shrug.

"Okay. Whatever that means." He shakes his head, propping a boot on the windowsill and peering out.

"So... you'll be back tomorrow?" You ask wearily. Azriel's eyes meet yours once more, and he nods.

"I'll come earlier next time, if I can." You smile.

"Try not to rip my blankets off of me this time." You say with a chuckle. He shakes his head, ducking through the window and extending his enormous, night-black wings. You rush to the window, gazing out as you watch him disappear into the night.

✧･ﾟ: *

You awoke the next morning, practically floating out of bed and skipping from your dressing chambers to your vanity as you prepared for the day. You slept beautifully, you had to admit -- no nightmares, no tossing, or turning. You breathed a sigh of relief as you twirled in the prettiest yellow sundress you had, taking to the stairs for your usual routine.

"Well, someone is in a much better mood today," Mrs. Julie muses. You pluck a ripe raspberry from her fruit basket, popping it in her mouth as you twirl around the kitchen. With all the hustle and bustle from the other attendants before breakfast, your presence is hardly noticed.

"I slept well," you say. She shakes her head, tapping you on the nose.

"Mmm hmm," she humms. You talk for a few more moments, and then head upstairs for breakfast. You only feel a little guilty for not telling her about Azriel, but... it just seems too new. Too fresh. You decide to wait.

"Good morning, everyone!" You announce, approaching the table. Graysen's groggy morning stare meets yours, and your father sets down his mug to give you a once-over. Your brother only groans.

"What's with the Jolly Miss Sunshine, Y/N?" He grunts. You huff, taking a seat at the table as attendants bring out the food.

"Good morning." Your father responds, and you nod to him with a smile. There is not much warmth in those icey, dead eyes of his but... at least he's paying you mind today.

As you finish, Graysen is excusing himself to leave and you are about to do the same, readying to stand leave the room.

"Please, Y/N. Sit. We need to have a discussion." Your father's tone cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, and your hands begin to clam up as you sit back down at the table. He sets his utensils down on his plate, slowly draining the last of his coffee before looking at you, really looking you in the eyes for the first time in what feels like ages.

"Whatever is the-"

"I know you spend a great deal of time in the gardens." He cuts you off. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding at his statement. He nods with you, staring at you with an unreadable expression.

"I know you spend a great deal of time... tending, to these gardens, hmm?" He says. You nod again, growing impatient and wondering what angle he's working.

"I'm just curious." He pauses, eyes fixating on the wall behind you. "I'm actually, rather curious. Why the hedges... are weeks, weeks overgrown, if you are out there... every day... "tending" to them." He says it more like a statement, and honestly, it is. You hadn't actually cut a bush or a hedge in months, truly. You'd been more focused on doing what you wanted, and since talk of the war began and you'd been given fae powers-

"M-my gloves," you stammer. His eyes slice to yours from the spot they'd fixated on, a quizzical look on his face.

"My gloves. They're... ruined." You say. He nods slowly.

"You need new ones." He asks dryly. You nod, and he sighs airily.

"New gloves it is, then."

✧･ﾟ: *

That night, after bidding everyone goodnight, you made sure to keep your dayclothes on. You wouldn't want another duvet-nightgown-midnight situation happening again...

You don't wait long for Azriel to appear, coming through your window with the stealthiness of a trained feline and silence of a snake. Your breath catches from your seat in the middle of your bed -- his outfit similar today, all leather, but his tank top showed off his bulking arms and the long, black tattoos that ran laterally along them.

"Hi," You whispered. He strided over, kicking off his boots and climbing onto your bed. He offered you a whisper of a smile.

"Hi." He said back. You gestured to the items laid before you.

"I... I got everything out that I had," You say. He nods, looking at every piece of parchment.

"Thank you," he mumbles. You smile, and he moves to pick up the map first.

"So," he begins, clearing his throat. "How much do you know about fae?"

✧･ﾟ: *

You hadn't realized how late it had gotten, the only indication was the ache in your back from leaning over the pages. Your mind was blown, but you only wanted to hear more; whether that was to hear Azriel keep talking, or for information. You didn't mind. Both were favorable.

He'd explained more in-depth about the history of Prythian, the Courts, and the politics of it all. His explaination was a little different than the one you'd always been offered; his seemed more fair and just, whereas yours always seemed more geared toward the hatred of the fae. He also explained more about Hybern, and how the King you met was likely using you as a way to get the humans into his hands for the taking.

"So... he gifted me these powers, thinking it would aid him in the war as my father is working with him, to fight against the rest of the courts? Why would the King, or any humans, want to fight the fae who are against keeping humans as slaves -- it was Hybern who were pro-human demise," you say. Azriel shrugs.

"They've got it backwards," he reasons. "And, the King saw an opportunity with you, vulnerable, and alone, and he took it. This ensures if things go sideways with your father, he has collateral. I told you Princess; you're more involved than you know." You sigh, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. You close your eyes and rub your temples as you feel a gentle hand rub soothing circles over your back.

"The King is going to kill the humans anyway." You conclude. You don't need to look, but you know Azriel nods. "He's just using my father to lure them to Hybern to do it."

"Which is why you need to convince your father to do the right thing first," he says. Your eyes widen, and you look to him, a sarcastic laugh bubbling from your throat. He brings his hand to your mouth, covering it and leaning rather close to you.

"Shhh," he hushes. "Someone will hear you."

Your eyes level with his hand, and then meet his as he slowly retracts. He's inches from your face now, and you can feel your insides buzzing with delight.

"I know it isn't ideal, and it might not be easy, but it's our last option here." His fingers slowly trace along the side of your arm. "Look, if it were up to me," he whispers. His eyes stare intensely at your lips. "I'd get you out of this wretched place; I'd bring you back with me, where you could..." he inches closer, and your heartbeat quickens. "...be who you are... and, not have to hide it from anyone..." You gaze up at him, and he moves closer, quickly pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your face heats, the skin searing with utter delight at the point of contact. More more more your power thrums.

"Go... with you?" You ask quietly. "To... Prythian?" He nods slightly, downcast eyes raking over your form as his pointer finger and thumb catch a strand of your hair, rolling it between them.

"Azriel... I can't just-"

"Why not, Princess?" The way he says it sends virescent flames shooting through your every vein, and you feel rediculous for thinking this way over a male you've just met so soon. His fingers drop the twirl of hair, knuckles grazing over your jaw affectionately instead. You lean into the touch.

"We've... only just met..." You trail off. He tilts your chin to look at him, a small smirk forming on his perfect mouth.

"Allow some time to get to know me, then." He states, voice low and gravelly. Gods, the way you'd lean in and press your mouth to his right now...

"Think about it?" He asks, eyes pleading. You nod, and he smiles, a small glimpse at his perfectly white teeth peeking through. You gasp.

"Aww... Azriel, you have a nice smile, don't you?" You coo. He shakes his head, a small blush creeping up his neck as he slips from your bed, shucking on his boots. You pad over to him, your hand playfully resting on his arm.

"Azzzz... all night, and I didn't even get to see it once?" You whine in humor. He rolls his eyes, grinning at your words.

"I guess you'll just have to say something that would make me really, really happy," he says. You feel a gentle pull in your chest, and you practically leap toward him. You chuckle, shoving the feeling out of the way.

"Mhm, nice try." You say with a wink. He mounts the windowsill, his hand gripping the top as he stares out. Ughhh his arm is the size of your head against the moonlight painted sky-

"Tomorrow then, Princess?" He says.

"Tomorrow, Shadowsinger." He grins, leaping from the opening and flying into the night.

✧･ﾟ: *

Your days continue in the same pattern; your father and brother ignoring you for the most part, you filling Mrs. Julie in on the little that you know about what's going on (and continuing to feel bad about keeping Azriel a secret from her), and sneaking the Spymaster in at night to pore over your fathers documents and study his war plans with Hybern.

Though no moves have been made yet, Azriel keeps telling you to be on your defenses. You know you'll have to talk with your father soon, and time is running out, but with his daily meetings, you find less-than-opportune moments in each day.

Its been about two weeks now since Azriel first came around, and your day had been the same as usual. Your father had no meetings today, but Graysen was preoccupying him, which meant of course, no discussion. Nonetheless, you still found yourself being summoned after dinner.

That's odd. He never called for you.

As you arrived to the main floor, the attendant led you down the hallway, and your footsteps slowed as you approached none other than...

Your father's study. Your heart sank.

"I don't know what else you want me to say, father, I didn't do it!" The hard slam of what sounded like a fist on a table had you jumping, and the attendant left you at the doorway. You leaned in close, straining to hear the conversation inside.

"Well, someone was fucking in here because all of our plans and deals made with the Queens are missing, Graysen." Your father chides. His tone is angry, rising in octave. "I told you how serious this situation is-"

"I know its fucking serious!" Your brother yells. You raise your eyebrows. You've never heard him yell at your father before, and all be damned if you even considered-

A sharp slap of skin on skin cracks through the air, immediate silence following it. Your hand covers your mouth, eyes wide in shock. You try very hard to listen as the conversation continues.

"Don't you ever raise your voice at me like that again, boy." You father says, lethally calm. In an instant, you hear heavy footsteps and dart out of the way, the door being thrown open and Graysen running through it. His eyes meet yours only for an instant, his face the expression of only a trained killer — you shudder. There’s no way you’d ever be able to be honest with him about what you were. He wouldn’t hesitate to take you out, just as he planned to do aligning with that vile King beyond the wall-

“Y/N. In my study. Now.”

You hastily move inside, trying to remain calm as your father rounds his desk, pressing his fingertips to the surface. You’d expect him to sit, but he makes no move. Instead, he peers down at the wood as you stand motionless in the center of the room.

“I’ll get right to the point.” He grunts, and you chew the inside of your cheek nervously. “Did you enter this study at all within the last few days?”

His eyes detach from the desk, meeting yours before you shake your head, and his lips press into a thin line.

“I’ll only repeat myself once. Did. You. Enter-“

“NO, father, would you truly believe I’d deceive you?” You cut in. His eyes blaze with anger, only a flare, and you realize you’ve hit your mark. Definitely no talking him into changing course tonight.

“I believe you’d do what you need to in order to protect someone you love, or so you think.” He spats. You scowl.

“What are you-“

“Oh don’t paint me a fool, Y/N. I’m not so blind to notice my daughter spending more time in her room than out in the fresh air, out in the garden where you’ve spend it your entire life.” He reaches to the shelf behind him, chucking a pair of new gloves at you. You catch them, and flare at him.

“So what? I haven’t been gardening-“

“Because you stay awake at night. Talking to some male who you’ve been sneaking into my home, MY PALACE, THINKING I WOULDN’T NOTICE-“

Rage fills your every vein, and you unlock the tiny vault in the back of your mind that you promised not to; the most precious secret you’d only let out when the time was right.

Oh, Azriel would be so proud of you for this. Finally defending yourself against what you know is wrong.

“IT WON’T BE YOURS FOR MUCH LONGER IF YOU KEEP TREATING ME THIS WAY.” You bellow. Your chest rises and falls, and his eyes pierce your soul the way he’s glaring at you.

A few agonizingly slow beats of silence pass, your father's fury only intensifying in his stare. You brace for the impact of his words, but when he opens his mouth, the only tone that comes out is lethally calm.

"What. The Hell did you just say to me, girl?" He asks. You gulp, fear beginning to creep into your mind.

Stand your ground, you can practically hear Azriel's voice in your mind. A shadow outside your father's window passes, only catching you off-guard for a moment before you meet his eyes again. Your hands ball into fists, and you take a steadying breath.

"This palace... won't be yours. For much longer." You say, hating how unconfident you sound. His anger turns to confusion, and you continue. You choose this moment, right now, to try and convince your father of a new strategy. He's always more malleable when angry, anyway.

"If you align yourself with that King... you're only damning yourself father, damning us all, and you know it-" You start, and he barks out a cruel laugh, shaking his head and looking down at his desk.

"Please -- don't pretend you know anything about this war-"

"I might not," You bite out. "But I do know how to help the humans. And aligning with a fae King who only intends to use you as a slave seems..." You trail off. He cocks an eyebrow.

"Go on, since you're so full of ideas today, go on. Let's hear how you really feel about my choices in protecting our lands." He smirks cruelly. You glare at him.

"It's idiotic father! It's rediculous, it's... it's not well-thought out, I'm trying to explain that I have something that could truly help you-"

"I think I've heard enough of your play-pretend theories for today. This kingdom is mine, and anyone who intends to take it will have to kill me for it." As if on cue, a group of your father's knights from his finest cavalry storms the room, grabbing your arms and halting you to your position. You flail your arms wildly, kicking beneath the thin fabric of your skirts.

"Get the Hell off me! Father what are you-"

"I don't know how you managed to get in here, or what you thought you were going to do with whatever you found," he snarls, drawing closer to you. "But when I find out who you sent to do your dirty work and what exactly you stole; believe me, no debt goes unpaid, little girl." You bare your teeth, pupils flaring in rage against the cruel King before you. He staggers back a step, looking you up and down in slight horror.

"Take her down to the service cellars." He commands, and metal scrapes against its own as the soldiers hoist you up and lead you from the room. Through your thrashing and hollering, you hear one last order from your father before the heavy doors swing shut.

"Do NOT let her out!"

✧･ﾟ: *

You can't help but pace once more, only this time, you're in the dirty, dank cellar. The dirt walls feel suffocating around you -- the only source of light are the torches on the walls and a small, barred window on the wall near the ceiling. Night has fallen, and you continue to walk back and forth, thinking hard about everything that you read, everything your father said to you.

He knew you'd been sneaking someone in. Did he know it was a fae male? Probably not, or else Azriel would surely be dead by now. Although perhaps this was part of a bigger scheme, to continue to draw the Shadowsinger practically to his doorstep every night, while he lay in wait...

Stop. You shook your head, not wanting to think of the possibility of anything happening to Azriel.

Azriel.

Your thoughts are flooded with images of his mossy, hazel eyes peering into yours in the moonlight. The way his tan skin looked, decorated with those swirling tattoos all over his massive biceps. His silky black hair, how it would feel to run your hands through it as he finally pulled you in close for a kiss-

STOP. There are more imoportant matters at hand right now. And... you're in a cell. You had to find some way out.

What was it, that got your father so angry to throw you down here in the first place? To lock you up for Gods know how long? Was it your backtalking? Surely not -- though Graysen had done it, and earned himself a slap to the face. Was it... your "scheming"? He practically called that child's play.

Although he really didn't like when you talked about his crown not being his after the war.

Your mind went back to the other night -- you and Azriel sat on your bed, poring over the pages you'd taken and you had picked up Graysen's birth certificate. When you looked closer at it, really close; it turns out, he's not first in line for your father's crown like everyone believed him to be.

You are.

The revelation had you feeling sick, not that you even wanted to rule such a kingdom on your own, and you couldn't believe you and your brother had not shared the cruel father you were forced to grow up with. Even worse -- that man was your true father, and you hoped to be nothing like him. Did Graysen know? Surely not. Did your father?

He had to. That would explain his outburst from earlier.

Gods, how you wished Azriel were here. The longer your feet create a path in the dirt, the more and more you think about his offer to bring you with him to his own home -- how lovely it would be to escape this Hellhole, this life of nothing in general; to see him whenever you like, and never live in fear of being with him.

You're pulled from your thoughts when you hear a commotion from down the hallway, a clammoring of what sounded like heavy metals and rustling from down the corridor. You jump toward the bars of your enclosure, sticking a hand through and calling out.

"Please! Someone please!" You call. Tendrils of green seep from beneath your palms, and you place them against the bars; only to fly back a moment later in pain. The planes of your hands feel as though they've been burnt off as red-hot searing spikes shoot through your skin. You shakily stare at them, the red skin prickling with the injury. Tears line your waterline, and you fight to reign them in. Through your pain-induced haze, you hear the commotion continue -- shouting and metal colliding down the corridor.

Until it all goes quiet. You make to stand, noticing thte burning in your palms already beginning to lessen with each passing minute. Approaching the barred entrance wearily, you look out, but see nothing except empty, black, nothingness. You let out a sigh of defeat, and turn to make way back into your prison.

The soft jangling of keys turns your attention back to the gate, and your eyes widen as the door swings open.

"Miss Julie?" You whisper shout. She holds a finger to her lips, motioning you forward.

"Come child -- be hushed, there are guards still lingering," she says. You stare at her incredulously as she pulls you in for an embrace, and when she releases you, her eyes are lined with tears.

"I can't believe he'd truly lock you away," She mutters, and you shake your head.

"Miss Julie, I can't thank you enough for coming to get me out." You whisper, as she takes your hand and begins leading you toward the service stairs.

"Oh, don't thank me dear; you can thank that handsome male of yours, do tell me his name?" She asks, smirking sidelong at you. You shoot her an incredulous look.

"What are you talking abou-"

"Pshhh, please," She tutts. "You could've just told me you had a lover, Y/N. A handsome one, at that." She giggles. Your cheeks burn red.

"Miss Julie, I don't know who you're-"

"Y/N," Azriel pants breathlessly, and you whip around to watch as he appears on the other side of the kitchen. You gasp, quickly sidestepping the soldiers on the floor of the room to get to him. You paw at his chest, his jacket, even caressing his face.

"Azriel its-" He chuckles, still fighting to catch his breath.

"Yes, its really me, Princess." He says. You can't help the tears that begin to spill over, his hands braced on his knees as he works to stand up straight. You don't hesitate to jump into his arms once he's at his full height; and he lets out a sigh of relief as he holds you tight against him.

"Y/N, are you alright?" He asks, setting you down gently. When your feet hit the dirt, you turn your gaze to his, nodding slightly as tears continue to fall. You can't help but notice the blood staining his left ear and trailing down his jaw; splatters covering the leathers he's wearing. You pull back to give him a once-over, but he takes your hands in his and pulls you flush against him once more, his right hand cradling the back of your head to his chest as the other wraps around your waist.

"I'm so sorry... I came as soon as I could." You look up at him, and he looks down to you with sorrow in his eyes. You can't help but smile at him, thanking the Gods for sending the one person you needed right now. You notice his eyes looking beyond you, and you pull back to turn to Miss Julie once more.

"So... you've... met, huh?" Miss Julie giggles, and Azriel nods.

"Unfortunate circumstances, but... I'm glad he appeared when he did, or those fools would've been on me in an instant." She gestures to the countless soldiers on the floor. You can only look between the two of them.

"Azriel, how did you -- nevermind." You say, shaking your head. He raises an eyebrow, dipping low so his face is closer to yours. You grin wildly at the closeness, never feeling happier or more relieved in your life. Miss Julie makes a point to silently walk toward the stairs and out of sight of the two of you.

"Of course you'd know, Spymaster." He grins, and you let out a small laugh. His grin widens into a full on smile, and his arm around your waist tightens as he pulls you onto your tippy-toes to finally press his lips to yours. You seem to melt into him, feeling like jelly in his hands. His other hand caresses your jaw, and that lovely, familiar feeling inside of your chest burns brighter and brighter-

"Agh-" You pull back, putting your hand over your heart as you feel the tightness of a golden lasso clenching around it. You stare wildly at Azriel, and his eyes widen.

"Y/N you're... do you feel it?" He asks, his hand over yours tenderly. You look down, and warmth floods your veins at the realization of what is happening. You mentally give the rope a pull, and Azriel's eyes flick back up towards yours. He smiles again, and you slide your hand along his jaw, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

"I'm just glad to finally see you smile, Shadowsinger." He kisses you with all the passion he has, hands roaming over your waist and playfully dipping lower to cup your ass in your large hands. You let out an involuntary groan, and he releases you, only to peer down at you with pure love and adoration.

The moment ends all too short, as a sharp cry rings out from your left. Moments later, you spot a crumpled mass on the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

"Miss Julie!" You shout, thundering over to her, eyes wide in horror as she clutches her side in agony. Two metal-clad knights descend the stairs, swords drawn as Azriel is at your side in an instant.

"Get behind me-" His arm his protectively in front of you, blue siphon ablaze as he yanks a blade from its sheath. All you want to do is fall to your knees and fix this; fix it all, save Miss Julie.

But you can't. Rage takes over your mind, more explosive than you've ever felt. More explosive than in the study. More explosive than when your father locked you in a cage. More explosive-

"NOT A CHANCE." Azriel has the good intention to get out of your way as you rear back, unleashing your pure, unfiltered power upon the soldier nearest you. It slamas into him in an instant, throwing him to the ground and paralyzing him all too quickly. Azriel takes his time, fighting with the other armed guard before plowing him to the floor, wings expertly tucked behind him to avoid taking any of the force.

Green flares erupt around you, growing in size with each passing minute. You look around, blinking and trying to clear your thoughts. You wanted to kill. Your father. His armies. That fae King for doing this to you. All of them should pay-

"Y/N." Azriel's sharp voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife, and you turn your attention to him. Miss Julie coughs, and you both rush to her.

"Y/N, we don't have a lot of time..."

"Can you fix this?" You ask, another tear streaming down your face as Miss Julie's eyes begin to darken. Azriel shakes his head gravely, and you heave before letting out a scream, shaking the walls and causing pans to hit the floor with the force. Miss Julie only takes your cheek in her hand softly.

"My sweet child," she whispers. You sob, tears falling onto her smock and staining it. "Don't cry-"

"Miss Julie you can't leave me!" You rasp, coughing as smoke begins to filter through the air. She gives you a small smile as her breathing begins to slow.

"I'll never leave you, my dear." She says. "But... you shouldn't leave him." Her eyes only widen an inch, and you glance to Azriel. You cry harder when you notice a tear falling from his face as well. He slips a hand over her heart, and she grasps it, smiling fondly.

"He is good, Y/N. He is a good... a good male..." she drifts off. You grit yoru teeth, grabbing her shoulders and throwing yourself onto her in a tight embrace. You continue to cry, and you feel Azriel's hand stroking your back comfortingly as he did those nights ago. You stay there for a few more minutes, the smoke burning your eyes as he tries his best to fan it away with his wings.

"Y/N... we have to go..." he says. You sniffle, allowing him to help you up as you press one last kiss to her cheek. He pulls you out the side door, flames nearing the spot you were just sitting. He continues to pull, hand in hand, through the chilly night air toward the thick forest at the back of your estate.

After a few long minutes of silence, he speaks first.

"Listen Princess... I know you have a kingdom here that you could have, but,"

"Take me with you." He stops, wide eyes blinking at you in shock.

"Are you sure?" He asks quietly. You look to him, nodding in confirmation and squeezing his hand tighter.

"Everything she said was right Azriel; I can't be who I am here, and I know you're a good male. You're..." you choke back another sob, and he slows his pace to wipe away a stray tear on your cheek. "You're a good male. I want to be somewhere I know I'll be safe. I know if I'm with you, I'm in good hands." He looks like he could fall to his knees at your words, and the corner of your lips tilts upward in a sad smile, shadows of smoke and emerald curling around the two of you.

Like calls to like, that's what they always say, right?

"Then allow me to show you the way to your new palace, Princess."

✧･ﾟ: *

[climbthemountain2020]

The Adventure - Eris Week Day 5

@erisweekofficial Day 5: War/Adventure

Biggest thanks ever to @cauldronblssd and @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta reads on this. Also @cauldronblssd made this mood board and I haven't stopped laughing since hahaha.

Ao3 Link

For some sibling bonding after a lost bet, Lucien takes Eris to experience a rite of passage. But is Eris ready to enter this new, strange world?

“Lucien, are you absolutely certain about this?”

“Eris, seriously?” Lucien rebutted with a long-suffering sigh, pulling the car around the nearly empty lot.

He shot him a look, irritation and wariness clear on his face.

“Don't Eris, seriously me. This place looks like it might give me tetanus if I touched any surface for too long.” There were dark clouds building on the low horizon, and Eris couldn’t help but see it as a portent of things to come.

“You're too high brow. You need to relax and come join the rest of us plebeians for some joy every once in a while.”

Lucien slammed the car into park, Eris huffing as his head slapped back against the seat. Years of experience hadn't made Lucien any better at driving, though Lucien seemed entirely unaware of it every time he got into a car to put the rest of the community at risk. Eris rubbed the back of his skull with a hand while Lucien ignored him. As always, Lucien was calm and collected as he pulled his keys from the ignition, an assured air in everything he did that Eris had never experienced a single day in his life without faking it.

“I'm certain I just saw a man fighting a raccoon behind that dumpster.” Eris was only half kidding.

Lucien smiled broadly, the wisps of their mother's copper hair hanging loosely around his face. “I'm not gonna discount that. That means the food is good.” Eris wasn’t sure if Lucien was more than half-kidding, either.

He grimaced, but followed suit as Lucien opened his door. The air here was hot, muggier somehow that it was further inland in the city. Lucien spent his time further out by the coast, his and Elain’s pricey beach house intentionally looking well-used and well-worn. It was both opulent and cozy somehow, but Lucien fit in out here. He enjoyed being surrounded by people and novelty and community.

Eris, on the other hand, preferred his upgraded, updated, historical and now very fashionable Tabby home in the center of the city. He liked being a brief drive or walk from wherever he needed to go–typically a drive because the air here was insufferably heavy year round. When he'd been promoted last year and found that the new offices were on the Lowcountry coast, he'd envisioned antebellum architecture, sandy beaches, and swaying palms. What he’d not anticipated was that every single season seemed to be covered in a weighted blanket of salty sea air heavy enough to bring sweat to your lip the second you stepped outside the loving, protective bubble of the air conditioning.

“It's a crime you've lived here this long and never been here.”

Eris scoffed, looking down his nose at the squat building, tones of yellow, red, and gray mixing in a discordant mix of colors that didn't quite fit together. He had acquiesced, though, after losing a bet with Lucien last week, who had been absolutely appalled to hear Eris had never been to a Waffle House.

“Stop acting like you’re going to war. It’s literally a Waffle House, Eris.”

Lucien opened the door, gesturing his brother through. He was greeted with the smell of frying meats and brewing coffee, twisting around his nose and enveloping his senses lovingly against his better judgment. Eris paused for a moment before opening the inner door, wondering if he might use his handkerchief to open the greasy helm of this establishment, but Lucien was already there grabbing it.

“Pussy.”

Eris gritted his teeth and shoved him, following Lucien in, who was of course waving at everyone, looking like an old friend.

“Lu! Back so soon? It's not Wednesday!” The cook was a rotund older man, his salt and pepper stubble covering every inch of his lower face. He could have been someone’s grandfather had his face not been entirely filled with prison tattoos.

“Can't stay away, Bo. The waffles call to me.” Lucien slid easily into a seat at a booth by the windows, Eris following suit and grimacing as the hard plastic of it cracked against his tailbone.

“How often do you come here?”

“At least once a week. Elain loved their grits bowls when she was pregnant with Lara, and then we just made it a habit.”

Eris startled as a grizzled old woman seemed to suddenly appear at the side of their table, her haggard appearance reminding him of the witch masks they used to sell at Kmart in the early 90s.

“Rena! I haven't seen you in awhile. I wondered if you were still here.” The aged woman grinned a near-toothless smile at his little brother. She reeked of stale cigarettes layered over the smell of coffee and the cloying undercurrent of weed. Her curled bangs were teased to the skies, and her baby blue eyeshadow was sparkling over wrinkled eyelids.

“Yeah, well I was workin’ night shift until Katie beat the shit out of Carl on Sunday. Now I'm coverin’ until we can find someone else.” The drawl to her voice was unmatched, truly a relic from the coasts down here.

Lucien let out a low whistle. “That was bound to blow up eventually.”

What the fuck is happening, Eris whispered under his breath. How did Lucien know these people?

Rena shot him an ugly look, not missing his comment, but Lucien stepped in. “It's my brother’s first time. Gotta pop the Waffle House cherry,” he laughed out, wiggling his eyebrows at Rena. She turned and shot Eris a mocking, saccharine smile while Eris fought the urge to roll his eyes.

She sat a menu down lovingly in front of Lucien, as though cradling a laminated babe, then haphazardly tossed Eris’ at him.

“Coffee?”

Eris and Lucien both nodded and Rena left to go grab mugs.

“How the hell do you know all these people, Lucien?”

“I told you, I'm here at least once a week. If you're not a surly asshole all the time, people talk to you.”

“Then thank God I'm a surly asshole.”

Eris looked down at the brightly colored and slightly sticky menu. He wasn't sure where to begin, and some of the combinations of food were things he'd never even seen before.

“Why would you put scrambled eggs into your grits?”

“Careful. Elain might have your skin for talking shit on her favorite breakfast.” Eris grimaced. “Everything is great, truly you can't go wrong.” Lucien wasn't even looking at the menu, probably assuming he'd just say “my regular” when the waffle bog witch returned.

And return she did, silently again as Eris fought the urge to jump, setting two steaming mugs of coffee down. She was unsettling, a single milky eye tracking him with absolutely unveiled distaste as she dropped a bowl of tiny creamer pods in front of him with a clatter.

“What'll ya have?”

Damn. Eris hadn't decided yet. Lucien, annoyingly gallant, just grinned with all his teeth, pulling her attention to him.

“I'll get my usual.”

Knew it.

“And he’ll have the hashbrowns, double order, extra well, smothered and covered. Do you like it spicy?”

Eris nodded, dumbfounded at the string of words leaving his brother's mouth like some sort of code or spell. “Peppered and country, too, Rena, please.”

She smiled at Lucien. “You want a grits bowl for Elain and a to-go chocolate for the little one too?” His grin broadened and his eyes sparkled.

“You're too sweet to us, Rena, but the girls are at the beach today, so just us.” She patted his shoulder.

“You let me know if you need anything else, and I'll get that right in for ya.”

She left without a single look Eris’ way while he tried to decide what just happened and decode what the fuck Lucien had just ordered him.

“How's work been?”

That, Eris could talk about. He dumped a cream and two sugars into his coffee and stirred.

“Fine. Busy lately with the Strayer case.” There had been a big local uproar lately about the Strayer family–old money and a succession of attorneys with a long line of suspicious crimes covered up over the decades. It had finally all come to a head this past year when the wife and youngest son had been brutally murdered on their plantation property.

Eris had been assigned as partial counsel on the case, and it had been consuming all his days and some of his nights, too. It was invigorating in a way work had never been for him before, and he'd been happily enjoying the challenge

“It's all over the news. You're gonna be some big hot shot now?” Lucien asked, teasingly. Eris sipped the coffee, strong and hot and, against his better judgment, not half bad.

Eris couldn't help but laugh at his brother's teasing. With twelve years between them, they hadn't always been close, but it was nice getting to live near him again. He liked Elain, and he enjoyed being around Lara and playing the fun uncle.

“Hardly. But it has been nice.”

“Has dad called?” The question might as well be rhetorical. Their father, a once-prolific attorney himself in North Carolina, would sooner drop dead than offer a word of praise or kindness towards his children.

“Of course not. But I did talk to mom. She said she’ll be down to visit for Christmas?”

“Yeah, she’s staying with us. You’re welcome to stay at the house–”

The food arrived just in time, steaming bowls of…something dropped in front of both of them, then plate after small plate of orders descended until it felt like the whole table was full. Rena ignored him again as she asked Lucien if he needed anything else before leaving.

“What the fuck did you order me?”

He couldn’t deny it smelled heavenly–some sort of monstrosity with a variety of breakfast foods involved.

“Don’t be a dick, Eris. Just try it.” Lucien was already shoveling food into his mouth. Ever since he’d turned ten, he’d become a human garbage disposal. Eris grimaced, but lifted his fork, checking it for cleanliness before tucking in.

Lucien watched him, still shoveling some sort of breakfast sandwich into his mouth.

The hash browns were a crisp caramel color and shining with grease, the melted “cheese” on top giving off a sparkling sheen of plastic. It looked like onion and jalapenos had been mixed in with breakfast sausage. Eris had never in his life seen anything so ridiculous, but it smelled incredible as he raised a forkful to his mouth.

As soon as he bit down, he knew he was a goner. He’d lost, and now he’d have to humble himself in front of his little brother for being right.

“Well?” Lucien was smirking like he already knew.

“Fine.”

“Fine what, Eris? I couldn’t quite get that.”

“It’s delicious.” The words were garbled as Eris was already barrelling another forkful into his face. He’d never had anything like it. It should be illegal to have any breakfast items this good. No wonder this place needed to look like a back alley diner attached to a prison–it would be flooded if everyone found out how good the food was. He was already calculating the time it would take to drive here on his way to work in the mornings.

As if reading his mind, Lucien pointed the fork at him. “Now you have to make friends with Rena”

“I’m not sure anything I say can endear her to me at this point.” They looked over to find Rena outside lighting a blunt in the parking lot. “Something tells me she isn’t a fan of law enforcement.”

Lucien laughed. “Elain brought her fudge. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Eris was wondering if she might like those cookie baskets the interns were always buying and leaving around the office when she turned, caught him staring, and spit onto the sidewalk while maintaining eye contact with him.

“Yeahhhhh, I’m not gonna hold my breath on that.”

Before he knew it, Eris was scraping the bottom of the plate, the last slips of hash browns evading his fork while Lucien leaned back in his seat, sated.

“Now wasn’t that a lovely breakfast, Eris?” Instead of answering, he swigged down the dregs of his coffee, more satisfied than he’d been at a breakfast in, well, ever.

“Yes, yes. You win, I yield.”

“See, now, if you’d just be more open to going places with me without having to lose a bet to do it, who knows what you might find?”

Eris grumbled something unintelligible.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” The wild eyes of his littlest brother sparkled with mischief as he leaned across the table.

“I’m NOT going to South of the Border with you, Lucien. I don’t care how many times or ways you ask.” But there was a hint of amusement in Lucien’s voice as he issued a responding cackle, the two brothers happy and laughing in the marbled gray plastic booths of the Waffle House.

Taglist: @erisweekofficial @chunkypossum @clockwork-ashes @acourtofladydeath @secret-third-thing @the-darkestminds

[carriesthewind]

Since I have wadded into the discourse, a few clarifications (below the cut b/c I've taken up enough of people's dashes):

I am not on the side of the publishers in this case. They suck too; in general, the IA is a good organization and the big publishers are the bad guys! In fact, the publishers are also (a) bad guy in this case - they are and will ABSOLUTELY try to use this case to increase the limits on libraries and digital lending. They are profit driven monsters who would destroy every library on earth if they could.

That's actually part of why I'm so mad about how this case is being talked about! Because by their own actions, the IA has put this case in a position where the IA literally cannot win unless their "National Emergency Library" (aka just stealing books) is held to be legal. That doesn't mean it's worse case scenario if they lose their appeal - for example, an appeals court could issue a narrow ruling on the facts of the case. It just means there is no good scenario where they outright win. But, if they appeal their very bad case with its very bad facts, that increases the risk of creating precedent that limits libraries and digital lending. If you think it's worth the risk, that's fine - but ignoring the actual risks and likelihood of success isn't "supporting libraries;" it's acting based on ignorance (at best).

Digital publishing and lending, as it currently legally exists, really really sucks. There is a reason why, although many authors and author organizations dislike the IA's "Open Library," other authors like it and have written in support of it!* There is a reason why, although I have linked to author criticism of IA and of its "Controlled Digital Lending" and stated that I think it clearly violates existing copyright law, I have not stated (and will not state) a personal opinion on whether I think CDL (as it exists in the one-to-one, owned to loaned theory, rather than how it was implemented in practice) is less undesirable as a copyright schema than existing digital copyright law. The IA and its supporters are right that current copyright law doesn't allow for the real ownership or preservation of e-books! They are right that publishers greedily limit libraries' and patrons' access to e-books, and they are right about how bad the current system is! (I do not endorse any praise for library e-reader apps and lenders in the notes of my posts. While I enjoy and support using them, from a library perspective, they also suck - specifically, the predatory charges for e-books lending suck libraries dry.) The IA is broadly on the right(er) side of this issue: but they still did a shitty, dumb thing, and they are deliberately misrepresenting the situation in an extremely offensive and potentially harmful way!

I already emphasized this in the original post, but just in case: I do not hate the IA. I do not want them to go away. I very much like a lot of the things they do and want them to keep existing! (Although I would add: if they actually believe their principles they should absolutely have set things up to preserve - at minimum - their archival functions as much as possible if they - as an organization - cease to exist.) But! I would also like, at a minimum, for them to stop deliberately misrepresenting the situation. Their stated mission is "universal access to all knowledge." If they cared about that mission - or if they really see themselves as librarians, and not just a database of products - they should maybe start making sure the public is getting accurate, useful, and meaningful knowledge about this case, instead of propaganda to inflate their own egos.

*Although I would be VERY curious to know what kind of briefing of the actual factual and legal situation some of the authors who signed onto that open letter received. Based on the snippets I read, some were clearly well-informed; many were just talking broadly about how great libraries are; and some indicated a serious factual misunderstanding of how both libraries, the IA, and digital lending in general work.

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

wip wednesday

tagged by @try-set-me-on-fire @exhuastedpigeon @transboybuckley @daffi-990 @tizniz

muah thank you!

some more calls fic for ya'll. poor eddie is missing buck while in texas

"I like having you around, Buck,” Eddie assures him, and this time the words are as tender as he wants them to be. “Not just because of what you do for me. But because I enjoy being with you. You–you make things good, y’know? And Chris feels the same way, alright? So just–deal with it.”

A laugh trembles out of Buck, shaky and breathless and quiet, tumbling through the phone so soundlessly that Eddie nearly misses it. “Not giving me a choice, huh?” Buck asks, delight dancing broadly in his tone.

“Nope,” Eddie replies brightly, popping the p loud enough that it echoes throughout the dim darkness in front of him.

He can hear Buck smile in response to the smug joviality bursting out of Eddie. “I miss you too, Eds.”

There’s no sound to that smile, not really, but it’s there, clear as day and transparent as glass, wrapped like parentheses around the sweet sentence that fell out of his mouth.

In reality, there is nothing to actually indicate Buck is smiling but that doesn't stop Eddie from believing it’s there. It’s a surety that Eddie can feel deep in his bones, something that doesn’t require sight, just knowledge.

The dimensions of that smile poke into Eddie’s ribs and tug on his heart, lifting the edges of that ruined, persevering muscle into a synonymous shape.

It used to scare him, how well he knew Buck, that every inch of him was more familiar to Eddie than his own body, that he could detect one of Buck’s smiles just from the way the air shifts around it. If he’s honest, it still scares him, because knowing someone like that can only mean that you are known in return.

tagging @spaceprincessem @elvensorceress @bucktits @911onabc @sibylsleaves @bvckandeddie @devirnis @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @lover-of-mine @rogerzsteven @buddierights @monsterrae1 @loserdiaz @lemonzestywrites @shitouttabuck @butchdiaz @bucks118 @captain-hen @kananjarus @rewritetheending @wildlife4life @wh0re-behavi0r and anyone else who wants to share!

[justporo]

A Night of Song and Laughter (Bonus chapter)

I've been thinking of writing this and now I finally did it - it was also kinda requested over on AO3. Was nice to come back to this story for a bit - writing this silly little thing just came right back to me.

In true original fashion this posted at almost 2am and not proofread so enjoy!

CHAPTER LIST

Pairing: Astarion / Fem!Tav (You) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Descriptions of violence Song: I Can't Decide - Scissor Sisters

Exactly one week later the two of you had made their way to “Maeve’s” again although Astarion had insisted he’d hated your night out at the tavern (“Although not how the night ended, my dear, that was very much to my liking.”). But you had made a promise and despite his show of indifference you were sure you’d seen his eyes sparkle a little when you had mentioned that Lira and Daegin would for sure be very displeased if only showed up for a round of drinks – or four, five, six (judging by your track record).

At the entrance you’d been greeted by Don again who had embraced you tightly – happy to see you made out in one piece from being on the run from the city guards and weren’t stuck behind bars. He had even heavily hit Astarion on the back, remembering how the rogue had elegantly taken out two of the guards at once. The vampire had simply winced and submitted to the pats even though his face conveyed he would have rather been captured by the guards that night.

Once past that first hurdle you entered the tavern which had already been busy despite the early time of the night. Remembering what had happened on the dance floor last time you had blushed a deep red and when you had thrown Astarion a glance he had grinned broadly, winked at you and then had let his hand run down softly your arm. The one you knew you would see soft glowing markings if you’d taken a look right then and there.

Making your way to the gallery the vampire’s mood had immediately soured when he had seen a familiar dwarf at the bottom of the stairs. The rogue’s nose had scrunched up and stayed like that while you approached Kirin who had jumped up and down in joy seeing you. He’d slapped both his hands on his thighs and had grinned, almost looking as if he’d been calling a dog over. But you hadn’t minded that at all.

“Well, if it ain’t me favourite lass! Com’ere ye silly elf, let me give ye a hug!”, the dwarven bouncer had screamed at you and dragged you down in a crushing hug that had almost made you drop to your knees. When the dwarf had let go his gaze had wandered to your soulmate, the dwarf’s nose scrunching in the same way Astarion’s had: “Ah yes, and me least favourite lass… Ye owe me big time, boy!“

A muscle had ticked in Astarion’s jaw. “Why would I owe something to you, dwarf?“, he had hissed at Kirin.

“Because”, Kirin had immediately growled back “I saved ye skinny arse!”

Astarion had looked ready to stick a knife in the dwarf’s throat then and you had simply dragged him on and up the stairs to meet your friends.

There you had been greeted by Lira and Daegin who’d almost immediately started screaming at you to “tell us what in the Nine Hells happened after we went home?”. Astarion and you had thrown each other a glance and had then started to tell them – of course intentionally letting out the more ‘private’ parts of the story.

When you had been telling them about how Miyena had threatened you (of course not mentioning the whole vampire and stake thing), Lira had become frighteningly silent – up until she had taken a swig of her drink and had put her mug down so hard it had cracked.

“If this bitch ever threatens you again, I will stick a goddamn knife into her heart”, Lira had silently vowed while staring off into the void. The whole table had stared at her in terror as this gentle soul had spoken probably the vilest thing she had ever uttered.

Even the vampire looked stricken – especially since she had barely even used a swear word the last time you guys had spoken. But it had been quite obvious that actually threatening your friends where she drew the definite line.

“You’ll need to get in line for that, darling”, Astarion had replied to her after some time, breaking your group out of the stupor before he had taken a sip of his wine. “I already vowed my dagger to pierce her blackened heart should she ever cross our paths again.”

“Aye, I’ll drink to that”, Daegin had mumbled to that and emptied his beer.

After that the mood had lightened considerably. You had spent the evening talking, drinking, joking. And you surely didn’t leave the tavern any earlier than the last time. Although this time there were now elven rituals, no cityguards chasing you and you did actually leave through the front door this time.

In front of the tavern the four of you exchanged hugs – or rather you and Lira forced the men into them and you parted ways, agreeing to make this a regular date. Then Astarion and you had went on your ways.

There was still time in the night so you had started wandering around the streets of the Lower City.

Although the Lower City had quite the reputation – especially at night – you felt light-hearted and -footed as you wandered down dark alleyways. Maybe the amount of alcohol you had once again consumed had something to do with it but maybe it was just the joy of a wonderful night out with your soulmate. You had your arm in the crook of his arm and kept stealing adoring glances at Astarion who had the good graces to just let you drunkenly and dreamily stare at him without commenting on it. He, however, stole glances at you too – loving and warm, with an joyful sparkle in his eyes. The vampire was just a lot more subtle about it.

Not that you’d have noticed either way once you had started telling Astarion stupid puns and broke down laughing after almost every single one. They were quite objectively terrible but your drunk brain could not imagine anything funnier. Astarion’s face had become a tortured grimace.

“What do you – “, you already started laughing. “What do you call a wizard that asks you questions?”, you asked Astarion and stared at him while you almost couldn’t contain yourself.

Astarion sighed heavily: “I don’t know, love, maybe you should ask Gale and not me.”

You snickered but kept silent. Astarion pinched his nose with his free hand and gave another sigh: “What do you call a wizard that asks questions, my drunk little jester?”

“A quizard!”, you exclaimed as soon as Astarion had finished speaking and burst out laughing.

The vampire’s mouth pressed into a thin line – he quite obviously was asking himself why he had objected himself to this hell of a relationship.

But your laughter was contagious and so was your whole being when you threw your head back, your eyes closed and hung desperately on his arm.

The vampire watched you laugh open and whole-heartedly: the way your nose crinkled with the small lines of the scar over it, the way the tattooed horns bending away from your eyelids had become such an accustomed sight for him, the little dagger earrings you always wore dangling and shaking, little freckles all over your skin like scattered stars on the night sky, your reddish hair that was swinging in a high ponytail tonight (fully and completely Astarion’s accomplishment), how your neck became red from all the laughing.

“You’re staring, Astarion, something on my face?”, you said as the rogue has lost his subtlety about his admiration for you and had started gazing at you with a growing smile.

When he heard you say that he blinked and then moved his face closer, staring at you with furrowed brows: “Yes actually, now that you’re mentioning it, my love…”

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Yes, right there…”, Astarion whispered and moved in even closer.

You were genuinely confused.

“You have some vampire on your lips”, he continued and then closed the space between you both to kiss you sweetly.

But it was only of short duration as you had to pull back to laugh again: “And you say my puns are bad. That was terrible, darling.” And you lean in again to kiss him again.

But this time Astarion broke the kiss. His head swung around all of a sudden – the joyful mood immediately forgotten. The way he stared off into the darkness of the alley you were standing in, like a cat observing potential prey, sobered you up quicker than you would have liked.

“Stay here for a moment, my love”, Astarion whispered and untangled from you. His tone was tense, but you could almost hear his smirk in it.

Whatever he had noticed in the dark, it was about to be found out. The vampire slipped into the even deeper shadows of the alley until even you with your elven senses could neither hear or see something of him.

Your heart was racing although you rationally knew that Astarion would not have left your side if there had been any real danger.

You waited as silence drew out – the only sounds being your own beating heart, the rushing of your blood in your ears and the squeaking of some rats pattering about. Patiently you waited, staying as still as your alcohol level allowed.

Then you heard a scream and some crashing, bodies probably falling over each other and suddenly you could make out Astarion again. He was crouched down over – someone?

You carefully stepped closer as you could hear the vampire hiss to the person he had laying on the cobblestones, one knee viciously pressing in their back and with one hand holding their head by their short hair.

“Did that fucking tiefling send you?”, Astarion growled – he seemed positively livid.

Tiefling? You suddenly had the connection between the figure being pressed to the shoddy stones of the street and Astarion’s accusation: Eodin!

Your eyes widened and almost as suddenly as you felt the surprise you felt the anger – at least a fraction of what the vampire obviously felt. “What the fuck are you doing here?”, you hissed at him stepping in front of the human that had started whimpering.

“Miyena, yes! Miyena sent me, she made me do it!”, Eodin exclaimed as Astarion dragged his head up by his hair.

You crossed your arms over your chest. Your sympathy with your former friend – and yes, former lover (even though you dreaded thinking about it) – was pretty much non-existent. And if your other former friend Miyena sent him to follow you in a dark alley at night you were pretty sure you didn’t need to have some anyway.

You stared at this pathetic excuse of a human being until you noticed Astarion was looking at you – his gaze a wild mix of anger, worry and… amusement? His eyes darted down to Eodin’s head whose face was now once more pressed into the dirt then back to you again and a smirk had started playing over his lips. Astarion raised his eyebrows, with it asking your permission to go ahead. You were not exactly sure for what or what he wanted to do but you just shrugged at him softly.

That was enough for him to get going.

“Alright, you listen here you little twat”, Astarion hissed and dragged the man’s head up again. “Since you are so very obviously not the one in charge, you’re going to relay a little message for me, do you understand me?”, the vampire continued, lifting Eodin’s face to his while his knee still firmly pressed into the guy’s back. Astarion’s fangs were very obviously bared in threateningly.

Eodin winced, his eyes rolling like crazy but he said nothing.

Astarion rolled his eyes in annoyance and breathed out dramatically before he forcefully pushed down Eodin’s head on the ground; repeatedly. And in time with his words: “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Fuck you, vampire!”, Eodin pressed out and swung at Astarion with something silver glinting in his hand. Obviously, he had managed to free one of his arms.

But his moves were sluggish and he was up against a rogue that already had the upper hand. Astarion grabbed his hand and crushed it to the ground, sending a dagger flying.

And the scene suddenly changed again. The attempt to defy him had the vampire lose any of his playful demeanour. He pulled the human men up until he stumbled awkwardly up onto his knees and then his feet – only to be pressed against a wall. You took a step or two back in shock – your drunken state making you stagger a little.

“I was only going to play with you, but it seems you have to spoil the fun for the both of us”, Astarion hissed. He had his own dagger out now and pressed it against Eodin’s threat, already drawing some blood. His other hand was forcefully holding the man’s head against the stones. Eodin did not even muster a sound anymore but his eyes were full with shock.

“My love, why don’t you pick up that dagger over there, before some idiot runs into it”, the vampire then said to you and gave you a little wink that seemed entirely out of place for this situation. But you just shrugged and took the few steps over to where the discarded weapon lay.

You picked it up and turned around again and saw just the end of Astarion whispering something into Eodin’s ear. You could basically see the man lose several shades of colour even in the dark and his eyes widening even more. He desperately tried breaking free from the vampire’s grip.

But Astarion held him there, watched his fear grow until he finally let the man go who fell to his knees and the stumbled away faster than you had ever see him do in your thieving days.

“Not even a stake – what is this? Amateur hours? Tss”, Astarion said clucking his tongue and  turned around to you seemingly playful. But you saw the way he still clenched his fingers around his dagger and how there still was a deep wrinkle between his brows.

He slowly started to saunter towards where you stood now aimlessly with the dagger in hand.

“Maybe your former friend wanted to get rid of him more than she wanted to get rid of us”, he continued and gave a high-pitched giggle as he came closer and put his dagger away. Then he put an arm around you, when he was in front of you.

“What did you say to him?”, you asked Astarion looking up at him, still holding the godsdamned dagger.

“Oh, nothing in particular really. Just how I would splatter all his blood and organs on the floor in excruciating detail if he ever came to cross my path again, my sweet”, Astarion replied and made big red round puppy eyes at you while carefully taking the weapon out of your hands and stowing it away.

“The usual then, I see”, you simply replied. “Hmm”, the vampire replied and looked at you lovingly – as if you had not just talked about smearing your ex’s blood all over the wall.

But worry suddenly washed over the rogue’s face as your eyes glazed over: “Are you alright, my love?”

You looked from left to right, a bit irritated by the question – you had merely felt tiredness settling in your bones. “Well, I almost fell when I leaned down to pick up this dagger because I’m still awfully drunk but other than that – not a hair out of place! Just tired.”

The vampire watched you, nodding in mocking sympathy for you and your hard lot. Then he wrapped his other arm against you and pushed you against the nearest wall: “Maybe I know a cure to get you out of that, my heart.” His lips were so close to yours and your body immediately reacted to his actions by sending heatwaves through it.

You felt awfully reminded of the last time you had found yourself pressed against a wall in a dark alley by this vampire – it had been like a week.

“Oh no no no, we can’t keep doing it in the godsdamned streets like dogs, Astarion.” You tried to push him away a little. If he wanted you he could very well have you: but in the comfort of you cozy bed at home where it was warm and you could comfortably slide into dreams while being wrapped up in your lovers arms; and not here where you seemed to have a track record of getting threatened with knives.

The vampire pouted at you a little but then a mischievous twinkle entered his eyes. With quick and swift movements he had taken you and thrown you over his shoulders and had started walking.

You squeaked and shook your legs. “This is also a thing that can’t keep happening, Astarion, you bastard”, you whisper-screamed at him and drummed your fists on his back.

“I don’t care, my love. I played the hero and defended my lady from the vicious villain, now I get to have my reward”, Astarion proclaimed and patted your butt.

“Your reward will be a major beating when I get down from here”, you hissed but you knew he was only teasing you.

“Ugh, don’t tease me with a good time, my love”, Astarion quickly shot back and gave your butt a slap.

You yelped and sulked that he so easily outwitted you when it came to playful banter. You leaned your elbows on his back and put your head on your open palm as you pouted over his insolent behaviour.

Then when you were almost home, you decided to try a different approach: “Hey, want to hear another pun?” Astarion groaned.

“What do you call the woman letting herself be carried home by the vampire?”, you asked as the vampire took the few steps to the front door of your house. Then he carefully set you down on the final step.

“Borderline suicidal?”, Astarion answered cheerfully with a huge shit-eating grin and one eyebrow raised.

“How about completely and utterly in love with you”, you replied and leaned in for a long and tender kiss. Then the vampire broke away.

“That was the first good one I heard from you, darling”, he whispered to you. “Funnily enough the vampire is also completely and utterly in love with you, you silly little jester.”

-- THE END