#wring a faithful heart

[novaursa]

can you please write something with the reader being the queen of a far away kingdom that is kinda similar to the targaryen house but instead of dragons they have elike either magic or something. and reader ends up befriending rhaenyra which has the reader being a very powerful ally and the greens notice this , with alicent still wanting to steal the throne but otto is like “…nahhhh” , so rhaenyra becomes queen with the reader there and just standing all badass and stuff kinda comedic if you can please

The Witch Queen

- Summary: You arrive from faraway land to aid Rhaenyra before her rightful claim is stolen.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: This might be slightly darker than you asked for, but the spooky season vibes guided me with this one. I hope you still like it, dear anon. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: long live the queen

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The wind carried a sharp, briny scent from the sea as your ship glided through the dark waters toward the docks of King's Landing, its shadow stretching ominously beneath the moonlit sky. The black sails of your fleet billowed against the midnight horizon, a ghostly procession that had gone unnoticed until now. No banners heralded your arrival, no horns sounded from the walls of the Red Keep. The city slept in ignorance of the storm you had brought.

At your side, your court stood with heads held high, their violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight, their pale, silver-gold hair swept back in intricate braids that mirrored your own. House Tyvarella was not accustomed to formalities that belonged to lesser kings or the pious men of Westeros. You were the Queen of a realm far older than this one, a survivor of Valyria’s doom, and there was no need for permission to make yourself known.

As you stepped onto the cobblestones, the whispers from the shadows began to ripple. The common folk had heard the tales—stories of your house, the blood mages of Tyvarella, feared even by those who once tamed dragons. To those of the Faith of the Seven, you were a creature from their darkest myths, a figure woven into the very fabric of their nightmares. And now, you were here, at the heart of their crumbling kingdom.

“The night brings ill omens,” Otto Hightower muttered, his hands wringing in that nervous, meticulous way of his. He stood by a flickering torchlight, watching as your procession marched through the streets toward the Red Keep. His face was pale, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of wariness and disgust. “They come as vultures, Alicent, like specters summoned by death itself. We need to leave, now.”

Alicent Hightower, now Dowager Queen, stood by his side, her delicate fingers gripping the edges of her gown as if holding herself together. Her emerald eyes, though wary, flickered with a strange curiosity as she gazed at your retinue. “They were not expected, not invited… What are they doing here?”

“Nothing good, I assure you,” Otto responded with grim certainty. “King Viserys is dead. They arrive just as his breath fades. They bring with them blood magic and ruin. If we stay—”

A distant sound cut through the air, carried on the wind—the solemn toll of bells echoing across the city. Viserys was gone. The king had breathed his last.

Alicent's breath hitched as the realization washed over her. Her husband, the father of her children, the king, was dead. And here you stood, arriving at this precise moment, as if heralding the change to come.

But her eyes strayed, flickering toward the upper windows of the Red Keep. Through the torch-lit chambers, she caught a glimpse of another figure—Rhaenyra. The Princess had been kept behind, confined within the castle after that last bitter feast Viserys had demanded, the one after Vaemond Velaryon met his end.

Rhaenyra stood by the window now, her gaze drawn irresistibly to you. Alicent noticed it in an instant, the way her rival, her stepdaughter, leaned closer to the glass, watching your every movement with a deep, unspoken longing. Rhaenyra’s eyes were fixed on you, even from this distance, her expression one of unmistakable hunger and fascination.

“Do you see that?” Alicent whispered, her voice tight. “She… she looks at her.”

Otto followed her gaze, his lips tightening. “Rhaenyra’s drawn to power,” he said dismissively, though a hint of concern tugged at his tone. “It’s in her blood. But this... this is different. Tyvarella’s magic is ancient, forbidden. If she aligns herself with them, it will be disastrous.”

Alicent felt a wave of unease roll through her, but before she could respond, the heavy gates of the Red Keep groaned open, and you stepped inside. The room fell into a hush, as if the very stones of the castle were holding their breath. You entered without ceremony, your violet eyes scanning the gathering of lords and courtiers, none of whom dared meet your gaze directly.

And then, you saw her.

Rhaenyra.

She descended the grand staircase, her silken black gown flowing behind her like the wings of a raven. Her silver hair glowed in the candlelight, and her lips were parted ever so slightly, as if tasting the air between you. The tension in the room coiled tight, palpable.

When your eyes met hers, the world seemed to fall away.

You had seen her before, of course. But this… this was different. Here, in this moment of death and turmoil, the connection between you felt like a thread of fire, burning through the distance between you both. Her breath hitched as she came to stand before you, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft yet carrying a weight that pulled at something deep inside of you. “You came.”

“I did,” you replied, your voice steady, though the sight of her stirred something untamed within you. “I came as soon as I sensed it. Viserys is gone, and now… the realm will fall to chaos.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line, pain flashing in her eyes at the mention of her father, but she didn’t look away. “They’ll come for me. For my children.”

“And they’ll have to go through me first.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened at your words, the weight of your promise settling over her like a shield. Her hand, pale and trembling, reached out ever so slightly, as if testing the waters between you. And then, without another word, she placed it in yours.

A murmur spread through the room. Alicent stiffened where she stood, her face pale as the dawn.

Otto watched in silence, his mind already racing, already calculating. He knew what this meant. He knew that your presence here was more than a disruption. It was a declaration.

“We should have left when we had the chance,” he muttered, just loud enough for Alicent to hear. “Now it’s too late.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, her fingers warm despite the cool air. “Will you stay?”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “For as long as you need me.”

[xoxohannas-world]

treat me mean and cruel, but love me

wring my faithful heart

[odilelajolie]

Hunted, Ch. 1

Summary:

Several years after escaping FBI custody, Cooper Adams has quietly settled in a remote Vermont town. He's a monster in remission--his violent urges lay dormant.

But when he catches sight of Alice, a traumatized 18-year-old girl, a new form of predatory darkness overtakes his demented mind. Young and achingly vulnerable, she's a lost soul as alone in the world as he is.

Alice needs the care of a proper Daddy, and as soon as she stops resisting, Cooper knows she'll accept the special kind of love he's been saving for a special little girl like her...

Ch. 1: Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

As far as Alice could tell, it would be yet another ordinary night in a long sequence of ordinary nights at the Sugar Maple Diner. 

Though it wasn’t as if she entirely minded. There was a strong part of her that actually took comfort in the familiarity of it all, the mundane routine of her small, simple world, regardless of the fact that it was rather dull most days. 

Dull meant safe—and safe was a good thing, especially for someone like her. 

Alice absently rotated her sore neck and shoulders as she made her way into the cozy, 50s-nostalgic restaurant, offering a friendly wave to the owner, Mr. Andrews, one of the only people in town who still bothered to interact with her. Not only had he given her a job when everyone else had refused to hire her, but he and his wife had even opened their home to Alice on occasion for a glass of lemonade, or tea and cookies, or a holiday meal. 

Alice rarely accepted these invitations from the elderly couple, always fearful she’d inadvertently exhaust the goodwill they generously harbored for her. But she appreciated their kindness, an increasing rarity for Alice, so she was always happy to volunteer whenever they needed help with little projects around their house to express her gratitude in return. 

Alice idled near the jukebox just beyond the hostess stand to see if Mr. Andrews would return her greeting, but he was busy behind the bar serving beer to a group of chatty truckers, and clearly didn’t have much spare time to say hello. 

Shaking off the brief, sharp pang of loneliness, the aching desire for someone—anyone—to talk to her, Alice headed straight for the break room to change into her uniform—an old fashioned pale pink dress with a white apron. She secured her hair in a high ponytail, and exactly five minutes before six p.m., she returned to the main dining room for her shift, forcing a smile on her face. 

The hours elapsed in the same, slow fashion they always did. The dinner rush—if merely five parties of no more than four people across three hours could be called that—consisted of the same group of Tuesday night regulars Alice had been waiting on for nearly a year now. Alice no longer bothered with trying to introduce herself, much less engage in small talk with her tables, for the town locals had long made it very clear ever since her return that they had no interest in speaking with her. So instead, Alice remained small and silent as she scribbled orders on her notepad, taking up as little space as possible as she refilled drinks, cleaned up spills, and delivered steaming plates of comfort food from the kitchen.

And she did all of this with her head perpetually lowered, so that no one would have to suffer the unnecessary discomfort of looking at her. 

By ten o’clock, the restaurant was deserted, and the only other employee remaining was Ted, the largely wordless cook who kept to himself even more strictly than Alice did. Alice generally took her own meal break around this time when it was just the two of them twiddling their thumbs until closing, silence broken only by the rockabilly and Doo-wop melodies sung by the jukebox. But before she could write down her request for a cup of soup and a half-sandwich, losing herself for a few moments to the croons of Elvis Presley—wring my faithful heart; tear it all apart; but love me—the door chime cheerfully rang, signaling the arrival of a customer. 

Alice gulped at the intimidating sight of the new arrival, and he was definitely new—she surely would have noticed him around the tiny town before now if he were a local. He was almost as broad as he was tall—and he was frighteningly tall—with the build of an elite athlete, like a champion MMA fighter, his long limbs hard and big and savage. The charcoal sweater and dark jeans he wore actually seemed to struggle to keep his toned muscles contained. 

He had thick, silky hair the color of dark roast coffee, and a closely-shorn mustache and short, angular beard. He was a very handsome man, perhaps in his early-to-mid forties, but when Alice finally met his eyes, she was instantly rendered breathless by a powerful, inexplicable sense of sheer terror that seemed to seize her by the throat, and choke her. 

Shadowed by a prominent brow bone, his inky, hooded eyes were disturbingly dark. Chilling. They reminded Alice of the eyes of a shark. Fathomless. Cold. 

Predatory. 

“Hey there…can I get a table?” 

Unlike his frightening eyes, the velvety timber of the man’s deep voice actually inspired an equally strong sense of comfort—relief—causing the paranoid internal alarms within her body to faintly recede. 

Alice was rendered profoundly unbalanced, nearly on the verge of collapsing to the floor from the whiplash of such opposing instincts.

Perplexed by her body’s strange reactions to the stranger, Alice quickly nodded and dutifully lowered her head. She reached for a menu and silently beckoned the man to follow her, her shoulders arched nearly all the way to her ears as she timidly guided him to her favorite booth by the windows with the prettiest view of the forest.

He followed her with slow, heavy foot falls, and Alice nearly caved in on herself when she was directly confronted with just how much bigger he was up close as he slid into the booth with athletic, equanimous movements. 

Even sitting down, he was huge. 

Alice placed the menu on the table once he appeared settled, and reached into her apron pocket for her notepad and pen, waiting expectantly for him to provide his drink order, as all other customers automatically did upon sitting. 

But when he didn’t speak after several moments, Alice shyly raised her head, and was surprised to find the man gently smiling at her. 

He looked even more handsome when he smiled—

“There you are,” he said warmly, his voice triggering a sudden influx of delightful tingles throughout her weary muscles. “How are you doing tonight?”

Too stunned to speak, Alice felt hot blush rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. 

How long had it been since someone had asked her how she was? 

Seemingly sensing her unease, the man continued, “Sorry—you probably don’t want to talk with an old man like me,” he said ruefully, and Alice was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. This handsome stranger was being more sociable with her than anyone had in months, and she was messing everything up. “Would it be possible to order—”

“I’m A-Alice,” she interrupted shakily—awkwardly—cheeks boiling at the mousy sound of her own voice. 

To her relief, the man’s smile only widened, and there was a flicker of playfulness in his eyes, somewhat tempering the otherwise unnerving quality in his dark gaze. 

“That’s a very pretty name,” he replied. “I’m Cooper.”

Cooper. Alice repeated the name in her head. It sounded strong and masculine.

She quite liked it. 

“Put us together and we’re rock stars,” he added. Alice frowned in confusion. “I…I don’t follow—”

“Alice Cooper?” Alice shook her head, and Cooper released a slow sigh. “Ahh…don’t mind me—I’m betraying my age here. He’s before your time.”

“Oh. Okay.” Alice swallowed hard. “Umm…w-welcome to the S-Sugar Maple Diner,” she offered, remembering she needed to do her job. It had been so long since she’d been required to introduce herself to a customer that Alice was quickly finding she was woefully out of practice with the basics. “M-may I get you something to drink, sir?” 

“Well I was taking a look at what you have on tap, but I notice you don’t have a bartender right now,” Cooper mentioned. “And I suspect you’re not quite old enough to legally go behind the bar.”

“Yeah…the bar closes at nine on weekdays. Mr. Andrews—he’s the owner—he already left for the night, and he usually handles that stuff.” Embarrassed, Alice tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Call me Cooper.”

“I’m sorry, Cooper.”

“So, how old are you?”

“Eighteen—but I’ll be nineteen next month.”

She wasn’t sure why she shared that detail. It certainly wasn’t as if her upcoming birthday made her seem any less young and pathetic. 

“Ahh…definitely too young to pour alcohol.” Cooper softly chuckled, his deep-chested rumble pleasantly tickling her ears. “In that case, how about a nice cold glass of Coke?”

“Would you prefer a frosted glass or ice?”

“Ice, please.”

Alice wrote down the order with a nod. “Coke with ice, coming right up.”

She began to turn on her toes to prepare his soda, but then he spoke again.

“So what do you recommend here?” Cooper asked. 

“Recommend?” Alice repeated slowly. “You mean…to eat?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Alice realized what a stupid response it truly was.

The townsfolk’s collective avoidance of her was clearly not entirely to blame for her poor conversation skills. 

Of course he was asking her what to eat. She was a waitress. It was her job.

Mercifully, Cooper didn’t poke fun at her idiocy. “Yeah, what’s your favorite thing on the menu?” he asked. “If you were to join me for a meal, what would you order?”

Alice squeaked, “You want me to join you?” 

Cooper’s eyes widened, and he appeared even more shocked than she was. “Well, I was speaking hypothetically, but…sure! Why not. Care to join me?”

Alice thought she might actually pass out from embarrassment. 

Not only had she forgotten how to have a normal conversation, but she’d forgotten all about basic social cues. Sarcasm. Hypotheticals. 

Cooper was being friendly. Nothing more. He didn’t actually want to spend time with her—he just had good manners. 

“Umm…I’m really not supposed to…” Alice trailed off, nervously biting her lip. 

Unperturbed, Cooper shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “Perhaps some other time then.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice and added in a conspiratorial murmur, “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my account.” 

There was an undeniably patronizing quality to his warm baritone, but it wasn’t condescending in a negative way. The lilting way Cooper spoke was gentle, daresay caring, the low pitch of his manly deepness perfectly matched with a bright, uplifting enthusiasm.

Cooper spoke to her the way Alice remembered her own father used to speak to her—as if no one else in the world existed. As if she were important.

As if every word she spoke were the most brilliant thing ever to be uttered in history of the world, and he couldn’t get enough. 

Cooper had a…Dad voice, the kind of voice that felt like a warm, clean blanket fresh out of the dryer. 

He had a voice of absolute safety—a voice that made her feel brave. 

Like she could do anything. 

“I recommend the deluxe cheeseburger with fries,” Alice said, unable to contain her giddy smile. “Ted makes the best in town.”

Cooper kept a careful gaze on Alice through his peripherals as he chewed and swallowed the mediocre cheeseburger, though he made sure to provide plenty of appreciative grunts and moans throughout his labored consumption for the girl’s benefit. 

He’d been patiently watching her for nearly a year now. It wouldn’t do well to worry the skittish thing when he was so close to finally making her his, for little Alice was a painfully insecure, highly sensitive girl. She was pitifully naïve and defenseless, lonely and desperate for affection.

She was perfect—and finally ripe for his taking. 

When he’d originally made the decision to settle down in the middle of fucking nowhere, Vermont after several years on the run, he’d simply planned on living quietly for whatever remained of his existence. The monster within lay dormant—at least for now—the compulsion to destroy and dissect no longer eroding what little remained of his sanity. The urge had been a sickness, a magmatic fever, burning so hot in his veins it was boiling him alive. Cooper knew quite well it would have killed him eventually. 

But now, his insides were…cooler, warm instead of blisteringly hot, and the dark, animalistic impulses currently thrumming through his body were far less bloodthirsty in nature compared to his prior proclivities. 

Perhaps he was in remission. 

He’d spent more than forty years keeping the two opposing halves of his psyche strictly separate, diligently compartmentalizing every aspect of his life down to the most minute detail, but when he’d caught sight of this tiny angel of a girl almost ten months ago—so sweet and innocent and frightened and alone—Cooper was leveled, and struck with an epiphanic clarity.

Perhaps the separatist approach to mitigating his dangerous urges no longer served him. 

Perhaps the only way for him to survive was by reconciling his infernal hungers, once and for all. 

When Cooper had escaped FBI custody—doubling his body count in the process—he’d been forced to accept that the closest thing to real human connection he’d ever been able access, his family, was lost to him forever. He missed being a husband. He missed being a father. 

But when he saw Alice, he realized he could still be both.

She was as alone in the world as he was, an isolated little girl shunned by nearly everyone around her. At merely eighteen, she was young and exceedingly vulnerable, in dire need of a loving authority figure to guide her and keep her safe. 

And yet, she was also a woman. Barely legal, but a woman nonetheless, and a mouthwatering one at that. Alice was a tiny thing, shorter even than Riley was when he last saw her, her petite body a tight little package of soft, untouched femininity he was growing more and more ravenous to taste.  

Cooper had always been partial to blondes, and his little Alice was a natural platinum. A “baby” blonde. 

Sweet little baby blonde with her pretty baby blue eyes—

With her milky skin and delicate features—not to mention those pouty pink lips just begging to have something hard shoved between them—Alice could look like a porcelain doll one moment, and a sex kitten the next. She was an undeniably gorgeous girl, not yet aware of her erotic allure, and under different circumstances, he knew she could have had any man on his knees begging to fuck her.

Fortunately for him, the entire town thought she was batshit crazy.

And Cooper was certainly not one to be put off by a little madness—

“How’s your dinner?” Alice asked sweetly from a few tables away. She’d been refilling ketchup bottles and rolling silverware for the last twenty minutes or so, responding beautifully—albeit awkwardly—to his subtle prompts for casual conversation.

Cooper wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and made an exaggerated show of patting his stomach. “You were right—this is the best burger I’ve ever had,” he lied smoothly. “Excellent recommendation, sweetheart.”

The girl’s cheeks instantly flooded with pretty pink blush—she likes being called sweetheart—and she shyly lowered her head, but couldn’t resist looking back at him mere seconds later with a demure giggle.   

Good girl. She found him attractive. 

His depraved plans would be much easier for her to adapt to with her sexual attraction already engaged—

“Can I get you anything else, Cooper?” Alice asked. She sounded hopeful. 

His left eye twitched at her use of his first name, one of the few…ticks beyond his control, as a small spark of violent rage kindled deep in his gut, leaving a sickly metallic taste in his mouth. 

The urge. 

Cooper was suddenly overcome with a vision—a lucid hallucination, really—of marching directly to where the girl stood, and shoving her to the floor so quickly the air would be knocked out of her lungs. He saw himself tearing off her clothes and wrapping his big hands around narrow torso, and squeezing, hard enough to crack her ribs, before mounting her like a beast in the wild, ready to take his quivering bitch in heat. He wanted to feel her small, supple body struggling beneath him, his scared, mewling kitten desperate to free herself by any means necessary.

He wanted her to scream. He wanted her to cry.

She was so fucking tiny he’d absolutely crush her with his size. Cooper was already far bigger than most people, but compared to his little girl, his sweet little nymph, he was indestructible, as vast and powerful as a god. 

He could do anything he wanted to her. He could violate her beyond recognition.

He could fuck her within an inch of her life—

Realizing he’d zoned out far longer than intended, he released a sharp exhale to snuff out the ember of fury, reminding himself that it was perfectly okay that the girl was calling him Cooper—for now. 

She’d be calling him Daddy soon enough. 

He forced himself to smile, carefully schooling his features to the affable façade he used specifically for putting people at ease. 

Like clockwork, the girl visibly relaxed. 

“Just the check please, sweetheart.”

Hunted Ch. 2: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58229851/chapters/148279471

[bitdemonic]

date. april 8th, 2023

time. 8:59pm

—❝𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃.❞

𝐬𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬. FUTURESPOUSEPAC . . . a message from them.

𝐚𝐢𝐝. if the images above are too hard to differentiate between your intuition, use ‘pile 1, 2, 3, or 4’ for the choice selection instead. this reading has four piles. pic not included.

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫. 18+ content—no minors. please remember, this post is just for shits and giggles. use the best of your discernment, pinch that grain of salt. and although i write under the impression that majority of this content’s viewers are women, i do read for feminine and masculine energies. if needed to, please flip the roles as reversed for an accurate message. hope this reading is useful, but not for plagiarism bitch. enjoy.❦

𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞

🃏 movement retrograde. sweetness retrograde. faith. rest.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞

✞—. “i want it whenever i can get it. idc who’s around, i don’t give two shits about who’s looking. you’re the only person i ever want to have and knowing that i can have it? whenever we want? broad day, pitch black at night, at a park, at a concert, in the car it doesn’t matter and it never will. im going to shove my dick so far into you it’s going to come out of your mouth, that’s how carnal i am for you. my soul burns for you, im running off of petroleum gas at this very moment. you’re a diamond in the fucking rough. i mean, the faces you make when you cum are just . . . im so pleased, so blessed to have you as mine. to call you my lover, my one and only—not many have the pleasure of doing so, but i do.”

✞—. “i’d run ass naked up and down the street just to proclaim my feelings for you. you’re divine, you’re special, you make my crotch tight and my cheeks warm. i’d fuck you for hours upon hours, just to hear your moans. the same moans that remind me of the melody to a favorite song, the one i’ll keep on repeat because i never want them to end. keep your eyes open during sex, i want you to watch me have my way with you. to see the things i do to your body, the same things that make your insides twitch. moving back and forth, up and down, all around and through nirvana just to end it all in rehab. you’ll never want me to go, and i never will. i’ll even stay inside for a few minutes after, because i don’t want to leave us either.”

✞—. “i love you, but above that i lust eternally for you. love is nothing for us, but only because it was always a given—i’ll never stop loving you. it’s just during sex, the way i want to give all of my strength and trust into it, that’s something vulnerable for me. something different and new. but i’m willing to share that, without complaint too, because you’re mine. one person made special just for me, it’s natural that i show my appreciation. i want you to feel the way i feel for you, but through my actions more than my words. understand our connection with each act of pleasure i bring upon you, so on and so forth.”

✞—. “i’m always available to make love, to fuck—to tangle the sheets and wring out the perspiration from our bodies. making you cum constantly—endlessly, without losing stamina and without the thought of it having to end. scream for me, cry for me, moan for me—most of all, cum for me. do all those things and more doll, and promise to never stop.”

end.❤️‍🔥

previous reading

𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨

🃏 passion retrograde. creativity. abundance. confidence.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞

✞—. “give me that pussy. that sweet, tight, warm cunt. i want it all over me—my face, my thigh, hell even my stomach, i don’t mind my love. i’ll be gentle, whether that’s taking it nice and slow or hard and fast—whatever pace you need. don’t ever be afraid to tell me what you desire, or better yet, take control of me because it’s yours. my cock has your name printed on it in red ink, signed by yours truly.”

✞—. “the sight when you’re naked, the swell of your breasts down to the curve of your thighs, it makes my heart clench. even the tips of your feet get me going. never stop riding me, lock your legs around my waist and bounce on me all damn day. cum in my mouth, cum on my clothes, cum on my fucking face—i’ll eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. you’re gorgeous, but even more so outside of the sex. i don’t care what people say, i don’t give a damn about what they think either. it’s you that i want and i want you right here, right fucking now.”

✞—. “strip for me, baby. pull off your shirt as i watch with my thick cock in hand. unclasp your bra, slide the straps from your shoulders, let it tumble to the floor. i’ll gasp at the gentle bounce of your breast, in awe at their beauty, before attacking them with my mouth. you’re my inspiration, the blueprint of the world’s desires. made for us—we all want a part of your essence to bring home for bragging rights. want to see your body shine under the spotlight, showcasing as aphrodite’s favorite, nothing but glitter and gold. on display as heaven’s angel. stand just like that so you’ll never fall.”

✞—. “show the others what they’ll never touch, the parts of you that they’ll only be able to dream of. the same parts that i’ve been trusted enough to feel, to love and appreciate. yes . . . like that baby, don’t stop. show me how much of a blessing it is to have the emulation of a goddess at arms length. how much of an honor it is, keeping the place that’d be gone and up for grabs if you decided to cut me loose. i won’t fuck this up, at least not again. i know what i have, and i’ll always need it in order to survive. you.”

end.❤️‍🔥

previous reading

𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

🃏 happiness. intuition. magic retrograde. illumination retrograde.

[tw — somnophilia] this is a channeled scenario from your person but if this theme isn’t comfortable for reading i suggest choosing another pile!

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞

✞—. “i watch you sleep, you know. it’s hard not to, hearing the soft breaths escape your lips as the shadow of peace drapes upon your face. bathed in the comfort of being home, you’re content at last. sleeping, embracing the idea that nothing could interrupt the state of winding down. nothing at all—except me. fingers tracing along the hem of your underwear, dancing across the design pattern, before pulling the band of them and letting it pop against your skin. it’s kinda funny—more adorable if anything, the flutter of your lashes at the slight sting below your abdomen.”

✞—. “i do this all the time, or at least when it’s essential. when we’re both aware of how much you need it, i’ll tease away the sleepiness until it’s desolate and gone. you’d never guess it was real, the heat from an open mouth as it warms the center of your panties. that same mouth, dampening the fabric before placing sloppy kisses along the seams. you’ll whimper, tossing and rubbing as you’re mindlessly wondering what the hell kind of dream is this? why does it feel extra real, and why are your hands thrashing to grip at the pillows?”

✞—. “mmm, mmhm,” will fall from the lush of your lips, disrupting the quiet of the night with natural reaction. you’re spurring me on, you little minx. encouraging me to keep going, urging me to fuck with your innocence some more. to turn vulnerability into utter rapture. and i will baby, of course i will. you’ll be conscious at this point, blinking more than twice for obvious reasons, seconds before your face turns into disbelief and tempted half lids. feels good, doesn’t it? i know it does, you don’t even need to utter a word—that moan’ll suffice.”

✞—. “teasing becomes eating, eating until we’re impatient for the rest, until you’re frustrated from not being stuffed full with the other parts. oh yeah, baby—you’re definitely awake now. up and at ‘em, waiting for me to finish what’s began, waiting for me to send your precious body to sleep once more.”

end.❤️‍🔥

previous reading

𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

🃏 caution retrograde. trust. isolation retrograde. mystery.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞

✞—. “our kisses, the taste itself, intoxicate the sobriety of my mind. your mouth, placing the sweetest of sins against mine. i’m left to fend for myself, to stand on trembling legs, stumbling around the reality that is us—proceeding with caution. those lips, diluted in gloss or whatever else that has them shining brighter than a star. drenched in angel dust, sprinkled from the fingers of God himself, urging me to come and get blessed. and blessed i be, for i never want these moments to end.”

✞—. “i can’t stop thinking about those sounds, those kitten mewls that send my brain cells into overdrive. can’t forget the trail of poised hands rubbing and wrapping around my neck to pull me closer. you’re incredible. the sweetest thing since candied apples, just as you’re hell on earth. damn you, damn this feeling. damn the air thickening around us, damn the temperature rising in time with our heartbeats. i feel my chest concave when you go, the same way i feel it inflate when you walk into the room. engulf me with your presence, take me and never let me go—don’t let the others take me from you.”

✞—. “i want to be attached to your hips just as my hands are, how they know where home is when they grab at your waist and pull you in. pushing you against my abdomen to give your own hands some room, to let them run over the hem of my zipper before pulling away. i’d offer to finish the job for you, to fling my shirt and pants to the floor, but that’d ruin the fun wouldn’t it? the fun behind the tease, the persona of being daddy’s girl—spoiled and bratty, naughty not nice.”

✞—. “hard as hell to tame, but that’s the excitement itself. eyes going slender and sultry, bottom lip being bitten, hair tossed to glance over one shoulder—i feel ill, hot flashes and stomach turns, because you’re my kryptonite. tbh, you take all my breath away and funnily enough, i don’t want it back. it’s an eye for an eye, swapping out my oxygen for your full devotion. as long as i’m with you, i’ll never need to breathe again. to have and to hold forever.”

end.❤️‍🔥

previous reading

[uraniumbones]

Y'all remember that time Ford said to Stan "there's only one journal left and you are the only person I can trust to take it."? UGGGGGGH IM ILL. they hadn't spoken for years but when your back's against the wall, when you can "trust no one", when everything's gone wrong. there is still your brother. You still have faith and trust in your brother. RAAAAAAAA.

And then when Stan is trying to convince Mabel not to hit the shutdown. And he says "Everything I've worked for, everything I care about, it's all for this family." And that's crazy because his family literally is all he's ever cared about he loves them so goddamn much despite the nature of those relationships. And then Mabel says "Grunkle Stan, I trust you." AUGHGH and then he continues to do everything he can for his family and basically sacrifices himself for them (note: not for gravity falls. not for the world. for them.)

it's about FAMILY and I know that's obvious but I feel like my internal organs all turned into snakes about it. Because it's not just about family!! ITS ABOUT FAMILY. ABOUT THE FACT THAT IN THE END LOVE IS WHAT SAVES US. IT IS THE LOVE AND TRUST IN OUR FAMILY, EVEN AFTER ALL THE HEART BREAK THEY'VE CAUSED US. THE LOVE AND TRUST THE HIDES THERE IN THE CRACKS OF OUR BROKEN HEARTS ACROSS DECADES, ACROSS GENERATIONS, IN SPITE OF OURSELVES. AND IT IS THE COURAGE TO WRING IT FROM OUR BROKEN HEARTS AND WRENCH IT FROM OUR CHESTS. TO SEIZE IT AND CHOOSE! CHOOSE!!!! TO RELY UPON ONE ANOTHER.

That is how the twins survive. That is the reason they are the ONE universe where they both survived, because they trusted each other. And their Grunkles.

Anyway I'm normal about this show. And I'm a fundamentally normal person. Also fuck whoever it was that arranged the choir version of Like a Prayer for Deadpool cause I have not known a moment of peace since editors got a hold of that song.

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTF1uqwsE/

Also while I'm here bonus: Dipper to that song from I Saw the TV Glow

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTF1u7wba/

[dirtnapdreamfactory]

Sweetest Sin [Part One]

Content Warnings: Priest Kink, Breeding Kink, Corruption Kink, Loss of Virginity, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Female masturbation, Breaking Vows, Abandoned Celibacy, Etc. Etc.

Please let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 5.5K

[If this work looks familiar to you, it probably is. I originally had it posted to my old account that has since been deleted, so I am reposting it here.]

The grand archway of the cathedral framed Father Astarion Ancunin, his tall figure casting a shadow against the golden light that spilled from within. Despite being a creature of darkness, he had become an integral part of the town of Emberwood, serving as their shepherd of light. His vampiric nature had initially drawn cautious glances, but the townspeople's faith in him seemed to outweigh their fear. They flocked to the cathedral and found solace in his words, a paradox that the elf would have scoffed at decades ago—a vampire spawn preaching salvation.

"Good evening, Father Astarion," Mr. Tiller called out, his voice warm as he passed by with his family. "Your sermon today was truly moving."

"Thank you," Astarion replied, his smile genuine but unable to reach the depths of his crimson eyes. "Peace be with you."

For a quiet moment, the pale elf held up the silver band on his finger to catch the light, marveling at the small miracle that allowed him to walk under the sun. This ring symbolized not just his commitment to his vows, but also to a life he never thought possible. Each day, the weight of his past sins grew lighter as he embraced his newfound purpose with tentative gratitude.

"Father?" A timid voice broke through his reverie.

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Silverleaf." He recognized the couple instantly, their devoutness etched into every line on their faces. "What can I do for you?"

"Your words—they're a balm to our community," The man began, wringing his hat between his work-worn hands. "And…we hate to ask but…well, we've come to ask a favor, if you're willing."

"Of course. Speak freely," The priest encouraged, folding his hands before him in a gesture of openness. 

"It’s our daughter... She strays further each day from the path of righteousness," Mrs. Silverleaf confided, her voice laced with worry. "She has no care for piety or decency."

"Her soul, we fear, is in peril," her husband added, his gaze pleading.

"Would you speak with her, Father?" The woman asked. "Perhaps guide her back to the ways of the faithful?"

The couple's words hung heavy in the air, a weight that Astarion couldn't quite shake off. He knew his duty was to guide and correct those who strayed from the path of righteousness, but the thought of speaking with you, their fierce and free-spirited daughter, filled him with conflicting emotions.

On one hand, he felt a sense of obligation and responsibility towards your soul, which they clearly feared was in jeopardy. But on the other hand, the memory of you tore through his mind like a stormy sea, tempting him with desires he had vowed to renounce.

The request coiled tightly around his heart. The memory of that first night that he had laid eyes upon you surged forward, unbidden and wild. It had been a chance encounter at the tavern, where he had gone to seek solitude among the clamor of tankards and low-burning hearths. You had burst through the door, a vision of ferocious vitality, your presence so startling that even the rowdy din of the establishment had hushed for a brief moment. There you had stood, cloaked in the glory of your conquest—a deer, by the looks of your spoils—and had commanded attention with the ease of one who knew their own power.

"Talia, go fetch Lorrick! And tell the cook to get his shit together, yeah? We're having fuckin' venison tonight!" you’d declared, voice rich with triumph.

Astarion couldn't help but watch you, his eyes tracing the line of sweat that made a glistening path down the column of your neck. Each droplet reflected the light from the hearth, casting a warm glow on your skin. Your soft hair cascaded messily down your back and beckoned his fingers to explore its texture. The sight of you- so raw and vibrant - was like a sharp blade to his senses, breaking through the protective walls he had built around his chastity.

"Father, will you not try?" 

The distant echo of Mrs. Silverleaf's voice pulled Father Astarion back to the present, interrupting his thoughts. He nodded absently, his mind still consumed by the image of your mischievous smirk. Despite his inner turmoil, he affirmed to the couple that he would speak with their daughter, a wave of heat flushing his cheeks at the thought.

"God bless you," Mrs. Silverleaf and her husband intoned together, their sincerity in stark contrast to the hunger gnawing at Astarion's resolve.

"Peace be with you," he replied hollowly, his own words drowned out by the cacophony of conflicting emotions within him.

As the couple disappeared from view, Father Astarion turned back to face the sacred confines of the cathedral. Its cool silence offered no refuge from the heat that still coursed through him, memories of his struggle against temptation flashing through his mind. He had whispered fervent prayers and battled against his desires for flesh and sinew that night at the tavern.

"Forgive me," he muttered to the empty pews, unsure if his words were meant for his deity or for himself. His duty was clear - to meet with the girl and guide her towards the light. But as the sunset painted the stained glass windows in fiery shades of red and gold, Astarion couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to enter a battle for which he may never be fully prepared.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and called upon every ounce of divine strength to fortify his spirit. He would offer counsel to this wayward lamb and do his best to protect her from darkness. But as he locked up the church and began to trudge his way towards your home, nestled at the far edge of town, he couldn't deny the thrill of forbidden excitement coursing through his veins, like a fire burning just beneath his skin. Though he knew that this could prove to be a rather dangerous task, one that could potentially lead him down a path of temptation and ruin...for the sake of your immortal soul, he was willing to take the risk.

The dying embers of the day cast a warm, orange hue over the town as Astarion tread softly along the dirt trail, his boots pressing into the uneven ground scattered with pebbles and twigs. The outskirts where you resided was tranquil, the only sounds were his solitary footsteps and the distant chirping of crickets. He could see your home now, a quaint cottage that seemed to be in a perpetual embrace with the encroaching forest. The air was scented with damp earth and the sweet tang of herbs that hung from an overhang, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

"Ms. Silverleaf, it's Father Astarion," he called with measured calmness, rapping knuckles against the wooden door. His voice felt strangely intrusive in the stillness. "Your mother and father bid me to speak with you."

Silence greeted him, thick and unyielding. He knocked again, a little louder, allowing authority to lace his tone. "Ms. Silverleaf, please. This is a rather important matter."

The quiet persisted, and a frown teased at the edge of his lips. 'Perhaps she is out,' he thought, but something about the soft glow from within your home suggested otherwise. He reached for the doorknob, finding it unlocked. A moment's hesitation lingered like a warning. With a breath to steady himself, he pushed open the door and stepped into the muted warmth of the interior.

"Y/N?" he ventured again, voice barely above a whisper as he closed the door behind him.

Before him, the small fire in the hearth crackled its last dance, casting flickering shadows across the room. Astarion scanned the space, noting the absence of any presence. His gaze fell on the simple furnishings, the homely touches that bespoke a life lived simply yet fully. In that moment, he felt like an intruder in your world, privy to a privacy not his own.

His ears, sharper than most, caught the faintest sound—a rustle, a breath hitched in distress. His dead heart sank. 'Might the girl have injured herself?' The concern edged his thoughts as he moved silently, his steps practiced and light. The noises grew clearer, more defined, and his pace quickened with a mix of worry and something less definable.

"Y/N," he called out softly, reaching the slightly ajar door from behind which the sounds emanated. With the utmost care, he nudged it further open, just enough to allow his eyes to seek out the source of the commotion.

He stood motionless, his hand still resting on the door, as the scene within unfolded before him.

His eyes widened, the crimson depths reflecting a scene of forbidden desire. There in the dimly lit chamber, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, you writhed upon your simple bed—a vision of unbridled sensuality.

"Gods above," he murmured under his breath, unable to tear his gaze from the sight. His voice was a mere whisper, lost amidst the symphony of your pleasure.

Your small fingers danced along the slick folds of your sex, each movement deliberate and hungry. Lustful whines escaped your lips in ragged sighs and your moans pierced Astarion's heart like an arrow. You were yet unaware of his presence, lost in your own world of ecstasy.

"Y/N," he finally managed to say, louder this time, but the plea in his voice was drowned by your cries. You did not hear him, or if you did, you gave no indication, consumed as you were by your own touch.

'Stop,' he thought desperately, 'you mustn't witness this.' But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot, drinking in the sight of you. The heat that had been kindling within him since he'd first laid eyes on you now blazed uncontrollably.

He watched, transfixed, as your back arched, your breasts rising and falling with each labored breath. The soft mounds were flushed with arousal, your nipples taut and begging for attention. Your other hand alternated between caressing your breast and pinching your rose-colored nipple, sending ripples of pleasure through your body.

"Please," you gasped, the word a prayer for release. "I need... I can't..."

Father Astarion felt a surge of protectiveness, intermingled with a darker, hungrier sensation. He knew that he, a man of the cloth, should not be standing there, should not be watching this intimate act of self-pleasure, yet he found himself entranced by your uninhibited display.

"Is this what you seek?" he asked silently, the question for himself more than you. "To be the one to push her over that edge?"

His blood roared in his ears, drowning out the remnants of piety that screamed for him to leave. There was a battle raging within him, between his vows and the yearning to step forward—to replace your hands with his own, to taste the salt on your skin, to hear his name on your lips instead of the silent gods you seemed to be reaching for.

Another whimper, more tortured than the last, pulled him from his daze. He took a half-step backward, the creak of the wooden floorboard underfoot sounding like thunder in the quiet room. Astarion’s throat was dry, his body tense with longing.

"Forgive me," he whispered, turning his face away, though his eyes betrayed him, sliding back for another glimpse that lasted far too long. "Forgive me..."

His breath hitched, a silent witness to the carnal symphony playing out before him. Shadows clung to the corners of the dimly lit chamber as the fading light of day bathed your writhing form in an ethereal glow. Your fingers, slick and unyielding, danced fervently within yourself, your movements both desperate and deliberate. The decadent chorus of your pleasure—a blend of wet, rhythmic sounds—sent involuntary tremors through his body.

"Gods... yes, just like that, please..." Your voice was broken and full of lust, a prayer for release that echoed off the walls.

He swallowed thickly, the taste of his restraint bitter on his tongue. His hands, traitorous and curious, sought the heat beneath his breeches, and he winced at the contact – a touch both foreign and achingly familiar. The sensation clawed at his resolve, tearing at the fabric of his vows.

"Ah... A-Astarion..." you moaned, your voice slowly morphing into a sinful incantation - a desperate plea to the heavens, or perhaps to the depths below. His name rolled off your lips like a sacrilegious mantra, stoking that fire within him into something unbearable.

"Gods above…," he whispered under his breath, a ghost of words lost amid the melody of your solitary passion. Envy gnawed at him, its sharp teeth sinking into his heart as you envisioned another, even if that other bore his visage.

"Please... Fuck - ruin me..." you begged the illusion, your back arching, your body tightly stretched like a bowstring. The priest within him recoiled, but the man, the primal creature lurking beneath the clerical collar, stirred from its slumber.

"Enough," He hissed to himself, his conviction giving way to carnal desire. He could no longer be a mere observer, a passive guardian of sanctity. As you called out for him, in flesh or fantasy, he felt that familiar longing within him awaken. With a growl, he shed his clerical collar and entered the room with purpose. This was no longer a soft tread of uncertainty, but the confident steps of a man who knew what he wanted. You needed him, craved him, and he... he needed this. Gods above, he needed this.

"Ms. Silverleaf," he said louder now, his voice cutting through the haze of your ecstasy.

Your eyes snapped open, bright and piercing, locking onto his deep, vermillion gaze. Your silky hair cascaded around your face as you stilled, your body drawn with anticipation. In that moment, your eyes were a tangle of fire and gold, two stars colliding and igniting a blaze that consumed you both. Your stillness was a bird poised on the edge of a branch, ready to take flight at the slightest movement. And in that moment, the question hung in the air like a forbidden fruit, tempting and dangerous: Which would it be? Salvation or damnation?

"F-Father Astarion," you breathed, a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something...darker. Something hungry .

The pale elf stood tall and imposing in the dimly lit room, his pastoral leash discarded and forgotten on the floor. The light streamed through the window, catching the soft curls of his silver hair and casting an intimidating glow in his intense eyes. You laid bare before him, a true vision of ethereal beauty - your pleading eyes and wild hair fanned out around you, nearly forming a halo around your glistening, desperate form.

"Tell me, my child," He began, his voice low and steady, "What manner of evil has reduced you to this? A whimpering, sodden mess baring yourself so shamelessly before a man of God?"

"Please, Father...I-I’m so sorry. Please…p-please help me," You whimpered, your voice soft as velvet.

"Of course, child," His voice was a soothing balm, yet it was wrought with an undercurrent of something depraved. "Would you have me guide you in prayer, to cleanse these wicked ideations from your soul?"

Your head shook, a silent bell tolling 'no'. His gaze never left you, sharp and probing as he began to unfasten his shirt, each button relinquishing its hold with deliberate slowness. The pale flesh beneath his priestly attire came into view - his lean, muscular body sending a sharp jolt to your needy cunt.

"Or perhaps," he continued, his tone laced with concern, "you'd prefer I summon the physician? They might concoct a remedy for your... afflictions ."

As he circled the bed, the air around you charged with unsaid words, he grazed your cheek with his knuckles, the touch feather-light yet scorching. Your skin burned under his caress, your heat evident to his discerning touch.

"Ah, you are quite warm," he murmured, almost to himself. He leaned closer, his breath fanning your face as he tenderly pushed away strands of hair that had clung to your dampened forehead. "What then, my dear, do you seek from me?"

You swallowed thickly, your body betraying your desires with a soft whimper. "I don't need a doctor, Father," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what?" Astarion whispered back, his proximity intoxicating.

Your breath hitched; you bit down on your lower lip, trapping it between your teeth. In a voice suffused with shame and longing, you uttered the words, "Touch me."

Astarion clicked his tongue, a reprimand and a tease all at once. "You know that is not possible. My vows..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished, yet heavy with implication.

But desire was a siren's call, relentless and seductive. As your fingers resumed their salacious dance, the soft wet sounds that they made reached his ears, sending a bolt of raw need through him. He watched, transfixed, his body responding despite his resolve.

"Is this a habit of yours?" he asked, his voice husky with restrained passion.

"No," you breathed out, your movements unabated.

"Has another taught you such pleasures?" His inquiry was both invasive and achingly tender.

"N-no. Never," you admitted, your voice tinged with innocence and discovery.

He hummed, acknowledging your confession. "There is much to learn about one's own flesh... to understand what brings pleasure, what stirs the soul."

"Please," you gasped, your plea floating between you like a fragile leaf caught in a tempest. "Help me, Father... Show me how to feel good..."

"Perhaps," he whispered, his voice a thread of silk amidst the tension, "a slight... guidance would not be deemed sacrilegious." The words felt foreign on his tongue, like a dark incantation that could unravel the very fabric of his being.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if absorbing the gravity of what he proposed. Your lips parted in a silent plea, your desire an unspoken prayer that beckoned him closer.

With reverent trepidation, he extended his hand, the silhouette of his fingers ghosting over the valley of your chest before descending. The heat of your skin seared his palm as he cupped your heavy breast, feeling its softness yield beneath his touch. Your sharp intake of breath was both a torment and a balm to his conflicted soul.

"Ah..." you sighed, a delicate sound that underscored the urgency of this illicit communion.

Astarion allowed himself a moment to marvel at the responsiveness of your body, the way your flesh puckered against the chilled air, inviting his thumb to graze over the tight peak of your nipple. To him, it was the first transgression – a tactile whisper that spoke volumes of forbidden pleasures yet explored.

His hand trailed lower, a painstaking journey across the landscape of your ribcage, the undulating terrain of your belly, each movement deliberate, a testament to the restraint he fought to maintain. It was an artist's touch, painting strokes of fire upon your canvas of anticipation.

"May I?" The question hung between you, laden with consequences yet to unfold. His eyes sought yours, seeking absolution in their depths. Your gaze held his, fierce and unyielding—a mirror reflecting your shared hunger.

"Please," you breathed, the single word a key turning in the lock of his resolve.

His fingers, cold and steady, grazed the small of your waist, drawing your attention away from his eyes to the point of contact. You shuddered as his touch met the sensitive skin just above your hips. His fingers traced the delicate curve of your pelvis, kneading it gently, exploring your body with the reverence of a man discovering the wonders of the world for the first time.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of your hip. "Sinfully so, darling. But your wants, your needs... they are only human."

Astarion's eyes lingered on the curve of your hips, tracing the silhouette of your form with his gaze. The desire within him threatened to consume him whole, promising to both destroy and purify. He knew that once he crossed this line, there would be no going back. You were both aware of the weight of your transgression, heavy like a shroud about your limbs.

But your voice broke the silence, another soft plea that cracked the veneer of control he had so meticulously constructed. "Please," you begged, your voice trembling.

His fingers found you, hesitant at first, exploring the soft folds that lay between your legs. The air was heavy with the scent of arousal and anticipation, a heady cocktail that intoxicated you both. Astarion was no stranger to the touch of a woman, but this was different. This was sacrilegious. He could feel the weight of his vows bearing down upon him, threatening to suffocate him, but he persisted.

Your body tensed at his touch, the resistance only serving to heighten his desire. As he continued to explore you, he whispered softly into your ear, "You are allowed to feel pleasure, sweet girl. It's alright..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers delved deeper, your body arching against him in response. He could feel the heat radiating from your core, the pulsing life within you behind the delicate tissue that covered your being. He had never felt anything so alive, so vital, so right.

His fingers continued their exploration, sliding gently against your skin, tracing the pathways of your desire. Every touch was a caress, a promise, a confirmation that you were real, that you were there, and that he was not alone in this sin.

As his fingers continued their journey, he felt a surge of pure lust wash over him. He knew that he could not resist any longer. He needed to feel you, to possess you. He needed to experience the fullness of your passion and the sinful pleasures that awaited him.

He could feel your heart racing, your breaths becoming short and ragged as he touched you. Every touch, every brush of his fingers against your skin sent electricity coursing through his veins.

"Gods," you keened, your voice a desperate plea for release as he slowly sunk his middle and ring finger into your tight channel. Your body trembled, and you pressed yourself against him, urging him to continue.

Astarion released a long, shuddering breath. This was madness, this transgression. But the need was far too strong, too powerful.

His pale skin almost seemed to shimmer as he shifted his position on the bed. His scarlet eyes, usually so intense and piercing when preaching from the pulpit, were now dark with lust as they focused on your form laid out before him. The contrast between you was stark—him, the embodiment of forbidden restraint, and you, the very image of uninhibited desire.

"Father," you panted, your voice a sultry melody that tugged at the most carnal parts of him, "please..."

He slid his fingers deeper, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. The sight of your pleasure, the way you arched beneath his touch, drew a low groan from Astarion's throat. He was no longer the vampiric preacher who had given his life to God and vowed celibacy; he was a man, flesh and blood, driven by primal urges he could no longer deny. Your scent filled his senses, intoxicatingly sweet, and it sparked a curiosity that overshadowed all rational thought.

"Gods, I shouldn't..." He murmured, more to himself than to you, but the words died in his mouth as his tongue dared to taste the honeyed sweetness of your center. The flavor burst upon his senses—a delectable mix of sin and innocence—and his groan vibrated against your sensitive skin. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

"M-more...please..don't stop," You encouraged breathlessly, your eyes half-closed, hands finding their way into his silver curls, urging him closer.

Astarion complied, his once-hesitant licks becoming more insistent, delving into your folds with fervor. The holy man within him screamed for repentance, for restraint, but he was drowned out by the carnal beast that had been awakened. With each stroke of his tongue and curl of his fingers, he mapped out every contour of your dripping cunt, committing your responses to memory like sacred scripture.

"Ah, Astarion," you moaned, a symphony to his ears.

"Y/N," he whispered against you, his voice husky with passion, "you taste positively divine ."

As he continued to worship at the altar of your body, the church bells of propriety and oath rang distant, irrelevant. In this moment, there was only you and the undeniable truth that you were bound by something far stronger than doctrine. The friction of his fingers inside of you, coupled with the relentless pursuit of his tongue, stoked a flame within you that threatened to consume you both.

"Father," you gasped, your plea a beautiful litany, "Aah - Gods, yes.."

Your hips bucked beneath him, the fierce desire in your eyes melting into a tempest of ecstasy. The supple flesh of your sex clenched around his fingers, and the sight of it, the feel of it, sent a shiver down his spine. The moments of hesitation were a blur in the past, all that remained was the hunger between you, the natural dance of bodies, the silent pleas for release.

He felt that familiar throb of anticipation, the prelude to a world of pleasure and sin. It would be a fall from grace, a transgression of the utmost magnitude. But he knew, deep down, that his heart would break if he denied you the satisfaction you so desperately craved.

He could feel the tension within your body, the resistance slowly fading away as you came closer to the edge. Your breaths, once short and gasping, now deep and labored as you allowed yourself to fully succumb to sinful bliss.

His fingers, still buried inside of you, crescendoed their rhythm, matching the tempo of your heartbeat. He traced the swell of your clitoris with his thumb and lapped at the nectar that spilled from you, staining his lips with its sweetness.

"Astarion," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry moan. "Please, I need more."

He understood. He needed more, too. He plunged his fingers deep within you once more, eliciting a scream of unadulterated pleasure. The supple flesh of your sex clenched and spasmed around him, and the sight of it, the feel of it, drew a deep growl from within his chest.

His breath was a harsh rasp, his every sense alight with the raw scent of desire that rose from your flushed skin. Withdrawing his hand and mouth from your quivering, wet warmth, he couldn't help but admire the sheen of arousal that coated him, a decadent gloss that marked his sin as much as it did his yearning. He gazed upon you, reclined and panting, through eyes hazed with lust, finding you all the more enchanting for the sweat that painted your delicious curves.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice laced with both reproof and undeniable affection, "such a greedy little thing."

His fingers, still trembling with the remnants of your pleasure, worked at the ties of his breeches with a deftness born of necessity—this shedding of his final vestment felt like the peeling away of his last vow. The fabric fell away, pooling around his knees before he kicked them off, discarding the cloth and constraint alike into a forgotten pile on the floor.

Bare now before you, the dying light cast shadows across his lean form, playing over the muscles that tensed with anticipation. His heavy, aching cock stood proud, a testament to their forbidden ardor, twitching as though it had a life of its own, the tip shining with evidence of his need.

"Can you handle more?" he asked, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the charged air between you. It wasn't just a question of your endurance; it was a challenge to his self-control, a plea for absolution for the hot sin you were about to commit.

Your response was caught in your throat, your eyes wide as you drank in the sight of him. In your gaze, Astarion saw the war between lust and trepidation—yet when you swallowed, it not only discarded your fears but also his lingering doubts.

"Please," you whispered, your voice thick with want. "Take me... I want to be yours."

The words crashed into him like a wave, sweeping away the last of his restraint. A part of him—the man who had clung to his faith amidst a sea of past temptations—whispered that this was the point of no return. But another part, deeper, more primal, rejoiced in the offering you presented.

"Then mine you shall be," he vowed, his mind afire with images of your union, of how he would fill you, stretch you, consume your essence until there was no distinguishing where one ended and the other began.

As he positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick heat, he felt the weight of years of celibacy poised on the brink of oblivion. His heavy balls tightened, aching with the promise of release, the need to claim and be claimed overwhelming him.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yes," came your breathless reply.

And with that single word, Astarion surrendered, gently pushing forward and guiding himself into your tight warmth with a slow, deliberate thrust.

You gasped as his girth split your virgin pussy, your body writhing beneath him, a silent plea for more. Astarion pushed in deeper, sinking slowly into you…inch by agonizing inch until you felt his balls press against the tender flesh of your ass. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced, a divine mix of pain and pleasure that sent shivers down your spine.

"Ohh, Gods above ...you're so tight, little one" he whispered, pulling back just enough to tease your entrance and admire the pink ring of your ruined maidenhood around his shaft before plunging himself into your core once more.

You moaned, your hands clawing at his back, urging him on. “Mmf! Ahh…d-don't stop, please..."

Astarion groaned, his hips bucking urgently against you. He wanted to savor this moment, to take his time, but the beast within him demanded satisfaction. He shifted his angle, his cock rubbing at that sweetest spot inside of you just right as his crown pressed rough kisses against your cervix over and over again, and you cried out in pleasure and pain.

"Ahhh - fuck ," you cried, your voice a mixture of ecstasy and anguish, "Gods, it's too much...I can't-”

"Yes you can," Astarion whispered reassuringly, his breath hot against your ear. He thrust faster, harder, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl. Being so very good for me..."

Your body arched beneath him, your nails digging into his back as you climaxed hard, your orgasm hitting you like a whirlwind of bliss and agony.

Astarion felt your muscles clench around him, a vice-like grip that threatened to pull him under. His release was imminent, and he knew that once it came, there would be no turning back.

His thrusts became more frantic, the need to conquer your petite body overtaking him. Each movement was a battle, each thrust a plea, each twitch of his manhood a promise. He could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Forgive me," he grunted, his voice strained, his voice echoing your pleas from earlier. "I just can't control myself around you..."

You let out a needy, lustful whimper as your overstimulated body trembled beneath him, matching his rhythm as you reached once more for the edge of a new kind of bliss you had never known.

"I don't want you to control yourself," you huffed. "I want to feel every bit of you inside me."

Astarion groaned, his eyes rolling back as he plunged into you with reckless abandon, his cock twitching and pulsing within your snug hole. He felt your walls tighten around him, milking him for everything he had to offer. This was it; this was the moment. He knew that once he emptied himself inside of you, he would be lost in you forever. With a desperate cry, he buried himself to the hilt inside of your molten core, stuffing you completely with his thick, neglected manhood as his seed flooded and filled you, a substantial overflow seeping from where you remained joined - a testament to your sinful union.

As he collapsed onto you, his breathing came in ragged gasps. You lay beneath him, your eyes closed, face flushed with the afterglow of your lovemaking. You felt his cock twitching inside of you, still wrapped around him in a tight grip from your shared ecstasy.

He could feel your heart racing beneath him. This was not merely sex or desire; this was something forever altered, indelible in your souls. As your bodies calmed from their fervor, he found himself still nestled within your warmth, where he belonged.

He knew that to stay burrowed within you would be to invite temptation's final caress, but he could not make himself retreat. Not now, not ever. You were his now, and he was yours; there was no turning back...

[novlr]

How should I go about describing a character who goes through a lot, becoming more disheveled and desperate as the plot goes on?

Desperation is the emotion that drives characters to their limits, leading to their most intense and extreme behaviours.

By showing how characters become more desperate as your plot progresses, you can create characters that are interesting, dynamic, and relatable.

Here are some ways you can show desperation in your characters. As the plot moves forward, these elements can get worse, showing their decline.

How do they behave?

Obsessive and/or compulsive

Repetitive actions like hand wringing, or overuse of stock phrases

Self-destructive and risk-seeking

Enhanced aggression

Avoidant and isolationist

Manipulative

Exploitative

Short-tempered

Impulsive decision-making

Unrelenting pursuit of something

What physical signs do they show?

Heart palpitations and short, rapid breathing

Sweating profusely

Shaking or trembling

Sudden onset of nausea

Feeling weak or dizzy

Muscle tension

Headaches

Insomnia caused by worry and stress

Feelings of fatigue

Stomach pain and cramping

How do they interact?

Begging or pleading with others

Manipulating others to get what they want

Increasing paranoia and questioning other's motives

Pushing away loved ones

Becoming overly clingy

Either an inability to trust or being too quick to trust others

Self-sabotage

Single-focus conversations

What do they look like?

Unkempt hair and poor hygiene

Rumpled, slept-in clothing

Nervous tics, like fidgeting, pacing, or picking at nails

Extreme and unexplained weight loss

A haunted, faraway, or panicked look

Dark-rimmed, bruised eyes from lack of sleep or exhaustion

A constant sheen of sweat and clammy skin

Unusual clothing choices

What body language do they display?

Hunching over, as if trying to protect themselves

Fidgeting or pacing

Avoiding eye contact

Clenching fists or grinding teeth

Sweating or shaking

Staring intently at something

Repeatedly touching hair or face

Darting eyes and biting lips

Meek and under-confident stance

Pleading look

What is their attitude?

Feeling hopelessness

Sad and dejected

Becoming increasingly irrational

A loss of faith in themselves and others

Obsession to the point of resorting to extreme measures

A sense of helplessness

Blaming others

Feeling powerless

A sense of urgency

What are some positive things that can come out of desperation?

Increased motivation to achieve their goals or solve their problems

Resilience and adaptability in the face of adversity

Heightened creativity and resourcefulness

The ability to form deep and meaningful connections with those who share their struggles

Catharsis or character growth through their struggles

What are some negative things that can come out of desperation?

A tendency to become self-destructive or engage in risky behaviour

Difficulty forming and maintaining healthy relationships

Increased isolation or loneliness

Chronic stress and physical health problems

A tendency to make impulsive or irrational decisions

Prone to depression and anxiety

[zombocomme]

Zombocomme: and for tonight's late night drama, we bring you a fan requested episode...

Between The Lines, Bonus Episode : One Day More

Enjoy

SFW:PG13: *mentions miscarriage, male cis pregnancy, cancer/remission, dreams come true

"As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be"-

Love you Forever, by Robert Munsch

🌌🥀🕯🪹🌸🕊✨️🫲🙂‍↕️🫱✨️🪽🌷🪺🕯💐🌌

"Jim you're crazy!"

Copia said, wringing out the dish towel and smacking it on the counter.

Jim's face twisted, "Copia how else do we get to make this happen. I can't make Milagro do this."

"Well you can't make me either, we dont even know if this one will take." Copia said bitterly as he moved to try and leave the kitchen again.

This time, Jim caught Copia's arm in a firm yet gentle grip, pulling him close, his embrace speaking volumes...

Jim wanted to find another surrogate, but try and use Milagros frozen eggs. But so much doubt had been cast over the little family, kt all seemed so hopeless...

*The pain of heartache is long remembered and never forgotten*

Copia squeezed his eyes, "Your going to get dish water all over your shirt." Copia grumbled. Jim shook his head and tilted Copia's chin to look at him, no fussing, and nothing else mattering more in the world than his love, "Baby, I don't know and I don't care how. I sold my eternity to bring that child from the other side for her. And for us. I have faith the deal will hold. For ll be damned to ever stop trying, " Jim said firmly.

Copia felt tears well in his eyes as he tried to fuss over Jim's shirt, uselessly attempting to pat-dry it with the already dampened dish towel. His lip quivered and his voice was shaky as he felt the hurt and sadness run deeper, felt the lost hope and hurt break through his bleeding heart...

*Millie had lost the last baby...it was no one's fault, though she blamed herself and the "poor quality" of the last of her eggs saved before the chemo... and yet even in remission, the IVF had failed. It just didn't take the way it should have. Their plan had failed. And despite the joy of a heartbeat one day, it had been gone the next. She had grieved and cried with Copia and Jim, who had held her and each other through it all. She loved them. She wanted to give them the life the three of them wanted, but mostly, she wanted to have their baby. She wasn't just a surrogate. She was family. She was the woman they both adored. And the thought of one of her children out in the world, that she would never get to see grow to look a little like her and the men she loved wirh all her heart, made her loose any want to perhaps have her heart broken again...

*The last loss had been the very last try... and it had broken Copias heart. It had crushed Jim's happiness. It had stolen Milagros sunshine away.*

"Oh Jimmy, what did you do?" Copia trembled, trying to sniff back his sobs in vain. Jim began to cry. He held Copia tight. Tighter than ever before and broke down with him...

* The deal with a devil came with a steep price...for one soul isn't equal to another. And the unborn life had cost Jim his own. A blooded vampire - who, unlike Copia, will now not live out his forever. He may age slowly. He may yet live longer than a human's mortal lifetime. But eventually, his time would be up...*

While Copia held onto his husband for dear life, Jim was trying to hold himself and Copia together in his strong arms, tendons pushing out, his teeth gritted as he wept bitterly...

The little one they had hoped for, had been lost to them. And Jim had done his impossible part, and paid the ultimate price to try and bring that little soul back...

Months passed, and Milagro faded more and more. She was a shaddow of herself, thinning and barely able to stand. She had wanted her little one so badly. She had wanted to feel life within her, after so many times, so many losses, so many years, the hole in her heart had just gotten too big...

*And one cannot pour from an empty cup*

The damage to her, as a mortal vessel of life, had done its due diligence, and made her loose part of herself...

She wouldn't be able to carry the embryos again... and so they sat frozen in time waiting, and waiting...

Until one day...

***

Copia wrung his hands as he spoke with Milagro in private, "Millie, you've sacrificed so much. You deserve to have the feeling of at least being involved. I don't want you to give up on that. I don't want to lose you too, " he hitched. She had become so fragile and frail... she had been sick for so long. And time was running out... the cancer was back. And it was very unlikely she would live longer than another year. And to think his Milagro would so soon be taken from him without a little of her left to grow and flourish in the world, was killing him.

Milagro looked at Copia, her expression worn and tired. She gazed a long time at the flowers by her table...after a long silence, only broken my Copias, soft weeping into the blankets on her lap, the faintest light crept into her eyes. The knowledge of Jim's sacrifice and her own suffering, she knew, she had to let it go... she had to give up on her own dreams. She had to give them to someone else while there was still time to see them come true.

But it was worth the price. She stood and gently padded towards copia in the opposite chair and cupped his face in her hands, "Your brother found a way. And so will we. And I'll be here for your every step,' she said softly, smoothing his locks of hair, "I want you to do it... I want you to do this. For all of us. For me. Please." She hushed, brushing her lips against his brow, and cradling his head to her chest, "I love you so much... we deserve our hapiness while we can still keep it... Take them" she said firmly, "No matter what it takes...we deserve our litrle one back".

He wrapped his arms around her as she spoke. He was frightened, grateful, anxious, and determined...

"It will take. It will work, " he prayed over and over as he held her, "It will work, and we will have our happiness again." He whispered urgently. And for the first time in many months, Milagro closed her eyes, and with the sun streaming into the blue shaddows of her room, she hugged Copia tighter, and smiled.

***

With the help of his brothers, and the finest of the ministry physicians, scholars of the dark arts, and risky apothecary magic, under a new moon the trio came together, to defy whatever stood in their way.

*For not even death can overcome true love. And what truer love is there than that of those who would give all they had, for a single pearl of hope, having faith in their gods, who would decide if they would be smiled upon one more time...*

***

Copia waited at the dining table in his and Jims apartments. Milagro was in another room down the hall. The ritual had taken a toll on her too, but she was stronger, with purpose, she had found the strength to endure... her status as one who is a vessel for life, had been transferred. And Copia would now be 'the bearer' of their child.

As Milagro lay resting in her quarters, Jim was rushing up a set of marble stairs leading towards the 'New Emeritus' wing of the ministry, his black leather shoes sliding on the smooth carpet of the halls in the upper tower. He had been in the gardens with Primo, collecting flowers to fashion a boquete to gift to Copka, when he received the news...

Copia had taken two tests. And one was positive...

Jim burst through the door, the flowers bobbing in his hand as he skid to a sudden halt. Copia stood up, and with sureness in his stride not seen in so long, crossed over, and pulled the flowers from Jim's hands, hugged his neck. Jim, still stunned and breathing hard, took a second to get back to reality. He hugged copia and in his ear whispered, "Is this real, please tell me this is real." he whispered harshly, eyes wide, staring at the little white and blue sticks laid neatly on a napkin on the table.

"Copia pulled back and looked deeply into Jim's eyes, his eyes moist and his tearful expression, rosy with joy, "We're pregnant Jim dear".

"Say it again" Jim whispered, cupping Copia's face in his hands, his eyes pleading.

Copia took a steadying breath, "We are going to have Milagros baby. I'm going to be a Papa, Jimmy...and you are going to be, a Daddy.

Jim was stunned a moment and Copia was patient to let the moment sink in.

Jim leaped froward, spinning Copia in his arms as he whooped and hollared, Copia laughing loudly in response as they smothered each other in a flurry of kisses and praise.

Their celebratory cheers echoed down the hall, and in her room, Milagro's eyes fluttered open as she smiled, finding warmth and peace in her heart. She had done it. They all had...

Her child, the soul unborn, and Copia, it's bearer. The ritual had worked. All their love and hope, all their faith, had finally been enough; They would finally have the family they always wanted. And all of them would get to live forever more.

It took less than a minute for 'the boys' to burst into her room with the flowers and crowd around her to tell her the big news. When she began to hold her head in some pain, Copia and Jim quieted down from their excited chattering.

Jim insisted on tossing Copia in bed with Milagro, fussing and pampering the both of them as he clucked, much to Milagro and Copias amused giggles and playful swatting.

The trio talked the whole afternoon into the wee hours of the next morning, looking up names, planning and scheduling appointments (as this whole affair would need to be private. Playfully they nicknamed their happy little scheme "Junior" like that one movie)

And as they made wishlists online and went over everything they could possibly think of, they lay together in Milagros big bed. After what was certainly past bedtime, the three got comfortable, stripping down to cuddle under the sheets, skin to skin, intimate and loving.

Yet as milagro tucked against Jim's bare chest, Jim threw an arm around her and Copia, with Copia snuggling Milagro as her big spoon. The men looked at one another im ansolute awe. Their faces full of love and emotion, they were in that beautiful bliss that follows what dreams may come, when they come true.

Jim kissed Milagros head and Copia dropped his hand to her waist, then leaned over to steal a kiss from his husband, and bestow a few more on the woman they both were so grateful and proud of.

*Blood and Water, had sealed their bond. And quietly inside of a small space in Copias body, cells were rapidly racing to become what these parents had given all they could for... to be their baby. And be their morning star to guide them into tomorrow...

[the-owl-tree]

okay. super edition ranking.

crookedstar's promise - solid book. good set up, fun characters, and i enjoy the presence. im also incredibly biased for the atmosphere of riverclan, i like water.

bluestar's prophecy - great bluestar piece. faithful to the character, feels like a story that genuinely improves on what the prophecy begins delivers. barely below crookedstar's promise, it's just a smidge of not having enough oomf to put it in first.

tallstar's revenge - for all my gripes on the second half, i still really like the first half. i like that it broke the super edition template as well. however, its leagues away from crookedstar's promise and bluestar's prophecy.

firestar's quest - i read this one years ago and i cant tell you anything about it other than kid me liked firestar and was happy to read about him. i should reread this one.

tigerheart's shadow - where we head into the "eh! nice but could have been better territory", the border between actively enjoyed and i am Physically Angered by this book. i enjoy it for what it tries to do, i like dovewing and the church cats. there was a train and it had some of the most fun concepts and deaths done in a while.

squirrelflight's hope - hurt me physically....and yet i couldn't put it down. it's a trainwreck but it also employs some really interesting (if concerning) revelations about how the authors write these characters. this book helped create bean.

yellowfang's secret - groans in continuity error. yellowfang gets beat down on every page the book.

moth flight's vision - probably on the same level as yellowfang's secret, the difference is i just remember more freshly how miserable moth flight's vision made me.

crowfeather's trial - tbh this should probably be higher from a more objective point of view, i respect what it tries to do but ultimately i'd put crowfeather in a reverse bear trap and im not interested in being nice about his sad boy super edition where everyone coos over how sad he is

leopardstar's honor - noooo you guys don't get it she was really really sad when she agreed to execute the half-clan cats :( she said sorry!!

onestar's confession - :/

super editions i have not read:

bramblestar's storm - i do not want to read about squilf bramble marital problems anymore please please please stop authors

graystripe's vow - might read! just doesn't really interest me

riverclan's home - i saw the flutter prologue and i was like. deeply depressed about flutter.

ivypool's heart - well it's not out yet so.

super editions i had to stop reading partway through:

hawkwing's journey - stop making me read about men wanting women to die i want to wring this little fucker's neck

[writerthatcannotwrite]

Spoilers for Rings of Power s2, ep5!!

Screw Annatar. I want to gouge his eyes out with a spoon. I want to cut his ears off. I want him to have Celebrimbor's fate. The Everlasting Darkness is not enough; I want to wring his neck like a wet rag and not in a good way. He is hypocritical, manipulative asshole and I want him gone. Charlie Vickers has magically managed to make me hate Annatar even MORE, and I applaud him; good acting has moved me to further dislike of this character.

And that smarmy little BITCH from Numenor. It was iconic when all of the King's Men still called Elendil "Captain", and even better when they said, "Valar bless you". As a religious person, this struck my soul. What struck my soul even more was when that scrawny little-- lemme not say. But when that guy, Pharazôn's apprentice whose name I don't even want to learn, desecrated the temple!!!!! He destroyed a relic likely from the First Age!!!! He KILLED VALANDIL IN A HOLY PLACE. Not only was I sad to see such a strong supporter of Numenor's Faithful perish, it was how it happened that saddened me the most.

Valandil prayed for the Valar's forgiveness (slay of him) and fought Smarmy Bitch, and it was great!!! Not very honorable in my book, but I loved to see it!!! And then, Smarmy Bitch tried to drown him, but Valandil took the upper hand, either dislocated his shoulder or broke his elbow, and pointed Smarmy Bitch's own sword at him!!! But then, he took the high road; he showed mercy, even when he didn't want to. He chose to value life instead of take it. BUT GUESS WHAT SMARMY BITCH DID?

Smarmy Bitch stabbed him in the back. Literally. As Valandil chose to be the better man, to be honorable and good, Smarmy Bitchy chose the opposite.

It was heartbreaking to watch Elendil cradle Valandil as he died, someone he likely saw as a third son (You know, with Isildur and Anarion).

It was interesting to watch Smarmy Bitch wash his sword in the water. It was almost symbolic of how he washed the blood away; he thinks that he is cleansing Numenor of her past, creating a brighter future. He is misled. Instead of cleaning her bloody sins, he is demonstrating that those in power, those who agree with the king, can get away from anything. He can get away with murder in front of countless witnesses; he can tell the guards that Valandil was the first aggressor; he can manipulate the variables to his side all because of Pharazôn's favor.

And the storming of a religious building, complete disregard for the peoples' privacy and respect, I found terrible.

And poor Durin and Disa. Their king has gone corrupt with the power of the ring, and will not see reason. The tree that Elrond gave Durin is dying, symbolizing the growing, yet strained, relationship between the dwarves and the elves, as well as Khazad-dûm's slow descent. The Doors of Durin were a delight to see, but Annatar's jealous, manipulative reaction hurt my heart. Celebrimbor only sought to do good, to honor his grandfather by making powerful, good things like Fëanor tried to do. But just like with Morgoth's whispers, Celebrimbor is facing the same manipulation by a similar force. Sure, Fëanor did not trust Morgoth,but he heeded his words and let them plant the seeds of distrust in his mind.

And poor Celebrimbor; I mourn for him already. He is falling swiftly to Annatar's game. You can watch as Annatar grows closer to him, Celebrimbor grows less stable, more agitated, and more harried. When Annatar said that Celebrimbor should head for Lindon, implying that he would rule in Celebrimbor's stead, was a terrifying thing to see. Thankfully, Celebrimbor knew not to leave his city in the hands of a Maia who was likely beginning to distrust.

And by the end of the episode, after Celebrimbor declared that they were to make the nine rings for men, he looked terrible. He looked close to tears, knowing that he was making the wrong decision but still felt it was necessary, for it would fix a wrong that he had not, or had accidentally, made. He needs that First Age bottle; better yet, one of the Trees.

And Sauron. You whorey bitch. You tell that nice elven lady that she looks like Galadriel. Sure, she knows it's a compliment; to be compared to daughter of Finarfin in beauty is a very fine thing to say, but she does not realize that Annatar's honeyed words will lead only to horror.

And Annatar. Are you looking for a rebound? Afraid the exes are unionizing? Because Adar and Galadriel looked close to an alliance, last I saw.

And once again, I want to know where Celeborn is. I know he won't be in this season, but still. I miss my little guy. And ngl, when those orcs kept growling at Galadriel, I thought she was going to growl back 😭😭. Frankly, I wanted her to; at least bare her teeth, let them know she was not afraid.

AND LASTLY, the name drops!!! Eärendil, Tuor, Beren!!! Even Barahir!!! All great men who had elven sugar mommies!!!!! Minus Barahir, though.

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 10

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :) TW for references to past abuse.

On AO3

(behold the chapter that took me most of august, and billion x billion thanks to @wheneverfeasible for listening to my endless wailings about it--eeeeep! You are the bestest!!!!)

…

Chapter 10: my bad

When Eddie opened the doors, a young woman around his age barged in. She wore a white apron with some dubious stains and brandished that rolling pin.

“Where is he? Oh my God.” 

She dropped the rolling pin on the couch, along with Steve’s pack, which she'd had slung over her shoulder. She shook him gently. 

“Steve! Steve?” Then, to Eddie, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?”

“I’ve no idea how he got that way. I swear.” Eddie paced around manically, wringing his hands. “He crashed in, totally wrecked, and handcuffed himself to the pillar.”

Nah. I wouldn’t believe me either.

Aaaand, I deserve to lose a couple of fangs to that rolling pin?

“Where’s the key, fuckwit?” she snarled.

 “I… uh… not a clue.”

He grabbed up Steve’s pack, tipped it out and began rifling through the contents. It struck Eddie that this was probably all Steve’s belongings. His watch. A clean shirt and underwear, his skin-tight ripped jeans. Two inhalers and some blister-pack tablets.  A crumpled envelope with a couple of dog-eared photographs slipping out.

Steve was in the top one, aged maybe fifteen or sixteen, smirking beneath a pair of shades. He’d gotten his arm around a blonde woman holding a cocktail. She had to be his mom. His beaming father barbecued hotdogs by a pool, which was holiday-brochure levels of azure blue.

Eddie ripped his attention away. “I can’t see any keys.”

“Yeah. They’re in his pocket.” The newcomer fiddled to undo the handcuffs. “Didn’t you think to look? Jesus, you two dinguses were born for each other. I’m Robin, by the way.” Steve remained hugged around the pillar. “Some help here, shit-for-brains?” 

Together, Robin and Eddie got one each of his arms over their shoulders and hauled him to his feet. They dragged him between them toward the bed. 

He wasn’t exactly unconscious. He definitely wasn’t in the room either. His head drooped forward, and his flickering lashes cast shadows down his streaming makeup. Eddie’s heart panged, while his stomach twisted in knots.

Eddie was crazy about Steve. 

Seriously, crazy.

And he still knew literally nothing about him. 

Possibly my bad.

They guided Steve onto the bed. Robin propped extra pillows under him, then fetched a bottle of Evian from the minibar. Eddie hovered at her shoulder, chewed his fingernails, and wondered if he should call a doctor something.

“Steve?” She jostled him again. “Steve! Please say something. Please? You’re freaking me out now.”

His half-lidded eyes widened. “Robin? Eddie? Wha–”

“Steve! You scared the shit outta me!”

Steve looked… lost and totally bewildered. He took a sip of the water she menaced him with, vaguely dabbing the trickle on his chin.

“What happened?” asked Robin. “You know—ditching breakfast? Your little cognac party for one? Whatever unspeakable yuck I interrupted with Jon Bon Jovi here?”

Cognac party? That explained the booze on Steve’s breath. Eddie let the Bon Jovi comparison slip. Hadn’t she noticed Jon cut his hair for the ‘Keep the Faith’ album? 

Only true metalheads left at the big hair party, ma’am.

Robin came at Steve with a napkin to mop his face. 

“If you don’t quit fussing,” he hissed, “I’m gonna slap you silly.”

“Okay. Being a bitch. Back on form. When did you last eat properly?”

He threw his arm across his face. “Jesus, Robin, I don’t know."

“I might’ve got some pringles around here somewhere.” Eddie, desperate to be useful, scanned his half-packed mess. “Definitely a jelly donut.”

“Oh, real nutritious.” Robin jumped up and stomped toward the door, muttering to Eddie, “We need to talk.”

In the main lounge area, Eddie took one look at the fake marble pillar, shuddered, and snapped from his daze: “Look, I get it. You care about Steve. You and me both, sister. I would never—”

“You are NOT forgiven, numb-nuts.” She stabbed a finger at him. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt ONLY because he didn’t flip out when he saw you, so listen up. He’s sick. He’s not eaten today. I’m gonna get him a bowl of oatmeal and banana. Can I trust you with him, or will I come back to find him tangling himself in a sex swing?”

Ouch.

Once she’d gone, Eddie hurried back to the bed. Steve emerged from beneath his arm. His face was waxy, his vest and hair sweat-soaked and sticking to him.

He still looked lost. Haunted, even. And Eddie felt nearly as lost, stopping in his tracks a foot from the bed.

“Thank Christ she’s gone,” said Steve, then, “Eddie, you didn’t stare this much when I’d gotten your jizz all over my face.”

Those knots in Eddie’s guts wound tighter. “I’m really fucking sorry about last night. I’m sorry about smoking and never reading the runes, and…  about  a ton of shit, honestly.”

“Don’t be,” sighed Steve. “I’m sorrier. And about today. Christ, I’ve made a total fool of myself.”

Eddie shook his head, dared shuffle a little closer. “You’re fine, honey.”

“Yeah, we both know that’s a pile of steaming horseshit. I… I…” 

Steve’s face crumpled beneath his hand. Eddie’s right mind finally screamed, What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve literally shared this bed with him for weeks.

He bounced onto the huge mattress, muttered, “C’mere, you.” He felt stupidly grateful when Steve rolled into his opening arms. Eddie hugged him close, planted soft kisses on his hair. “I gotcha. It’s okay.” 

“I d-don’t remember.” Steve curled into Eddie’s side and his knee crept up into Eddie’s lap. “Oh God, Oh God. I’m losing my mind. I can’t even figure how I got here.”

Eddie found himself grinding his teeth. He didn’t know exactly how Steve got from that preppy, peppy kid in the poolside photograph to today—blundering into this penthouse then chaining himself to that pillar, locked in some twisted memory. 

No. Eddie didn’t know exactly. But he was starting to get the picture.

If I ever find the sick son-of-a-bitch who did THAT to you…

Right now, though, it was all Eddie could do to silence his own demons and simply hold Steve. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Stevie.” He planted a kiss on Steve’s temple. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

…

Steve was desperately trying to piece together what the hell just happened. 

Being here, with Eddie holding him like this, helped. Eddie’s heartbeat thrumming through him, and knowing he’d apologized to Eddie, helped too. He still felt beyond wretched. It proved an effort to slide his hand to Eddie’s shoulder, grip that baggy t-shirt, and cling.

After his encounter with Kline, he’d gone to empty ashtrays. Usual routine. Then he’d needed some water, because he’d inhaled a ton of ash, so he’d used the tap at one of the hotel bars.

Oh yeah, the brandy.

The cognac.

The dead posh sort that his dad used to drink. Steve had slugged it back, puked again, and then his memories got even hazier. He was pretty sure, however, that he’d done stuff that meant he was totally out of a job, and… No, no, no, no, no.

He’d pushed those sessions with Godchester into the darkest corners of his mind. As he’d stumbled around the hotel today, they’d kept flashing back. The feelings of helplessness, breathlessness, the swish of the cane, begging for more so it might be over sooner, and then… and then…

“Sssssh, it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” 

Eddie rocked him back and forth. Steve breathed deeply of Eddie, who, to be fair, didn’t reek of tobacco as bad as usual. He focussed on the pressure of Eddie’s lean body against his, on Eddie’s arms around him. That dark veil slammed down once more.

“I don’t remember,” he repeated, in a voice so small that he was surprised Eddie heard, let alone replied.

“You know what, Stevie?” Eddie exhaled, long and unsteadily, and somehow, reassuringly. “I have nooooo memory of the day I checked into his hotel. That shit went down with my flop record. I woke up here next morning, totally stuck.”

Steve chuckled, though it wasn’t even ballpark funny. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. I mean, I smoked a ton of weed. Not saying it’s identical to what’s happened to you, but… I dunno. I figured knowing that might help?”

Steve peeped up, his chin digging into Eddie’s breast. Eddie still looked sheepish as fuck. He smoothed Steve’s hair. Steve dipped his gaze again.

“Okay. This morning, I saw somebody from my past. From the worst time in my life, soon after my parents died. It made me remember stuff I usually forget, and I guess I got lost in that, and… and…”

Nope. No way could he say any of that out loud. It was all too near and too raw, and yet…

He twisted his fingers in the fabric of Eddie’s shirt. Maybe, just maybe, he could keep clinging like this long enough to tough this out, laugh it off. Or maybe he could do something far more radical. Maybe he could suck up being such a loser and ask Eddie for help.

“I’m so sorry,” Eddie was saying. “I’m so very fucking sorry.”

Steve squeezed his eyes tight, squeezed Eddie even tighter, and… Jesus, he was beyond done with today. Snuggling like this was weird and new, also totally natural and totally right. God, he loved being with Eddie… like this… Even his juddering pulse had settled, fallen into pace with Eddie’s beat. With his head tucked between Eddie’s chin and shoulder, Steve began to slip.

“Uh, Stevie?” Eddie brushed his knuckles down Steve’s cheek, wrenching him awake again. “Hate to do this to ya. I, um, have to clear out of here in, uuuuh… about twenty-two minutes.”

Steve gawked up at him. The words sunk in. Then their meaning. He lifted his head and scanned the slightly spinning room. It was half packed, in a very chaotically Eddie fashion, crap strewn everywhere.

Oh yeah. He knew about this. Another horror he’d pushed away. He rolled off Eddie onto his elbows, groaning towards the chandelier. “Seriously?”

“Steve, listen. Right now, I only care about you and—"

“Be honest with me. Were you really gonna slope off without a word?”

“No way!” Eddie hoisted himself from the pillows and raised his palms in surrender. “I’m going because I have no choice. I’m broke, okay? I’ve spent every dime I ever earned and then some. I gotta suck up my terror of the big, bad world and skedaddle pronto. Or another night in this place is gonna cost a winter’s worth of donkey feed.”

“Donkeys?” Steve blinked at him.

Eddie swept hair from his guilt-stricken eyes. “Long story.” 

He’s broke.

You’ve probably been fired. He was your last hope of keeping you in meds, keeping a roof over your head. 

You’re dumbass levels of crazy about him.

AND HE’S BROKE. AND HE’S LEAVING.

Steve threw himself at Eddie and buried his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Oh shit,” squeaked Eddie. “Please, I wanna keep seeing you! We’ll figure things out. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying, dipshit,” Steve got the words out between hiccuping giggles. “I’m laughing so damn hard. At you. At us. Jesus!” 

And he was. Sobbing his mirth into Eddie’s neck, till Eddie enfolded him once more and also totally cracked up.

“Okay, you win again, champ.” Eddie flopped his face to Steve’s shoulder, mirroring how Steve smothered himself in Eddie’s. “It’s insane and it’s tragic and it’s g-goddamn hilarious. We’re gonna get through, right?”

Part 11 on AO3 Part 11 on tumblr

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[hyperesthesias]

König x Female Mexican Intelligence Agent

Author's Note: Don't look at me, I need to jot down some ideas for a story I will never write. I love this idea so much that I may actually change a few things and publish it as an original work somewhere down the line. If I actually wind up deciding to do that, I will probably delete this at some point. But for now -- I need to get this out because I am gnashing my teeth. This idea won't leave me alone.

Potential Warnings: Fictional depictions of war violence (I mean...obviously.) ; Secret Relationship ; Pregnancy ; Hostage Situation ; Attempted Murder ; Coma ; Unformatted, mostly just an outline/ideas.

Word Count: 4,847.

The first time they meet is at the chapel before an extended assignment. They haven't been officially introduced, they barely speak at the chapel anyway -- he can't keep eye contact with anyone for long. Especially with her. She looks beautiful under the array of colors from the stained glass windows. She smiles at him, and even if he didn't have a balaclava on, he's not sure he'd be able to return it. His heart's already in his throat, the last time he set foot inside anything remotely religious was back home in Austria -- many years ago. But the assignment ahead of them promises nothing but terror, and he's been having thoughts on whether he'll retire by choice or by bullet. He watches as she crosses herself, and he wonders what faith she claims. The chapel houses anyone seeking refuge, and maybe all he's wanting is a quiet space where his mind doesn't have to compete for attention. His leg bounces, his fingers wring together -- he's not looking at anything in specific, his thoughts wander this way and that, but the quiet and absence of prying eyes keeps him centered.

The woman leaves, glancing at him with another smile -- it's such a pretty smile. He thinks such a pretty smile shouldn't be anywhere near the stench of death. And he knows he reeks of it.

The squad gathers for mission ready and assignments, and he's stunned to see the woman from the chapel. She isn't as weighted down as the others of 141, but the gear strapped around her middle and her legs make her ready for anything. He knows she'd never recognize him -- he looks incredibly different from their passing encounter: the entirety of his bold frame is covered from face to feet, even more than when she smiled at him the first time.

She smiles at him again as the comms crackle with instructions -- and for a brief moment he wonders if she recognizes him. It's an impossibility. But it's a nice thought nonetheless.

They're paired together for the first portion of the assignment. It's then that he learns she's Mexican Intelligence. A spy. An asset. She's meant to draw out and extract information from another asset who'd gone underground almost a year prior. He's meant to give her cover, to offer additional persuasion should they encounter resistance.

She isn't intimidated by him, she doesn't mention his mask neither his size. It relaxes him. He's used to the relentless teasing from his brothers in arms, to the deluge of questions and comments that usually come from people who'd never met him. She came to the middle of his upper arm, but she made no remark about his towering stature. It's hard for him not to wonder if she accepted him genuinely without judgement, or if she was putting him at ease on purpose in some effort to manipulate trust between them. Spy craft was never something he was interested in, he doesn't like double talk. But her soft spoken words are truthful, upfront, as honest as she can be. There are things she can't tell him -- operational things that are need-to-know; things about her life outside the tangled mess of international underhanded dealings. He wonders what her life is like: she was graceful, eloquent, she had a natural talent of mediating conflict -- it garnered trust between informants and enemies alike. With a stern word and a soft smile, she had contacts in the palm of her hand.

Without noticing when or how it happened, he suddenly comes to the realization that he, too, is in the palm of her hand. They've spent long nights talking in their shared language of English, occasionally laughing trying to find a way of saying some untranslatable concept. She has a mother in the United States, he finds out. She also tells him she has no time for love. Neither does he. All of his nights are spent looking out windows in search of a target, or hiding in darkened corners. He expected her to make a joke about how difficult it must be for him to hide. But she didn't. He didn't make sniper, he tells her, a sadness in his voice.

"You have my back," she tells him. "That is what matters."

The moonlight looks sweet on her lips -- and the purr of her voice mingling with her accent, it's enough to drive him mad.

He finds out he loves her while he's peering at her through his scope. He's perched on the roof of a building opposite of the one she's in -- she's passing intel to another informant inside a hotel lobby. It feels off -- something feels wrong. He's done this long enough to know what it feels like in his bones. She glances to him, watching for the spark of the scope on the rooftop, knowing he's there, knowing he's watching her like a hawk. She has the same uneasy feeling.

As she's about to bail and call off the drop, she's double crossed -- stabbed in the leg, they only missed her stomach because she pulled her body away in time.

A shot comes from nowhere -- breaking through the daylight, shattering the glass doors of the hotel. The bullet sinks itself through the enemy, plummeting him to the ground in a pool of blood and matter.

She limps away in the cacophonous mess of people that descend on the man, sputtering his last breath. König meets her at a rendezvous point in an alley not far away. He helps her limp back to the base camp they've commandeered in a safe house a few blocks away.

He's angry at himself for not catching the set-up sooner. Swearing in German under his breath as he patches up her leg. His hand swallows her thigh as his deft fingers sew up the knife wound that missed an artery.

"It's not your fault," she breathes heavily, trying to keep herself sane through the searing pain in her leg. "It's not mine, either. These things happen. We learn, we correct, we move on."

He glances up at her through his hood and sighs, tying off the suture. "I thought I lost you," he says. He shakes his head and growls at himself quietly. He should learn to never get so attached to his partners. "I have lost brothers before..." he trails off for a moment, busying himself with the bandages. He wraps them around her thigh gently -- he's always so gentle. He ties it, sets the roll back in the kit, and looks up at her. "This was different." His accent is thicker, heavier; he's tense.

Her bloody hand reaches to his masked face and caresses what she believes to be his cheek despite that she cannot see him. "I know." She swallows, dizzy with adrenaline and uncertainty. "It is for me, too."

He didn't know she felt the same. He's still unsure now as she's speaking the words. He's convinced he misunderstood.

But as she caresses him, and as she leans to kiss his helmet, his body relaxes at the thought that he understood perfectly.

"Thank you for having my back," she breathes as she pulls away from him.

He sits there, very still. Wanting to do something, but not knowing what or how. He can't look at her, the same way he couldn't look at her when he saw her in the chapel that day.

Quietly and without a word, he takes off his helmet. And his hood. The balaclava is all that's left. He takes a breath and hesitates before he nudges it down his bare face. He's fair skinned with soft blonde hair, a long and bitter scar jagged across the diagonal of his face. He still isn't looking at her -- his eyes darting from her this way and that. It's everything in him to keep his head up. "We...have met before. In the chapel."

"I know your eyes anywhere," she says and smiles at him -- the same way she smiled at him that day.

"You knew?"

"I figured," she chuckled.

König lets a weighted breath. She was a spy, of course she knew. He pulls himself up and even on his knees his frame seems to envelope her -- he leans and gives her a kiss on the head. "I am glad you are okay."

She holds his head, staining his skin with the blood on her fingers. "I am now." She presses a kiss on his lips.

He has never been comfortable sharing his body with anyone, it requires that people see him. He doesn't like to be seen. He doesn't like to be touched. But the way she touches his face -- it does not hurt. It does not make him recoil. He melts under her fingertips, letting himself sink into the bed beside her, with her.

The 141's assignment progresses, as does their relationship. They're more than partners, they're something deeper. Something only they know of, something only they understand. Confidants who have each other's backs, lovers who know each other from stolen glances alone. They keep it secret. Almost afraid to jinx it.

But where he was afraid of jinxes, König notices she's become distant. Where they would steal a moment of time to even say 'I love you', she avoids him. He wonders what he could have done wrong -- he wonders if the images of him slitting another man's throat, or eviscerating another with brute force was enough to push her away. He would not hold it against her if that is the case. He can't track her down enough to even ask her what he had done.

He finds her in their safehouse after a briefing, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He believes it is starting to make sense: the job is difficult, the blood is never ending, and the mind can only take so much. They've been at it for longer than most, with another few months added to the total time they'd be in the field of their current assignment.

"Meine Liebe," he whispers and kneels in front of her. "What is it? What bothers your mind?" He puts his hand on her back and her arm. It looks as though she has been crying -- her eyes and her nose are swollen. He's never seen her shed a tear, even with a knife wound.

She struggles to look at him. She swallows and feels a pain in her throat. She can't speak over a whisper: "Ich bin schwanger..."

His body goes numb and his eyes fall wide. He's staring at her without any air in his lungs. She's pregnant. He is the father.

She wanted to tell him in words he would understand without any doubt. She's practiced how to tell him in her head for two days. The pain in her throat grows.

"Schwanger?" he says again. The energy returns to him, and he can't sit still. He can suddenly hear his heartbeat in his ears. His hands go to each of her arms, he wants to hold her, embrace her -- but he doesn't want to hurt her. He's bobbing up and down, a smile starting to grow on him. "You are having a -- a baby," his brain can hardly translate it coherently.

She watches as his eyes speak to a smile that spreads and stretches against his hooded face. "No se que hacer..." she whispers to herself. "If they find out, I will be off the team," she sniffles. "I have to see this through," her accent sharp and hard.

"We will -- We will hide it," he says, definitively. He's convinced himself already -- he's already thinking of a plan. "We will make sure they do not know."

She shakes her head. He doesn't understand all of the risks. "It is dangerous. For all of us." Her arms wrap around her middle. "And for the others," she nods as if pointing to the rest of the 141. "We cannot lie to them."

"We are lying already," he shrugs.

She stares at him.

He centers himself at the sight of her glare. "What I mean is, they don't need to know everything, ja? It is...'need-to-know'. For right now, they do not need to know."

That she could work with, at least for now.

König wraps her in his arms, being careful not to hold her too tightly. "We will think about it, Meine Liebe. 'La resolveremos', ja?" His hand cradles her head as he leans his veiled cheek on her hair. "I have your back."

They want to tell the 141, they keep trying to find the right time to do it. The more people they have on their side, the better -- the more people there are to protect her, in König's mind. But she worries they won't be as forgiving. Weeks pass, time lapses -- the job is always more important. They can never seem to find just the right moment to reveal such a secret. But König's spirits are high, his desire to be around her, with her, beside her stronger than ever. He puts her at ease, reassures her -- spends nights with her talking about the days they would have with their new life. They make a promise to each other, to their baby: they wouldn't retire by a bullet, it would be a choice. One they would make together. She wonders what kind of life this new little life would have -- something different, something better than theirs. She would make sure of it.

Ghost is perceptive, despite his quiet nature. He picks up more than what people give him credit for. He can feel something is different. But the job is hard, it's lonely, it's difficult to find intimacy, harder to find someone who understands what the job means, what it takes. If they find comfort in each other, he wouldn't say anything. As long as it doesn't affect the mission, it's not his place to butt into anyway. But he can feel something...deeper, something much more serious. He hasn't quite figured it out yet.

That is, until he watches as she pats cold water on her forehead at a utility sink in the warehouse turned makeshift base. She hasn't looked well, but whenever anybody tells her as much it earns them a stark answer of "female trouble", and nothing more. None of the other men want to know anything more than that, they figure they wouldn't comprehend it anyway.

Ghost hands her a towel, and when she reaches for it, the layers of coats that have been wrapped around her for weeks briefly part enough for him to see a reason for her so-called 'female trouble'.

"When are you due?" he asks.

Her eyes close as she holds the towel to her head. She knows her time is up. He's going to tell on her -- she'll be off the case, and all the work she'd put in, the vendettas she'd garnered, it'd all be for naught. She swallows and sighs, turning to him. "Four more months." She plops the towel on the edge of the sink. "We should be through by then."

He stares at her, quickly glancing at her stomach. "Why'd you lie about it?"

"I have worked too hard to throw all of this away. I can do my job. I am not an invalid."

"You don't want off the team."

"I don't want you to say anything."

"Honesty is the best policy."

"It is my honesty to share."

"And König's?"

She stops and straightens. She doesn't say anything. But it's all that needs to be said.

The rest of the 141 find out later that evening. Both she and König come clean. The men are upset, worried, but know that complicated is part of the job. She's deep cover. If she disappears, it would wreck the mission. They've all worked too hard to throw it away. They keep it secret. Besides, pregnant women make for easy confidants -- a natural response to witnessing a maternal figure, she could use it to their advantage.

König dotes on her as well as he can, sacrificing water, rations, and sleep rotations for her. The others do the same to an extent. But König's excitement supersedes them all -- he smuggles some of her favorite homeland snacks from the field. He struggles to focus when a rifle isn't in his hands. But that is to say, he focuses often, for weeks.

She's guiding them through a chokepoint with cameras and coms from a van. Leading them to the stash of WMDs and intel that they've been hunting for a year. She's out of the line of fire, but never out of danger. She's due in a few weeks. She's tired, they all are.

"You boys almost finished out there?" she asks, watching from Soap's camera as they tag and bag what they came for.

"Just about," Soap radios back.

"Ja, everything is here," König is looking at a tablet in one hand, with his rifle in the other.

"Claro," she exhales sharply. "Because my water broke an hour ago. Get back to base."

"Copy. We are RTB," Soap says -- keeping calm not only for the men with him, but for her sake.

König itches to get back to her, his leg bounces, his fingers wringing. Would the infant be born by the time they got back? Or did it take more time than that? He suddenly realizes he knows nothing about anything -- at all. His mind is blank. But the moment he barrels through the door of the safehouse, seeing her sitting at the table, wincing, he knew one thing: he had to help her. He takes her in his arms and carries her to the bedroom. The med kit on his breastplate has nothing of use for her, he orders his brothers for towels and water.

The night wanes and the pain grows more intense. But he never leaves her side. The others are outside the bedroom, unsure what to do with themselves. She forgets they're there altogether. All she can think about is what will happen after that night. And by morning, after his final encouragement for her to push -- the night has ended, and a new life takes a breath. A small cry breaks with the dawn.

He helps both her and the newborn recline on the bed, and presses his bare face to them both. They are both so beautiful -- so unlike him.

"It's a girl," he says as he greets his brothers, his voice fogged with tiredness and emotion. His eyes tell of his happiness behind the hood. His brothers are happy for him, they congratulate him, pat his back, but silently share the fear of uncertainty.

She has to be on her feet in two days, to move up and out. Everything is sore, she moves slower than she did when she first went into the mission. She's charged with writing the reports and packing the computers -- all between nursing her newborn daughter. The rest of the 141 are loading the munitions and tac-gear, they would be back for her when it was almost wheels up. They had to figure out a way to smuggle the infant out of the base first.

König returns with news that they've paid off a guard to ignore the newborn. But when he approaches the safehouse, the sound of the infant's manic crying can be heard from the street -- the door is slightly ajar. He enters with a weapon drawn, and sees the computer smashed and scattered across the floor. The baby is in her blanketed drawer -- her makeshift crib, alone.

His lover is nowhere to be found.

Cool rage sets in before panic. The nervousness in his mind goes quiet, everything goes still, his face flushes with cold. She's missing. There's no one better than to find her. König wraps the baby in her blanket and positions her snugly inside his body armour before he radios the 141.

She's taken by a double-spy, an informant she burned in pursuit of the WMDs and the intel they chased for a year. He lost everything -- he no longer exists, cannot exist anywhere. A life for a life, he says, it sounds fair. He explains, there are more of her enemies gunning for her -- but if he takes her, he'll fetch a handsome reward, one he is unwilling to share. All she can think of is her newborn, of König, of the life they promised themselves. Somewhere far away. Her body fights against her and weighs her down as she struggles to escape the ties he has her in. She manages to headbutt him, disorienting him giving her enough to snap the ties around her wrists. She takes his radio and forces her body to run as fast as it can out into the open. She doesn't know where she is, how she got there -- but she knows König will find her.

The 141 track a coded radio message four miles away. They know it's her. They don't know if they'll get there in time.

She's on the flat roof of a three story house, having been held in the attic. Her enemy advances through the window she escaped; she searches for a way off the roof. She hears the 141's vehicle as it screeches to a halt, the men already pelting bullets in her assailant's direction. The man grabs her as a shield. She can feel her body starting to rebel against her, she's dizzy, starting to see double.

The men stop their hail of bullets and fan out, Soap and Ghost breach the house through the rear. König watches helplessly from the ground, she sees the outline of the baby in his clothing. Whatever happens, she knows he wouldn't break his promise of a better life for them -- even if she couldn't hold up her end of the bargain.

Her attacker wraps his arm around her neck, threatening to pull them both off the roof and to the pavement below. He has a weapon to her head. Ghost and Soap come up through the attic and appear on the roof with them. The man's finger bounces against the trigger, his feet dance against the roof's gutter.

I want to finish what I started, she thinks. Ignoring the yelling, the clatter of weapons, and the gravel beneath her feet -- she takes a single breath.

With a twist of her body, she wrangles herself out and under the grip of his arm -- she violently pulls his shoulder backwards. Wrested free, she uses what little strength she has to kick him over the ledge -- three shots come flying from behind her, pitting themselves inside the assailant's chest. He goes over the edge. She takes another breath, her shoulders sinking with relief as she watches him begin to fall.

Before she can take another, she feels something grab her wrist. Suddenly being pulled backwards, she careens over the edge with him. Ghost lunges forward, but it's too late. She watches as her partners -- her friends -- are left behind on top of the roof. The sky above her, the ground below -- she takes one more breath.

She lands on top of her enemy, crushing his lifeless body.

König runs to catch her -- he kneels at her side. Desperately, he looks for a pulse. She is unconscious, but alive. Her head made impact with her attacker's skull. He lifts her over his shoulder and seeks refuge in the vehicle.

They return home from their assignment with more secrets than answers.

Before their infant is one month, König is on a civilian flight to the United States. His daughter in his arms, a pack with everything she could ever need or want for their travels slung over his shoulder. He's shrouded in a large hooded jacket and a balaclava. He gets his usual stares as he boards the plane: his height, his stature, but the stares at the baby in his arms is new. She's tiny compared to him, born slightly premature, she's small. He thought she might inherit the genes of his height and width, but he figures she will take after her mother. She flies mostly without incident, but dislikes the bottle. She prefers her mother. He speaks to her in his native tongue: "I know you want your mother, but right now I am all you have," as if it would convince her to take it. An older woman on the flight shows him a trick on helping an infant take a bottle.

"Is she yours?" she asks.

He hesitates, he still can't look anyone else in the eye. No one except his lover. But he nods. "Meine Tochter," he manages a small smile beneath the mask.

"She is beautiful."

"Ja, like her mother."

He simply means to leave her on the front porch of her grandmother -- his lover's mother. Her and the pack. But when he gets there, he finds himself out of his element: out of his gear, in the suburbs, toting a baby -- on the porch of his mother-in-law. That, combined with his size, gets him caught. The woman comes to the door with a broom and begins beating him with it.

"I know your daughter," he finally manages.

She notices the crying baby in his arms. Something is terribly wrong. She invites him in.

He is sitting on the couch -- it feels strange to sit in a place so calm, so daintily decorated. It feels like a trap. But the woman holding his daughter is calm and kind, cooing with her. It was the best decision to bring her here. She'd be safe.

"I thought she might have blonde hair. Like me," he mutters, his whisper almost being swallowed by the balaclava. He extends a finger to his infant. "But...she has so much hair. None of it blonde," he smiles and laughs.

The woman chuckles. "My daughter had such thick hair when she was born. It looked like this." She begins to tear, but does not cry. Much like her daughter. "Is she safe?"

He nods. But he cannot look at her. "A hospital. She will be okay, they told us."

"Do you believe them?"

He looks at her now.

"They say things sometimes...Sometimes they are not true."

He sighs. "Ja, I believe them. Because..." he struggles to find the right words. "Because I believe her -- that she is strong."

A silent tear falls from the woman's face. The baby fusses.

"She will be okay," he says again. He feels as helpless now as he did when he watched her fall.

"Will you catch the men who did this to my daughter?"

"I will." His tone turns dark -- darker than he meant it. But it is the truth. "This one will need a place to stay for now," he caresses his baby's face.

"Mi angelita," she sings sweetly, and kisses her head.

"What does this mean?"

"My angel," she says again.

König looks at his child, her face glowing in the warm daylight peering through a window. She is heavenly -- just like when he first met her mother in the chapel that day. They are both perfect. So beautiful. He feels a pang in his throat, and he takes a calculated breath. His hands go to his face with apprehension, and he pulls down his mask, revealing the large scar that mars his features. But also a soft smile, and wet eyes. "Meine Liebling," he whispers, and places a kiss on her soft skin.

A day later, he places another kiss on the forehead of his lover, who lies in a hospital bed at a nondescript location. She's resting, asleep. The soft tissue damage has all but resolved. It's the swelling in her brain that worries her physicians. And him. And the rest of the men. Her superiors are threatening to disavow her. But none of the 141 will let that happen. Not him. The attempt on her life won't be swept under the rug. He'll find all of der Ficker who want her head -- and he'll take theirs.

His thumb caresses her hair as he nestles his masked face against her temple. "Meine Leibe." His eyes close as he draws a breath. "I have your back."

[cootiekat]

The Best Medicine: Elvis

Warnings: None :)

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem! reader

Genre: Teeth rotting fluff

Summary: You aren’t feeling well, so Eddie plays you your favorite songs🥹 Blurb

A/n: I am currently writing a hella long fanfic retelling of the movie ‘10 things I hate about you’ so if you wanna be on the tag list lmk 🫣

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

You’ve been feeling down the past couple days, but today hit you like a truck. Usually in the mornings you are up cleaning and making breakfast before Eddie has to leave for work. Weirdly, Eddie woke up before you. He checked the clock to make sure it wasn’t super early and to see if he could get more sleep in before he really had to get up, but it was 9:30am. Which means not only did you not get up but he was running extremely late. Eddie went to give you a kiss on your head before he left and he knew something was not right because you turned away from his kiss and mumbled something about “not feeling well” and to “leave you alone.”

Eddie thought about you all day at work. Wondering if you got out of bed to take care of yourself, if you ate or showered, and if you needed something on his way home. Eddie called the house from the phone at work and you didn’t pick up. Eddie officially knew something was up, because you always picked up the phone for him no matter what.

On Eddie’s way home, he made a quick stop at the drug store to pick up some of your favorite snacks, a bouquet of flowers, and a new teddy bear. Eddie walked through the doors and didn’t hear you walking around the house, nor did he hear the TV. Eddie wandered back into the bedroom where you were still sleeping. He lightly shook you awake.

“Sweetheart? Are you feeling alright, I brought you some presents!”

You slowly opened your eyes to the soft sound of his voice. Your heart immediately warmed at the sight of your hardcore boyfriend holding a white and red teddy bear and a bouquet of roses. “Oh my gosh! Thank you, Eddie, I really was not feeling good today.” You explained to him.

“I know, Baby. That’s why I wanted to surprise you.” He says while brushing the hair out of your face.

“Thank you, Eddie , like seriously I don’t think you understand how much I love you.” You say getting teary eyed.

“Well, don’t waste those precious tears on this. I haven’t even played you my song.”

You were surprised at the fact Eddie was going to get his acoustic guitar off the wall, because despite him being an excellent guitar player you haven’t really heard him play just to you, he always wants to impress you so he never plays you anything unless he is 100% certain he won’t make any mistakes.

As he starts playing you hear the starting notes of your favorite Elvis Presley song, Love Me, you gradually start to hear Eddie’s sweet voice when he starts the lyrics.

“Treat me like a fool.”

“Treat me mean and cruel.”

“but love me”

“wring my faithful heart”

“Tear it all apart”

You start cheering for him as he hits the high notes. You love when Eddie plays songs like this for you because its his way of showing is love for you. You walk over the the chair Eddie is sitting in and place yourself on his lap and whisper in his ear.

“Elvis is the best medicine.”

Eddie smiles at you with his perfect teeth and kisses you passionately. You realize that you have everything you need right here.

[queenofbaws]

Hi Queenie! I hope you’re having a lovely day 😁 I was wondering if you would ever consider writing another story like The Almost(s) 🥺 within the Until Dawn universe something which deals with character studies, darker and angstier themes either before Hannah & Beth died or after the events if everyone survived, because I loved the scenes you wrote when the characters were in college, and I think you’d be great at writing scenes set in high school🥺

I was also wondering if you would ever consider writing another character study fic for the counsellors in The Quarry, such as what they get up to while they are counselling before the events take place (similar to your prequel for Until Dawn - The Almosts) 🥺

And one final question, hahahaha, I love your writing so much and your The Almosts series is the best fanfiction I have ever read. I also think it’s one of my favourite books ever! I love your writing, and I think you’re such a good writer, and I know a lot of people agree with me on that :)) I just wanted to ask you, I know that so many writers are hard on themselves and I was just wondering do you feel proud of your The Almosts series too and the rest of your writing :)) I hope you do, because your writing is amazing ❤️❤️

🥹

oh my gosh, well i'm having a lovely day now, thank you very much! hehehe ;P

as of right now, i can't say that i have any plans for a big, heavy, character study fic taking place for either of those - that doesn't mean i'm saying i'll never do it, of course, but for the time being, i'm sorry to say that the answer to your first two questions is probably not 😔

ALAS, i am...so very old, and once the first week of october comes around i'll be even older than that, so while i very, very much appreciate your faith in me, i'm afraid any high school stuff i'd write would come across as unbeLIEVABLY out of touch slkjflksdj and while i love the hacketteers so, so much, i don't know that i have any solid ideas to really delve into surrounding their story at the moment.

that being said, i do have a fic underway that - to me!!! in MY heart!!! - is very much the spiritual successor to the (almost)s, and that's like wringing blood from a stone. it's set in the quarry, and covers the events before, during (and maybe even after ;)c ) the game itself, but it's focused on the hacketts, and not the hacketteers. i consider it the spiritual successor to t(a) because t(a) was a big, involved story about changing friendships and grieving and mourning those changes - stuff i was dealing with pretty heavily at the time of writing it - and like wringing blood is about family and generational cycles and the struggle of always being seen as someone's child despite being a full-grown adult; also...things...i am dealing with pretty heavily at the time of writing, hahaha! but it's obviously very different than t(a), it's an entirely different universe, so i FULLY understand it might not have the same appeal!

and oh my gosh, you absolutely put the biggest, sappiest smile on my face with your kind words, thank you so, so much!!! ...but i have to be honest here - i AM very proud of the (almost)s, it's unquestionably the project that i sort of judge all my other writing against, and while i strive to be proud of everything i write...i am very hard on myself! i do get down about my writing fairly often, and let me tell you, that self-doubt? it comes creeping in more often that i'd like to admit. BUT!!! personally, i think that's an important, if unpleasant, part of being a creator: the day we stop questioning ourselves is the day we stop trying to improve! so i always try not to let it get me too down, and i keep chugging along, but i'd be a liar if i said i'm always happy with my work.

so it makes my heart grow at LEAST three grinchy sizes when someone like YOU waves from readerland and says something i put out there resounded with them 🥹 hehehe truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so, so much for reading, and for making me smile 💖

[dramoor]

"When one passes through those times of pain which wring the heart, one is called not to break down but to break through. Just as there is a sound barrier, so there is a kind of praise barrier, and one breaks through the darkness by offering praise to God. Praise at such times is not offered as the fruit of a contented and happy mood. Such praise is not the result of a feeling. It is offered in the teeth of feelings of pain, and in spite of emotional numbness which such feelings of pain can bring.

Such praise is offered to God as a pure act of obedience, as a naked act of the will. It comes from a place deep down, from the heart which lives beneath the daily swirl of feelings. Such acts of praise are acts of defiance, through which we defy the darkness, and confess our faith in God who lives above this vale of tears and who calls us to Himself.

That is why, perhaps, such praise breaks through. When one is able to praise God in such circumstances, one is acknowledging that one is not the Center of the universe, and that one’s pain and loss, though personally difficult, have not displaced the cosmos, or changed the faithfulness of God. Like Job looking to God who appeared to him out of the whirlwind, we lift our eyes from ourselves to behold the Lord, and find a whole new perspective and peace. We acknowledge that although our life is temporarily in tatters, God remains on the throne, and He will make it all right—either in this age or the next."

~Archpriest Lawrence R. Farley, on the Akathist to Jesus, Light to Those in Darkness

(Photo © dramoor 2024 Continental Divide Trail, Colorado)

[absolutesuffering]

Just A Paperweight, In Shades Of Greige.

𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚

𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙤𝙡𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙛𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚, 𝙤𝙝

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣

𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙

𝙋𝙤𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙-

The grainy sounds of the old tape recorder feels like the recoil of an impulsively fired revolver. Grief settles in his chest like a child curling up at their mother's embrace. It climbs behind his ribcage and makes a home in his heart, it's tendrils the wisps of a burning temple.

His arms lay by his side limply as his body folds in on itself, a stillborn at the altar of sacrifice. The stage his bedroom, the pagan prophet of faithful disobedience his psyche.

His fingertips grip the satin sheets, threadcount too high, his skeleton a structure housing howls. He feels like a wolf on a full moon night, only he's barren of a pack, a mate, a bond, a voice, a cry-

On nights like these, he almost believes he's human. And not a gallery of consequences.

"𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳."

All his life, he's spent running from the shadows of the mansion. Away from the dark and towards what he thought was light. Only to realise, he'd been running in circles. That the blood flowing through his veins cannot be washed of their sins of being joined as kins, that his brain thinks of the way his predecessors have thought, that his hands too, bring nothing but carnage.

He wonders how useless one has to be, to disappoint even the non-mortals in the vicinity. How poisonous an existence, to wring dry the purest of light.

He remembers hands, thin. Bony. Bloody. Reaching out to him, a plea to be saved. He remembers portraying the role of a leaden sculpture at the top of a staircase, his life a grainy 80s film flashing by.

As his eyes slowly close, the curtain falls on the podium. The life of Han Joowon, a one man play of a haughty pseudo-professional attempt at being. A destruction that leaves a long trail of compunction that sizzled like acid at it's wake, even in it's end. The thought nudged a deprecating tinge of laughter to his bloody lips. His hands a warzone of sluggish blood being expelled from jagged cuts and a shard of coloured glass, a monster of it's own making.

A bang at his door. A voice. His eyes hazed over from tears, exhaustion and blood loss.

"𝘑𝘰𝘰𝘸𝘰𝘯-𝘢𝘩!"

The radio whirs to a stop, it's shelf-life giving way to a conclusion. Quite anticlimatic, for a thing from his mother's possession. The world turns dark.

𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚

𝙄'𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙮

𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙮

𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙮

𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙚

𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙤

𝘼𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙤

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙮?

***