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incognit0slut · 6 months

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DARK DESIRES

Last part of kinktober | main masterlist

ghostface!spencer x fem!reader; dubcon, knife play, sensory deprivation, dacryphilia, forced orgasm, rough sex

A twisted encounter with the masked killer roaming in your neighborhood had you questioning your morals because as it turned out, you were more attracted to him than you let on.

words: 6335

a/n: this fic might not be everyone's cup of tea. IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU, DO NOT ENGAGE. Anyway, thank you for the amount of love everyone has sent me through this short series. I appreciate it❤️

(find my ghostface reid edit here and here)

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER you had with the masked killer was at home. You were in your living room, absentmindedly flipping through the channels on the television until the news captured your attention. You watched with a mix of fascination and horror as the unfolding report detailed a series of gruesome murders, each committed by a mysterious figure concealed behind a chilling mask.

"The armed suspect remains at large as law enforcement intensifies efforts for apprehension," the newscaster's voice declared. "Victims have sustained multiple stab wounds, with survivors recounting a chilling detail of a mysterious call from an unknown number before each attack. Citizens are urgently requested to report any suspicious phone activity."

As you sat there engrossed, a sense of dread began to coil around you. The details of the gruesome murders had been haunting enough, but a chilling realization gripped you as the camera panned across the crime scenes. Your eyes widened as the news footage revealed a recognizable building. That was the local library a few blocks away from your house.

A shiver went down your spine, and a cold unease settled in the pit of your stomach, as you realized that one of the victims was the young teenage boy who volunteered at the town's library every weekend. It then dawned on you with chilling clarity—a serial killer was lurking in your neighborhood.

The second time you saw the masked killer, his face was plastered around town. Ghostface. That was what they called him. The once-anonymous menace had transformed into a chilling icon that echoed through hushed conversations and whispered warnings. His mask, a pale and expressionless countenance with hollow eyes, exuded an unsettling aura of anonymity. It was what you saw in every corner; materializing on posters, shop windows, and even billboards.

Beware of Ghostface!

It was ironic. For someone who was murdering people with his bare hands, your community was giving him too much attention. It wasn't until you saw a group of well-dressed people, who clearly weren't from around here, that you realized how serious this situation was.

When the FBI arrived, you knew it was no longer a local matter, but a national concern. There was reassurance in their presence, in the sense that the full force of specialized agents was now focused on apprehending the killer that haunted the streets. But despite their formidable presence, against all expectations, the masked killer continued to pursue more victims.

You couldn't help but wonder every time someone you knew was reported dead—were these people even doing their job right? What were they doing here when they couldn't arrest one person when they came in a full pack?

You never really noticed these agents, although you did sometimes see them lurking around shops and houses to ask questions. You didn't really give them much attention, until that one night when you walked back from work and saw a figure leaning casually against a sleek, black SUV adorned with government markings.

He was standing alone, arms crossed and eyes focused on you as you slowly stepped closer because the only way to your house was to pass this street. He was clad in the quintessential FBI vest over his dress shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up along his forearms. His height commanded attention, casting a subtle shadow that seemed to stretch into the surrounding darkness.

A cascade of curly, unruly locks framed his face, falling in a chaotic dance that obscured much of his features. But even in the dark, you could tell he was handsome, and the messiness of his hair added a touch of his disheveled charm. Yet, it was his eyes that held you captive. Stark and penetrating. Instead of finding comfort in the presence of an authority, you felt an unsettling chill crawl down your spine as his stare lingered on you.

"You shouldn't walk alone at night with a killer on the loose," he stated abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence.

Caught off guard, you stammered in response, "I, uh, my house is right around the corner."

His eyes, still fixed on you, held an inscrutable intensity. You shuddered. Without thinking much, and fueled by a sudden surge of unease, you briskly left his side.

People say the third time's a charm, that the idea after two unsuccessful attempts or failures, the third attempt is more likely to be successful or fortunate. However, in your case, you didn't know what to make of it when you encountered the masked killer for the third time.

It started with a call.

At first, you didn't bother the unknown number flashing on your phone, especially when a killer was roaming around town with its known trademark of calling his victims before his attack. So you ignored it and continued to prepare your dinner. But then it rang again. Once. Twice. Three times. The fourth time it constantly rang, you realized, that whoever was on the other line wasn't going to stop until you answered.

"Hello?" you nervously greeted.

"Hello there. Took you long enough," the voice on the other line replied. It was soft, distinctly masculine, quite disoriented, yet it carried a mysterious familiarity that you couldn't put your finger on.

"Who is this?" you pressed.

"A person."

You scoffed, a mixture of frustration and disbelief coloring your response. "Charming." With an eye roll, you dismissed the call, attributing it to nothing more than a prank. "Goodbye."

"Wait—no! Don't hang up!" The urgency in the voice pleaded, catching your attention before you could close the connection.

Frowning, you hesitated, the nagging sense that you had heard this voice somewhere before lingering in your mind. "No, really, who is this?"

The voice, now veiled in a playful tone, responded with, "A secret admirer."

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across your face. "I doubt it," you said, leaning over the kitchen counter. "No one has ever had a crush on me."

"Well, I do."

"Tell me who you are then," you challenged.

"But it won't be a secret anymore."

You paused for a moment, the wheels of curiosity turning in your mind. "You really know me?"

"Of course, I do."

"Do I know you then?" you asked.

"Maybe," he answered, a playful ambiguity threading his response. "So, you got a boyfriend?"

"Why?" You laughed, the unexpected question breaking the tension. "You wanna ask me out on a date?"

"Maybe," he responded again, maintaining a hint of mystery. "So do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"That's a pity," he sighed, his tone taking on a flirtatious note. "You look too good in that shirt without a man appreciating it."

Your heart quickened at his words. Was he... you looked around your house, your eyes traveling across the many windows adorned in your personal space. A mixture of shock and discomfort settled in as you considered the possibility of being observed.

"W- What did you say?"

"You look too good in that white shirt," he repeated. "Doesn't leave much to the imagination."

You looked down at yourself. The shirt he mentioned was actually a tanktop you decided to wear for bed, but you weren't wearing anything else under it, so true to his words, this piece of clothing didn't leave much to the imagination. The hemline hung low on your chest, leaving a perfect view of your cleavage. The cold temperature of the room managed to make your body react, which was why your nipples were pressing hard against the material.

"Hello? Are you still here?" Sensing your silence, the voice on the other line held a sudden edge of urgency. "Wait—don't you hang up on me—"

You quickly ended the call. Feeling a sudden need for privacy, you hastily closed the curtains, shutting out the view from the windows as you clutched your phone in your hand. Your heart raced, and a wave of dread engulfed you. The unsettling possibility that someone might be targeting you, and not just anyone, but the masked killer, cast a chilling shadow over your thoughts.

The phone rang again. You hesitated, a part of you urging against answering, but somehow, almost involuntarily, you found yourself pressing the phone against your ear. The adrenaline of fear seemed to override your rational instincts, forcing you to engage with the source of the unease, even against your better judgment.

"I told you not to hang up on me," the man greeted you, but his voice lacked the soft, friendly tone it had before. Instead, it had morphed into something more sinister, a deep resonance that reverberated through the air.

"Wh-who is this?" you asked, your voice quivering with a blend of fear and frustration. "What do you want?"

"To volunteer. Let me appreciate how good you look tonight."

You were desperate now. The urgency in his voice propelled you into action. Your feet guided you to the front door, and you locked it securely before quickly running up the stairs. Panic seized you as you checked and secured all the windows, the sense of vulnerability amplifying with each lock turned.

A sudden sound of laughter filled your ear.

"What you're doing is useless," he taunted, the malicious glee in his voice sending shivers down your spine. Then, with a sinister tone that cut through the air, his next words had you stopping in your tracks.

"I'm already inside."

The air in the house thickened with dread as his words hung ominously. Panic set in, and the once-familiar surroundings now felt like a trap closing in around you. Every creak of the house, every flicker of shadow, became a sign of impending danger.

He was the one to end the call, and you looked down at your front door from the top of your stairs. You calculated how long it would take you to escape your own house as you slowly descended down. But then, the closet door by the front, the small room where you kept your coats and unused items, suddenly opened.

The creak of the door echoed through the silence, and your eyes fixated on the widening gap. Your escape route seemed to diminish and fear paralyzed you. The once-familiar confines of your home now held an intruder, and as you stared at the ominous opening, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Your eyes widened, because right in the flesh was none other than Ghostface, stepping out of your closet with a knife in his hand. The chilling reality gripped you, and time seemed to slow as the masked intruder stood before your eyes. The pale, ghostly visage stared back at you, obscured by the haunting mask that concealed any trace of humanity.

You moved on instinct. You turned on your heels and ran back up the stairs, even when you were aware there was no escape unless you jumped out of your window. But it was a better plan than running right into the arms of a killer, so you picked up your pace, sprinting as fast as you could down the hallway.

But he was fast, unnaturally so, and suddenly you felt a vice-like grip around your waist. His hand urged you with brutal force before slamming your back against the wall. The impact reverberated through your body, and a gasp caught in your throat as the cold surface of the wall pressed against you.

His presence loomed, the masked figure inches from your face. The hollow eyes of Ghostface bore into yours through the chilling mask, and the glint of the knife in his hand reflected the cruel intent that hung in the air.

Panic engulfed you as his other gloved hand circled around your throat. "Pl-Please.." you chocked, struggling against the force he pressed on your neck. "...don't—don’t kill me."

The air felt constricted, and the desperate plea escaped your lips in a struggled gasp. The gloved hand tightened its grip, the leather cool against your skin, as Ghostface's masked visage remained impassive.

"Kill you?" he asked, an eerie edge in his voice. "That's the last thing I want to do right now."

You desperately placed a hand on his wrist as you let your phone hit the ground.

"Don't move," he warned. But you kept on thrashing around, the primal instinct for survival overriding reason, and he tightened his grip on you. "If you keep struggling, I might have to gut you out like a damn fish."

That made you stop. Satisfied you were listening, he finally let go of your throat. The release brought a gasp of air, and you stumbled back, leaning against the wall.

"I'm not here to kill you," Ghostface declared, the chilling mask betraying no emotion. "But I do have something else in mind."

He responded by caressing your face and pinning you against the wall. The cold, gloved hand traced a chilling path across your skin, and you felt the sharp contrast between the mask and the vulnerability of your flesh. He tilted his head as he saw the fear in your eyes, tears welling at the corners.

"Aw, come on, don't look so scared," he murmured, a perverse tenderness in his voice that clashed with the situation. His sharp blade went to your throat, the cold steel sending a shiver down your spine. He forced you to stare into the hollowness of the mask.

"Let me have my fun."

You felt the blade on your skin as he dragged the weapon along your body. He smiled when he noticed you tensing, trying to avoid the sharpness of the blade from grazing your skin. Through tear-filled eyes, you looked up, struggling to catch your breath. Fear still consumed you, a chilling grip on your senses, but alongside it, an unexpected emotion stirred. Curiosity.

As you gazed at the masked killer looming over you, a strange sense of intrigue took place. It was a baffling response, the surreal proximity to the infamous Ghostface left you grappling with a mix of terror and fascination. The sheer scale of his presence seemed to stretch into the shadows, and you couldn't help but wonder—was he actually this tall?

A sudden movement caught your attention as he took a step. He moved underneath the black cloak he wore, and you felt a shiver run down your spine as he slipped a leg between yours. The confined space of the hallway seemed to shrink further as his presence pressed in on you.

And then there was silence. The air hung heavy with anticipation, and you sensed a deliberate slowness in his actions. It was as if he offered you a chance to resist, to push him away. But you didn't move. Instead, you held your breath, the rhythmic pulse of your heart echoing in the quiet.

"You've stopped struggling," he hummed to himself, trailing the knife over your shoulder. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

There wasn't time for you to reply as he hooked the blade under your top and ran it along the fabric, watching it snap under the sharp surface. The cool air hit your skin as you were suddenly exposed to him. Without warning, his other hand moved over your breasts, squeezing them roughly, earning a gasp from you. Your heart pounded with something akin to fear, or perhaps, it oddly felt like… excitement?

"Of course, you are," he muttered, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You could feel the cool touch of his gloved hand over your skin as he brushed his thumb over your sensitive bud. "Knew you were a fucking slut."

What was happening? It was wrong, morally twisted, yet you found a strange sense of anticipation as he continued to touch you. Your body was shaking, not just from fear, but from something else. While your rational side recoiled at what was happening, your body seemed to betray a darker truth.

You hated yourself. You loathed how easily you were giving in. You kept on reciting how wrong this was in your head, but when you felt the blade cut through the fabric of your shorts with ease, you didn't mind as much. Then your breath hitched when he quickly ripped your panties with his knife, and somehow you were now naked with his leg placed between your thighs.

"Would you look at that?" He taunted, his leathered hand moving over your curves. "You're dripping."

You let out a small, shaky sigh as he dragged his fingers up your thigh, stopping just before his fingers brushed over your heat. The touch was so faint it shouldn't have even had that much of an effect on you, but it did. It fucking did.

This was so unlike you, you weren't the kind of person to let someone you barely knew touch you. You even disliked the idea of a one-night stand. Yet here you were, legs wide open as you let a murderer touch you, and the messed up thing was, you wanted more.

He began carefully moving his middle and forefinger in a gentle circular motion, rubbing your clit teasingly as if to test your reaction. You bit your bottom lip, stopping yourself from moaning aloud, your eyes fluttering closed as he played with your clit skillfully.

He was far too good at this, you found yourself thinking. Your body jerked as he increased his pace and you knew he had a goal in mind—to make you fall apart. The fast pace of his fingers had your brows furrowing as you chewed your bottom lip, desperate to keep quiet despite the way your hips bucked and rolled against his hand. He let out a chilling laughter.

"Stop acting like you don't want this," he said, increasing his pressure on your clit. Your eyes screwed shut, and you focused on that touch alone, the leather sliding over your wet skin. "Let me hear your pathetic voice."

You shook your head furiously.

"No?" He mocked. "You wanna bet how fast I can make you scream?"

His fingers moved from your clit, dragging down your slit and collecting your juices, briefly stroking you, earning a muffled cry out of you. Your chest began to heave, your hips unconsciously bucking against his hand as he worked over you casually. He laughed again.

"I'm going to make you scream so loud your neighbors will know how much of a slut you are."

And then he pressed the edge of the blade on your throat at the same time he plunged two fingers inside you. Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open and a loud squeal left your lips, the sound distorted by the vibrations surging through your body. He hummed in satisfaction at how fast it was to earn that moan from your lips, and surprisingly, he loved the sound you made.

It didn't take long for him to force more sounds out of your pretty mouth. You felt the coolness of the wall behind your back, the pads of your fingers brushing over the concrete in a pathetic attempt to get a hold of something, anything that could keep you steady while his fingers kept pumping in and out of your throbbing cunt with a wet, squelching sound.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, saturating every cell of your trembling body. The electrifying rush heightened your senses, amplifying the surreal nature of the pleasure. You wriggled your hips under the pressure of his body that was keeping you pinned against the wall, feeling so fucking embarrassed by the wetness dripping out of you.

"Fucking filthy, letting a murderer touch you." He then dragged his fingers out of you and started to rub your clit in tight, rapid circles. You practically cried out and quickly bit your lower lip to subside another embarrassing moan. "You know how many people I've killed with this hand? The same hand touching your sweet little pussy?"

Your thighs tightened around his hand, trying desperately to push him away. He responded by sinking three of his fingers inside you and groaned at the way you were clenching around him. "Look at you taking my fingers so well."

The leather slightly burned your skin, and somehow, it only heightened your pleasure. The heel of his palm pressed against your clit hard as he continued to curl his fingers. You gasped as your eyes fluttered open, looking up at him while his fingers pushed deeper into you, touching a spot you had never been aware of. The sensation brought an unusual feeling to your senses. You looked at him in confusion, your eyes widening.

"Pl- Please, stop," you begged out of fear of the unknown. The tickling in your abdomen was becoming almost unbearable, and you clasped your thighs together and involuntarily bent your knees a little in an attempt to make his fingers slip out of your wet cunt.

With a feral growl, he suddenly threw the knife on the floor before wrapping his hand around your throat, pinning your head against the wall.

"Take it," he hissed and tightened his grip, making you jolt forward. You helplessly part your legs and whimpered as his palm brushed over your clit with every thrust, his hard cock rubbing against your thigh as he held you in place. "Fucking take it."

The sensation was overwhelming to the point tears began to trickle down your face, and you tried to desperately blink them away as they hindered your vision.

"Oh, you're crying now?" He cooed, still rocking his fingers violently inside you. "Pathetic."

Before you knew it, your hips were bucking, distraught cries escaping you. Your body shuddered as if it were under his control, forcing out your orgasm like it was effortless as his fingers curled inside you, continuing to stimulate you even after you begged him to stop.

It wasn't long before he was bringing you back up again. His pace turned into a more intense speed that, to your surprise, the familiar contracting of your pulsing walls was followed by the splurge of weird liquid coming out of you. Your mouth fell open as you writhed against him, your sensitive cunt almost numb to the sensation as he pressed you for more.

You were so numb you could no longer feel his fingers buried deep inside your convulsing walls, squeezing around his digits as you shook in the tremors of your release. When you looked at him in shock, cheeks burning crimson and chest rising and falling heavily, a pretentious laugh left him. With a vulgar squelching sound, he slipped his fingers out of your pussy.

"Squirting like a pathetic slut,” he spat, his other hand still wrapped around your neck. "Told you I'd make you scream."

Your body turned pliant as you gave in and sank against the wall. You watched him lean down through your half-lidded eyes as you tried to ground yourself, his movements deliberate and swift, grabbing your wrecked shirt from the floor. You watched in confusion as he pressed the flimsy material together before firmly shoving it over your eyes.

Panic surged through you as the sudden darkness enveloped our vision. Although you couldn't see him, you heard him very well. His muffled breathing behind the mask, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusted the material at the back of your head. Your other senses were heightened when you were robbed of your vision that you could even smell him.

The sharp scent of sweat and a faint hint of earthiness clung to him, as though remnants of the ground followed his presence. Yet, amidst the rawness, there was a surprising note of sweetness, as if a subtle cologne lingered beneath the surface.

God, he was so close. His chest was now pressed against yours, and then suddenly, almost forcefully, you felt warm hands grip your jaw. Your mouth fell open.

He took off his gloves.

Goosebumps rose on your skin when a sudden breeze of air brushed across your face and you gasped. You could barely think clearly, and you could barely even brace yourself when harsh lips captured your mouth desperately. You couldn't believe what was happening, because holy fuck—you were kissing Ghostface.

There was nothing remotely gentle about the way he kissed you. A deep shuddering groan rippled through him as he continued to assault your lips. You were too stunned at the way he pushed his tongue inside your mouth, tasting you in a way that had your body trembling at the sheer force of intensity traveling through your veins.

And when you finally felt his bare fingers grazing along your drenched core, going up and down your swollen folds, he captured the moan falling through your lips with a groan.

"So fucking filthy," he whispered against your lips as he continued to tease you. His voice, once muffled, was now very clear. The tones were distinct, carrying an inexplicable familiarity that tugged at the edges of your memory. But before you could even try to recall where you had heard it before, he surprised you by increasing the speed of his fingers.

"You want more of this, don't you?"

You shook your head, but your body was saying otherwise. Your hand gripped his arm as he started to play with your clit again, and your knees buckled pathetically. His other hand fell on your waist to steady you while he pressed a kiss on the hollow point of your throat, traveling further up the skin till his teeth nibbled on your ear lobe.

He then grabbed onto one of your legs and hiked it around his waist as he pushed his hips into you. You could feel the outline of his hard cock behind the cloak he was wearing and you let out a whimper when he started rolling his hips.

"Is this what you want?" He rasped out at the shell of your ear. You felt strong hands grip your wrists before he pushed them above your head, pining you against the wall. "You want me to fill you up with my cock?"

You shook your head again, attempting to anchor yourself. The struggle was evident in the tension of your muscles, each fiber resisting the pull toward surrender. You should push him. You should cry for help. Yet here you were questioning your sanity as you slowly, almost desperately, grind your hips along with his, yearning for more friction.

"Dirty, dirty slut," he muttered against your lips before kissing you once again, swallowing your whimpers as his hips snapped into you. "I bet you feel so tight around me."

Desire roared fire in your veins, and you whined. He leaned over and captured one of your nipples in his wet, warm mouth, and you moaned again before he let out a satisfied hum. You could practically feel the smirk curling on his lips as he taunted, "You react so well. I might have to keep you."

Goosebumps rose along your skin. Then in a swift and forceful motion, he yanked you, abruptly pushing you to the ground. The impact was sudden and jarring, leaving you landing on your knees.

As you tried to make sense of what was happening, a hand pushed against your back, and you toppled forward, landing on the ground face-first, finding yourself on your hands and knees. A sharp smack hit your bare ass from behind and you jolted in surprise.

"Spread them wide for me," He murmured, gaze skipping over your nakedness. He marveled at the sight before him, the way you shamelessly arched your back at his command. Yet when he noticed you hesitating, he dropped his voice in a lower, sinister tone.

"Don't make me use my knife."

You quickly did as you were told, your hands traveling behind you, spreading your sticky thighs in a languorous stretch, and you shuddered under the weight of his eyes. You whined at the feeling of the cold air hitting your exposed skin and a trickle of your arousal ran down your thigh, much to your utter embarrassment. "Look how pretty you are."

Heat blossomed in your chest. Then the sound of a belt being undone had you whimpering, and you moved instinctively, arching your back even further. One of his hands landed on your ass again with a sharp smack before he gripped a firm handful of it. You could hear more rustling and a slight soft thud behind you. The lack of vision made you overly sensitive and you found yourself waiting with bated breath for his every move.

With a sharp tug, he pulled you back by your hips before one of his hands landed on the back of your neck. You felt him push down hard and you obliged, lowering your face and upper body to the floor as his other hand remained holding your hips up in the air. And then you felt him—pulsing warm right at your entrance.

A pitiful groan escaped your lips as the tip of his cock swiped back and forth along your folds. He moaned out a deep, pleasure-filled noise that reverberated around the small space at the feel of your arousal coating him. And then suddenly, without warning, he abruptly plunged inside of you. He thrust straight into that spot deep inside that stung so good a sharp cry slipped out of you. It was painful, his sheer force of girth stretching you apart, though that cry quickly became a low moan of pleasure.

The man behind you showed no mercy, thrusting his hips into you with force and purpose, so hard you felt your body inching across the hardwood floor with each stroke. Your mouth fell open when one of his hands released your neck before you felt him grabbing a fistful of your hair, just at the base of your skull, and sharply pulling. A high-pitched, breathy noise of pleasure tore out of you and he repeated the gesture, the tug on your hair even rougher.

He held himself there as he used the grip on your hair to haul you backward to him. Your back was arched, his cock still buried deep inside of you as you fell back into his chest. For a few moments, it was almost uncomfortable, but then, surprisingly, you felt even more aroused than you already were.

You pushed your ass even higher, arching your body in search of more of that delicious sensation. It felt like electricity shocked your entire body, triggering intense waves of pleasure that repeatedly spread wildly from your core as you focused on the pleasure building between your legs, the burning sensation filling you to the brim.

It was maddening. Frustrating, even. Because you didn't even care anymore, you didn't even care if you exposed for him, you didn't even care if your knees ached from the hard friction of the floor because any shreds of sanity and pride had long since been destroyed. You wanted more. You needed more.

It was so twisted. You longed to be broken by him. You longed to be ruined by him.

You had never imagined being in this position, kneeling on the floor with a murderer thrusting himself into you, yet here you were, whimpering at the sensation of doing the forbidden. Your mind turned delirious he released the hold on your hair, his hand snaking around your front to grip your throat.

You continued to meet his savage thrusts with your hips, slamming into you as your wail turned into a ragged scream. The sensation, though pleasurable, became too intense to handle. You attempted to move away from him, stealing his breath as your inner walls clenched around his cock. His firm hand gripped your hips tighter, preventing you from pulling away as he held you in position, thrusting his cock into your throbbing pussy.

A helpless sound trickled from your throat as your body jerked, and he mercilessly fucked you through it. Everything was so intense your mind was struggling to comprehend what was happening as he pounded into you roughly. You tried to breathe through the incredible pleasure surging through your body but you were too overwhelmed. "T-Too much."

"T-Too much," he mocked. A sinister laugh sliced through the darkness, sending shivers down your spine. "Fucking. Take. It."

His words were punctuated with every snap of his hips. The insistent thrust made you thrash your head as your body convulsed, dragging it out and heightening it to a point where you could only wail. Your breath came in harsh pants; his breathing was as rough as he urged you on, and you gave yourself over to the wildfire consuming your body. You whimpered, head rolling back onto his shoulder.

"That's it, taking me so perfectly," his voice, now a sinister whisper, slithered into your ears. "Knew you were special the moment I saw you."

A gasp escaped you, the weight of his words settling with an unsettling realization. Amidst the darkness, you felt the contours of his laughter.

"Don't act so surprised. I'm your secret admirer, remember?" You felt his hand leave your hips before it trailed toward your front. You knew what he was about to do and you clenched him involuntarily, already anticipating what was to come.

"Fuck," He hissed. "You feel so tight around me. I really do have to keep you now."

The coil inside you was dangerously close to snapping and he growled as your cunt clenched around his cock.

"Oh, you liked that. You like the idea of me using you? Fuck you whenever I want?" He questioned, his fingers moving to your clit as he pressed messy circles against the sensitive nub, twisting it beneath his calloused pad. You bit down on your lower lip, feeling the coil in your abdomen tightening at his sharp movements, your hands moving to his wrist as you tried to ground yourself.

You gasped when you felt him tightening the grip on your throat, the skin tingling as he repeated the motion. "Filthy little thing, aren't you?"

"I-I—" You spluttered, feeling your legs going numb. You squealed when you felt him pick up his pace on your clit, rubbing messy circles against it as your back slumped against him, mouth parting, your tongue slipping out between your lips.

It was too much. You felt like you were about to explode. Your mind went blank. Your body felt numb. There was nothing else you could do but to give into the force of pleasure consuming you as he fucked you roughly, his hips hitting you in harsh motions.

"You gonna cum now?" He grunted, pressing his mouth at the shell of your ear. You helplessly nodded, not able to make out any coherent words anymore. He groaned between thrusts, keeping a firm grip on your ass to keep you from squirming. "Go on then, cum on my cock like the filthy whore that you are."

As if on command, your body spasmed involuntarily. It started with a prickling of your skin creeping up your body, over your breasts and face, inner walls tightening around his cock, and you came hard. You squirmed uncontrollably as all that pent-up pleasure welled up in your core. Your heart was pounding erratically against your heaving chest you could even hear the pounding in your ears.

Your mind was in a drunken haze as the pleasure continued to flow through your veins, his fingertips languidly brushed against your clit. But despite the desperate spasms of your pussy, he continued to penetrate your body. Every thrust hit more intensely than the last, wetness flooded from you as reality slipped away, and all you could do was burn, vocally urging him on as he moaned darkly behind you.

You were very far from sanity from everything consuming your body. You felt him everywhere. His grinding cock, the press of his fingers as they moved to toy with your clit, and his blunt nails cut around your throat. Your cunt continued to possessively grip his cock as you wailed breathlessly.

Heat traveled through you, body quivering and going boneless, the warm ripples of release dulling the sharp edges of your mind as he drove into you and finally chased his own high. The filthy feel of him emptying inside you, your shimmering release, and his hands decorating your skin with fingerprint bruises, was all you could focus on.

Until the distinct sound of sirens echoed in the background.

Your mind went hazy as you tried to anchor yourself and you heard him chuckle in amusement. "I guess you really woke your neighbors up," he said, letting go of his grip around your throat. You let out a breathless sigh when you felt him slipping out of you, surprisingly feeling empty.

He groaned as his eyes traveled down, watching the way his release dripped out from your convulsing pussy, traveling down the length of your thighs. “It’s a pity I have to cut this short.” Then you felt his lips near your ear. “Until next time."

"W- What?" Your head snapped up, disoriented in the darkness, as you tried to discern his voice. "You'll come back?"

"I'll be here when you least expect it." Then the unexpected happened. He surprised you with a gentle kiss on your shoulder, a stark contrast from everything that had taken place. The contradiction sent shudders through you as you felt his grip on your hips tightening. "Keep your doors unlocked for me."

A sudden emptiness enveloped you as he withdrew from your personal space. Your mind, still reeling from the inexplicable events, struggled to make sense of what happened. And now the realization that he wasn't behind you anymore prompted your hands to instinctively reach for the makeshift blindfold, swiftly slipping it off your face.

Blinking in the sudden light, your eyes adjusted to the surroundings. Your eyes caught his figure standing tall at the top of your staircase, back turned, a fleeting glimpse of brown curls disappearing beneath the mask he hastily put back on.

Abruptly, he turned to you, the hollow visage of Ghostface now fixed in your direction. The tilt of his head sent a shiver down your spine as he looked at you for another fleeting second, as if he was giving you a silent promise as the faint sound of sirens continued from the distance. You stared back at him, heart thrumming in your chest.

And then he was gone.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfic #ghostface imagine #ghostface smut

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years

Note

You don't think matcha is tea????

Matcha isn't a Tea in my humble Opinion.

Matcha is an experience.

The year is 2009, the place is the University of Hawai'i at Manoa in Honolulu, and I am recovering from a still-undiagnosed disease that left me with a 100+ degree for over three weeks, extreme weight loss and permanent Brain Damage. I have signed up for an introductory Art History class because I need an additional Humanities credit.

It's called "The History and Philosophy of the Japanese Tea Ceremony", and for a class I can only sort of remember, it stands out.

So I'm in professor Roberts' Japanese Tea Ceremony class, looking and feeling like death warmed over, but I'm genuinely interested in the subject matter and show up to every class because I have nothing better to do, and ask questions and turn in my homework, even if neither are particularly coherent at times, and rapidly become his favorite student. The thing I learned in public school was how to show up to events even if I don't want to, analyze tests and other written materials for patterns and charm educators by holding up my end of a conversation, skills that have served me in the modern world far more than learning actual course content would have.

The Tea Ceremony, historically, takes a good month to prepare and the entire evening to carry out- the guest list is curated to create social bonds and intellectual stimulation alike, a poem is composed for the season, and a seasonal flower arrangement created to decorate the space. When the guests arrive, they must all crawl through a small door to enter the tea garden, regardless of profession or rank. Hands are ritually washed in spring water, and there is a slow processional walk through the garden, to admire the artistry of the landscaping, and the composition of seasonal elements to create this particular night of beauty. The entire ceremony is about appreciating both the joy of existing right now, in this time and place, and the unification of the self and the universe and the endless cycles of nature.

The guests arrive at the tea house and meet the Tea Master, who will be making the Matcha that evening. The guests are seated in particular order, the Most Revered Guest- sometimes a high-ranking official, sometimes a visiting scholar or artist- is seated closest to the Tea Master. The Poem is read aloud. The Flowers are admired. The tools for making the Matcha are taken out, examined as objects of art, and their history told. The matcha powder itself is taken out- the case examined, the cultivation of the tea discussed, and only then does the Tea Master make the Tea.

Matcha is not brewed- it's a fine powder made of crushed green tea leaves, and the powder is whisked together with not-quite-boiling water in a bowl to create a much more substantial and flavorful drink. This drink is presented to the Most Revered Guest first, who is expected to take a sip and, in a moment of Zen spiritual clarity, comment on its flavor and how all the elements of the tea, art, garden and season all complement each other, and perhaps offer some sort of philosophical statement.

At least,

That's how it's supposed to go.

About a month before the spring semester is over, Professor Roberts announces that he has a surprise for his class- a good friend of his, a Professional Tea Master, will be visiting Hawai'i, and has agreed to perform a Tea Ceremony for our class! I am very excited. The other 10 people in class are varying levels of amiably confused to distressed by having to go to An Event (TM) for a grade, but agree. One of my classmates, an astrology hoe named Jessica, pointed out that with the 11 students, Professor Roberts, and the Tea Master, there will be 13 people present, which is basically inviting disaster.

"Jessica." Sighed Professor Roberts. "It's a Tea Ceremony. What disaster could happen?"

Despite Jessica's misgivings, Preparations for the ceremony went on. We learned about Ikebana while deciding on the Ceremonial Bouquet and tried our hands at it with what Professor Robert could get at the grocery store for $12. We learned about calligraphy and different types of poetic compositions while making the Seasonal Poem, and stain the hell out of the classroom carpet learning the brush strokes. We learn about different types of Matcha Bowl sculpting and glazing and we are not allowed to touch the demonstration bowls or the kiln because Professor Roberts was beginning to suspect that some of his students (me) were suffering from coordination issues. I apply myself with zeal, if not necessarily talent. I was, at the time, an Art Major, but my professors in the art department had been grading me on a secret "this bitch almost died last semester and is re-learning how to hold a pencil" curve, and boy howdy did I stumble and break leaves and splatter ink like it.

Despite my ongoing unmonitored recovery, Professor Roberts viewed my enthusiastic class participation with rose-colored glasses, and about a week before the ceremony we had a class where he brought out the used Kimonos and Obi and other forms of japanese dress he'd borrowed from the theater department so that we would be traditionally dressed(ish) and experience the ceremony authentically(ish). While people were trying on clothes to see what would fit, he took me aside and told me he wanted me to be in the position of Most Revered Guest, the person who makes the zen statement upon which the entire event hinges.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.

"You're the only person who doesn't fall asleep in class and you talked about how the flowers stagger their blooms to not compete for the bees- you're perfectly engaged and conscious of the seasons!" He said, blindly. "You will need different shoes though." He indicated my flip-flops. "I won't make you learn how to walk in Geta, but nothing with Heels. Ballet flats are fine."

"...These are the only shoes I own." I said.

Professor Roberts stared at me.

"-I used to have a pair of sneakers but I think a homeless guy stole them while I was at the beach last month."

"What?" Roberts blinked.

"He probably needed them more than I do. I'll see if I can borrow some flats."

"...I don't think I've ever met a woman with less than 10 pairs of shoes." Said Roberts.

"I'm not a woman, I'm and undergrad." I said, still three years away from learning the term 'Nonbinary'. "Those are Jordan's only pair of shorts, you know." I pointed at my classmate, who had been wearing the one (1) pair of basketball shorts for the entire semester.

"I WASH THEM." Jordan shouted defensively, wearing the longest Men's Kinmo the theater department had, which barely came down to the top of his calves.

"Oh God." Said Roberts, a horrifying new world opening up to him like a tub of Expired sour cream.

It was the day of the Ceremony.

The Seasonal Theme we'd worked on was "The Turn Of Summer", and the weather was complying maliciously.

Normally, Tea Ceremonies are scheduled for the more temperate evening, but due to the school needing to host something in the adjoining cultural center later, we could only use the Tea Garden in the middle of the afternoon, and the summer sun was a sweltering 98 degrees and a similar level of Humidity. The Camelias were melting.

Where Jordan had difficulty finding a Kimono that suited his ent-like proportions, I'd had the opposite problem and the only Kimono short enough to not trip my Hobbit-sized self was a Child’s size. My roommate had helped me get into the Kimono and Obi before the ceremony, and leant me a pair of her Ballet Flats, but we discovered an issue- this Kimono was designed for a flat-chested prepubescent youth, and even though I barely scraped 5'0", I had the robust proportions of an Irish Peasant, and the only way to avoid displaying a frankly offensive amount of cleavage was to use the widest Obi we could find and sort of tuck my boobs into it.

"Hm" I said. "Kind of hard to breathe."

"Yeah, but you're sitting for most of it, right? It can't last more than an hour, so just like, shuffle and don't talk much?" She suggested.

To her credit, the first forty-five minutes of the ceremony only involved shuffling through the gardens and not talking while the Tea Master lectured us on some of the finer points of the garden's design.

But then we got to the Tea House- a small structure only barely able to accommodate the 13 of us, which was in the shade but hotter than the outside because of the roaring fire in the middle of the room, where the water for the Matcha was boiling. The room was surrounded by a narrow sort of porch, part of which hung over the Koi pond, where several massively overfed carp blurbled expectantly for treats at the arrival of humans. I sat down, legs folded under me like Professor Roberts had insisted, and realized that this pushed the Obi UP, and now my rib cage was being compressed in all directions.

I tried to pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, but two and a half hours is an awfully long time to listen about lecturers you've already heard when your body is undergoing a sort of internal horserace to see if the heatstroke, sciatica pain and numbness, allergies or suffocation-by-compression will cause you to pass out first. My legs had gone numb below the knee by the time we were done with the flower arrangement. My entire legs were numb before we were done with the Poem. By the time the Tea Utensils came out, I was seeing spots of colored light in my vision and could only breathe if I focused on it very, very hard.

But! The ceremony was genuinely interesting! and Professor Roberts was counting on me! So I did my best not to sway or throw up from watching the Tea Master whisk the Matcha, and dutifully took the bowl with a pair of hands that felt like slabs of ham that I was attempting to puppet from another dimension, and took a sip.

They say that Smell and Taste are far more closely connected to the emotional centers of the brain than any other sense, and I believe it because the instant I inhaled both the grassy, powdery smell, and tasted the moderately viscous bubbly liquid, I experienced an intense flashbulb memory back to a previous late May-

The Year was '98, the place was my elementary school art room, and we'd been using the seasonal hot weather to paint on a massive scale as the art dried quickly- each third-grader had been given a roll of butcher paper, a cheap brush, squirts of non-toxic paint and a water cup, and allowed to go hog-wild on our murals, and the rush of creative energy and the imminent sense of freedom as the semester drew to a close truly embodied the summer of youth, carefree but with an almost psychotic fervor, where lack of care was both freeing and dangerous as you lost track of your surroundings in the act of creation-

Which isn't a bad seasonal-philosophical connection statement to make, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were:

"Wow. This tastes exactly like paint."

The first sound I heard after the moment of silence was the cartoonishly loud gasp of horror from Professor Roberts, which was almost immediately drowned out by the thunderclap of laughter from the Tea Master, slapping his thighs and wiping tears from his face, unable to stop. I desperately tried to explain the connection between the fact I might be dying of heat stroke right now, and how I ended up drinking my paint water back in Mrs. Krantz's art class because back then I was also dying of heat stroke, but mostly ended up wheezing half-formed sentences as the rest of the class took sips and offered opinions varying between "Wow, that's thick. Like a Hot smoothie." and "Oh yeah, it tastes like summer. Like how a freshly-mowed lawn smells like summer." Professor Roberts slowly melted into a pile of shame, and the Tea Master slapped him on the back, still howling with laughter.

"They're honest! Nobody else will be honest! This is magnificent!" he wheezed.

Eventually, everyone had their taste, and the ceremony was concluded. The second the Tea Master had packed up his tools and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Professor Roberts was in my face.

"HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?" he hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "GO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!" he shoved me out onto the porch where the Tea Master was looking at the Koi, who had started bubble-begging aggressively again.

Except that my legs felt like blocks of wood that my pelvis was renting from another planet where legs hadn’t been invented yet, my vision was entirely static between the dehydration and lack of oxygen, and my vestibuar system had fucked off an hour ago, leaving me to stay upright by purely by the virtue of the over-tightened Obi. So instead of bowing and apologizing profusely like my professor expected, what I actually did was stumble out of the room, say something like "Hsdfkf" and topple head-first into the koi pond.

Fortunately, the impact of the bottom of the pond with the top of my skull activated a sort of last-resort emergency self preservation system and I inhaled with enough force to break the Obi-Jime and probably a couple ribs from the pain that hit both my sides like lightning. Unfortunately, the thing I was inhaling was fish-shit riddled Pond Water, so my emergency self-preservation system ordered an even harder Exhale.

The Tea Master, to his immense credit, had immediately jumped in after me, and pulled me upright just in time for me to forcibly exhale half a gallon of rancid pond water directly into his face, then start screaming. Screaming is an extremely appropriate reaction to have when injured, because it alerts everyone that you require medical attention, but is very unpleasant to experience from four inches away, which is probably why he then immediately dropped me.

Fortunately the pond wasn't very deep and this time I sat there, scream-gasping as my lungs reinflated, Koi fish burbling and sucking at me with tremendous excitement, until the EMT from the campus clinic arrived, a vanguard before the actual ambulance.

"Okay uh. You're bleeding." he said, cautiously wading into the pond.

I opened my eyes to find that I had apparently acquired a large and profusely bleeding head wound, which had activated some long-suppressed Shark Instincts in the Koi, which were eagerly gumming at the streams of blood and trying to suck on my forehead. "Good thing they don’t have teeth." I said in the distant bliss that only zen masters and people with serious head injuries get to experience.

"Do you want a towel?" he asked, helping me up.

"No, this is rather refreshing, actually." I said, still absolutely smashed on endorphins, Koi still enthusiastically swarming at my kneecaps.

"I mean like for your-" the EMT Gestured Vaguely at my torso.

I looked down and realized that not only had I broken the Obi-jime, the entire Obi had come undone and was floating several feet away, and I was only wearing the Kimono, fallen completely off my shoulders and was only being prevented from performing a full Lady Godiva by the valiant efforts of the safety pin my roommate had put in to keep it folded correctly while we figured out the Obi.

"Professor Roberts?" I stood up all the way, soaking wet, bleeding from my forehead with such force as to create actual streams of blood down my face, neck and chest, tits out, and addressed the poor man standing, white-faced on the deck above the pond. "I don't think I'm going to be in class on Monday-" I paused to fish a small Koi that had gotten trapped in the remains of the now-ruined Kimono, and tossed it back into the pond. "-Can I schedule a make-up exam for the Final?"

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET IN THE AMBULANCE!" He screamed.

I was x-rayed for a skull fracture, but my lifelong membership to the Lactose Tolerance Club had protected me, and I happily texted my roommate to come pick me up as "They x-rayed my head and found nothing" while the doctor stitched part of my scalp back together.

The following morning, I discovered that Professor Roberts had graded my exam before I took it. 100%. Truly, the best way to get a good grade on your finals is to get a serious head injury.

So, Matcha is not a Tea, in my humble opinion.

Matcha is an Experience.

And sometimes that experience is drinking something almost exactly like paint, ruining an important cultural ceremony, traumatizing your professor, and introducing a bunch of fish to the taste of human flesh.

***

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#Family Lore #Tea Ceremony #Matcha #injury mention #blood mention

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hispg · 6 months

Text

Comfort

Pairings: R4! Leon x Fem! Reader

Summary: Your husband is glad that he has you, just like he's glad to have his little family.

Wc:4.8k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, mentions of ptsd, mentions of birth and pregnancy, soft sex(nothing too kinky), oral sex(f receiving), just Leon being a sweetheart.

An:So, this week has been very busy for me. As I've been saying in my last few posts, university has been taking up a lot of my time, as well as my mental health being pretty messed up. I didn't manage to finish the chapter of 'Between Love and Vows' so I probably won't post anything new until next week. In compensation, I'll post another one of my drafts (smut), I'll make a poll so you guys can choose. And next week I'll post two new chapters of the series! Thanks for your love and understanding <3 If I haven't answered your comment, ask or request, don't worry, I will eventually🫶🫶

MDNI

Sleepless nights, the nightmares that kept tormenting him, his mind that was in turmoil all the time. Leon was used to all this, he had already realized that these were sensations he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

His trauma, ptsd that haunted him every day. Things he had seen and heard, all so fresh in his memory, so vivid. Things that no matter how hard he tried to forget, he couldn't. As if it were a mark stamped on his soul.

But he coped, as he always does with everything in life. Little by little, he understood how to deal with panic attacks, how to calm down even when he was about to collapse. He learned all this, but that didn't make things any less worse than they were.

Although he thought he had everything under control, that it wouldn't affect him as much as before, he was wrong.

His last mission in Spain proved it, he went from hell to heaven to save the president's daughter. Everything worked out in the end, but that doesn't erase what he experienced or saw.

Many times he could have sworn that if it hadn't been for you, he would have gone mad a long time ago. Even if you weren't able to end the pain he felt, you were there to be the light at the end of the tunnel for him, the clarity to his own insanity.

All this because every time he returned from a mission, he came home first, not caring if he was all dirty with mud and dirt, even blood. His safe haven was here, with you.

That was the only reason he always came home, no matter how difficult things might be for him. You were what he needed, you were the person who healed all his wounds, and he couldn't be more grateful.

If it had been anyone else, he would have left you by now, but you understood him. You listened to him even if he didn't make any sense, you were still there.

Your love was the remedy for all his problems.

And if he was being honest, it was the reason he woke up every day, the only reason he had a place to call home. You, simply you.

And that night, he found himself on another one of those nights when he couldn't sleep, and there he was, pacing around the house, finding something to occupy his mind.

It had been two weeks since he had returned from his mission in Spain, and he was still terrified by everything that had happened, even though he was safe and sound in the comfort of his own home.

He woke up from a nightmare, yet another one. And in order not to wake you too, he preferred to get out of bed. You were already tired enough to have to deal with him in the wee hours of the morning.

He was so careful with you, even though you had told him several times that it was okay for him to wake you up if he needed to. But he was stubborn enough to say no.

As he made some tea, just to see if it would calm his nerves, he watched the rain falling outside, the gentle drips hitting the window.

In that silence he began to have some sweet memories, it always helped to calm him down a little. One of those memories was when he asked you to marry him, God, he still remembers the nervousness that ran through his whole body. The trembling hands that held the box with the ring, the words that he had rehearsed so much and still came out messy. He was so afraid of being told no, but his heart calmed down when you smiled and threw yourself into his arms, saying yes again and again, making his heart melt each time.

That night he fell even more in love with you, if that were possible.

When you started living together, every time he came home he was greeted with a hug, you welcomed him with love and affection. He felt his cold exterior crumble at the same moment, words couldn't describe how much he liked it. Every little gesture that came from you, no matter what, he always took it to heart and considered it with all his soul.

He still vividly remembered a conversation he had with you as soon as you moved in together. It never failed to crack a smile.

"Darling, did you let something burn?" Leon asks as he feeds himself, looking around the kitchen.

You look at him with a laugh, seeing that he arrived so tired that he didn't even realize he was still in his work clothes. And then you answer, "No, why do you ask?"

"Nothing, it's just that something stinks." He says quietly, focused on finishing his food.

You can't help yourself and a giggle escapes your lips, "You haven't showered yet, sweetheart."

"Oh..." He mumbles, looking down at his state.

He was so entertained that he only noticed a baby crying from one of the bedrooms, it was you guys son.

He didn't hesitate to go into the baby's room, watching the little one whimpering in his crib, even though he was warm and comfortable in his blankets, the little boy was still bothered by something.

Leon imagined that he wasn't hungry, since you had fed him not long ago. Then he thought it might be his diaper that was dirty, which he soon confirmed.

So the baby was in his arms the next second, he put the little boy on the changing table and changed him properly, not forgetting a single detail, from carefully wiping him down with a wet wipe, to the ointment he had to apply to prevent diaper rash.

He checked the diaper to make sure it was fastened properly. Once he'd checked everything, he rocked the baby in his arms until the little one fell asleep again.

He even sang a lullaby, one of the little boy's favorites. He still thought it sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care as long as it soothed the baby.

Every time he looked at the little one's face, he couldn't hold back the loving smile that always appeared on his lips. It was still hard to believe that he had his own little family.

It's still clear in his memory when you announced that you were pregnant, the uncertainty and fear that consumed him. The anguish he felt, the apprehension of being a bad father. As well as the shock he felt when he received the news, since it wasn't something either of you were expecting. Not least because you had just started living together, so it was a lot all at once. But nothing that shook the relationship, quite the opposite.

But every time he saw you laugh, every time you came home with a little baby thing, whether it was clothes, shoes or even a toy. He couldn't contain his joy at the thought that he was going to be a father, that he was going to have a child.

It wasn't long before he started buying lots and lots of things for the baby, rattles, diapers, baby cloths, various types of educational toys, plush toys and everything else.

In a matter of weeks, the spare room in the house was full and ready to receive the baby, even if you weren't that far along in your pregnancy.

Not only did he become even more protective, the kind that wouldn't even let you lift a thing, but he accompanied you throughout your pregnancy. From start to finish. Even though he sometimes had to leave for work, he never failed to call you, even if it was late at night.

He always made video calls to see how you were doing, even talking to the baby in your belly on the phone. Even if they were quick calls, he still made sure they happened.

It was obvious that he wanted to be there for you, and he made it clear whenever he could, because he did everything for you, simply everything. Craves? He'd arrange anything you wanted. Going out late at night to buy a slice of cake in a particular flavor? Well, he was there. He would go to the end of the earth to find whatever you wanted.

When you were uncomfortable he was there, always whispering kind things to you, always trying to calm you down and relax in his embrace, trying to give you all the security you could have. He still remembers when your water broke, you were so calm, and he was about to have a heart attack.

Yet he was with you the whole way, holding your hand as you went into labor.

But all his worry went away as soon as he heard the baby's cry, the little being that had just come out of you. He still remembers the unconditional love he felt as soon as he laid eyes on the little one, as soon as he saw you cradling the boy in your arms, crying with exhaustion and joy. Just as he was crying as much as the baby, he felt so happy that he couldn't imagine being anywhere else but there with you and your bundle of joy.

"What are we going to call him?" Leon asked through tears, wiping away his own with the back of his hand.

"I don't know, sweetheart, we agreed that if it was a boy you'd choose." You say in a whisper, giving him a small smile. Rocking the newborn in your arms.

"No, I'd rather you chose." He says softly, running his fingers through the baby's thin golden strands, which by the way had the same hair as his father.

"Leon-," he doesn't let you finish, giving you a kiss on the lips. Letting his forehead rest on yours, looking at you with tear-filled eyes and a sweet smile.

"You've already given me one of the greatest joys of my life. Nothing could be fairer than for you to choose any name you like." Kind words that made your heart melt, and you just nodded.

At that moment he realized that there was no better place in the world. That there was nowhere else he wanted to be, all he needed was you.

While he was lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that the little one had already fallen asleep, making cooing noises, his mouth hanging open while he slept peacefully. Even the way he slept was like Leon's, it was funny to see how similar the two of them were.

Then he slowly placed the little one in his crib, tucking him into the covers and making sure he was warm and comfortable for the rest of the night.

He stayed for a few more minutes, humming some more until he was sure the boy wouldn't wake up too soon.

After that he moved into the kitchen, where he found you awake, which was enough to make him wrinkle his eyebrows.

"Love?" He asks softly, moving towards you.

You answer him with a smile, giving him a hug, "You should have called me."

He shakes his head, kissing the top of your head, "I didn't have to."

You pout, giving him a playful pat on the shoulder.

"Here, I've made your tea. I've also put out a slice of cake for you." You murmur with a smile, pointing to the plate on the table.

He chuckles, holding your face and kissing the tip of your nose.

"You're amazing." He whispers before walking over to the table and sitting down, taking a sip of tea and eating the cake, which, by the way, was his favorite flavor.

So you sat next to him, waiting for him to finish eating silently.

"Your food is fucking good." Leon says, taking a bite of his cake and smiling at you.

You couldn't help but giggle, knowing that even if you burned the food, he'd eat it and say it was good.

"No, you're just being nice." You say softly, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

He laughed genuinely, entwining his fingers with yours. Then he lifted your hand and kissed the back of it.

You were always amazed by his loving gestures, which he always made towards you. And so the two of you remained until he had finished eating, rubbing his thumb against your hand to give it a gentle caress.

When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking at you with a smile. But you couldn't help noticing the dark circles under his eyes, just as he still had a few scratches and bruises all over his body. As well as the scars, some new, some old. All a mark of his profession.

"Did you have another nightmare?" you ask, running your fingers along his cheekbones, smiling softly.

He nodded with a tired sigh, leaning into your touch, "No big deal."

You knew that he always hid these things from you, not least because it took time for him to feel comfortable sharing the events of his mission with you.

"You can tell me, smartass." You said smiling, rubbing your nose against his, letting his hand rest on the small of your back.

His lips curved into a small smile, just as his eyes met yours. And that was enough to make you blush slightly, no matter how long you'd been together, he always had that effect on you.

The rain began to fall harder outside, enough to make you both look out of the window. The rain left a comfortable atmosphere in the kitchen, just the two of you sharing the warmth of your bodies, making that cold night a little warmer.

You picked up the dishes and took them to the sink, taking the opportunity to wash them right away. And it wasn't long before you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, just as he rested his chin on your shoulder, his warm breath beating against you.

"I swear to God I love the smell of your lotion." He purrs, rubbing his nose against your neck, hugging you tightly.

You smiled, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Even if it was late at night, those moments were so precious to you both. A little intimacy was always nice.

But even with all the affection coming from him, you could feel how tense his muscles were, how his breathing wasn't very regulated. Every time he had these nightmares, they took a while to wear off, and he was still scared for a good few hours.

You then turned to him, held his face in your hands and looked at him seriously, "You should have called me."

He knew how this conversation would go. But to be honest, he wasn't paying attention to your speech, only to the way your lips moved as you spoke, your sweet voice entering his ears. Even if it was you scolding him.

All he could do was give you a silly little smile, stroking your cheeks with his thumb. No matter how much you talked, he would forget the next day. He just didn't want to worry you with his work matters.

Gently he put his index finger to your lips, whispering, "Why don't you hush, darling?"

You widened your eyes, preparing to protest, but he interrupted you, giving you a loving kiss. The kiss was full of affection and tenderness, just as he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around your waist once again, gluing your body to his.

Without giving you time to say another word, he carried you in his arms, taking you to your room like a princess, as if you weighed nothing, he did it with the purest ease.

His grip was firm, as if he didn't want to let you go, he wanted to have you there, in his arms.

Your room was dark, lit only by the faint light of the moon, while the rain continued to fall outside. It wasn't long before he laid you down on the mattress, letting you sink into the soft surface.

The door locked, the baby asleep, just the two of you in that room. The perfect moment for what was about to happen.

No matter how many times Leon looked at you, he always lost his breath, his breath caught in his throat.

You were so beautiful, so perfect, he didn't know how he had been so lucky to have found someone like you, and he couldn't thank you enough for that.

His hands began to move slowly up your thigh, callused fingers caressing the soft skin, letting his hand wander over the flesh, touching you with all the passion he had to offer. And he would do this for the rest of your life.

His mouth finding your neck, his hot breath making you gasp, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.

Soon the wet kisses began, leaving his lips hovering over the weak spots that he knew, he knew exactly where to touch, because he knew well that every touch of his made your body shiver with desire.

"You're beautiful." He whispers, giving your thigh a light squeeze, feeling the soft fabric of your nightgown on the back of his hand.

You give a sly smile, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close.

He soon understands what you want, and he gives it to you right away. A tender, passionate kiss, gently capturing your lips.

You don't know how, but he always manages to show his devotion to you with every kiss, every touch, every night of love. He makes it seem like the first time, always showing you how much he loves you.

His fingers keep tracing your thigh, feeling how warm your body gets from his touch. Your body reacting under his, squirming and shivering, an incentive for him.

When he pulls away from you a little, just to stop the kiss. He nibbles your lip, lifts your leg and grabs the back of your thigh.

Making a point of giving you wet kisses all over your neck, shoulders, collar bone, all to hear the sweet sounds that escaped your lips every time, the way you begged softly for him to continue.

"Oh, fuck Leon..." You whimpered, watching his fingers purposely wrap around the strap of your panties, he was taking his time.

As he always did, because he wanted to make sure he gave you all the affection he could give.

As soon as their trail of kisses went down to your chest, he spared no effort in giving little kisses to your nipples, which were already hard, crying out for any kind of touch and attention.

It was more than enough for you to let out several moans and low squeaks, letting your hands nestle in his golden strands, feeling the softness they contained.

Both his hands slid under your nightgown, and before long his fingers were playing with the waist line of your panties, fingering and stretching, all the while keeping an eye on your every reaction.

The look he had in store for you was yours alone, he had never looked at anyone else like that. Nor would he ever, you were the only one capable of bringing it out of him. The only one.

Just as you never tired of looking into those gentle blue eyes, similar to the color of the sky, or even the ocean. You lost your breath every time.

And there he went, slowly dropping wet kisses over the thin fabric of your nightgown, feeling your body tremble beneath his, just as he made a point of running his fingers over the wet surface of your panties, only to give a smug smile, knowing that he could get you soaking wet for so little.

As soon as he reached your navel, he lifted your nightgown completely, exposing your lower body, which was enough for him to let out a low noise, excited by the image in front of him. Which only fueled his cock to throb even more under his pants.

"I wonder what I did to make you like this." Leon said with a sly, mischievous smile, sliding his index finger down your slit.

Did he know the answer? Of course he did. But it was nicer to hear it from your mouth, your sweet voice echoing through the room.

"You know, you just need to touch me..." You said with a pout, looking at him with piteous eyes, a look he already knew well. And yet it broke his smile every time.

"Because of me?" He purrs, pushing his fingertips against your covered pussy, teasing you as far as he can.

You whimper, spreading your legs as if it were an automatic reaction from your body. Understanding the signal, he pulls you a little closer to the edge of the bed, taking off your panties and sliding them down your legs, soon the garment was lying in a corner of the room.

You were there, completely exposed to him, legs dangling from his shoulders, clit throbbing and begging him to do something.

It felt like magic, every time he touched you he was able to drive you crazy with the smallest things. You often got wet just watching him, seeing the way the muscles in his arms flexed every time he held your legs tighter.

Or the way he always looked at you throughout the process, as he positioned his face close to your center, biting and licking your inner thigh, making sure to leave soft marks all over the area. He loved looking at the love bites the next day, not least because you looked beautiful with each one.

"You're all mine, aren't you?" He asked in a whisper, which sounded more like a question to himself. Especially because he didn't even need to hear the answer.

You were about to answer, but your mind turned to crumbs as soon as he started planting wet, caressing kisses in your folds, letting his tongue linger in certain spots.

His wet muscle slid into your wet pussy, making you arch your body and tremble under him. The tip of his tongue brushed against your clit, swirling around your sensitive part, enough for you to roll your eyes and moan a little louder.

"That's so good, so good..." You mumble, biting your lower lip to hold back your moans.

Every time he eat you out, he didn't hold back with the noises he made, he didn't even care about the slurping noises he made, or the way he did it in a completely sloppy way.

Not least because he never wasted any time, it wasn't long before he was fucking you with his tongue. Moving in and out, hitting all your sweet spots.

It didn't take long for you to be a mess, moaning and whimpering, your sounds echoing around the room. Your hands nestled in his hair, pushing his head against you, letting him get buried in your thighs.

Despite this, you couldn't help but crave his cock, a need to have it inside you, you needed him fucking you.

"Leon..." You called out, rolling your hips against his mouth, you could already feel your orgasm approaching.

He smiled sideways, kissing all over your intimate area, making a point of running his tongue over it in the process. The way he did this so masterfully left no doubt that he knew exactly what to do to bring you to the edge, he knew exactly.

As soon as he started tongue-fucking you one more time, it was enough for you to come apart in his mouth, gushing out all your climax. You could feel your body hot and bothered, your mind confused and without any other thoughts. It was surreal the way your orgasms with him were always that intense.

Just as he spared no expense in giving you sloppy, wet kisses on your wet folds, as if he were smoothing the area, taking the opportunity to clean up the mess that was between your legs. Even though he was about to make another one.

"It tastes fucking good, love." He purrs, licking his lips and lifting his head.

Having the beautiful image of you, with your legs spread, sweaty body, chest rising and falling. The way your eyelids were closed and your lips were open was more than enough to send a wave of electricity to his cock. Which, by the way, was already leaking pre-cum, the wet spot on his sweatpants was already clearly visible.

He wasted no time in removing his pants and underwear, letting his cock pop out. Which was a divine sign for you, seeing every inch of his shapely body, the way he was hard as a rock.

His cock resting in his palm, as he gave it a few small pumps, watching the precum drip down a little. Despite this, his eyes were focused on you, the way you bit your lip and stared at him.

"Please?" You ask in a whisper, spreading your legs even wider for him.

In response, he gives you a puffy smile, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, his sticky liquid pooling with your own juices.

You whimper and pout to get him in at once. As if on command, he obeyed, lifting your legs over his shoulder and fitting himself into you. Hissing once he was all the way in, the way your walls clenched around him was enough to elicit a grunt from him.

"So fucking eager..." He whispers in your ear, taking the opportunity to nibble on it. Making you gasp easily.

"Oh-Oh, so deep!" You moan, your nails sinking into the muscles of his back, a reaction he loved every time.

You can't say how, but he thrust into you in such a sensual way, his hips rolling with a dexterity you couldn't even describe in words. It was calm, sexy, who knows how you could describe it.

His eyes never left yours, he could reach all your weak points, all the places where he made you roll your eyes and curl your toes.

At that point, he didn't even try to understand you. Not least because you could only mumble half-words, whimpers or moans, and he couldn't have been prouder to leave you in that state. Your mind so foolish as he fucked you numb.

"Are you going to come already, love?" He asks softly, kissing your cheeks and pulling you even closer.

"Mhmhm." You hum and nod, feeling your walls tighten around him. Just like the feeling of butterflies in your stomach that you were beginning to feel.

He chuckled, speeding up his thrusts, making an even louder sound of skin hitting skin. He wouldn't be long either, he'd probably come right after you.

And there you went the moment he started making circles with his thumb on your clit, you're sure you went to heaven at the same moment.

Your lips parted only for you to let out a silent scream, a noise that came from deep in your throat. He was quick to pull you into a hot, thirsty kiss, moving at a much faster speed than before.

He wanted to get there now.

In and out he went, feeling his cock throb with each jerk of his hips. On the last thrust he came, thrusting deep, spilling all his seed into you, as deep as he could.

He let out a grunt through your lips, holding your sides tightly.

By the end you were panting, covered in a thin layer of sweat. When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead on yours, giving a silly, tired smile.

"Sore?" He murmurs under his breath, trailing kisses down your cheek.

"Maybe a little." You whisper, closing your eyes and sinking into the mattress.

He then gets off you and places you properly on the bed, rolling you under the covers, and then doing the same. He hugs you from behind and cuddles you, giving you massages in the places he knew would be sore. He loved worshiping your body, and you couldn't complain.

"I love you." He says, full of love and tenderness.

"I love you too." You return, kissing his hand.

You fell asleep a few minutes later, and he watched you sleep as always, giving you kisses and caresses from time to time.

He loved you so much he couldn't explain it, you were his comfort. Everything he needed most. You and your son were his adored little family.

And the way he loved you, he knew that you would be the death of him.

Oh God, how he loves you.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon x y/n #leon x you #leon resident evil #leon kennedy smut #re leon #resident evil leon #leon scott kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon smut #leon re4

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darielivalyen · 11 days

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Everbloom: Free | Full game | Cozy Fantasy

Everbloom is a cozy fantasy game set on the idyllic Everbloom Isle, a place where the charm of a simpler life and the warmth of a close-knit community come together. In this tranquil world, you’re invited to slow down, cherish the small moments, and find joy in building connections and creating a space where everyone feels at home.

Your journey centers on the dream of opening a teahouse, an aspiration deeply influenced by your longing for independence and a meaningful life. This dream becomes a reality with the inheritance of your grandmother’s house on Everbloom Isle. Here, in a setting far removed from the bustle of city life and your family’s expectations, you begin the delicate process of building a new life for yourself.

Are you ready to leave behind the monotony and dullness of daily life and build the teahouse of your dreams on Everbloom Isle?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Choose your appearance and personality.

Romance or befriend one of three distinctive characters: a brave knight seeking a new purpose, a mischievous oakling who finds joy in life’s lighter moments, or an enigmatic elf with a complex past, seeking solace and clarity on Everbloom Isle.

Create and customize your own teahouse.

Cultivate and enhance your grandmother’s garden.

Explore Everbloom Isle in search of unique tea saplings.

Interact with a host of quirky characters, from the whimsical Holy Cow and her not-at-all terrible fish choir to giant turtles, winged wolves, and mysterious fernlings.

Follow a lovely little quest from the Holy Cow that will challenge you to build friendships, honor your grandmother’s legacy, and expand your collection of unique teas.

Wordcount

Overall: 220.000. Playthrough: 60.000.

Sir Castian/Dame Castillia Honeycutt

Personality: brave, honorable, old-fashioned, bashful. Blurb: In a land where swords are replaced by teacups, Casti(), a knight accustomed to battles and quests, struggles to find his/her role. Everbloom Isle, with its whimsical ways, challenges him/her to redefine what it means to be a hero. Can you help him/her weave his/her knightly virtues into the fabric of your new home?

Narciso/Narissa Roseblade

Personality: mischievous, lighthearted, adventurous, non-committal. Blurb: Nar()’s presence on Everbloom Isle is like a breeze through the Elder Tree’s leaves–light, unpredictable, and full of life. His/her playful antics and seemingly carefree nature captivate those around him/her. Yet, there’s a depth in his/her eyes suggesting more than just whimsy. Will you be the one who figures out what really inspires his/her eternal dance through the grove?

Ideru/Ideri Nightingale

Personality: calculating, composed, solitary, adaptable. Blurb: Ider() arrives at Everbloom Isle cloaked in an aura of intrigue, his/her quiet nature standing in stark contrast to the isle’s vibrancy. Amidst the isle's welcoming community, his/her enigmatic presence stirs a sense of curiosity. Will you be the one who digs into his/her mysterious past and discovers what brings him/her to Everbloom?

DASHINGDON | ITCH.io | FORUM | TUMBLR

PS: If you're interested in why I decided to release Everbloom for free, you are welcome to visit the forum and look under the 'State of the Game' section. I explained everything there! 😊

#interactive fiction #darielivalyen #free game #cozy fantasy #if #free #choicescript #interactive novel #cozy #full game #share if you think your friends might enjoy it ^^

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galacticwarpedlense · 5 days

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(Oh hey, I'm not dead) I wonder how the bachelors and bachelorettes would answer the question "Why did you marry your spouse?"

I feel like Elliott would either go on for 10 pages of poetry of how much the player means to him or, in a moment of clarity, he would be like "I have no idea, they just broke into my house, gave me a bunch of stardrop teas and a really good pomegranate and suddenly I was in love."

#stardew valley #sdv #sdv elliott #stardew elliott #sdv farmer #stardew farmer #stardew #stardew valley elliott #stardew valley farmer

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dairy-farmer · 2 months

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In the same flavor as Talon Tim? And obsessive Dick? You know who ELSE is obsessive? Damian. Who goes absolutely apeshit over Legacies and Mantels etc? Damian.

He hated Tim because he was in the way.

But what if? He TRAGICALLY wasn't in the way? And Damian arrived to his Father tearing the world apart looking for Tim? Distraught? Is thrust into TIM'S role as the emotional pillar of the family?

Well obviously, FINDING Tim would secure everyone's esteem. Tim would CLEARLY need time to recover, be grateful, likely hand over Robin. And? Look at all Timothy has achieved! Supporting his Father in his time of need. A loyal student. Even tried to AVOID bothering his father by creating a false uncle, much to his father's consternation!

Damian begins to look up to him. Join his Father in obsessing. It's how they bond.

What took Tim? Where is he? How was he taken?

Finally Damian find a clue. No time to waste. Goes after it! A Fae court, under Gotham. Timothy, blank eyed at a tea table, young as the day he vanished. Just after Jason returned. A few bruises still were they must have been. Truely, frozen in time.

The Fae chitter and mock.

But Damian is an AL Ghul. And he? Has brought cold Iron.

Soon he is throwing his target over his shoulder and escaping. Chased by furious Fae. He slams the gates Timothy must once have opened in curiosity. Making note to come back and weld them shut. His predecessor hangs limp over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

He takes him to his safe house.

Tries to rouse him. Timothy obeys commands but little else. For a moment... he worries he is too late. But, careful wording of a command get him an answer. Tim is simply deep and away, in his mind. Dreaming.

Wonderful.

That means Damian is going to be forced to learn MAGIC. Nonetheless? He takes care of his predecessor. And it is... not as tedious as he would expect. He could almost liken it to caring for his pets. Precious and reliant. Obedient.

He finds joy in managing Timothy's health. Picking his clothes. Washing his body, rubbing the scents HE chose into his skin. Timothy is improving. Looking to him when he arrives. Responding to motions and not just explicit commands. Listening to music.

Damian wonders... if this is what his Mother felt for his Father. If so, he is beginning to understand her actions, through his youth. His hands linger, longer and longer. Stroke warm skin, just to feel it. Pull Timothy close, into his lap, tucked away from the world that gave him the scars upon his skin.

Kisses his perfect mouth. A prompt that Timothy obeys. Damian knows he should not. But is he not a man? Is he not only mortal? Who could resist perfection? Who would NOT lick that tender skin, just to taste? Run greedy, claiming hands, down that body? Spread those legs and plunder, like a thief, the wonders found there?

Timothy makes such perfect little sounds. More alert then he has been in ages. Gasping and whining, little cries as he takes more then he should. Shuddering and clenching around him. Brief moments of clear eyed clarity in the spasming high of it, before drifting back into the mists of his mind.

And really, Damian has only one choice when he sees THAT.

If he wants to save Timothy, he truely has no CHOICE but to fuck him well. How tragic. Oh well, Damian will just have to make this noble sacrifice for the family. And, of course, take responsibility for his actions. Marry his Father's beloved Student-son.

Their children will be glorious.

-🐼🐼🐼

👀👀👀👀👀👀 this!!!!!! tim having gone missing as a kid and then damian finding him and growing increasingly attracted because of how dependent tim is on him and there's a rush of attraction intertwined into the helpless state that tim is stuck in!!!!

when damian arrives it's not to warm welcomes or open arms. he's not even welcomed with any sort of...attention. damian has never faltered in maintaining his face since reactions were trained out of him but he does feel a steady trickle of...discomfort when he stands by and listens to his father and mother viciously argue in front of him, his father all but demanding his mother take damian and get out of his sight, that he's not interested in this responsibility, that he's not going to entertain whatever little 'game' she's concocted to get his attention now-

and...damian knows his mother is not the kind to burst into emotional reactions. unlike him she has a cool head and is capable of hiding her temper and reining it in. but in the face of damian's father it's like all that falls apart and she's angry and spitting and hissing in low tones at him for his disrespect, for his words, for daring to talk down to her because unlike him she's actually capable of taking care of HER brood.

and her words, so low and biting with an edge of cold mockery just cause something to...shutter in damian's father. and with barely more of a word or exchange it is settled and damian is shepherded away with his father where he is quickly conscripted into his father's service.

damian is no stranger to back breaking work but even he does not acclimate to his father's methods quickly. everything damian does is a failure. not even damian's fighting prowess or training are enough to carry him through his father's service which demands mastery of arts damian...does not excel in. his mother had told him to learn as much as he could from his father and damian had come ready and willing but...it is difficult.

father is...a hazard. he's a hazard to damian, to others. damian knows exactly what happens when partnered on a mission with someone of a great temper or affinity towards violence just for the sake of violence. despite what the public believes, assassins are not mass murderers with a thirst for blood. they are people of a particular skill set that they have refined and polished to the point that they are employed to make use of those skills and talents. they're like artisans, painters, sculptors, and people come to them for their particular talent in the arts.

but...there are subgroups of assassins that insist on making risky maneuvers, doing things in the messiest way possible, disorganized to the point they couldn't find their own ass if they had to.

that's father. father escalates easy targets to the point that they're practically smears on the ground. leaves targets in pain and brutalized that damian often wonders if it would have been more merciful to just have ended them. damian does not revel in violence, he has a job to do and that's all it is. it's nothing any deeper than that. but father...father takes everything personal, behaves as though the actions of another are a personal affront to him.

damian had thought his father's actions were...excessive. but he never stepped in. not until there was a report of a kidnapping of a young boy. and then it's like damian could 'see' the shift that those words had.

it's the first time damian has to step in. often he is relegated to evacuation, tracking, making sure no civilians or police accidentally stumble into where father is conducting one of his interrogations (though beatings seem a more apt description).

damian is aware that there is something...off about his father. reports from his childhood, the words of his mother, the musings of his grandfather...none of it aligns with the man he meets, lives with, and follows. there is something wrong with his father. and damian has known that for awhile but its made more clear when he has to pull his father back and off the 'kidnapper' who turned out to be the stolen child's father who hadn't been satisfied with the custody arrangement done by the court system.

damian knew his father upheld righteous morals, maintained a no-kill order. and damian had been willing to submit to it to meet him. but this man...this man who had been clawing at the skin of a kidnapper like he was trying to lift a mask off his face while demanding to know where 'he' was when damian had already delivered the child into the hands of a nearby patrolling officer...

damian learns quickly when he needs to call in backup for help with one of his father's 'episodes'. grayson arrives to help him, he apologizes to damian, tells him that bruce hasn't had 'one of these' in a while, that they thought that he'd worked through all the triggers for this.

'this' being an incredibly violent reaction to the kidnapping of a child. apparently damian had a predecessor. a boy just a little older than him that had been the pride of his father, his crown jewel and though grayson never says that its clear that's what he means when talking about 'timothy'. about how sweet he was to father, how patient, and understanding, and how he was like a little ball of clay that had perfectly molded itself to suit his father's needs.

damian understands the pride of having a 'perfect' apprentice. often times teachers in the league had favorites they would show extra attention to in hopes of molding them to be their legacy. damian had never been one of those such favored students but he'd hoped with his father he'd...

father does not take the disappearance of his student well. he leaves gotham often, at the drop of a hat for the slightest lead that might take him to his missing student. it's why grayson is present in gotham so frequently, often patrolling with damian on the many nights his father is out and gone.

grayson confides in him that he fears the worst for timothy, ot that he'd ever tell father that. but...grayson says he knows that tim would have found a way to contact them if he were...alive.

damian does not understand the deep...devotion and loyalty his father displays. he tries to. he probes, asks questions and while he is initially rebuffed- it is the only thing father can speak about with some shred of calmness, the only thing that turns him into the man that resembles the legends damian had been fed.

'tim would do the same for me'. is eventually what damian's father would settle on. it's a quiet phrase said while damian is trying to sweep the shards of a smashed alcohol glass. it's said with such thick conviction that damian believes him. and learns that timothy had been one thing above all else. loyal.

timothy is the one thing damian and his father can talk about. the only thing damian can use to gain recognition, attention. others have resigned themselves to timothy's death. both pennyworth and grayson grow quiet and mournful at his mention. as the years pass the only one who keeps looking and searching is father.

and damian, having spent years with his father, serving as his robin grows... more than fond at timothy.

there's a desire in damian. to see, to feel what his father felt. to gain the approval of timothy and after all his years away surely he is no longer suited to the mantle and would desire to see damian as his successor with all the good damian has done.

father sometimes visits the site of timothy's disappearance, the last place he was spotted before never being seen again. damian has seen the surveillance camera still so many times its burned into his memory. timothy drake on a class field trip with classmates to a large, outdoor sculpture art exhibit in central jersey. damian had seen the 'parent copy' of the permission slip a million times, it was wrinkled and delicate from years of being carried around in his father's wallet. a flash of pain crossed his father's expression every time he looked at it, the little slip with his signature that had allowed timothy to go to the last place he was seen.

on the morning of his disappearance timothy had left the manor in a red crew neck, new blue sneakers, wide leg jeans, and a white baseball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. he'd eaten a blueberry muffin that had left his lips stained a light purple for breakfast. and all he'd carried with him was a small sun protection stick (spf30), his copy of the keys to the manor, his handheld digital camera, and four individual twenty dollar bills for lunch and souvenirs that damian's father had given him (timothy had been planning to buy postcards for his collection). he'd been dropped off in front of the school by alfred at precisely 7:28, two minutes earlier than the permission slip had told him to be there. the bus had been set to depart at 7:45 but a few late students had made them hold the departure until 7:57. at 10:11 the bus had arrived at its destination, timothy wandered the sculpture grounds with his tour group until 11:45 when they took a break for lunch. timothy was seen on camera eating at the sculpture grounds restaurant with one boy and two girls in his group. he ordered the tuscan kale salad with chicken and no beets. he'd also ordered a small side dish of cut up green grapes, which wasn't on the menu, that he'd dumped into an empty to-go coffee cup. it was father's belief that timothy intended to feed the fruit to the ducks that populated the various ponds and lake scattered throughout the sculpture grounds despite the 'no feeding' signs. the last sight of timothy was him leaving the scope of the restaurant security cameras, staring down at the printed map of the grounds from the visitor's center.

following lunch the school had apparently allowed students to go off on their own to explore. something that hadn't been disclosed in the permission slip which father's lawyers had viciously used in their lawsuit against the school, holding them in-part responsible for timothy's disappearance.

damian studied timothy's case, every inch of it, with a fine toothed comb. he'd read the reports from the grounds, from the school, the reports from the divers that had been hired to search the lake because the school had tried to offer the theory that perhaps timothy slipped in and drowned though that was more an attempt to shift blame to the sculpture grounds. in the end none of it amounted to anything. the sculpture grounds were close to a rail station, a highway, were surrounded by woods, and close to a parking lot where the school bus of two other schools and their students as well as dozens of other visitor's cars were parked.. a million ways timothy could've been taken. and with no one accompanying him the lack of witnesses would have made the abduction even easier.

damian goes to the grounds whenever he can, often with his father on the day timothy disappeared because of some...blind hope from father that maybe he'll see something he missed the first hundred times he scoured the grounds. damian was not quite the same detective and so his visits are more...melancholy, trying to imagine timothy beside him, trying to think of where his mind was, where he went after he left that restaurant. damian is holding a paper cup of warm tea in his hands as walks, passing by the lake timothy likely stopped to sprinkle grapes into for the local wildlife, eyes catching on the light of the restaurant timothy had his last meal in, catching the eye of a waiter and...damian stops.

stops and recalls something father had told him about timothy. about how timothy preferred a low civilian profile, often being more agreeable, quiet, and obedient at school than he was as robin. and damian imagined that boy. small and nervous and so reluctant to question authority. and he thinks about how such a boy would never dare try to blatently break the rules in front of a place where so many workers and teachers having lunch might see and scold him. and then damian recalls the security footage of timothy walking away with his little cup of grapes and the map open in front of him...

damian rushes to open the map on his phone. and he thinks father has covered every stretch of the grounds looking for something, anything. its been years so if there was something it was long gone. but damian clings onto his theory with everything he has. and he turns his body in the direction timothy had been facing and searches for the body of water closest to him on the map. he finds it. a part of the grounds further away from the main grounds, across the parking lot to a quiet isolated part of the park timothy no doubt chose to be able to peacefully break the rules. and damian goes, steps slow and heavy, heart beating fast and hard in his ribcage.

the pond is small but reflective like a mirror. there's a single sculpture nearby nearly 30 feet tall and made of aluminum depicting women dancing naked and carelessly in a circle while holding hands. there is a small family of ducks swimming in a circle and making ripples appear in the water. damian is a fan of art and for a moment is drawn in by the fluidity of such rigid matierial. he walks around it in oervation, taking it from different angles. and his thinks thats likely what timothy did as well. entranced by the sight he would've held up his camera, trying to capture it in the best light, find the best angle. he would've walked circles around the sculpture trying to get the perfect picture. and damian does the same. but there is no revelation. no lightbulb moment.

trying to see through timothy's eyes can only take him so far. and then he remembers something else. timothy's eyes. damian has grown since he arrived. he's freshly 18 and nearing todd's height much to grayson's great chagrin. but timothy...timothy had been small. shorter. and his eye level would have...damian bends his knees slightly, lowering himself, trying to see, trying to see...

the sculptures look taller from this height, the shadows cast on their aluminum faces look sharper, harder, more pointed. they don't look carefree with their loose stances and thrown back heads...they look...tired. exhausted. like they're been dancing for ages and can barely keep themselves standing. damian stares. they have no eyes, no mouth, just smooth aluminum metal for faces, but the way their heads are tilted and angled, its like they're...pointing. damian imagines tim seeing the same...thinking the same. his little eyes following the direction and landing on a barely visible path that feeds into the woods. a path covered in leaves from the trees, a path not on the map, a path that when walked its like the sun has been sucked away. damian feels like its gone from day to night in an instant as he walks, following the path. his steps are slow and careful but the crunching of leaves under his foot make him feel like a deer that has heard the snapping of a branch. damian finds a heavy iron gate at the end of the path. it's rusted and brittle in some parts, and the large padlock keeping it closed is open and letting the gate lie open, just a crack. the opening is small, just barely enough for a child to slip through and damian has to suck in to get through, some deep animal part of his brain telling him it would be a VERY bad idea to open the gate further, letting it make a sound as it creeps open and alerting...something of his presence.

damian does not deal with magic. he is...wary of the arts given the users his grandfather had employed. it is not fear, he does not fear them. it's the unknown of what they could do, how they could compel. perhaps part of damian, the part that was a child had feared them once. and perhaps that is why he carried around a small lump of cold iron no bigger than his thumbnail. and perhaps it is good he did that as damian freezes at the sight in front of him. at the small figure seated at a wooden table littered with fine fruits and cheeses, the smell of spiced meats wafting in his nose, crusty, dark loaves of bread, jars of fragrant sweet jam and tall, crystal pots of teas.

damian's heart is in his throat as he stares at the soft, youthful face of a young timothy drake. damian feeling cold, shots of fear stabbing into his heart at seeing timothy's blueberry stained lips obediently drink at a cup of tea offered to him by...something. damian knows of fae, has heard of them. never encountered them though. but he knows about them, knows about how vicious and dangerous they are. when constantine had talked about them once there'd been a white, sickly look on his face. they were bad news. bad news. best to avoid at all costs and heavens help you if you caught their attention.

superboy who'd beat avidly listening had tried probing further, asking about their looks. and constantine had said they looked different for everyone. some people saw a meadow with cherubs, others little devils with horns in a burning hell pit, some saw imps with wings but damian...damian saw...balls of light attached to bodies. slender, naked bodies lacking genitalia and balls of light for heads the size of his palm that danced in circles, sang, cheered, cooed. and they were covering timothy like a colony of ants.

some were in his hair, braiding and playing with it, others tugging on his clothes and hands, nuzzling him and making sweet little sounds with voices like bells. some were cutting slices of bread and spreading jam on them, presenting them to timothy on plates as he obediently ate and drank and damian just felt the pit in his stomach grow bigger as he stared at the sight. he didn't know the consequences of accepting hospitality from fae but he knew it was bad.

at the very least timothy wasn't dead. if they hadn't been clearly charmed by him its very likely they would have killed, eaten, or enslaved timothy. from what damian could see they were just...playing with him.

timothy was alive...alive and unchanged by time and in the company of fae but alive. and damian knows the wise move is to turn around and call for backup, to summon a magic user. but the thought of outsiders helping to retrieve timothy, the thought of anyone handling timothy aside from damian...

it's stupid, its reckless, it's dangerous. damian could lose his life if he does it wrong. but he does it anyway.

the cold iron is just a theory, damian has nothing to confirm that it works. its just childhood hope and belief it will protect him and maybe that's what makes it work more than the lump of metal itself.

the fae scatter, shrieking, angry and pained as damian throws it at where they're concentrated around timothy to get them to break away from him, he picks timothy up and starts sprinting back the way he came.

damian can not see them when his back is turned. but he can feel it as they shift to something else. something angry, something hungry that chases him, nips at his heels, scratches at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, rips at his clothes. if he were anyone else he would have been caught, if damian had not trained in distance running while carrying half his weight he would have failed. but damian reaches that rusted iron gate, rips it open and throws it closed behind him just as hands, human hands with too many fingers and too pale to have blood running through the veins reach through the slots of the gate and attempt to pull him back. damian rips himself away and keeps running, arms clenched tightly around timothy as he takes hard fast gasps of air while sprinting down the path and back into the light.

damian rips past those aluminum statues whose sad faces are looking toward him, startling a family of ducks as he keeps running. damian's heart is pumping out of his chest and he swears he's never felt more terrified. his steps hit the ground hard, kicking up dirt behind him, his breathing audible to his own ears over the thumping beat of his heart. even with nothing behind him he still feels like he's being chased by some invisible force. damian keeps running, keeps going until he reaches the car and gently lowers a blank faced timothy onto the back seat. his skin is cold but he's breathing. damian's senses and instinct for danger don't calm until he's on the road more than halfway back to gotham. his heart doesn't start beating normally until he's crossing the bridge into gotham because here he is safe, this is his domain and not even the fae can change that. he's lucky a highway patrol officer hadn't pulled him over for speeding on the highway and weaving between traffic to put some distance between himself and...whatever was going on on those cursed grounds. grounds he would never set foot on again, let constantine, zatanna, dr. fate or the others deal with whatever nest or infestation is occurring there.

damian does not take timothy directly home. he doesn't feel...safe. ready. so much has happened in one day and damian just...isn't ready. and he wants to look. wants to have to be able to take the time to see and examine timothy because he knows the moment he hands him to father that he will never leave him alone again. father, grayson, pennyworth and todd have all had their moments and time with timothy- now it is damian's turn.

damian finds a peace in examining timothy. in drawing blood, in buying comfortable clothing to change him into, in inspecting every bit of him including the pink little cunt that comes as a surprise to damian when he disrobes him for a bath. timothy is quiet and no amount of handling manages to get out a reaction. damian would think him dead if not for the rise and fall of his chest and the way he...obeys damian's commands. he eats and drinks what damian tells him to, lies down when told, rests and sleeps...but does not respond. does not reply even when damian quests for an answer.

it makes damian...concerned. timothy had been so highly valued by his father and he feels a sort of...responsibility to do his best to help him. or maybe that was just an excuse he used to hoard timothy for a little while longer. damian gets used to it. caring for timothy, nursing him back to health, combing his pretty hair, dressing him in soft wools and cottons, pressing foods for the gentle palate he'd had to his mouth, watching him sleep.

its days and then weeks and damian grows..comfortable and possessive. he has timothy sit on his lap, he strokes timothy's hair, he holds timothy close while they sleep. and slowly...timothy responds, damian knows he does. he can feel timothy arching into damian's hand cupping his cheek and kisses to his head. there's a softness in timothy's eyes when damian speaks softly and sweetly to him.

and so damian keeps going, keeps helping, keeps touching, keeps showing timothy affection and care. and eventually damian starts letting his hands stray, wander. his kisses migrate from a forehead to the cheeks to the sweet, soft mouth of timothy.

during baths damian's hands are soft and exploratory, gently cupping and squeezing timothy's developing breasts and tenderly floating over his little cunt where damian's fingertips barely brush the area. but eventually damian gets braver, and he marvels at the fleshy pink of timothy's insides as he gently uses two fingers to spread open the lips and gaze at timothy's most precious area. damian swirls fingers, barely rubbing and only softly darting inside. he uses conditioner that is sitting in timothy's hair to make it softer to ease the slide of one of his fingers as it presses in until it hits damian's knuckles.

damian is gentle, careful. timothy gets wetter and looser the more damian plays with his cunt. typically damian would change timothy into pajamas following his bath but damian starts opting to leave him naked, toweling him dry and lying him on the bed while damian gently kisses his jaw and breast while pumping fingers into him.

damian does not fuck timothy immediately. only when timothy's body trembles and he makes soft gasping and whining sounds while seizing tightly around damian's fingers that he thinks about it. that he experimentally presses his cock to the softness between timothy's legs, rubbing the head between puffy lips and painting himself with sticky wetness, mashing the head against a little clit that damian always makes sure to show care to. damian is gentle fucking timothy, aware of his small body and the fact that his adult cock is much too big for such a small hole. but damian persists and pretty soon he is pressed flush to timothy, their pelvises joined as damian kisses the entrance to timothy's little womb. damian fucks noises out of his brother, moans, whines, the sight of little furrowed brows, opening mouths, and eyes that have the hint of awareness just before they roll back while wrapping tightly around damian's waist to keep him and his jolting cock inside him. timothy's insides are red, almost bruised while dripping thick globs of damian's release onto the sheets. damian kisses timothy's clit and puffy cunt with apology before slotting his cock back against the fucked open hole and pumping timothy full again until crystal tears fill timothy's eyes while he squirms with pleasure and makes desperate, sweet noises that damian kisses out of him while slamming their hips together hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall.

damian's fingers dig into timothy's soft thighs hard enough to bruise as he grunts and borderline growls while pumping his little brother full of his seed. damian has loved timothy for years and he knows the family will not understand when he presents timothy to them and they learn everything. they may even be furious at damian for what he has done. but that will not matter because damian will have done what was necessary for timothy's sake. besides, damian has full intentions of taking responsibility. he's no philanderer, he will remain loyal to timothy whether he remains in this state or not and he will be careful to take wonderful care of whatever children result from their coupling.

it's the least damian could do.

#answered asks #asks #anonymous #damitim

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deadsetobsessions · 3 months

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Lost my shit giggling at Triplet!Tim but also heartbroke? Your most recent post about Bruce finding out is the first I've seen of it, so apologies if you've already answered this! What if Alfred has known since the first time he met one of the other brothers tagged in as Tim? If so he never spilled the beans, would he have tried to compensate in his care in that case?

Hi!

Personally, I’d think that Alfred wouldn’t know about it. But, he’s be the first one to find out. I mean, I’m totally aware he’s trained as a spy and I love him, but to me it’s funnier if he had no clue. It’d be a combination of things, from the triplets having acted as a cohesive Tim unit for the entirety of their lives, the Tims playing chicken, and Alfred’s grief+trying to keep Bruce from dying would distract him enough from finding out. Logistically though, he’d definitely find out first simply because he’s in close proximity and not half dead from running around as a grief stricken vigilante bat guy.

But! If he did know about it, I’d think he’d be like “oh, master Tim, you’re too skinny! You have to eat well to be a vigilante.” And then he’d pack enough food + drive them over to the house. And he’d take notes of which “Tim” it is and their preferred tastes (Archy can’t handle bell peppers, Tim prefers chamomile tea, and Lionel is hungrier than the both of them). And he’d make medical files for all of them, because they get different injuries and therefore needs different recovery times. He’d probably eventually tell them he knows, probably before Jason comes back, and he’d totally help them keep the secret because Alfred is like the OG petty revenge king. He’d be like, “well, master Bruce, if you weren’t busy flinging yourself off of tall buildings and trying to fight the entirety of Gotham’s Underworld with your bare hands, perhaps you’d notice things with more clarity.”

Thank you for the ask!

#tim drake is a triplet au #tim drake #that one triplet au #Tim Drake is a menace #alfred pennyworth #Alfred being the goat #unfortunately he doesn’t have a goatee #alfred: wow Master Bruce could you imagine not running around dressed like a bat

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nuri148 · 8 months

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THIRSTY THURSDAY!

🫖 CLARITY ☕

Now complete!

One year after the death of her husband, Armin, Mikasa Ackerman reconnects with old friends as she starts a new life. With the stress of her new job and being the single parent of a ridiculously gifted child, will she allow herself to realise her budding feelings for her former captain, let alone act upon them? And will Levi muster the courage to admit his own feelings for her?

Cover art by @lividayis

Read on AO3

Check the #clarity tea house tag for behind the scenes stuff!

Feel free to AMA!

#clarity tea house #rivamika #rivamika fanfic #rivamika smut #aot fanfiction #aot fanart #aot fanfic #snk fanfiction #levimika #levimika fanfic #aot post war #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #mikasa ackerman #aot levi #levi ackerman #levi aot #thirsty thursday #ao3 fanfic

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tragedybunny · 5 months

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Dance With Me Under the Diamonds, See Me Like Breath in the Cold Part 2- Astarion x F!Reader

Part 1 here

Hello lovelies! It's part two of the wedding fic I published some time back! I love these two and I'm excited to share the next steps on their journey.

Reader and Astarion have a conversation the morning after their wedding that lays bare some secrets of the past.

The unexpected scent of bacon wakes you, and you roll over to sit up. You cringe, feeling a bit of soreness, well everywhere, but especially between your legs from the activities between you and your new husband last night.

Husband. That brings you back to bacon. Neither of you were all that competent in the kitchen, and you found your curiosity piqued. Your eyes spot a nightgown you'd left draped across a chair, as though you'd ever had any chance of wearing it last night.

You're just slipping it over your head to go investigate when the bedroom door opens and your aforementioned husband enters, a tray of bacon, eggs, fruit, and warm tea in his hands, and warmth dancing in his crimson eyes.

“So you can walk this morning,” he gives you a toothy grin, the tips of his fangs adorably peaking out from between his lips.

“What a lewd way to greet your wife,” you feign irritation and settle back on the bed.

“My humblest apologies,” he delivers the tray to your waiting lap and makes himself comfortable at your side, “my love.”

“I suppose that's acceptable,” you turn and catch his lips in a quick kiss before setting your attention on the tray before you: perfectly crispy bacon, fried eggs with the yolk still slightly soft, buttered toast, your favorite red berries in a small bowl, and a warm mug of strong tea. It’s he perfect breakfast you'd order at any inn when the two of you traveled. “How did you manage all this?” You ask, bacon already halfway to your mouth.

“What? Are my abilities in the kitchen in question?” He puffs and you stare him down, the playful rhythm you two know so well. “Fine. I have been listening when Gale goes on about cooking. And practicing when I get a chance here and there. The love of my life deserves the best.”

You take a sip of tea, the perfect amount of honey sweetens it. “I already have the best. I have you, Astarion. And I love you so very much.”

“I love you too, but do try not to make me cry again this morning, darling. I already did that enough in front of everyone last night.”

Snuggled into your side, head resting on your shoulder, he doesn't make eating easy, but that hardly matters. Fingers idly trace your thighs, hip, and stomach, while you chat about your wedding last night. You can tell there's a cloud hanging over you both now, though, and there are things that need to be brought out into the open. Finally, when you finish, you set the tray on the bedside table and let Astarion wrap himself around you, resting his head on your chest. “About what you were able to see last night,” no use delaying it.

He makes a soft hum against your skin, a noise you know means he’s thinking about what exactly to say. Fingers stroke through his curls as you give him a moment, there’s no rush, Today is just for the two of you. “You know, Cazador used to pass us off as either servants or distant relatives, usually he’d wait a few years, then we would switch parts. It made it easy to spy on the other nobles. Of course, I usually got stuck playing servant as a punishment. He’d loan us out to other houses to assist with their large events. He sent me to spy on a girl, some noble's daughter, at her sister’s wedding. Lucky thing married the only cousin left of the Vanthampur’s. When the dear old Duke and her offspring met their end, she inherited everything, and her husband is more prisoner than spouse, they say.”

The night of your Samara’s wedding is burned into your mind, it was the night you first heard of your own nuptial fate, your sentence for the crime of being born into your family. You thought nearly every detail blazed with clarity, but the faces of the endless horde of temporary help elude you. A reply forms on your lips but Astarion continues on from where he lays, hand entwining with yours, lips idly brushing your neck. “She seemed ordinary, if a bit withdrawn. Pretty enough little thing, I might add.”

That earns a weary laugh from you. “I didn’t expect to see her again, but I did, months later. The last party Cazador hosted before everything, she was there. By that time rumor had gone around that Cazador was going to take on some sort of consort as part of an alliance. I think Gortash’s rapid ascent was unsettling for some of the old families. The poor thing, she looked terrified, she knew something was wrong in that house. And…,” his voice breaks. Unconsciously, you pull him tighter, he’s not the only one reliving that night.

Drowning in a dress of purple and black, you were hauled to Szarr manor on pain of death. Not that it mattered, nothing mattered with Ophelia gone. Your first love, the tiefling that tended the gardens of your home, the only place you were allowed to move around freely outside the house. She’d disappeared right after your sister’s wedding, your Mother’s work no doubt. At the time, you had no idea Cazador was a vampire, but the whole manor was full of an air of hungry malice, and fear sprouted in all the shadows. Even the servants had an unearthly quality to them. “...we laughed at her. Well, Petras, Violet, and I, the most. Because we knew what awaited her when she became the center of Cazador’s attention. And it would be a relief to have someone else around that he could torture. She was so scared, but we didn’t have any empathy left in us, so we mocked her future suffering. I’m so sorry, my love.”

Since the first time he’d mentioned Cazador, you’d wanted to tell him, to empathize with him. But doing so would've broken your pact, taken away the shroud that hid you from your family. In your more introspective moments, you wondered if fate had somehow bound the two of you. You’d passed like ships in the night, you not even noticing him as a servant among the Szarr retinue, and reason would say you should have never met again. Yet he, of all the populace of Baldur’s Gate, was swept up by the Mindflayers, and lived to fall to that beach. You leave a comforting kiss on his forehead. “We left the past behind, remember, don’t worry yourself over it.” While it does sting to know there was a time he would’ve enjoyed your suffering, you know it will pass, inconsequential as the flower petals that used to litter the garden paths.

Even if it wasn’t fate, your love had grown out of the most amazing circumstances and it had given you courage to keep traveling the new path you’d laid out for yourself, even when you’d nearly stumbled at the beginning. Astarion sits up and you find his eyes watery, but he cups your cheek and brushes a thumb over it tenderly. “If you say so. It’s not like anyone else was getting a better version of me at the time I suppose.” He studies you for a moment, thinking again, before speaking. “Can you tell me about yourself now? Is it safe?”

Why Titania has granted you this reprieve, you’re not really sure, but you’re grateful that there’s no longer any forced secrets between you. “I believe so.” You try to gather your disparate thoughts, but a thousand little bits of darkness begin to tug at you, threatening to pull you down until ice water fills your lungs as you sink into a black ocean. “I…”

It’s not the pact that keeps you from talking, but years of entrenched dread. “You don’t have to, love, not if you’re not ready.” Astarion recognizes it too, hand now gently squeezing yours.

Shaking your head, you dispel the ghosts of that dark house, your life is full of love and light now. “No, I want to try.” A thought strikes you, a fitting place to start. “Can I tell you about Ophelia? I-I loved her, and I haven’t been able to even say her name since.”

Silence hangs between you and your breath is stilled, you hadn’t thought about how Astarion might feel, hearing about your first love. “I would be honored,” he presses his lips to yours. “And I can’t wait to learn everything else about my darling wife as well.”

Tag List:

@micropoe10 @writingmysanity @mxxny-lupin @azu21

@tallymonster @dependsonthedream @sunfire-ancunin

@bambamwolf87 @fayeriess @lumienyx @lisrelly

@elora-the-slutty-songstress @bhaalbaaby @spacebarbarianweird

@satanicspinosaurus @darlingxdragon

#astarion #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #x reader #my fanfic #my writing

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tj-dragonblade · 7 months

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[FIC] On the Edge of a Waking Dream

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: M Word Count: 3914 Tags: MonsterFucktoberBingo 2023, Dreamling Nation House of Horrors 2023, human Dream, ghost Hob, modern day setting, main character death, technically, is Hob a main character, the prompt is ghost so not DEAD-dead regardless, ghost character, ghost sex, sex toys, anal sex, suicidal ideation, unconventional happily-ever-after, these tags are a very mixed bag, angst in my lighthearted ghost story?, it's more likely than you think, brief appearance by Daniel Hall, brief appearance by Merv

Additional Warning: There is a conversation toward the end that dips into the subject of suicidal ideation. If you need to avoid it, it's the section that begins "Would that I could stay here forever, with you" - skip that whole section and you'll be good.

Notes: Title taken from I'll Be There, by Escape Club, 1991. This song has been on my Ficcable Songs list for more than two decades and finally I've done something with it. I'm…eugh. I think this would be better served as a longfic, but I'm. Not doing that. I'm happier with this now than I was with the initial draft, and that's good enough.

This covers Smoctober Day 9 prompt 'ghost', the Monsterfucktober square for 'ghost', and the Dreamling Nation House of Horrors prompt 'ghost'

Summary: Dream never believed in ghosts until his boyfriend became one

On AO3

~~~ Dream never believed in ghosts.

But then, his boyfriend became one.

Hob, his brash and boastful beautiful Hob, who'd talked of marriage once they were done with university, who'd laughed at the notion of dying and proudly declared he'd live forever. Hob, who had sworn to never leave him, had promised to be there for him always.

The universe had other ideas, unfortunately, but Hob was nothing if not adaptable.

~~~ Dream turned the key in the lock of their shared flat—just his flat, now, he supposed—numb and empty inside after the funeral. Debating the merits of crying in the shower vs going straight to bed (not their bed, not anymore) and crying himself to sleep, he pushed open the door.

The lights flicked on all by themselves.

All of the lights, in every room of the flat.

Which was disconcerting, but he was tired, and emotionally drained, and made a mental note to check with the property manager about the wiring just in case.

The electric teakettle clicked on when he entered the kitchen; convenient, as he had intended a cup of chamomile before trying to sleep, but he added the oddity to his mental note for tomorrow. Tea in hand, he leaned against the counter, gathering the static in his mind to keep from focusing with any clarity on the loss clawing his insides hollow.

When his laptop on the corner desk powered itself on, he nearly dropped his tea. With mounting apprehension he watched as the computer logged him in and…opened Spotify? Then the music started, an old song he knew well, and the apprehension turned to disbelief.

Don't be afraid, oh my love I'll be watching you from above And I'd give all the world tonight, To be with you

"This is absolutely my song," Hob had said once when it came on. "Guy loved his partner so much he refused to go when death came for him? That'd be me."

"I thought you planned to live forever?" Dream had teased, gently, and Hob had grinned.

"Well yeah, that is the plan. But if it turns out I can't, then…sticking around as a ghost, that's my contingency plan." His smile had turned warm, tender, and he'd brushed a knuckle down the side of Dream's face. "I've got to see you're getting on okay if I'm gone, haven't I?"

Because I'm on your side, And I still care I may have died, But I've gone nowhere Just think of me, And I'll be there

"Hob," Dream whispered, tears welling, something like hope sticking in his throat, and the lamp on the desk flickered. "Is that you?"

The lamp blinked out and back on, twice, and Dream let out a sob. 'Twice' had always been their non-verbal and discretionary code for affirmation, blinking or shoulder taps or hand squeezing, and the warm sense of relief that poured over Dream at this confirmation was overwhelming. "Hob…how is this possible? Am I losing my grip on reality?"

The wireless mouse moved, waggled side to side in a clear imitation of shaking one's head 'no'.

"How is this possible," Dream murmured again, turning over and over the idea that ghosts could be real, that Hob could be one. "You died; I buried you. How can you be here?"

The mouse moved in a slow deliberate arc, sketching the shape of a heart.

Oh, there's no need to cry Just think of me, And I'll be there

Dream's throat closed up and he let out a sound half-laugh, half-sob as the song soared into its final chorus.

The mouse scooted across the desk, nudged the box of tissues closer.

Hob had so often talked about taking care of him; Hob had promised to never leave him.

Hob had, apparently, refused to go when Death came for him. "You were always a man of your word," Dream murmured, sniffling through a smile, and the light in the kitchen flickered happily.

~~~ Living with a ghost was surprisingly easy to adjust to, once he accepted the reality of it. He always had someone to talk to, and they quickly discovered that the notes app on his phone, or his computer, was a viable conduit for Hob to talk back when he felt like it. Dream's earbuds were always charged, his music library always managed to pull up exactly the right song for his mood, he never had to worry about whether he'd left the lights or the stove on and, annoyingly, his phone and computer always turned off at exactly the hour Hob had insisted on for a decent sleep schedule. But in all honesty, healthier sleep habits were a fair price to pay for having Hob back in some form when Dream had thought him lost.

Hob looked after him, made sure he kept living and thriving, and Dream threw himself into researching ghosts and spirits and how to attune oneself to them. Herbs and alignments and meditative practices, Dream tried them all and little by little, the more he learned, the more he began to feel the physical presence of Hob in their flat. A breath, a scent, a diffuse sense of warmth and calm, an overall impression that this was home and Hob was here.

~~~ "What was it like, dying?" he asked one day, during a lull in his research. He minimized the webpage and brought up the notes app. "If you don't mind talking about it, that is." He trusted Hob to tell him otherwise; communicating and respecting boundaries had always been easy between them. The cursor started moving a couple seconds later.

It would be impossible to discuss the subject without a common frame of reference.

Dream burst out laughing at that, the terrible hiccuping bray that Hob had adored, and a little old-school smiley emote appeared on the screen. But before Dream could draw breath to quote the next line back to Hob (You mean I have to die to discuss your insights on death??), the cursor was moving again.

Kidding. Not much to tell. Was a lady there, kind face, beautiful wings. Held out her hand, and I knew if I took it I'd never see you again. So I refused.

"And you were permitted to just…say no?"

Lady gave me a sad smile, said I couldn't go back; told her I couldn't go forward, either, not if it meant leaving you. When I promised I would never.

Dream could feel his eyes welling up and blinked, swallowed the lump in his throat.

She let me stay in between. Not perfect, but I don't have to leave. Can't leave you.

"I love you," Dream said, voice wavering. "I love you, Hob, I miss you but I'm so glad I still have you—" A little sob escaped, his eyes spilling over.

Death cannot stop true love, Hob typed then, in swooping pink script on the screen, and Dream could only smile through his tears as he answered.

"All it can do is delay it for a little while."

~~~ Dream kept seeking knowledge and Hob kept developing proficiency in being a ghost, more practice in interacting with the world and making himself known; soon enough Dream could genuinely feel Hob there, physically—a wisp of air against his skin, the phantom brush of lips to his temple, a full-body shiver of warmth when drifting off to sleep. He'd feel Hob like an embrace from behind while fixing his breakfast, while practicing his cello, while showering. Sometimes he would touch himself under the spray, stroke it to hardness and feel, unmistakably, the wispy grip of Hob's hand over his, the faint nudge of a phantom prick against his arse, an invisible mouth laving kisses to the back of his neck.

"You can manipulate any electronics, right?" he asked one evening, and when the lamp on his bedside table dimmed and brightened twice in the affirmative, he undressed and brought out the vibrator he had purchased the day before, knelt over on the bed, pressed the toy into his slick and opened body. "Then please, Hob—be with me, like this, have me, I still want—"

The toy jumped to life with a buzz and Dream gasped, shifted, rocked his hips as Hob cycled through every power setting and vibration pattern until he found the combination that made Dream shiver and squirm and grasp helplessly at the bedsheets, surrounded by the not-quite-there feeling of Hob draped over him, fingers twined with his, lips soft at the back of his neck as he surrendered to the onslaught of sensation.

He drifted off to sleep afterward with a soft smile on his face, the feel of Hob's arms around him and Hob murmuring "G'night, dove, I'll keep you safe" in his ear.

When he woke, the whisper of revelation was stirring at the back of his mind but it didn't click until he heard a soft "Good morning, beautiful" in Hob's dear voice and sat bolt upright, duly stunned.

"Hob! You can talk!?"

Nothing, for an instant, and then, still soft: "Dream? Can you…you can hear me now?"

"Yes!" he cried, overjoyed, and let the tears stream down his face as he heard Hob's happy laughter surrounding him, disembodied but bright and brilliant, for the first time in months.

~~~ Together they continued their studies, carefully experimenting with ways to thin the veil between worlds safely and securely. Hob's physical presence got stronger, more tangible as the days passed. His touch was never cold like so many sources claimed; it was warm, like lifting one's face to the morning sun in the first days of Spring, like the comfort of snuggling into the blankets on a winter evening.

Nothing about his Hob could ever be cold.

All his studies indicated that a ghost attaining visibility took time, and strength of will from the spirit, and 'openness' on the part of the living—which Dream had interpreted as willingness to believe that one might see a ghost. He did believe, wholeheartedly, knew without a doubt that Hob was still here with him and would eventually be ghost enough to manifest visibly.

It happened one night when Dream was drifting between awake and asleep; there, in that liminal state, he caught a glimpse of Hob for just an instant. It stole his breath, the sight of Hob before him again after all this time; Hob smiled at him, blindingly beautiful, and then he faded out and Dream woke, eyes wet, his own smile soft on his face.

"Hob?" he called, barely more than a murmur, and immediately the warm comfort of Hob's arms around him took hold.

"'M here," came Hob's disembodied voice, close to his ear. "Did you see me there, in between?"

"Yes," Dream breathed, emotion swelling within him. "You were. So beautiful. How I've missed the sight of you, Hob—" He turned, wanting to burrow into the warmth of Hob beside him, knowing there was nothing really there enough to accommodate his want.

"Sweet talker," Hob said, and then there were soft insubstantial lips touching his and Dream sighed into the phantom kiss, arching, reaching. Invisible fingertips traced his jaw, touched his throat, trailed down and brushed a nipple and Dream let a needy sound spill from him.

"Hob," he pleaded, keyed up, wanting, and felt more than heard the way Hob hummed in reply. And then the suggestion of a leg was pushed between his, urging him over onto his back and hands were stroking feather-light down his sides, a ghostly mouth moving beneath his ear. Dream whimpered, kicked free of the bedclothes, hooked his thumbs in his pajama bottoms and wriggled fluidly to get them down and off, laid back and spread his limbs and gave himself over to the slow sensual stoking of his pleasure.

Hob took his time as much by design as necessity, needing focus and intent to manage physical touch but also clearly delighting in the leisurely build of driving Dream higher and higher. He was skilled at it, also, had Dream trembling and moaning long before his ghostly tongue touched Dream's prick. It was hard, leaking, and Dream rocked into the wispy sensation of Hob's mouth around him, Hob's hands caressing the insides of his thighs, Hob's fingertips tracing intimately along the creases of his body.

Hob's touch was exquisite, erotic, and Dream was certain that with hours to enjoy it he would surely reach climax, but neither of them had that sort of patience just now. "Get the vibe, sweetheart," Hob said at last, and Dream scrambled to comply, retrieving it from the bedside drawer. "Open yourself up for me, need to watch you come undone—"

Breathless, Dream lubed the toy and pushed it in, bore down and gripped it tightly in anticipation, knees raised, waiting for Hob—

The toy turned on and Dream's head lashed back as sudden pleasure poured through him. "There you are," he vaguely heard Hob murmur, "my darling beautiful Dream—"

One day, Dream vowed, shaking as Hob cycled the toy into the perfect pulsing intensity that made him writhe and wail, one day, he would come from Hob's ghostly touch alone.

~~~ They met in waking dreams again, and again, each meeting strengthening their connection, anchoring them securely to one another across the veil. "Oh, my love, my precious dove," Hob murmured, when they managed to hold onto one another for more than a second, and then Hob's mouth was pressed against his, opening, warm—

He woke to the feel of Hob kissing him still, only less substantial, but as he opened his eyes, he caught a soft glimmer of Hob's face above him, hazy, barely there, and his heart skipped a beat.

"I can see you," he murmured against phantom lips, not daring to blink, breath held—but Hob drew back in surprise, in excitement, and his faint image flickered out. Dream sighed and let his eyes fall closed once more. "We'll keep trying. Come kiss me again?"

~~~ "Would that I could stay here forever, with you," Dream lamented, drifting on the edge of waking up, curled into Hob's embrace.

He felt the way that Hob went still and tense.

"You seem the most real here," he explained, "and I am. So tired, of not being able to properly touch you. Except here."

"I'm getting better at being substantial out there," Hob said, a very careful edge in his voice. "Be patient, dove, we'll get there."

"Or I could simply sleep forever, and never be without you again."

"You aren't without me now. I'm not going anywhere, Dream. You have me. Forever. What you're talking about is—" Hob stopped abruptly, unwilling to voice the thought.

"I know." Dream couldn't bring himself to look Hob in the eye, mumbled into the familiar comfort of Hob's hairy chest instead. "I wonder, sometimes, if…it might be worth it."

Hob vanished, and it was a sharp enough jolt that Dream woke completely.

Every light in the flat was flickering madly as Dream stumbled ouf of the bedroom; the smoke and CO detectors were screeching their alarm, his laptop sounding some kind of alert and the air conditioning unit in the window powering off and on repeatedly.

"Hob!" Dream tried to raise his voice above the din. "Hob, stop!"

The teakettle started up a sustained whistle and then Spotify kicked in with some metal band he couldn't immediately name, thrashing guitars and guttural screaming vocals, and Dream had to cover his ears. "Hob! HOB!"

It was another full minute of this cacophony, and then abruptly everything stopped. Plunged back into grey morning dimness and silence, Dream took a steadying breath, two.

"…Hob?" His voice, when it came, was small and tentative.

The kitchen light flickered sullenly, twice.

"Hob. I don't…I'm not—" He floundered; the words weren't coming.

"C'mere." He felt the swoop of Hob rushing past him, and followed him back to the bedroom. "C'mere," Hob repeated, from the bed, and Dream crawled up to sit against the headboard. The faint sense of Hob's arm settled around his shoulders and Dream felt the inevitable tears welling up.

"Sorry for throwing a tantrum," Hob's voice said, low and soft with sincerity. "It's just. You scared me. What you said." Dream felt lips brush his hair, holding there in a desperate approximation of a kiss.

"I know." Dream blinked, and the tears spilled over. "I don't mean it, but…"

"But it's crossed your mind."

Dream wiped his eyes. "Yes."

"I stayed to see you live your life, not to take it away from you." Hob's voice was shaky now, as if he was also crying—could ghosts cry?—and Dream could feel Hob's other arm across his chest, Hob holding him close, clinging to him. "Dream—I love you, I love you so much. And you have everything ahead of you. Please, please don't start thinking you're better off giving it all up. We don't even know if you'd wind up same as me—"

Dream closed his eyes, breathed slow and even. It was not that he wished, particularly, to die; it was simply that he wished to be with Hob more than he wanted anything else.

Except, perhaps, to not bring Hob pain or distress.

"I…am an amateur, at these occult studies," Dream said at last, eyes still closed. "It will take a lifetime of research and learning to ensure that I can share in your afterlife, that I will not leave you behind. I will need to live a very long life, to be. Certain."

"…Yes," came Hob's voice, steadier now but still with a trembling edge of wariness underneath. "Yes. You will."

"And I will need your help. To research, but also to remind me to eat, to buy groceries, to go to bed on time."

"Of course. You'll have it, anything and everything I can do to help. Promise me you won't give up."

"Hob," Dream breathed, because he had opened his eyes, and Hob was glimmering faintly there beside him—visible, if only just. "Hob—"

"Promise," Hob interrupted, lifting his head to look Dream in the eye, and Dream could see the exact second when he realized Dream was not looking through him, but at him.

"I will live to be ninety, I promise," he said, a little bit breathless, a little wrung out, very much elated. "Hob, I can see you—"

The smile on Hob's face, the way he glowed with joy, pushed every other thought from Dream's head, and when Hob leaned in for an ecstatic-if-still-a-touch-watery kiss, Dream's heart soared at how easily they connected.

~~~ Hob's visual manifestation in the waking world grew more and more frequent as the days went on, steadier, more solid in appearance. Strong emotion, they confirmed, was an excellent catalyst and soon enough he could maintain a weak-but-persistent shade, always a bit more distinct from the corner of Dream's eye than straight on. The more he practiced the better he got, at being both visually and tangibly solid, holding his presence, managing touch. Dream never minded that he always remained a bit transparent; he was there, still here, still with Dream, to whom he had promised forever.

~~~ "Still mine?" Hob asked many years later, float-lying half on top of him in bed, idly combing through the emerging greys of his hair, and Dream smiled.

"I can't imagine ever being anyone else's," he breathed, lifting a hand to touch Hob's face. He still had to be careful, to focus; it was all too easy for his hand to go right through Hob which was disconcerting for them both. But he was very good at it by now, and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Hob's ear tenderly. "I don't want to be anyone else's."

"You don't have to be," Hob promised, drifting up to look down into his eyes. "I'm here, I'm yours, forever, as long as you'll have me."

"Forever," Dream echoed, smiling with the joy of it, and drew Hob down for a delicate heartfelt kiss.

~~~ "Sorry, kid, ain't got no vacancies."

Daniel's shoulders slumped, disappointed. The White Horse building was perfectly situated for getting to campus and he'd been told there was always at least one flat open, but apparently he was given incorrect information.

"Unless…" The guy in the property office tilted his head back, scratched under his scruffy chin, cigar caught between his teeth. "I mean, there is the haunted unit, 'salways empty…"

Daniel perked up. "Haunted unit?" He'd been drawn to the unusual all his life, fascinated by the paranormal, intrigued by the macabre. If this was true—

"Yeah." The guy slanted a look at him. "Last tenant—last tenant who stayed more'n a couple'a weeks, at least—was this old guy, lived there for decades. Him'n his boyfriend, they moved in when they were young but then the boyfriend died, an' the other guy just stayed the rest of his life, alone. Was a hundred n' five when he finally passed, and that was back in '89. Flat's been empty ever since. Folk'll move in, but it don't take long 'til they're backin' out on the lease. Lights won't work right, electronics're unpredictable, weird moanin' and screamin' noises in the walls, some even talk about apparitions they can't ever see straight-on but're always in the corner of the eye, in the shadows. Me, I don' believe'n none of it, never seen nor heard anything'f the sort, but regardless I can't keep anybody in there—"

"I'll take it," Daniel interrupted, excitement bubbling up in his stomach. A haunted flat? Could he be any luckier? "That is—if I may?"

"Look, kid, you wanna give it a shot? Go for it. Come on in, I'll draw up the paperwork. 'F you stay, I'll give ya a super steep discount—any rent comin' in's better'n none, heh!" He turned and stumped back into his office, still cackling and muttering; Daniel followed, mind racing.

If there was a ghost, a real ghost, it was probaby the boyfriend, who'd maybe been there all along and now didn't want anyone living in his and his lover's space. And Daniel was no true medium, but he'd grown up learning all kinds of 'alternative science' stuff from his mom's friends, so maybe he'd have a decent chance of communicating with the ghost, helping it find peace and move on.

He was half right. It was the boyfriend, but it was also the old man. Whose ghost was that of his younger self—and yes, Daniel was able to talk to them. Also, they had absolutely no intention of moving on. They were lovely, actually, had no problem with Daniel living there once they got to know him, willingly worked out a sort of 'roommate agreement' with him. Merv down in the property office made good on his promise of cheap rent, and Daniel's ghosts were always making sure the flat was in order, bills tracked and paid, cupboards stocked and groceries delivered, homework reminders set where he needed them and homework assistance given when asked. It was like…like having two dads, when he'd grown up without, and Daniel was hard-pressed to imagine how his life could possibly be better.

(He could do without the occasional auditory glimpse into their love life, but…well. Most of the time they were very good about not leaking across the veil in intimate moments, and ultimately who was he to begrudge them their eternal happiness?)

=== Started: 10/9/23 Drafted: 10/10/23 Additional Drafting: 10/27/23 Posted: 10/28/23

I have not read any of Daniel's canon material; my apologies if his voice sounds terribly wrong. Cookies for anyone who recognizes the movie quotes Hob used ❤️

#Sandman #TJs Fics #MonsterFucktoberBingo #DNHouseOfHorrors #Smoctober #Dreamling #Dream of the Endless #Hob Gadling #wip: ghostfic

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knightofhylia · 2 years

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Basic Spirit Contact Etiquette

We’ve all seen some sort of ghost-hunting show in our lives, whether you were an avid Ghost Adventures fan or looking for scary things to watch on Halloween.

Here I’m whipping up a guide based on my 10+ years working with spirits on how to approach spirits respectfully and conduct yourself during contact whether in your own home or another location. This is focused on the types of spirits you may encounter while on a ghost investigation.

Before Contact

Consider who you are bringing with you. Take into account the location you are going to. If you are in the south investigating a plantation with a crew of all white men it might get a little tense and spirits will probably not like to respond, or respond harshly. Most of the time when shows actually think about this is if they are going to a prison or something and they bring girls to attract ghosts. Think about the spiritual background of the people attending. People of different backgrounds will react to and attract different types of entities.

Bring an offering. No one wants to do anything for free, so, give a little ‘thanks’ for the spirit's time and energy by bringing a gift. This can be almost anything! Do your research if you are investigating a specific location. Time periods, regions, specific people, and general areas can give you a clue on what to give. If you really don’t have much info, there are some good (generally) universal offerings.

Energy

Spirits need energy to manifest like I need energy to manifest myself out of bed sometimes. There are a couple of different ways to do this.

Candles are a great, cheap, easy way to offer a little energy to the spirits. PLEASE USE CAREFULLY. Make sure it has a stable support such as a holder if its a tapered candle or bowl if it is a pillar candle. Place a plate underneath to catch any wax runoff. I’m not going to go deep into candle colours, but the ones I personally use are purple for psychic boost, white for general and cleansing, black for protection, or blue for insight.

Crystals and rocks are a very common offering as well. This doesn’t have to be fancy, honestly a little quartz goes a long way sometimes. I personally have a pouch that has my stones for spirit contact specifically that I take with me to help me connect. I’m not going to go super extensive into the meanings of the crystals, you can find that other places, but these are my go to:

Labradorite: good for intuition and heightening senses

Spirit Bomb Quartz: I’m gonna be honest, I bought this mainly because it looked like a kidney stone I had, and it's one of Yusuke Urameshi's powers. But! It’s quartz so it’s always good to have around.

Azurite: good for mentality clarity and receiving messages.

Lapis Lazuli: My favourite stone <3. Good for connecting with inner guidance and intuition.

Music is great for bringing in spirits. Music is this incredible source of energy that carries over despite language, time period, or place. We all love music! Music can change a room in a minute. With music you are transported to a different time and place. This is great especially for spirits from older periods as it brings out a lot of nostalgia and emotion. Music also helps you get into the right headspace for communication as well.

Special objects are used all the time in ghost shows. Personal belongings such as jewelry, books, or clothes work well. Toys and crayons for children have been known to get them to come out and play. Things from the person’s time period or hobbies they did can help draw them in as well.

Food

Food is what gives us energy, and that doesn’t change much in the spirit realm either. Some good basic foods to bring are things like bread, fruit, baked goods, tea, or alcohol. I've found unless there is specific trauma around it, most spirits accept alcohol/cigarettes. Consider the time period or region of your location.

If you are investigating an old house or mansion, what food was popular at the time? What food was popular in the region? Try and give something that is familiar or would be a treat for them. Crack open a cold one for the spirits in your haunted bar, maybe offer up some peanuts or chips to bring the people in. Invite the lady of the mansion some nice tea or cakes and a chat.

If investigating a hospital/mental ward/prison, consider bringing something from the outside world. From my personal experience there is nothing someone wants more after a long stint in the hospital than a big burger. These people died eating the blandest shit imaginable (if they weren’t starved) so try something they wouldn’t have been able to have before. You don’t have to cook a wagyu beef steak, but cookies or sweets could go a long way in winning the favour of more shy or angry spirits. Bring milk and cookies to the children’s ward for a treat! Give the kids the sugar they couldn’t have in this realm!

What do spirits do with food?

Think about all the energy you put into cooking! All the stirring, kneading, heating, cooling, oils, herbs, meats, water, all has energy that gets combined and condensed when food is made. In my mortal opinion, spirits can feed off of this energy like we eat food. This is why I think some food offerings shrivel quicker. The energy from the cow used to produce the milk is carried down through the milking, pasteurization, packaging, distribution and receiving of one single bottle, gaining more energy each step of the way. Machinery used to make food feeds into that energy as well as the people who make it. You ever buy food and can taste the energy of the overworked underpaid worker who made it? Homemade items are usually the best, but store bought works just the same.

I also believe that the spirit can manifest to physically eat the food. This could either be an apparition or manifesting in the form of an animal.

If the food is store bought I might suggest cleansing it spiritually before offering it.

What to do with the food?

There are a couple options here. The easiest one is just leave it and let nature take its course. Liquids are usually poured on the ground or drain. If you are not on your own property I would suggest other methods such as burying(if it won't harm the wildlife) or (SAFELY) burning. I would use a big fireproof bowl such as a glass or metal mixing bowl (probably best if it’s not the one you use in the kitchen). If you are able to leave it overnight and come back to it, take note of any changes to the food! I like to keep my offerings out overnight but if it is going to spoil or stink then whenever you are done/they are done is fine.

Incense

Fire is an amazing element! Prometheus ain’t getting his liver eaten eternally for nothing! Fire can turn herbs and resins into magic in a flash. There’s a reason incense has been used for centuries in ritual practices all over the world. This can be done with sticks, cones, resins, bundles or loose. If you are going to burn incense PLEASE do this carefully as well.

Herbs and plants I usually burn are mugwort, wormwood, damiana, sandalwood, lavender, and cedar. This can be done either as a blend or individually. These are usually burned on a charcoal disk or as a stick if I can find one.

Resins are also common for rituals and spirit contact. There’s a reason Christians love to hotbox themselves with frankincense and myrrh. Shit works! These take a little more work so I suggest planning ahead if you are going to use these.

If you’re a cop you have to tell us!!! Ok now that the cops are gone this might sound wack, but in my experience, ghosts love drugs. I have yet to encounter a spirit who did not like weed. I have been told specifically to smoke weed with my spirits to help charge and cleanse them. Taking a rip from a bong invokes all four elements and helps center yourself. I wouldn’t suggest toking up in a haunted mansion, but a sprinkle of flower or kief on a charcoal disk can work as well. Use tobacco wisely as it is sacred to many Native cultures. Use Native grown tobacco and treat the herb with the respect it deserves. White supremacy and capitalism have tainted tobacco to be what it is now. If offering cigarettes, I suggest using the more organic ones. That being said, if you know a specific brand the spirit likes, opt for that one. I would suggest burying this offering as burning it may cause health issues, set off fire alarms, or leave a harsh smell.

Consider the type of haunting or spirit you are going to interact with. What do previous reports say the activity is? What type of location is it? What was this land before something was built here? I will briefly cover different types of hauntings and spirits that are common for ghost investigations. This is by no means all-encompassing but I’ve gathered this much from observations.

Active haunting. Classic ghost haunting. This type of spirit is aware of their surroundings to a degree. Usually conscious of the fact they are dead but not always. Common characteristics are:

Footsteps

Lights flickering

Feelings of being watched

Temperature drops

Hearing voices

Apparitions (full body, partial, shadow beings)

Mild physical activity (touching, doors closing/opening on their own, minor movement of objects)

Residual haunting. More common for places of tragedy, this type of spirit is usually not aware of their surroundings and instead are repeating moments of their life. Most characteristics apply from active hauntings to residual as well. The main difference is activity is done in a pattern. Common characteristics are:

Activity that comes in cycles or patterns i.e. specific times of day/year, specific places

Footsteps

Movement of specific objects

Voices or audio that does is not in response to the living word

Apparitions seen around same place/time

Poltergeist. This is the more active type of haunting. Most horror movies are based on this type. This type of haunting usually happens when a spirit is very powerful, usually angered or annoyed. The spirit is very aware of its surroundings. Common characteristics are:

Apparitions of all kinds

Footsteps

Doors slamming

Wall banging

Intense physical activity (things being thrown, moved, broken, or disappearing)

Physical presence (cold rooms, being able to push or grab people)

Behaviour change in people (more aggressive, sad, or just strange behaviour in general)

There is a lot of bleedover in regards to the categories, but it is usually determined by intensity and frequency of objects.

During Contact

Ugh, nothing pisses me off more than people back-talking ghosts when they are trying to make contact. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar folks. Here’s quick do’s and don'ts of making contact with spirits.

Do:

Bring an offering

Announce your presence when you come in and state your business. Be polite and introduce yourself. Spirits are more likely to warm up to you if they know what your doing.

Explain your equipment as you set it up or use it. Show them where to talk on recorders, I can almost guarantee someone from the 1800s probably doesn’t know about REM pods, EMF detectors, and video cameras. Explain using simple language but remember you are not talking to a child (unless you are). Demonstrations of equipment can help you test out your gear and get the spirits used to it. Evidence doesn’t start when you turn off the lights, record as you set up in case curious ghosts have things to say

Thank the spirit when it responds! If you ask for a sign and they bang the wall, thank them! Even if it’s scary stuff like slamming doors it’s still good to thank them.

Don’t:

Provoking the spirits by taunting isn’t going to do shit but get you cursed. Y’all know what I’m talking about. Early seasons Zak Bagans shit. ‘I’m not scared of you! Come out and face me! Show yourself coward! Attack me!’ Okay dude good luck with that attachment!

You are a mere mortal in the presence of something you don’t understand, don’t be an asshole about it. Talk to them like they are people because they probably were once! Talk in a respectful tone and be humble.

Don’t get mad if they don’t respond. Be mindful of where you are and what you’re talking about. If you are asking a spirit about a horrific event, accept that they may not want to talk about it. The type of haunting may not be fit for the type of investigation you’re doing.

NOT EVERY GHOST IS A DEMON OR EVIL. I’m so tired of every time someone has a negative interaction with a ghost it’s a demon. Maybe they’re just pissed off you’re in their space? Don’t throw around random labels just because you’re uncomfortable.

Debunking is always good to try but disregarding unexplainable things discourages spirits from trying. Or they may try harder and you might not like what they do!

Ending Investigation

Show your gratitude. Dispose of your offerings properly and thank the spirits for their time and energy. Clean up any mess you may have left.

Cleanse the space. Everyone likes to cleanse differently so I won’t go into it too deeply. Personally, I like to burn incense and use sound. I find ‘cleansing tones’ on Spotify and turn my bluetooth speaker upside down so the speaker is directly touching the surface. I believe this helps dispel negative energy. Other ways are using a bell, using cleansing water, visualization etc. Take only pictures, leave only footprints type of deal. This is especially important for places of violence or negative energies.

I advise walking out of the space backwards so nothing can follow you and cleansing yourself when you are done. Too often people go into these spaces, rip the bandaid off the spiritual wounds and then leave. It’s cruel to keep these spirits bound to these places for our entertainment.

Only YOU can prevent spiritual fuckery!

Note: the source leads to an outside blog that is co-run by me. Some of the words may have been changed in this edition, but this is not plagiarism, i wrote both! The URL is randomly generated for now but it is still a legit website. Feel free to check out the other posts!

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thedeathofduty · 2 years

Text

Talisman

Summary: King Viserys I dies, sending the royal family and your own life into disarray. When Aemond is sent on his way to Storm's End and your betrothal is called off, the Queen promises to do right by you as soon as she is able. That night, your fears, memories, and insecurities get the better of you.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x UnspecifiedHouse!F!Reader

Warning(s): Very, very brief mention of sex

A/N: Thank god that more talented people than I have already gifed every second we've gotten of Aemond otherwise I would've had to put a super pixelated screenshot down there instead. How do you guys make these? Here's part two!

Queen Alicent had insisted on speaking to you alone, without even your father or the Lord Hand as witnesses, which set your already frayed nerves to what felt like their very breaking point. Your hands were clasped tightly together in your lap and still, you could not stop their trembling. The two of you were sitting in her chambers and her handmaiden was pouring the two of you some tea before quietly leaving the room. You had known, of course, that something was wrong. Just a mere hour ago, your father had been all but dragged from his study and corralled into the throne room with all the rest of the High Lords and Ladies. No matter how desperately you cried out, none of the knights of the Kingsguard would tell you where they were taking him or what was happening.

And now here you were, sitting across from the Queen who regarded you with kind, sad eyes. She had never looked at you like this before. "Lady Y/N," she started before clearing her throat and glancing down at the small cup in front of you, "please, before we begin. It will help with your nerves." You nodded quickly, grasping the cup in your hand and hissing when some of the tea spilled on your fingers as you brought it up to your lips. "I tell you this now with the utmost confidence in your ability to be understanding... and patient." You looked at her over the rim of your cup. She pressed her lips together, refusing to meet your gaze for a moment before closing her eyes and sighing deeply. "The King is passed."

"Wh-what?" Your cup clattered against the table as you clumsily set it down.

"Please," she murmured and you held your tongue. "He named my son Aegon as his successor and, though my father believes in the inevitability of war, I do not. I am trying my best to tread a different path, to do what needs be done without bloodshed. There is no reason why thousands should die, why the Princess and her family should suffer, why the dragons should be turned loose. Do you understand?" You opened your mouth, but she continued. "There is a better way, Lady Y/N. I can see the path towards peace so clearly now. But..." She sighed, pushing her own cup aside and reaching across the table to grab your hands. "Even peace is not without sacrifice. Have you seen Aemond today at all?"

"No, Your Grace. I tried looking for him, I was hoping he could lend me some clarity, but I could not find him." You had even gathered your skirts and run to the training grounds where Ser Criston usually was, hoping maybe he could tell you where to find your betrothed, but the area was deserted. That was where a guard had found you and brought you before the Queen. "Do you know where he is?"

"I do, yes." She sighed again, her eyebrows drawn together, looking like each word was cutting her tongue on its way out of her mouth. "Lady Y/N, you must understand. I hold you in the highest regard. I cannot think of a young woman more suited for my son. You are dutiful and kind. I know he was quite taken with you, but whether there is to be war or not, we must strengthen our house. We must forge difficult alliances to persuade the Princess Rhaenyra to accept this new order. Gods, do I wish it could be different. Would that I or any of my children had been married for love and not politics." Your breath hitched.

Your betrothal to Aemond had been announced only a few short months ago, but he had caught your attention the moment you entered King's Landing a year ago. You remembered everything your Lady Mother had told you back when she was alive about how making a man fall in love with you was almost like casting a spell. 'You have to bewitch him, be the very air he breathes,' she'd told you one night shortly after you'd bled your first moon. Back then you were unsure of what she had meant, but you accepted the bottle of lavender oil and rose petals she had given you then. Years later when you would sit and pretend to read at the edge of the training grounds under the trees there, you still wore it on your neck. It made you feel womanly and powerful and more confident than you really were. Eventually, he noticed you, too.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you looked out the window, wishing a stiff breeze would pick you up and carry you home. Surely, she couldn't possibly mean...

"Aemond is to be betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon's girls." There it was. You tried to tug your hands away, but she only held them tighter and stroked the back of them with her thumbs. "But I swear to you, Lady Y/N, that you will not be cast aside. I know of the affection you both had for each other and I am sorry that it must be this way, but I promise that as soon as the Princess accepts our peace terms, I will personally secure a betrothal befitting a woman of your station and quality. I swear this to you." She squeezed your hands again and you swallowed the burning lump of coal in your throat. When the two of you locked eyes, you weren't ready to see that they were just as tearful as yours felt.

"What will happen to me?" Your voice trembled and broke at the edges, your mind racing with images of yourself next to or beneath some old, perverted Lord. You thought you would be one of the lucky girls. How stupid you felt. Fresh tears sprang into your eyes as one finally fell.

"Nothing, my dear girl. You and your father will both be safe and well taken care of here." The Queen reached up and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, her eyes mirroring your own.

None of the people at court were even allowed to go to the Coronation. It was a pageant reserved only for the smallfolk, to make sure that they saw Aegon as their one, true King. You cared not for any of that nonsense, the politicking of it all, the "stinking, bloody outrage of it all", as your father had shouted at supper that night, slamming his fist on the table and forcing both your cups to spill. For once, you said nothing about his outburst, focusing instead on moving your food around on your plate until it was too cold to eat anymore.

"Queen Alicent told me she would find me another match."

"Another match," he scoffed, shaking his head, "What could be a better match than the Prince?"

What indeed.

You excused yourself early, leaving your father to puff and fume as uselessly as he wanted. He may complain within the confines of your four walls, but you knew he would never push for you and you could forgive him for that. He would never raise a hand to you and he loved you enough most days. On some of those days, you even felt sorry for him. He was all alone in the world, with only you for comfort and you were destined to leave him behind to start a family of your own someday.

As you lie in your bed that night, your eyes glued to the ceiling, you tried to quiet the drumming of your heart enough to find some semblance of rest. You had seen Aemond only last night and though you knew thinking of him was the last thing that would help calm you, you could do nothing to stop yourself. The apartments you shared with your father overlooked the gardens, a step up the ladder that Aemond had facilitated for you out of a desire to see you elevated to the status he'd said you deserved. Were you to lose even this now that you had lost him, too?

Aemond had arrived in a foul mood after the dinner with his family. Though it went against the rules of propriety, you knew your father was willing to bend or even break those rules for you, as he made clear when he allowed you to take Aemond's arm and lead him into your chambers. It had nothing to do with trust or faith and everything to do with status. Maybe some part of him even hoped the Prince had already deflowered you and you were with child so the Hightowers would have no choice but to go forward with the wedding. As you gently closed the door behind you, you felt... lucky, more than anything.

'What troubles you, My Prince?' You almost never called Aemond that anymore, except maybe in jest, but you had not seen him this cross in a while. He stood in front of your small fireplace with his back to you, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed. Every line in his body was taut as a bowstring and while you ached to reach out and smooth a comforting hand over his back, fear stayed your hand.

When he turned to you, there was a faint smile on his lips and he beckoned you over with a welcoming hand. 'I am not so troubled that you have to resort to naming me with titles, my love.' You sighed gratefully and leaned into him as his arm curled around you. The two of you stood there for a few moments and you finally rubbed your hand on his back like you had ached to just moments before. 'You see it, do you not? My nephews.'

You hummed, your mouth twisting in discomfort. 'Yes, they are...' You struggled to find the right way to phrase it. Imposters? Proof of the Princess Rhaenyra's indiscretions? Not of Velaryon blood? All true.

'Bastards.' He stepped away from you then, clenching his hands into fists. 'Unfit to rule over even a patch of rock in the Isle of Faces and yet one is to be King someday and the other Lord of the Tides.' One hand brushed against his eyepatch, his face souring. 'It is an absurdity. And I alone am regarded as the problem, for-for speaking the truth others so spinelessly ignore!'

'You know why, Aemond. Your father,' you paused and snorted, 'is hardly your father.'

'Even my mother stood against me tonight.' When he looked at you, you could see the sorrow in his shining blue eye and you could not stop yourself, you brought your hands up to caress his face, your fingers tracing his scar. You leaned up on your toes and drank his sadness from his lips as he gripped your waist so tightly, you thought he meant to breathe your soul in like it was a plume of smoke and vapor. 'Are you with me, my little talisman?' he'd asked as soon as he gave you a hair's breadth of space to answer him.

It almost hurt that he asked. Did he not know? But you understood how he liked to hear you swear your allegiance over and over again. 'I am with you, my love.'

To think that was only one night ago and now here you were, alone in your room with nothing but memories and your heart flying away to be claimed by some girl for the sake of a war that you had no personal stake in. Never had you thought you would be so lucky as to be allowed to marry for love, but for a moment it seemed that the Mother had smiled upon you with all her mercy and warmth, as your own mother no longer could, only for everything to be cruelly ripped away from you without even so much as a goodbye or an apology from the man who was to be your husband. You knew he loved you even if he never said those exact words aloud. It shined out of every inch of him like starlight. You had never needed to hear it until now.

Would he find the Baratheon girl he was to be promised to quite beautiful? Would she "bewitch" him too? Would she become his new talisman, the one thing he swore by for every scrap of fortune in his life? He used to tell you the gods had been kind enough to leave him with one eye so he could look at you. Would he tell her that?

You stomach turned as you imagine him and some other girl... together, in the way you had been craving from him for so long. You had never wanted anyone in such a way, had never even touched yourself until you met him. It was like he had lit a fire inside you and he was the only one who was meant to put it out. The gods are cruel.

You flipped over onto your stomach, listening to the wind blowing through the gardens outside your window. Though you longed for him, for his comforting words and loving embrace, even for his body in bed beside you, for once, just once, you also hoped that you would never have to see him again. The thought of seeing him like that, with a pretty little wife hanging off his arm, sent a wave of tears to your eyes. You were alone now. There was no need to hide from anyone and, even if your father was awake, he had never interrupted you when you were despondent like this before, not even after your mother's death. With the hope of lightening your heart's heavy burden, you unclenched and allowed yourself to sob into your pillow.

#mine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #aemond fic #this was actually supposed to be way longer but #i haven't written anything in a long time and i'm scared that if i try to bite off more than i can chew #we will all end up with nothing so here you go #bone apple teeth

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darielivalyen · 4 months

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"Well then, allow me to introduce myself properly." The cow steps back gracefully and curtsies, a playful twinkle in her eye. "I am known by many names, but you may call me the Holy Cow. Think of me as your fairy auntie, here to offer guidance and a sprinkle of whimsy."

Everbloom is a cozy fantasy game set on the idyllic Everbloom Isle, a place where the charm of a simpler life and the warmth of a close-knit community come together. In this tranquil world, you're invited to slow down, cherish the small moments, and find joy in building connections and creating a space where everyone feels at home.

Your journey centers on the dream of opening a teahouse, an aspiration deeply influenced by your longing for independence and a meaningful life. This dream becomes a reality with the inheritance of your grandmother's house on Everbloom Isle. Here, in a setting far removed from the bustle of city life and your family's expectations, you begin the delicate process of building a new life for yourself.

Are you ready to leave behind the monotony and dullness of daily life and build the teahouse of your dreams on Everbloom Isle?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Choose your appearance and personality.

Romance or befriend one of three distinctive characters: a brave knight seeking a new purpose, a mischievous forest guardian who finds joy in life's lighter moments, or an enigmatic elf with a complex past, seeking solace and clarity on Everbloom Isle.

Create and customize your own teahouse.

Cultivate and enhance your grandmother's garden.

Explore Everbloom Isle in search of unique tea saplings.

Interact with a host of quirky characters, from the whimsical Holy Cow and her not-at-all terrible fish choir to giant turtles, winged wolves, and enigmatic fernlings.

Follow a dynamic quest from the Holy Cow that will challenge you to build friendships, honor your grandmother's legacy, and expand your collection of unique teas.

Sir Castian/Dame Castilla Honeycutt

Personality: brave, honorable, old-fashioned, bashful. Blurb: In a land where swords are replaced by teacups, Cast(), a knight accustomed to battles and quests, struggles to find his/her role. Everbloom Isle, with its whimsical ways, challenges him/her to redefine what it means to be a hero. Can you help him/her weave his/her knightly virtues into the fabric of your new home?

Narciso/Narissa Roseblade

Personality: mischievous, lighthearted, adventurous, non-committal. Blurb: Nar()'s presence on Everbloom Isle is like a breeze through the Elder Tree's leaves – light, unpredictable, and full of life. His/her playful antics and seemingly carefree nature captivate those around him/her. Yet, there's a depth in his/her eyes suggesting more than just whimsy. Will you be the one who figures out what really inspires his/her eternal dance through the grove?

Ideru/Ideri Nightingale

PLAY EVERBLOOM | FORUM | TUMBLR

#Everbloom #darielivalyen #interactive fiction #cozy #if #cozy fantasy #new project #interactive novel #synopsis #announcment #choicescript

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notoriousbeb · 1 month

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Why is Harry Styles All Over TTPD? A Timeline

TTPD Notes Glossary

Upon much ponderation and rabbit-hole-ing I think a truly stunning chunk of tracks on this double album (20) are her processing her feelings for whatever the hell happened with Harry.

What will likely be my Haylor magnum opus is under the cut because it is a bit lengthy. Good luck. Or I'm sorry??

I think they both pined for each other for years (well documented amongst the Haylors).

Then she split with Joe Alwyn before she left London for the Eras Tour, but she waited to make the announcement public (probably to give him time to pack up his shit and get out of their shared house) until April 8. However, excited to be “Fresh Out the Slammer,” she reached out to Harry ASAP.

I realize I might sound like an absolute raving lunatic, but I legit think Harry was at Taylor’s Arlington, Texas, Eras Tour shows, at the end of March/beginning of April 2023, and followed her to New York City for several days.

While Harry was tied up finishing up the Asian leg of his tour until March 25, I think he came almost straight to her after that, and love-bombed the shit out of her in his excitement.

But then right before he had to leave for tour, with a stopover in LA for the Satellite video and Late Late Show shoots, he gave her some sort of pulling-away speech about taking a pause or pulling back or something, (I’d wager because of the two world tours), which she took as a total rejection, which caused her to lose it and move on to the disaster we call Matty.

Then, in June, he met Taylor Russell in London. And maybe they were just friends at first, but then Taylor Swift started messing around with Matty, and then in July she started dating Travis and it went public in September. So, I suppose at that point Harry figured, "Okay, to hell with it."

And now, somewhere in London, I imagine their shared good mate, Ed Sheeran, has a pounding headache and wishes he still drank whiskey.

I hope the truth of it all someday comes to light in a tell-all book or movie. Or, at the very least, it would be nice if some more clarity surfaces in one of their albums, or a record by Ed.

Oh, and I think Stevie Nicks, of all fucking people, knows the tea. She considers both of them “like [her] children.” She gave them both matching crescent moon necklaces. And has performed with them. And she wrote the intro poem for this record. Read that and tell me it doesn’t match the story I’ve written in my head. Stevie knows.

And now, the timeline. @foxes-that-run Also has a much more detailed 2023 timeline that I recommend.

There are, I shit you not, about a fortnight of possible days (March 29/30-April 12, 2023) where they could have been together...

March 29/30

Harry likely leaves Toyko after his March 25 show. Love on Tour doesnt start up again until May 13 in Horsens, Denmark.

March 31

Eras Tour is in Arlington, Texas, for N1. It's a rain show. She replaces "Invisible String” with "The 1." The surprise songs were "Sad Beautiful Tragic" and "Ours." Read all my notes on TTPD and go watch these two live performances again. They're...really something.

April 1

She sings "Death by a Thousand Cuts" and "Clean."

April 2

She sings "Jump then Fall" and "The Lucky One."

April 3-6

Neither of them are seen these three days.

April 7

Harry is spotted at baggage claim in Atlanta

April 9

Harry is at the Master's Golf Tournament

April 10

Maybe this is when he leaves her. Taylor goes out for drinks with Jack and Margaret. However, this was an obvious pap walk (the day she had those butterfly jeans on); were the paps maybe called to this location to lure them away from her apartment so a certain person might or might not have could arrive unnoticed after a golf tournament in Atlanta?

April 12

In the afternoon, Harry is spotted with his trusty brown duffel bag (sporting an air travel tag) leaving the gym in LA. In NYC, Taylor is pictured on the roof of Electric Lady (maybe shooting music video?) with a Gucci lion ring just like Harry's but with a green stone. I Mr not the 10th, I think this evening was when he said whatever he said that made her so sad; maybe he thought they should take a pause until their tours were over? Maybe he decided their combined spotlights were just too big to overcome? Who knows? Not me. But my nosy ass wants to know!

April 13

Eras Tour in Tampa N1. Taylor cries during “Lover" and "Champagne Problems.” People think it's about Joe. I think it's not.

April 14

Eras Tour in Tampa N2. She plays "The Great War" (performed with Aaron Dessner) and "You're On Your Own, Kid."

April 15

Eras Tour in Tampa N2. She plays "Treacherous."

April 21

Eras Tour in Houston N1. She plays "Wonderland" and "You're Not Sorry" (these choices seem…significant. In a not good way.)

April 22

N2 in Houston. She plays "A Place in This World" and "Today Was a Fairytale" (for her mom, who I am sure was being a rock for her at this trying time)

April 23

N3 in Houston. She plays "Begin Again" and "Cold as You"

April 27 and 28

Harry does shoots for the "Satellite" music video and the last episode of the Late Late Show. The scenes for the music video aren't used. In my opinion his face looks puffy on Late Late (maybe from crying?)

Eras Tour Atlanta N1 Taylor sings "The Other Side of the Door" and "Coney Island."

April 30

Eras Tour Atlanta N3 she sings "I Bet You Think About Me" and "How You Get the Girl." She cries again during “Champagne Problems."

May 5-7

Ah, the Nashville Era's Tour shows. Such fond, fond memories. She sang “Sparks Fly,” “Teardrops on My Guitar,“ "Out of the Woods,” “Fifteen” (Abigail was there, and she dedicated this one to her)," Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve” with Aaron Dessner and “Mine” (also Speak Now drop).

May 11

Dinner with Matty and Jack and Margaret at Casa Cipriani in NYC

Is it possible the villainy of Matty is that he planted the original story in The Sun that he and Taylor were dating? It ran May 3, two days before he showed up (from Asia) to the Eras Tour play with Phoebe Bridgers as the opening act in Nashville. I just always thought that was odd. Maybe he had a big fat mouth.

May 12

Eras Tour Philadelphia N1. She played “Gold Rush” and “Come Back…Be Here” (Aww, girl….)

May 13

LOT picks up again in Horsens, Denmark. He's smiling to himself all cute like during "Fine Line." Plus he played "Stockholm Syndrome" for the first time in yeeeears and looked delighted. :(

Taylor's surprise songs were “Forever & Always” and “This Love.”

May 15

Either way, she leaves Electric Lady studios with Matty in tow.

May 19

She plays "Should've Said No" and "Better Man." (Well, that's seems...not good.)

May 20

Ah, the day of the “Question…?” and “Invisible” combo. (Oh, Tay). Matty is seen entering Taylor's apartment with a big Louis bag full of what many people believe is the typewriter. I always assumed it was clothes or a synthesizer or some kind of equipment. ¯\_(ツ)_/

May 25

This is the last day she was seen with Matty (and the chorus of angels sang)

But, really, only he was seen outside her apartment leaving with his stuff. She wasn’t in town.

They were never seen together again after May 15.

May 26

Era's Tour Metlife N1. She sings “Getaway Car” with Jack Antonoff and “Maroon” (this was a very angry face Maroon).

May 27

Metlife N2. She sings “Holy Ground” and “False God," and cries.

June 22

Taylor records “The Black Dog” at Electric Lady. “Six weeks of breathing clean air,” if we’re being specific here (although she was touring and it could have just sounded good) would be May 11, 2023.

August 13

Stevie Nicks owns the opening poem for the album.

#haylor #have i lost the plot?#i really don't think i have

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