#cw you actually want me to believe that a man who kills things daily and drinks whiskey by the gallon doesn’t use the word fuck

[passiveagressivepoet]

the most unrealistic thing about supernatural is that dean winchester doesn’t swear

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #sam winchester #like seriously come on #cw you actually want me to believe that a man who kills things daily and drinks whiskey by the gallon doesn’t use the word fuck #1k #2k

[chaoticbardlady99]

I Don't Wanna Be Your Friend (Astarion x GN! Reader)

  This man has a chokehold on me and I have been plagued by this idea for about a week.

Title inspired by the song "i wanna be your girlfriend" by girl in red

CW: Mentions of violence and gore (not descriptive), bit of angst, comfort

(Not my photo. I believe it belongs to Daily Gaming)

Synopsis- You and Astarion are in the middle of a war to prove who can set the best traps. However, a lack of rules seems to have gotten you into a predicament neither one of you had anticipated.

Sometimes you take it a smidge too far. 

 You would love to tell people you are some cunning, daring rogue, but the reality is that you are consistently flying by the seat of your pants. Occasionally it works really well- this was not one of those times.

    You never felt the need to prove anything to anyone.

Well, until you met Astarion. Within the first three days of traveling with him, your confidence and patience began to wear thin. He would make snide comments when watching you attempt to unlock a chest or when you scare off your prey by tripping over a bush. Then he would smirk at you- with that stupid, beautiful smirk.

He enjoys adding salt to the wound by taking on the task you failed at; usually lock picking, sneak attacks, and Gods only knows what else he could make fun of you for. You are very aware that you are not some fancy rogue and it never bothered you until now. You had accepted long ago that you are just a street urchin moving up in the world after teaching yourself the trade.

  The final straw had been when you had placed traps to catch dinner. Your traps had been successful (naturally- traps were your thing) and you brought back three bunnies for Gale’s stew.

Oh, but of course Astarion had something to say. He always has something to say.

  “Oh look at that- how cute. I’m sure sheerluck was on your side,” he quips, “You’ll get better eventually.”

 Thus began the war of all wars.

It started with small traps- nuisances really. Tripwire, a laughing or sleep rune well hidden, and traps that release horrible smells. Then it quickly took a turn for the worst; what were once harmless pranks turned into trip wires that release a swarm of bees, simple pits began to get deeper, and blasting traps that would send either one of you flying into a nearby object. It was never truly life threatening, just questionable.

  Well, except for the bees. The bees were not the greatest thought in hindsight; considering both you and Astarion had to help each other with the bee stings- Shadowheart refusing to be involved. You both laughed and he even complimented you on your cleverness. You swore you could have exploded in that moment.

   You have a massive, childish crush on the man and maybe the competition was your subconscious way of getting closer to him. However, your other companions were getting sick of it pretty quickly. 

  They had all hoped after the Tiefling party that the two of you would put your silly competition to rest so that you could all travel together in peace and they would just have to deal with PDA.

What a silly thing for them to think. PDA hasn't happened, but the pranks did become less risky and less frequent.  You were okay with this change.

   You feel like you and Astarion have become close friends. Even though your tryst didn’t lead to a romantic relationship as you had hoped, you were happy to have Astarion in your life in any capacity. If that was just as a friend- then so be it. 

  Which brings us back to the beginning- when you realize that your ‘trap war’ had paper thin rules and the lack of rules just might be the thing that actually kills you on this journey.

  All you wanted to do was clean yourself off. It had been one last relaxing day before you set off to the Creche, but you had thought you might treat yourself. Baths were rare and far between these days and you want to enjoy it while you have it. However, you were not planning for a simple snare trap to foil your entire evening. 

  You get hoisted up into the air, slammed against the tree, and drop all of your belongings- including the knife you brought ‘just incase’. You glared at the knife and put your hand to your blood fountain of a nose.

 “Traitor,” you whisper with a pout as you look for a way to escape the trap.

  Suddenly, you freeze as instincts kick in. You hear the Gnolls before you see them. Your bloody nose from the impact of the tree had led them to you. They attempt to claw at you- trying to rip you down from the tree. You feel their claws tear into your back, the side of your arms, and one of them even manages to take a swipe at your abdomen as you scramble to escape. The cuts weren't life threatening, but they hurt. A LOT.

  You manage to use the rope to pull yourself up onto one of the tree limbs; allowing you to hide some of your body from the Gnolls, but you now have an arrow protruding out of your right thigh so obviously that isn’t working well either.

  You bite back tears, frozen in fear. You really did not want to die this way and you certainly didn’t want it to be because of Astarion’s trap. You have a feeling he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you died because of him. 

  You can imagine the blame and anger the rest of your companions would direct at him if the worst happened. You imagine the bloodshed- knowing full well that everyone (minus Karlach) would not forgive him for accidentally killing you. Lae’zel would be the first one to put a stake in his chest- her fondness for you is no secret. 

   Your heart thumps painfully at that thought and your resolve hardens. You will not die because you will not let that happen to Astarion. 

 You look around, your arms and legs shaking still with the residual shock and fear. You look for any sharp branches, a forgotten knife lodged somewhere, or even something you could cast a cantrip on to distract them. You have no such luck. 

 You resign yourself to your fate- the tears making a reappearance. 

 Unless one of your companions finds you first- you are going to either have to wait for the Gnolls to get bored and leave or they are going to kill you.

You pray to every God you can think of that you will survive the night.

_________________________________________________

 Astarion is trying to not look so desperate as he reads the first page for the hundredth time. 

  You had walked off a little over two hours ago- Lae’zel is on watch while the rest of your companions sleep soundly in their bed rolls. 

 The longer your bedroll remains empty, the more the pit grows in his stomach.

He didn’t know how to navigate your relationship after the tiefling party.

His feelings for you are confusing. The sex had felt different, he enjoys your company immensely, and he likes how warm he feels around you.

Instead of talking to you like a normal person or taking a moment to reflect, he decided to find some common ground- something you could laugh and talk about later. Normalcy.

He set up a snare trap close to the river you were all using to clean off and then a laughter rune trap somewhere on the path to the Creche. Hypothetically, they are very safe traps.

Unless he rigged them wrong? What if you ran into one of them and….

  No, I am sure they are just fine.

 He doesn’t even believe his own lie.

After about another five minutes, the anxiety rolling in his stomach becomes unbearable so he grabs his daggers and sets off in the direction you had gone two hours earlier.

  He walks quickly through the forest, checking his surroundings and looking for evidence that you were close by. As the minutes pass, he feels the hope of finding you safe shrink.

The wind hits his nose and he becomes stock-still.

He smells your blood- an alarming amount of it-in the air as he gets closer to the river. He fears the worst as he goes to look at the trap- hoping you will forgive him- that you are alive. Safe.

 He peers through the bushes and his eyes grow wide as the scene before him unfolds. 

  You are stuck up in the tree- his trap is still around your ankle. You are holding onto the branch like your life depends on it. It probably does since there are five Gnolls circling the tree like vultures.

  He can hear your soft broken sobs as arrows fly over you or hit the tree. He notices the arrow in your leg and watches as a second one lodges itself into your calf. You wince and close your eyes tightly- unknown to you that Astarion’s vision is clouded in red and his whole body fills with destructive, hot rage. He also feels fear, but he pushes it away, not ready to explore the why. 

  He lunges forward, slashing at the Gnolls with so much force that they are practically in half by the time they hit the forest floor. He is a man possessed as he carves his way through all five gnolls and then he climbs up the tree to you. 

His chest aches as he looks at you. He will never be able to forgive himself for causing you so much suffering.

  “Darling,” he says softly.

    You whimper in response and when you look at him- he feels all the air leave his lunges. If he needed air, he would have passed out right then. Your eyes were glassy with traces of fear, sadness, and loneliness- all emotions he is all too familiar with. Then you see it’s him and the biggest smile crosses your lips and you look at him with so much affection he almost feels ill. This was not the plan and he almost made you a midnight snack for a group of Gnolls.

  “You found me,” you say in a raspy, raw voice, “I thought I was going to be stuck here all night until Karlach or Gale found me. Or I was going to die.”

 You chuckle, but Astarion can’t get himself to share your same enthusiasm about his rescue mission as he cuts the rope. 

  He helps you down the tree and safely back on the ground. Astarion winces as you pull the arrows out of your leg. You find a healing potion amongst your things and chug it.

He collects your stuff for you. You give him another one of those brilliant smiles and Astarion tries to smile just as brightly back. You furrow your brows, but he turns away before you can keep analyzing him. 

  “We should head back,” Astarion mumbles.

______________________________________________

  The silence hangs in the air as Astarion walks with you back to camp. After about 15 minutes, you are back at camp and the tension in the air is suffocating.

 “Astarion.”

  Astarion freezes, turns on his heels, and looks everywhere but your eyes. He couldn’t bare to see you smile at him again- look at him like that again- not after he almost killed you.

  You maneuver yourself so you are looking in his eyes.

 “It’s not your fault,” he begins to protest when you shush him, “we didn’t set any rules and the trap itself was harmless. We didn't account for Gnolls when we started this whole thing.”

  “I almost got you killed.”

 “But you didn’t. It easily could have been you in that situation and me saving you.”

  “Will you please stop being so Gods damn forgiving,” he huffs with exasperation as he feels tears prick his eyes, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I put your life in danger. I almost-”

 Lost you. He chokes on the words. The fear from earlier begins to come back to the front of his mind. Watching you cling to that tree, crying, and in pain had made him realize that you just might be more important to him than he cares to admit. However, that’s a conversation for another time- once he sorts out what that feeling in his chest is whenever he looks at you.

  You look at him sharply, your eyes raw with sadness, “Stop that right now. I am okay. I lived. It was a mistake and I know your intentions were not bad. You don’t have anything to worry about Star.” 

He doesn’t say anything and you hang your head.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I- I should go-“ Astarion pauses as you interrupt him.

“Please don’t leave,” you whisper, “I rather enjoy your company.”

  You look at him with tears welling in your eyes. He stares at you in stunned silence, searching your face for any sign of deception, but he doesn't find it. His body moves before his brain can process what he is doing. 

 Astarion gently cradles your face in his hands and kisses you slowly, softly. He smiles despite himself when a gasp leaves your lips. You're alive and safe. When the warmth in his chest begins to spread throughout the rest of his body, he pulls away and steps back. Your face is flushed, a beautiful blush spreading across your cheeks. You look at him with wide, unblinking eyes before you shyly smile. Astarion could have melted in that moment. He finds himself smiling too.

 “Well I’m assuming that means you are going to stay?” 

  “I suppose I’ll stay,” he says while tapping his chin, “you do need someone to make sure you aren’t getting into trouble like that again.”

 You feign hurt and scoff, “Are you suggesting that this was my fault?”

 “Maybe if you were better with traps that wouldn’t have happened,” Astarion teases.

  You narrow your eyes at Astarion and you try to hold back a smile. You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him.

You start towards camp before you pause and turn around. Astarion gives you a confused look.

You run over to him and place a kiss on his cheek. He tenses for a moment before relaxing again. You look at him sweetly, a soft smile on your lips.

 “Good night Astarion.”

  As you saunter towards your respective tents, Astarion takes one last glance at your tent- at you- before he lays down with his book. Except he still can’t get past the first page- he is too anxious for the sun to come up so that he can see your smile again.

#baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 spoilers #astarion x you #astarion romance #astarion x tav #bg3 #astarion x gn!tav #bg3 companions

[starkeristheendgame]

If you are okay with it, I was wondering if you could do a body switch soulmate au. When you first make eye contact with your soulmate you switch bodies. You stay in each other's bodies for 24 hours. I feel like this could cause some shenanigans on both sides. Tony hasn't had to be taught anything in awhile and Peter doesn't know how to run a company.

I was a little apprehensive about this idea at first but honestly? I adore it. I am afraid, however, I took this away from the ‘humor’ pathway and plopped it straight down into ‘light angst’. Please accept my apologies for that - And I’d be happy to write something more lighthearted if this doesn’t hit the spot. Keeping your own emotions and mindset out of what you write is hard sometimes. 

Slight AU in that they meet differently to CW. 

TW: Light angst | Slight hurt 

He was going to lose his fucking mind. He could feel each one of his IQ points disintegrating as he stared at the board (an actual digital board, what fucking year were they in? 2015?) and tapped his pen restlessly on the desk. He hadn’t been to school since he was eighteen. The last time he’d been in a classroom was January, giving a motivational speech to Princeton graduates. 

He felt too small and too stifled and if this woman pronounced Epinephrine wrong one more time, he was going to launch his desk at her and snap that stupid board in half. 

Because he could do that, now. Displays of sheer power. Because Peter Parker had been bitten by a genetically modified spider and Tony was currently occupying Peter’s body. 

Soulmates were so, so overrated. 

“Hey, wonder kid. Tap that pen one more time” the girl to his left whispered, and Tony shot her a cool side-eye. MJ quirked a brow at him, equally unimpressed, and nodded to the board. Tony scowled but knew the effect was ruined by the soft, pretty baby-face he currently wore. Curse Peter and his lopsided brows and his huge eyes. Curse soulmates for existing. 

MJ was thus far the only one who’d noticed The Switch. It was only sheer coincidence that Peter and Tony both had brown eyes of a similar enough shade that the telling switch of eye colour between soulmates hadn’t given them away. MJ, however, was astoundingly attuned into her best friend, and it had only taken three minutes in her presence for her scowl at him and ask who the fuck was wearing her friend’s meatsuit. Tony had to begrudgingly admit that he could see why her and Peter were good friends. She’d looked unimpressed at his claim until he’d pulled out his (Peter’s) phone to show the frantic texts from that morning, and then she’d huffed, rolled her eyes, and dragged him to first period. 

He thought lunch would be a reprieve when it came, but instead he found himself staring with growing dismay at a tray of food that he’d refuse even if he was a prisoner, blanching in disgust when a sloppy excuse for a mac’n’cheese was dumped into one of the slots. “I’m going to die” he complained, ushered along by an unsympathetic MJ. “This is cruel. This is inhumane. Dogs don’t even get fed this”. 

“Yeah, well. You’re a billionaire, so. Put up or shut up. I have no sympathy for capitalist elitists”. And, wow, rude. But understandable. He sank down onto one of the bench seats and tried to stop his stomach from rolling at the way the meal wobbled when it was set down. He’d been poking at it for several moments, largely ignored by MJ, when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up and stared with disinterest at the sneering figure above him, before he sighed. 

“Which one are you, then? Neb? Flake?” 

“Flash” the form above him frowned, and Tony waved a dismissive hand. 

“Yeah, whatever. Class killed off half my IQ points and I’m not wasting the rest on you. Off you pop”. He turned back to his pitiful excuse of a meal, prodding the macaroni distrustfully with his fork. The boy besides him gaped, flustered, before turning on his heel and stomping off. When Tony glanced up, the girl was looking appraisingly over her book at him. 

“Maybe you should leave your balls behind. Peter could do with them” she noted, before dropping her gaze again. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“How much money does he actually have?” 

“Sir’s total net worth including assets, liabilities and investments are currently estimated at just short of a trillion, Mr. Parker. In terms of ‘real time currently’ Sir has £515,268,385,012 as of the current hour”. 

Peter was gonna pass out. He was wearing the body of a man with five-hundred billion in the bank. He’d known Tony Stark was rich, obscenely and un-necessarily so, but that was a whole other level. Vaguely unsteady, he sank down on the plush couch, feeling a little green. It had already been a few hours since waking, but he had yet to get used to the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, Tony Stark. 

“Does that bother you?” The artificial voice asked after a moment, sounding impossibly curious. Peter hadn’t thought AI of this level possible, but here he was, talking to a voice that was more realistic than some of the living people he knew. 

“Its...A shock, I guess. I mean, it does bother me, I suppose. Nobody needs that much money. That much cold cash alone could eradicate homelessness in America. But...I don’t know. Its his money, he earns it. He saves the world and stuff. I don’t know how you could put a value on some of the things he’s done”. 

The AI was quiet for a moment, pensive. “Sir’s ‘profession’ is high cost also, Mr. Parker. The worth of the Mark IVII alone is £6,000,500,000”. Peter thought about it for a moment, then gave in, humming softly. He supposed in that sense, having that much money kind of didn’t matter, then, when a huge chunk of it was consumed by saving the world. He’d seen how often that suit got dinged up, and had no doubt repairs and replacing parts was costly. 

“Am I allowed to get something to eat?” He asked after a moment, stomach rumbling a little. He’d spent so much time this morning freaking out and being consoled by JARVIS that he’d missed breakfast and lunch had slipped him by. 

“Of course, Mr. Parker. Several components of the kitchen are automated, but I am capable of guiding through any recipes or devices you are unfamiliar with”. 

JARVIS had apparently activated something called ‘Romeo and Juliet Protocol’ when it had been revealed that Tony had been Switched, and a large majority of the Tower was closed off and protected. Peter couldn’t leave the penthouse and JARVIS had strict control of everything, even down to the doors. Peter was happy enough to just sit there and wait it out, though. As amazing as being here was, snooping was rude, especially when what he could find could potentially compromise the entire world. 

He chose to make a simple, small sandwich which involved nothing more than a single knife and plate, marvelling at the giant fridge and the ridiculous amount of food within. Apparently Mr. Stark had a chef that stopped by once every other day with prepared meals, and was on-call for whenever he required a fresh meal without having to cook it. The produce was organic and far different to the sad, wilting lettuce that could be found at the local Cheap Fresh. 

Technically, if it was plausible, when you Switched you were supposed to follow a specific protocol set up by the Government, but Mr. Stark had ultimately lost his entire mind at discovering his soulmate was fourteen and had immediately demanded Peter stay locked up like Rapunzel while he pretended to be him for the day to throw off suspicion. Peter couldn’t deny that had hurt a little, but he understood it. Soulmates or not it would be the scandal of the century - Tony would be called all sorts of things at best and investigated at worst, and the nature of their age difference meant a lifetime of interference and monitoring by the Government and protective services. He knew it was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened, to hide it from the world. Tony had suggested a private agreement, a ridiculous sum of money in exchange for Peter’s silence. 

He realised he’d been staring morosely at his plate when JARVIS prompted him softly, and he sighed, taking a bite. There was no physical remote for the TV but JARVIS helped him to access a cache of movies and he settled on Inception, his weakness for Tom Hardy and Leonardo DiCaprio soothing the ache of his new reality. 

“Am I allowed to ask what running a business is like?” He asked after a while, head balanced on his palm. 

“In what regard, Mr. Parker?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’m fifteen. I don’t know how to run a company, let alone run a company and be a superhero. What kinda stuff does he do? Does he attend meetings? Does he fly around the world on company retreats like in the movies?” 

JARVIS sounded lightly amused when he replied. “Sir has delegated much of the daily company operation amongst several trusted employees, but he is still the namesake, owner and CEO of Stark Industries. He does attend frequent meetings, but most of Sir’s ‘flying around the world’ is done for leisure or Iron Man related activity”. 

“Sir spends most of his time in the lab, conducting important work for both his priorities. Sir also does a respectable amount of charity work, investment work and supportive work. I believe his latest venture is funding the entirety of MIT’s PhD graduate projects”. 

Wow. That was...That would be a lot of money. And being supported by someone like Tony Stark was bound to be something to boast about, something that would fluff up your resume a little. 

“Does he enjoy it?” Peter asked after a moment, fingertips raising absently to the arc reactor in his chest. It ached constantly, a low-level background pain that never quite faded out of touch, the odd sensation of a gaping maw in his chest something that had made him heave earlier that morning. Mr. Stark was tired, burnt out, but still going. It made Peter want to spend his twenty-four hours just sleeping, to try and soothe the man’s headache. 

“Sir finds great gratification in his duties” JARVIS replied quietly, though he did not specify which. Peter gave a hum and succumbed to the desire to nap, curled up on the corner of the couch with Inception fading quietly into the background. 

He ate again when he woke up, and blinked when he saw the time. Mr. Stark’s phone had been heavily locked down, but he could still access the message channel between this number and his own. The messages there were disheartening. 

Told your hot Aunt I’m staying at that Nate kids house tonight. I’ll be coming to the Tower, but you won’t see me. I’ll stay on the level below.

Sorry, kid. Seeing someone else wearing me like a Givenchy suit is just too head-spinning. 

JARVIS will keep you safe up there. We switch back at midnight, so try and get some sleep. You’ll wake up as yourself and I’ll get the plan in motion. 

“JARVIS, when was the last time Mr. Stark cried?” He asked timidly, and the AI was silent for a moment. 

“Four years ago, Mr. Parker”. 

“Oh,” he breathed out, vision blurring. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m about to ruin that” and he let the teardrops fall.

#fanfic #starker #starker fanfiction #starker fanfic #starker fic #starker angst #starker sfw #starker soulmates #starker au #starker ncc #starker cu #starker alternate universe #ironspider #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider fanfic #ironspider fic #ironspider au #ironspider sfw #ironspider cu #ironspider soulmates #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker/tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #starker: soulmates #starker: alternate universe #starker: angst #starker: light angst #starker: soulmates au #starker: body switch

[witcherslittledove]

Just a Fantasy

This is both RPF and Dead Dove. Read the tags people!

Ship: Joey/Kal feat a side helping of Henry.

Words: 3.8k

CW: RPF, Dead dove do not eat, bestiality, knotting, anal sex, masturbation, mentions of A/B/O and monsterfucking.

Thank you for @deaddovecollector for being by beta and to @jaskiertheflowertwink amongst others for encouraging this!

Also on AO3

_____

Joey had always preferred animals to people. His anxiety just tended to get the better of him most days, and people were just the worst. It had been a problem all throughout his childhood and had only gotten worse as he’d grown older. Performing really wasn’t a logical choice, but it was in his blood, music was in his blood, and when he’d started acting semi-professionally at university he’d just become addicted. He supposed the draw was having the chance to not be himself for a while. Everything seemed easier when he could be someone else and Jaskier was ideal for that. Whilst there were a lot of similarities between Jaskier and himself, the flirty bard had all the natural confidence and charisma that Joey lacked. He was brilliant and exhausting and some days Joey just really needed to shut Jaskier out, crawl under the duvet and hide from the world and all the people in it.

Even Henry.

It had been a fucking relief when Henry had admitted to his own anxieties and Joey finally felt like he wasn’t fighting alone anymore. Plus it also meant that Henry’s giant floof of a dog had started coming onto set. Joey was fucking relieved. Yes, it was easier to socialise using Jaskier's energy in between takes, but, when he needed to switch the bard off, Kal was there demanding cuddles and affection. So he ended up spending a lot of time with Kal, which was just wonderful and luckily Henry seemed to be okay with it.

Before long, Joey was letting Kal sleep in his trailer at night, not every night but he had to keep his door unlocked otherwise Kal would scratch and bark until Joey let him in. It was kind of cute, and he just loved lording it over Henry in between takes just to get his co-star all riled up and grumpy. Henry was particularly sexy when he was grumpy, although that didn’t really say much. Henry would be sexy wearing an old bin bag if given the chance, and Joey was weak. The bastard didn’t seem to even realise the effect he was having on Joey, just laughing away and joking around as if he wasn’t giving Joey a bi-panic attack on a daily basis. So really, it was only fair that Joey got to monopolise Kal’s attention. Henry got to have his dog for the rest of the time and Joey’s flat didn’t allow pets so he was starved of dog petting time.

Kal was a very good boy, sitting when asked and letting Joey smother him with affection even though it had to be annoying. His owner had obviously trained him well, with lots of treats and smooches just like he deserved. He was perfect company in the evenings, sleeping on the end of Joey’s bed, even though Joey had definitely promised Henry that Kal would sleep on the floor.

But really what was the harm in it?

And who could say no to those big, sad, brown eyes?

Joey wasn’t a monster, thank you very much, and he certainly wasn’t heartless, which was how Kal managed to sleep on his bed almost every night.

Joey realised his mistake when he woke up rutting helplessly against his duvet, on the edge of an orgasm as he stumbled back into consciousness. He moaned, feeling the press of something against his arse, and he barely had time to glance around before he spilled into his boxers, gasping as he came.

With Kal sniffing at his arse.

“Oh cock,” he stammered, trying desperately to shoo the dog off the bed. His cheeks were burning, and he couldn’t believe that he’d just cum with Kal in the room. Henry was going to kill him.

No.

He just wouldn’t mention it, and it wasn’t going to happen again. Kal would sleep on the floor and no one would know any better, but shame seared through Joey. It didn’t matter that he’d been asleep, he shouldn’t never have let it happen. He should have listened to Henry.

He should have, he should have, he should have…

“Fuck,” he cursed, and Kal, the precious thing, just barked at him, trying to lick Joey’s face. Joey sighed, tentatively letting his fingers dig into Kal’s fur. He hated that he already felt calmer with the warm fur beneath his hands, especially after what had just happened. He was disgusting, and- “I need a shower,” he muttered before his thoughts could spiral anymore.

Kal barked again and Joey just pointed at him. “Oh no, you are staying there. Bad Kal. No, no. Don’t give me that look. Shit. Jesus Christ, Joey, get a grip. It was an accident, won’t happen again.”

That should have been the end, but Joey couldn’t forget about it. He tried to, really he did but the seed had been planted and his thoughts kept drifting back to that moment. The shame had evolved to a burning curiosity, probably not helped by his years of reading werewolf fanfic, but that had been one of those kinks that you only like hypothetically… right?

Right.

Regardless of the lies he told himself, Joey’s libido seemed to have skyrocketed. He was horny all the fucking time, which he was blaming on working with Henry Cavill almost every day he was on set. The man was a god and Joey was bi. He couldn’t help it. Kal, the spoiled bastard, still got to sleep on the bed after the incident but Joey always tried to sort himself out before he went to sleep. Of course, a quick wank in the bathroom didn’t really cut it when he was working with an actual god everyday.

So eventually, the inevitable happened, a few days after the first time, Joey had another dream with Kal in the room. He wasn’t entirely sure what the dream was, but he drifted between sleep and consciousness aching hard and leaking precum all over his hand. He moaned as he stroked himself, using the precum as lube, gripping onto the last moments of his dream, Henry’s face and magnificent arse floating across his vision, and god, it felt so good. His back arched off the mattress as he came, spilling onto his chest, one hand digging into the sheets. The pleasure washed over him, sapping his energy and he fell back into a light slumber, boneless and satisfied.

Until he felt the warm wetness of someone licking at his cock.

Joey’s heartbeat picked up as he registered what was happening. The messy sloppy licks could only be one thing… Kal, and it felt good, better than he’d imagined. Not that he would admit that he’d imagined it, but fucking hell, Kal was so eager, and Joey knew that if he hadn’t just cum his dick would be trying to get hard again.

And he was tired, Kal was just doing him a favour by licking him clean. It didn’t mean anything.

“Just remember to shower before hair and make-up,” he slurred, hands finding Kal’s head to scritch behind the dog’s ears, “s’won’t happen again though, buddy. Last time.”

It wasn’t the last time.

That night Joey tried to make Kal sleep on the floor. He even thought about locking the dog from his trailer, but those eyes. Joey just told himself that Henry would find it suspicious if he kicked Kal out, before letting the dog into his trailer and steadfastly ignoring the heat that was already pooling at his core. He may have been losing the battle, but Joey was determined to go down fighting. Alas, it had been a particularly long day on set and he barely had time to change his clothes before he was falling asleep, there was no time to attempt to push Kal onto the floor.

And if he was honest… he didn’t really want to.

The next morning, Joey woke up to the feeling of a wet tongue lapping at his cock, and he was so close to cumming, the tight coil in his gut, hips bucking up against the mouth and tongue that was sloppily licking along his length and balls. He cursed and closed his eyes. If he didn’t think about it he could pretend it wasn’t a dog.

Except he wanted it to be.

Even with his eyes shut he could see Kal licking so eagerly at his cock, lapping the precum from the tip and slobbering all over his balls... like a fucking animal. The thought was so fucking hot that he came almost immediately, all over Kal's tongue and snout, biting back a moan. No one could hear him, especially with the door unlocked, he had to make sure no one could hear him, but it wasn’t easy. He hadn’t been this turned on in years, not since he was a teenager.

Well, after that it was really all downhill. Joey still spent a lot of time with Kal on set but when the dog barked and panted excitedly… he couldn't help but remember the moments they’d had together, caught between dreams and reality. Walking around everyday semi-hard and lost in a haze of arousal wasn’t ideal and he felt as if he’d been thrown back to school, but at least he could blame it on Henry looking like that. Still, he knew he was a mess and it was a miracle that he remembered any of his lines. Whenever someone asked he just mumbled that he was tired. They all knew how exhausting Jaskier was to play, so he got away with it.

Thank fuck.

Henry was a different matter. His co-star knew him too well, and he struggled to lie to Henry, especially with the guilt that was eating away at him.

The other actor occasionally shot him an odd look but Joey shrugged it off, what would he say? "Ah yes Henry, sorry. I was too busy thinking about fucking your dog to remember my lines.”

No.

That was never going to happen. God, the humiliation would kill him. He’d never work again, he’d go to prison. Everything he’d worked for… gone, and anyway it was just a fantasy. He could claim that he had no idea what was happening when he was half asleep and it was just a fantasy.

It wasn’t like he was going to fuck the dog.

And he really really didn’t want to think about the details of his dreams, because truly he didn’t want to fuck the dog. He was intrigued, yes, but he didn’t read werewolf smut because he wanted to fuck the werewolf. It was the thought of being knotted, being so full he could hardly breathe, the bulge pressing from his abdomen, being fucked by something that’s only goal was to chase its own pleasure; mindless and feral. Werewolves, alphas, monsters; Joey had a type. Perhaps it was because he was physically quite well-built; broad shoulders, chest hair, muscular arms and thighs, but inside he was more fluid with how he preferred to dress and present himself. Jaskier truly had been a perfect character, all poofy sleeves and colourful outfits. The world had been tricked into thinking he was more feminine than he actually was and it was freeing. He could be himself, and sometimes that meant he wanted to be absolutely wrecked by a big strong alpha, whilst he begged for their knot.

Jesus Christ, he was so fucking horny.

He needed to get laid. Masturbating in the shower just really wasn’t cutting it anymore, and Joey was seriously starting to wonder what he would be like to take Kal’s knot. Werewolves and alpha’s didn’t exist, so if he really wanted to explore that particular fantasy he’d have to get creative.

That night he didn’t even attempt to push Kal off the bed, pulling off his boxers before clambering into bed, and when his hand wrapped around his cock, he was very much awake. He just couldn’t stop looking at Kal and the dog stared back at him, tongue hanging out like it always did. Except, now Joey knew what that tongue felt like, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he could lure the dog into licking at his cock on purpose.

Joey’s breath shook as his fingers swept over his slit, gathering the small amount of precum that was already starting to leak from his cock. He swallowed, offering his hand out to Kal, chewing on his lip as he tried to push away the anxiety and the feeling that this was so very wrong.

But maybe he was getting off on the fact it was wrong. Forbidden romances were and always had been a staple in literature, the thrill, the adrenaline, it was all as addictive as sex in its own right.

Kal shuffled forwards, sniffing Joey’s sticky fingers cautiously before giving a happy yelp and lapping up the treat. The sight made Joey moan and he gently guided the dog from his fingers to his cock, hard and aching for Kal. The dog seemed to be enjoying it just as much as he was, wagging his tail as he lapped eagerly at Joey’s cock in the same unskilled but desperate way he had been that morning, and Joey’s head was spinning from the sensation of it all. He clawed and gripped at the sheets, gasping at the warm wet licks of Kal’s tongue, slightly rougher than a human’s but Joey sort of loved it.

Shit. He was fucking ruined already and he hadn’t even managed to get Kal’s cock inside him yet. Time was running out though, Jaskier’s scenes were almost completely filmed and he only had a few more days left on set. The rest of his work would be in the studio with Sonya and the other musicians, so he decided to just bite the bullet. If he only got one shot at this in his life then he wasn’t going to waste it. He’d done his antagonising, and now he was just fucking desperate for dog cock.

So Joey took advantage of his free hands, getting them covered in Kal’s slobber before slipping a finger into his hole. It wasn’t the best lube he’d ever used but he was fucking filthy and he bit his lip so hard he could taste blood as he tried to stifle his moan. Joey could safely say he had never been that turn on in his entire life before. It was a fucking miracle he hadn’t already cum, but he was pushing back his pleasure with every breath, trying to think about anything and everything that wasn’t Kal’s tongue lapping up his cum, slobbering all over his cock.

Joey managed to get two fingers worked inside him before he got impatient. He didn’t want to chicken out. He wanted this and Kal seemed to want it too, but Joey wasn’t quite sure how to get the dog to fuck him. Kal wasn’t exactly a stud and Joey was pretty certain the dog hadn’t bred a bitch before, but he was desperate and running out of opportunities to live out his dirty little fantasies. So, like all great actors, he improvised, turning around and getting onto all fours. He smeared what he could of his precum into his hole, luring Kal's attention away from his cock and presenting like a bitch, like a slutty omega, for Henry's pet dog.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dipping his head and closing his eyes as he felt his cheeks burn with the shame, but it still wasn’t enough to stop him. He was too far gone; ruined by the thought of getting fucked and knotted within an inch of his life.

Luckily for him, Kal finally got the idea as he lapped at Joey's hole, his tongue pressing inside deeper than a human could ever manage.

“Holy fucking, fuck!” Joey panted, watching his own cock leaking onto the bed below. “Shit it feels so good.”

Every prod of Kal’s tongue sent shivers down Joey’s spine and his arms shook as he struggled to stay in position. He was practically sobbing at the sweet sensations of pleasure that flooded through him. The guilt, the shame, the humiliation, it all just made it so much better, and he almost came with just Kal’s tongue, his cock neglected and untouched, but he wanted more. He needed more. With a choked moan, Joey gripped his cock tightly to stop himself from spilling onto the sheets. He was going to cum with Kal’s knot inside him, even if that meant edging him into a total mess.

He just needed to figure out how to get the dog to mount him, and in all honesty, Joey was severely lacking the brain power to come up with a plan. He just knew he needed Kal’s cock in his arse. He wanted to beg the dog to knot him, to fuck him like a little bitch, but that wasn’t going to work. It wasn't as if he could just tell Kal what he wanted, but his head was a foggy mess; horny and desperate to cum. He cooed at the dog, words slurring as he tried to coax Kal to mount him.

Joey was so lost in his mindless arousal, that he didn’t notice the click of the door handle not until Kal’s tongue stopped licking at his hole and the dog jumped off the bed with a happy bark. His heart thundered in his chest as he scrambled to try and cover himself, to make it all seem more innocent than it had been, but it was no good.

It was too late.

Henry was standing in the doorway, face blank except for a dark hunger in his eyes, or at least Joey hoped it was hunger… it was probably rage. This was how he died, trying to get a dog to fuck him like a slutty bitch.

But maybe he could still save it. There had to be some kind of excuse that would work, he had to fight, to try and save whatever dignity he had left. If he was going to die anyway then he had to at least try. “I- it- it’s…” he stammered, every thought just sounding worse than the last.

Then Henry laughed. Joey felt his eyes go wide and he gaped at his co-star. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. There was no fucking way that-

“Looks like you need some help,” Henry said, his voice low and gruff and oh so fucking hot.

Joey choked, spluttering helplessly as his muscles finally gave out and he crumpled to the bed, laughing a little hysterically as the relief crashed over him like ocean waves. He wasn’t going to die, if anything Henry seemed to be into it, which was almost certainly why Henry had said to make sure Kal slept on the floor. The bastard had known his dog would do something…

And Joey had fallen for it like a demon falling from heaven, plummeting from grace into the fires of hell below.

“Joey get back up,” Henry ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument, “Come on Kal.”

The bastard gripped Kal by the scruff off his neck and pulled the very large dog back onto the bed as if he were nothing but a pup. Joey whined, scrambling up onto all fours just in time for Kal’s paws to land on his back.The dog was heavier than he expected and the claws scratch against his skin, the pain leaving pleasure in its wake. It was too much, too much, the weight, the soft feel of Kal’s thick fur, the scrape of his claws on his skin, he couldn’t do this…

“Oh fuck,” he moaned, head spinning so he could barely remember which way was up.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Henry murmured, breath warm against the nape of his neck. There were fingers carding through Joey’s hair, soft and constant, sending tendrils of pleasure down his spine as he slowly began to relax under the weight of the dog that was now rutting against his arse. “I’ve got you, Joey, relax, that’s it,” Henry’s voice cut through the fog of arousal in Joey’s mind, every word like molten chocolate in his ears, warm and sweet and addictive.

Joey whimpered, wanting to reply but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he couldn’t find the words, they sat just beyond his reach as he floated in the lust-fuelled haze of his own mind. Every thrust had Kal’s cock rubbing against his hole, teasing for what was to come, until finally it pushed inside in one swift movement.

Joey couldn’t hold back his moan, crying out as Kal fucked into him, unlike anything he’d felt before; wild, feral, desperate. God, he was being used, there were no two ways about it, just used, fucked, ruined, and the hand in his hair suddenly tugged roughly, making him whimper pitifully. Henry moved Joey’s head so he could see Henry standing next to him, his own huge cock in his hands, stroking almost lazily as he watched Joey get fucked by his dog.

But god, Joey hadn’t seen a cock that large in so long… he could almost imagine Henry was his alpha and he was the slutty little omega being bred by their dog because he was so fucking insatiable.

He whined again, pleading for more even as it all felt too much.

"You think I didn't know what you were doing with my dog, Joey?" Henry growled in his ear, the words almost making Joey tumble over the edge of the orgasm that he’s been staving off for so fucking long.

"I- I... " he stammered, unable to form any coherent words as Kal kept pounding relentlessly against his prostate, sobbing as the knot pressed against his rim, growing with every thrust. The knot was bigger than he expected, and Joey wasn’t sure he could take it. His body wasn't made for this, but he wanted it, he needed it. He had never needed anything more in his life.

"You gonna take Kal's knot, Joey? Like the bitch you are?"

Joey keened, begging, sobbing, moaning as the knot pushed into him, stretching him more than he's had before. It was bordering on painful but it still wasn’t over. Kal rutted against him, grinding his cum deep into Joey, feral and animalistic, as he slobbered over Joey’s back. The dog kept losing his grip, digging his claws in with almost every thrust, the pain shooting through Joey like a live wire.

"That's it Joey, cum for us, there's a good boy"

And he did, finally letting go as he spiraled into an intense orgasm, sparks flying in front of his vision as he screamed wordlessly, his cum shooting all over his bed. Joey practically blacked out from the pleasure with Kal still tied to him, boneless as he vaguely registered the sticky warmth of Henry’s cum covering his back.

They would have plenty of time to talk about it in the morning, but Joey was far past coherency, as he fell into the void of dreams, Henry’s voice a lullaby in his ear.

#the witcher rpf #joey/henry #joey/kal #dead dove do not eat #mind the tags

[sedehaven]

Saving Ophelia Grace’s Toe

Y’all seem to like my stories about being a witch in the Bible Belt, so here’s another one. This is a coming of age story about a young witch (me), a bunch of adults of various degrees of uselessness, and Ophelia Grace’s rotten toe.

This is not a happy story.

Names changed when necessary.

CW: Body squick, graphic injury, incompetent nurse, malevolent nurse, poisoning, bureaucratic nightmares, dark DARK shit ahead

So, in spite of the crushing poverty that I grew up in, I was given the opportunity to attend a very prestigious boarding school for Juniors and Seniors in Klan Kountry, LA. It’s a public school, so it takes kids from all over the state.

My school was run by a dude named Brother Dave.

Brother Dave was so awful that one of our senior pranks (I DID NOT DO THIS) involved a password-protected screensaver on every communal computer in the school (including, I think, Brother Dave’s office computer) of a bouncing, 3-D image of this:

Dude was NOT well-loved. It is important to know that he and I did not get along. When I was still a prospective student, he told us that our mascot was the mighty Eagle, because Eagles Flock Together.

Y’all. Someone watched himself too much Mighty Ducks.

I replied, loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear, “That’s not true, sir. Eaglettes push their smaller and weaker siblings out of the nest as soon as they can.”

He looked to the staff for support, red-faced and embarrassed by this ninety-pound child who stole his thunder.

The biology teacher (who left for greener pastures after my first year--rumored to have been forced out for being too fabulously dykey for the new administration) looked at him and stated, in her very particular and crisp fashion, “Well, she’s right.”

Safe to say, he hated me from the start. So, if you read this and you wonder, “Why didn’t this silly kid just go to the grown-up?” That’s why. He was our grown-up.

Brother Dave started at the school the year before I did. He was brought in by a local Senator, because said local Senator Fucked Up Colossally.

Senator Fuckup was running against Mr. Sketchy Businessman. Mr. Sketchy Businessman was backed by the Ku Klux Klan (a big deal in parts of the world, folks. My school was in David Duke country.)

Senator Fuckup had a fancy name--well-respected all around the state. Like, several statues of one of his relations decorate the state capital. Big name.

Problem is, Senator Fuckup is half-Black.

In Klan Kountry.

Y’all.

So he’s already at a disadvantage. As it turns out, it takes a village to start a magnet school. Senator Fuckup was one of the founding board members, and promised all kinds of benefits if they put the school in HIS district.

Their other offer was in my own hometown, the Hub City, where several of our major state highways cross with two Interstates.A place with art and history and culture. A place with one of the largest outdoor music festivals in the state--a multicultural, international music festival! With art walks and museums and Mardi Gras parades! With a three-story library, a library for French language and culture, and the second-largest university in Louisiana!

Senator Fuckup PROMISED that the school wouldn’t want for anything if they went to Klan Kountry.

So they did.

It was no great secret that this school was Senator Fuckup’s baby. At the time that I attended, the school was number one in the nation. Something to be proud of.

Except.

Except.

Except that in order to keep various forms of funding, the school was required to take in more melanin-blessed individuals than the locals liked.

Enter Mr. Sketchy Businessman, who ran a series of TV and radio ads claiming that our STATE funded school was stealing money from the local school district.

That’s right. He claimed that our school took money away from the poor Whites of Klan Kountry and gave to the diverse and metropolitan school for the gifted.

Senator Fuckup tried to deflect and dismiss, BUT did NOT rebut those claims. He didn’t believe that the school’s funding was THAT MUCH of an issue.

Any reasonable person would understand that the school was funded from the State taxes. Right?

As it turns out, Klan Kountry is not filled with reasonable people.

Senator Fuckup is a member of a particular subgroup in Klan Kounrty--a not-insignificant population of Catholic Creoles. So, after he wins his election--barely--he realizes that Something Must Be Done to help the image of the school that everybody knew as HIS baby.

Enter his old friend, Brother Dave. Brother Dave, who nearly bankrupted his previous school. His brother-in-law was a contractor who got a few really juicy contracts through him.

Protip: Nepotism only works if the person being nepotized is competent.

Spoiler: Brother Dave’s brother-in-law built schools about as well as Brother Dave ran them.

Brother Dave’s old school is attached to an order of monks who build cheap and simple caskets for people who are into that kind of thing.

They bake bread for the poor. These are good people.

Y’all, these people made it KNOWN--statewide--that they had a casket ready for ol’ Dave if he ever stepped foot in their town again.

Still, Senator Fuckup decided that THIS was the man who would lead my school into a glorious future.

Brother Dave took an aggressive stance on admissions. He wanted kids who didn’t have a lot of drama, and kids who looked (WHITE) good on the recruiting materials. He pulled hard from the local Catholic (Segregation) Academies.

Y’all.

Our Black kids were nearly White-passing mixed-race kids, one kid who was ACTUALLY from Africa, a couple of kids from Catholic schools, and one dark-skinned Baptist girl who is bombshell model-gorgeous. (For those glossy brochures.)

So as many White Catholic kids as possible.

Y’all.

I’ve competed with private school fuckwits in academic contests my whole life, up to that point. If it was something that required preparation (science fair, for example), they wiped the floor with us.

Because daddy the petroleum engineer did the project for them.

If it was a you-know-it-or-you-don’t thing (quiz bowl, for example), they lost so brutally that I might have felt bad for them. You know, if they had souls. Which they did not.

So Brother Dave populated our school with what he thought were “good kids”. White, Catholic kids.

Spoiler: My class started with 250 students. We graduated less than half of that, even after he backfilled our class with new kids between junior and senior year. The class after mine was worse.

Why is that?

White Catholic kids at segregation academies in the late 90′s basically did busy-work worksheet stuff all day. They were not ready for 10 page papers and 5 page lab reports and 100+ pages of reading and 20-50 math problems and projects, projects, projects!

Also, if all you do is worksheets and sit-down-and-shut-up, there has to be a certain...chemical element...to cope.

So, yeah. Drugs. So much drugs. And booze.

Brother Dave also hired Nurse Bitchy Fuckface. She was actually his first hire.

Nurse Bitchy was a walking disaster.

I was sixteen when I first met her, and because she didn’t smell like street drugs (I KNOW WHAT THAT SHIT IS), I missed a lot of signs.

Looking back, I think that she might have been a Prozac-and-wine kind of person. But, as the only drugs that I was familiar with came from street pharmacists, I thought she was just evil.

Hateful to the queers, pagans, Goths, and all assorted weirdos.

You know, all the kids who could actually handle the schoolwork and the pressure. *eyeroll*

I’m allergic to Sudafed. Weird, huh?

A senior at my school told me to be careful with Nurse Bitchy. She has a sensitivity to acetaminophen (Tylenol) and couldn’t have it. Nurse Bitchy had given it to her a couple of times.

It was on my senior’s medical chart. If you’re keeping score, that’s felony attempted murder.

Nurse Bitchy gave me Sudafed seventeen times (that I remember) while I was at that school. She very nearly killed me doing it. Some times I knew, and some times I did not.

“But why did you take it, if you knew?”

Well, you innocent dove, if I refused to take the medicine that the Nurse gave me, then I got written up. Enough write-ups and I got kicked out.

My home school in the Hub City? Eh...as bad as Klan Kountry was, I didn’t have someone assaulting me daily. I didn’t have a gang of girls who got away with attempting to rape me with a broom handle. I didn’t have a very big kid who was given liberties with me (BY THE STAFF) because he was special ed.

Or, as my guidance counselor liked to say (after my father was murdered and I was flunking chemistry--not because of dad’s death, but because the chemistry teacher put all the girls and Black boys in the back of the class--which had NO air conditioning on hundred-degree days--after Brother Dave’s brother-in-law “fixed” it that summer), “Stephanie, you know that you’re the poorest student here. Do you really want to go back to THAT?”

No. I did not.

Under pain of going home to poverty, rape, assault, and maybe death, I took her poison. She watched me do it. And she smiled.

I only went to Nurse Bitchy when I was forced to. This happened far more often my Junior year. The teachers would send me because I was sick (I come from a smoker’s home, and I’m an asthmatic who is allergic to tobacco. My family never quit, so I’d end up with smoker’s pneumonia most times that I went home. Thanks for the lung scars, fam.)

Eventually, when I was a Senior, my computer science teacher realized that I was unresponsive with a fever in her class. She was new that year, and didn’t know any better. So she woke me up and sent me along. Nurse Bitchy gave me the usual and sent me back to class.

Very few humans retain the ability to projectile vomit after age seven. Did you know that?

Lucky me, I did. I still can.

I hurled all over my keyboard. I hurled and hurled. My classmates screamed and ran.

My computer science teacher, an ice-cold woman of Indian descent with a very posh English accent, unplugged the vomit-soaked, ruined keyboard. She took it and me to the nurse.

She slammed the keyboard down on her desk and screamed at her to NEVER send a sick child to her class again.

Nurse Bitchy was (shocking, I know) a racist. She feared the angry Indian lady.

My computer science teacher, I believe, spread the word about Nurse Bitchy’s ineffectiveness. Teachers stopped sending students to her.

That left a vacuum. Nobody was being forced to get medical help. But medical help was still needed.

Before going to school in Klan Kountry, I was a veterinary technician. I worked under-the-table from too young. Illegal-child-labor-too-young.

But, I knew my stuff. I had a stocked medicine cabinet and a dissection kit.

I started doing everything up to and including prison surgery in my dorm room.

I could handle most anything. Which was better than worrying that the nurse was going to poison one of my friends into the ground.

I didn’t ask for money or food or anything (food was a commodity at that school because our cafeteria was infested). I worked for the goodwill of my classmates, which is the shiniest coin in the realm.

I’d gotten into witchcraft earlier that year. People trusted the witch over the nurse. That’s where my school was.

I only had one case that I really couldn’t treat.

Y’all.

It was traditional in the girls’ dorms that unless you were asleep or studying, you kept your door open. Mine was open that night. I was writing Sailor Moon fanfiction, procrastinating on one project or another. I don’t remember, it was twenty-two years ago.

Ophelia Grace (not her real name) came to my door in Doc Martens, favoring a foot. Her roommate or a suitemate or maybe another theatre kid was holding her up as she hobbled into my room.

I hadn’t heard that she’d been hurt, but apparently she had been. She was feverish and weak. Her face was bright red. She was babbling.

“I’m sorry,” she said over and over again. She apologized for coming late. She apologized for coming at all. She was shaking.

I sat her and her friend on my roommate’s bed (we’d bunked them, and I had the top bunk). My roommate was out, in the art lab working on a particularly tricky painting. Probably for the best. He was squeamish (my ex-roommate is a transman, so I’m using his preferred pronouns.)

I grabbed a large bowl and a mug, filled both with water (salted the bowl of water), and went down the hall to the microwave.

The water in Klan Kountry was filthy. It smelled bad and tasted worse. Remember Mr. Sketchy Businessman? He wanted to relax EPA regulations for himself and his sketchy business friends.

They were actively dumping into the city reservoir. But Mr. Sketchy Businessman promised to KKKeep KKKlan KKKountry Lily, so he got 49% of the votes.

Racist douche.

I boiled the water in the microwave--first the mug, then the bowl. It was a walk I’d make several times that evening.

Ophelia had a fever, holding steady at “fucking HOT” by the estimate of her friend. My thermometer pegged it at 102. Not good.

I put a teabag and two whole cloves in the cup and let it steep while I took her temperature. I asked her what happened. I don’t remember the specifics of the injury, but I believe that something got dropped on her toe. I think it happened in the theatre.

Ophelia thought she could walk it off. I remember that.

She kept apologizing. I honeyed the tea and shoved it in her hands. The tea helped. She was shivering--hard--from the wracking chills of her fever.

I remember how her febrile shivers made the bunk beds shake.

I remember thinking that I was in over my head.

I remember grabbing my oldest towels, and closing my door.

I remember praying.

And then I took her boot off.

Y’all.

I’ve smelled rot. Some people think that all rot smells the same.

It does not.

Corpse stink has its own bouquet. Blood rot has a distinct stench. Necrotic yeast infections almost smell good--like yeast rolls and something meatier.

I’d smelled Ophelia’s particular rot before.

I was fourteen. A momma dog was brought in, heavily pregnant. She’d been delivering, and the third pup got stuck. There were 11 left. The stuck pup was dead, but we managed to save 4 behind him, plus the first 2, born healthy.

The uterus had begun to rot inside, and several of the pups had been dead for some time.

The spaying that happened after the pups were removed was green and black, with the consistency of pudding. We pulled as much out as we could, but the rest had to be rinsed out.

Thankfully, I’ve smelled that smell very few times after. It smells pungent and strong. Like garlic. Like a cream of garlic stew.

I thought I’d gotten a whiff of THAT smell when Ophelia walked in, and again when she sat down. Pulling her boot off was like the first deep cut into momma dog. Garlic and blood.

The smell of something rotting in someone still alive.

She had on two socks. I peeled off the first one. There was a stain at the toe. The second sock was worse. The smell hung around.

Our windows were screwed shut. I couldn’t do anything about the smell.

Ophelia cried into her tea. She was still apologizing.

The toe was purple and black. There was a lot of yellow pus under the nail, which was leaking out on either side. Red streaks ran up her instep, tracing her veins.

The toe was swollen and needed a lance.

I had no idea how she climbed the stairs to get to me. (I was on the third floor, and she lived below. We had no elevator.)

She started to get loud (peeling those socks off HURT), so I asked her a question. I asked about her history paper. The ten-page history paper was a rite-of-passage at the school, and I knew it was coming due for her. I told her to tell me about her topic and her sources.

She did.

Thank the Lord and Lady.

I got my dissection kit and rubbing alcohol. I made things as sterile as I could.

I told her that it would probably hurt, but that I would work quickly.

Her friend left after the first cut. She didn’t stay gone long, but I heard her vomit in our suite’s toilet.

Ophelia kept talking about her paper. I led her around on that topic, asking questions and asking for clarification. Asking about the books she’d read, and offering a few that I was familiar with on the subject.

This is why doctors and dentists know so many things about so many subjects. Talking keeps the patient calm.

Meanwhile, pus and blood dripped from the slits that I made in her flesh, onto a towel that bore the stains until I donated it to the animal shelter, years later.

I soaked her toe in the bowl of water. The salt burned, but she couldn’t scream.

There was an adult who was supposed to be watching us. If she was alerted to my low-tech medical unit, she would have stopped me and sent Ophelia to the murder nurse.

I filled another bowl, salted it, and microwaved it.

Ophelia’s friend rejoined us, and watched as I squeezed the rest of the pus out of her. Her toenail slipped off in the third bowl. The toenail was cracked. Ophelia kept it.

I wonder if she still has it?

Triple antibiotic ointment and a sterile dressing later, I told her to tell the nurse that she needed a doctor. Nurse Bitchy couldn’t keep us from a doctor if we asked for one. She said that she would.

I gave her a few oral anti-inflammatory pills and some Benadryl to get a good night’s sleep.

She left, with her boot in her hand and a soft smile on her lips. I cleaned my tools, my bowls, the floor where her foot was, and had to do a load of laundry because that one rag smelled so awful.

My roommate came back in time for headcount, and asked if I’d made ramen. Said it smelled pretty good in there.

It did. Rot can do that.

It was hard to sleep that night. I cried quietly until sleep took me.

Ophelia recovered. She became a witch some time later. In college, I think. We’re still friends, in a Facebook kind of way.

Brother Dave is still alive. After working for my school, he ended up helping the Church cover up three decades of sex abuse at a diocese school. Not sure what he’s up to, but probably nothing good. He’s a garbage human.

Nurse Bitchy just retired. She lasted twenty years at that school. God knows how.

Senator Fuckup died in a car crash and the school is being renamed after him. So are the new dorms that are being built.

Klan Kountry cleaned up their water after I left. That’s really good news.

The school continues. Apparently, it got better with Brother Dave’s leavetaking. I hope that’s true.

And me?

I’m still a witch. I’m still here.

And I can still smell that rotten toe on the edge of nightmares half-remembered.

~*~

I don’t want my diploma revoked or to be sued, so disclaimer time.

This is fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.

#witchcraft #prose #proseriot #kitchen witch #healing #writing #amwriting #autobiography #true story

[dreadnought-dear-captain]

You Asked, I Told

**Contains spoilers for Baghdad Waltz up to chapter 36 and the movie Soldier’s Girl (noted below); CW for some general discussion on the subject of writing about childhood sexual abuse**

Hello everyone!

I’m so sorry I’ve been so neglectful of my inbox and slow to answer Ao3 comments lately :(  I have so, so many wonderful asks here, and I want to push out a few batches of answers in the next couple of weeks. I’m a little over 2/3 of the way through Chapter 37 of BW, which will probably be hovering around the 20k word count. But Bucky and Steve will be having their first therapy session! With Claire Temple! And it’s going to be… Well, it’s Bucky and Steve, so stay tuned.

You are too kind, and I’m actually bummed that BW has changed people’s enjoyment of other fics, because this is not the first time I’ve heard this, and it’s certainly not my intent. I’m glad you enjoy the minor characters here, because they have been very fun to create. I have loads of backstory that will never see the light of day, and I adore them so much. As to the second part, I’m reading this as your wondering a couple things: 1) perhaps questioning Steve’s level of devotion to Bucky (or just marveling at it, if this is a rhetorical question), and 2) perhaps also questioning Thor’s assessment that Bucky is the guy you fuck, not the guy you settle down with.

In terms of Steve’s love, some would say that Steve is clearly devoted because Bucky is a very hard person to be in a relationship with, and the fact that he’s still even around is a sign of his devotion. Others would say that he hasn’t done enough to show how much he loves him, that he should do more, because Bucky is suffering so much and needs a lot of support now. We all have our own interpretations of what “enough” is, and I see this a lot in the comments section of BW. I appreciate multiple perspectives on this, and I think we all come at this from our own experiences on one side or the other of relationships like this. I think readers tend to fall on the side of one character or the other, and the Bucky people might err on the side of believing that Steve is not doing enough (or doing the wrong things) and the Steve people might err on the side that Bucky, although clearly suffering, is not considering the ways in which Steve is devoted and the ways in which he hurts Steve. I love both of these characters and am not overly devoted to either, so I see both of their perspectives and aim to write from both sides.

As for Bucky being too “wild” and not being the kind you marry/settle with, I don’t know if we can really trust Thor’s assessment of this situation. He didn’t know Bucky for long, and the time he knew him was at a time when Bucky was pretty low in personal insight. Although Bucky has proven himself adept at committing to an arduous career and excelling greatly, Bucky still does struggle to commit in relationships. But to say that he’s “wild” could be a bit of a misnomer. Pan the camera one way, and he looks like a fun and wild party guy who loves to drink and fuck and has a charismatic, wild personality that is irresistible. Pan the camera the other way and you’ve got someone who’s desperately trying to manage his emotions with alcohol and sex and sometimes can’t, a guy who is essentially “wild and charismatic” because he has trouble with emotional and interpersonal regulation due an extensive history of trauma.  As he works to uncover and confront his history, we will have to see how things unfold and whether he commits to engaging with care for himself after his rift with Scott.

I hope this addresses your Ask!

I have had a good deal of interaction with the military system in my life through various channels and have also done a LOT of research. For every military-heavy chapter, I look over a ton of regulations (even weapons manuals - fun!), talk to Army veteran friends and associates who are very generous with their time, watch documentaries, scour the internet for hours and hours and HOURS and just do… a lot. Which is part of why this fic is so slow to come out.

I just want to say thank you for this. I don’t know if this comment still holds for you, because I received it between chapters 35 and 36, but this is one of the things that I feel the absolute most anxiety about when I post this fic. The last thing I want to do is write anything that is going to be exploitative, especially since I know how many people in the general population have experienced childhood sexual abuse. I agonize over how much detail to include, because I don’t want to include unnecessary details just for shock value. However, I also don’t want to avoid the content if it’s part of the character’s internal experience. In chapter 36, for example, it was important for me to convey what it was like for Bucky to experience an intrusive memory of his abuse, because that is consistent with how I write the internal experiences of my characters. It’s part of my style and part of why people read BW, I think. To back away now because it contains this kind of content would be a disservice to the character and his experience, because this is important to his life and the person he’s become.

But I also don’t want it to just be an opportunity for readers to be like ohhhhh all the DETAILS WOWWW. So with everything that I write, I strive to think - what is the purpose of what I’m including? Is this consistent with the way a network of traumatic memories would operate? What’s the cue in the environment that would light this up? If the purpose is character development or plot progression, I can justify including the details. In chapter 36, for example, it was important for us to see that Bucky is allowing himself to remember his past, that it’s dysregulating him, which lead to his rift with Scott and his relapse. All character and plot points. But if it’s just for funsies or for some Jerry Springer-style reveal to shock the readers, or anything even close to that, I would try my hardest to screen for that. As for creating an arbitrary tragic backstory for some other character to heal, I can see how that would be a tempting thing to do for a writer. Although this is a part of Bucky’s history, and although there could be times when he feels like it defines him, challenging that may also be part of his journey. And I’m sure Steve would love if he could heal Bucky with the power of his love (or cock magic) alone. If only.

Thanks so much for this.

This is a good question. As you’ve seen, people certainly can have profound functional impairment when their symptoms come to a head, to the point where hospitalization is sometimes the best option. Bucky has made great strides in his recovery and has accumulated a lot of skills from AA and DBT that he didn’t have before, even with a meltdown and a relapse thrown in there. I know it’s sometimes really hard to see how far he’s come, but he’s traveled lightyears from overdosing at the Holiday Inn on Long Island.

That being said, this reaction isn’t extremely promising, given the implication that these are just the first real burbles of his traumatic past rising to the surface. I’d say a few things could happen as more of this starts to emerge.

1) He could do as you say, decompensate, have a lot of trouble functioning in his daily life, maybe go into some sort of partial hospitalization or inpatient hospitalization. This option would allow him to be in a  controlled environment, the kind of place where he might be able to manage this stuff without other demands getting in the way.

2)  He could rely very heavily on coping skills and social supports to manage this stuff as it comes up, and maybe it doesn’t overtake him completely. This would be extremely challenging because it would require him to reach out for help and accept it.

3) He could find some way to stop this process altogether by resuming drinking or some other maladaptive coping behavior. This would be very tempting for him, especially as things get exponentially more difficult.

Importantly, Bucky is still the same person as he was before, in terms of the primary effects his traumatic history has had on his life. What’s really in question here is his ability to face his memories and the truth of his own experience, which he can’t run from anymore because his old compartmentalization and avoidance strategies are falling apart. I think a lot will depend on whether he continues to make himself an island or whether he lets others close to him to support and assist him in this process. So much of the latter depends on trust and his sense of personal and emotional safety, which have been deeply shaken by his experiences. This makes everything so much more challenging. We’ll have to see how it all unfolds!

Thanks for the Ask!

**CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE**

UGH. Okay, I rented this DVD from Netflix when I got this Ask, because I thought, hey, why not… and then it sat on my shelf unwatched for about seven weeks. Netflix probably thought I just kept it. Obviously I have a pretty thick skin, given the shit I write about, but I was dreading watching it. The sleeve gives the plot away, so I knew what was coming, but God, kill me.

I died over a lot of the military inaccuracies, but it’s a TV movie, so it kind of gets a pass I guess. And it took place at Fort Campbell, Bucky’s least favorite place on Earth! This movie is also a creature of its time, which was fascinating in itself - a cis man playing a trans woman (megasigh, although admirably well), the commentary after from people on an active DADT policy still in effect, which was incredible. It seems so ridiculous to me now that it was ever in effect, especially when I recall the arguments against allowing open service for LGBQ folks (“but they’ll look at my butt in the showers!!”), and I wonder what kind of world we would have if Bill Clinton had gotten his way when he was elected and didn’t have to compromise with DADT.

It was very interesting to hear Barry’s sexuality being questioned so much because he was in love with a trans woman. The film makers talked about him “discovering something about his sexuality” because he was in this sexual relationship with her — like what? There was a lot of implication throughout the film and special features that trans women aren’t real women. And perhaps some of this stuff speaks to some level of sexual flexibility that might be present in someone who’s happy to give oral sex to a woman with a penis etc., so okay, I can buy that perhaps. But a small amount of flexibility is not necessary sexual confusion or radical sexual discovery, and it’s certainly not gayness or a sign that he’s not straight (though he may have been somewhere else on the sexuality spectrum, but that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with having romantic/sexual feelings for a trans woman). But there was an odd cissexist/transphobic thread that ran through the whole film, even though the actors and production team were clearly very enthusiastic about the story and sensitive to the characters. And Barry’s mother was straight up like “maybe they were just friends, who knows.” [sigh] I dunno.

But to the point of what actually happened to Barry - God. That was rough. It reminds me of kids who are bullied for being gay perhaps because they’re not masculine enough, etc. and end up killing themselves, even though they’re not gay. His death was brutal and shocking and horrible, and it gave me kind of a “Boys Don’t Cry” feel for me, but in reverse? If that makes any sense. The way he was ostracized by his peers made me sad, especially when he was working so hard to integrate into his unit, and it reminded me of all of the people who were victims of the witch hunts prior to DADT and even after, how lonely that must have been, how devastating to one’s career and connections to their military family. It’s one of the reasons Bucky tried so hard to appear either extremely occupied or extremely straight. But overall, I thought the movie did a good job of making this a love story and not fetishizing Calpernia’s trans-ness, and I thought it was pretty balanced and nuanced for a 2003 movie trying to tackle this subject matter. I’m glad I watched this, even though the end was awful. I think I left feeling kind of good about the love story, imperfectly told as it was. 

Thanks for the rec!

**END SPOILERS**

Oh god, I am so bad about Tumblr and everything else. I’m sorry for being so bad at all the tasks of maintaining a presence on social media etc. and yeah. I feel bad about it. I’m basically a social media renunciate in my personal life (my job is YOU NEED A LINKEDIN and I am cry), so it’s really not a habit in my fandom life. Thank you for your support (and the EG dig <3), and I’ll keep plugging away!

Please, please no worries!! I didn’t take it like that. I just want people to know that I’m working really hard and would get these out to you so much faster if I could. I know you’re all waiting and I wish I could deliver faster, but alas, adulthood. And I want these chapters to be as good as I can make them and sometimes writing is just really fucking hard, especially when your characters are falling apart. I do love them and telling this story and sharing it with all of you, so thank you for being awesome <3 

I will have more “You Asked” soon! Thank you so much for dropping me these messages. I am thrilled to get them, and I promise I will get to them all.

#you asked #asks #send me asks

[ooc-but-stylish]

My thoughts on and hopes for Iris West

I liked Iris in the first two seasons of The Flash. Candice did a good job of capturing the charm, warmth and spunk of the character from the comics. I feel like Westallen is dragging her down and not allowing her to develop her identity outside of her relationship. I hated how they stripped away her autonomy in the third season. The theme of the season was free will vs destiny but Iris’s choices were diminished. It still pisses me off that they went with the Oh I will try to heal this screwed man with my love shit with Savitar. But what pisses me off the most is that our Iris West the woman who constantly risked her life for a story, the woman who wanted to tell the public about the unknown, the woman who tried to give the public hope, gave up her career to become Mrs. Star Labs. 

That shit is really backwards. I don’t care that the writers are trying to overcompensate by making Iris the boss, they took a huge part of her identity away. As a woman who is trying to break into a STEM field I could relate to Iris West in the first two seasons when she was trying to make a name for herself. I really related to her when she was trying to break into journalism and she had to prove herself. When she took risks to get a story or tried to give the public the truth. I loved it when she had to go against her editor in season 2. I am happy that at least towards the end of season 4, Iris is reclaiming that part of her identity. I honestly want less Westallen stuff next season so we can see Iris being a kickass journalist. I would love it if she started her own online news paper or something. 

Good submission. Thankfully, CP also wants Iris to go back to her roots in being an actual journalist and not just Barry Allen’s cheerleader.

IMO, the writing was always sub-par with Iris with the quality getting worse in later seasons, and a lot of it has to do with the writers not getting what issues there could possibly have been around Iris’s character in the initial seasons and then fixing the wrong problems with wronger solutions, or them just simply not caring about her at all to write her well compared to similar characters on the network or in the genre. 

She was a journalist in Season 1, but the B Plot of her reporting had to be contrived into a tangential relation to the A Plot of Barry vs. Reverse Flash. She was a journalist, but she had to be the last person to know that Barry was the Flash. She was a journalist, and didn’t learn a thing about Wells and Reverse Flash being one and the same, with that plot going to Mason and Mason getting killed off with her never finding out about that either. She was a journalist, and her most notable moment was showing Wells in 1x11 that she wasn’t going to ask “soft questions” so he could avoid being held accountable about the Particle Accelerator explosion and that’s it. She was a journalist but somehow consistently not allowed to be intelligent on her own, finding things out by chance or fate or whatever.

So instead of fixing that so that her plot established her character traits outside of propping up the Flash, they… made her more and more of a prop for the Flash,  like the only way she could be relevant was by not being herself. Aside from the subplot with Francine, where Francine existed just to die and also introduce Wally into the show. But I mean, Iris could’ve been writing articles about the breaches, or about people being seen in two places at the same time (suggesting Earth-2 doppelgangers), or whatever Grodd was up to when he had some episodes. 

I can’t even remember what Iris’s editor tried in season 2 that she went against. … Okay, now I do. It was that whole Trajectory bit, right, with the editor illogically suggesting that Iris write a piece about Flash “going Rogue” with 0 proof it was even him, then unprofessionally assumed her wanting a conversation with him was automatically a date. And it’s good that she didn’t take nonsense from her editor, but that was the writers sliding into “Iris as the Flash’s cheerleader” when Iris herself (in season 1) wanted to prove that she was a serious journalist interested in things that weren’t just about the Flash. We already know she thinks the Flash is a hero. We know she believes in him both in and out of the costume. We don’t need her writing articles about that. And a lot of season 2 even ignored actually developing Barry and Iris’s relationship beyond “Oh hey, remember how we were married in this other Earth, where most of the people we knew were had 180 in their personality, including us? Haha, yeah, good times” so they couldn’t even do WestAllen correctly.

So like, in and out of her job, Iris was pretty much just about Barry in what screentime she had. And she only moved on from Eddie because Eddie told her to in a video that didn’t exist until Barry changed the timeline.

Then again, Iris could have been way worse in S2. She could’ve been Patty Spivot.

Yeah. I said it.

Patty in Season 2 was pretty much explicitly there to be a Female Barry Allen– a scientifically minded, socially awkward, babbling comic book geek who wants revenge against a metahuman for the murder of a parent, but since she’s not actually Barry and is in a separate body, writers could portray her so that she’s such a fan of Barry that she read all of his reports, and totally gets him and his jokes you know? Lawlz! …. Yawn. Her character was a Flash and Barry fangirl right down to her willingness to drop her plans to go to college if Barry admitted he was a superhero. So like…. people saying they shipped “Spallen” over “Westallen” and citing Patty as the better character were really transparent. Patty didn’t bring anything to the table except being the genderbend of the main dude and willing to stop her whole life to be with him. The point is the writers are just awful.

Then season 3 was all about Iris dying and she had the least amount of screentime/episodes in it: what screentime she did have was replaying her death over and over and over and over and over, and if it wasn’t her dying it was trying to reassure everyone else that if she died anyway, to move on. For a season about Iris, a lot of the focus was on how the guys in her life would handle it and not about her own life and ambitions. She didn’t have a single thing on her bucket list to get done? She wasn’t going to fight for her own life?

It’s like, the way CW writers are approaching Iris is like their network never ever had 10 seasons of a superhero show with female journalist side characters in it before. You know, the show with not one but two Daily Planet reporters doing something other than writing about Superman constantly– and I’m pretty sure the first person that did get attached to Superman’s exploits and putting them on the paper was Jimmy Olsen.

#iris west deserves better #patty spivot critical #the flash critical #the flash negative #westallen critical #submission