#fuck squall is hot

[ijuststareatstuffhereok89]

How about hands/fingers kink (not sure if this sort of kink even exist 😅)

Oh, it does. Ask anyone in the SAS, finger/hand kink sure does exist...

"Delicious"

Forced to stay over in a small town during a snow squall, you and Loki share a finger-licking good meal by the fire.

Content Warning (18+): smut, finger-licking, fingering...fingers Word Count: ~600

“At least they deliver in this weather,” you said between bites of chicken wing, hot sauce smeared all over your hands even after repeated attempts to wipe it away. “I thought we were going to have to eat the furniture if the blizzard didn’t let up!”

You sat on the floor in front of the roaring fireplace in your hotel room, eating crappy chicken wings from the only place in the tiny town you were stranded in that had remained open during a somewhat-sudden nor’easter. The wings were overdone and slathered in hot sauces to the point of such excess that Loki had tucked a napkin into his collar, and you’d already gone through every paper towel that the receptionist could find. 

Loki shrugged. “I suppose. I would rather be back at headquarters dining on something a bit less…slimy?”

Cringing, you quickly expressed your displeasure.. “Ew, don't call it that. ‘Slimy’ makes me think of slugs. It’s…saucy.” 

A thought invaded your mind: I could be “saucy” right now. 

You were glaring at Loki’s hands, also covered in dressing, as he attempted to look like a prince while dining on cheap pub fare that he could use for paint. In spite of the mess between his fingers, his hands captivated you. They were sculpted, strong, and graceful, which you imagined came from his years of studying how to do magic with those hands. 

You could practically feel the spots on your skin where he could tuck those long, nimble digits. And those perfectly-kept nails, that were just long enough for him to gently run down your back, targeting the ticklish spot you had just above your ass. 

And oh, how far inside you they could go, how intimately they could examine the ever-growing heat between your thighs. Your minds was drifting further and further away as the fantasy grew: tapping on your clit, tracing circles around your swollen lips, digging deeply into you before--

“--uh, Agent?”

Loki had noticed your stares. Raising a pleasantly curious eyebrow, he taunted you in the manner he secretly knew turned you on. “Do my hands fascinate you?”

You felt the embarrassment paint itself all over your face. 

“Oh. no need to feel ashamed,” he said, turning his intrigued face into a dark, sensual, hungry grin. “Please admire them. Each finger is a master of its craft, worthy of only the most elite sorcerers.”

He shifted over, sitting next to you, hips touching. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled the sauce-smeared napkin out of his collar and threw it over his shoulder before leaning over you, boldly. You leaned back, afraid to blink. 

“Now that we’re through supper, how about a spot of dessert before bed?”

Taking two of his fingers, he ran them, sauce and all, gently over your lips, using the tips to pry them open just enough to insert them into your mouth. 

Unable to help yourself, you moaned into his hand, which gave him an almost-instantaneous erection. “Fuck, do that again!” he commanded. 

You rolled your tongue around them and sucked them as far into your mouth as you could. Loki watched with almost predatorial interest. The sight of you nursing on his fore and middle fingers was making his cock twitch violently. Soon it would bust out of his pants if he weren’t careful. 

“I don’t know whether to throw you onto the bed or keep you here, looking pretty and desperate, forever.”

Without removing his fingers, you spoke as clearly as you could manage: “Bowff is gwood.” 

“I figured,” grinned Loki, slowly extracting his fingers, soaked in your saliva. “Perhaps now you’ll return the favor and let me taste that delectable little cunt of yours? I'm still hungry!”

Hope it was ok! LOKI KINK DRABBLE MASTERLIST

Random taggies: @acidcasualties @loopsisloops @lokisgoodgirl @smolvenger @mochie85 @mischief2sarawr @glitchquake @gruftiela @fictive-sl0th @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr

#loki #fanfiction #mcu #mcu loki #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #mcu fanfiction #loki laufeyson #loki/reader #loki smut #finger kink #loki kink #chicken wings?

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 10: Eclipsing Shadows

Summary: Astarion remained a spawn after ending the reign of Cazador with your help. After defeating the Netherbrain, you and Astarion stay together, moving forward with your lives. You reside in a small house in the city. One night, after an awkward and concerning interaction with him, he disappears without a trace.

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.6K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

64.media.tumblr.com

Please note:

There are mentions of Astarion's trauma in this chapter.

Mr. Blackwell’s green eyes look like murky poison puddles that drip with corrosive contempt. His burgundy garb is wrinkled, creased and stained, clearly unchanged for some time. Whatever remains of his sparse, dingy-grey hair is slick with grease, dishevelled, and unkempt. He’s in a plight of disrepair not often seen in the noble class, eliciting wide-eyed stares and snickers from the crowd in the ballroom.

Guards are warily observing the onset of the altercation with avid attention. Their hands instinctively drift and sit precariously on the hilts of their weapons. You can hear the clinking of metal amour as they inch closer, ready to spring into action. From what you know of Mr. Blackwell, he is well-connected and an influential figure in Waterdeep. If you allow the quarrel to escalate, the guards will likely take heed of his requests and pay little attention to yours. You must tread carefully, a daunting prospect as your palms heat and your temper bubbles under your skin like an overboiling cauldron.

Your eyes scan the mob roving through the ballroom, subtly looking for Astarion. Aldous spoke to his father about the pale Elf with red eyes. You cannot allow Mr. Blackwell to gleam a view of Astarion. Quick and practiced, you take inventory of all possible exits and escapes while you count the guards.

Your neglect to answer him only irritates Mr. Blackwell further, and he crams himself into your line of sight. He is not a small man and towers over you. “Did you hear me, girl?” He squalls, gruff and strident. His hands slam into the wall beside your head with an ear-splitting boom as he barricades you in. “What have you done with my son, you fucking miscreant!”

Girl? Miscreant?! Why did I tell Astarion that murder was off the table?

His fetid breath feathers over your face. An inhuman, snake-like grin splits your lips as your adrenaline spikes. You’ve rivalled devils in the Hells, eradicated a vampire lord, euthanized countless fiends, and rained death down on hordes of shadow-cursed creatures. You will not be intimidated by the likes of this cretin.

“Mr. Blackwell,” you purr unenthusiastically, straightening your back, squaring your shoulders, and bedecking your face with a saintly visage. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you. What’s this about your son? Is Aldous missing?”

“Don’t play stupid, sorceress.” Mr. Blackwell roars. His face reddens further as he descends deeper into his fit of rage. Blue-hued veins pop from his forehead and neck as he snarls in your face with bared teeth. Your palms heat until blisteringly hot, and you resist the urge to shove him. “I know it was you. Where is he? Where is my boy?!”

Dead, and rightfully so.

The guards are getting antsy, shuffling from foot to foot, and the other patrons gape at the dispute before them. A crowd of onlookers is starting to form behind Mr. Blackwell. They stare and laugh with gleeful tittering as the show plays out. Your heart crashes against your sternum, playing your ribs like a drum. Your blood is broiling in your veins, and your fingers twitch with the urge to incinerate the threat.

Where in the Hells is Astarion? He would have heard this as soon as it started. You’re surprised and infinitely relieved that a dagger has not skewered Mr. Blackwell yet, but his absence is starting to make you uneasy. Have the guards already apprehended him? Did Mr. Blackwell recognize and have him arrested? Astarion would not go quietly, and you haven’t heard or seen any evidence of a struggle elsewhere. Astarion is far from stupid. He may know that his presence will only magnify the issue, but it’s unlikely to stop him from stepping in. You grumble under your breath at the thought. No matter what he’s seen you do or how powerful you are, Astarion protects you as if you’re a fragile wildflower, but you are not fragile like a flower; you’re fragile like an unstable explosive.

I protect him with the same ferocity, and I will never stop. Perhaps we are even.

You lean close to Mr. Blackwell, almost nose to nose, and growl under your breath, “You would do well to get out of my face lest I introduce you to the fire of my ancestors.”

Mr. Blackwell gnashes his teeth, narrowing his eyes as his forehead pinches, “You dare to threaten me?!”

Oh, yes. I dare.

Your temper is getting away with you. A hand clasps Mr. Blackwell’s shoulder, and you almost lurch forward, preparing for the fight that is sure to ensue, until you see Gale, wearing an elegant and regal mauve suit with one arm behind his back. You’ve never been so damn relieved not to see Astarion.

Gale’s face is composed with a cordial smile, and he laughs kindly as if nothing is amiss. You see the pink current of the Weave wash over Mr. Blackwell and recognize Charm Person as Gale casts imperceptibly with naught but a murmur.

“Of course not, Mr. Blackwell,” Gale assures in a charitable tenor. “Such a thing would be crass. Isn’t that right, my friend?” Gale prompts you. Gale is skilled, but his charisma is not nearly as honed as yours, and you recognize the petition for assistance charming the man.

Cloaking your voice in an alluring baritone, you put your silver tongue to work, “Quite right, Gale. I would never dare utter such ill-portent to our very good friend here.”

Mr. Blackwell’s eyes glass over as the spell and your charm ensnare him, dousing his rage like water to flame. Mr. Blackwell leans back, tottering on his legs, and mumbles through numb lips, “Of course not. I must have been mistaken. Please, forgive the outburst.”

“All is forgiven,” you shrug while revelling in the influence you have over feeble minds and continue your coercion. “Mr. Blackwell was just telling me he was on his way home. He is ever so weary from his travels. We should not retain him, Gale.”

“Yes.” Mr. Blackwell stammers, blinking hard as your suggestion plants and grows roots. “Yes, I was just about to retire for the night.”

Gale nods curtly to Mr. Blackwell while offering you his arm, “Get some rest. We should be going as well. It’s getting quite late. Dawn is almost upon us, after all.”

Taking Gale’s offered arm, he leads you away from the onlookers ogling you. The guards have relaxed as tensions decrease, but they still watch you with a keen eye. Gale’s warning starts to sink in.

Dawn? Fuck! Where is Astarion? He must get home.

Your grip slips from Gale, but he catches it and pats your arm, “Keep calm. Your panic will only further alarm the guards, and I fear they will not be as easily swayed as Mr. Blackwell. We are quite a team, but we cannot charm them all without someone taking notice. Astarion is waiting for us outside, just beyond the grounds.”

“Astarion is outside?” You query with an arched brow.

Gale nods, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with people who take notice of him. Once he’s managed to excuse himself from the tedious small talk, he leans close. “I sought him out as soon as I arrived. He is ever so antagonistic and easily provoked when it comes to you. The man would brave the sun if he thought you were in danger. It was considerably difficult to convince him it was best to leave it to me. I apologize I did not come to your aid first. I know you have more sense than he and would a keep cool-head. When I found him, the idiot had already drawn his damn weapons. Always violence first with him, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard and keep your mouth firmly shut. Gale knows you, but perhaps not as well as he thinks. You would have incinerated that man as soon as he stuck his face in yours, guards and onlookers be damned. You do not take life unnecessarily, but you take it without guilt when there is a threat to your friends. Mr. Blackwell is a danger to Astarion, and you can be impetuous when it comes to him.

“Thank you, Gale.” You breathe a long sigh as relief sates your nerves. “How did you know?”

“Mr. Blackwell came to the manor looking for you. I tried to appease him, but I am neither as intimidating nor convincing as you are, and he stormed off before I could get more than a word or two in. I knew he would go scouring the parties for Aldous and more than likely come across you.” Gale chuckles, “I’ve been through several of these celebrations tonight. I should have known to go to the most extravagant one first.”

“Mr. Blackwell will be back.” You point out, mouth twisting into a grimace as your mind tries to piece together some semblance of a plan. “We have not heard the last of this.”

“No,” Gale murmurs. “We most definitely have not. It is my hope that he doesn’t realize I charmed him tonight. If he does, it will only compound his fervour. We will have to tread these waters carefully. If this reaches the Masked Lords of Waterdeep…” Gale trails off with a sullen shake of his head, “May the dice roll in our favour.”

Your eyes bulge. You don’t know much about the government of Waterdeep, but everyone has heard of the masked lords. A ruling council whose identities were well hidden and carefully guarded.

“Could he really do that? Take it to that height?” You wheeze breathlessly as an invisible hand grips your lungs and clenches, “The Lords of Waterdeep surely wouldn’t concern themselves with such a trivial matter of a missing boy. Would they?”

Gale shrugs, “I wish I could say. Mr. Blackwell is exceptionally renowned. It’s plausible that he will go to great lengths, and I’m unsure how far his reach extends. I will do what I can to protect you and Astarion, but even my influence has limits.”

The brisk air bristles against your skin, giving you goosebumps or perhaps that’s due to Gale’s mention of the lords, as you and Gale continue your hastened retreat. Gale takes long strides, making you trot beside him to keep pace since you are considerably shorter than he. What is with men and walking as fast as they can? You would ask Gale to slow down, but you’re in a hurry to get away. The rapid click, click, click of your heels on the stone makes you uneasy, as it sounds like a clock counting down your final moments.

There’s an eerie reticence in the courtyard this evening, as silent as the sheeted dead, as if the city beyond these stone walls has ceased to exist. A ghostly wind causes your modest steel-silver dress to flutter around your knees. The scent of incoming rain hangs thick in the air while drab clouds swarm the sky as a storm coming off the ocean makes landfall, and the weather fronts interact.

Magic glows in your eyes and fingertips as you practice the various spells in your repertoire. Your fingers are a spectacular florid ballet, the Weave tiptoeing over the pads as you rehearse the movements for Sunbeam, Chain Lightning, Cloudkill, and Blight and recite the incantations in your mind like a sermon without ultimately casting as you drill yourself. Weaving the intricate web of the Weave is ingrained in your soul, and this is not an exercise you need to practice, but the recent events and Gale’s mention of the Masked Lords have caused anxiety to breed in your muscles. You need to make sure you’re ready for war. You’re an incredibly gifted sorceress with the ferocity of your draconic ancestors dwelling in your blood. You can be death incarnate, and you will be if it comes to it. You will raze this damn city to the ground if it means to harm Astarion. No one will hurt him again if your lungs still draw breath.

You’re glowing so brightly, the Weave shimmering around you like an aurora, that you don’t notice that day has fallen victim to night when Astarion breezes into the courtyard. He looks at you, brandishes his dagger with a finesse that never fails to impress and descends into a defensive stance. He observes the surroundings with an acute eye and gives you a questioning look after he’s assessed there’s no danger.

With a quick step you learned from him, you pivot and toss a very weak Fire Bolt straight toward him. Astarion whirls, his propensity for dexterity evident in his movement, avoiding the spell.

“Impressive agility. I’m glad I taught you something at least, but what in the Hells was that for?” He smirks with a tsk and clicks his tongue. “At least, I ask before I bite. I am civil - unlike you.”

“Just making sure you’re not getting sloppy,” you giggle with a virtuous shrug.

“If that would have hit me, I would have deserved it,” he chuckles and glowers at you with an amused grin. “That was far too slow and weak. I did not even feel the heat from it. You can do infinitely better than that. Even I can cast that cantrip. Come on, darling. If you’re going to spar with me, you could at least give me the decency of a challenge.”

“A challenge, hm?” You smirk wickedly. Sparring with him isn’t a new activity. When you lived with him, you two would often spar long into the night until you were both sweating and tired. He craves thrill and danger as much as you, and you keep each other on your toes. “As you wish.”

Astarion’s rapscallion smile and the way he bends lightly at the knees indicate that he welcomes this exchange. The Weave brightens around you, and you cast Fire Bolt repeatedly in quick succession with a little more power and speed behind it with lithe steps. Astarion swings his body, nimbly ducking, dodging and avoiding everything you throw at him as he advances toward your position until he’s in front of you and takes you into his arms while he laughs.

“You caught me once. It tickled.” He glances toward a small burn mark on his shirt, “If anyone has gotten sloppy, it’s you.”

“What you call sloppy, I call careful casting,” you giggle.

“Sloppy,” he corrects, narrowing those scarlet eyes glinting vibrantly with excitement and adrenaline. “You’re already a veritable sovereign when it comes to magic. How about we work on expanding your skillset?” He twirls a dagger at his side without so much as looking at it, catches the blade between his fingers, and settles the hilt in your hand with a devious grin. Astarion takes a few steps backward and motions you forward, “Come on. Attack me.”

You stare at the dagger, your fingers sliding over the metal hilt, “You want me to come at you with a knife? Have you gone completely mad? There are training dummies right there.”

“Oh yes, those will surely help you.” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue with audible disapproval of your reluctance. “I am positive your attacker will stand stationary for you so you can stab them - if you ask nicely enough. You will learn nothing from those.”

It’s unlikely that you’ll hurt him. Hells, if you did somehow manage to so much as nick him, Astarion would probably be proud of you, but you stare at the shiny steel with trepidation, “What if I cut you?”

Astarion’s head tilts back, and he laughs loudly, “Oh, you are adorable. Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, I will be fine. You’re more likely to hurt yourself, and if you somehow do cut me, what does it matter? It’s not like you can kill me further.” He giggles, “Now, remember your footwork and keep the sharp pointy end directed toward me and not yourself, love.”

Well, multiclassing never hurts.

Slipping off your sandals, you recall everything he’s ever taught you or tried to, at least. Bending your knees and rolling your weight into your heels for balance, you lunge toward him. You and he spar while he deflects your attacks with an ease that vexes you, and he barks various instructions - straighten your back, keep your weight centred, don’t lean forward, and use your momentum until your heart beats hard, a prisoner in a cage constructed of bone. Exhausted, you sit on the ground, gulping down ragged breaths.

Astarion crosses his arms with a chuckle, “Done, are you? Well, I’ve certainly seen worse - from a babe. Do not go getting into any knife fights without me. You will surely get yourself run through.”

“Astarion,” you throw your head backward exaggeratedly with the back of your hand against your forehead, “you wound me. I think I could rival you with one or two more lessons.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “One or two centuries of lessons, perhaps. You stick to magic. I will happily do any required stabbing.”

The man doesn’t need to breathe, and you know it, but he’s not even sweating. You frown at him while wiping your brow, “Could you please pretend to be winded at least?”

“Apologies. Where are my manners?” Astarion drops to his knees and gives you a gentle shove, sending you sprawling to your back. Crawling over you, he mimics your heavy breathing with a smug smirk, “Better?”

Rolling your eyes, you stick your tongue out at him frivolously, “Kiss me, you fool.”

“Blood running a little hot, sweetheart?” He purrs sensuously, pressing his body into you, grabbing your thigh and guiding it around his waist, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cool silk against your heated pout and as delightful to the senses as plunging into cool water on an arid day. His tongue traces your lower lip, enticing your mouth to part. His taste is rich and hypnotic, a firewater of desire and good Gods, it’s intoxicating. His fingers trail up the delicate skin of your upper thigh with firm pressure, leaving blazing trails of icy fire, coalescing between your legs and making you throb. Bolts of electricity amble up your spine in a slow progression, making your body shiver awkwardly as bumps rise over your skin.

Astarion wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you to your feet, tugging your dress back into place, and you give him a quizzical look.

“Gale has returned,” Astarion says, smoothing your hair down. “That man has the worst timing. Also, a bath. You smell.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you groan at his candidness. With a gentle shove, you grumble under your breath and stalk away from him to your room.

There’s a chill in the air that sinks its teeth into even his already frosty skin. Winter is drawing near. The trees have shed their leaves, preparing for dormancy, and the ground is stiff beneath his boots. He’s tired and filthy, spending much of his days lately in caves or held up in shabby barns or abandoned shacks during the day as he continues to run from the only love he has ever known. He has been lucky so far. He can often make it to the next godforsaken hovel to find shelter if he travels fast enough through the night, but as he progresses, the little towns are growing further apart. One of these days, he may not be able to find shelter before dawn, and the sun will consume him - a rather painful demise for a vampire.

Before Astarion enters the ramshackle tavern in this puny rural town in the middle of nowhere, he casts his eyes skyward and looks at the silvery moon as he does every night. If nothing else, he can take comfort in the fact that she is somewhere, under the same stars, and maybe, just maybe, she is looking at the moon, too.

The tavern is as destitute as the rest of this town, with low ceilings and lit by only a few oil lamps, giving it a gloomy atmosphere. It’s quiet. No minstrel or bard plays music here, and the only sounds that can be heard are the dragging of flagons across the rough tabletops and the grotesque gulps and burps of the few downtrodden labourers and drunks. It smells of mildew, fetid spirits and vomit. He crinkles his nose. He usually mimics breathing out of habit in public, but for this place, he will make an exception.

The floor is absurdly tacky, and even he can’t help the sound his boots make as they peel off it. He orders a pint and sits in a rickety chair that wobbles underneath him. Calling the ale rotten would be an understatement. He’s never tasted anything quite so vile in all his two centuries, and his diet once consisted of dead, putrid rats. It’s hard to say which is worse.

A pair of ne’er-do-wells attempted to extort some coin out of him by betting they could juggle more daggers than he. Fools. Even if blind drunk, his dexterity would be vastly superior to theirs. They could scarcely juggle two - child’s play for him. They left quickly with superficial lacerations to their fingers and hands. He wishes she had been here to witness this. They would have had a good laugh. She always loved watching him.

Even though the ale is terrible, the little table is starting to fill with emptied flagons. Tonight, every iota of him aches loudly in the silence of her absence. He does not need to trance, not since the tadpole no longer wriggles in his skull, but he will, if only so he can fall into a memory where they are sure to meet.

His vision is blurred, and his mind thinks of nothing but her. What would she be doing right now? Reading by the fire and sipping wine? Trying to mend her clothes and doing a terrible job now that he is no longer there to do it for her? Sleeping in their bed? Would she be alone, or would Halsin or Gale have come to console her? With him out of the picture, perhaps she could find happiness with one of them. The thought makes his very bones throb, and his fingers wrack through his hair, unsettled by the notion of any but him with her in their bed.

Astarion empties the next flagon and frowns while he grinds it across the table, clinking it against its fallen brethren.

Gale would be the most likely. Gale was a powerful wizard, but he had always been fascinated by her innate authority over the Weave. Where Gale had to read books, scrolls, practice and study spells, she could simply cast them reflexively with little effort. Early in their adventure, Gale had tried to beguile her, boasting his control of the Weave with a demonstration. Astarion watched with curiosity to see if she would reciprocate the obvious flirtation. She kept a straight face, smiling politely and copying as instructed until the foray was completed. She walked away with her arms crossed and a hard roll of her eyes in exasperation while Gale watched her all dew-eyed. It made him snicker at the time.

Despite his prowess, wealth and renown, Gale would probably bore her into an early grave. She craved excitement, risk, Hells, even danger. She needed someone not afraid to get into a little, or a lot, of trouble. She would not be satisfied sitting idle in a library for the rest of her days. She loves fiercely and deserves to be loved fiercely in return with untamed, unbridled passion.

Hot baths. Animals. Fresh fruit. Red roses. Long walks through moonlight forests at night. All the things she loves flit through his mind.

Her face appears in his blurry vision, laughing as she runs through the forest with him hot on her heels. Her modest pastel green dress waves in the wind. She casts Misty Step and disappears from his view. She is not quiet in the forest and knows it, but she pops out from behind the large trunk of a tree and yells, “Boo!” He pretends to be startled, but she doesn’t believe his facade and dissolves into adorable giggles.

She strolls up to him, smiling brightly, still laughing, and the stars themselves descend from the heavens and twinkle in her eyes. Her voice, majestic like a siren’s song, fills his ears as she says, “You’re an adorable idiot. I love you, Astarion.”

He smiles, blinks, and the memory dissipates. He tries to hold onto it, but it withdraws despite his efforts to keep her with him.

A woman’s voice catches his attention, “Stop, please. I said no.”

In Astarion’s drunken daze, he almost hears her voice, but it’s a hint too breathy and modulated. He narrows his eyes and tries to peer past the film of inebriation, mucking up his vision and making him see double. A young woman sits at the bar, and a man much older and ragged-looking pets her hair with clumsy fingers, muttering slurred, vulgar innuendos. She tries to push him away from her, but it’s futile. The man stumbles and chortles, taking another noisy sip of his ale, missing his mouth and washing his beard with it.

He cringes with a roll of his eyes. This is not his business. He does not fancy himself a hero, and he is not foolish enough to get caught up in such a quandary. He peers into his empty flagon. A deep, dark well of sorrow gazes back at him from the bottom. He should leave and return to the inn, where he can slip into his trance and be with her until the sun dips below the horizon.

“I said stop!” The woman’s voice rings out higher, making his ears twitch and grating on his nerves. It’s so close to hers that he has trouble reminding himself it’s not. It can’t possibly be because he... he left her.

He looks around the tavern, hoping someone else will step in, but no one even lifts their sagged heads to assess the situation. He leans back in his unsteady chair, and his fingers rap against the table with hard, rhythmic thumps portraying his increasing frustration.

He is no hero.

“No! I said no!” 

Is no one going to do anything? Really? He growls, clenching his jaw and grating his teeth. The woman’s voice is just too close to hers. It’s making his fingers twitch over the hilt of his dagger, and his muscles tense.

“No! Please, stop. Help!”

The woman’s shoes drag across the floor, and he’s already out of his chair, stalking toward the commotion with a haunting scowl. He ignores the itch to draw his blade. If she taught him anything, it’s that talking is often all that is necessary, but if all else fails, he has no issue with killing.

He is a little peckish.

He stands beside the woman with his practiced liar’s smile, “My friend, how lovely to see you again. Funny we should meet here of all places.”

The man glowers at him through droopy, glassy eyes, releasing the woman’s arm. The woman simply stares at him, her cheeks tear-streaked and ruddy, unsure of what to do.

Gods, these people are dull. All she must do is play along. He attempts to make his intentions plain, “Allow me to walk you home. We can catch up on the way.”

“That lady is coming home with me.” The man snarls, poking his shoulder with a finger that he can’t even keep straight.

This man would be easy pickings indeed if it came to it.

“No.” Astarion stands tall, squaring his shoulders and layering on his most intimidating intonation, “I will be taking her home. If you try to stop me, I know a thousand ways to gut you before you can so much as blink. Do not tempt me.”

“Ah Hells,” the man snickers after sizing him up and stumbles back, “She’s not worth the trouble. She’s all yours.”

He hoped the man would force his hand, but this is probably for the best. He is looking forward to resting indoors today. It has been many days since he was able to wait out the day in a room with a bed that did not smell like some form of livestock.

The woman turns to him with big, round eyes full of adoration and grabs his arm, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Astarion doesn’t quite know how to react, and he does not like the way she is eyeing him. He pulls his arm out of her grasp, “I’ll walk you home. Let’s go.”

The night feels too silent and still around him as he walks the dim streets. The woman follows on his heels, blabbering and stuttering her praises and gratitude. He doesn’t speak another word to her as he fights his mind. Emotions are stirring in his head. He's unsettled, angry even, and he doesn’t understand why. At least the walk isn’t long in a small place like this.

As soon as the woman opens her door, he turns to walk away.

“Won’t you come in?” Her eyes slink over him, and he feels revulsion. No one but her should be looking at him like that, and it only increases his discomfort further, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he snaps back gruffly.

He keeps walking until he feels the woman’s hand clutch the back of his shirt, her fingernails grazing over his scars. Those old emotions flood him - fear, loathing, disgust, and he whirls with a fanged snarl.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Oh! I-I’m sorry, Astarion.” Her hand recoils from his back, and she jumps away, pressing herself to the headboard with eyes rounded in confusion. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to go?”

Shit.

He let his mind wander off with him, and the memory bled into reality. Blinking hard, he reorients himself. He’s safe in Gale’s manor. He is with her. It was her touching his back - at his request, of course.

He jumps off the bed, flexing his hands as he paces the room. He needs time to get his head straight, but the raw anguish in her eyes is gnawing at him. This is why he left in the first place. He keeps hurting her when the storm sweeps him away in a flash flood, and he’s lost in it.

“I’ll go and give you some time.” She slips into her housecoat, cinching it at her waist and opens the door. Before she closes it, she turns to him, “I’m so sorry, Astarion. If you need space for the night, I understand. I will rest in my room tonight.”

He can’t get his godsdamned mouth to move or his tongue to form words. He stands idly as she closes the door behind her. He listens to her bare feet pad down the hallway at a quick trot and then the click of her door closing. His hands wrack through his hair, fingers curling into it. He knows better than to let his mind drift aimlessly, although the fact that it did roam is an interesting development. He’s used to being able to think of nothing but withstanding the sensation of her hands on his back. He’s improving, albeit slowly.

He laces his hands behind his head, arches his back and stretches his tight chest, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Astarion closes his eyes and shakes out his arms.  He feels panicked and tense. His skin squirms as if snakes are writhing below the surface. Patrolling his bedroom, he tries to mollify his unease, taking deep breaths of air he doesn’t need. The memory has agitated him for some reason that he can’t quite put his finger on.

His ears twitch as they catch suppressed weeping from her room. Fuck, he’s upset her. This was not her fault. It’s been a while since he went and fucked things up like he always does. He leans on the wall and closes his eyes. Did he make a mistake returning? For months, his singular goal was to find her, but now he wonders if this was selfish. He could not stand living without her, but she may have been better without him.

Astarion is sliding down an icy hill made of doubt, and he can’t stop his descent. Has he doomed her to a life sharing his pain? What does he have to offer her other than his unconditional love? The shadows have claimed him once more.

No.

He can’t let himself fall back into old patterns. She can handle his darkness.

The silence of this room without her heartbeat is dark and heavy. She should be here with him. A chill like an electric bolt runs down his spine at the sight of the empty room when he opens his eyes. It reminds him of when he left, a year as nightmarish as the one he spent in that tome, alone and hungry. He aches to hold her.

He takes long strides and taps on her door lightly.

“Are you okay, Astarion?” She sniffles, trying hard to confine the tears, making her eyes shine.

“I’m fine. Come here.” He wraps his arms around her, kissing her forehead and pressing his cheek against her. She hugs him awkwardly, more awkwardly than he hugged her the first time they did this. She keeps her hands off him, arms stiff at her sides. “It’s okay. You can touch me.”

She hesitates before placing her hands on his waist. He kisses her temple, gently grabs her arms and guides them around him, “A proper hug, yes? You can touch my back, love. It’s alright.”

He can feel the warmth of her hands hovering over his back, unsure, but slowly press into him, and she hugs him tightly. He’s surprised to find that it soothes the agitation. The spring coiled around his chest, constricting it, dissipates in her arms. He takes a deep breath to test how good the looseness feels.

“Come back to our room, hm? I will explain what happened.”

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmurs against him.

“I know,” he rubs her back, “but I want to - if you’re willing to hear it, of course.”

“Always.”

They sit on the bed as he describes the memory in as much detail as possible. She stays quiet as she always did, waiting patiently when he must take a moment to collect himself, offering him her hand. When something he recalls upsets him further, she squeezes his fingers, grounding him and encouraging him to take a break - when and if he needs to.

“I don’t know why it agitated me so much. It made me afraid,” he rasps faintly with a shaky breath as his brows pinch together, perplexed. It’s still troubling him. “Her touching my back was not the only reason, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

She nods with a contemplative gaze. Her beautiful doe-eyes blink as she ponders, and the candlelight scintillates in them. She grabs a blanket and pats her lap, “Do you want to put your head in my lap?”

He smiles. She always knows exactly what he needs. Astarion rests his head on her legs, and she covers him with the blanket, making sure his back and scars are entirely cloaked. Tucking it around him, like he tucks her in at night to ensure it doesn’t slip.

Rubbing his arm, she keeps her voice to a solacing whisper, “Do you want to know what I think, or would you rather I just listen?”

She has always been keenly observant and deeply perceptive. Often able to gleam the tiniest subtleties in inflection, tone or body language. It is what makes her a master at persuasion and intimidation. Her insight is as boundless as the cosmos. If anyone can help him shed light on this, it’s her. If he is to heal, he needs to know what provokes these feelings.

“I have gone over it in my mind time and time again,” he sighs. “I cannot figure it out myself. Tell me what you think.”

“Stop me at any point if you no longer wish to hear it,” she urges. “May I hug you closer?”

With the blanket covering his back and scars, he feels protected and secure. He nods, “Yes.”

She curls around him. Her warmth seeps into him, forcing back the gloom. “You said you did not like the way she looked at you. You mentioned it twice. What look did she give you, and what did it remind you of?”

Flashes of the woman’s greedy eyes play out in his mind. She stared at him as if she wanted to devour and lose herself in him. She stared at him like he was her saviour. She stared at him like they used to stare at him before he brought them to Cazador.

Hells.

Will he ever stop being astounded with how clever she is? She’s not telling him what she thinks. She’s bringing his attention to details he skimmed over so he can work it out himself.

“It… it reminded me of the way my victims used to look at me,” his voice quivers and cracks, tears spring to his eyes, rivulets rolling out the corners. Good Gods, his body is trembling as he fights to keep his emotions from giving way. “The bloody dingy tavern, the way she simply trusted me to walk her home, the quiet, dark streets and the ardent lust in her eyes… It all felt like I was back to doing his bidding as if I was the fucking rake again.”

She rescinds her pressure on him slightly. He used to hate being touched when he felt like this, but not anymore, as long as it’s her touching him. He pulls her back around him. His body shakes more violently now as he continues to fight the overwhelming emotions.

“You don’t have to fight, Astarion. Don’t be afraid to break. We all fall.” She soothes him with an almost ethereal voice like an angel whispering, “I’ve got you. For as long as you need. I’ve always got you.”

Sobs wrack his body, tears streaming down his face, and he falls to pieces in her arms. She’s not close enough like this. His body is painfully bare without her skin on his. She is the light that drives the shadows back. She is sunshine. She is his. He shrugs off the blanket with haste. She gasps at his quick movement, and his fingers find the hem of her nightdress.

She stops him with a confused look, “Astarion, what-”

“I don’t need it,” he chokes out, hoarse and urgent. “Not with you. Not anymore. I want to feel you. Will you let me?”

She removes her nightdress and opens her arms with a smile, tears streaming down her face. She wraps her arms around him, limbs cocooning his body, and pulls him securely to her, his bare back against her warm chest, choking away the fear.

With her, he is seen. He is understood. He is safe.

“I love you, Kamena. Ai armiel telere maenen hir.” He speaks to her through sobs in Elven, their mother tongue, meaning “You hold my heart forever.”

“I love you too, Astarion. Ai armiel telere maenen hir,” she chimes with a featherlight kiss to his shoulder.

Safe in her arms, he shatters and breaks.  

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I've loved writing since I was a child but have never been confident enough to post anything for others to read. The encouragement I've received has been positively incredible, and it's been helping me through some hard times in my life - sincerely thank you so much! :)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We did name Tav in this chapter. I apologize if it's not well received but I think it will make senes going forward. I did try to do it in a natural-ish way.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion x oc #named tav #astarion x named tav

[wastemanjohn]

nine people you want to know better tag game

tagged by @rottencanines and @lovetransaction ty <3

Last Song: the dresden dolls - 672

Favorite Color: pink. particularly hot trashy pornstar pink.

Last Movie/TV Show: i'm rewatching house atm!

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: sweet but i like spicy and savoury too. my ibs doesn't like spicy but it can fuck off tbh.

Relationship Status: single and loving it, who knew how good life could be without picking up after someone and their crusty boxer shorts

Last Thing I Googled: i dont want to say lmao

Current Obsession: skinny whip bars, fluffy sockies, indie sleaze makeup, oat milk hot chocolates from costa. and john winchester. that's static tho.

Last Book: still reading plain bad heroines between lots of fic

Looking Forward To: my trip to budapest in may, ami coming to visit in june, and various gigs and parties i have coming up <3

trying to tag who i haven't seen tagged err @zombiejunk @wodkapudding @hook-excho-squall-bankfull @boywifesammy @theangiediary @missmisdemeanor @beautyandthebestiality @missroserose @thosehawkeyes

#tagged #quizzle

[erisenyo]

Some Jeeko for Day 5 of @dilf-cember anyone? Featuring inappropriate uses of "Sir" and "Lieutenant", getting into it in the communal showers, not at all recognizing your own motivations, and trying to establish dominance by making the other person come first.

[“No, you’re going to tell me all on your own,” Zuko snaps, shoving Jee again, this time with enough force to rock him back a step. “What am I.” “Sir,” Jee grits out as he steps back into his at-rest position in the water, his skin prickling from the spray and bending lashing against him and the barely-contained aggression in the air. “It’s easy to act like a big man when the other person can’t hit you back.” “Do it then,” Zuko immediately demands with another shove. “Hit me. I didn’t ask you to hold back.” “So you can get me court-martialed?” Jee snaps, fire twisting hot in answer. Like he hasn’t played that fucking game before. He isn’t going to fall for it twice. “I’m not an idiot. Sir.” Zuko clearly catches the implication right away this time, flushing all the way up his stupid bald head again before leaning in and hissing right into Jee’s face, “So I don’t have to hear you squalling like a fishmonger’s wi—” Jee takes a swing before the words finish leaving the brat’s mouth.] OR, Lieutenant Jee has had it up to here with tiptoeing around Prince Zuko’s stupid, obnoxious, stubborn, childish refusal to listen. Zuko has had it up to here with being called a child.

#Jee just really wants to punch Zuko in the fact and that's all guys #He definitely isn't sublimating anything into that #fic writing #my writing #Jeeko #Jee #Zuko #atla fic

[theflirtmeister]

for slutty Saturday hehe: silas/colum breeding kink if you’re up for it!

ao3 link

Eighth House winters came cold and hard, a sign from the Lord Undying that his disciples must overcome the bitter to get to the sweetness of summer. The Master Templar’s rooms were the worst, drafty windows, wooden floorboards, all designed to make the Eighth heir seek penance and help with their self-flagellation.

The Emperor’s Summons sat neatly folded on Silas’s desk, the flimsy occasionally shivering when a particularly strong gust of wind came through the cracks in the walls. A well-worn copy of the Tome also lay on the desk, upside down with the pages splayed open like a gutted fish.

It was quiet, apart from the sounds of the Master Templar getting fucked stupid by his Cavalier.

They were both on their sides, Colum’s leg hooked over Silas’s thigh as he pounded into him, one hand firm on Silas’s belly to feel the press of his cock. The room was hot and sticky, and Colum grunted into Silas’s ear, unable to stop the movement of his hips if he even wanted to.

“Colum,” Silas whined, and then kept repeating the name like a prayer, slurring into one long breath of ColumColumColum. He kept thrusting his hips, trying to get friction on his neglected cock, but Colum knew his Uncle all too well. The merest touch would have Silas cumming over himself, and Colum was determined to make Silas last.

“You’re so good,” Colum panted, “Si, you’re so good.”

Silas was hot and tight around Colum’s cock, and he clenched at the praise, whimpering. He took hold of Colum’s hand and pressed it to his chest, over the spot where his heart was, thumping fast underneath the skin. Colum rubbed his thumb over the pebble of Silas’s nipple, and Silas whimpered again and pressed his face further into the pillow.

“Please,” He begged, “Asht – Colum-“

Colum kissed his ear, wet and sticky. “What do you want?” He asked, his voice so deep that it surprised even himself.

Silas groaned in reply, driving himself back against Colum, and Colum forgot every word in his head, focussing instead on how good it felt to fuck his Necromancer. He tightened his grip on Silas, and snapped his hips against him, the vicious sound of flesh on flesh. Silas was panting with each thrust, and Colum buried his face into his neck, mouthing at his skin.

“God you’re so – fucking – perfect –“ Colum panted out, and Silas made a noise that would cause the Emperor Undying himself to come in his pants. “Si – “

“I need,” Silas whimpered, “I need-“

“Yeah?” Colum’s breath was hot in Silas’s ear. “Tell me, c’mon, tell me you-“

“Breed me.” Silas sobbed out, “I want you to breed me Colum please.”

Colum’s brain went white hot with lust, a whistling in his ear like being dragged down to the River. Silas, bred? Silas, filled with his come, belly stretched, womb vats be damned? Silas and Colum’s DNA even more intertwined, a crime against God?

“Yeah,” Colum said, and slid his hand down to Silas’s stomach, squeezing the skin. “Yeah, I’ll breed you.”

Silas squalled, looking down at Colum’s big palm splayed across him. “Please,” He begged again, “Please I want it.”

“You’ll get it,” Colum promised, fucking into him so hard that it was going to leave bruises on Silas’s ass. “I’ll get you nice and full – I promise – Whatever you want Si – I’ll give it to you.”

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease-“ The Master Templar of the Eighth House sobbed, “Get me pregnant.”

It was too much. Colum shoved his face into Silas’s neck and came so hard that he saw stars, filling Silas up with his cum until he was trembling and his whole body hurt. He could feel it wet and sticky inside of Silas’s ass, his cock keeping him plugged, and Colum squeezed his eyes shut tight, imagining Silas bred and fat and happy.

“Colum,” Silas said breathlessly, almost in awe, and Colum blindly reached between Silas’s legs and wrapped his hand around his cock. He was velvet to the touch, slick with pre-come, and Colum jerked him roughly until Silas made a high-pitched noise and spilt over Colum’s hand, shuddering.

“Beautiful thing,” Colum said, rubbing his face against Silas’s skin. “You – God.”

“You should not take the Emperor’s name in vain,” Silas said, but his voice was shaky, and when Colum twisted his hand, he thrusted roughly into Colum’s grip. “No-“

Colum gave Silas’s ear a kiss, and then the back of his neck. Silas shivered, tilting his head back, the two bodies rocking against each other for a long while, even though there was no more pleasure left to wring out from either of them.

“Breeding then,” Colum said eventually, and Silas groaned.

“No more speaking of it Brother Asht. It was… an indiscretion.”

“Of course,” Colum said, and wiped his hand on Silas’s stomach, pressing down a little to feel Silas yelp. “I’ll never bring it up again.”

Silas hesitated. “Well-“ He said, and Colum rubbed his face against Silas’s neck, hiding a smile.

“My bond as my word.” He promised, and kissed him again.

#ANSWERED #eighthcest #this was SO fun to write

[necromancers-incorporated]

First chapter of a wip (dark mog au)

“I am ready to request my second lesson” Morrigan whispered to herself. A volley of concerns and excuses tumbled through her mind, but she shut them down. All at once, her bedroom went dark, but for millions of glowing red specks of light. 

“I have to admit, I thought you’d take longer.” Squall materialized out of the darkness. “‘Never going to be like me’ and all that. Glad to find out I was wrong.”

“You’re not, I just want to learn how to use my power. I’m not going to be like you.” Morrigan couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, as hard as she tried. 

“Well then, Miss Crow. Would you like to learn how to summon Wunder?” 

For a split second, Morrigan’s cheek twitched into a smile. “Absolutely.”

“Well then,” squall clapped, and the Hunt vanished as suddenly as they had arrived. “Let us begin.” 

—

“Morningtide’s child is merry and mild,”Morrigan began. Her singing voice was horrendous, but she pressed on. “Eventide’s child is wicked and wild,” she kept going, confidence growing with every off key note. “morningtide’s child arrives with the dawn, eventide’s child brings gale and storm” she flexed her fingers, feeling a faint prickle. 

“Where are you going, oh son of the morning?” Squall prodded.

“Up with the sun where the winds are warning”

“Where are you going, oh daughter of the night?” 

“Deep down below where the pale things bite.” Morrigan opened her eyes to a near blinding quantity of Wunder. It swirled around her and caught her in a pale, glowing tornado until all she could see was golden light. “What do I do?” Morrigan asked, a notable edge of terror creeping into her voice. 

“You use it.” Squall said simply, as if this were obvious. 

With her panic, the taste of ash rose in her throat. She squeezed her eyes to prevent a few desperate tears from falling, silently begging for Squall to stop it, for Jupiter to come in, anything!

“Breathe” Squall’s voice cut through her fear like a hot knife through lard. Morrigan opened her eyes and breathed. Were those… sparks? And was there a little less Wunder in the room? She exhaled again, and all the wunder around her pulled itself into a glowing fireball. Squall smiled. 

“Inferno.” 

That's fucking brilliant, I love the dark Mog aus, she would be a fantastic villain. Teacher Ezra is also fabulous and I love their dynamic.

#nevermoor #asks #morrigan crow #dark!mog #ezra squall

[wardenannie]

TessJoel prompt : Tess and Joel first time together ? How do you think it happened ? 👀

this is always fun to speculate on!

NS*W and TW for rough sex.

-

He slams her into the wall as his apartment door slams shut behind them. Hands like thick manacles around her slim wrists. He pins her, snarls in her face, demands explanation because he's a desperate man, and this is all he can do.

"What were you thinkin'?"

Tess snarls right back at him, struggling against his hold but he is larger, stronger by fact of simple biology.

"Fuck you," Tess snaps. "Who the fuck do you think you are anyways. Who works for who, here?!"

Joel rolls his eyes and releases her with a chuff, "Oh shut the hell up, we're past that shit."

It's Tess's turn to get in his face, "Oh are we, Joel? Because you just stood back and-

His expression screws up like he has scented something foul in the air between them, he stands tall, peering down at her as she fumes "I did my fuckin' job. But you-

"Me?" Tess laughs sardonically, "I preserved the whole interaction, Joel. You would've had us shoot our way outta there, but me? I saved our asses."

"Bitch," is all he can reply because she is right, Tess is always right. And then he grabs her face and kisses her hard, because he doesn't know what else to do. And she's close. So close that he can smell her sweat where it dries on her skin, so close that he can smell the homemade shampoo she uses in her hair; lavender and mint. So close that he can see the flecks of green embedded in the honey of her iris.

He hates all of these things; how they comingle and combine to make up Tess. His Tess.

So, in the moment, it is impossible not to kiss her with ferocity and tongue and teeth. And she's kissing him back, of course. Because all the things he loves to hate about her, she loves to hate about him right back.

She tastes like metal and bourbon and blood when her teeth scrape his lower lip too hard. He growls into the kiss, pins her to the wall again, by her hips this time. Grinds against her body. He knows he's gripping too hard, hard enough to bruise, but he loves the sensation of her fighting against his hold, nails raking his chest, cursing against his mouth between desperate kisses.

The she slams her fists into his chest, forcing him off of her for the briefest moment so their eyes can meet. Their pupils are blown, nostrils flared like wild animals. Joel's face is hot, Tess is pink under her freckles.

"Bed." Tess orders. "Now."

He doesn't think, he only acts, practically tackling her in his effort to scoop her into his arms. The gesture is meant to be romantic but Tess squalls and fights him with all the ferocity of a feral cat until he wrestles her down onto his mattress.

They've never fucked before. But this is an event that has been years in the making. He touches himself to the thought of her nearly every night. She's the only thing that can make him come, damn that pile of mildewed nudey mags stowed away under his bed. Tess is all he wants.

They're kissing again, frantic and hungry, teeth scraping and fingers pulling and draggy against clothing until it is torn away. They part just long enough for Tess to get her tank-top over her head, then Joel is at her throat, kissing and sucking and biting the soft skin their raw while she gasps and curses beneath his assault.

When he pulls back there it a pretty, deep red mark marred into her skin. Joel smiles at his handiwork.

"Bastard," she curses, but she's already reaching for his cock.

She doesn't bother with any sort of pretense and foreplay as she shucks his jeans down his legs, followed by his briefs. She does whistle at the sight of his erection.

"'Big guy' wasn't inaccurate," she chuckles.

Joel puffs proud, but growing impatient. He palms one of her tits and demands, "On your knees."

Tess nibbles her lower lip, some playfulness replacing her urgency. Her eyes flash, and with feline grace she rolls and twists out of her pants and panties, kicking them away before landing promptly on her hands and knees.

"Quit wasting time," she snaps at him as he gives himself a few cursory strokes, spreading her cheeks to get a good look at the pink, wet slide of her waiting pussy. She's prefect, he can't wait to sink into her. To fuck her.

He's imagined this moment a hundred nights over. Finally fucking Tess. Sealing the deal. Making her his.

"Joel!" She barks, but before she can continue to scold him he's pressing the thick head of himself between her lower lips, into her slit, splitting her open with a long, low, masculine groan.

"Ho- Holy fuck," Tess gasps, hands grasping at the sheets as he drags her back and onto his dick. He gives her no time to adjust to the stretch of him before he begins thrusting his hips fast and hard.

Tess screams with pleasure-pain as their hips clap and wet noises fill up Joel's tiny bedroom.

"Oh god, Jesus fucking Christ, Joel, not so deep," she commands, but he ignores her. He does slow some, taking more care and consideration with each thrust, but it only serves to send him fucking deeper into her depths, brushing up against all of those sensitive spots that have her writhing and panting on the sheets.

She glances over her shoulder, and for a moment their wild gazes lock. In a demonstration of dominance, while holding her stare, he picks up his pace again, the wet slide of his cock into her sends delicious sensations up his spine. Tess, fighting back a groan of pleasure, flashes her teeth at him.

She begins to tighten up around him, her thighs quivers where their bodies slap together with near violence.

"Joel!" She screams his name, just like he has always wanted her to. Like he has heard a hundred nights over in his dreams.

"Come," he grouses, low, gravel in his voice. His big hands grip her hips with bruising force. He lifts one to slap her ass and she keens, back arching at the sharp contact. Wetness rushes around his cock as her pussy squeezes in tight around him, massaging along his shaft in a way that has him spilling in seconds.

Joel seats himself deep on instinct. Because he is a man and she is a woman and this is what men and women do.

He puffs through the aftershocks of his orgasm, Tess going limp under him as he holds her hips up, grip tight.

"You sonofabitch," Tess pants into the sheets, she presses her hips back onto him, even as he begins to soften up, because her own orgasm is still abating at the sensation of being full is too good to forfeit.

"'That's a funny way you got of sayin' 'thank you'," Joel rumbles and pulls out in a rush of cum.

He sits on the edge of the bed, cock out, shiny with Tess's essence, not entirely sure what to do with himself. All of the anger and urgency from before as faded and-

"You fucking came in me," Tess laments, scrambling to sit up. She stares between her thighs, a pearl of milky white leaks out of her and onto the blanket. "Joel what the fuck."

Shit. She's right, she's always right.

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly, "I- I'm sorry I didn't think about it I just..."

"Fuck," Tess buries her face in her hands.

Joel blinks and looks away. Their first time together, soiled.

"At least the sex was good?" He offers. Hot would be a better descriptor. Fiery. Intense. But he settles for 'good'.

Tess slaps him clean across the face.

#tessjoel #joel x tess #tess x joel #my writing

[neondiamond]

🎄 Recently Read Fics - December 2022 🎄

These are all the amazing fics I read over the past month (from shortest to longest). Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to show the authors your appreciation if you read any of these! ❤️

🎄 the prettiest customer (and the cutest barista) by @onlythebravest (1k, G)

Louis is the pretty customer that comes in and orders hot chocolate while Harry is the cute barista that takes his order.

🎄 St. Elena by @allwaswell16 (1k, NR)

When Harry’s illness worsened, the crew of the Ace of Spades sailed to the island home of Captain Grim.

An Ace of Spades timestamp from Zayn’s point of view

🎄 Star On Top Of The Tree by iliveforyou_ilongforyou (2k, G)

Louis and Harry get a tree that is too big for Louis to reach the top of, leaving him unable to put the star on top. They find a solution.

🎄 Oh Little Town of BATHlehem by @londonfoginacup (2k, G)

Louis Tomlinson needs a small pink bathtub.

He needs it.

His fucking family had forgotten to include him in the email chain for Doris for Christmas, with her very carefully thought out Christmas list, until every easy item was gone. Only when he asked Lottie if anyone else had heard from Doris yet, only then did they realise their mistake and forward the email chain to him.

So, it’s either a small pink bathtub or an entire bouncy castle. And if he had the money for a bouncy castle that would be fine, but that fucker costs more than his monthly rent and he simply does not make that much working as an optometrist assistant.

🎄 Advent Drabbles by @berzerkshires (series of 25 drabbles, various ratings)

Glimpses of the 25 days leading up to Christmas with Harry, Louis, and his broken arm.

🎄 Charm Your Pants Off by @evilovesyou (2k, G)

When Harry hurt himself in front of all of his coworkers, he thought his Christmas Eve couldn’t get any worse. That was, until he ended up in an actual ambulance.

Perhaps the gentle and ridiculously attractive doctor he meets at the hospital can make his trip (pun absolutely intended) worth it?

🎄 The Elf who Saved Christmas by @ladyaj-13 (2k, G)

Ernie and Doris are tired, grouchy, and no one told Louis you had to book an appointment to see Santa.

🎄 a face of a lover with a fire in his heart by @voulezloux (2k, G)

it’s christmas time and whamageddon is upon us. with all of their friends out, harry and louis make a bet to see who can not listen to the wham! song longer.

🎄 Change of Plans by @haztobegood (2k, G)

Harry and Louis plan to visit their families over Christmas. Sometimes, plans don't work out.

🎄 A Kiss for Christmas by @ladyaj-13 (3k, T)

Louis meets Father Christmas, then twenty one years later, he meets his son.

🎄 All the lights are sparkling for you, it seems by @thebreadvansstuff (3k, T)

Harry is determined to make Louis' birthday count, but his plans turn into a fiasco.

🎄 Mistletoe Cove by @wabadabadaba (4k, G)

a small town throws a snowman competition in which two teams are convinced they will be winners of the coveted prize- a reservation to Mistletoe Cove. Only one team can be the winner though, who will it be: Harry Styles and Niall Horan or Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson?

🎄 Ho Ho Hopefully by @larrieblr (5k, T)

The one where Harry is an elf in Santa’s workshop, and Louis is one of the humans he’s been assigned to.

🎄 Just You and I (a starry sky) by @justanothershadeofblue (7k, E)

"getting accidentally pregnant by his childhood best friend-with-benefits" was definitely not on Harry Styles' holiday to-do list - but apparently it's what has happened, so now he has to figure out how to tell Louis without ruining Louis' birthday, their family holiday, oh, and literally everything else about their lives. Oops?

🎄 Grow as We Go by @larryatendoftheday (7k, T)

Six years into their relationship, Harry and Louis hit a breaking point. Louis is tired of shoving the ring box into the back of his underwear drawer, so he throws out an ultimatum.

Or a fic about growing up and choosing each other.

🎄 Snow Squalls & Kitty Paws by @littleroverlouis (8k, G)

Louis and Zayn own The Future is Meow, a bookstore-slash-cat café, and are spreading the holiday cheer to their customers this Christmas Eve. A few morning snow flakes turn into a full-blown blizzard and before they know it, the safest place for them and their employees to spend the night is the bookstore.

Shop regular and object of Louis' affections, Harry, is also snowed in with them— as is another man who Harry seems more than friendly with.

Will it be a Christmas miracle if Louis survives the snow squalls, a seemingly unrequited crush, and a curmudgeonly tortoiseshell cat?

🎄 Silver-White Winters by @lululawrence (9k, NR)

Liam Payne had learned many things as a bartender. He'd learned when people needed to talk, or when they needed a gentle smile. He now knew when they wanted advice or someone to just agree with them. He also had come to recognize when someone was past the limit and needed to be told no.

But when it came to holidays, Liam had learned that when people came into the Neighborhood Pub alone on Christmas Eve, it was for a reason.

Niall, Zayn, Harry, and Louis all definitely have their own reasons for showing up at Liam's bar alone on Christmas Eve. With the help of a surprise winter storm, none of them will have a reason to be alone for long.

🎄 Apparently by Chance, at Precisely the Right Moment by @lousmoonshine (19k, E)

Alpha Harry doesn’t believe in soulmates. Omega Louis has been looking for his soulmate all his life.

🎄 Here where you should be by @lunarheslwt (19k, G)

When Harry, an anxious alpha, found himself panicking over last minute Christmas shopping, he found comfort in the kind omega shop assistant, Louis. He wasn't meant to invite the omega home for Christmas when he found out that he's spending Christmas alone. He wasn't meant to catch feelings. Hell, he wasn't even meant to be able to go home for the holiday. It was shaping up to be a Christmas full of surprises.

🎄 make you mine this season by @disgruntledkittenface (28k, M)

After Harry’s Christmas plans fall through, she decides to surprise her best friend Nick in New York. Unfortunately, Nick decided to surprise her in San Francisco at the same time. When they realize what happened, they each resign themselves to staying and spending time in the other’s city. Harry tries to make the best of things, making elaborate plans to distract herself from feeling lonely, while Nick is just looking forward to her first real vacation from her hectic job in years. Neither of them will have the Christmas that they expected, but maybe they’ll each get the one that they need.

🎄 love drunk, waiting on a miracle by @hellolovers13 (30k, E)

Christmas inspired Coffeshop AU

Harry has a bit of a crush on a customer. Thankfully, the feeling is mutual.

These are their first 24 days together.

🎄 Set the Sky Alight, Oh Holy Night by @londonfoginacup (33k, T)

One house, five almost-strangers (plus Niall), six new beginnings.

🎄 I Keep Looking For Magic by @lululawrence (36k, NR)

Harry loves Christmas, but this year is special. After ten years of boyfriends all failing to ever meet Harry's family, Harry has a fiance to introduce and things are looking like they will be perfect.

Until they break up.

Harry cannot go home alone when he had promised to bring a significant other again. This leaves him with little choice but to find someone to pretend they are his fiance.

Surely nothing could go wrong with this plan.

🎄 Let Your Heart Be Light by @cyantific (59k, WIP, T)

Louis Tomlinson, a self-proclaimed holiday-hater, loses his job two weeks before Christmas. Broke and desperate to see his family back home in England, he takes the only job left at the mall as one of Santa’s helpers. Harry is an unconventional mall Santa, the youngest one they’ve had in years, but with as much holiday spirit as any other seasoned Saint Nick. He’s determined to un-Grinch the new guy in Santa’s Village if it takes until Christmas, then he finds out the devastating reason Louis has lost his Christmas cheer. Will Harry be just the thing Louis needs to help him get his sparkle back?

🎄 Love This Christmas by @chloehl10 (67k, M)

Teacher Harry is excited for Christmas with his class. When new TA Louis starts, sparks fly between the two men. But Louis’ always dashing off, and Harry's left pining. Will Christmas help them find love?

🎄 Mistletoe’s For Two by @ireallysawanangel (90k, E)

After an encounter in a coffee shop with the rudest man he's ever met, Louis hopes the city is just big enough that he'll never bump into him again. When he spots that man at a bar the following evening, a plan begins to form. They both need dates for their respective Christmas parties and decide to use each other for their own benefit. They'll help one another through the holidays and then 'break it off' on New Year's, then agree to never see each other again. Developing feelings was not part of the plan.

#most of these are christmas fics #but there’s a few that aren’t #28th appreciation #fic rec #monthly recs #hlcreators #trackinghome #trackinghappily #tracksintheam

[string-of-beads]

IX. Squall

You kept the fire going until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning. The fire is just glowing cinders now. You wake up with the sun shining through the curtains in the sitting room and you’re still alone. The worry that has plagued you all night reappears in your mind all too quickly. Tommy’s gone. Questions of what you should do, who you should find, and where he would go race through your thoughts. You put out the last remnants of fire in the hearth and decide to go to The Garrison in hopes that Arthur is there, in hopes that he knows how to find Tommy. You hastily put your coat and boots on and place his coat in your arms. You step outside and are blinded by the glittering layer of snow in the sunlight. You force your eyes to adjust and you walk briskly in the direction of the pub.

You don’t get far when a familiar car drives beside you, going in the direction of the house, John’s car. You sprint as fast as you can back towards the house. You see the car pull up and all three eldest Shelby brothers get out of the car; all three of them. You can tell Tommy’s there because of his strikingly dark hair and lack of fucking coat. They’re standing outside the front door talking, the sight of their nonchalance enrages you. “Thomas Shelby!” You yell as loud as you can and all three men whirl in the direction of the sound. You’re close enough that they can immediately see that you’re not a threat. You’re still screaming as you march directly up to Tommy, hot, angry tears welling up in your eyes. “Thomas Shelby! Where in the hell have you been all night? Huh? You fucking bastard! Where the fuck were you? You had me worried sick you fucking dunce! Out in that bloody fucking snow storm with barely a stitch! ‘I’ll be back soon’ my fucking arse!” Then you turn on John and Arthur, “and you two! Where the hell did you find him? Did you have to scrape him off the sidewalk?” You take a step closer to him, “Probably had to peel you off the Garrison long bar by the fucking smell of you! How dare you do this to me! When I think of what could’ve happened to you-” The last part catches in your throat and tears flow freely down your cheeks. You shove Tommy’s coat into his chest and stomp inside, without a word from any of them.

You slam the door behind you, ripping your shoes and coat off as fast as you can. You make your way over to the basin in the kitchen. You face the wall as sobs rack your body. Your hands shake. Your breaths are ragged and uneven. You think you might pass out. You can’t breathe. This sort of panic isn’t new to you but that doesn’t make it any less easy to bear. You should sit down but you can’t force your body to move. Blood is rushing in your ears. You think you hear someone say your name. You are going to pass out. Your legs give out. Someone says your name again. You can feel yourself fall but black out before your head hits the floor.

Over and over and over again, someone is calling for you. They sound upset. Has something happened? Something’s wet on your face. Is it raining? You try to open your eyes but they’re so heavy. Maybe I'll keep them closed. Someone shakes you and you hear a familiar voice say your name. He sounds far away. He sounds upset. Is he alright? Tom?

You open your eyes to see all three Shelby brothers looking at you with wide, panicked eyes. The sight of them like that makes you panic as well, your heart races, and your breathing goes ragged again. You thrash and throw your arms wide to try and get some air. They all pull away and you sit up, panicked and confused. You feel arms grab you from behind and squeeze you in a tight, restrictive embrace. Someone speaks into your ear, “Hey, hey, hey, hey! Relax! Relax. Breathe.” He breathes slowly in and out in an exaggerated example for you. “In and out, just like that angel. Just breathe for me. Alright. Just breathe.” He breathes with you until your head stops swimming, your eyes focus, and you relax against him. With a hiccup you ask, “Tommy?” His grip doesn’t loosen at all but he says, “Yes, love. It’s me. Arthur and John are here too.” You blush, embarrassed that they saw you like this. “Are you hurt, love?” He’s speaking quietly in your ear, like you’re a startled cat he’s trying to give a dish of milk. “My head, Tommy. My head hurts.” You feel him nod, “Okay, love. I hear you. We’re gonna move you to the couch. Is that alright?” You try to nod but you gasp and wince with the movement. He turns his head away from you to speak to his brothers, “I don’t think she can walk. Help me get her over there?” They must agree because John bends down and lifts you into his arms. The swift movement makes you feel dizzy and sick. You gag in spite of yourself and Tommy is quick to snatch you from his brother’s hold, you gag again. Things are moving too fast. You feel lopsided. Tommy holds you tightly in his arms, the pressure helps ground you but being in the air is disorienting and nauseating. You start panting with the effort to hold back vomit. He speaks slowly and quietly, “I’m going to move. I’m going to lay you on the couch. Arthur is going to bring the bucket by the side of the basin, just in case. Then he’s going to get your quilt from upstairs. John is going to fetch Aunt Poll and bring her here to help you feel better. But none of us are going to take a step before you’re ready. Understand?” John and Arthur both respond, “yes.” Your eyes are shut tightly. You quietly say, "okay." Tommy walks slowly into the sitting room. The sound of hurried steps makes you dizzy, even though you aren’t moving very fast you get motion sick and it takes everything in you not to puke all over Tommy. You’re placed gently on the sofa and you vomit into the bucket placed gingerly on your lap. You feel much better. Tommy slowly places pillows under your head and wraps your quilt around you. You feel him start to leave with the dirty bucket but Arthur quietly says, “Let me. You stay here.” Arthur walks out of the house and Tommy quietly pulls up a chair next to you.

Even with your eyes closed it’s still too bright in this room. Everything is quiet though and you can feel yourself relaxing. After a few moments of silence, Tommy lets out a long breath and speaks slowly and quietly, “I’m sorry I left last night. I shouldn’t’ve worried you like that. I’m very sorry. I got jumpy. Buying the ring. Seeing you in that shop. I needed… a breath. I had planned to meet Arthur and John at The Garrison. We stayed too long drinking. They convinced me it was my bachelor party," he laughs lightly at this. "We certainly drank like it was." He pauses, you're tired and wanting a bit of sleep so you try to stop your head from spinning in the silence. He speaks again but sounds anxious. "You came in out of nowhere and… I'm… I have a terrible track record with girls from the Garrison." You stir and try to open your eyes. Tommy sees this and kneels beside you, one of his hands rests lightly on the top of your head. You manage to open your eyes completely and see him gazing at you so sweetly. It reminds you of that night, not even a week ago, in The Garrison when Tommy first kissed you. This makes you smile a little and that makes him smile.

You decide to speak, to be vulnerable. Not for the first time, you feel like you're overstepping but you're supposed to marry him tomorrow. You don't look at him when you speak. Your eyes fix on the ceiling. Now it's time for you to take the step. You speak quickly and to the point. "I was engaged to a boy that died in France. His name was James. I met him at school. I was studying to become a teacher. I loved him." You start to cry but the shooting pain in your head forces you to try and breathe, Tommy breathes with you. He coaches you through and patiently waits for you to continue. You speak with a shaky voice, "My parents emigrated to New York while I attended school. They died of the influenza not six months after they left. My grandparents died when I was a teenager. The five of us shared one home, that's part of the reason why my ma and da left." Your voice breaks with emotion that you can't hold back any more.

Tommy coaches your breaths and caresses your face with his left hand, "I'm sorry. I-" you hold his hand against your face, silencing him, determined to continue. The mental images of your things upstairs float through your head. "The things I brought; that photo is the last one we took with granny and granda, granny gave me that ivory comb that granda gave her as a wedding present, the medal was my da's for honor during the Boer war," you're speaking more quickly now, like the faster you say it all the less it will hurt. Through it all Tommy just keeps his eyes on you. "James gave me those roses before he left. His sister was the one that helped me dry them so they'd remind me of him while he was away fighting. My ma and granny made the quilt together for me when I was small. It's always been on my bed. The ring-," you draw in a rattling breath, "James had to write to my parents when he asked for my hand in marriage, he did it months before he actually proposed, the fool." You laugh, and cry, as you remember his crooked smile when he knelt on one knee and nearly dropped the ring in the Avon. "My ma sent her ring back with their letter of approval. It was tradition." You fortify yourself. "The ring was mine, and ma's, and granny's engagement ring." You take another shuddering breath. Your soul is bared. You almost wish you hadn't said anything. You wish you could curl back up in your cocoon and be silent. Your fingers trace the familiar stitching of the quilt. Tears prick your eyes again. "That's why I was so angry that you just left last night. I thought I would be all alone again." You brace yourself and turn your head to look at him. "The nights are getting darker and I can't be alone again." His eyes are apologetic and slightly misty. "I'm here. With you. Now. You're not alone. Not now, not ever again." He brushes hair away from your face with gentle fingers.

The stones in front of the house crunch with John's return. The front door opens. You hear Polly and two other female voices directing and questioning. Tommy replaces his hand on your head and stands as all five people enter in a rush. However, they all stay in the entrance hall and seem to wait for instructions. Tommy kneels back down and quietly explains, "You know Poll," then he points to the woman with curly hair, "that's John's wife, Esme." Then he points to the other woman with short dark hair, "and that's my sister Ada Thorne. They're going to come over here and fuss over you, like they should. I won't be far. Alright?" You smile in appreciation, "Thank you, Tommy." He gives you a soft kiss on the forehead and steps away.

Polly, Esme, and Ada come over. They ask you questions about what happened and how you feel. Polly soon declares that it’s just a hard knock on the head, nothing life threatening. "Ada, get her something to eat. Esme, fetch a cool cloth." They leave and Polly reaches into a large bag she brought. She pulls out a jar of willow bark and returns her attention to you, "is there any chance you're pregnant?" The room goes silent. You and Polly maintain eye contact but you can feel everyone else's attention shift to Tommy. "Uh, no. I don't think so." It's not the answer she's looking for so you continue, "it would be much too early to tell." This satisfies her. She directs someone to take the jar from her and brew some tea for you to help with the pain. Polly takes a seat in the chair Tommy brought next to you. "You should be alright in a few days. I only ask because John said Tom seemed especially worried." She looks over to the three men standing uselessly in the entryway. Her gaze shifts back to you, "You'll have to rest. You can go about your normal activities but take extra time to be a bit lazy." She smiles at you, "I understand you're getting married tomorrow?" It feels like a threat and you can't tell if that's how it's meant. Tommy steps forward, "Poll. You just told her to rest. Let her." She narrows her eyes at him in an appraising way. "I had just hoped you would invite your family. Are you?" She asks this matter-of-factly and Tommy rolls his eyes. He begrudgingly announces to the room, "Our wedding will be tomorrow at noon in Saint Peter's. You're welcome to come. But because my blushing bride needs rest, we'll be forgoing any celebration. The most exclusive invitation in town! That alright, Poll?" She sits back in a haughty way, "Maybe you should ask your ‘blushing bride?’" The fighting between them is making your head throb for an entirely different reason. You can't stop yourself from meekly asking, "Please stop fighting?" Everyone's gaze whips back to you. "I would love it if you all came, you, your spouses I don't know, your children I haven't met. That would be lovely. Maybe we can have family tea. I don't care but right now it hurts to think. So please don't fight or, if you must, go outside where the sound is muffled." The room is silent again but slowly the noise returns. You've moved your head back to face the ceiling and your eyes are closed. You hear Polly get up to leave and another heavy set of footsteps follow hers out the front door. Esme comes to sit next to you and presses the cold cloth to your head. "Good for you, love," she quietly praises. You settle in and only wake when Ada sits beside you with a plate of food.

.

.

.

You slept on and off all day, waking up for food and horrible willow bark tea. Slowly people drift away until it's dark outside and only Tommy is left to sit beside you. He's reading and must be vigilantly tending the fire because it's bright and warms the whole house. You wake once more. He must've recently finished smoking because the smell of the cigarette smoke still hangs around.

He looks beautiful like this, keeping watch. You begin to slowly sit up and Tommy rushes to help. He swings your legs over the edge of the sofa so your feet touch the ground. Your socks have disappeared and the floor is chilly. Your head still aches but only a little. The book he's reading is over his knee and he looks expectantly at you. "Where are my socks?" He smiles, “you have a habit of kicking them off when you sleep. Did you know that?" He slides his chair closer to you so your knees are almost touching. "I appreciate what you told me earlier. I didn't realize that you had lost people. I’m sorry I worried you." You try to speak, to apologize for being so forward but he stops you with a hand on your leg. "I… understand why you are so upset with me. I am truly sorry.”

He doesn’t speak for a few moments. His hand slides from your leg and rubs at his chin. He doesn’t look at you but looks into the fire instead. “I need you to know about Grace. I need you to know before you make vows you feel like you shouldn't." And so he tells you, plainly, that he loved this woman, Grace, and that he thought he could trust her. That she also worked at The Garrison. That he brought her home. That she betrayed him. That she might be waiting for him. That while he has no regrets in leaving, he might still love her. He tells you all of it. His candor, his complete transparency is the ultimate intimacy. You both have explored each other's bodies but know you've seen each other's souls. You've both laid it completely bare for the other to appraise.

You sit in the silence for a long time. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't need to. For a man like him to be half as vulnerable as he has been is… beautiful. He rubs the heels of his hands to his eyes, "I can find you a place to stay for the night if you'd like. I'd need time to figure out a long term plan, but it's possible." You stop him short by holding onto his forearm. His eyes meet yours. "Would you like me to go, Tom?" Without even thinking he whispers, "no." Just like that, it’s done. The decision has been made. The die is cast.

You stroke your thumb along his arm. It's a comforting gesture, one you'd come to know very well. You speak softly, "you said I wouldn't be alone." He shifts and holds both your hands in front of him. You continue in the same even tone, "now I make the same promise to you. You won't be alone." He holds your hands to his lips. It's not quite a kiss but the sentiment remains. You sit for a long time like that.

You ask him to sit next to you. He does. You ask him to read aloud from his book. He does. When you fall asleep, who carries you up to bed? He does.

#peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky fookin blinders #peaky fucking blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy x reader #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby x you

[thelowpriestesss]

Song of a Red Swan

For the first time in this one of my lifetimes, I feel a blister blossom. Rising and falling, the fire in my belly has just torched each peach tree. Ugly leaves left to wilt in the pit of my iris. In my sleep, woman scorned, woman scorched. Mad woman with the torch. Hey God, do you have a fucking lighter? I need to be smoking, puffing, huffing, fuming. I need to be hot, hateful, bumping with basalt. Inextinguishable—before the light goes out. I’m all covered in red- I’ve been hit with heat, now I’m sweating and calloused on my way back from the bar. I shake my feathers off before bed, beneath the destruction left in my wake. Give me one more light now, as an ode to my shattered carnelian. Can you see this blister? Famine unfolds in tandem with the final squall, the song of a red swan. Can anyone hear the lullaby? Trumpet one, trumpet two, trumpet three—inferno from the beak. Trumpet four, trumpet five. Poor infertile bird, nurse your baby blister, nurse your withering mother.

#author #creative writing #spilled prose #my writing #writers on tumblr #writers #spilled ink #fiction #poets on tumblr #spilled feelings #poetic prose #writeblr #writing #writerscommunity #female writers

[mindflayer-inc]

When Squall fell for Rinoa

Something that gets to me is when people think Squall fell for Rinoa.

Something people tend to miss in FF8 is that Squall doesn't like incompetent people at the start of the game. Squall is not friendly with Quistis and Zell, the teacher who is way too friendly and the spaz with a face tattoo. They get up in his business in a way he's not comfortable with. This reeks of incompetency (which do cause problems later on that affect missions).

However, there are plenty of people Squall is, well, less mean and even nice to.

Selphie: Slams into Squall on a first meeting and the first option is to take her on a tour of the Garden. So, while she's a ditz, she wanted to learn and be more competent at something. Later, despite being ditzy and distracted by wanting the festival to happen, she shows she's capable and stays on mission. Selphie doesn't let her personal side interfere with the mission.

Seifer: They got the bromance going on. Seifer is better than him in a lot of ways.

Raijin/Fujin: Raijin assumes Fujin will get Squall a drink and are rather chummy throughout the game. These two with Seifer are part of a disciplinary committee which, they seem to take seriously (they get Zell for "speeding").

Random Students: This is a weird one, but Squall has a lot of opportunities to talk to students before the SeeD exam and then before the graduation ball. If you talk to them, you get two views on Squall that don't come up a lot. First a few people call him a troublemaker and then people look up to him/trust him. A kid wants his brother to be more like Squall, Squall tries to help a student with their test by showing his gunblade, and a student tells Squall to keep a secret, but this random student wet himself during the exam... Why would someone tell another person this if they weren't at least somewhat friendly with them? Yeah teenagers are dumb, but no one is that dumb.

None of these people have shown they were incompetent, at least, not incompetent in a way that affects Squall personally. You can be incompetent but keep it far away from Squall.

But the big one?

Rinoa

Not at the dance. Not in FH. Not when the timey whimey shit has hit the fan.

When Squall wakes Rinoa up on the Forest Owl train.

Squall saw the Forest Owls as "incompetent as fuck/10" and it soured his mood. He seemed like he wanted to cause problems with them for the sake of disrespecting them, almost as if their incompetency offended him personally.

However, once he woke Rinoa up and they talked about how she used him at the dance? Squall isn't just smitten by her looks, if that's all it took then Quistis would have had him wrapped around her finger. No, Squall is attracted to Rinoa's professional side. Squall made a joke, without being prompted and without it being mean... Squall is in new territory.

Squall's mood shifts throughout the early part of the game regarding Rinoa based on how competent she is at the time. He isn't as disrespectful after he sees at least one person from the Forest Owls is competent.

There are times when Rinoa is incompetent, there are times when she's competent, but this true first meeting cemented to Squall that Rinoa's personality, despite being a bit of a princess, is fucking hot.

And that goes a long, long, way to wanting to be with someone.

All of this boils down to Squall's lie. A way to make a good character is to give them a lie that they need to either double down on or come to the truth. Squall's lie is that he thinks people shouldn't have to rely on others. Rinoa is hot, she seems interested, and she won't have to rely on him (and he her).

Which we know is a fucking lie, but he doesn't, and that's what makes it work so well. But that's for later in the game.

#Final Fantasy VIII #FF8 #Final Fantasy #Just a theory #Squall Leonheart #Rinoa Heartilly #You ever think Squall told Rinoa about how her mom seduced her dad back to her hotel room but nothing happened? #Do you think Rinoa will believe that nothing happened between Laguna and Julia? #Ramblings of a mad man

[discordapples]

PT. 3 Ego

Word count: 1.5k (7 mins read)

Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Imelda Reyes, Ominis Gaunt.

Angst & Smut. 🌶️

Summary

Sebastian and Imelda have a falling out, and Imelda promises retaliation. Ominis and Sebastian talk about the new girl and the dangers of the Promissum Mortis.

Read the third chapter below.

TW: Smut, cursing.

Sebastian | Hogwarts, Late August 1893.

The rock bites into Sebastian’s palms. His hands loose a patch of mortar. Under him, Imelda Reyes adds a string of bruises to her impressive collection, her nails digging into his back. She moans as he ruts into her, driving her ass against the brick of the arch, wearing it tattered. 

The castle is silent, but Imelda is everything but. 

In the Great Hall, a mass of students have gathered. 

But Sebastian has no appetite for the feasts or the wide-eyed first years or the senseless blabber about summer vacation. 

The burn of his encounter with Solomon is still fresh in his mind and, somewhere in the snarl of his brain, there is the sight of Anne’s naked body; a memory with a life of its own nipped in the perfume of forbiddance. 

He needs to wash Feldcroft away from his thoughts. He has to set his mind on the task at hand. 

And there’s nothing better than catharsis to clear the fog, so he lifts Imelda from her throne of bricks as if she weighs nothing, then presses her back against the opposite wall, ramming into her. 

Her legs twine around his hips as he settles into a harrowing pace. 

The sound of skin on skin is unceremonious. Coarse. 

“We’ll miss the ceremony,” she says, each word breathy.

“That’s what you’re thinking about, really?” He gives her a punitive thrust and her head grates against the stone as she lets out a meek whimper. “I don’t care about the ceremony.”

He thinks this is the end of that line of questioning and falls further into the folds of her constricting flesh, dogging after his relief.

Closing his eyes, he bites in the nub of her shoulder. The savor she spills inside his mouth is full of spice. Nutmeg, lemon, soft grass, a hint of summer sweat. He licks the perfume from her creases, lets his teeth roam in the slant of her neck as the tension knots inside his abdomen, inching him ever closer to orgasm. 

“Aren’t you curious about the transfer and where she’ll be sorted?” Imelda asks him.

Sebastian sheds a growl, his fingers bruising into her waist. “I don’t care.”

Her lips send a squall of hot air against his eardrum. “Weasley will get first pick.”

“I don’t car-Fuck…” He slips out of her, his climax somersaulting away from his grasp. “Could you refrain from mentioning Weasley? It really kills the mood…”

He fastens his trousers. 

Imelda’s brow vaults. “Don’t you want to finish?”

“I can do that on my own. At least my hand learned how to shut up.” Imelda’s arm flies, but Sebastian catches it before the lash falls on his cheek. He yanks her closer, a smirk crawling on his chin. “Not even in your wildest dreams, Reyes. You might be Quidditch captain, but your speed leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Fuck you, Sallow,” she hisses, her dark eyes smoldering.

“You already did,” he taunts her. “Half-assed it, from my perspective.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Seconds skitter away during which Imelda picks up her underwear—puddled on the stone tiles—and smoothes her skirt back in place, then her head whips up and she drives an accusatory finger against Sebastian’s chest. “You are so petty, Sebastian Sallow, but you know what? I can be petty, too.”

He wants to laugh at that. The spark of anger in her eyes is almost childish, and it melts into perplexity as soon as he thumbs her chin. “Try me.”

She shakes from his touch and before she can retaliate, the gallery churns with footsteps and the buzz of elated chatter fills the space as if an army marches its way through the same hallway. 

She lifts her chin to him. “Don’t come crawling to my room when I’m done with you.”

Sebastian chuckles. “I don’t crawl.”

Her eyes taper into irked slits. “All worms do.”

And with this last breath of defiance, she stalks away. 

* * *

“I see you’ve only grown more likeable over the summer,” Ominis Gaunt sneers, the tip of his wand roving on the page of his book. 

Sebastian’s trunk lays unpacked before the bunk bed. A problem for tomorrow. Like many others. 

His plan replays in his mind: sneak into the restricted section of the library, locate Ambrose Dovetail’s work on the Room of Requirement, find the room folded within the castle, then conjure the Promissum Mortis.

Easy enough, Sebastian thinks, yet he knows paths are seldom straight.

This, too, is a problem for tomorrow. 

Sebastian leans on his side. “Reyes overreacted,” he defends himself. “Everyone overreacts around me.”

Ominis’ milk-white eyes roll heavenwards. “Do you understand the concept of common denominator?”

“I missed our banter too, Ominis.”

Ominis’ back is pressed against the wall of his bunk bed. His trunk is empty, his clothes sorted into drawers, each sundry in its rightful place.

How predictable of him.

“Before everyone else tells you,” Ominis says, “the new student has been sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Sebastian scoffs. “Did they warn the new girl about all the stairs she’d have to climb to get to her dorm?”

“So you know it’s a girl…”

“I’m not deaf.”

“I thought the perspective of a new feminine face to gawk at would put you in a better mood.”

Sebastian leans on his back, hands cradling his head. “Who do you take me for? Garreth Weasley? Besides, I have other preoccupations than playing the tour guide for a new student.”

“I doubt she’ll ask for a tour guide,” Ominis replies. “When the Sorting Hat called her house, she stalked right out of the Great Hall. Didn’t even stop by her table. Didn’t stay for Black’s speech. You could’ve heard a pin drop.”

Sebastian gives a chuckle. “Well, if her goal was to attract Slytherin attention, she did a good job at it. I’m sure Grimes Ashwood’s cock drove a hole right through the table.”

“If it made him hard, it would’ve gotten to you, too,” Ominis shots back at him. “Perhaps it was a good thing you missed it. You spared us both the embarrassment.”

“You know, Ominis, we’re supposed to be two to shit-talk someone. I feel like I’m the only shit-talker in this room.”

Ominis’ lips curl upwards. “You said it. Not me.” 

Sebastian says nothing at that, instead he endeavors to detangling the knots of tension in his neck. 

After a while, Ominis sets his book down on his lap. “How’s Anne?”

Another swig of bitterness coats Sebastian’s tongue. “The same she always was. I scarcely saw her at all. Solomon was always shadowing me, as if I’d strangle my own sister the minute he looked away. He’d throw me out as the sun began to set.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“Sirona rented me a room in the Three Broomsticks. My clothes are forever tainted with the funk of pipe smoke, but at least I had a place to crash and free Butterbeer.”

“And I suppose you spent your days reading books to catch up on schoolwork?”

Sebastian’s amusement bleeds through his words. “You’d be surprised to hear I actually did. Although I can’t say the books I picked up were in any way related to our classes.”

A gossamer line forms between Ominis’ brow. “Don’t tell me you spent your time hunting after this Promissum Mortis?”

“I did,” Sebastian says unapologetically. “The thing’s elusive, but I had a flash of genius. What if I can conjure it through the Room of Requirement?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, Sebastian. There’s always a catch when you try to cut corners.”

Sebastian sits up. “That’s why you’ll help me. Make sure I don’t do what I usually do and get in trouble.”

Ominis sighs. “Sebastian, we have no clue what this relic does. We don’t even know what it looks like or if it even exists.”

“If you help me find it, we’ll know.”

“Sebastian…”

“Tell you what, Ominis. If we find it, I’ll let you study it before I do anything. If it turns out to be bad, I won’t use it.”

The dilemma etches more lines into Ominis’ face. “Okay, but do me a favor first. Don’t rush into it and tread carefully. Also, no deception. If you want my help, you should trust me with your finds.”

The lie twists around Sebastian’s spine like a viper, but he lets nothing show. “You have my word.”

Long after his friend fell asleep, and the candles flickered out, Sebastian stares at the ceiling.

He thinks of the shreds of knowledge he gathered about the Promissum Mortis, knowing all too well Ominis would have never agreed to following him into the storm if he knew what the relic asks for.

 Dovetail’s lines visit him again; his minds spins it like a litany. 

As the name suggests, Death’s Promise requires the ultimate sacrifice. One last wish, uttered with one’s last breath, and the relic must oblige in granting it. 

Sebastian doesn’t yet know how he’ll escape death’s jaws, but that, too, is a problem for tomorrow.

For now, he pulls the blankets over his shoulders, uncorks the vial of Malisect he hid underneath his pillow and drinks it all. 

His mother beckons him into her arms and he surrenders to her call. 

Maybe death isn’t so final, after all.

#sebastian sallow smut #imelda x sebastian #imelda reyes #ominis gaunt #dark sebastian sallow #banter #hogwarts legacy fic #hogwarts legacy sebastian #hogwarts legacy ominis #sebastian sallow #dark romance #bad boys #bromantic

[darkthingshappen]

No. 9 THE VERY NOISY NIGHT

This is a BROTHER'S KEEPER entry. Takes place later in their captivity during the recapture arc. Jake is trying his best to be a good big brother in their current situation, but it's hard when he's so trapped.

Content warnings for implied previous noncon, burns, aftermath of torture, sibling whump (obviously).

Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it.)

As ALWAYS, thanks to the AMAZING @whumpcereal for the beta. And to my whumperful crew that always cheers me on: @oddsconvert and @sparrowsage as well as @quietly-by-myself. Y'all are the best!

Sleeping in Shifts | Tossing and Turning | Caught in a Storm

It must be storm season here on the island.  For what felt like the millionth time in Jake wasn’t sure how long, a squall raged outside, the wind howling, the lightning flashing, and the thunder crashing.  Jake sat awake, chained to the wall in the basement of the compound where he was kept.  It was hot and dirty here.  All the time.  He could just make out the sound of the huge surf when it got like this.  He wondered what time it was.  It was odd, the little things that he missed, like knowing what fucking time it was.  

Hours ago, they had dumped Ben in the small room.  His little brother hadn’t said much, he’d just dragged himself over to Jake, his ankle chain just barely allowing him to reach from where it was fastened to the opposite wall.  He’d pillowed his head on Jake’s thigh and slipped into a fitful sleep.  

Jake could just make out the lines of Ben’s body where he lay tossing and turning against him.  At first, Jake had tried to stroke Ben’s hair to help him settle, but that only brought on more whimpers and cries of terror. Jake had forgotten: when Ben came home the first time, he couldn’t bear to have his hair touched. Jake was starting to understand why. So, he tried to hold Ben’s hand instead, but Ben’s constant movement made it almost impossible. 

In the end, the only thing that had somewhat worked had been for Jake to put his hands on either side of Ben’s face and rub his eyebrows with his thumbs.  It was a trick their mother used to do when they were restless and couldn’t sleep.  Across one eyebrow, the bridge of the nose and then the other eyebrow.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Jake had no way to keep track of how long he’d been attempting to soothe his brother, but eventually, it worked. Ben’s body stilled, just enough that Jake had some hope he might be getting some actual rest.   

Whatever had happened to Ben tonight must have been rough.  He nearly always talked to Jake when he came back, even if it was just a simple ‘hey,’ or a ‘hey, Jakey.’  Tonight, he hadn’t uttered a word.    His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw.  There were fresh bruises and bite marks on him, but what concerned Jake most were the burns.  Small, round blisters littered his entire chest, down past where Jake was willing to look.  They were on the soles of his feet and continued up his legs to his thighs. Volkov had taken his time; the bastard was obsessed with marking Ben, and Jake could see that the burns would probably scar.   

When Ben was dumped in the room, Jake had wanted to panic, to rage like the storm outside, but Ben had been so exhausted.  He’d simply collapsed across the one person that might give him some comfort, silent tears slipping from his closed eyes. Jake knew better than to think Ben could take on his anger, and he had shoved it all into a little ball in his chest.  He’d let it sit there and fester, but he wouldn’t disturb his baby brother.  Ben deserved the rest; he’d have to fight again the next day.

Ben was so strong and so fucking defiant.  It made Jake’s heart warm when he saw the resistance in him.  Sometimes, it was hard to forget there was an eight year age difference between them.  But then there were times like these.  Ben looked so young where he slept with his head on Jake’s lap.  Normally, he would curl up, but Jake guessed it would hurt too much to do that right now.  Unsteady, he lay on his back, palms up and resting at his sides.  

Jake’s hands shook with fear and anger over what was happening to them, what would happen to them.  He would never say it to Ben, but he wasn’t sure that they would both make it off this island alive.  Volkov or Dmitri, one of them would see to it.  It wasn’t even a matter of who had it worse.  They both had scars,  mentally and physically.  But Ben didn’t deserve any of the wounds he’d taken on in his young life.  

Jake thought of the secrets they’d shared, the fears about the future, their loved ones waiting for them back home.  The things they wished would have happened differently, the things Ben regretted that he’d never get to do or say.  Jake didn’t encourage it–in fact, he actively spoke against the idea, no matter what he believed–but he knew Ben thought he was going to die here, prisoner to these mad men.  Jake wasn’t ready to accept it, but he hadn’t lived through almost a year and a half of torture, two years of recovery, and then another however the hell long it had been since this fiasco had started.  

He thought back to the first time he’d ever seen Ben be disappointed in him.  He was eighteen and Ben was ten.  The cops came to the house and arrested him in front of Ben.  It was Jake’s number one regret up until Volkov had stolen his little brother.  Now, he felt like he’d let Ben down the hardest on both occasions.  He could never make up for this.

He would have done anything to go back and undo the stupid things his eighteen-year-old self did, and to never have agreed to move drugs for Volkov.  Why the hell couldn’t he ever just do the honest to God right thing?  And why did it feel like Benny always paid for his stupid mistakes?

Ben whimpered in his terrified sleep.  Even in sleep, there was no real rest.  They were tormented whether they were awake or sleeping.  

“Shh, shh.”  Jake kept up the gentle stroking of his thumbs across Ben’s eyebrows. He spoke even though he knew Ben couldn’t hear.  “I promise one of these days I’m going to have the opportunity to do right by you.  And I swear I won’t miss it.  I promise, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna make you proud of me Benny.  I will.  I promise.”  

He leaned down and kissed Ben’s forehead before letting his head drop back against the stone wall.  He wouldn’t sleep tonight.  He would keep watch through the storm and let Ben try to heal as best he could.  

For hours, the storm raged outside, but inside the little cell, the two brothers, were quiet.  One brother slept, while the other stayed awake, his hands never stilling as he tried to soothe the last good part of himself. 

#whumptober2022 #no. 9 #sleeping in shifts #tossing and turning #caught in a storm #OC #original fiction #fic #implied previous noncon #burns #implied previous torture #mentions of torture #aftermath of torture #brother's keeper #jacob adkins oc #benjamin adkins oc #alexsei volkov oc #dmitri oc #jake adkins #ben adkins #alexsei volkov #captivity #kidnapping #whump #whump community #whump writer #whumpblr

[cogaytes]

a day late, but here’s day five of @tiertice-week-2023!

Title: matchless made again

Prompt: “black swan”

Wordcount: 2229

Summary: 

"Did you ever consider that I might not want your protection?" Prentice asks quietly from his place in the center of the room. He hasn't moved, hasn't tried to catch up with Tiergan, but the other elf follows him with his eyes as he stalks back and forth across the room.

"It doesn't matter, does it? Because you've gone and put a massive fucking target on your own back anyway!" Back heaving with breaths he hadn't noticed were growing heavier and heavier, Tiergan comes to a halt at the far end of the room. He's still turned away from Prentice. He doesn't want to look his lover in the eyes right now.

---

or, prentice and tiergan talk about project moonlark. a (late) entry for day five of tiertice week 2023; the prompt was "black swan" and the title is from kleenex by baby boys!

Warnings: none!

Taglist: @aphelea @arsonistblue (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

read on ao3 or under the cut!

Tiergan doesn't think Collective meetings can get any more boring.

He bounces his knee restlessly while Leto-as-Forkle drones on and on. Prentice is expecting him any minute now; they were both looking forward to spending a rare free night together. But instead, he's stuck here between Wraith and Juline Dizznee in her Squall disguise, the latter of whom keeps shooting him sympathetic glances. And fuck, he likes Juline—she's sweet and passionate about the cause—but he really wishes Livvy were here right about now. Without his best friend to distract him, he's left to stare into space as Leto paces, daydreaming about kind smiles and cheerful blue eyes.

He zones back in, however, at Leto's next words: "And I've finally decided on a Keeper for Project Moonlark."

"Oh?" Wraith asks, and Tiergan can't see him, obviously, but he pictures the invisible elf tilting his head in that characteristically Wraith manner to punctuate the question.

Leto looks directly at Tiergan for a long moment before answering, "Prentice Endal."

That gets his attention. Terror, betrayal, confusion, and white hot range all battle for dominance in his stomach. Prentice? In the Black Swan? The Keeper for Project Moonlark—arguably its most dangerous role, even more so than Tiergan's own title of spymaster?

He spins on Leto, only remembering at the last second to transmit rather than shout. Only a handful of elves know what he and Prentice truly are to each other, and as easily as he would trust the other members of the Collective with his own life,  he will not gamble his lover's so lightly. I thought we had an agreement that Prentice would stay out of this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the others move silently from the room as Leto dismisses the meeting. Now that they're alone, Leto shoves one hand through his hair and sighs. I swore not to recruit him, and I didn't. Mr. Endal sought me out. He volunteered.

He volunteered. Taking deep breaths, Tiergan tries to keep his mind from spiraling, his mental voice from shaking. How long ago?

Four months. Tiergan sinks into a chair and buries his head in his hands at that. Goddamnit, Prentice. Four fucking months. Four fucking months since his beloved had joined the ranks of the Council's public enemy number one, right under his nose. And now he was volunteering to throw his life away; Leto was letting him do it.

And you didn't tell me? He lets a hint of the betrayal he feels seep into the tone of his transmission.

Even with his eyes covered, Tiergan can already sense the frustration radiating from Leto in waves. I don't update you individually on every single elf who joins the order; why should Mr. Endal have been any different? Attachments are dangerous, Tiergan. Do not let your judgement become compromised— Funnily enough, he doesn't particularly care for Leto's lecturing right now. 

Oh, fuck you, Leto, he transmits instead. And with that particularly clever retort, he severs their connection. Footsteps sound behind him as Leto tries to follow him, but Tiergan is determined not to stop. Pulling the home crystal from his pocket, he raises it to the glow of lanterns overhead and steps into the path without breaking stride.

***

Solreef is almost frighteningly empty, he finds. Still a little out of breath from the trek up the stairs, Tiergan unlocks the door and begins pacing from room to room. Suddenly he hears it: a faint humming from the other side of the house. I Want to Hold Your Hand, by the Beatles. That's Prentice.

What's disturbing, however, is the humming's origin. Prentice is forbidden from attempting to make dinner after a fiasco at Cyrah's house that required not one, but three alchemists' help to put out the resulting fire. But the music he hears is definitely coming from the kitchen, and when he listens carefully he can hear what sounds like knives and a blender. Fuck, who let Prentice have a blender?

Prentice's eyes light up at the sound of him entering. Usually Tiergan would find it endearing, but today the reminder of his affection only pulls the knot in the pit of his stomach even tighter. "Tiergan! You're home!" Pausing his cooking to cross the room in a few quick steps, his lover embraces him and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

"My love," Tiergan breathes in something that comes out suspiciously like a giggle, "You know it's better for everyone if you don't attempt dinner."

Prentice pouts. "I thought I'd surprise you."

That's right. Surprises. They need to have a conversation. Tiergan pulls away—Prentice is still holding him, but at elbow's length instead of tight to his chest. Looking him directly in the eyes, Tiergan clears his throat. "'Tice, I need to talk to you about something."

His partner nods immediately, playful expression fading as he notices the seriousness in Tiergan's tone. "Of course, love. What is it?"

Tiergan takes a deep breath, rubbing his forehead. He didn't plan his speech ahead of time, hadn't thought this through before rushing into it—as usual. All he can manage is, "You need to walk away from Project Moonlark."

Prentice's mouth drops open. "You know about— I don't understand. Does this mean…you're in the Black Swan?" A number of emotions flash across the other elf's face—confusion, fear, worry, betrayal. Forcing himself to meet his lover's eyes, Tiergan nods. 

He takes Prentice's hands in his own, gripping them tightly as if the strength of his grip can tether him to their home, keep them safe and together. "Yes," he breathes, and his voice breaks. "And I'm begging you—don't be their Keeper. You'd be risking far too much."

This time, the emotion on his lover's face is less confused and more shocked. "How did you— Only the Collective were supposed to be told that I…" His voice trails off. And then it clicks. "Oh. You are the Collective." He's not accusing when he says it—Tiergan almost wishes that he were. Like he's working out the kinks of a particularly complicated puzzle. "Not Forkle, obviously…Granite? You're Granite?"

Tiergan sighs. Looking into Prentice's eyes and seeing them full of such hurt sends a sharp knife of guilt deep into his gut. But he has to explain. He owes Prentice that much. "That's the alias I use, yes."

"And you just…weren't going to say anything?" his beloved mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're in the Collective, and you never bothered to mention it?"

Tiergan fights, hard, to keep the volume of his voice from rising. "I didn't even know you were in the order until today. What was I supposed to do, say 'Hey sweetheart, by the way I'm helping lead this top secret rebel organization that could get me Exiled for treason if the Council ever found out I was involved; what's for dinner?'"

"You could have told me about the Swan, at least. I would have joined sooner."

"I didn't want you involved!” Tiergan cries, pulling away from Prentice’s embrace and beginning to pace the length of the room instead. “L-Loki, Forkle, he promised me he wouldn't try to recruit you. It was too dangerous. It's still too dangerous."

"Did you ever consider that I might not want your protection?" Prentice asks quietly from his place in the center of the room. He hasn't moved, hasn't tried to catch up with Tiergan, but the other elf follows him with his eyes as he stalks back and forth across the room.

"It doesn't matter, does it? Because you've gone and put a massive fucking target on your own back anyway!" Back heaving with breaths he hadn't noticed were growing heavier and heavier, Tiergan comes to a halt at the far end of the room. He's still turned away from Prentice. He doesn't want to look his lover in the eyes right now.

Still, the typical optimism is clearly audible in Prentice's voice when the other elf assures him, "I'm hoping it won't come to that. And anyway, if I were to be caught and broken, the Moonlark will heal me eventually. I know it."

Tiergan laughs at that, something bitter and cutting. "As the lead telepathy researcher on the project, we have no way to know for sure if she'll actually be able to heal minds or not. This is all just a castle in the sky we're chasing." That's the worst part of this all, isn't it? Prentice laying all of his trust so faithfully in his efforts, placing his own sanity in Tiergan's hands. Somehow, he can't escape the thought that if Prentice breaks—if he's lost to Tiergan forever—it will be all his fault.

And then his brave, beautiful lover looks at him with eyes full of sincerity and tells him, "Still. I'm willing to take the risk if it'll make our world better."

"You could die!" And oh, Tiergan is shouting now. "You could be broken forever! And you were going to agree to this without even saying goodbye? Without telling me?"

"It's not like you told me about being in the Black Swan, let alone on the fucking Collective."

"Prentice. Please." He's wringing his hands now; without realizing, he's started moving again, circling Prentice and begging. He probably seems like a madman; he doesn't care. Whatever has to happen to keep Prentice here and safe, he'll do it in a heartbeat.

Prentice is watching him still with that sorrowful, hurt look on his face. He's always been sensitive, always worn his emotions on his sleeve. One doesn't have to know him the way Tiergan does to know exactly what he's feeling at any moment. "Why are you even in the Swan if you care so little about Project Moonlark?" 

And Tiergan rounds on him. "For you, you dumbass! For us! I want to change the world so we don't have to be afraid anymore." He feels his own voice break, pauses to wipe away the tears forming. "But I can't do that without you."

"Oh, Tiergan," Prentice murmurs softly. Warm hands cup his face, wiping away his tears; he feels the gentle pressure of lips at his hairline. "I'm trying to change the world for us too, darling. Why can't you just let me?"

"It's not worth risking yourself like this!" Though Tiergan whispers, none of the agony in his voice is lost with the lack of volume. He presses his forehead to Prentice's, holding him close. "'Tice, I am begging you. Please don't do this. Whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll step down from the Collective, I'll leave the Swan, I'll—"

The other elf lifts his chin gently, raises it so that their eyes meet. "That's exactly the opposite of what I want you to do." Darling, don't you see? The Black Swan is going to fix the broken parts of our world; now each of us must play our parts."

"Please," Tiergan whispers, "Don't. What if I took your place? I could be the Keeper so that you don't have to." The idea is beginning to take shape in his mind. If he hails Leto right now, he could probably convince him to let him assume Prentice's role. He'll use his oldest friend's guilt at letting Prentice join without telling him against him if he must. And yes, it would be a sacrifice for Tiergan himself, but insignificant in the face of Prentice's safety.

But his beloved is already shaking his head. "Tiergan, my love, we both know that though you're probably the more powerful Telepath, I'm definitely the stronger Keeper. I have to do this. For us."

Tiergan throws up his hands in defeat. "Fine. Sign your life away. I know I can't stop you. But don't tell me you're doing this for us." And with that, he turns his back on his lover and storms away down the hall.

Prentice calls his name, but he doesn't look back.

***

It's almost midnight by the time Prentice pads into their darkened bedroom. Tiergan is already in bed, eyes shut, pretending not to hear his lover's soft footsteps on the floorboards. The bureau drawers open and close as quietly as possible as Prentice changes for bed. Fighting back the tide of emotion, Tiergan focuses his attention on keeping his breaths slow and even. Even on the verge of an anxiety attack, he's desperate to continue feigning sleep if it means not having to confront his beloved's disappointment.

He senses, rather than hears, Prentice slip under the blankets on the far side of the bed. Only a foot or so away, but the empty mattress between them might as well be a chasm. He longs for Prentice's warmth, to link their fingers together and feel his lover wrap his arms around Tiergan's waist. Is this what every night of a life with Prentice Exiled would feel like?

"I'm sorry," he whispers to empty air.  "I don't want to lose you." His voice is more waver than sound, thickened by the sobs welling up deep within him.

He hears the covers rustle as the mattress shifts. "Shh," Prentice murmurs, pulling Tiergan into his arms. His lover presses kisses to his face and hair, rubs his back comfortingly as Tiergan buries his face in the other elf's shoulder. "I know, darling. I know."

#tiertice week 2023 #tiertice #tiergan alenefar #prentice endal #mine

[sharpest-tongue]

Having been to more business meetings than the number of hours it takes to become an expert at something, I can confidently say that the ROTS scene between Anakin and the Council should have gone like this:

-----

Mace, who is too old for this shit: And so, because the Chancellor is making us, you are now a member of this council.

Anakin, remembering Obi-Wan complaining last week about a four-hour Council meeting where they argued over a cost-benefit analysis of changing ration bar manufacturers:  ...Uh...

Mace, who is out of fucks to give:  And we’re not making you a Master.

Anakin, thinking of the awesome Master-only refectory which is the only one that makes that blue milk pudding with fruit slices:  Aw, man...

Mace, who just wants to get this clown car on the road:  Now sit down, pay attention, and don’t blow anything up. 

Anakin, reminded of the small, very tiny, hardly worth speaking of incendiary device in his pocket that he had been planning on fiddling with after a hot, greasy lunch at Dex’s:  *starts to sweat* ...Um... *makes a break for the door*

Obi-Wan, who had been wrangling Anakin since he was nine: *waves the Council doors closed and pulls out a spray bottle* Anakin, don’t make me use this...

Anakin, who has been wrangled by Obi-Wan since he was nine:  No, you can’t make me! *dives behind Oppo Rancisis’s chair to avoid the water spray*

Obi-Wan, who is wise to Anakin’s tricks:  No! Bad Anakin! *ducks around the Council members and sprays Anakin vigorously* Get in that chair!

Anakin, squalling at the first hit then dashing around the room:  No, I don’t want to! Meetings suck! Windu sighs at me! Yoda hits me with his cane!

Obi-Wan, chasing after Anakin and causing significant collateral damage with his spraying:  We all have to do what we don’t want to. Now get in that chair!

Anakin, who is damp and bedraggled:  *slinks into his chair and pulls his robes tightly around him and his hood over his head* Jail for Master! Jail for Master for one thousand years!

Obi-Wan, who is inordinately fond of his feral desert child and has heard it all before:  Yes, yes.  *pats his head and slips him a piece of candy*

Anakin, who loves candy, praise, and Obi-Wan:  ...maybe jail for only one year.

#star wars #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #mace windu #anakin is a cat

[mattydemise]

Another winter morning in Victoria. The air is crisp but revitalising, the sky is pale blue like a robin’s egg, and there’s barely an angel’s breath of breeze stirring the gum leaves and wattles. In these moments it’s hard to imagine any other season mattering. Winter holds unique charms. The world seems to slow a fraction or two in winter, and people seem to carry themselves a little differently. The cold turns us insular, even extroverts shelter themselves in July. Summer in Australia is beautiful but of fucking course it is; Australian summers are known worldwide for their beauty and warmth. If you want to experience a different side of Australia, come to one of the southern states during the zenith of winter, once those winds to towards gales and squalls, and thrust their way straight up from the Antarctic Ocean, then you’ll have a true taste of Australian winter. When I talk about Australia to friends from around the world, they find it hard to believe that Australia even has a winter as it’s always portrayed as being in a state of perpetual summertime on the television. Lately though our summers have been mild, with barely a handful of days stretching beyond 30 degrees Celsius. The last hot summer I can remember was the summer between the end of 2019 and the dawn of 2020, when the bushfires pillaged their way up the high country and down across regional Victoria, back when I was a different person, working elsewhere, and sleeping next to someone else. The seasons shift incrementally and so do our lives, as we take on the influences of others, and become different people entirely. Yet, it also seems like the more things change, the more we stay the same. Perhaps, just like spring and autumn, we exist in these perpetual states of transition, wavering and shimmery and strange, like our own disfigured reflections in the pools and pockets of water at the beach.

#gallow-glass #writing #words #personal #thoughts