#Pilfered Spring

[wickedzeevyln]

Still

How quickly your smile has flown away eloping with flocks of saffron sunsets; Pilfering the earth of its spring iut of memories reach. Hope has done but little to palliate the grief Where you voice has not touched, and this longing has been scourging peace until my sanity, I no longer trust.

[frownyalfred]

I see your fancy bat tech post and I raise you: when left without resources the bats can do some absolutely terrifying low tech shit with whatever is on hand.

The idea that immediately springs to mind is spark gloves as used in haunted houses. It's just the spark plate off common razor scooter mod duct taped to some gloves with metal fingers made from plumbing connectors and E5000. In the dark they're terrifying.

Lost all your bat tech to an EMP? If nobody else got you, hardware store got you.

They’re really, really good at scavenging for supplies and making weapons/resources out of limited materials. Trapped in an empty room with a Bat? They’re yanking open the vents and walls to find wires and cables and doing some weird shit to make a lock pick and/or a shiv. Need water on a desert planet? They’ve got a still going in less than an hour. Stuck walking in a Gotham sewer to lay low after an EMP? They know where the sanitation workers keep their kits and pilfer them for supplies.

[hazbinshusk]

day eighteen of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: free use/authority/daddy kink (husk x reader)

a/n: oops, another long one (1.8k). the good stuff's under the cut ;)

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Husk groans as he stretches his arms high overhead, the sound echoed by a cattish growl that rolls through him out of frustration when the movement does next to nothing to ease the pain out of his lower back. Alastor had had him run off his feet all fucking day doing things that he desperately wanted to drink out of his mind, and the weight of his contract chains was truly digging into his soul in a way that made his whole body ache.

He throws back the last of the bottle he’d pilfered from the bar on his way past, letting it drop from his paw and roll across the carpet. Fuck it; Niffty would pick it up. The booze burns down his throat but does nothing to ease his frustration, and another growl rips low along his throat as he bypasses his room in favour of yours.

You look up as soon as he enters your room from where you sit at the desk in the corner, concern creasing your brow as you take in the expression marring his features.

“Hey, you’re getting in late. Are you—” you break off as Husk makes a beeline for the small collection of bottles you have on top of the dresser. He pulls the stopper out of the first one in reach and takes a long few slugs, wincing at the sweet edge to your choice in hooch. “—okay?”

Husk sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw. “Need you on your knees, pet.”

You raise a brow. He only ever uses that term of endearment in very specific circumstances – when he needs to fuck the frustrations out of his system. The first threads of excitement immediately flow through you despite the detached, authoritative tone so different from how he usually speaks to you.

Standing, you only hesitate long enough to strip down to your underwear before moving to kneel in the middle of the carpet. You watch as Husk tugs his suspenders down off his arms, unfastening his pants as he turns to face you, bottle still dangling from his other paw. He’s half-hard already, and a shiver settles in the small of your back as he strokes himself, coming to stand in front of you.

“Open your mouth, pet.” he orders simply. “Get daddy hard enough to fuck you.”

You part your lips immediately, tongue slipping out to cradle his shaft as he thrusts his cock into your mouth. Husk rewards you with a throaty groan, and you suckle at the top before sliding your mouth down to the base of him. The barbs of his cock tickle slightly at your tongue as they start to stiffen and rise, and you gag slightly as he swells and thickens against your tongue.

Husk hisses, the sound catching in the back of his throat, at the feeling and you watch from beneath your lashes as he tips back another mouthful of spirits. His other hand is in your hair, and his claws tighten in the locks as you swallow around the head of his cock, pressing your tongue up against the underside of it.

“C’mon, pet.” he growls, thrusting his hips forward until you gag around him again. He guides your head into a faster rhythm, each push of his cock brushing the back of your throat. You reach up to clutch at his thighs, kneading your fingers into the muscle. “You can do better than that.”

You roll your tongue up against him and suck, and Husk groans, head falling back and wings shuddering against his shoulders.

“That’s a good girl.” his voice turns rough in a way that thrills you, and he fucks himself deep into your mouth, claws tightening in your hair to force you to stay in place. He holds you there, grunting as he feels your throat flutter around the tip of his cock, and you choke, tears springing up to burn in your eyes. You cough as he releases you, a string of saliva hanging from your lip and trailing to the tip of his cock. It breaks, and Husk runs his thumb claw over your swollen bottom lip. A satisfied hum rumbles through him at the sight of it, of you on your knees and gasping for breath. “Daddy’s gonna fuck you, pet. And you’re gonna thank him for it, aren’t you?”

You nod, swallowing against the raw feeling the barbs of his cock have left in your throat. “Yes, daddy.”

He smirks, tipping back the rest of the bottle. “Take off your clothes. Bend over the bed.”

You do as he instructs, surprised to feel your legs shake slightly as you stand and slide your underwear down your thighs. A purr sounds through Husk as he appraises the bare curve of your ass, and you unclip your bra and let it fall as you move to the edge of the bed and bend yourself over it. You feel far more exposed like this, bare and on display, unable to see him behind you.

You jump at the sudden feeling of Husk’s claws gripping your ass, digging into the flesh as he pushes your hips up higher. The dull press of the head of his cock against your opening is all the warning you get before he thrusts the full length of his cock, still slick with saliva and precum, into your cunt.

“Fuh…” you choke on the curse, eyes rolling back as Husk immediately takes up a brutal, unforgiving pace that makes the bed frame shake. The barbs of his cock pull at the sensitive flesh inside you, and you clutch blindly at the comforter beneath you in some vague hope steadying yourself. “Th-thank you, daddy!”

Husk’s hands take hold of your hips, pulling you back to meet each of his thrusts. Hiis claws score your skin, and you press your forehead into the sheets and moan as he angles his hips to hit deeper. You arch your back, reaching back with one hand to clutch at your ass, spreading yourself wider for him.

“That’s it,” Husk mutters, snapping his hips forward. You let out an ‘uhn’ each time his hips meet your ass, mouth hanging open and your breathing heavy. You can feel yourself shuddering, your nipples rubbing against the sheets every time Husk fucks himself into you. “That’s it, pet, take it… fuckin’ take it.”

“Yes, daddy,” you gasp out, drool dripping from your lip to stain the sheets beneath you. “Thank you, daddy… God, fuck…”

“Gonna fill you up,” he grinds out, rolling his hips hard into yours. It makes you keen, body tensing. Your pussy squeezes around his cock and Husk moans, pressing a hand into the small of your back to force your spine into a deeper arch. It makes his cock slide all the more into you, barbs tickling against the spot inside you that makes you clench your jaw and whimper. “Gonna fuck you so good. Gonna be a good little pet for daddy, baby?”

“Yes, God, yes…”

A growl rumbles in his chest; the legs of bed snags on the carpet as the strength he fucks you with threatens to push is across the floor. You reach between your thighs, rubbing desperately at your clit, your pussy and thighs soaked with your arousal. You’re so close, and the rough cadence of Husk’s voice is almost enough to send you over the edge. “You wanna make daddy cum?”

“Fuck yes…” you moan, fingers quickening against your clit. Husk groans as it makes your cunt tighten, pressing himself into you in a long, deep thrust. He lets you feel the way he fills you, the way he stretches you, before he started fucking you again, just as rough as before. It’s flirting with painful in the most addictive way, and your thighs tense as you get closer and closer to what you need most. “Fuck, I want you to cum…”

“Gotta ask nicely, pet.” Husk taunts, and you feel his tail wind around your calf. “Tell daddy what you want.”

“Please, daddy,” you whine immediately, eyes squeezed closed so hard your jaw aches. “Please, daddy, I want you to cum in me…”

“Shiiit, pet… fuck…” Husk moans, so far gone that he doesn’t even pull out anymore, just thrusts harder into you over and over, driving you further into the mattress. He reaches down to wrap one hand around the back of your neck, his claws tearing into the sheets inches from where your cheek was pressed into the drool-damp fabric. “Daddy’s gonna cum so deep in you, pet…”

“Thank you, daddy,” the words come as a broken, torn-out whimper, voice hoarse and painful in your throat as you cum. But you don’t stop, words shaking as your orgasm rocks through you, your thighs clenching around your hand even as you keep rubbing at your clit. “Thank you, daddy. Thank you, thank you, fuck… thank you…”

Husk curses, the sound warring with the cattish growl that rips out of him, and the barbs of his cock lock into you as he cums deep inside you, his cock buried to the hilt in your quivering, soaking cunt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh, I went rough on you, didn’t I, baby?” Husk murmurs as he kisses your shoulder, smoothing his hands carefully over the marks he’s left on your hips. You hum in response, eyes closed, stretched out on your belly on the bed. You can still feel his cum oozing out of you, and even as he touches you, your body twitches with the aftershock. “’m sorry.”

You reach back blindly until you find his hand, wrapping your fingers around it. He lets you pull him down beside you, and you press a careful kiss to his claws. “Rough day?”

He frowns, even as he settles a wing over your bare back. The feathers tickle against your skin, and you shiver at the feeling of it. You can feel his tail twitch back and forth slowly against your ankle. He opens his mouth to reply, but seems to find it pointless. Instead, he nods.

“Hmm,” you pout sympathetically, leaning in a bumping your nose against his.

Husk tilts his face up, catching your lips with his. It’s soft and tender; so different from the way he’d just fucked you that it sends butterflies through your stomach. He moans softly into the kiss before breaking away, nuzzling his face under your chin. You reach up with a shaky hand to rub your fingers behind his ear, and a soft purr fills the space between the two of you.

[coca-colas-truck-driver]

when sam had caught dean smoking, dean knew sam could tell from the shape of it and the stench that it wasn’t a cigarette.

dean knew sam wouldnt tattle, at least not to dad, but bobby was different. as much as the gruff older man tried to give them free reign when their daddy would drop them off, dean had a feeling the man’s hospitality would only get him so far. the occasional stolen pilfered beer, even a few shots missing from a bottle of whiskey, was ignored, but dean had a feeling weed would be a different story. he could see bobby’s face now, disappointed as his voice was laced with concern instead of anger.

sam could tell easily it wasn’t a cigarette, dean wouldn’t of went out this far from the main house for a simple nicotine fix. there was no mistaking the shape, or the pungent smell that hung heavy in the fresh early spring air. it wasn’t the familiar bite of tobacco that clung to the older hunter’s clothes, instead it was cloying and sweeter.

dean panicked when he saw his little brother, automatically reaching for the little altoid tin he’d been using as a storage case for his joints and lighters. he fumbles with it for a second before shutting it back, joint hidden even as the incriminating smell clings to his shirt and jeans like the damp, overgrown grass.

sam’s lips curled into a smile as he sat down on the ground beside dean before putting his hand out, palm up. dean put the small, dented tin in sam’s hand, watchibg as the kid’s nimble fingers popped the lid and picked the half smoked joint up. they’d shared cigarettes before, and sam lights this the same way. the kid inhales, coughing around the exhale before passing it to dean.

sam sheepishly nestles against his side, and dean without a conscious thought, habitually put an arm around his shoulders. a mischievous glint sparkled in dean’s eyes as he teasingly blew a stream if smoke into sam’s face. sam recoiled, pushing at his chest with small hands, as his pink nose wrinkled up in distaste from the smoke before he tells dean to “knock it off.”

“‘m just playing, sammy.” dean rolls his eyes at the boy’s exasperated tone, gently directing the joint back between sam’s lips even as the boy pouts around the filter. sam inhales, his eyes focused on the cherry as the embers burn and glow, while dean’s eyes watch sam’s pink lips.

sam’s exhale is smoother this time, a slow inhale followed by a smooth stream of smoke that dances in the first rays of the morning sun. dean chuckles when sam looks up at him, his big doe eyes red and bleary.

dean starts leaning forward, ashing the joint with one hand on the dewy ground below before he dips his head slightly. he brushes a strand of sam’s hair out of the way, tucking it behind the boy’s ear before sam makes this little noise, falling forward into dean’s chest.

sam nuzzles into his jacket, embarrassed from dean laughing at him as dean stifles another chuckle, planting a few kisses onto sam’s temple and hair instead.

[jmoonjones]

Feyre, Elain, and Nesta pack a variety of ensembles for their leisurely bonding vacation around all the seasonal courts.

Bonus capsule collection for their scenic route home via the Middle.

(Trip highlights: helping Elain to pilfer flower seeds from Spring in the tulle layers of Feyre's dress, Nesta nudging Eris into staging a coup in Autumn, getting witchy with their powers in the Middle)

[strangersteddierthings]

Daily Ficlet 4

I'm challenging myself to write a little ficlet every day, using the prompts from this list. Today's prompt is jukebox.

-

Steve's oh moment comes to him at The Hideout of all places. Dingy, dirty, with a bartender who served Will Byers a drink without so much as pretending to contemplate if he should or not.

The point Steve is making is he's just realized he might be a lot in love with Eddie and that it's not exactly the most romantic of settings. They're all here because they came to watch Corroded Coffins first gig since before... well, since Before.

Before Vecna. Before spring break. Before Steve was even aware of his attraction to guys.

A lot of Before that led them to this now. This oh.

It wasn't watching Eddie in his element, up on the stage. Seeing that for the first time was actually a Before thing, too. Steve's been to The Hideout before. The same bartender served Steve a beer back when he was a sophomore and Tommy H had heard the rumor that they didn't card here. The first time he'd watched Eddie Munson in his element had been shortly after his graduation, coming here to pretend he wasn't as alone as he felt as he drank a beer or two.

Watching Eddie on the stage knowing he has a crush on him certainly made the show better but didn't push him from crush to in love.

It also wasn't after, watching Eddie and Robin have a silent conversation of only gestures and eyebrows and pointed looks, though it did make Steve rush with adoration for them both. Knowing that Eddie and Robin got a long so well, cared to each other, made something settle inside Steve's bones. Steve hasn't been serious with anyone since Starcourt, and he's aware enough to know it's because he can't explain his codependency to Robin to anyone. Not with the truth, or in a way they're understand. He wouldn't need to do that with Eddie.

It wasn't that Eddie had then come checked on him, either. Asking if the place was too loud, and how Steve's head was doing. Steve had just recovered from a migraine and Eddie was worried about this bringing it back. It hadn't. The ear plugs were great. And Eddie beamed at him.

No. None of those were the oh, though they were all reason enough.

No, the oh was this.

Watching Eddie 'metalhead' Munson teach Will, El, Dustin, Lucas and Erica how to square dance. He'd tried to coax Mike onto the floor but that wasn't happening, and Max couldn't with her crutches still, but she'd promised to learn from Lucas once she was on the mend.

Eddie had pilfered most of Steve's quarters and slid them into the jukebox, picking the same country song 5 times in a row for the kids to practice to. "Just to wait, Stevie. These kids'll be winning square dancing trophies when I'm done."

Steve had laughed, sipping on his beer as Eddie danced his way to the jukebox.

And here, on the fifth song, watching Eddie improvise some swing dancing into their established routine with Erica being easily twirled about, trying to glare at Eddie for picking her but also doing nothing to stop him from throwing her around the dance floor, Steve thinks oh.

Oh. I love him.

He stands and heads to the jukebox, and queues up the same song once more, then turns to the group. "Alright Munson, teach me, too!"

Dustin whoops, Erica slips back into her place in line, and Eddie beams at him, hand outstretched and waiting.

[peariote]

robinhood!tashi x sheriff'sdaughter!reader,, the tashi brainworm is crazy and consuming me day by day. i love her. young!tashi, awkward and isolated despite her determination and cunning. don't quite like the ending but whatEVER. i love describing shit!! if you couldn't already tell. 1k words.

Wanted posters were smattered across the town—that was nothing new. Petty criminals and mercenaries were always getting cycled through the jail and the gallows. With your father, the sheriff's, seemingly-unlimited supply of young, skilled boys who groveled for a chance to join his cadre, most posters were in the fire in just a week or two.

This woman, however, was a long-standing frustration for your father. Most would only catch a whip of a curling ponytail or a flash of tawny skin, their fascination with the mysterious girl overshadowed when they realized their drawers were haphazardly emptied and their jewelry boxes raided.

It drew more importance because it was the people that lined your father's pockets—weeping wealthy ladies and their indignant husbands; portly merchants passing through finding a raided tent when they returned, fine fabric jaggedly cut by a hunting knife and their wares pilfered; reports poured in from the town's upper echelon, demanding that the sheriff do something about this rampaging thief.

The worst part about it? She was getting better. There was more time between heists, sure, but she'd be more knowledgeable with the extended planning period. They'd barely catch any glimpse of her anymore. Drawers that were once thrown open were strategically chosen and emptied gracefully. Eventually, it started to look like no one had been there at all—only the disruption in the dust a clue. By the time they noticed, she was long gone.

Your father rejoiced for a period of time. A full moon cycle had gone without her striking.

Maybe she stole enough, was spread, gossip about the woman rampant like wildfire in the markets and homes. Maybe she's content with what she has.

Instead, in the deep darkness of the inner woods, she's planning to steal the village's finest jewel.

You.

The sheriff's daughter was sought after. A powerful father and a beautiful face made for suitors lining down the streets. Being accosted by marriage proposals was not pleasant, especially when they interrupted daily goings-on. You couldn't even go to the market without being halted by a passing merchant or a noble son, looking to cull your favor—and, therefore, your father's.

You take to the backroads after that. They wind through the light woods, where the grass is untouched and springy. You've started carving a small path for yourself, the leather of your boots slowly wearing down the earth to mark your trail.

You didn't know it intersected with a special someone's hunting grounds.

It's a normal Saturday when your paths cross. You're headed to the weekend market, shall around your shoulders and fine dress skimming your ankles. The fabric almost catches under your feet when you stumble back—interrupted by an arrow shooting across the path, a few feet in front of you, to pierce a grazing buck.

It's a masterful shot. You suspect it's one of your father's men hunting for their families. You're proven wrong when delicate footfalls sound—much too light to be any hunter you know.

"Hello?" Rings your uncertain voice. The footfalls pause, before a face peeks out from behind a tree. Familiar tawny skin and loose curls enters your view, thin eyes widened with curiosity.

She looks much more innocent than she does in her wanted posters. Younger, too—she doesn't look any older than you do. If you thought hard enough, you could remember a spring market with that exact face passing by, ten years younger and thin with hunger. It stuck with you, that face. You never did find out what happened to her.

Seems she's doing well for herself. Her face has a healthy flush, her cheeks fuller than you remember. She shot up like a weed, the form once curled building-side long and lithe. Her thin fingers rest on a slim birch, her eyes darting between you and her kill—the buck limp and still in the underbrush, it's velvety horns awkwardly angled and caught in a vine.

"...hello." She sounds wary. It's an appropriate response, considering who you're related to. Any other would expect you to turn tail and bolt, skirt billowing and voice high with a plead for help, like the perfect damsel.

Your eyes fall to the deer. She'd hit it right in the shoulder, the sharp arrowhead piercing through flesh to strike the heart. A perfect shot, one done from behind the animal while it skittishly fled.

"...do you need any help carrying it?" Your murmur is soft, your words unexpected. It's not yet summer, the buck not fully grown yet. It wouldn't be pleasant for her to lug back to where ever she'd made camp, but she'd surely be able to on her own.

Instead—

"Yeah. Yeah. I'd like the help."

You helped her carry the beast, strung up on a long stick, deeper and deeper into the darkening woods. The leaves crunched under your leather boots, and the plentiful chirps of birds lowered the further you travelled.

Her camp isn't sparce. There's a firepit set up, rocks surrounding the still shouldering kindling. She has a tent set up, quilted together from scraps of green—some fine squares of fabric, cut from the merchants' tents. Other pieces are tweedy and threadbare, some with buttons and others with rough seams.

Despite it, the camp has a charm to it. Her personal items (stolen possessions) are placed around the small clearing.

There's a knife at the makeshift butcher's table with a jewel in its silver hilt, sitting next to the old, yet well-sharpened butcher knife with a recently oiled wooden handle.

Through the peek in the tent, a pile of all assortment of blankets lays over her bedroll. Some are animal hide, others finely spun wool that look suspiciously like the ones traded by Mr. Abraham. He wouldn't miss the money, surely—he could fill a silo with gold and still have a fortune for his children.

Your observation is cut short, however, when she directs you towards the "butcher's table"—really a thick piece of wood balanced on two adjacent stumps. Her breath rushes out of her when the buck is finally placed on the block, back curving with relief. The motion makes a few loose curls brush her exertion-flushed cheeks.

"Where were you headed?" Her murmur is low, her voice soft and smooth. A dark gaze flickers to yours—deep, like the ash that pools from your father's cigars, but warmer, like the umber stain that dyes your carved bedframe.

"To the market. We're out of tea." It sounds so domestic, the "we" you hum. Like a companion, you hover over her shoulder, peering curiously at the buck laid over the table.

"...you should get back to that." She's awkward, not cold, her bottom lip slipping under her front teeth. Her expression is all fluttering lashes and consuming eyes, devouring you before flitting away. Her fingers tap against the wooden slab. "Unless you want to stay."

You ended up bundled around her now-roaring fire, meat and a few vegetables she found (stole) roasting on the iron grill above it. A goblet sat in your hand, half-full of some of the best wine you'd ever had—surpassing even the foreign bottle your father brought from a distant lord. It was snappy and fruity, sliding easily down your tongue and staining your lips a fine maroon.

It was strong, too, making you both laugh at the slightest thing, swapping stories back-and-forth like you were best friends at a sleepover.

"So—" she exhales a breathless giggle, laughing before she can even tell the story— "there's this knight and his squire that keep following me around whenever they can. The knight wants to join my "merry band of thieves," or whatever he called it."

That comment sparks a high laugh from both of you, echoing over the crackle of the fire. It's easy, talking to her. With the alcohol flowing through your veins and relaxing your muscles, it's easy to forget that you're meant to be mortal enemies.

Maybe if she wasn't so damn pretty.

You're sat close to her, a foot or two apart on the wide, thick log. A moment of silence fills the night air, her breath exhaling audibly.

"...I'd thought about taking their offer, no matter how unsubtle they were.

I mean... I'm by myself. Could be good to get some more hands on deck."

Even through the alcohol meddling with your brain and coaxing it into mush, you can hear the somber note to her words. She's lonely, you realize. She must be. She's on the run, isolated in the woods, with seemingly no family. A hush falls over her small camp, only broken by your words.

"Maybe I could help you with that." Your hand falls to cover hers, fingertips gliding over the warm, tawny skin before settling and curling under her palm. The wine made you bold, itching to touch and comfort the unfolding mystery before you. When your gaze flickers to hers, her eyes are pleasantly glazed with surprise.

"You'd..." Her apprehension is obvious, and warranted—you're the sheriff's daughter, the jewel of the town, the perfect wife-to-be. Most wouldn't think you'd do anything that'd dirty your frock, much less your hands and your gleaming record of virtue. Stealing? With her? It seems implausible. Yet, you remain earnest, causing her lips to tick up into a gentle smile.

"I'd like that. If you'd stay with me."

The fire slowly burns down, the near-silence comforting and only broken by small, nostalgic anecdotes. With the warmth slowly seeping from the air, the distance between your forms closes gradually until you're past even shoulder-to-shoulder. Your sides mold together, the soft wool of her tunic folding under the press of your body.

With drooping, wine-drowsy eyes, you rest your head on her shoulder. You're pressed so tightly, your brow slots against her nape. Her neck is soft. The skin smells clean and, faintly, of pine. Her chin drops to your crown, nose lazily nuzzling at the strands of your hair.

"We should rest." Her low murmur is fairly quiet, but with the silence of the woods it curls around your ears easily. Her hands are strong and calloused from her bow as she helps you from the log. Yet, they're infinitely gentle as they support your back, helping you into her tent.

She guides you down onto the mass of fabrics. You're first cradled by soft sheepskin, and then fine satin. The last dredges of daylight allow her to help you with your dress. Her fingers work the ties more efficiently than yours ever would, especially under the influence of such potent drink. They ease the fabric from your shoulders, adding it to the nest of cloths. Her tunic followed soon after.

She lies back on the bedroll with a exhale of breath, gently guiding you down next to her. Her lithe arms curl around your form, snaking robustly. The warm press of her bare skin against yours is more intoxicating than the wine. Her chin retakes its space on the crown of your head.

"Sleep." Is the last thing you hear. Her calloused hands knead and caress the bared flesh of your back, soothing the soft skin. Your joined body heat is trapped under layers of blankets, keeping the environment under the pile toasty and warm. As the weak rays of the dusk putter out, swallowed by the dark trees, your eyes fall shut as well.

Her lips press to your forehead. The leisurely, gentle drag of her lips is a promise for the morning. Her heartbeat slows to a crawl beneath your ear, the rises and falls of her chest deepening. She dozes off after you, lips pressed to your hairline and arms snug around your form.

You never did get the tea.

[tentativefiction]

How to Love Your Dragon part 2/?

Word count: 1805

Another sleepless night awaits you, though this time your mind races for a completely different reason. Has this day actually been real? Was there really an unidentified dragon just a few short miles outside the village? Maybe you are actually secretly dead and this is some bizarre afterlife?

Placing your hand over your thundering heart, you forced yourself to take some deep breaths and ground yourself, coming up with a game plan. At first light, after greeting your grandma, you’ll slip away. You won’t be missed, you tell yourself. Usually, you’d help out at the blacksmiths, but since the end of the war, you’d been just a spare pair of hands anyway; if anything, the blacksmith will be happy to have you out of his hair for a day or so.

As morning light begins to stream through your window, you quietly slip away from your bed and spring into action. Grabbing your rucksack, you rush down into the small pantry in the kitchen and start grabbing whatever you could find; salted fish and fresh meats, a different variation of fruits and vegetables. You knew dragons liked meat, but maybe you could expand its pallet. Strangely, you find yourself quite giddy at the thought of potentially showing it something new. Studying its reactions.

Just as you’re tucking the last of it into your bag, you hear the creak of the wooden floor. Grandma, she wasn’t supposed to be up just yet. You freeze, panic enveloping you, but you force yourself to smile.

“Morning grandma!” You greet her with a suspiciously large smile and a cheerful little wave just as the grey haired woman emerges steadily from the doorway, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

She takes one look at you and a warm smile graces her wrinkled face. “Good morning my dear,” the bag you held behind you immediately catches her eye, “going somewhere?”

Immediately, your mind blanks. A million different explanations rush through your mind at once, each less believable than the last. You never were a good liar, and she will most likely see right through you. Oh shit, now you’ve waited too long, she’s looking at you strangely. How do you speak again?

“I um-“ you clear your throat and try your best to look casual, leaning against the door frame, “actually, I was, erm… going out for a picnic? Yes! An early morning picnic! You know, to see all the… birds and… stuff.” You trail off and fight back a wince. Well, it could have gone worse.

The suspicion on her face is evident, but to your surprise she just smiles, pats your head and gently wishes for you to have a good day.

“Just make sure some of that food is before yourself. You don’t want to be giving it all away to the… ‘birds’” grandma Josephine calls over her shoulder as you make a break for the door.

————————————————

You make it back to the dragon’s clearing in record time, despite the constant looks over your shoulder. Climbing down into the lower level, you wander the seemingly empty space, fully taking in the lush green grass and clean water. You expect wildlife to be teeming at a place like this, but you quickly chalk it up to having something to do with its newest resident.

“Uh, dragon?” You call out after seeing no sight of the large creature, “it’s me. I brought you something.”

Crouching down near the small body of water, you begin to busy yourself by pulling out the assortment of food you’d managed to pilfer, laying it out in a spread in front of you. As you’re preoccupied, a large gust of air hits the back of your neck, damp and hot. You launch yourself a foot into the air, an undignified squeal escaping from your throat as you flail in an attempt to turn around.

The scaled beast looms over you, its massive shadow blocking out the sun as it peers curiously down its long snout at you, a glimmer of amusement in its garnet gaze.

“Ha ha, very funny,” you huff as you try to stop yourself from having a heart attack with a hand placed over your chest, “you really couldn’t have made a sound or anything?”

The dragon snorts at you before its eyes fixate on the spread in front of you, its nostrils twitching as it moves closer.

“Wait, wait” you wave your hands in front of the food, nearly whimpering as the dragon growls fiercely at you, unimpressed and hungry. With lightning speed you organise the foods into categories. “It’s all yours. I just want to see what you prefer.” You nod, before sitting back and pulling out your notepad from outside your bag ready to note your findings.

Grumbling, the creature glances from the food, to you and then the book. If dragons could scowl, you get the feeling that you’d be on the unpleasant end of a particularly lethal one. All creatures need to eat, so it doesn’t take long before it digs in.

With no ounce of hesitation, it immediately dives into the meat. Digging and tearing at it with sharp teeth, barely chewing before gulping it down it its haste to fill itself. Next was the fish, but it hesitates as the taste of salt assaults its senses. With its tongue hanging from its maw mid lick, it roughly pushes its snout into the meat and takes a huge sniff. An intense internal debate racks the dragons brain as it glares daggers at the unsuspecting fish, then at you as if you’ve tried to poison it. The dragon’s caution only lasts so long before the hunger wins out and the fish is in its stomach- bones and all, which actually makes you feel quite queasy. Now only a small pile of fruits and vegetables sat.

Apples, raspberries, plumbs, carrots, a turnip and a small cabbage. Only so much would fit in your bag, and this was all that was left. You were praying that the dragon would eat this too and that it would be enough to sustain such a large creature. Surprisingly, it only takes one glance at you, one sniff at the produce, before it’s all gone in just a few humongous bites. You exhale sharply and drop your notebook, a little disappointed at the dragon’s seemingly uncaring attitude; it just ate the whole thing at once, barely differentiating between the different flavours.

“I wonder what I should call you?” You ponder as you put your notebook back in your rucksack.

The dragon lazily grooms itself, long rough tongue dragging against dark scales, before it turns to stare at you with its crimson gaze.

“How about Drago?” The dragon huffs, “fine, um… Drake?” It glares, “….Snuffles?”

Huffing, the dragon turns and starts walking away from you, its long limbs carrying it away quickly despite its slow pace. Calling out for the dragon to slow, you jump up and jog to catch up.

“Fine! Fine. I guess names are off the table for now. At least let me figure out if you’re a boy or girl.”

The dragon freezes and turns its long neck to look at you inquisitively.

“Hmm, I don’t see anything, you must be female.” You mutter, your eyes searching the dragons lower half near his spiky tail. The dragon whips its gigantic frame around to face you, its scaly face oddly expressive as it goes from shock, to displeasure, to outrage. It growls and paws at the ground in front of you, long claws digging deep into the surface.

“Male?” You try again with a slight wince.

The dragon puffs out his chest, a proud rumble emanating from him; his head moves in a slight nod almost.

“I mean, of course you’re male.” You rub the back of your neck nervously, “silly me, it’s so obvious.” you warily chuckle. The dragon huffs in response, before slowly stretching out his front legs, his massive wings splaying out behind, giving a few large flaps.

Your attention is drawn to the gaping gash on the upper inside of his wing. It somehow looks worse than you remember it. The wound is deep, cut into what looks to be thick muscle. You frown, “I guess I should have brought you some alcohol and bandages for that.”

Noticing your line of sight, he slowly pulls his wings back into his body and watches you.

“I’m sorry.” You admit as you slump to the ground, “if I hadn’t have fired that gun at you, you would never have fallen, would never have that, would never be stuck here.”

The guilt and remorse is a heavy blanket which threatens to suffocate you. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you continue, “I don’t even know how I’m going to look after you. The only information I have on dragons is to kill them, not heal them and help them climb out of a pretty looking prison.” Exasperated, you sigh, eyes burning with unshed frustration.

The dragon eyes you up and down, tilting its head. You feel as he cautiously creeps closer into your space, before he settles down next to you. Gently, he nudges you with his head, mindful of the long, jagged horns sat menacingly atop. When your gazes meet, he nudges you again. Mirroring his caution from before, you reach your hand out and gently pet between the protruding horns.

Something niggles at the back of your mind, “You really understand everything I say. Don’t you?” He snorts in response. Laughing fondly to yourself you mutter, “there’s so much we don’t know about your kind. Are they all like you?”

You wait for some sort of response, but none comes. He just sits quietly looking at you. You smile, “No, I bet you’re special. There’s got to be a reason your kind is nowhere in the Book of Dragons,” you say more to yourself. Warily, you eye up his ebony scales, you’ve had a few suspicions on what class of dragon he may be, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself. “If you are what I think you are, then why haven’t you killed me?”

The dragon quietly stands, shakes his huge frame, then begins slowly thudding to the other side of the clearing. You realise you must have been gone from the village for a long time, so you must begrudgingly take this opportunity of him giving himself to space to step away for a while. You gave the dragon all of the food you had packed, and your stomach is rumbling.

“I have to go,” he turns to look at you curiously, “I’ll be back as soon as I can and I’ll help your wings heal. You will be free again soon. I promise.” You place your hand over your heart in a vow.

[zeciex]

Queen Daenera Targaryen and her husband, King Consort Aemond Targaryen, and their son and heir, Rhaegar Targaryen.

I felt inspired to draw older Rhaegar as I've gotten some anon's about him.

On Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Had He Lived to Maturity:

Had Prince Rhaegar Targaryen survived into his full manhood, those who chronicled his life would have found him a study in contradictions–both the fire of old Valyria and the stormy sea that ever threatens it. 

In his youth, Prince Rhaegar was known to be a boy of uncommon fire and fierce temper. Even as a child, he exhibited a stubbornness that often bordered on willful defiance, and more than once he was described by his attendants as spiteful when crossed. Scrapes and scuffles were not foreign to him–indeed, they seemed to follow wherever he went, much to the reproach of his mother. Yet these small rebellions did not spring from cruelty, but from a prideful spirit and a fierce sense of justice that would not allow him to yield, even when it would have been wiser to do so.

He took to the sword with an almost fevered intensity, echoing the passions of his father, Aemond in his youth. From the moment he was first handed a training blade, Rhaegar attacked his lessons with a single-minded determination that impressed even the seasoned knights of the Kingsguard. Many believed he was destined to become a warrior of great renown, and few doubted his natural gifts for combat and command.

Yet there was another side to the prince, one known only to a few. In the quieter hours, away from the noise of the yard and the prying eyes of the court, Rhaegar would steal away into the royal gardens with a stolen book tucked under one arm and a sweetcake pilfered from the kitchens in the other. There, beneath the whispering leaves and within the shade of the tall hedges, he found brief sanctuary. He would read for hours in solitude, wrapped in the silence of his own thoughts–thoughts that, as one maester later wrote, "ran deeper than many gave him credit for."

Those who taught him in the Red Keep’s towers spoke often of a sharp and curious mind. The maesters noted his quick wit, his keen grasp of history, and an unusual talent for languages and lore. Though his temper may have flared in the yard, in the library he was calm, focused, and strangely contemplative for one so young.

From his later youth, the Prince showed the makings of a confident and commanding presence, though cloaked in complexities that rendered him difficult to define.

In public, he could mirror the grace and charm of his mother, Queen Daenera, when it suited him. Courtiers often found themselves disarmed by his effortless diplomacy, the quickness of his smile, and the musical cadence of his speech. Yet just as swiftly, Rhaegar could reveal the colder, more unsettling traits of his sire, Aemond. He possessed a bluntness that bordered on cruel, and an intensity that at times made lesser men falter. He understood the game of courts and veiled meanings, and though he could don the mask of politeness with great ease, it was no secret that he quickly grew weary of such empty pleasantries. Above all, the Prince did not suffer disrespect lightly, and woe betide the man or lordling who tested his patience or honor.

His spirit was ever a tempest of fire–passionate, defiant, and unyielding. He was possessed of a fierce will and a stubborn streak that ran deep in his blood, and though this led him often into conflict or trouble, he bore his consequences with pride. Rarely would he call upon the aid of his parents, not for fear of reprimand, but out of a desire to spare them worry and to resolve his own missteps by strength of will alone.

Yet beneath the fiery exterior, there beat a loyal and devoted heart. Rhaegar loved his parents deeply, and he held a quiet but unshakable resolve to shield his family from harm, whether from external threats or from his own youthful follies. That protectiveness, coupled with a princely sense of duty and pride, shaped a young man who would likely have left a mark not only on the court but upon the fate of the realm itself.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst

One of the great unknowns about the 1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst is exactly how many cars were built. Estimates put the total as low as 485, and as high as 502 cars. Regardless of what the figure actually is, the car itself is a pretty special piece of machinery.

The 300 Hurst is a giant of a car at 19′ in length. All of the Hursts rolled off the production line finished in Spinnaker White. The cars were then shipped to the Hurst factory in Warminster, Pennsylvania, where a substantial transformation was performed. The first change to be made was the removal of the standard Chrysler steel hood skin, which was replaced with a fiberglass unit. This featured a decorative hood scoop and the obligatory set of recessed hood locks. The deck lid was also removed, and once again, a fiberglass replacement, complete with a spoiler integrated with the rear quarter panels, was also installed. The White paintwork was complimented by the addition of Satin Tan highlights and contrasting pinstripes, and the wheels were adorned with the same Satin Tan color in the centers. This Hurst is a clean car, with a small area of rust visible in the lower section of the driver’s side front fender, and surface corrosion present on the car’s underside. The Spinnaker White paint appears to be in good condition, but there has been some deterioration of the Satin Tan paint on both the hood and the deck lid. The exterior trim and chrome all look good, while the tinted glass is close to perfect.

The 300 Hurst was a premium car at a premium price, so naturally, it required a premium interior. In this case, seat upholstery was available in a single type and color. Continuing the exterior theme, the color is Saddle Tan, and the material is leather. The plush front seats are not standard 300 items but have been pilfered from the Imperial parts bin. While the original intention was for a Hurst shifter to be part of the interior features, this is something that never eventuated. The interior of this Hurst is close to perfect, with a single discolored spot on the dash pad being the most obvious fault. The rest of it presents in virtually as-new condition, and as befits a luxury car, it is loaded with luxury touches. These include air conditioning, power windows, six-way power seats, cruise control, a remote trunk release, and I think that there also might be an 8-track player hanging under the dash.

The 300 Hurst was the biggest of the muscle cars, and as such, it needed a big motor to get it moving. In this case, it is the TNT 440 engine, pumping out 375hp. The Hurst also features a 727 TorqueFlite transmission, a 3.23 rear end, power steering, power brakes, heavy-duty rear springs and front torsion bars, and sway bars. The exhaust was a full dual system, ending in quad tips. This Hurst hasn’t seen a lot of recent use, and documentation confirms that between 1986 and 2019, it managed to accumulate a grand total of 20 miles! Since being removed from its climate-controlled storage, it has undergone a meticulous mechanical check and recommissioning, and it is now said to run and drive perfectly. The owner does suggest that while the tires look good, they are pretty olds, and replacing them might be a good idea. He also says that the Hurst may need mufflers fairly soon. The car does come with a fair collection of documentation, including the original Build Sheet and Window Sticker, a pristine Certi-Card, Owner’s Manual, as well as dealer paperwork and other assorted items.

While there has always been some question surrounding the build totals for the 1970 300 Hurst, one thing is certain, and that is that there are less than 300 cars in existence today. Pristine examples can fetch sums in excess of $30,000, and even a rough example in need of restoration can still sell for anywhere around $13,000. This one doesn’t need a major restoration, but it does require some cosmetic work. I’m not sure where bidding is eventually going to go with this one, but I would suspect that it will be somewhere around the low to mid $20,000 mark. Even at that price, it probably wouldn’t be a bad buy.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Along the Road of Nameless Graves

Presiding over a series of forested foothills and mountainous valleys that divide two rival kingdoms, the mist-shrouded barony of Siirvyn has seen more than its share of war over the past generations. Betrayal, invasion, and massacre are all too common motifs in the barony's long history, leaving all sorts of scars on both the landscape and the people who dwell within it.

Adventure Hooks:

Rumours of a treasure draw the party to Siirvyn, apparently concealed in a vault beneath the ruined castle of a long dead baroness Taviaa. Surely it won't be too hard to locate a single ruin in a land frequently beset by war, right?

The party arn't the only one combing across the barony looking for something. A hardluck knight seeks her brother after he vanished on a foolish quest, and might be willing to help the party out of jam if they aid her in search.

Folk of the barony tell of Grimcackle, a great black winged beast that moorlands that's sometimes heard laughing over the desolate battlefields but is only ever seen by the lost and the desperate. To heed the old stories it plunders the old battlefields of it's choicest riches, hoarding the wealth of the dead over centuries of war.

Subquest 1:

The party's hunt for riches gets complicated after arriving in the region to find that there has been no less than eight baroness Taviaas over the past century(backwater fiefdoms do like tradition after all) with five castles between them. Most have been destroyed by disaster, neglect, or siege, leaving the party to trek across the land checking checking out each option (though a clever party might narrow their search by hitting the local archives and cross referencing historical accounts).

Potential ruins include:

The delapidated lair of the local owlbear

Huanted by the ghost of one of the baronesses Taviaa,

The Hideout of a gang of smugglers with far reaching ties

Thoroughly cursed by a battlefield savaging spriggan who deals in cursed weapons.

To make matters even more complicated, one of the castles has been restored by the current baron Arkolo who would likely not take kindly to a band of renegade sellswords pilfering riches from under his nose, forcing the party to avoid it entirely or risk getting thrown in the dungeon if caught.

Subquest 2:

Ser Riley of Breakbridge never expected to inherit the family title, her father favoured her elder brother Rhys far more, and when the old man died in the last war there was no question who his holdings would pass to. Then, a couple of years ago Rhys got it into his head that he needed to reclaim the family's ancestral sword which was lost in the same bloody battle that did their father in, crossing the mountains to scour old battlefields and not being seen since. After righting the mess Rhys caused by his chivalric absence, Riley has come to Siirvyn herself to drag him, or possibly his body back from his foolhardy quest. The party may run into her requesting aid from the Baron, seeking advice from the local shrine to Tyr, or drinking off another unsuccessful trek through the wilderness at the local tavern. She'd welcome their aid in her search, and would gladly pay them back by lending her blade to theirs in their search (or using her influence to spring them from the baron's dungeons, should they have been caught).

Rhys' trail snakes all across the barony (including leaving a journal in one of the ruins the party wanted to search), but terminates in the great barren battlefield that was his father's last stand. While searching these moorlands the party & Ser Riley will run into a band of armed scavengers apparently conducting their own body-hunt for one of their fallen comrades. They served on the opposite side of the war from Riley's family, and if that wasn't bad blood enough, they apparently came to blows with Rhys a little under a year ago and aim to settle the score with his sister.

Regardless of how the standoff plays out (talking the scavengers down and exchanging favours or beating the information out of them) the Next step is to find Grimcackle's nest. By now (especially if you're playing with my affliction system and the party is tired out from all their wandering across the countryside) the party will have realized that the only way to see the great raven is to be nearing the edge of death, whether through actively dying, being poisoned, or just being exhausted to the bone. This is because the great raven is infact a psychopomp, tasked with sorting out the dead from the region's innumerable wars. Once the party find the particular tor the dread raven uses as roost, they'll find him quite chatty in the way of most birds, happy to trade gossip or play show and tell with his many finds. Rhys did indeed come to challenge Grimcackle for the sword, an act of daring rudness that forced the psychopomp to drag the knight's soul to the purgatory it rightfully belonged.

Resigned by the love she bears her brother, Riley insists she must venture into the shadow to save him, leaving the party with the choice of convincing her to abandon her quest, leave her to her fruitless pursuit of honour, or risk it all alongside her for the sake of an idiot who thought he could convince an aspect of death to respect his pedigree.

Subquest 3:

After their harrowing adventure the party return to town to find that Baron Akolo has been assassinated and all of Siivyrn has been thrown into chaos and suspicion. Fingers point and depending who the blame lands on it might spell civil war or invasion for the backwoods barony once again.

Background: Both neighbouring powers wish to control who moves through the region's winding passes, and expend great effort in both war and peace to ensure the barony is favourable to them. While occupying armies and vassalage have been all too common in the past, the region's ostensibly independent ruler Baron Arkolo is a puppet in all but name for the winning side of the most recent war. Little more than a bandit leader during the conflict savaging battlefields and attacking supply lines on both sides, Arkolo saw the way the wind was blowing before anyone else and made himself indispensable to his current patrons before their inevitable victory.

Little more than a strongman at first, the newly elevated baron managed to ingratiate himself to his subjects by leveraging his outlaw status to cast himself as a hero fighting against the great powers rather than ruling on their behalf. All the while the canny old bandit was of course playing both sides, toadying to the victorious kingdom while helping to run the smuggling operation for their rivals.

Clues & Consequences:

The baron had a stormy relationship with his son and prospective heir Kalo, who came up raiding alongside his father. After the war however, the young man felt he'd had enough of violence renounced his possesisons and joined the secluded temple of Tyr as a means of making peace with his bloody past. Arkolo never approved of his son's taking the cloth, refused to name another heir and would frequently make pilgramage to the temple just to argue with him. Despite their years of contention however the had seemed to reconcile in recent months, becoming closer than ever. Kalo is not taking his father's murder well, and has decided to dust off his old bandit skills alongside his newfound connection to a wargod as a means of finding the killer. Like an angered bull, he's liable to charge at whoever draws his attention, a weakness the real culprit might use to direct him onto the party's trail.

Gareth Gosdown, the baron's advisor and castilian is an agent of their patron kingdom, sent to keep the former outlaw in line and the kingdom's garrisons well supplied. In the wake of Arkolo's death, he's less interested in finding the killer than he is reinforcing his masters' hold over the barony in case of a new invasion. Known for butting heads with the Baron's more slapdash ruling style he's the one the common folk are most likely to point to.

Taviaa (ninth of that name) was born to the Baron after he'd claimed the region and married one of the local nobles. Though still young, she has a cutthroat attitude and a mind for politics, which made it all the more frustrating when her father refused to give up on her pious half brother as heir and name her instead. She knows she's the obvious culprit, the case made all the more convincing by the fact that she's recently been paling around with emissaries from the other kingdom.

Art 1

Art 2

[mumblelard]

lost in airspace or dinosaurs for scale

[gather-ye-fucking-rosebuds]

Dead Poets Society meetings were the place where Neil seemed most like himself. They scarcely had any during that winter since it was so cold, but patches of pine straw started poking through the snow melting in the woods, and it was the first day of spring, so the poets felt they should celebrate.

Todd arrived last, having had to make up a test he missed due to getting the flu and being in the infirmary for two days. When he walked into the cave, only Pittsie and Meeks said hi to him, but even they were preoccupied a little bit. After having made a radio for their room, they were working on making a more long distance radio to put in the cave (so far they were not successful). Toward the back, Knox sat with his arm wrapped around Chris’s shoulder and they stared into each other’s eyes while having a deep conversation. They were so invested that they didn’t even notice Charlie and Ginny giggling as they tried to throw almonds into Chris’s upside down hat. Neil and Cam leafed through Mr. Keating’s old poetry book, pointing out new poems to read during the session.

“Shall we get it started?” Todd asked enthusiastically, dropping the basket of assorted fruits he had pilfered from meals for this very occasion.

“Captain said he was gonna swing by today,” Neil said, grinning at Todd. “Let’s give him a few minutes.”

“I stopped by his office before I came and he said to start without him,” Todd explained, sitting down and wrapping his coat tighter around himself. “So let’s do this.”

And like clockwork, the poets recited the opening poem in unison, and Neil started the meeting by reading a short and sweet poem about the moon. Cam was in the middle of telling a story when Mr. Keating arrived.

“Captain!” he exclaimed, making everyone turn towards the entrance excitedly. “Here, sit down.”

“No, Mr. Cameron, I’m not staying long,” he said solemnly. The cave got quiet. Mr. Keating cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll, uh, start with the good news,” he said, smiling sadly. “My wife in London is going to come visit for a few months.”

The poets all gasped and tried talking over each other, asking many different questions, like where would she stay? Would they get to meet her? Has he told her about them?

But Todd hung onto the question that haunted the room. “What’s the bad news?” It was just a whisper, but it silenced the whole group.

Mr. Keating looked around at the poets. His students. Hell, he’d even consider them his sons. How did his life come to the point where seven extraordinary young boys looked up to him so much as to sneak out to a cave in the middle of the woods to read poetry of all things? He had to be the luckiest man alive.

“Boys, I-“ he started, his voice breaking. How could he get this across gently? “Remember the first lesson I taught you all?”

They all looked at each other. “Captain, what’s going on?” Charlie asked.

“And I had Pitts read To the Virgins To Make Much of Time?” Mr. Keating chuckled softly as Pitts still blushed, even today. “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’ was the lesson I was trying to teach you all that day.”

“Captain,” Todd mumbled uncertainly, starting to understand what Mr. Keating was getting to.

“Well,” Mr. Keating continued, trying to smile through the tears forming in his eyes. “‘That same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying’ is…” His voice trailed away, unable to finish the sentence. He sniffled and wiped away a tear that rolled down his cheek.

“Boys,” he said, voice breaking. “I went to a doctor yesterday. He said I have leukemia. I only have a few months left to live.”

[sloanesallow]

a little less sixteen candles

Something I wrote for Sloane's birthday (April 28th, 1875). I didn't anticipate it being so bittersweet, but that's what happens when your MC's birthday coincides with the end-game events.... (art by puri.dew) SWF | 2.6k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad]

It's spring—late April, to be exact. Flowers bloom all over the Scottish Highlands, and students take advantage of the warmer weather to spend their afternoons and evenings outdoors. Most travel to Hogsmeade and the surrounding hamlets, some take to the Quidditch pitch, and others lounge in the courtyards to daydream and watch the clouds pass by.

Instead of enjoying the beauty of nature or spending quality time with his friends, Sebastian is holed up in the Undercroft, scribbling notes on a blackboard with the last nub of chalk. On the table nearby, several textbooks and dusty tombs are spread open, their margins littered with more of his scrawl. He dusts his fingers off, smearing white across his pant leg before grabbing a quill to hunch over the latest pilfering from the Restricted Section.

Curses, Curses, and Even More Curses

It is an encyclopedia of sorts, one Sebastian found tucked away in some dark corner of the library's basement, being used to prop up a wobbly cabinet. The book smells like it has been fermenting in the lake and is icy cold to the touch, but the few pages that remain legible offer more information than he's been able to gleam in recent months. Despite having Salazar Slytherin's spellbook, it has taken considerable effort and time to translate, and even then the ancient writings refer to artifacts and magic Sebastian is just barely starting to comprehend.

He is reading a particularly interesting passage about blood sacrifices when he realizes he is no longer alone. Ominis stands on the other side of the table, eyebrows bunched together and lips pursed in an everlasting state of dissatisfaction. When the bloody hell did he sneak in?

"I won't bother with asking what it is you are doing, as I have no interest in arguing with you this evening."

"Lucky me," Sebastian quips back. Their friendship has been strained ever since Anne's curse, the relationship gradually turning into something far more toxic. But the fear of losing one of his best and only friends is overshadowed by the deep dread that consumes Sebastian every day—he will not let Anne die.

He attempts to refocus his attention to the yellowed pages of the old tome. "It must be a special occasion, if you're letting me off so easily."

"Now that you mention it," Ominis replies, sardonically.

When he doesn't elaborate, Sebastian glances up and finds himself curious for a new reason. His friend is dressed up, or rather, dressed down, in a neat but casual ensemble that is so uncharacteristic it might as well be a prank. Since when did Ominis walk around in anything less than his school uniform?

"Today is a special occasion," Ominis finally clarifies, though his tone makes it obvious he is teasing Sebastian for the gap in knowledge.

"Uh..."

What day is it? He wonders, furrowing his brow in thought. Tuesday? What important event occurs on a Tuesday other than...potions? No, he attended class that morning, even if he cannot recall the details of Professor Sharp's lecture. Crossed Wands? That isn't until Friday. All Sebastian really remembers from the last twelve hours is bartering with the kitchen-elves for leftovers after missing dinner, again. That, and being shooed away from the library by Madam Scribner, again.

The prolonged silence causes Ominis to scoff, more irritated than before. "Seriously, Sebastian?" he snaps, shaking his head. "Do you really not remember? Ugh, why am I even surprised? I only came down here to confirm for myself that you truly are lost."

"I am not—"

"Shut up," Ominis cuts him off with a pointed look that is a tad more menacing than usual. "After all she did to remind us—you—" he sighs, temper simmering. "Siobhan did well to hide her disappointment, but even I could tell by the sound of her voice she was upset by your absence."

"Sloane?" Sebastian blinks several times as the realization dawns on him. Tuesday. The twenty-eighth day of April.

Today is Sloane's birthday.

He drops the book and threads his hands through his hair in exasperation, cursing under his breath, "shit."

"It is remarkable, really, the patience that girl has," Ominis remarks, ignoring the way Sebastian starts to frantically pace. "More than I posses, at least. I do not know the details, nor do I wish to, but it is a small miracle she considers you a friend, for all you have put her through."

Sebastian pauses to glare at his friend, almost daring him to repeat the snide comment. What the hell does he know? But, for what seems like the millionth time in five years, Ominis is right. In his pursuit for a cure, he is slowly alienating the people he cares about. Sloane is a recent addition to his inner circle, though sometimes it feels as if she's been there all along. His feelings for the Hufflepuff are...complicated, to put it mildly. Sebastian knows he likes her, perhaps more than he's ever liked a member of the opposite sex. However, inexperience and denial leave him unwilling to call it love.

He lets out a pitiful groan, palms pressed hard against his eyes.

"I can't believe I forgot!" The memory of Sloane inviting them to a small celebration in Hogsmeade crashes into view, adding to his shame. He's been so wrapped up in research and schoolwork that it slipped his mind. "Merlin's beard—I'm an arse!"

"Yes," Ominis flatly agrees, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Good thing wallowing in self-pity solves everything."

Sebastian frowns, his gut twisting with regret, frustrated by his own preoccupation. The spread of journals and scribbled notes seem to taunt him, his head and heart torn between obligation and desire. He returns to pacing, murmuring incoherently as his brain tries to prioritize what the first step should be. Bathe? No time. He unceremoniously sniffs under his arm and winces—a cleaning charm will have to suffice.

"Is she still in Hogsmeade?" he asks, allowing some hope to flourish when Ominis nods. "Do you think...she'll forgive me?"

"She shouldn't," Ominis says, sighing again. He shakes his head, almost as if he is humored by Sebastian's enthusiasm. "But she will."

Sebastian allows himself thirty minutes to get to the Three Broomsticks. It's still early, but Sloane and her friends have already been celebrating in Hogsmeade for most of the afternoon. Better late than never, right? After fixing his appearance as best he can in the nearest washroom, he rushes to the kitchens and haggles with the kitchen-elves for the second time that day, this time for pastries so he doesn't show up completely empty handed. He will need to procure a proper gift when his mind isn't so rattled.

By the time Sebastian exits the great hall, the sun is just setting beyond the horizon. It's warm, and as he speed-walks across the viaduct courtyard, sweat forms on his brow and neck and elsewhere he does not want to think about. Knowing his luck, he'll be a perspiring, smelly mess by the time he makes it to Hogsmeade. How attractive, he mumbles to himself, checking over his clothing again to make sure he's properly buttoned and tucked and—

"Sebastian?"

He freezes mid-step, snapping his gaze up to find Sloane and two of her Hufflepuff roommates—Poppy Sweeting and Lenora Everleigh—standing at the top of the stone steps. Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, but his short-circuiting brain won't allow a coherent sentence to form.

Eventually, he squeaks, "me."

Poppy and Lenora giggle while Sloane's lips curl into a sympathetic smile. All Sebastian can focus on is the pale pink of her dress and the way the curve of her neck and collarbone are exposed, making it that much more difficult to speak. Her cropped hair has a slight curl to the ends, and...is that rouge on her cheeks? He's never seen her look so...

"Wow," he breathes, perfectly aware of how lopsided his grin must look. Sebastian straightens up a little, clutching the small, wrapped box of baked goods in his hands. He lets out a shaky laugh. "I was...just coming to find you, actually."

"You were?" Sloane's eyes widen in surprise—is his presence that startling? He tries not to frown at the gut-wrenching realization that she didn't expect him to show up at all. When her friends don't budge to give them any privacy, he reaches up to tug at the knot of his tie, the suffocating feeling lingering as they stare down at him. Sebastian feels like he might faint, or retch, or both.

"Sloane, I—"

"Oh, this'll be rich," Lenora mutters, rolling her eyes. The dark-haired Hufflepuff is consistently disapproving of his relationship with Sloane, though he can't imagine why. Or maybe he can.

Poppy hushes her and the three return to holding similar, expectant expressions. Sebastian clears his throat.

"I—I'm an absolute git for forgetting your birthday," he starts, hoping he sounds as earnest as he feels. Multiple excuses tickle the tip of his tongue but he knows better in that moment than to offer any. This is his fault, his burden to bear. "I'm so sorry, sorrier than you can imagine."

"That's what he said last time, isn't it?" Lenora mumbles.

If Sebastian isn't trying so desperately to look forlorn, he would glare at her. Now's not the time for a reminder of how he's unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally hurt Sloane. For all the mistakes he's made, she has forgiven him time and time again, and everyone in their circle has noticed. Regardless of how much he wants it, maybe he is undeserving of her grace. Maybe the best gift he can give is to cut himself out of her life for good—one less burden for her to worry about in an already chaotic first—fifth—year.

His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach and his hopeful smile falls into a dejected pout. Before Sebastian can fully spiral into another pity-party of one, he flicks his gaze back to Sloane and decides that surrender simply isn't in his nature.

"Can we talk?" he softly asks. He'll beg if he has to, even at the risk of making an even bigger arse of himself in front of Sloane and her friends. "Please?"

Even though Lenora and Poppy are hesitant to let Sloane go, she waves away their worried whispers and nods. "Okay."

While her friends reluctantly head back towards the castle, Sebastian and Sloane find their way to the boathouse, the long walk accented by their echoing footsteps and sideways glances. More than once he thinks about reaching out to hold her hand but refrains, not wanting to further muddle their already shaky friendship. Sloane surprises him when they reach the pier, balancing herself against the wall so she can discard her heeled loafers and stockings. She perches herself on the dock's edge, bare feet just barely grazing the dark lake waters. Sebastian follows suit, tugging off his boots and socks before sitting down next to her, making sure there's a comfortable distance between them.

Before he can find the courage, Sloane breaks the more than awkward silence, "what do you want to talk about?"

It's an innocent enough question, one that puts control of the conversation in his hands. Sebastian could easily take the cowardly route and skip past an apology, force some laughter and pretend nothing is wrong. Instead, he digs deep and swallows his pride.

"I really am sorry, Sloane," he starts, finding it nearly impossible to look at her directly when it feels like his heart might burst out from his chest. All the regret he's been carrying rises to the surface. "I've had so many chances to make things right between us and I've mucked them up over and over again that I honestly can't fathom why you give me any of your time at all."

"You are..." he trails off in hesitation, remembering that a little bit of vulnerability can go a long way. "You are one of the better aspects of my life. One of the kindest, if not the kindest person I know. And...while we haven't been friends for very long, I'm bloody well terrified of losing you over my own stupidity."

Sloane flashes him a curious look. "Losing me?"

"You know what I mean," he quickly replies, even if he is still figuring it out himself. Or maybe he is too scared to admit the truth. The last thing he wants to do is push his luck when it has already run dry. They are friends—it is selfish to hope for more. The uncomfortable tightness in his throat returns. "Am I...too late?"

For a moment that feels like eternity to a fragile boy like him, Sloane doesn't respond, her gaze focused on the water and the reflection of the moon. Her pensive expression is impossible to read, but he takes it as a good sign that she hasn't run off or shoved him into the lake for the squid to drown. She sighs and slowly turns her head to look at him again.

"You're here now is what matters," she says, lips twitching up into the faintest smile. Sebastian should feel relieved, but the guilt lingers. Perhaps in an effort to change the subject, Sloane gestures to the small box, partially crumpled by his anxious fidgeting. "Is that...?"

"Oh! Right," he hesitantly hands it over, watching as Sloane lifts the lid to reveal several squished lemon tarts. He rubs the back of his neck as he lets out a self-deprecating laugh in an attempt to save face. "They're meant to look like that. It's an after-hours kitchen specialty, I'm told."

Sloane's smile widens slightly as she plucks one from the box, generously handing it to him before taking one for herself. Emboldened, Sebastian quickly conjures a small candle to press into her share and carefully ignites the wick.

"I already made a wish," she explains.

Sebastian isn't discouraged. "Well, now you can make a second one. Happy birthday, Sloane."

He continues to watch her as she momentarily ponders, the flickering flame reflected in her eyes before she softly extinguishes it with a soft breath.

"What did you wish for?"

"The first or second time?" Sloane responds, somewhat cheekily.

Sebastian doesn't push her to offer a real answer and instead allows for a comfortable silence to settle between them as they nibble at the lemony treats. The lake water gently splashes at their hanging feet and for the first time in recent memory, he feels calm. It might be temporary, but he allows himself to sink into the feeling, smiling as Sloane offers him a second tart.

"Sebastian?"

"Hmm?"

He turns his head just in time, barely registering what is happening as Sloane moves closer with her head tilted just so. Her lips meet his and Sebastian is stunned, taking several rapid heartbeats to react, fluttering his eyes shut as he leans into the kiss. If he knew that her lips would be this soft and warm, he would've kissed her ages ago. As greedy as he is to taste more, he allows the kiss to remain chaste, inching his hand across the short distance to cover hers.

Sloane eventually pulls away and when he peeks open his eyes she is smiling, cheeks dusted with a blush he yearns to brighten. Sebastian is still too flabbergasted to utter a response, nervously laughing when she reaches up to brush away a crumb from his cheek. He catches her hand before she can pull away, squeezing her fingers in his own. The momentary calm of his heart explodes into a burning inferno he struggles to contain. This time, he is sure he knows the answer, but still asks.

"Your wish?"

"It already came true."

[smehur]

A Very Drarry Christmas

or what are my various drarries doing for the holidays?

many thanks to @kamaela and @hollyhawthorn for tagging me in this delightful game! 🎄🎄🎄

Spring Forward, Fall Back (the series that starts with A Ferret’s Sensibility): As the Yule Ball draws to an end, and Ron runs out after Hermione, an origami crane hits the right lens of Harry’s glasses, skewing them. Its beak would’ve gone right into his eye. He doesn’t need to unwrap it to guess who it’s from. Malfoy waits in a deserted classroom with a flask of pilfered firewhiskey. “Scared, Potter?” he taunts, puffing smoke out the perfect, wet circle of his mouth. “Piss off, Malfoy,” says Harry, snatches the flask and takes a swig. He chokes on it. Malfoy laughs, nicely, loose and loud from the booze, and after a moment, Harry smiles too. They’re fourteen. They’ll be over twenty the next time they know true peace for Christmas.

More than I can say: Draco can’t stand the echoing emptiness of the common room, not even with the promises the crackling hearth whispers to his freezing feet. He retires to the dorm and crawls under the covers. So what if it’s noon? No one will know anyway. It’s half past three when the knocking wakes him. He blinks and rubs his eyes, but it’s not an apparition. “What are you doing here, Potter?” Potter’s unlacing his shoes. “Aren’t you supposed to be with the Weasleys?” Potter’s taking off his glasses so he can pull his jumper over his head. “Potter!” Draco demands. Then, “Harry,” softer. “Tell me you didn’t come back to keep me company. I was perfectly fine on—” Down to his vest, pants and socks, Potter worms into Draco’s bed, into his arms, with icicles for nose and knees and fingers. “Less talking, more snogging," he says. Hopelessly, helplessly in love, Draco gives him what he wants. Everything he could ever want.

The mature future of Bruised: The last of the guests have gone through the Floo. Harry sweeps the room with tired eyes: the abundance of plates and cutlery and leftovers, cans and bottles and gift-wrappings, the cooling smoke from cigars and firewhiskey. “Tomorrow,” Draco declares with a royal wave of the hand, putting a swift end to the discussion before it has a chance to start. Harry releases the breath he was holding. They meet in the center of the room, where there had been dancing. “Besides,” Draco murmurs as they start to sway to the music of blissful silence, “whatever energy you’ve got left, you’ll need it for this.” And he pulls his shirttails from under his belt to reveal a glimpse of fine, sap green lace running up his iliac crest. In minutes, it is wet with kisses.

no-pressure-tagging @soliblomst @eleadore @sweet-s0rr0w @yiiiiiiiikes25 @lqtraintracks @letteredlettered

[arwenlalaith]

Hook, Line, and Sinker

Ship: Emily Prentiss/Reader

Summary: When your father had started dating Lauren Reynolds, you couldn't help but seethe with jealousy that a piece of shit like him could get a gorgeous milf like her...

Word Count: 1087

Author's Note: This fills the Coercion square on my @cmkinkbingo2024 card.

Lauren poked her head into your father's study, frowning when she caught sight of you. "Should you be drinking that?" she asked, crossing the room to snatch the glass of whisky out of your hand (and downing a greedy sip herself).

You rolled your eyes, pouring yourself another glass in spite of her reprimand. "You think Ian really gives a fuck?" you replied.

She couldn't help but bark out a laugh at that. "I also doubt he'd approve of you calling him by his first name," she said wryly, only to laugh once again at your lackadaisical shrug. "You're kind of a brat," she said.

You just flashed her a mischievous grin that could've been agreement...not that you were saying as much. You watched as she took the seat opposite you, still gripping the pilfered glass of whisky. "You look tense..." you said, almost conversationally, but for the undertone of sexuality simmering beneath the surface.

She raised a brow, gestured vaguely at your surroundings, which...fair.

Before she'd had the opportunity to realize what was happening, you'd circled behind her, hands finding her shoulders and beginning to massage them. "Your muscles are like concrete," you purred as you kneaded them, "You really need to loosen up..."

She was clearly taken aback by the forward gesture, but she couldn't seem to form words in the face of it. She swallowed thickly, opened her mouth, and once again failed to speak.

"Why don't you get more comfortable?" you suggested silkily, hands slipping down towards the buttons of her blouse.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered, but made no move to stop your progress, even as you unfastened the first button. You didn't bother answering with words – your actions spoke loud and clear as you slipped her blouse off altogether. It wasn't until your fingers landed on the front clasp of her bra that she seemed to spring back to life. "This can't happen," she said, but the protest was weak.

You smirked, though she couldn't see it from her vantage point in front of you. "Why not?" you asked, as if you truly didn't know where her protests were coming from. "I'm eighteen, it's all perfectly legal..."

She scoffed. "For one thing, I'm dating your father," she pointed out.

"So?" You popped the clasp on her bra, thumbs finding her nipples, brushing them teasingly.

You could hear her breath hitch, in spite of her best efforts to hide the reaction. "So," she repeated urgently, but she didn't seem to know what to follow it up with.

Then, you were in her lap, leaning in close enough that your lips were hovering over hers. "Please, Lauren..." you husked, breath hot on her lips. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it...I've seen the way you look at me."

"Y/N..." she protested weakly. "W-we shouldn't..."

"We should," you pressed, then your lips were on hers, your tongue delving into her mouth and, in spite of herself and her insistence that this couldn't happen, she was kissing you back. You indulged in the kiss for several long minutes before finally pulling back, dragging your teeth along her lip as you did so. "Tell me you don't want this..."

You could tell she wanted to, wanted to stop this because she knew it was the right thing to do, but knowing it and actually doing it were two very different things. She groaned, attempting to work up the words, but couldn't seem to actually say them aloud.

Saving her the trouble, you once again pressed your lips to hers, shifting in her lap to properly straddle her. This time, she didn't hesitate before kissing you back, her hands delving beneath your tank top to explore the planes of your back. Your hands were once again on her nipples, teasing the sensitive buds until her breath was catching and her hips squirming beneath you.

You knew you had her right where you wanted her...

"I want you, Lauren," you said breathlessly, pulling back to fix her with a laden look. She nodded eagerly, apparently lost to arousal and the eroticism of having you grinding in her lap and begging to fuck her. With a smug grin, knowing you'd succeeded in convincing her, you moved so you were kneeling in front of her, working on the zipper of her khakis.

She assisted you in removing her clothes and, once her pants and underwear were discarded, you trailed kisses and gentle nips back up her legs until you reached her centre, burying your nose in her folds and inhaling deeply the scent of her.

Then, staring up at her with mischief twinkling in your eyes, you dragged your tongue through her cunt, finally getting to taste her the way you'd spent all those nights touching yourself, dreaming about what this moment would be like...

"Oh, Y/N, you're going to get yourself in trouble if you keep doing that," she warned.

You waggled your brows as you found her clit with the tip of your tongue. "I happen to love trouble."

"Cocky little slut..." she muttered, though there was no heat behind it. She wound her fingers in your hair, using the leverage to force you deeper into her cunt, smearing your face with her juices. "Let me guess: you've spent a lot of nights lying awake, dreaming about being exactly here, hmm? Wondering what it would be like to be at my complete and utter mercy?"

You nodded eagerly.

She pulled you back from her cunt, stared you down, and ordered, "Open." You were quick to open your mouth, tongue lolling out, awaiting her fingers. She let you suck on her fingers for longer than you would have liked, but you certainly weren't about to complain and risk her ire.

Without warning, she pulled her fingers past your lips, then – gentle, but firm enough to leave a sting – she slapped your cheek. When you gasped sharply, she raised a brow, wearing a smile that only grew as she watched your pupils dilate. "Oh, you're one of those..."

Briefly, you were tempted to make a smart Aleck remark, but you had a feeling that doing so would cost you dearly, so you remained silent and nodded once again.

"Oh, Kitten, I'm going to have so much fun with you..."