#drawing is the thing that makes me feel alive and feel good about myself so when i can't draw i just feel really awful

[soppsop]

i just rememberd adhd meds exist and now im upset because i could have that if it wasn't for that freakin neurologyst we went to see that told us it was impossible that i could have adhd because i have good grades in school. literally the ONLY question he asked me and immediately said it was impossible. we spent like 5 minutes there. he could've at least... explained something???? anything?????? and now i'd feel bad about asking my parents to see another neurologist because that costs a lot of money :((

[spacedlexi]

trying to keep all my clemviminnie thoughts contained until i get to episode 3 but

its hard

[nmoroder]

You know i used to have these surges of art coming through my hands at night. They're back, these surges. And i love Klogg can you tell

1st pic almost quotes Bible cuz you know, TenNapel himself said the Neverhood story is biblical in nature so yeah it comes naturally

2nd is Hoborg's humanized design through years (he hasn't really changed between '21 and today)

3d pic says "there are things i will never forgive myself for" and it echoes the headcanon that Hoborg had great guilt for what Klogg had become bcuz of the crown and was actually terrified of seeing and touching him

4th pic is abt this story i composed a couple of years ago, in short it's the segment where Klaymen and Klogg had to fight Some Guys and Klay obtained a blaster a while ago. yeah and Klogg had a blast using a spear which promptly broke after a dozen of hits

6th pic references the latest askblog post (and psst is the short summary of where they're gonna be heading next)

[mars-ipan]

it’s weird being in recovery after like 2 months of sickness and looking forward to being able to do all the little things you used to take for granted again

[cuteniaarts]

Fanny, my sweet, beautiful girl

17.11.2012 – 14.04.2019

[neverendingford]

.

[tapakah0]

(I wouldn't be able to fully show all the emotions in a limited space on the canvas, so the other half… in the form of a sketchy animatic. Be sure to watch with sound)

pt. 4 | pt. 6 And now… let me say a few words… I started all this just to show the death of Raph. I didn't want to make his death sad or tragic, it should be grandiose, worthy of a real hero, worthy of an older brother. "Like a boss". You may be tired of seeing his self-sacrifice in any form, but all the options that I saw … yes, they are good, but they are not at all on the scale that Raph is capable of. They're having a world war, all the brothers have been thrashing these aliens like kids in the movie, and all I get is Raph pinned down by the rubble?? (I only like this version when he's already a robot, but I don't like it at all when he's alive, still powerfull (because, again, their ninpo most likely connected to their feelings, and Raph is the one who can use full out of it alongside with Mikey) Raph is terribly strong, if he were alive to the very end, I'm sure he would scare the krang on a par with Donnie, because, firstly, Mikey is not so scary for them because of the side effect of his ninpo, secondly, Leo lost his ninpo. So…even if briefly and rudely enough, but I wanted to show how strong the effect of Raph's death had on everyone, not just to forget about him later. (This character is very difficult for me myself, unfortunately, I can’t convey all the little things of his character and … ha ha, I can’t basically draw him correctly… mmm …) (Anyway... there will be some more parts and maybe one more episode... I'm not sure... and I'm still struggling to draw the way I like... unsuccessfully so far... khm) (Thanks to someone, my thoughts are now completely filled with the thought of finally getting back to Casey, so I can't think straight… I'm in Hell right now)

Song: Two Steps From Hell - Star Sky

[u3pxx]

💛🕊️ Five times Aziraphale gave Crowley a gift plus one time Crowley gave a gift in return.

DID YOU KNOW THAT @contritecactite, once again, wrote a VERY GOOD fic about my bad omens spouses??? and it's so wonderfully GOOD???!?!?!!

anywhooo, a very big special thanks again to elle for writing this! it's been just a real treat talking to them and the klapollomb gomens s2 support group about bad omens 🥺 i'm really, really thankful that y'all decided to indulge me and my freakingg swap au wheezes <33

i'm gonna cut myself off here and ramble more under keep reading :0]

like these drawings? they're prints, here! | like what i do? support me on ko-fi!

seeing this get written was an experience! one of the things keeping me alive during prelim exams LOL if i remember correctly, this kind of started bc i was curious if bomens zira would actually have, i guess, a real demon equivalent the way shax (stork), beelzebub (fly), and furfur (deer) do. so i looked up the words 'crow demon' and whaddya know!

a crow demon!! and what's that? "cause Love"?

what a perfect fit for demon!aziraphale! and really, i was only messing around the first time i had the idea of "haha lol wouldn't it be funny if demon aziraphale was a crow", and then bam! all of it started to, surprisingly, fit well together pfttt (special thanks to bepo for being the one to piece it all together wheezes <33) (also, just really thank you all for bouncing ideas with me, it really does make me happy dfgdhjd <3333)

and then elle wrote a little snippet at first (IIRC) and then he just feakign!!!!!!! WOAGH!!!!!!! just, tasty delicious words, a fic that made me kick my feet like i was a schoolgirl while reading the whole thing ASKSKS <333

i'm really happy with all the spot art i drew for this! wanted it to look very uhhh, i wouldn't say storybook, but watercolor illustrations were definitely a huge inspiration! i wanted them to feel as nice and cozy as YOU would feel while reading elle's fic <3

i do gotta thank elle again for making these two fem-presenting when they were at the dowlings' bc then i get to draw butch gardener crowley. do you know how much that means to me? do you know do you do y do you know how m how much that how m b butches butches butches .

and a little bonus, one where crowley did not want to pose for the painting PFTT

i am once again putting the link here if you've scrolled this far down without reading it yet, go! go! go!!! IT'S SO GOOD!!!! <3333

[lazarusemma]

Nov 6 - Cas is

Nov 11 - He’s

Nov 18 - Sam says Mia says journaling helps. Sure.

Nov 19 - Should’ve been me.

Nov 20 - Sam, if you’re reading this thing, I’ll kick your ass.

Nov 21 - Spaghetti for dinner. Cas still dead. Journaling still stupid.

Nov 24 - I should’ve said

Nov 25 - Should’ve told him.

Nov 26, Thanksgiving - Not a whole lot of thanks around here. Thanks for dying in front of me, man. Thanks for saying all that. Thanks for disappearing again before I

Nov 30 - C not back.

Dec 5 - 1 month. C gone. J quiet. S annoying.

Dec 6 - Least Sam’s alive.

Dec 8 - [drawing of Castiel, half sketched]

Dec 10 - Not much of a friggin’ artist huh.

Dec 26 - No miracle.

Dec 31 - Gonna be another year without 

2021

Jan 1, New Year’s - Midnight alone. You should be here. You should

Jan 2 - I should’ve

Jan 5 - 2 months

Feb 5 - 3 months since I should’ve fucking kissed you.

Feb 28 - If this was a leap year man I bet you’d be back tomorrow you always did shit like that surprised the hell out of me.

Mar 1 - So it goes.

Mar 2 - S thought the library here had Vonnegut. Didn’t.

Mar 5 - 4 months Went to get a library card in town.

Mar 11 - “And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.”

Mar 30 - Sam might have a hunt for us. Don’t know if

Mar 31 - Turned it down. Passed it to Jody’s crew.

Apr 1, April Fool’s - Real funny C. Joke's over. Come back already.

Apr 9 - There’s things I can’t say things I’ve never been good at saying but you gotta know

Apr 29 - He didn’t know he didn’t know he didn’t know he didn’t

May 5 - You died not knowing, you asshole. 6 months and you’re not back so I can’t tell you.

May 6 - You missed Star Wars day, you know.

May 7 - Didn’t even Han you. Well I didn't know did I.

May 8 - Did I?

May 9 - Maybe I

May 26 - “How nice — to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.”

June 5 - 7

July 5 - 8

Aug 5 - 9

Aug 6 - What if you don’t

Aug 10 - You missed my birthday. S’s too. J’s.

Aug 11 - If you can hear me

Aug 12 - What would he even

Sept 5 - Nearly crashed the car today. S had to drive. Banged up my head leaning on the window in the backseat like a kid. 10

Sept 6 - Researching.

Sept 7 - Ain’t fair you missed a whole year. Gonna have a lot of catch up to play when

Sept 8 - …when we get you back.

Sept 18 - Been 12 years. You believe that, Cas? Since I came back. Since you brought me back. Guess I hoped today would be the magic bullet to getting you back. Like you’d tip your head at me and say Hello Dean. And I’d tell you how I raised you from perdition. Whatever. Just a day I guess. Universe doesn’t care it’s our anniversary

Sept 19 - Still gonna say it though. When it works.

Oct 5 - 11. It’s gonna work

Oct 31, Halloween - Never got to put you in a dumb matching costume. Next year though.

Nov 4 - Can’t sleep. Sam says time is powerful magic or some shit like that. Says an anniversary can have echoes. So we’re trying it tomorrow. God, this better work. Cas, you hear me? We’re coming for you. I’ve been praying all year and I’m hearing nothing back. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Gonna get this stuck mouth of mine to make good. It’s just the words, even on paper, they don’t—Tomorrow though, tomorrow I’m telling you everything. Promise.

Nov 5 - Today.

Nov 6 - !!! 🙂🙂🙂🙂

^ heh. check out this dork

[feyascorner]

6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it. 

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back.  Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot. 

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

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[theveryworstthing]

I'm Alive

I posted this on patreon so I might as well post it again here. Hopefully current and past patrons see this as well as people who have just been generally curious about where I've been.

I'm very sorry for not being around and I'm very grateful to those who stuck around. To those who didn't, I get it and I truly appreciate you passing through. 

Last year and the beginning of this year have been pretty bad. Some of you might have heard about my grandma's death and sadly, she was just the first of the family losses in the time I've been gone. There was also a friend's death discovery, my parents' health tanking, my friends Going Through It, and my own physical/mental problems. I didn't want to talk to the internet about these things because they were/are very overwhelming and private and tbh I used all my energy to help with the household and make sure work got turned in on time. When I had spare time after dealing with the near constant disasters, I didn't really feel like interacting with the internet at all beyond using it as a way to talk to far away friends (mostly to give them the thumbs up that i was alive) or watch/read things when my brain was less scrambled. Social media was an absolute no go and I didn't have any non-work art to post so I just kind of mentally crawled under the porch to die lol. 

I only drew work related things for months due to extreme burnout and it took me almost a month off after my last job to remember how to create again. I couldn't draw or write, it was kinda like art block except it was more like nothing was there at all? It's hard to explain. 

Things are still happening but I need to get back in the saddle eventually so here I am. 

I'm going to post the little art I did in June and all the sketches I did in January when I re-learned how to draw for myself. Again, I'm so sorry for being away without saying anything and I'm grateful to whoever threw me a buck, or even just casually enjoyed my art. Leaving like I did was really irresponsible and there's no excuse for not at least making a post about all of this sooner.  Every month I got a patreon payment was another wave of guilt because I literally couldn't give y'all anything but at the same time that money was letting me book flights to funerals and keeping my mom comfortable while she recovered from surgery right after I spent a lot of my savings in 2022 trying to fight my late cat's cancer. And then not posting about what was going on made me more anxious as time went on because there was more guilt every month so I felt like I needed to come back with a bunch of art and energy and good reasons and it was just. A Mess. 

But anyway.

I'm alive, I'm back. The Horrors persist, but so do I.

Thank you for your patience.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Needy

Summary: Spencer is touch starved.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: smut, fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), porn with little plot, additional warnings undercut, sub!spencer, slight dom!reader, crying

Word count: 8k

a/n: for @kameowwww hope i did you good <333 this is the idea

this is like straight up porn so

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (f&m receiving), PinV sex unprotected (wrap it before you tap it), voyerism, masturbation (f), vibrator (f), orgasm denial, overstimulation, sub/dom dynamics

Spencer Reid had always been a man of intellect, preferring the quiet solace of books over the chaos of human interaction. He never quite understood the appeal of constant physical affection until he met you. Before you, his life was a series of equations and logical deductions, but you brought something new to the table—warmth, comfort, and a touch that ignited something deep within him. Now that he had tasted that sweetness, he found himself utterly addicted. He couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before you.

The two of you had been dating for quite some time now, and Spencer had grown accustomed to the constant stream of affection you showered upon him. It wasn’t just the emotional warmth that he relished but the physical connection as well. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin was electrifying, each touch sending a shiver down his spine that lingered long after your hand had moved on. He adored the way you would pull him into a hug for no reason other than to feel his presence against you, your bodies fitting together perfectly like pieces of a puzzle.

When you kissed him, your lips soft and inviting, Spencer would lose himself in the moment, his mind quieting as all he could focus on was the sensation of you. The way your hands would slide up his chest, lingering at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer, made his heart race with a fervor he had never known before. It was a sensation he couldn’t quite articulate, this melding of souls and skin that made him feel so alive, so desired.

The intimacy extended to the most mundane of routines—the way your hands lingered a little longer on his back as you parted ways in the morning, your fingers tracing small circles that left his skin tingling in their wake. Your touch was intoxicating, a sweet addiction that he eagerly anticipated each day. It was as if you had created a secret language of touch, a series of unspoken words that only the two of you understood, a language that spoke of love, trust, and an undeniable connection.

But now, he was miserable. Absolutely miserable.

Spencer had been shot in the leg during a case gone awry. The doctors said he couldn't fly for a while, which meant he was stuck back in D.C. while you and the rest of the team were off on another case. This separation was a special kind of torment, one that gnawed at him with every passing hour.

He found himself staring at his phone, the digital clock mocking him as the minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness. It felt like time had slowed down since you left. No, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Spencer found himself yearning for the sound of your voice, the feel of your skin against his, the comfort of your presence. He missed you more than he could put into words, more than he had ever thought possible.

Every hour, like clockwork, he sent you a text. His messages ranged from sweet to downright needy, each one a reflection of his growing desperation:

9:00 AM: I miss you so much already. I can't wait for you to come back.

10:00 AM: Just had breakfast, and it's not the same without you. Miss you.

11:00 AM: I keep staring at our picture on my desk. It makes me smile and want to cry at the same time.

12:00 PM: I'm thinking about you. Are you thinking about me too?

1:00 PM: I miss you so much it hurts. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.

2:00 PM: I’m hard... It's so embarrassing. Do you think I should touch myself?

3:00 PM: I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please come home soon.

He knew he was being pathetic, absolutely pitiful, even. Spencer Reid, BAU genius, reduced to a lovesick fool who couldn't even go a day without hearing from you. It was embarrassing, really. But he couldn't help himself; his emotions were a whirlwind, and you were the eye of the storm—the calm he so desperately sought.

He knew you were busy, embroiled in the intricacies of the case, piecing together the psychological profiles that would lead the team to the unsub. He respected that, understood it more than anyone. Still, the emptiness of your absence gnawed at him, clawing at his insides until he felt like he was going mad.

As night fell, he lay sprawled on his bed, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. Shadows danced across the ceiling, and he imagined your silhouette beside him, tracing the curves of your body with his eyes, feeling the warmth of your presence.

And then, finally, his phone buzzed with the notification he had been waiting for—your nightly call. Spencer's heart leaped at the sight of your name flashing on the screen. He scrambled to answer, almost dropping the phone in his haste.

“Hey,” he breathed, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He wanted to sound confident, but the anticipation of hearing your voice made it hard to keep his composure.

“Hi,” you replied, but your tone was laced with a hint of annoyance that made Spencer wince. “How was your day?”

Spencer hesitated, searching for the right words. “How—how was your day?” he repeated nervously, trying to ease the tension he sensed from you.

You sighed, the sound echoing through the line. “Other than my phone going off every two seconds, it was fine.”

His heart sank, guilt washing over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling the weight of his own neediness pressing down on him.

“What did we talk about?” Your voice was firm, demanding an answer he was struggling to find.

“I don’t—I don’t remember,” he mumbled, the words tumbling out of him in a pathetic attempt to buy himself time.

“Don’t play dumb, baby,” you said, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper that sent shivers down his spine. “Put that eidetic memory to work. Tell me right now, or your ass will be so red when I get back.”

Spencer squeaked at the imagery, feeling his face heat up at the thought. His mind raced as he tried to recall the conversation, panic mixing with a strange thrill at your words. “Okay! You said… not to text you unless it was important, that you’d call me when you’re in the hotel,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s right, my smart boy,” you said, and he could hear the smile in your voice now. “You need to be patient, Spence. I know you miss me, and I miss you too, but we agreed on this for a reason.”

Spencer nodded, even though you couldn’t see him, his heart aching with a longing that was both painful and sweet. “I know,” he murmured, feeling the tension in his body ease as he listened to your voice, the gentle reprimand laced with affection. “I just… I miss you so much.”

“I know, baby,” you soothed, your voice like a balm to his frayed nerves. “And I promise, when I get back, we’ll make up for lost time.”

—

As soon as you set foot in your shared apartment, Spencer was up and running from his spot in the reading chair, the book he had been pretending to read for the past hour forgotten. He practically threw himself at you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, his face burying in your neck as he breathed in the scent that was just so—you. It was as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he wanted to meld into you completely, the relief of having you back washing over him like a tidal wave.

“Hi, baby,” you laughed softly, your arms encircling him as you returned the embrace, feeling his neediness and desperation in the way he clung to you.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice tinged with an aching vulnerability that tugged at your heartstrings.

“I missed you too,” you replied, your fingers gently threading through his hair, offering him the comfort and reassurance he craved.

Spencer’s body was pressed tightly against yours, and you could feel him start to wiggle, subtly at first, as if testing the waters. But soon his movements became more insistent, his hips grinding against you in a desperate attempt to find some relief for the neglected erection that had been tormenting him during your absence.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, pulling back slightly to look at him, raising an eyebrow as you caught the sheepish expression on his face.

“...nothing,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink as he averted his gaze, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting.

You pushed him off gently, taking a step back to give yourself some space. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands, the sting of embarrassment and rejection written all over his face. 

“I just walked in the door, and you’re already trying to hump me like a bitch in heat?” you chided, your tone firm but not unkind. It was clear he had been waiting for this moment, stewing in his own need and desperation, and you couldn’t help but find his pathetic eagerness endearing.

Spencer glanced up at you, his eyes wide and pleading, the blush on his cheeks deepening. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice small, shame and longing swirling in his chest.

You shook your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “I think you need to learn some patience, Spence,” you said, your voice dropping to a husky murmur that made his heart race. “But don’t worry, I’m here now, and I’m going to take care of you. Just not until I’m ready. Understand?”

He nodded, his breath hitching at the promise in your words, his anticipation building as he realized he’d have to wait a little longer to get what he so desperately craved.

“Good,” you said, reaching out to gently tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Why don’t you make us some tea while I get settled? Then we can see about that little problem of yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, the submissive role coming naturally to him as he eagerly turned toward the kitchen, his heart racing with excitement at the prospect of what was to come.

As you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction at how easily he fell into place, his neediness a palpable presence in the room. It was a dance the two of you had perfected over time, a delicate balance of power and trust that left you both feeling fulfilled and connected in a way that was beyond words. 

Once you were settled, you called him back to you. He returned with a tray, the tea carefully prepared, his hands slightly trembling as he set it down on the table. He looked at you expectantly, hope and trepidation in his eyes, waiting for your next move.

“Come here, Spencer,” you said softly, patting the spot next to you on the couch.

He obeyed immediately, sitting close enough that his leg brushed against yours, his body taut with anticipation. You reached out, your hand finding his, your touch gentle yet commanding, a silent reminder of who was in charge.

“Are you ready to be a good boy for me?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice quivering with eagerness, his eyes shining with a mixture of adoration and need.

"Good," you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, a promise of what was to come, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. Spencer’s heart soared at the touch, his whole body tingling with anticipation. He tried to press into you further, reaching for your hips to pull you into his lap, yearning for more contact, more of you. But before he could make his move, you slapped his hands away and pulled back.

Dazed, he looked at you with wide puppy eyes, his expression portaying confusion and longing. "What?" he asked softly, his voice laced with desperation.

"I need you to do something for me, baby. Can you do that?" you asked, your voice a silky command that sent shivers down his spine.

Spencer nodded so fast he resembled a bobblehead, eager to please, to do whatever you asked of him. His eyes were filled with unwavering devotion, the need to be good for you evident in every fiber of his being.

"Good boy…" You praised him, a wicked smile playing on your lips as you stood up, walking toward the bedroom with a sway in your hips that was both enticing and authoritative. Spencer eagerly followed you, his heart pounding in his chest as he anticipated what was to come.

When you reached the bedroom, you pointed to the chair in the corner, your eyes never leaving his. "Sit down," you instructed, your voice firm yet gentle.

Spencer reluctantly took a seat, his mind racing. This wasn’t usually how things went, and he felt a twinge of uncertainty mingling with his excitement. "Babe?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice as he tried to understand your plan.

"Shhh… Can you be quiet for me?" you asked, your tone soothing yet commanding, and he nodded again, eager to comply.

He watched as you moved around the room with purpose, his eyes following your every step. His anticipation grew with each passing moment, the air between you charged with a tension that was both electrifying and maddening. Spencer sat on the edge of the chair, his hands gripping the armrests as he tried to contain his eagerness, his heart beating a frenzied rhythm in his chest.

He was caught in a whirlwind of emotions, the urge to touch you warring with the need to obey, to be the good boy you wanted him to be. He knew he had to trust you, to let go of his own desires and surrender to the moment, to the pleasure you promised.

You glanced over at him, your eyes meeting his, and the look you gave him was filled with a promise that made his pulse race. He could feel his resolve wavering, the need to reach out and pull you close overwhelming. But he held himself back, knowing that your control over him was part of what made this so exhilarating, so intoxicating.

Spencer took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to let go of his own wants and needs, and focus solely on you, on the sexual tension, on the connection that bound you together. He was yours, and he knew that this moment would be worth every agonizing second of waiting.

Once you finished collecting the items you needed, you walked just close enough to Spencer that he couldn't touch you and began to strip. Spencer slowly realized he was being punished, as undressing you was one of his favorite things to do, whether or not it was sexual in nature. He loved the sensation of removing each piece, the anticipation that built with every button undone and every zipper pulled. It was an intimate act that spoke of trust and desire, something that made him feel closer to you than anything else.

He whimpered from his seat in the chair, gripping the arms tightly. His fingers dug into the fabric, struggling to maintain his composure as he watched you, every muscle in his body tense with longing. You continued until you were bare, your skin glowing with a confidence that made his heart skip a beat. You winked at him, teasing him with the promise of what was to come, before walking back to the bed and climbing on with a graceful ease that left him breathless.

Spencer wanted to talk, to plead, to explain himself, but he didn't want his punishment to get worse. He was caught between his desire to be good and his desperation for relief. So he did the only thing he could think of—he raised his hand, a silent request for permission to speak, his eyes wide and imploring.

You laughed softly, the sound wrapping around him like a caress. "Yes, baby? You can talk," you said, your tone both gentle and authoritative, holding the power to both soothe and command.

"Am I being punished?" Spencer asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.

"Yes, smart boy. You are," you replied, watching him with a steady gaze, your words firm but laced with affection.

"Why?" He ventured the question, a tentative exploration of his transgressions.

"Why do you think?" you asked, challenging him to delve into his own behavior, to understand the reasons behind his current predicament.

Spencer thought as much as he could in his state, his mind swirling with a chaotic mix of emotions. "Um, is it, uh, because I touched myself?" he ventured hesitantly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Well, I didn’t know about that, but thank you for telling me," you said, your lips curling into a sly smile as you watched Spencer's entire face fall, realizing he had just outed himself.

"Try again, Spence," you prompted, giving him another chance to find the true answer.

"Because I, I texted you too much?" he guessed, his voice small and contrite, like a child admitting to a misdeed.

"Good job, baby boy. You're done talking now," you confirmed, acknowledging his confession. "Now you get to watch."

With that, you pulled out your favorite toy, the bane of Spencer's existence, to pleasure yourself. It was a delicious torment, a visual feast designed to both punish and tantalize, to teach him the value of patience and obedience.

Spencer watched, his breath hitching as you began to rub the vibrator on your clit, the sight both mesmerizing and agonizing. He was captivated by the way you moved, the way you seemed so utterly in control, the way you drew out your own pleasure with an ease that left him reeling.

Spencer's eyes never left you, drinking in every detail, every gasp and moan, every shiver of your body as you pleasured yourself. His need was growing exponentially, a desperate ache that throbbed in time with his racing heart, a longing that was both exquisite and unbearable. Every fiber of his being was attuned to you, yearning for your touch, your approval, your love.

You were a vision of temptation, a goddess in your own right, and Spencer was helpless to do anything but watch, his hands gripping the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the frustration and desire bubbling over into soft whimpers and pleas that slipped from his lips despite his best efforts to remain silent.

The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure, a symphony that played just for him, a reminder of the power you held over him. Each sound, each movement was a sweet torture, intensifying his need until it was a tangible force, pressing down on him with relentless intensity. He felt a sob rise in his throat, a sound of both yearning and surrender.

"Please," he whispered, the word escaping him before he could stop it, his voice cracking with emotion.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile that made his heart skip a beat. "No talking, remember?" you reminded him gently, your voice a sultry command that sent shivers down his spine.

Spencer nodded, biting his lip to stifle the whine that threatened to spill forth. Tears slipped down his cheeks, hot and unbidden, as he struggled to keep himself in check, the battle between obedience and desperation waging a fierce war within him.

Even though he was being punished, he knew that this was part of what made your relationship so special, so unique—a delicate balance of dominance and submission that left him feeling more alive than he had ever thought possible. The act of surrender, of giving himself over to you completely, was a heady sensation, one that filled him with a profound sense of belonging.

However, as you entered your core with the toy, Spencer let out a heart-wrenching sob, the sound filled with raw emotion. It was a sound that spoke of betrayal and longing, a testament to the war inside him. That should be him! He couldn’t help the tears that fell, his feelings a torrent that he couldn’t control. You didn’t chide him for that noise, knowing that he couldn’t hold back from that much. It was a moment of vulnerability that made your heart swell with empathy and power, seeing just how deeply he felt, how completely he had surrendered to you.

The vibrator in your hand whirred quietly as you reached your own peak, and then you turned it off, the room descending into a hushed silence as you calmed your breathing, your chest rising and falling as you regained your composure. You climbed off the bed, your movements fluid and deliberate, each step a reminder of the control you held.

You walked over to Spencer, who was still sitting in the chair, a picture of longing and obedience, his eyes glistening with both shed and unshed tears. You offered him your hand, a gesture of both forgiveness and invitation, a silent promise that the moment of his punishment was over.

Spencer took your hand immediately, rising from the chair with a quiet eagerness that spoke volumes about his desire to please you, to earn back your favor. His obedience was at an all-time high, each movement careful and deliberate, as if he were afraid of making a misstep.

“You did so good, baby. It’s over, okay?” you murmured softly, your voice soothing as you reached up to gently wipe away the remnants of his tears. Your touch was tender, an unspoken reassurance that filled the space between you with warmth and affection.

He nodded, sniffling slightly, fresh tears running over the ones already dried on his cheeks. The vulnerability in his eyes tugged at your heart, and you couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of him so open, so trusting.

“Do you want your reward?” you asked, your tone teasing yet filled with genuine affection, knowing that he had earned the comfort and love that only you could provide.

“Yes, please,” he whispered, his voice filled with longing, the need for your touch evident in every word. His eyes met yours, filled with a hopeful longing that made your heart skip a beat, a promise that he would do anything to stay in this moment with you.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a promise of the reward that awaited him, a sweet culmination of all his patience and obedience. Spencer melted into you, his body relaxing as the tension ebbed away, replaced by the soothing balm of your touch.

With a soft smile, you led him to the bed, guiding him with a tenderness that spoke of love and understanding, ready to give him everything he had been waiting for, ready to show him just how much he meant to you. 

"Okay, baby, it's your choice first. What do you want?" you asked, a gentle encouragement in your voice as you gave Spencer the rare opportunity to express his desires. It was a gesture of trust and affection, a way to show him that his needs were important to you, even within the dynamic you shared.

Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected freedom you offered him. He almost never had any sort of control in the bedroom, and the sudden responsibility of choosing what he wanted was both exhilarating and daunting. His mind raced, a kaleidoscope of possibilities flashing through his thoughts as he considered his options.

"Uh, um," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and excitement, "can you, um, lay down?"

"Sure, Spence," you laughed softly, the sound warm and inviting as you moved to accommodate his request.

Once you were laying on your back, your body a canvas of curves and soft skin, Spencer crawled between your legs, his eyes drawn to the glistening slick that beckoned to him. The evidence of what you had done was a siren call, screaming at him to reclaim you, to remind himself of who you belonged to just as much as he did.

Wordlessly, he leaned down, his breath warm against your skin as he positioned himself with reverent care. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with awe and adoration, before he licked your core from base to crest, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through your entire being, making you moan in response.

His touch was gentle yet insistent, his movements guided by a deep-seated desire to please you, to erase the distance that had been between you and replace it with something more profound. As his tongue worked its magic, he focused on every reaction, every gasp and shiver, adjusting his actions to draw out your pleasure in waves that washed over you.

You felt your body responding to his touch, a symphony of sensations that built steadily, the connection between you deepening with every pass of his tongue against your clit. It was a dance of devotion and need, a testament to the trust you had built together, and the love that underpinned every moment of your shared intimacy.

Spencer’s hands gripped your thighs, steadying himself as he delved deeper into the moment, his senses overwhelmed by the taste and scent of you, the soft sounds of your moans spurring him on. He was utterly consumed by his task, lost in the rhythm of your responses, the symphony of your pleasure, a song he never tired of hearing.

As he continued, you felt the tension in your body coil tighter, the anticipation building with every passing second. Spencer was relentless in his devotion, his tongue and lips moving in a rhythm that threatened to send you over the edge. The sensations were overwhelming, a rising crescendo of pleasure that filled every corner of your being.

But you didn’t want to finish just yet. You wanted to savor the moment, to draw out the exquisite tension that lingered between you. With a gentle but firm push, you moved Spencer away before it was too late, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you fought to regain control.

Spencer looked up at you, confusion and distress clouding his eyes. He immediately started tearing up again, a wave of insecurity washing over him as he tried to make sense of the situation. He blinked rapidly, his voice breaking with emotion as he tried to understand what he had done wrong.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbled, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. “Please let me try again, I’ll do better, I promise, please, just–”

“Whoa, baby, slow down,” you interrupted gently, reaching out to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks.

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and searching yours for reassurance. You could see the emotions swirling within him, a cocktail of desperation, fear, and hope that tugged at your heart.

“You did nothing wrong, Spence,” you assured him softly, your voice a calming balm that soothed the jagged edges of his anxiety. “I just didn’t want to come yet. You were doing so well, baby.”

He sniffled, his lower lip quivering slightly as he processed your words, relief flooding his system like a tidal wave. The tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by a tentative hope that he hadn’t disappointed you.

“Really?” he asked, his voice small and unsure, as if he were afraid to believe it.

"Really,” you confirmed with a warm smile, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on his skin. “You were amazing, Spencer. I just wanted to take care of you first, okay?”

“Oh,” Spencer blushed, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as he tried to hide his face in your hands. He was such a giver that sometimes he forgot you liked to give too. The thought of you wanting to focus on his pleasure made his heart race with excitement and gratitude.

“Can I touch you, baby?” you asked softly, your voice laced with affection and a hint of playful intent.

“Mhm,” he nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with anticipation as he gave you his permission.

You switched positions, guiding Spencer to lay down on the bed, his body stretched out beneath you like a beautiful canvas. He watched with wide eyes as you climbed over his legs, your movements graceful and deliberate. You began to mouth along his adorable tummy, placing gentle kisses that made him giggle and squirm beneath you.

“Stop it, that tickles!” he laughed, his voice a joyful melody that filled the room. He tried to keep still, but his body naturally reacted to your teasing touches, causing his muscles to twitch and shift under your lips.

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling with affection at the sight of his genuine happiness. “Keep still,” you instructed playfully, your tone both loving and commanding, a mix that Spencer found utterly irresistible.

“I’ll try,” Spencer promised, his voice a bit shaky as he fought to obey your command. His eyes were wide, filled with a combination of anticipation and delight as he felt your lips continue their journey across his skin.

As you licked down his sparse trail of hair, you felt his body respond, muscles tensing beneath your tongue. He took a deep, steadying breath, the sound still a bit shaky, but he was doing better, finding his center amidst the flurry of sensations.

“Okay, Spence?” you asked, pausing to look up at him, ensuring he was comfortable and at ease.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he replied, his voice a little breathless but filled with warmth and trust. He couldn’t help the happy tears that welled up in his eyes, the emotion of the moment washing over him in waves. The feeling of being so cared for, so cherished, made him feel safe and loved in a way that was almost overwhelming.

“Okay,” you murmured, a note of reassurance in your voice, before you took him into your mouth, your movements deliberate and precise, a dance of intimacy that you had both perfected over time.

“Oh my god!” he cried, his voice a mixture of surprise and ecstasy, his head falling back against the pillow as the pleasure washed over him in waves. The sensation was almost too much, too intense, and he let out a series of whimpering cries, unable to hold back the sounds that escaped his lips.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, his eyes fluttering closed as he gave in to the sensations coursing through him. The feeling of your mouth wrapped around him was almost too much to bear, a pleasure so profound that it bordered on pain, he had been on edge for so long. He was lost in the moment, caught in a web of need and longing, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

“Please, please,” he begged, his voice hitching with each word. He could feel the tears spilling over, a combination of joy and desperation that he couldn’t contain. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You smiled softly, knowing that you had him right where you wanted him. His voice was a beautiful swirl of whines and pleas, a testament to the depth of his need and the power you held over him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you cooed, your voice a soothing balm that eased the tension in his body, even as the sensations continued to build. “Just relax and let go, okay?”

Spencer nodded, his head moving in jerky motions as he tried to follow your command. His body trembled with the effort of holding himself together, of staying still under the onslaught of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him. His hands clutched at the sheets, his knuckles white with the effort of maintaining control.

“I’m trying,” he whimpered, his voice cracking with emotion. “It just feels so good, I can’t—oh god, please!”

The tears flowed freely now, his cheeks wet with the evidence of his vulnerability. But he didn’t care, didn’t try to hold back the emotion that spilled over, knowing that he was safe here, that he was loved and cherished and understood. Every tear was a testament to the depth of his trust in you, to the surrender that came so naturally when he was with you.

As you licked and sucked his cock, Spencer felt himself go a little bit more insane. The sensations were overwhelming, each touch a bolt of electricity that shot through him, igniting every nerve ending with exquisite pleasure. When your tongue traced the ridge along his head, he thought he died and ascended to a higher being, the world around him fading away until there was nothing but you and the bliss you were giving him.

His body trembled beneath you, his muscles tensing and relaxing in a dance of ecstasy that left him breathless. Every stoke of your tongue was a sweet torture, a reminder of just how much he needed you. He felt like he was on the edge of something monumental, something that would shatter him and remake him all at once.

No longer able to hold his release any longer, Spencer began to babble again, the words spilling from his lips in a torrent of need and desperation.

“Oh, I’m going to come, please. Ohhh… please, can I come? I’ve been so good. Please!” he pleaded, his voice full of whimpers and cries, the emotion raw and unfiltered.

His eyes met yours, wide and imploring, filled with a desperate need for permission, for your blessing. His chest heaved with each breath, his body straining against the pleasure that threatened to consume him, to pull him under into a sea of bliss that he both feared and longed for.

“Please,” he begged again, the tears continuing to flow, each one a sign of his vulnerability, his surrender.

You paused for a moment, allowing the tension to build even further, your eyes locking with his, your expression both tender and commanding. The power you held over him was intoxicating, a heady mix of dominance and love that left you both breathless.

“Not yet, Spence,” you murmured softly, your voice a soothing balm that both calmed and ignited him, a promise of what was to come. “Just a little longer, okay? You can do it.”

Spencer let out a low whine, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, of obeying your command even as every fiber of his being screamed for release. But he nodded, his eyes shining with desperation and devotion, his heart full to bursting with the love he felt for you.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice a shaky breath that carried with it all the emotion of the moment, all the trust and need and longing that filled him to overflowing. “Okay, I’ll wait.”

He bit his lip, his body a taut line of tension and anticipation, every nerve ending alive with sensation as he held himself back. His mind was a whirl of pleasure, need, and love. It was a beautiful agony, a sweet torment that left him on the edge of everything, ready to fall into the abyss of bliss that awaited him. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how close he was to the release he so desperately craved.

“Good boy,” you praised, your voice a melodic promise that resonated deep within him, and then you mouthed along his balls, your movements calculated to push him to his very limits.

The sensation was too much, the culmination of everything you had built together. Spencer’s control shattered, and he felt himself tipping over the edge, the world narrowing to a single point of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Spencer shouted, his voice carrying apology and ecstasy, as he came, the force of his release catching him by surprise, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.

His release hit you in unexpected places, getting his come in your hair and on your face, the aftermath of his pleasure painting a vivid picture of the depth of his release. 

You couldn't help but laugh softly, your eyes shining with amusement and affection as you took in his apologetic expression, the mix of embarrassment and satisfaction on his face endearing him to you even more.

“It’s okay, Spence,” you reassured him, your voice gentle and soothing as you reached up to wipe the sticky substance from your skin. “You just owe me one.”

“What…?” Spencer asked in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss, his mind still spinning from the intensity of the experience. His breath came in shallow gasps, and he felt as if he were floating, weightless and free, in the aftermath of the ecstasy you had given him.

“I said,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his thigh in a gentle kiss that sent shivers down his spine, “you owe me one.”

“Oh,” he replied, his eyes widening slightly. He was slightly scared at the prospect of what was to come, knowing that your idea of a reward was often as intense as it was pleasurable. But beneath that fear lay a bubbling excitement, a thrill at the thought of pleasing you, of being able to return the gift you had given him. 

“Think you can handle it?” you teased, your voice a holding challenge and affection as you watched the emotions play out across his face.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed, his answer immediate and earnest, his eagerness clear in his wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Okay, baby,” you chuckled, a playful light in your eyes as you shifted to climb on top of him. Your movements were graceful and confident, a display of the control you wielded with such ease. The anticipation in the air was palpable, a charged electricity that wrapped around you both as you prepared to take him on another journey of pleasure.

You grabbed his soft shaft, your fingers gentle yet firm as you worked him in your hand, your touch a combination of care and precision that drew Spencer further into your spell. The sensations were overwhelming, a cascade of stimulation that left him breathless and trembling beneath you.

As you moved, Spencer writhed and whined in overstimulation, his body a live wire of sensation that sparked with every touch. The overstimulation sent him into a dizzying spiral of sensation, the world narrowing to the point where nothing existed but you and the incredible feelings you were coaxing from him.

“Oh, oh god,” he gasped, his voice filled with desperation and delight as he tried to process the onslaught of pleasure. His hands clutched at the sheets, his fingers curling into the fabric as he fought to hold on, to ride the wave of bliss that threatened to sweep him away completely.

“Just relax, Spence,” you murmured, your voice a soothing balm that wrapped around him, grounding him even as he felt himself slipping further into the depths of ecstasy. “I’ve got you.”

The assurance in your words, the confidence in your touch, allowed him to let go, to surrender completely to the moment and you. Spencer’s whines turned into soft moans, his body moving in time with yours. 

As you continued, he felt himself teetering on the edge once more, the pleasure building and building until it reached a crescendo that left him breathless, his world narrowing to a single, perfect point of ecstasy.

"Please, please," he begged, his voice a soft plea as he gazed up at you with wide, shining eyes, his heart full of gratitude and love. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” His words were laced with desperation, a raw emotion that spilled from him in waves.

In that moment, you let go, pulling away just before he reached his peak. 

“No!” he whined, wiggling beneath you as his body searched for the contact he craved. His eyes were wide with disbelief and desperation, the sudden absence of your touch leaving him feeling adrift.

"Stop," you commanded gently, your voice a soothing balm that steadied him, even as you denied him the release he so desperately sought.

Spencer looked up with big eyes, waiting with bated breath for what was to come next. His chest rose and fell rapidly, anticipation and longing held him still, trusting you to guide him through the moment.

You rose up on your knees, positioning yourself with deliberate care, the soft, teasing smile on your lips hinting at the pleasure that awaited him. His gaze was fixed on you, awe and adoration in his eyes as he watched you take control.

Guiding his cock into your core, you moved with a grace that left him breathless, his heart racing as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of warmth and pressure that enveloped him, drawing a choked gasp from his lips as he felt himself surrounded by you.

You sank down until you were flush, ass to thighs, your bodies connected in a way that transcended the physical, leaving him trembling beneath you.

Spencer cried loud and drawn out, his noise one of ecstasy as his head fell back against the pillow, his mouth open in a silent cry of bliss. It was a vision that took your breath away, his body a canvas of sensation and emotion, every muscle taut with the intensity of the moment.

The pleasure washed over him in waves, each crest a surge of euphoria that left him gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he lost himself in the pleasure. His hands found their way to your hips, holding on as if you were his lifeline, grounding him amidst the dizzying swirl of sensation that filled his senses.

You moved with a rhythm that spoke of both tenderness and command, your body taking everything you wanted and needed from Spencer. 

“Please,” he whimpered, the word a breathless plea that slipped from his lips unbidden, hopeful this time you would listen. “Please, don’t stop, please.”

His voice was raw with emotion, the sincerity in his eyes a reflection of the trust he placed in you, the love that filled every corner of his heart as he gazed up at you, his vision of perfection and desire.

As you continued, guiding him through the waves of sensation with a skillful grace that left him breathless, Spencer knew that he was exactly where he belonged—in your arms, wrapped in the warmth of your love, the safety of your embrace.

Touch-starved and needy, now overstimulated and desperate for release, Spencer brought his fingers to your clit in hopes you would let him come again. His touch was tentative at first, the gentle pressure of his fingers a plea for more, a request for permission that you were more than willing to grant. He was caught between his desire for release and the need to please you, and every part of him was alive with the anticipation of what was to come.

“Oh, good boy, baby,” you praised, your voice a sultry murmur that sent shivers down his spine. His heart leaped at your words, the warmth of your approval wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. 

As he continued to rub your clit, his fingers moved with a deliberate precision that belied the need thrumming through him, his desire to make you feel as good as you made him. You writhed atop him, your body moving in sync with his, chasing your own release with a fervor that mirrored his own.

You could feel the tension building within you, each movement drawing you closer to the precipice, the edge of bliss that you both longed to reach. As you got closer, you purposefully clenched your walls, changing the angle in a way that made Spencer cry out in both pleasure and pain, the sensation pushing him toward the edge once more.

“Please, do that again,” he begged, his voice a breathless plea filled with desperation and hope. His eyes were wide and pleading, his need written across every line of his face.

And so you did.

With a knowing smile, you repeated the motion, the deliberate shift of your core creating a cascade of sensations that rippled through you both. Spencer’s body responded instinctively, his hips arching up to meet yours, his breath hitching in his throat as he felt himself being drawn into the depths of pleasure once more.

Every movement was a dance of desire, sensation that wrapped around you both, binding you together in a shared experience of bliss. Spencer’s fingers never faltered, his touch a constant reminder of his devotion, his eagerness to please, to bring you to the same heights of ecstasy that he longed to reach.

As you continued, the tension in your body coiled tighter, a winding thread of sensation that promised release with every thrust, every touch. Spencer’s cries mingled with your own, a duet of pleasure that filled the room, echoing off the walls as you both teetered on the brink.

You could feel the climax rising within you, a wave of bliss that built with each passing moment, drawing you inexorably toward the peak of your desire. Spencer’s fingers moved in time with the roll of your hips, bringing you right where you needed to be.

With a final surge, you gave in to the sensations, the culmination of your shared desire sweeping over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy. Spencer’s cry echoed yours, a harmony of whimpers and moans that filled the room, leaving you both breathless and spent in the aftermath.

Spencer thrust once more, before coming inside you. The intensity of the moment left him breathless, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You both knew he didn’t ask, but neither of you cared. The unspoken understanding between you was enough, a silent agreement that transcended words. 

Just happy to have you home and be back in each other’s arms, you both reveled in the warmth of the embrace, the security of knowing that you were where you belonged. His breath came in soft gasps as he tried to recover, the afterglow of the experience wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“Welcome home,” Spencer murmured, his voice a whisper of contentment as he nuzzled into your neck, his arms wrapping around you with a gentle possessiveness that spoke volumes about how much he had missed you.

You smiled, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his back, a gentle reminder of your presence, your promise to always return to him. The motion was soft and reassuring, a silent affirmation of the bond that had kept you together through time and distance. Spencer melted into your touch, the tension in his muscles slowly unwinding under your gentle caress.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered back, your voice tender and filled with sincerity. The words were a balm to his soul, soothing the ache of longing that had settled in his chest during your absence.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled closer, seeking the comfort and safety that only you could provide. 

“I love you more, baby,” you replied softly, your voice a gentle promise that wrapped around him like a protective embrace.

The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the comfort and security of each other’s arms. It was a moment of perfect peace, where nothing else mattered but the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the rhythmic beating of your hearts creating a soothing melody that lulled you both into a state of contentment.

[halfhoursonearth-writes]

Can you recommend fanfiction that you personally really like?

Yes! Love this ask. I’ve never made a Zutara fic rec list partially because I’ve read so many wonderful stories over time that I find the prospect daunting! 

But there are absolutely certain stories that I have a personal soft spot for, that I return to again and again. And that’s my criteria for what’s included below. This is a sampling of fics that I find myself coming back to, in no particular order. I may come back and add more, because this list is so far from exhaustive. A mix of ratings (marked), so keep that in mind.

Wish I Was the Moon by Like a Dove (T), post-canon: There’s so much that I love about the way this one-shot explores Katara’s character and what she faces post-canon, how she frees herself, strikes out in the world and finds her way home. Her feelings for Zuko, and her inner-conflict around them, are rendered tangibly, both through scene and subtext. A really good example of how an author can show a character’s lack of/journey to self-knowledge without breaking voice.

Refraction by caroes3725 (E), post-canon: When I started reading Zutara fanfic (for me this was in 2020), this was the fic I was looking for—a deep, realistic-to-canon, in-character exploration of how Zutara could unfold after the events of ATLA in a way that gives Katara in particular the arc she deserves. Really well-done development of the Fire Nation court world, well-developed characters, shining dialogue. An amazingly well-worth-it slow burn.

Wildfire by rainstormdragon (E), post-canon: To me this story is kind of a steamy Zutara thesis. The characters are so spot on and alive, their flaws are on full display in a way that feels realistic, and their chemistry is powered by their compatibility—matched in passion and stubbornness, and also in what they want from life. And I think it really gets Aang, too, which is something that can be hard to find in ZK fic. Also really hot, but that's only part of what makes it really shine.

Partners in Learning by evergreenonthehorizon (T), Modern AU: One of the things I love in modern AUs is watching an author weave that invisible string between these characters. Sometimes, it’s by writing narrative arcs that parallel the series, and sometimes it’s by drawing out the personality traits that make the characters both lovable to readers and such a compelling match and watching that spark bloom into flame. This beautifully written story does that so, so well in a really compelling Modern AU setting. Zuko and Katara here are so wonderfully lovable, and it’s a joy to watch them fall for one another, too.

Journeys by Smediterranea (E), Modern AU: In real life, I want to see my friends in relationships with people who can recognize why they’re so particularly amazing. That potential, I think, part of the appeal of ZK as a ship, and that’s part of the special magic of this fic. Watching these two characters get to know one another—really see one another—and fall in love deliciously sweeps the reader up. Plus, really fun, in character cameos from the rest of the Gaang along the way.

Spark, set fire by marijayne (T), Modern AU: literary fanfic, and I mean that in the best way. This story is beautiful and bittersweet, the latter is not often something I seek out in fanfic (where I hide from life), but here it’s gorgeous and worth it. The world building here is really cool—allows the author to explore some of a set of cultural issues/interactions that both echo the ATLA world and ours. The characters are so tenderly drawn (dadko especially)—and the connection between them builds beautifully and tangibly—and the longing is…chef’s kiss. 

Wrong when it's right by nire (T), Book 1 Canon Divergence: Before I read this, I couldn't imagine wanting to read a Book 1 Zutara. After, I wanted more. Bickering, bed-roll sharing, shared heat, tenderness and common ground. A delight from start to finish.

Anyway, thanks for asking and happy reading! <3 And if you want more recs, let me know.

[ask-whitepearl-and-steven]

Do you ever struggle not sharing details of your story / spoiling people? It's one of the hardest parts of writing for me! I always want to just divulge all of my ideas immediately!

The answer, weirdly enough... is no!

And a part of that is definitely due to me being a giant, secret-hoarding dragon in disguise. But another part of that is the fact that I largely suspect that...

Keeping secrets and avoiding spoilers is the reason this comic is still alive and updating.

Now, that may sound odd. Why would keeping secrets help me post? Sharing work is kind of the life-blood of a lot of creative endeavors. Storytelling is an inherently social activity. All humans, even the most introverted ones, thrive on peer recognition and feedback.

But over the years, I've come to realize something about myself. And this realization may be mostly stemming from me, but I suspect it's actually a pretty common factor for other creatives as well. So maybe I should talk about it (again).

Let me introduce you to something I call...

The Emperor's New Accomplishment.

Here's the thing. I'm an extremely introverted, non-social person. I can go for months without talking to friends easily, even if I love them a whole lot. That all being said, I'm still a human being, and my brain derives happy-social-animal chemicals from being recognized as A Person With Traits. Humans are built that way! We can't avoid it.

So what you gotta understand is - at all times, our brain is seeking social/peer recognition like it seeks out high-calorie foods. And it (largely) does not care what we have to do to get it.

Herein lies the problem.

Usually, creating stuff and thinking about stories and then sharing what we wrote with friends is a great way to get that happy chemical.

But it's time consuming. And difficult. And there's a shortcut.

What we seek when we create Scenarios and Characters and Conflicts is not hard work toiling away writing/drawing/constructing stuff. Many artists actively enjoy this process, but it's grueling.

And just telling our friends about our ideas actually accomplishes the end goal, as far as our brain is concerned! We made up ideas! We told people about it! We got the Good Feelings!

So when I tell people about my Plans to Write A Comic or Ideas To Make a Story, what I'm actually doing is tricking my brain into thinking 'wow, this feels great! We have accomplished the task we set out to do! No more effort necessary!'

And that motivation to actually draw/write/create?

It goes directly into the trashcan.

Now I'm not saying this to suggest people who do this/fall prey to this are lazy. They're not!

But our brains are. They're lazy, and they want to save energy. And they don't care if you WANTED to actually make the story. They will gladly rip the Motivation energy out of our grubby little hands when they no longer deem it necessary to the process.

So - why do I keep so many secrets? How do I stop myself from talking about what happens next in the story?

I'm doing it to keep my actual comic alive.

Disclaimer: Not everyone functions like this, obviously. Everyone has a different creative process. But this is how I've realized MY brain works, so I now take steps to trick my brain back into working. Ha! Take that, brain! Two can play at this--waitaminute.

[libingan]

— woven from shadows.

summary: two killers meet in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse. one is a master of charm and deception, the other, a figure shrouded in menace. despite their differences, one thing remains clear: they’re both cut from the same dark cloth.

a/n: IM ALIVE!! ive had this idea for DAYS yo, im so glad i can finally write again!!!

enjoy some killer! simon x killer! fem reader teehee

might make a part two, but it rlly depends on how much this shit eats

the warehouse is a relic from a forgotten era, its rusted metal frame creaking under the weight of years. the broken windows filter in sickly beams of moonlight, casting long, jagged shadows across the dust-covered floor. piles of rotting wooden crates and rusting machinery are scattered around, relics of a time when this place was alive with the hum of industry. now, it’s silent, the only sound the occasional drip of water from a leaking pipe, a steady rhythm that seems to count down to something inevitable. the air is thick with the scent of rust and decay, a perfect place for someone like you.

you’ve spent the better part of the night weaving through the labyrinth of the warehouse, playing with your prey like a cat with a mouse. he thought he could hide from you, but they all think that—right up until they don’t. the thrill of the chase had your blood singing, a familiar rush of adrenaline and anticipation. you left him bleeding in a dark corner, his gasping breaths echoing in the silence as you walked away. it was a clean kill, but nothing special. just another body to add to your collection.

but something feels off tonight. a sense of unease has been gnawing at you since you arrived, something in the air that doesn’t sit right. it’s like you’re not alone, like there’s someone else in the shadows, watching, waiting. you’re not sure what it is, but it pulls you deeper into the warehouse, toward something—or someone.

and that’s when you see him.

he’s just a shape at first, barely visible in the gloom, but there’s something about the way he moves that catches your attention. he’s not like your usual prey—there’s no panic, no desperation. just calm, calculated steps, as if he’s been hunting you just as much as you’ve been hunting him. it sends a shiver down your spine, a thrill of excitement that you haven’t felt in a long time.

as you step into a large open space in the heart of the warehouse, where the roof has partially collapsed, allowing a shaft of moonlight to spill across the floor, you finally get a good look at him. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing tactical gear that’s seen better days. his face is hidden behind a skull mask, the hollow eyes staring back at you, unreadable. but it’s his stance that really catches your attention—rigid, controlled, like he’s ready to strike at any moment.

he’s like you, you realize. cut from the same cloth. a predator in a world full of prey. but unlike your usual targets, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t show any sign of fear or hesitation. if anything, he seems... curious.

you smile, a slow, sly grin as you step closer, deliberately drawing his attention. “fancy seeing someone like you here,” you say, your voice light, almost teasing. “i thought i had this place to myself.”

he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. those dark eyes behind the mask stay locked on you, watching, waiting. the silence stretches on, heavy and suffocating, but you don’t let it get to you. you’ve dealt with the strong, silent type before. you know how to break them.

“let me guess,” you continue, circling him slowly, “you’re one of those types who thinks brooding in the dark makes them mysterious. but me? i prefer a little conversation before things get... messy.”

still nothing. his silence is almost unnerving, but you push through, trying to get a read on him. there’s something about him, something that tells you he’s not just another killer. he’s more than that, something darker, something dangerous. and it makes your blood sing.

you inch closer, testing the waters. “tell me,” you whisper, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this? looking for someone, maybe? or are you just here to watch?”

and that’s when you feel it—the cold press of steel against your throat. the knife is sudden, swift, and it takes everything in you not to flinch. instead, you grin, a slow, wicked curve of your lips as you stare up at him, eyes gleaming with defiance. you’ve met killers before, but this one... this one is different. this one is like you.

his voice is a low, gravelly growl when he finally speaks, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “you talk too much.”

you don’t falter, meeting his gaze with a smirk that’s all teeth. “and you don’t talk enough.”

for a long, tense moment, neither of you moves. the knife stays where it is, a silent threat, while your heart pounds in your chest. but fear isn’t what you feel—no, it’s something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating. the thrill of a worthy opponent, of someone who won’t break so easily.

slowly, deliberately, he lowers the knife, but his hand doesn’t leave your skin. instead, he tilts your chin up, forcing you to hold his gaze, as if daring you to make the next move. the tension between you crackles, electric and suffocating, and you know, without a doubt, that this isn’t over. not by a long shot.

you’ve finally met your match. and you can’t wait to see who wins.

[thechekhov]

How often would you say that you draw comics and art while also focus on the other things in life; work, family, etc?

Like, for example, if you had an exact number of minutes, hours, or days of drawing, what is an estimate per day or week? I'm just curious.

Honestly, it's difficult to count since my workweeks tend to vary based on the season but here's a quick example:

I don't work full-time at this point but I do have an hour commute both ways, and because I'm on a salary, I'm sometimes forced to stay overtime, meaning that my entire day is just sleep-eat-work-eat-sleep in that order, with nothing else that really happens that day.

During non-work days, most of my non-work time is..... art-work time!

And by that I mean that if I'm not washing the dishes, running an errand or spacing out, I'm drawing.

When do I play video-games or watch shows? I don't.

When do I spend time with friends? I don't.

Not unless it's specifically scheduled, such as when someone visits from far away. I have about 1 hour of social stuff set aside each week because I participate in a taiko group in the city I work at.

When I count it up, my art stuff ends up being anywhere between 30 -35 hours each work. My part time job is supposed to be 24 hours (not counting the commute), but often ends up going over. And I usually need another 5 hours each week to take care of the back-end office stuff - scheduling posts, managing Patreon, answering asks and planning future stuff.

I will admit I would not be able to do that if it were not for the kindness of my partner, who takes care of most of the cooking and cleaning, and often ends up cooking me things to eat:

I appreciate him and his commitment to keeping me alive very much

Also, just to be clear: I am not pretending that this is not a good work-life balance.

It it just the balance that works for ME, personally. I think most people would find this...less great.

I do not go out for coffees with pals. I do not watch new series, and I do not partake in social events. This is something I am fine with, but I know many other people would find my life incredibly repetitive and boring.

Actually, looking at this math laid out, I am quite disappointed in not being able to accomplish more with the 30 hours I have per week. But...the reality is that aside from running the comic on my Patreon and doing random personal doodling on my main blog, I'm also often trying to do other projects in the background that I don't feel like sharing until their completion.

The reality is, I enjoy this load, though. I make it work for me, and I'm getting to do stuff I like AND make money for myself and my partner! So I'm fine with it. I'm not actually dying from exhaustion.

It's just hilarious when I sometimes get asks going "Hey, have you played that latest 130-hour-long videogame? :)" followed by a swift "I wish you would post comics daily again :((( I want more arrttttt" like kids, you can't have both, I don't know what to tell you.