#him and his little pink trousers 🥰

[yrsonpurpose]

f1 when jenson is on commentary and danica is nowhere to be seen

[msnmnt]

Teach You | Mason Mount

pic from pinterest 🩶

A/N: This is sort of a part 2 to Lay Your Love On Me which you can read here. Again, this is by no means perfect and feedback is welcomed but I hope those who suggested a second part enjoy 🥰 If you have any more requests (smutty or not) please send them in!

Summary: Contains smut! Mase teaches experienced reader to please him. That’s it really - enjoy! 🩶

- - - - -

Your smile was wide as you watched Mason chatting away with some of the staff and young adults from the charity, the awards evening having been such a success.

Your heart warmed at the sight of your boyfriend joking away, clearly making everyone feel comfortable. His kindness and how much he genuinely cared for people was one of the things you loved the most about him. How soft and sweet he was. You had never encountered a man as gentle as him before.

And God, did he look hot this evening.

His hair had grown out a little, he had left his facial hair to grow and now had the slight stubble look that you loved so much going on, and he was dressed smart in a suit which had of course been tailored to fit him, shaping his body so perfectly.

You couldn’t wait to get him home.

-

You hadn’t been able to keep your hands off Mason the entire taxi ride home and as soon as you were back at his house, he was more than happy to indulge in your advances. He quickly led you up the staircase and it wasn’t long before he was softly pushing you back so you fell onto his bed, throwing his blazer off and loosening his tie before climbing on top of you and reattaching his lips to yours.

When you wrapped your arms around his body and pushed him gently he got the hint, rolling you both over so you were on top of him.

You straddled his body and moved your head to nuzzle into his neck, sloppily kissing underneath his ear just the way he liked, the way that was guaranteed to have him a weak mess before you, throaty moans escaping his slightly parted lips.

You pressed your crotch down onto his, your lips twitching upwards when you felt his hardness evident from under his suit trousers. You lightly grazed your teeth to the spot you had been working at on his neck, knowing he’d struggle to cover them tomorrow but neither of you caring, far too caught up in the moment.

You softly sucked and nipped at the skin before leaving some wet kisses to the area, eliciting another moan from him. You were so nervous about what you were about to do, but his moans were music to your ears and helped your confidence to continue.

As you pushed his chest so he was led flat against the bed, Mason was taken aback by the boldness of your actions. His cock twitched in the constraints of his trousers as he watched on, taking in your body which was clad in just a black lace matching underwear set, your long evening gown having been removed by Mason practically as soon as you got home.

Your fingers worked to undo the buttons to his shirt and Mason was quick to help you out, peeling it from his body and discarding it along with his tie and trousers. He returned to his previous position and you begun to pepper soft kisses to his chest, leaving a trail of pink prints of your lipstick.

You felt your nose lightly graze up against his body hair as you got lower and lower and your kisses came to a halt as you reached the waistband of his boxers. Taking a breath, you swallowed to try and bring some moisture back into your throat which had gone dry from nerves.

Looking up at your boyfriend, he looked so beautiful, his head propped up so he could watch what you were doing, his honey eyes dark with lust for you to continue. You tried to hype yourself up. You could do it.

You dragged his boxers down his legs, gulping as you came face to face his cock that stood tall and proud, the tip pink and leaking with precome already.

Suddenly you felt overwhelmed. You had never been this close to it, and it felt very intimidating. Your cheeks warmed as Mason looked down at you expectantly, his eyes dark, cheeks flushed mouth slightly agape, and the reality that you didn’t know what you were doing hit you.

The colour drained from your face and you gulped, your gaze still fixated on it. How were you going to fit that in your mouth?

Mason, being the attentive boyfriend he was, noticed the change in your demeanour straight away, and his heart dropped at the thought of you feeling like you had to do something you had changed your mind about.

“Angel, are you okay?” He reached down to grab your face, his thumb moving to softly caress your cheek and you couldn’t help your bottom lip from trembling.

As soon as Mason saw your eyes glisten, he was quick to sit up.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s happened, baby?”

You shook your head, feeling silly as the tears in your eyes begun to cloud your vision.

Mason put his hand out, encouraging you to come and join him at the top of the bed, which you did.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that?”

His thumb swiped at the stray tear that had slipped down your cheek, and you nodded your head knowingly. All the nights Mason had spent with his head between your thighs and not once had he asked for anything back, wanting to wait till you made the move so he knew you were completely comfortable.

“I want to, I just…” You sighed, feeling silly. “I don’t know what to do, okay? I don’t know what to do and it just got a bit intimidating, you know, being right there all big and in my face.” You felt your cheeks blush but Mason just chuckled, his ego booming at your words.

“Oh, princess.” He cradled your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “If you still want to I can teach you?”

“Teach me?” You repeated and Mason nodded.

“I can tell you what I like, you can see what you like doing. There’s no pressure, y/n, none at all.” He gave you a genuine smile.

You nodded, appreciating his softness as ever. “Okay.”

“Come here.” Mason’s big hands gripped your body, bringing you to lay next to him.

His lips were soon on yours, his tongue swiping over your lower lip and you parted your lips slightly to let him in. His tongue licked at yours and mid kiss, Mason reached down to grab your hand, startling you at first but you soon relaxed.

He moved his body slightly so he was led more flat on the bed to allow you better access to him. He guided your hand to him and you wrapped it around him before he enclosed his on top of yours, tightening your grip on him. “Nice and tight, yeah?” You clentched your legs together, the feel of him warm and hard in your hard mixed with his words turning you on.

“Just start off by stroking up and down, try and get a feel for it, find a rhythm.” He spoke confidently and he guided you for a little while before dropping his hand and letting you work him on your own.

You continued your movements, slightly slower than Mason did, cautious not to hurt him by squeezing or moving too tight.

You watched on intensely as Mason’s head lulled back into the pillows, little groans leaving his lips every so often and spurring you on.

Mason completely basked in the feel, allowing you to get comfortable for a few minutes, finding your rhythm. The feel of your hand fucking his cock making him wonder how he had gone without your touch for so long.

Mason bought his hand up to wrap around yours, bringing it to a stop. You felt worried, like you had done something wrong, till he fluttered his eyes open and gave you a lazy smile.

“You want to have a taste now, angel?” He dragged his thumb down your lips, your bottom one making a noise as it popped back up. You nodded. “Go get comfy between my legs.” He planted a soft kiss to your forehead and you did what he said, settling yourself back into your previous position.

“Start by giving it some kisses, baby.” His tone was the perfect mix of confident whilst not being stern enough to sound like he was ordering you about, putting you at ease.

You cautiously wrapped your hand around his base, trying to pluck up the courage to do as he said.

“Where do you want me to… umm…” you stumbled your words. Mason tried his best to compose himself, overwhelmed with how turned on he was just from having your face so close to him, your breath lightly fanning him as you spoke.

“Wherever you want, baby.” Mason did his best to make you feel comfortable and you softly touched your lips to his shaft before hiding your face into your arm.

“This feels silly.” You blushed and Mason chuckled, eager to make you feel comfortable and continue exploring him.

He reached down and used his hands to brush back the hair that had fallen over your face. “Why don’t you just try wrap your lips around the tip baby, see if you like the taste.” Mason stroked at your hair to keep it back out of your face and you repositioned yourself, face dangerously close to his cock once more.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, cautiously stuck your tongue out and licking at the tip, tasting some of the precome. Mason immediately let out a moan at the feel of your mouth finally on him, and you couldn’t help but feel a little giddy that you had make him feel like that already.

You traced your tongue over the tip, licking up all of the precome. You pulled away to take a swallow, the taste unfamiliar, salty and strange, but it was Mason, and that made it okay.

“Shall I, um, shall I start now?” You hesitantly asked.

“Can you spit on me baby?”

“W-what?”

“Just need to get it nice and wet, here.” Mason reached his hand down to you and you looked up at him completely confused. “Give me some spit, baby.”

You looked at him as if to say are you sure, but when you saw the look on his face and noticed how heavy he was breathing, you gathered some saliva in your mouth before obliging and spitting into his palm.

Mason was quick to move his hand to give himself a few strokes, spreading your spit all over him. “Now just give me your hand and do what you were doing before.”

You wrapped your hand around him, Mason gave it a tight squeeze before releasing it and allowing you to take control. You resumed your hand motions from before, easily gliding up and down his shaft in a steady rhythm.

His lashes fluttered shut as he enjoyed the feeling of you stroking him, till you came to a stop, needing his help for your next move.

“So, do I have to put it all… in?”

Mason’s cock twitched at your innocence.

“No, baby.” He tried his best to compose himself. “Just start with the tip and work your way down, then come back up.”

You hesitantly begun, your lips cushioning around the head before pulling off him. You continued your movements, gradually taking more and more into your mouth.

Mason’s heart was beating rapidly, his chest moving up and down and his breathing heavy. You pulled off him, eyes wide as you looked up at him for any kind of reaction. Your heart fluttered seeing him all flustered, his cheeks rosy and his chest rising rapidly as his gaze was fixated down at you.

Mason tried his best to gather himself. “You -, baby, is everything okay?” He said, wondering if he had missed something.

You nodded. “Just checking I was doing okay.”

Mason groaned softly. “You were doing so good, baby.” He ran his hand over your hair, smoothing it over your back which made you shiver.

Seeing him so flustered gave a boost to your confidence to wrap your lips around his tip once again, slowly bobbing your head up and down.

Your hand was still, tightly wrapped around the base of his dick, and you flintched when you felt Mason’s hand on yours.

He guided your hand up to just below your mouth, moving your hand with each bob of your head. You soon picked up what he wanted you to do, moving your hand in sync with your mouth as you sped up your movements till Mason dropped his grip.

“Fuck, princess - just like that, just like -“ he managed to moan, cutting himself off with little groans and mumbles of your name. You squeezed your thighs together as you tried to not think about the wetness that was pooling in your underwear, instead focusing all your energy into bringing Mason to his release.

This time you sunk your mouth down a little further than before, your nose brushing up against his pubic hair as the grasp of your throat made Mason moan out your name.

Mason lightly tugged your hair into a ponytail before using one hand to pull it back, holding it together with one of his hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off you as your mouth worked so perfectly on him, and he got a little carried away as he bucked his hips up slightly, his tip hitting the back of your throat and making you gag around him.

Straight away Mason lowered his hips, his hand dropping your hair as you pulled away, gasping to take a breath as your eyes watered slightly.

“Shit, I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean-“

You quickly managed to get your breathing back to normal, your hand finding its place wrapped around his cock once more as you returned to your movements from before, not wanting him to feel bad.

“You - fuck, you okay, princess?” Mason mumbled out as you continued to stroke at him, giving him a nod.

“‘m fine, I promise, Mase.” You bought your head back down to his cock, your breath sending a tingle up his body.

You took him into your mouth, quickly returning to your pace of bobbing up and down. Mason groaned at the feel of your mouth all warm and wet and working him to perfection, the feeling of your tongue running up and down him.

“Look so pretty like this, baby. So gorgeous with my cock in your mouth.” His dirty words went straight to one core and you suddenly wanted to bring him to his high more than ever before.

You loved how vocal Mason was, making you feel relaxed and confident during this new experience. You hollowed your cheeks, your pace becoming a lot faster than it had been as you felt his hand tangle in your hair once more.

“Baby, oh fuck.” Mason threw his head back as you ran your tongue over his tip, your hand working what your mouth couldn’t reach. “Can you look at me, princess?” You purposely fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him, the sight of him struggling to keep his eyes open as his chest rapidly moved up and down. “I’m gonna - fuck, gonna come… can I, can I come in your mouth?” He wanted nothing more than to feel your lips around him as he reached his high, especially seeing how much you seemed to be enjoying yourself now, but he still needed to check that was okay with you.

You moaned around his cock, giving him confirmation it was fine and the vibrations just made his high approach even quicker.

You kept your pace steady, your hand stroking where your mouth didn’t reach, your tongue running up and down his shaft as you quickened your pace ever so slightly.

You felt Mason’s grip on your hair tighten and his cock twitch in your mouth, warning you before he could that he couldn’t hold off his high any longer.

“Shit, gonna come, princess. You gonna be a good girl and swallow it for me?”

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and lashes fluttering at him again as you took him as deep as you could, the sight pushing Mason over the edge as he spilled into your mouth for the first time.

You struggled to swallow it all, the feeling foreign and strange but you managed to get most of it apart from a little bit that spilled onto your lips.

You backed off, using your thumb to swipe at the liquid on your lips, licking it up which made Mason moan as he calmed down from his intense high.

You sat up on your knees, nervously looking on as you awaited Mason’s reaction.

“Fuck, that was -“ He exhaled. “You did so good, baby.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his praise.

“I’ll just go to the bathroom, clean my teeth and-“

Before you could get up, Mason reached his arms out to grab your body, pulling you down to you were laid next to him on the bed.

Mason’s lips met yours, the kiss rough and needy and taking you by surprise as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, groaning at the taste of himself on you, loving the taste of him on his girl.

“You’re not going anywhere yet, baby.” He rolled you onto your back, caging your body in with his. “I’m not done with you yet.”

- - - - -

[frantic-fiction]

Hi!! I love your astarion stories so much, you are such a talented writer!

I have a bit of a weird request for an 18+.

I've heard theories that if a vampire like astarion drinks enough human blood that there's a slight chance he's able to get someone pregnant 👀 ...

I'm wondering if you could do a smut like something along the lines of astarion having a huge breeding kink, so he and Tav are experimenting with him drinking maybe more than he should of her but it's worth it if they have a chance at having a kid or something? Basically just asking for a smut about astarion having a breeding kink🥺

thank you so much for all you do!! Once again like I said you are so talented, and if you do decide to do something with this I'd love to be in the tag list.

Okay first off, this comment is everything thank you. You are just too nice I can't 🥰....and well I had so much fun writing this so I hope you like it lovely!

I Want 18+

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, Breeding kink, fingering, dry humping, slight daddy kink if you squint, Astarion being lovesick, slight dom/sub maybe? idk

Word Count: 2.5k of pure filth

Mastarlist

It started with a chapter in an obnoxiously repetitive book about vampires and their spawns. You had gifted it to him with a poorly concealed giggle on your lips. 

Most of the content was either incorrect or exaggerated, and Astarion couldn't help but chuckle at the foolishness of it all. He was ready to throw the damned thing into the fireplace when his eye drifted over a passage.

Dhampirs: Creatures born from the union of a human and a vampire. The conception is incredibly rare, but the likelihood increases if the vampire indulges in a significant amount of the human's blood prior to sex. 

Now, it can't seem to leave Astarion's mind. The idea of you being pregnant, being able to watch your stomach swell with his child, witnessing your breast grow and your hips fill out. How sensitive would you get as your pregnancy progresses? Would you crave him more than you do now? These thoughts alone have him throbbing in his trousers.

However, what sealed Astarion's fate was seeing you with Gale's newborn baby girl. The way love filled your heart the moment your eyes landed on that little girl sleeping soundly in the wizard's arms. How delicate you cradle the young one's head as soon as she's in your grasp, softly cooing down at the little bundle, stroking the smooth pink skin of her cheek. 

And when you turned to him with that sweet smile that never fails to make Astarion weak in the knees, asking if he wishes to hold baby Dekarios. How could he say no? 

Astarion never cared for fatherhood, but the moment that baby girl was in his arms, opening her eyes with that dopey, toothless smile, he was done for. And when she grabbed his pointer finger with her tiny hand, gripping it lightly with all her strength. Astarion knew he wouldn't stop trying until you were carrying his child.

* 

You were finishing up the dishes, hips swaying to a tune only you could hear. The summer heat had you in shorts that fell just below the swell of your rear and a sheer top that revealed your lack of a bra. It's been a week since the visit to the Dekarios, and Astarion can no longer hold back the desires that burn deep in his body. 

Astarion approaches silently, a predator stalking his prey. You rub your nose on your shoulder, trying to scratch an itch while your hands are covered in suds, groaning in annoyance when that fails to help. 

Gods, you're adorable. 

You're so carefree and relaxed, looking so soft, warm, and delicate. All open to his wandering hands and his greedy mouth. Astarion can already feel himself stiffen just from the knowledge of what he has in store for you.

A startled scream leaves your lips as Astarion's cold arms snake around your waist and pulls you against his hard chest. It does make him feel bad for a moment, but the delicate sigh that follows as he kisses up your jaw is enough to make up for it. 

"Hello, my love." Astarion hums against your skin. His nimble fingers trail over your stomach, teasing the valley of your breast, taking careful movements to ghost his thumb over your sensitive nipple. A gasp leaves your sinful mouth, and you arch your back.

"H-hey," you breathe, and when Astarion grinds his tented pants against your backsides, you let out the most delicious whimper. "What are you up to, Star?" 

His only response is a breathy laugh as he turns you around and pulls you into a kiss. Signing into his mouth, you hook your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. It's messy, with soapy hands and mingling tongues, but it leaves you breathless. Astarion teases your bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away to bite your jaw playfully, relishing the surprised yelp you give him. 

Astarion quickly lifts you onto the countertop, where he can nestle between your plush thighs. Your wandering hands move up to tangle into his curls and give a tug. Astarion obliges your silent request and resumes the kiss, licking deeply into your mouth. He's lost in the subtle floral scent of your shampoo and the taste of your lips.

You pull him away with your chest, heaving in deep pants. "Astarion, what are you--" He smirks when you trail off into a breathy moan as his teeth nibble at your ear.

"Darling, do you remember that book you gifted me?" Astarion's hands trail down your side, and you part your legs more for his reaching fingers.

"Y-yes, the one you scoffed at and threw in the corner?" Still having the sense of mind to tease him, he chuckles when your quip spills into a moan when the pad of his thumb presses against your covered clit. 

Astarion is pleased with the dampening fabric of your shorts. Your responsiveness never ceases to leave him aching with need. He begins to move his finger lightly back and forth against the fabric. It's not enough to give you what you want, but it has you whining for more.

"Well, I must admit the poor excuse for educational text did have some interesting information." Astarion moves his thumb a bit rougher against your clit.

"What -fuck- what interesting information are we talking about?" 

Astarion doesn't respond immediately, slipping his hand under the band of your shorts. He swipes his deft fingers through your dripping folds and begins to tease your entrance while he continues to rub tight circles against your sensitive bud. You gasp and drop your head to his shoulder, rolling your hips into his palm. Astarion cups the back of your neck with his spare hand and tilts your head back. You meet his heated gaze with lidded eyes and mouth agape. 

"Dhampirs." Astarion purrs, plunging two of his fingers into your dripping core, curling up just enough to have you gasping his name. 

Your fingernails dig into his forearm, clinging for anything to ground you. Astarion waits for you to react, loving the way you roll your hips in time with his fingers, desperate for all that he gives you. It seems you're lost in your pleasure or not quite catching on to what he's implying because you're looking at him, clearly not following his words. 

"Half-vampires, my sweet."

You clench around his fingers, letting out a soft whimper that would have gone unheard without his heightened hearing. He smirks, picking up the pace. Astarion grabs your chin, guiding you to look at him.

"Does that excite you, darling?" 

"Gods, shit," You breathe. "Please, don't stop."

"You would look so beautiful carrying our child. Hells, imagine." 

Astarion trails his fangs over the skin of your neck, sucking on the pinprick from the previous night. His hips are now rutting against your leg and the edge of the counter, only enough to ease the ache in his groin. Astarion can feel you getting close just by the little jolts of your hips and the tight squeeze of your cunt. 

"Do you want my child, love?" Astarion hums against your skin. "Do you want me to fill you to the brim with my seed, fuck you until you're a dripping mess? Until there's a little one growing in your womb."

"Please! Fuck, I'm going t-" 

"Come for me, my sweet girl."

You cry out his name, and just as your orgasm rakes through your body, Astarion sinks his teeth into your neck and begins his feed. You're lost to the pleasure, your walls spasming around his fingers. He helps you ride out your release, never unlatching from your neck.

 Astarion takes large, greedy gulps of your blood, far more than his usual fill. The book said a significant amount of blood was needed, leaving much to be interpreted. Astarion only stopped when you nudged him on the shoulder. 

When he pulls away, you wipe the small trickle of blood that dribbles down Astarion's chin. Delicately he grabs your hand and sucks your thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.

"Astarion, let's go to our room. I think we have some things to explore," you say with a tempting smile.

Astarion is carrying you out of the kitchen and down the hall without another word, his lips locked onto yours. 

You're giggling against Astarion's mouth as he kicks the door open and tosses you carelessly on the bed. You bounce on the mattress and watch the vampire hastily tear at the buttons of his shirt. 

Tossing the fabric away, Astarion looks at you and unbuckles his trousers. The sight alone nearly has him cumming in his pants. There you are, lounging with that devious gaze, biting your lip and groping your breast like the tease you are.

"Fuck, sweetheart," Astarion breathe, practically ripping the rest of his clothes from his body. "Take your clothes off for me."

You do as you're told and quickly strip until you're bare and spread out like a feast just for him. Astarion now kneels naked at the foot of the bed and grabs your ankle, giving a gentle kiss to your calf. 

"I've thought about nothing else but getting you pregnant since I read that foolish book," Astarion says, kissing his way up your leg. "Watching your stomach grow round with our child," He kisses and licks the soft flesh of your abdomen. 

"Astarion," you sigh.

"To get the pleasure of taking care of you. Rubbing your swollen feet, and massage your aching back, even fetching every one of the disgusting cravings your pregnancy gives you."

"Says the blood drinker." You scoff, glaring down at Astarion between the valley of your breasts. 

Astarion ignores you and bites at your chest playfully. "You would make such a lovely mother, darling. Please, love, let me make you a mother." 

Astarion's words are laced with a tone of desperation. He might have been embarrassed if not for the need that consumes him: a need to see you nod at him with your beautiful smile, a need to hear you say you want this just as much as him, that you want to start a family with him, however unlikely it might be.

And then you nod your head and frantically pull him up into a kiss, and Astarion feels like he's alive once again.

"Gods, yes." You mumble, slinging your legs around him and pulling him down against your body.

Astarion licks into your mouth, kissing you like a man starved. You're just as desperate, grinding up against him, seeking friction, and letting out little whines against his mouth. Wandering hands trails down his back and between your two bodies, and Astarion lets out a pathetic moan when you grip his leaking cock, giving him a few teasing pumps. 

"You're going to be such a good daddy, Astarion." You whisper sinfully in his ears as he fucks your hand. "Going to take good care of me and our little one."

"Hells, you wicked thing." Astarion grunts. 

You run your thumb over the head, giving him a playful squeeze. Hot, open-mouth kisses are littered across his chest and up his neck until your mouth is right against his ear. Your warm breath floats over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Astarion love, I need you to put a baby into me." 

Astarion nods, seemingly breathless, as you line him up at your weeping cunt. He presses in, and the room fills with debauched moans. You grab his neck, slamming your mouths back together, tongues back into their messy dance. Saliva coats each other's lips, but neither can get enough. Astarion grunts deep in his chest when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

"Oh my love, I'm going to fuck you until you're leaking with my cum. Filled to the brim until you can't take anymore." Astarion grabs your legs and pulls them over his shoulders, and you cry at the change in angle. "Then tomorrow I'll do the same, and the day after. Until we know for sure our baby is growing in your womb."

"Yes, Star. Wanna baby." You slur against him, pressing warm kisses wherever your lips can touch. 

Astarion was fucking you as if this was his life goal. As if nothing else matters but the delicious feeling of his cock thrusting against your walls, pressing deep against your cervix. Seeing all of you with your cheek flushed and your chest rising and falling with rapid pants of breath, knees against your chest. Your eyes lidded, gazed over in pleasure, and your hair a mess against the white of the pillow. It was the sexiest display Astarion has ever had the pleasure to see.

"You're so beautiful. Gods, I love you." 

"Love you," You try to say but choke on a moan. Your hands wander down his back and across his chest, seeming not to know where you want to touch.

Astarion is close but determined to feel you come around him before finding his release. Thankfully, he won't need to wait long because you're on the edge. So close. He can tell just by the way your gummy walls spasm around his cock, and the way your hips are jutting up against each of his thrusts.

"I know you're close, darling. Can you come for me? I want to feel you squeeze me while I fill you."

And with those sinful words, it was almost like you were waiting for his permission because as soon as they left his mouth, you were falling over the precipice. You clench down on him, a pleasured sob breaking free of your throat. The feeling of you alone was enough to tip him over, and he quickly found his release spilling his seed deep into your abused cunt.

The room stills, the scent of sweat and sex clings to the air. Astarion lets your legs fall to the side and maneuvers both of your bodies so that he's lying on his back and you're resting on top of him, head on his chest. Astarion rubs your back and kisses your hairline as you catch your breath. You trace lines across his skin, lost in thought at what had happened.

"So should I expect a little vampling running around soon?" you ask, looking up at him.

Astarion huffs a small laugh through his nose and kisses your forehead. "Human and Vampire reproduction is unlikely but not impossible," Astarion explains without the rush of arousal clogging both of your minds. "But I think we've done many remarkable things together, wouldn't you agree, my love."

You smile brightly and kiss his chest. "Yes, we do have a knack for doing the impossible. And I'm very, very eager to keep trying." 

Taglist

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

[kteezy997]

hello hello! don’t know if you take requests, but could you do something about Tim and the reader are already dating and working on a film together. one of the days the reader doesn’t have to show to set so she has a seat for herself and when tim finally gets off work he comes to find her on the jacuzzi of their room using the water jets to masturbate. you can choose how to finish it

i admire your work🥰❤️

A/N: I tweaked the first part a little. warnings: using water jets to masturbate, explicit thoughts, hot tub sex, breast play, Timmy calls reader ‘good girl’ at the end

Jacuzzi// t.c.

You were finally able to fly out and see Timmy for the first time in weeks. He was in the middle of the press tour for Dune: Part Two. You would be joining him in London for two days. You'd miss the premiere of the movie and the after parties, but that didn't really bother you. Timmy was very private when it came to his love life anyway, and you didn't want to take any attention away from him or the film. You were set to head straight to the hotel once your flight got in.

You were exhausted after being on a plane for 10 and a half hours. You honestly thought of just going to bed straight away, but you knew Timmy would be back soon. You didn't want to miss seeing him tonight. And you knew he would be sad if you were already asleep when he got back.

You looked out the window, seeing the city lit up against the darkness of the night sky. It was beautiful; the bustling night life of the city. You saw the large hot tub off to the side of the balcony. You then realized why Timmy told you to bring a bathing suit.

You decided to take advantage of the hot tub now, and you went back in to retrieve your bikini from your suitcase. As you got into the two piece, you looked at your phone. Messages you had gotten while in flight were finally coming through. Timmy's manager had sent you photos of him in his premiere outfit and you scrolled through press photos on social media as well.

He wore a pretty simple outfit, but looked so damn good, as usual. You thought about ripping that big T-shirt off of him, along with those shiny trousers, and running your fingers through his curly hair. You missed him. You missed his voice, his scent, the way you felt so safe and warm in his arms.

You were clad in your pink bikini as you grabbed a towel from the bathroom and went out to the balcony. You entered the hot tub, your body stung from the contrast of the coolness of the night mixing with the hot temperature of the water. But you got adjusted to the change after about a minute.

The sound of the jets and the little waterfall on one side filled the air and created a calming ambiance with the glow of the lights along the bottom of the tub. You wished that Timmy would just come through the door already to relax with you.

You kept thinking of him, and of how long it had been since you’d gotten to cuddle him, much less have sex. You craved it at this point. You closed your eyes, thinking about your handsome man, and the ways he knew how to please you. He knew your body even better than you did. He knew all of your weaknesses and kinks. He knew how much you loved his mouth on your body.

You were getting hot and bothered, literally and figuratively. The steam was making your face hot as the water soothed your muscles. One of the jets was hitting your lower back so precisely, working out any aches and pains.

You were reminded that Timmy would often massage you, sometimes before sex, sometimes after, and he really knew how to use his hands. Even more so when it came to playing with your pussy. Your core ached just thinking about it.

Then a thought popped into your head. If the jet felt good on your back…it would feel even better somewhere else. Your turned around, straddling the jet stream. The water shot your clit, making your body vibrate. You moaned and your body shook, your pussy was stimulated to the point of almost numbness. You thought of Timmy’s fingers, rubbing you softly, then faster and faster.

His tongue dancing back and forth on your clit. The way he'd flick his eyes up at you now and then as he ate you out. The shooting jet hit all the right places, your pussy became totally numb with pleasure. You found yourself humping the water, your body eager to feel more pressure.

You put your hand between your legs, and closed your eyes. You rubbed between your folds. Thinking of Timmy's fingers again. After he was done with his fingers, he would kiss your inner thighs. He’d smirk at you. Your next thought was of his tongue nudging your bundle of nerves where your own fingers were.

Then your mind wandered to his cock… thick, veiny, and his pretty red tip.

“Well, what do we have here?”

You were completely startled, and gasped as you slipped under the water. You came back up immediately, coughing up some water and pushing your hair out of your face as you looked over at your lover who had, unbeknownst to you, joined you out on the balcony.

Timmy laughed at you, shaking his head. "Just couldn't wait for me, could you?"

"Sorry Timmy, it's just- I saw photos of you from the premiere and"

He cut you off, inching closer to the jacuzzi, placing his hands on the ledge of it, "And? And what, you got greedy, so you put your pussy on the jets while you thought about my cock?"

"Basically...yes." you shrugged. Having now caught your breath, you swished over to where he was standing, the steam evaporated from your wet, hot skin, and you said, "Get your big cock in here with me."

With a little smirk, Timmy whipped his shirt off, then his sparkly trousers and his boots. Once he was down to his boxers, he stepped into the hot tub with you. "Whoa! That is hot!" he said in surprise as he got accustomed to the temperature.

You got onto his lap as he sat down, your arms enveloped one another automatically, and your lips met. You tasted a bit of alcohol on his lips, but he hadn't stumbled or slurred his words at all, so he wasn't drunk. You were glad that he was able to let loose a little bit and have fun. You knew how busy he had been the last few months as he traveled all over the world to promote two movies, one of them having already raked in hundreds of millions of dollars.

You pulled away from his kiss and he smiled brightly at you. It was so glorious, you felt light and fluffy inside, like you were on a cloud. The sky was dark, with nothing illuminating the night except for the glowing lights in the tub and the tiny squares of indoor lights coming through windows of the many buildings below and around you.

Timmy was so handsome, his strong arms above the surface of the water. Droplets webbing on his skin, the steam coming off the both of you now, the trickling sound of the waterfall, it was all so romantic. It was a moment you could have lived in with him forever.

He kissed your neck, and you held the back of his head, his curls slightly dampened and cool to the touch due to the chill of the nighttime air. He nibbled your collarbone and left some smooches on your shoulder. "So pretty." he whispered, his eyes closed as his lips grazed your wet skin. "I'm so happy you're here." he cooed.

As he looked at you, his irises sea green now, you put your arms around his neck. You let your crotch graze over his cock. “Awe, me too, honey.” You felt his erection growing even more as you kissed him. You moaned into his mouth, and he stuck his tongue in. You felt his cock poking around your clit through the material of your bikini bottoms. "Mm," you began to mutter, "you're so hard right now."

Timmy hummed lowly, his hands went under your arms, and he lifted you up slightly and eyed your wet body. "I want you so bad." he admitted, leaning in to kiss your breasts. He left little kisses along your cleavage, with hungry, sensual sounds.

As he teased your nipple through your bikini top, you begged, "Put your cock in me, Timmy."

He lowered you onto his lap and he pulled the front of his boxers down in an instant, then pushed your bottoms to the side so he could access your pussy. With a firm upward thrust, he was inside you.

"Ohh, shit." you trembled, adjusting to him.

Timmy let out a soft moan, letting his hands settle on your hips under the water.

You started to roll your hips, letting his cock rut in and out of you.

"Aw, yes, baby, yes." he panted, grabbing you by your ass, helping you pump his cock faster.

"Oh, Timmy." you cried, bouncing on his cock now, as fast as you could muster without splashing water out of the hot tub.

His hands moved to your tits after a moment, squeezing them and rubbing your nipples, only adding to effect he was having on your pussy. He pushed either piece of your bikini top aside, exposing your breasts right in his face.

It was quite the sensation having your hard nipples splashing in and out of the hot water and into the coolness of the evening as you rode Timmy's cock.

Again, he felt your breasts. He nipped and licked at them as they bounced with you. He rolled your nipples with his fingers, making you throw your head back. He was able to capture a tit in his mouth here and there to suck them.

You could feel him pumping his hips up into you as well, meeting your thrusts as they got slower.

His waist was smacking hard up into you, and you were moaning like a whore. It was becoming too much for you to keep up with. You threw your arms around his neck, keeping still to let him fuck you. Your face rested in his damp hair.

Timmy held your waist and made the hottest growling sounds as he rutted you. Water was splashing everywhere around you at this point, hitting you in the face, even, but you didn't care. You whimpered and cried as you held onto him, just taking what he was giving you.

He stopped, then stood up in the tub as he grabbed you by your arms. He placed you chest down on the side of the tub. You braced yourself with your hands, trying not to slip. You felt Timmy's hands on your butt. The head of his cock toyed with your dripping clit for a second before he slid in again.

You held onto the edge as he started to ram into you from behind. You were just imagining how hot he looked, water droplets running down his body, frizzy ringlets of his hair bobbing back and forth with his thrusts. Your pussy throbbed and you clenched around his thick cock. His balls caused the warm water to splash your clit. The cold, hard surface of the jacuzzi wall caused your nipples to pebble up. You cried like a little bitch and shuddered as your orgasm overtook you.

"You take my cum like a good girl now." Timmy muttered, squeezing your ass cheeks, pumping his cock rapidly.

You whimpered with each of his final thrusts, trying with all of your might to not slip under the water.

He slammed his cock in one last time, and you felt his warm fluid spill into you. You rested your head on the edge of the tub, feeling all tingly. Then, his cold curls were on your skin as he pressed a sweet kiss to your shoulder blade, making you giggle.

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @bitchyunknownuser @lixzey @kpopgirlbtssvt @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen

[sillysistersusi]

Style It The Way You Want

I made this little story for the second day of the dadrius week 2023 (fashion), it's a little late but better than never🥰😊 I hope you like what I did

You can also find this story on my ao3 and wattpad accounts

@sergeantsporks

So here it is:

When Darius had asked Hunter if he wanted to live with him, Hunter hadn't been quite sure why he was asking. Did Darius perhaps need someone to help him with the household chores? But Hunter quickly realized that wasn't the case. When he first wanted to do the dishes, Darius had only said that he would always have one of his abominations do them and that Hunter could just relax and do something else.

So why did he want Hunter to live with him? What did he want from Hunter if not to do the housework for him?

It all really confused him and Hunter increasingly didn't know what to make of certain situations he was thrown into.

Whenever Darius asked him about his interests, Hunter evaded and said he didn't have any or he was still thinking about things. It was better not to stand out too much in case Hunter liked something that Darius didn't like. He certainly didn't want the abomination coven head to kick him out again just because he couldn't just be quiet and pretend to be an ordinary and undamaged kid.

But Hunter especially tried to keep it a secret that he loved to wear colorful clothes. He had never seen Darius in colors other than purple, black, and white.

Besides, he and Darius had been at the market in Bonesborough the other day and there had been a sweater hanging on one of the stalls that Hunter had liked immediately. It had been light blue and had had flowers and different colors and shapes and in the middle of the front had been a big orange heart embroidered on it.

But Darius had just wrinkled his nose and asked a little disgusted, "Who would buy something like that?

And so Hunter had decided not to wear anything that Darius would call ugly. He loved fashion and Hunter knew that Darius would probably kick him out if he wore something Darius didn't think was good enough.

Hunter had once tried to add something more colorful and individual to his golden guard uniform. It had been a simple colorful flower patch that he had sewn onto his dark trousers rather poorly, but Belos had not been at all pleased by the idea. He had freaked out immediately when he had seen the colorful patch on Hunter's pants.

So when Hunter and Darius went shopping a few days into Hunter's second week at Darius' house, because one morning Darius said, "The four outfits you own can hardly be called a whole closet." Hunter tried to ignore everything he thought was beautiful.

They were already in the second store. In the first, Hunter had chosen the two plainest pairs of shoes, although he would much rather have had the bright red ones they sold there as well.

Now Hunter pulled everything off the hangers that looked like something Darius would wear, only a little plainer, after all, Hunter didn't want Darius to think he was trying to replace him or anything.

But no matter what Hunter did, his eyes kept wandering over to this one colorful skirt that was hanging on a hanger on the wall a little further back.

It was a pink skirt with different colored dots on it and Hunter really wanted to try it on, but he knew there was nothing about it that Darius would like and he didn't want to upset Darius.

Hunter had had one more scar on his leg as a result, when Belos had been mad at him back then, because Belos had lashed out with the green goop and ripped the patch off his pants, though he hadn't been very careful about it, so Hunter had limped back to his room afterwards with tears in his eyes.

Hunter didn't want Darius to have a reason to be mad at him, because Hunter really liked living with him. He didn't want Darius to kick him out, because it was really nice to have someone there to ask him every morning how he was feeling and if he slept well. And he just didn't want to lose that.

But Hunter tended to do things he shouldn't. So he took a quick look around for Darius, and when he was sure the man was busy, he sprinted through the rows of clothes to grab the skirt. He pulled the garment off the hanger and hid it among the rest of the plainer clothes he had already picked out.

Hunter wasn't planning on actually buying the skirt, he just wanted to look in the dressing room mirror and see what it looked like on him. And he probably could risk that.

Hunter walked over to Darius, who was struggling through a collection of purple pants and was looking at one of them as if he wasn't sure if he should buy it or not. That's when he noticed Hunter. "Oh, little prince, did you find something too?"

"Yes, I was going to suggest that we could go to the changing rooms now. Of course, only if you're ready, too. "He added the last sentence quickly, so as not to seem disrespectful, after all, he owed Darius at least that, even if he still didn't quite understand why Darius would want Hunter to live with him.

But Darius just nodded, "It's probably better that way. If I keep looking for clothes, I'll take more home with me later than you will."

Hunter opened his mouth briefly to ask what would be so bad about that, but then closed it again without having said anything.

"I say that because we're here to restock your wardrobe, not mine, little prince," Darius said, who seemed to have Hunter figured out. Hunter pressed his lips together and tried to look as emotionless as possible. Belos had always used it against him when he knew what Hunter was thinking or feeling, and Hunter didn't want to find out if Darius would do the same.

So they headed for the changing rooms. On the way they passed several dresses, pants and sweaters that Hunter would have liked to take with him and try on instead of the plain clothes, but he had to stick to his plan. His heart sank more and more the closer they got to the changing rooms, as if he knew he was making a mistake.

In the changing room, he first put on one of the plain outfits and showed it to Darius. Darius said that it would fit Hunter, but he didn't seem to 'feel' it. But Hunter had no idea what that meant. And anyway, wasn't the real purpose of clothing to fit him?

Hunter only understood what Darius meant when he tried on the skirt second, along with a purple T-shirt. He seemed happier immediately, like a completely different person. The skirt fell fluffy and airy around his legs and Hunter grinned childishly to himself as he turned a little and the skirt moved with him.

"Hunter? "That was Darius' voice, "Show me the next outfit. Judging by your laugh, you seem to like it a lot."

Hunter slapped a hand over his mouth. Had he laughed without realizing it? Apparently he had. But now Darius expected him to present an outfit that he 'felt'. But everything else Hunter had taken into the changing room with him was stuff that didn't really excite Hunter. Besides, he didn't have time to put on another outfit without it looking weird.

"Hunter, dear, is everything okay? "Darius sounded concerned, but somehow that only made Hunter more nervous.

He needed to get out of here. Everything seemed so tight all of a sudden. Even the skirt. Hunter took off the clothes and threw them on the floor. Then he reached for his familiar clothes and frantically put them on.

At that moment, he heard Darius' voice say, "Try to breathe, Hunter. It's all right."

It sounded like Darius stepped back from the door to give Hunter some space, and Hunter took that opportunity to rush out of the changing room and head for the exit. He heard Darius call behind him, "Hunter! Wait!"

But then he was already out of the store and running down the street, past confused looking witches and demons.

He didn't know where to run at all. The only person he could think of, except for Darius, but he wouldn't have been an option in this situation anyway, was Camila. But Hunter knew that Camila would tell him to just talk to Darius about everything.

So Hunter stopped and leaned against a cool stone wall in a side alley and slowly lowered himself to the ground. What on earth had he been thinking? He didn't even want to imagine how mad Darius would be if he found him. Or maybe he wouldn't look for him at all, but simply decide Hunter wasn't worth the trouble.

He pulled his legs to his chest and buried his face in his arms. Only now did tears well up in his eyes and he began to cry.

Hunter had no idea how long he had been sitting there when he heard Darius' voice ask, "Hunter? Is it okay if I sit with you?"

But Hunter was not able to register the words at all. When he looked up a few seconds later, face tear-stained and eyes all red, Darius had crouched to the floor some distance away and seemed to be making himself as small as possible so as not to tower over Hunter in a threatening manner.

"You need to take a deep breath, little prince. "Darius said, his voice sounding incredibly soft and little more than a whisper.

And only then did Hunter realize he was hyperventilating. Slowly he stretched out his fingers and did the counting exercise Gus had shown him.

"It's going to be okay." and "You're doing very well." Darius whispered in between, which helped to calm Hunter down even more.

After a while of trying to breathe deeply, he started to feel a little better.

Darius smiled softly, yet somewhat sadly, and nodded to the asphalt next to Hunter. "May I?"

Hunter just nodded and Darius slowly and carefully sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry. "Darius said softly and as Hunter was about to say something in reply he continued, "I seem to have made you feel like you can't talk to me about anything, and for that I am truly sorry. Whatever it is that made you run away, you can tell me. Really."

Hunter avoided Darius' gaze and looked down at his feet, which he scuffed a little nervously across the asphalt. "I- well- " He took another deep breath, literally feeling the air rush through his lungs. So he tried again, "I didn't want you to be mad."

"Why would I be mad at you, little prince?" asked Darius gently.

"Because- "Hunter looked up at him and blinked away tears that threatened to burst from his eyes again.

"It's all good. Take your time. "Darius said.

Hunter avoided his gaze again as he asked softly, "Can you hold me? Just- just for a second I- never mind. Forget what I said! That was really stupid, I- "

But Darius stretched out his arms and looked at Hunter with a loving, concerned look. He put one hand on Hunter's back and pulled him closer. The other hand he used to gently caress the back of Hunter's head.

"What is it that's troubling you, little prince?" asked Darius, but his voice still sounded just gentle.

"I don't understand why," Hunter began, tears running down his cheeks again. He snuggled closer to Darius and held onto the front of his shirt, afraid Darius would let him go again, "I don't understand why you took me in. I don't understand what you want from me."

"I- Hunter, I want you to be okay. In the last few days before the day of unity, I really realized how wrong I've been all this time and what a wonderful child you are. I wanted to prevent you from being hurt again. I'm sorry, I should have made my intentions clear from the beginning, little prince," Darius said, gently rocking Hunter back and forth.

"I thought- I thought it would be a good idea in fashion- well, to stick to what you're wearing. B- Belos, he- he never liked it when I- well- when I tried to be myself. And I guess I kind of thought you'd react similarly. "Hunter murmured, closing his eyes as the soft warmth of Darius' body made him feel safe.

"You can wear whatever you want," Darius said, gently stroking a hand through his hair, which was still disheveled from his hasty escape, "but I figured it was something like that."

"How- "

"The colorful skirt on the floor," Hunter could hear Darius' smile in his voice, "I bought that skirt, by the way. Because judging from your laugh, you liked it a lot. And tomorrow we'll go out shopping again, and I want you to choose whatever you like, not what you think I might like."

Hunter broke away from the hug and looked at Darius with a wide smile that showed the gap in his teeth.

"I- thank you Darius. "he said, feeling his ears turn a little red.

Darius pulled him into a hug again and nuzzled him gently. "I want you to know that the only thing I want from you is for you to be happy."

[aphroditestummyrolls]

i would love to hear some of the colm and wylan wip!!

YEEHAW! Hello, my friend ❤️ I love this WIP, but I only just recently started properly working on it. For so long, she has languished as an outline, but you have brought her out of the shadows and into the light 🥰

CW for mentions of child abuse

The three of them spilled into the house from the jurda fields like they were half melted. Saints, after all day with the unforgiving glare of the sun on his shoulders, Jesper could swear he felt steam rising from his skin. But finally, they escaped into the cool shade.

The sigh he let out was a thing of true extravagance, and he knew it was really a miserably hot day when his own father didn’t rib him for it.

“You can say that again.” He muttered.

Sweat trickled from Jesper’s hairline. Colm dragged his discarded shirt down his face. Poor Wylan had all but collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs, and Jesper clicked his tongue at the state of him.

Not a single one of them had left a layer of clothing on that they didn’t need. Stripped down to nothing but loose trousers, Wylan was nothing but his skinny frame, bony shoulders and ruddy cheeks. His hair was a fluff of humid, cloud-like curls. It was going brighter and lighter in the Zemeni summer.

Jesper was glad they came. It felt like the right call, to get Wylan out of the fishbowl they lived in on the bloody geldstraat.

“Merchling, your shoulders are as red as your hair.” He wasn’t so exhausted that he couldn’t smile, at least. The freckles dusted across the pink skin made him want to kiss him and kiss him.

He got away with just one, pressed to the crook of his neck. It was radiating sunburn and damp with sweat, but Jesper didn’t care. He chuckled at the answering grunt. So graceful. So meek, his Wylan.

“Is it so bad a kiss can’t make it better?” Wylan said wryly.

Colm snorted a choked sort of laugh. He put a glass of water at the table, set out for Wylan to take. “Our Jesper’s just a dramatic— it’s just a little… you’re pink, that’s all.”

He cleared his throat. Wylan didn’t seem to feel the change in the air, too busy chugging down water, but Jesper knew when his da was bothered. He was too curious to not turn and see— there was nothing out of the ordinary here. Was it the sun? Da was never too susceptible to heatstroke, but age was a funny thing.

It wasn’t heatstroke.

He blinked his gaze over to his father, and saw him wide eyed and pale, slack jawed at Wylan’s back.

Saints, he thought, I’m the dramatic one? It took a moment to realise what he was seeing.

There were long lines of scars etched into Wylan’s back— some lighter than others, some more silver than red, and most across his lower back, hidden by the chair. The sunburn made the belting imprint all the more obvious, though, where it bit into his shoulder all that time ago.

Jesper was… they churned his stomach, but he was used to seeing them. They were normal now. He kissed them, traced them absently in the morning. Wylan forgot they existed more often than not. They were old.

But, Jes remembered how he felt the first time he saw them. And his da was looking at him with the same eyes right then.

Thanks for playing! ❤️ I’m so grateful for this wonderful fandom, and even if the shows over, I’m still here to chat, write, and keep it going 🙌 stop by anytime!

[sparfloxacin]

helloooooo here's a twink!Mattson spam to spice up your Saturday 💖 ...inspired by something reminding me of his twink era last night, and as I was browsing pinterest for twink!Mattson pictures I couldn't help but think how there's just no way in hell he isnt' at least a liiiiiiiittle bit... you know 🥰

to further support this argument, I have categorized the pictures as follows:

exhibit 1: flannel queer

exhibit 2: denim queer (+ an honorary mention to the red (or hot pink?) heart socks)

exhibit 3: striped trousers queer

exhibit 4: The Bandana™

exhibit 5: Sits Like A Bisexual

exhibit 6: just soft <3 (or: just random pictures I couldn't categorize but wanted to include anyway)

BONUS!! a twink being adopted by a group of emo nerds 🥺🤲

extra bonus: I just think it's funny how this was his posse back in the days (apparently):

...and this is his posse now:

and honestly? I love that for him <3

Ooohhh I really love twink!Mattson! 🥹💞 and you are so right, he must be at least a little bit you know 😌

he looks so soft in a flannel 😭 and the backwards cap really adds something to it, like he really tries to be a bad boy but is a soft boy nevertheless 🤧

and oh my god the red socks and the denim shorts?? now THAT is a queer coded outfit if I’ve ever seen one 😳

nooo the posse change 😂😭 and aaahh him getting kidnapped adopted by the emo nerds 😭🥺💗 love how no matter how hard he tries (or tried) he just can’t hide his twinkiness 💞

[rachi-roo]

-----------{ ☆°•○•°☆ }------------

Moriarty the Patriot: Floor Dweller

Yaaay! Lee!Sherlock is here 🥰 I struggled with finding how to write this for so long;-; But here it is at last! I also want to point out that it is indeed CANON that Sherlock chooses to nap on the floor at times XD

Summary: Sherlock is testing out a little substance that leaves him feeling comfy on the floor, being a trip hazard. John has to find a way to get him up.

Lee!Sherlock, Ler!John

Tw: Mild drug use.

24/02/23

-----------{ ☆°•○•°☆ }------------

John was sitting in his room one warm afternoon, writing up the most recent job that he and Sherlock had finalized when he smelt something strange wafting up from their shared lounge and office area. It was a woody, herbal scent that filled the room. Probably Sherlock experimenting again, but he thought it best to just make sure everything was well. He sighed, setting down his pen before heading downstairs.

The scent grew stronger as John peered into the living room. "Sherlock?" He called the man in question who was nowhere to be seen. He waved a hand over his face, trying to dispel the thin curtain of smoke that filled the room. "What on earth is that smell?" Thinking out loud, he stepped further in, his eyes finding his tall friend.

"Um... Sherlock? What are you doing on the floor?" He asked, standing by the dark-haired man's head, smiling down at him. He was sprawled on his back by the sofa, staring up at the ceiling with a diminished fag butt held in his lips, only wearing his shirt and trousers. His dark hair was free from it's ponytail, wildly resting on the carpet, hanging in ruffled locks.

"Trying something new." He muttered, blinking a few times. His eyes were slightly red and his cheeks flushed pink. He looked fairly vacant to be honest.

"Aaaand what would that be?" Watson pried, raising a brow as he looked at Sherlock's science set-up. It looked unused. Meaning this experiment was just Sherlock testing something on himself.

"Marijuana. A friend of mine got a shipment in from India and I thought I'd give it a try. The high is... Different from what I'm used to."

John stepped over the man, looking at the small jar of green herbs on the table. "I see. Well, can you at least get off the floor? You are very much a trip hazard down there." He chuckled, stepping back over the lanky man to open the window and allow the smokey substance outside.

"Can't." Sherlock deadpanned, spitting the remaining fag butt from his lips with a puff of air before it could burn him.

Watson's shoulders slumped as he sighed. "Why can't you?" He asked in a tired tone. Living with Sherlock was entertaining sure, but also mentally exhausting at times.

"I'm comfy."

"On the floor?"

"Yep." He smiled, popping the P as he spoke. "Come join me." Sherlock waved a limp wristed hand, beckoning his friend over.

"I'm not laying on the floor with you, Sherlock."

"Come oooon. You'll love it... The ceiling is miles away." Sherlock giggled, raising a hand to point lazily at the ceiling. John looked up as he pointed, immediately feeling stupid for doing so. Of course the bleddy ceiling wasn't further away.

"Come now, Sherlock, this is silly. At least get on the sofa instead in case you fall asleep." He scolded, taking the man's hand and attempting to pull him up. In protest, Sherlock went ragdoll, grinning childishly as he pretend to be asleep.

"Can't I'm already asleep... Zzz..." He sniggered, fake snoring as he listened to John's voice, growing more agitated. Sort of. He was only annoyed because he cared.

The blonde sighed, unable to lift the larger male, instead letting him flop back onto the carpet with a huff. "Sherlock, I swear you are the most insufferable blunderbuss I've ever-" He was cut off by another loud fake snore, seething with playful anger as he looked at Sherlock's smirking face.

"Alright. That does it, Sherlock. You've left me no choice." He rolled his sleeves up as though he were going to thump him in the face.

Sherlock giggled, wandering what his friend had in mind to teach him a lesson. What he wasn't expecting was a sudden weight on his stomach, followed by fingers scribbling into his unprotected sides.

"GAH! W-Waihit!" He immediately grabbed a hold of John's wrists, laughter spilling forth as he wriggled.

"Johohon! S-Stahap! You- Gyahahaha!" His legs flailed as John's hands crept up to Sherlock's ribs, locking onto his muscular frame and digging in.

"Hush now, I'm trying to help with your studies. We simply must deduce whether or not this Marijuana substance has made you more or less sensitive to tickling!" He teased, massaging his thumbs into Sherlocks lowest ribs, making him arch his back helplessly.

"Now, does this tickle more than usual?"

"I-I don't knohohow! Plehease!"

"Nope, this won't do. I need an answer or this test is all for nought."

"I-It does! It's wohorse! It's soho much wohohorse! Ahahaha!" Sherlock twisted his torso, trying to roll on his back, but the high and John's weight kept him locked in place.

"And, how is it worse?" The evil fingers travelled further up, fingertips pressing into the highest ribs now. Sherlock snorted, throwing his arms over his face in embarrassment as he gave up trying to stop the attack. The high made his limbs even more uncoordinated than usual when he was tickled.

"I cahan't stohohop you! My bohody- Hahaha! I-It's numb!"

"A numbness you say? And yet you are still ticklish as ever. How peculiar." John mused, laughing with his friend. He did enjoy these bonding moments the two shared. They were also a great way for John to make Sherlock pay for being a nuisance without hurting him. He spidered his fingers up yet again, immediately becoming ensnared by Sherlock's arms as he wriggled his fingers into his armpits, his laughter shooting up in volume.

"NOHOHO! John! No! Plehehease! Ahahaha!" Sherlock shook his head as he cackled, his hair becoming tangled as it flopped over his face. His pretty laughter flowed out the open window, bringing smiles to those who were passing by.

"Johon! Plehehase! Nahaha!"

"I thought you said you were numb? Do make up your mind, won't you?" His friend teased, pinning one of Sherlock's arms over his head, clawing mercilessly at the vulnerable weak point as he grinned.

"AHAHAHA! Stahahahap!" He limply swapped at the tickling fingers, too giddy by now to do anything but kick his legs. "Oho gohohod! Mercy! Johohn! Mehercehehey!" The tears that had grouped in his eyes finally slipped down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut, snorting again whilst his laughter fell quiet.

"Are you going to get your backside off the floor?" The blonde replied, still tickling, just to get his point across.

"YEHES! Yes, yes I wihill! Plehehease!"

"Very well." John smiled, ceasing his attack and climbing off of Sherlock's tattered frame. He lay on the floor with his eyes closed, chest heaving as he gulped in air. He hugged himself, giggling as the ghost tickles finished their job. The high he was experiencing seemed more potent now that he was tired too, he felt warm, cosy, even without any blankets or pillows.

"Come on then, silly, great, Duke of limbs." John chuckled, hooking his arms under Sherlock's, hauling the hefty man to his feet and plopping him onto the sofa. "There, see? Much better than the floor." He smiled, gently wiping a mirth tear from his friend's cheek.

"Mhm..." He trailed off, asleep in seconds. His messed hair framing his face like a mane, lips parted as he snored for real this time.

All in all, a successful test.

[thoughmymindcouldthink]

Chapter One

↞ Previous Chapter | Title Post | Next Chapter ↠

Author's Note: This encompasses most of our first campaign session. Because that was over two years ago, there were some holes in my notes that I simply had to push through, so forgive any plotholes that pop up. Because it’s the first session (chapter), I wanted to take the time to world-build. Our DM created the world with pan-Asian influences with the express intent that things would be unfamiliar to our characters. Therefore, I describe things (clothes, architecture, etc.) as Hope would rather than calling them by name. A big thank you to the wonderful beta reader, @tarydarrington 🥰

“What the hell?”

Hope woke, slowly, to a voice that sounded familiar. She felt groggy, like she’d had just a bit too much fun last night — wait. That wasn’t right.

Suddenly awake, she sat up quickly — minding her horns — to find a sparse room filled with semi-familiar faces.

The question had come from Jugg Steadyguard, a goliath that Hope often took odd jobs with in town for spare cash. It seemed she had also recently woken, and was addressing the drow in the corner.

“Don’t ask me,” the Lythrana answered. She was sitting with poise, her legs gracefully crossed; Hope guessed that’s how the elf had been trancing.

“Let’s all just take a beat to get our bearings, alright?” Their attention jumped to Hope when she spoke, but Hope trailed off as she looked around the room. It was sparse; just four walls of packed earth. Dust flaked off when she passed a hand across one.

What little light there was entered through a single opening in the wall, at least eight feet high; Jugg was standing below it at her full seven-foot-four. No window panes or shutters, just iron bars blocking the space. Across from the window was a matching door. No denying it any longer. This was a jail cell.

Near the barred door, Viper — tiny, young Viper — paced. “Okay,” the lavender tief-elf said, sounding like she was psyching herself up. “This is fine! We just gotta get out. We can do that. I can do that, no problem. We’ll get out of here, and we’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Hope agreed. “It can’t be too hard.”

A fifth figure still lay unconscious across the cell. Hope crawled over, gently reaching for their shoulder. The second she made contact, the half-orc startled awake.

“Rav,” Hope breathed in relief as she recognized him. Well, at least she knew everyone locked in here with her. She’d done a job or two in town with each of them. They could handle breaking out together.

Aravand seemed to feel differently. He frantically pat himself down. “My armor,” he said. “Where’s my armor?”

Only then did Hope notice the room’s uniform: a burlap top and matching trousers. She felt her own panic build and her hand flew to her hip where her spell focus — a twig wrapped with tattered pink and purple hair ribbons — typically hung. Her hand closed on air and her heart dropped through her stomach.

In her periphery, she saw Viper do the same before falling to her knees, whispering, “No, no, no…”

Hope let the panic pass on an exhale, then straightened her shoulders. “Alright,” she said. “Ain’t no thing. We’ll just add retrieving our belongings to the to-do list.”

Aravand still sat on the ground, half-heartedly clutching his armorless chest. “Where are we?” he asked, gaze darting between his companions. “Does anyone know how we got here?” Quiet glances traveled the room. “What’s the last thing everyone remembers?” he continued as he rose to his feet.

The silence was edging into awkward, making Hope’s skin crawl.

“You know what?” she said, over-bright. “Why don’t we take a breather and introduce ourselves? Refresh on names and avoid awkward moments later. And we can catalog our stengths while we’re at it!”

Catching on quickly, the tief-elf piped up. “I’m Viper!” When Hope gave her an encouraging nod, she added, “I’m sneaky. And I can steal things.”

The goliath cleared her throat, then gruffly said, “I’m Jugg. Steadyguard. I’m from the mountains outside of Ötrath. I can take a hit, but I prefer to deal them.”

“I’m Aravand Silvertusk,” the half-orc began regally, then faltered a little. “Or, uh, Rav. I was trained as a… well, a bodyguard.”

“Lyth, or Lythrana,” the drow said, voice staccato. “I step lightly and shoot true.”

“Okay, great,” Hope said gently. It took her a moment to realize everyone was looking at her. “Oh, right! I’m Hope Batulûk. I do that sparkly stuff.” She snapped her fingers and a pale pink light sparkled at the tip of her thumb.

Aravand cleared his throat. “Thank you, Hope,” he declared in his clipped, stiff accent. “Now that we’re all reacquainted: what’s the last thing everyone remembers?”

A very brief discussion revealed that everyone simply remembered going to bed the previous night.

“Wonderful. Not helpful at all,” Aravand huffed.

Smaller discussions broke off, positing and postulating what had summoned them all, who may have done what when, what strange artifacts may or may not have been licked, when —

“Can we please get out of here first?” Viper snapped.

“Right, yes, of course,” Aravand was the first to recover.

“Maybe that’ll get us some answers to boot,” Hope added.

“Alright,” Jugg agreed. “So what’s our –”

In the blink of an eye, Viper had stepped sideways into a cloud of thin mist and appeared on the other side of the bars. A mumble of protests began instantly, but Hope’s gentle voice cut everyone short, trusting her to explain.

“Hey, Viper, sweetie…” Hope motioned her closer and Viper approached the bars again. “We need a way to get all of us out.”

“I figured there’d be a guard somewhere, and I could just steal the keys for you.”

“You know what, that is some quick thinking. But maybe someone should go with you? What if something went wrong?”

“I didn’t think any of you could come with me. And if you did, you… uh, might get me caught.”

“Mhm, okay. Well, maybe some of us have different skills, but if you let us know what you’re thinking ahead of time, we might be able to come up with some other ways to help you out. Five brains beat the heck outta –”

Hope’s trusim was cut off by a deafening crunch, and the party spun to find the corner of their cell caved in. Dusty light spilled through a hole in the wall just too small for adult humanoids to squeeze through. Peeking through the rubble, they could see the source of the destruction – a minotaur and… someone with horns, both built like brick houses, were engaged in a sprawling fist fight outside.

“Hm,” Jugg huffed.

Peering under Jugg’s arm, Hope got her first look at where in the world this little jail cell might be. The answer was not comforting. At least not yet.

The fight took up most of her limited visual range. The minotaur had red skin and twisted, asymmetrical horns. He wore loose pants and what seemed to be an exceptionally long tunic embroidered with intricate and unfamiliar designs. He also wore a sort of moccasin Hope had never seen before. His opponent – a demon? – was shirtless, and wore similar loose pants with a kind of wrapped belt. His hooved feet negated any need for shoes.

A few official-looking types were trying to break up the fight, and a number of people were passing the altercation on the street. Hope saw a couple red tieflings, but almost everyone was of a race she’d only heard of from books – imps, quasits, bearded devils, flaming demons.

Alright. Tabling that for now.

She focused on the officials trying to rein in the fight. There was something militant about their uniforms – stiff shoulders, symmetrical buttons. She strained just a little further and saw a goblinoid person in the same uniform pacing along the building toward her.

“Bingo,” Hope breathed. “Alright. Viper hon, you sneak your way out of the building and over here.” She pointed at the hole behind her. “I’ll keep the guard busy while you nick the keys.”

Viper answered with a quick nod and disappeared.

“Hate that,” Aravand muttered under his breath.

“I’ll pop out there, help her out, and make sure one of us gets back here to the rest of you.” Hope met the eyes of each remaining cellmate for approval before peering back through the hole in the wall. The goblinoid – a quasit, she guessed – passed the gap in the wall. She closed her eyes and breathed in, letting magic flow from her on the exhale. When she opened her eyes, catching the last of her pink mist as it dissipated, she stood on the street in the daylight.

Which appeared to have a reddish tint to it. Another detail to put a pin in.

She started toward the quasit, and was struck by inspiration just in time. “Pardon me, ser,” she said, speaking flawless Infernal. The smaller person grunted in response. “I’m terribly lost,” Hope continued, flashing more of her fangs than usual in her approachable smile. “Could you help me find a general store?”

Instead of the smile Hope typically inspired in strangers, the quasit narrowed their eyes in suspicion. “Where are you from, ♐︎◻︎◻︎♏︎♓︎♑︎◼︎♏︎◻︎?” they asked.

Hope fought to keep her expression neutral when she heard the quasit speak in what was practically a foreign language. It was parseable as Infernal, but absolutely, recognizeably not the Infernal Hope herself had spoken. The last word was lost entirely, and it did not sound friendly.

But turning unfriendly friendly was Hope’s wheelhouse. “My partner and I are just on a little day trip, you know, take the stress off, right? But can you believe it, we just got here and realized — we forgot just about everything! Ain’t that the sun in the sky. We got no pocket knife, we got no sun hats, we got no granola bars, no backup shoelaces.”

Over the quasit’s shoulder, Hope saw Viper edge around the building. The tieflings met eyes for the briefest of moments.

“They’re off finding us food,” Hope continued. “We forgot everything, I’m telling you! And I’ve gotta scrounge up the rest of it. Now if you could just point me in the direction of the nearest general store, I’d really appreciate that. And also a cobbler. And maybe a tailor. Say, do you know of anywhere selling cloaks nearby?”

As Hope rattled on, from the corner of her eye, she watched a ring of keys float away from the quasit.

When she finally paused for an answer, the quasit grunted, “Next block down,” and simply walked on, apparently ready to be free of her cheer.

“Thank you, kindly!” she called after them.

Following Viper, Hope dashed around the building and pulled up short at another figure in burlap, an extra shirt draped over their head. Lythrana lifted the shirt from her face, wincing at the sunlight, to greet Hope with a nod.

“How did you get out here? And how’d you get another shirt?”

Lythrana ignored the question. “Got ‘em?” she asked Viper, who nodded. “Alright, phase two.”

“We gotta get back in,” Viper explained to Hope, then grew a foot taller and deepened her skin to a blood red, now wearing a uniform that matched the quasit’s.

Hope turned back to Lythrana with more questions, but instead found a hobgoblin in the same uniform.

When they each took one of Hope’s arms, it clicked.

In disguise, Lythrana and Viper marched Hope to the front of the jail. Hope took in as much as she could. Out in the open, she could get a sense of the city’s size — it was huge. From her limited view, she could see an open market in a courtyard, full of people both buying and selling. Lining the streets were businesses, pigeonholed close. Dense domestic dwellings stacked atop them, with tiered, curving rooves marking the separation of floors. Laundry lines were strung between buildings in alleys only just big enough to allow emergency escapes from upper levels.

The streets bustled with people of myriad shapes and sizes; fiends, ogres, goblins, bipedal beasts, and even what appeared to be spirits passed them on the walkway. Hope could pick out a few tieflings, duergar, and was even proud to recognize a svirfneblin, but elves, humans, halflings, and other more common humanoids were nowhere to be seen. From what she could hear, everyone spoke that strange not-Infernal. She caught phrases in Common here and there, but they were easily drowned out.

The writing system seemed to follow suit. While the businesses proudly had signs declaring their wares, Hope simply could not read them. The characters looked similar to Infernal, with brushstrokes and intersecting lines, but there were so many angles and overlapping shapes that Hope found it all illegible.

The door of the jail was labeled with a plaque, those strange written characters in the largest font, then in Common lettering underneath, “Xhong Wei holding cells.” In complete sync, the red tiefling and rather petite bugbear walked through the front door, nodded at the gnoll running the reception desk, and proceeded down a hallway.

Seconds passed by as they walked down the hallway, Hope noting the numbers above the cells. She was just about to commend her friends on pulling off their plan so flawlessly, when a voice called down the hallway, “Wait! You have to sign them in!”

At the first sound, Lythrana and Viper broke their facade and sprinted forward, and Hope could do nothing but follow. She caught up to them at cell 28, as Viper, no longer a red tiefling, unlocked the cell. Jugg and a shirtless Aravand emerged.

Lythrana, still a bugbear, materialized a burlap shirt — which had been concealed in the disguise spell — and tossed it to Aravand, who simply tossed it back. “The spell won’t do anything for the sunlight,” he said.

As if on cue, the gnoll appeared around the corner. “There you — ah!” Seeing prisoners free, they called over their shoulder in gnoll.

“Run!” Aravand shouted, and headed straight for the gnoll.

“Left and straight out the front!” Viper called directions as they took off.

Too many limbs were flying to follow the action entirely, but Hope saw Aravand handle the gnoll with a gut punch, and Jugg clothesline the second guard as they all made a break for freedom.

Hope lost track of Viper and Bugbear-Lythrana immediately as she crossed the threshold. Knowing Jugg and Aravand could handle their own, she broke away to blend into the crowd. Darting from group to group, Hope gravitated toward people larger than her, then stood just close enough to appear a part of the clique without drawing attention from the individuals. She noticed money changing hands — oblong shaped metal tablets, the size of an average palm. She saw bright-colored clothing and interesting hairstyles. She watched everyone bow over and over — to say hello, to say goodbye, to say thank you — moments that would’ve been served by a handshake at home.

Where the hell are we? she thought to herself.

[kaleidoscopeminds]

Hi! I sent you and molly an ask after the uk leg of the tour asking for your luke outfit rankings. I would like to extend the same invitation now that tour is over. So, top 10 luke fits of the take my hand tour?

omg hello welcome back!!! thank u for thinking of us again and for giving @burstingsunrise and i a fun luke project in a difficult week 🥰 this took me too long and i’m still not entirely happy with it but lets go lets go

a non-definitive ranking of luke’s take my hand tour looks:

before i start i would like to give an honourable mention to what really tops my list, which is the ripped shirt and suit from the first banquet show, the first time i saw luke in the flesh. however as this was technically not part of the tour i have removed him from this discussion.

1. blue suit and tank top (minneapolis) 

do i even need to explain myself here. i don’t think i do. its so small on him. yum yum munch bite lick.

2. the beloved suit and vest (too many cities to list. pictured: concord)

the way this became luke’s fav and all of ours too 🥰 i’ll never forget the day he took the jacket off for the first time and i gave myself a headache from simply looking at images of a man and screaming my head off alone in my flat. also look at him here in his jazzy sneakers 

3. rainbow crop top and grey trousers (austin)

otherwise known as molly’s luke. i’m calling it a crop top because that’s what it is. how dare he look so cute in this image in his tiny tiny shirt. and then he did this. the trousers were nice too 😌

4. blue patterned top and grey trousers (phoenix)

another very small almost sheer shirt that showed off a lot of his body (we see the theme here we all see it), a companion to austin almost. watch this if you need any more convincing. look how beautiful he is here

5. stripy sweater and purple trousers (plymouth)

a little bit of my own show bias here that this has remained this high up but it has such a hold on me look how slutty and cozy he is 🥺

6. black long sleeve and check trousers (dallas)

such a deceptively demure outfit, but he looked uhhh very nice in it! please see here for added movement. cozy. slutty.

7. red suit (multiple locations. pictured: milan)

this colour on him is stunning stunning and there were so many beautiful pics of it. the white t shirt under this one was also very small.

8. grey suit and gold shirt (berlin)

this might be a bit of a curveball BUT this suit was gorgggg and he looked so very 🥴 after he took the jacket off. pls see here. he also wore this whole ensemble with converse i truly love him so deeply. 

9. grey suit pink shirt (new york)

this is purely because its pink i’m sorry. look at him all sweaty tho. his chest. yum.

10. purple suit (london)

my first proper show of the tour and it was so special and he wore his special suit and i got to tell molly about it