#Proprietary Red

[wine-porn]

Adult Dessert

Black impenetrable staining… SO staining I’m sure these glasses will never be clear again. Big buttery heat off the nose, a fruit so ridiculously macerated beyond comprehension it goes pond-water in warmth and growth. Alcohol with a tinge of Ajax or Comet curls nostril-hairs. Tasting it improves things a bit, so just lie back and think of England on this one. Chewy green ire vie for dominance…

[actualmichelle]

i can't believe tomorrow is monday :( :( :( :( :(

[bitegore]

i really need to replace my tablet cable. okay i guess that's where that hundred bucks ly grandma gave me is gonna vanish

[treasure-mimic]

So, let me try and put everything together here, because I really do think it needs to be talked about.

Today, Unity announced that it intends to apply a fee to use its software. Then it got worse.

For those not in the know, Unity is the most popular free to use video game development tool, offering a basic version for individuals who want to learn how to create games or create independently alongside paid versions for corporations or people who want more features. It's decent enough at this job, has issues but for the price point I can't complain, and is the idea entry point into creating in this medium, it's a very important piece of software.

But speaking of tools, the CEO is a massive one. When he was the COO of EA, he advocated for using, what out and out sounds like emotional manipulation to coerce players into microtransactions.

"A consumer gets engaged in a property, they might spend 10, 20, 30, 50 hours on the game and then when they're deep into the game they're well invested in it. We're not gouging, but we're charging and at that point in time the commitment can be pretty high."

He also called game developers who don't discuss monetization early in the planning stages of development, quote, "fucking idiots".

So that sets the stage for what might be one of the most bald-faced greediest moves I've seen from a corporation in a minute. Most at least have the sense of self-preservation to hide it.

A few hours ago, Unity posted this announcement on the official blog.

Effective January 1, 2024, we will introduce a new Unity Runtime Fee that’s based on game installs. We will also add cloud-based asset storage, Unity DevOps tools, and AI at runtime at no extra cost to Unity subscription plans this November. We are introducing a Unity Runtime Fee that is based upon each time a qualifying game is downloaded by an end user. We chose this because each time a game is downloaded, the Unity Runtime is also installed. Also we believe that an initial install-based fee allows creators to keep the ongoing financial gains from player engagement, unlike a revenue share.

Now there are a few red flags to note in this pitch immediately.

Unity is planning on charging a fee on all games which use its engine.

This is a flat fee per number of installs.

They are using an always online runtime function to determine whether a game is downloaded.

There is just so many things wrong with this that it's hard to know where to start, not helped by this FAQ which doubled down on a lot of the major issues people had.

I guess let's start with what people noticed first. Because it's using a system baked into the software itself, Unity would not be differentiating between a "purchase" and a "download". If someone uninstalls and reinstalls a game, that's two downloads. If someone gets a new computer or a new console and downloads a game already purchased from their account, that's two download. If someone pirates the game, the studio will be asked to pay for that download.

Q: How are you going to collect installs? A: We leverage our own proprietary data model. We believe it gives an accurate determination of the number of times the runtime is distributed for a given project. Q: Is software made in unity going to be calling home to unity whenever it's ran, even for enterprice licenses? A: We use a composite model for counting runtime installs that collects data from numerous sources. The Unity Runtime Fee will use data in compliance with GDPR and CCPA. The data being requested is aggregated and is being used for billing purposes. Q: If a user reinstalls/redownloads a game / changes their hardware, will that count as multiple installs? A: Yes. The creator will need to pay for all future installs. The reason is that Unity doesn’t receive end-player information, just aggregate data. Q: What's going to stop us being charged for pirated copies of our games? A: We do already have fraud detection practices in our Ads technology which is solving a similar problem, so we will leverage that know-how as a starting point. We recognize that users will have concerns about this and we will make available a process for them to submit their concerns to our fraud compliance team.

This is potentially related to a new system that will require Unity Personal developers to go online at least once every three days.

Starting in November, Unity Personal users will get a new sign-in and online user experience. Users will need to be signed into the Hub with their Unity ID and connect to the internet to use Unity. If the internet connection is lost, users can continue using Unity for up to 3 days while offline. More details to come, when this change takes effect.

It's unclear whether this requirement will be attached to any and all Unity games, though it would explain how they're theoretically able to track "the number of installs", and why the methodology for tracking these installs is so shit, as we'll discuss later.

Unity claims that it will only leverage this fee to games which surpass a certain threshold of downloads and yearly revenue.

Only games that meet the following thresholds qualify for the Unity Runtime Fee: Unity Personal and Unity Plus: Those that have made $200,000 USD or more in the last 12 months AND have at least 200,000 lifetime game installs. Unity Pro and Unity Enterprise: Those that have made $1,000,000 USD or more in the last 12 months AND have at least 1,000,000 lifetime game installs.

They don't say how they're going to collect information on a game's revenue, likely this is just to say that they're only interested in squeezing larger products (games like Genshin Impact and Honkai: Star Rail, Fate Grand Order, Among Us, and Fall Guys) and not every 2 dollar puzzle platformer that drops on Steam. But also, these larger products have the easiest time porting off of Unity and the most incentives to, meaning realistically those heaviest impacted are going to be the ones who just barely meet this threshold, most of them indie developers.

Aggro Crab Games, one of the first to properly break this story, points out that systems like the Xbox Game Pass, which is already pretty predatory towards smaller developers, will quickly inflate their "lifetime game installs" meaning even skimming the threshold of that 200k revenue, will be asked to pay a fee per install, not a percentage on said revenue.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Hey Gamers!

Today, Unity (the engine we use to make our games) announced that they'll soon be taking a fee from developers for every copy of the game installed over a certain threshold - regardless of how that copy was obtained.

Guess who has a somewhat highly anticipated game coming to Xbox Game Pass in 2024? That's right, it's us and a lot of other developers.

That means Another Crab's Treasure will be free to install for the 25 million Game Pass subscribers. If a fraction of those users download our game, Unity could take a fee that puts an enormous dent in our income and threatens the sustainability of our business.

And that's before we even think about sales on other platforms, or pirated installs of our game, or even multiple installs by the same user!!!

This decision puts us and countless other studios in a position where we might not be able to justify using Unity for our future titles. If these changes aren't rolled back, we'll be heavily considering abandoning our wealth of Unity expertise we've accumulated over the years and starting from scratch in a new engine. Which is really something we'd rather not do.

On behalf of the dev community, we're calling on Unity to reverse the latest in a string of shortsighted decisions that seem to prioritize shareholders over their product's actual users.

I fucking hate it here.

-Aggro Crab - END DESCRIPTION]

That fee, by the way, is a flat fee. Not a percentage, not a royalty. This means that any games made in Unity expecting any kind of success are heavily incentivized to cost as much as possible.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A table listing the various fees by number of Installs over the Install Threshold vs. version of Unity used, ranging from $0.01 to $0.20 per install. END DESCRIPTION]

Basic elementary school math tells us that if a game comes out for $1.99, they will be paying, at maximum, 10% of their revenue to Unity, whereas jacking the price up to $59.99 lowers that percentage to something closer to 0.3%. Obviously any company, especially any company in financial desperation, which a sudden anchor on all your revenue is going to create, is going to choose the latter.

Furthermore, and following the trend of "fuck anyone who doesn't ask for money", Unity helpfully defines what an install is on their main site.

While I'm looking at this page as it exists now, it currently says

The installation and initialization of a game or app on an end user’s device as well as distribution via streaming is considered an “install.” Games or apps with substantially similar content may be counted as one project, with installs then aggregated to calculate the Unity Runtime Fee.

However, I saw a screenshot saying something different, and utilizing the Wayback Machine we can see that this phrasing was changed at some point in the few hours since this announcement went up. Instead, it reads:

The installation and initialization of a game or app on an end user’s device as well as distribution via streaming or web browser is considered an “install.” Games or apps with substantially similar content may be counted as one project, with installs then aggregated to calculate the Unity Runtime Fee.

Screenshot for posterity:

That would mean web browser games made in Unity would count towards this install threshold. You could legitimately drive the count up simply by continuously refreshing the page. The FAQ, again, doubles down.

Q: Does this affect WebGL and streamed games? A: Games on all platforms are eligible for the fee but will only incur costs if both the install and revenue thresholds are crossed. Installs - which involves initialization of the runtime on a client device - are counted on all platforms the same way (WebGL and streaming included).

And, what I personally consider to be the most suspect claim in this entire debacle, they claim that "lifetime installs" includes installs prior to this change going into effect.

Will this fee apply to games using Unity Runtime that are already on the market on January 1, 2024? Yes, the fee applies to eligible games currently in market that continue to distribute the runtime. We look at a game's lifetime installs to determine eligibility for the runtime fee. Then we bill the runtime fee based on all new installs that occur after January 1, 2024.

Again, again, doubled down in the FAQ.

Q: Are these fees going to apply to games which have been out for years already? If you met the threshold 2 years ago, you'll start owing for any installs monthly from January, no? (in theory). It says they'll use previous installs to determine threshold eligibility & then you'll start owing them for the new ones. A: Yes, assuming the game is eligible and distributing the Unity Runtime then runtime fees will apply. We look at a game's lifetime installs to determine eligibility for the runtime fee. Then we bill the runtime fee based on all new installs that occur after January 1, 2024.

That would involve billing companies for using their software before telling them of the existence of a bill. Holding their actions to a contract that they performed before the contract existed!

Okay. I think that's everything. So far.

There is one thing that I want to mention before ending this post, unfortunately it's a little conspiratorial, but it's so hard to believe that anyone genuinely thought this was a good idea that it's stuck in my brain as a significant possibility.

A few days ago it was reported that Unity's CEO sold 2,000 shares of his own company.

On September 6, 2023, John Riccitiello, President and CEO of Unity Software Inc (NYSE:U), sold 2,000 shares of the company. This move is part of a larger trend for the insider, who over the past year has sold a total of 50,610 shares and purchased none.

I would not be surprised if this decision gets reversed tomorrow, that it was literally only made for the CEO to short his own goddamn company, because I would sooner believe that this whole thing is some idiotic attempt at committing fraud than a real monetization strategy, even knowing how unfathomably greedy these people can be.

So, with all that said, what do we do now?

Well, in all likelihood you won't need to do anything. As I said, some of the biggest names in the industry would be directly affected by this change, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they're not just going to take it lying down. After all, the only way to stop a greedy CEO is with a greedier CEO, right?

(I fucking hate it here.)

And that's not mentioning the indie devs who are already talking about abandoning the engine.

[Links display tweets from the lead developer of Among Us saying it'd be less costly to hire people to move the game off of Unity and Cult of the Lamb's official twitter saying the game won't be available after January 1st in response to the news.]

That being said, I'm still shaken by all this. The fact that Unity is openly willing to go back and punish its developers for ever having used the engine in the past makes me question my relationship to it.

The news has given rise to the visibility of free, open source alternative Godot, which, if you're interested, is likely a better option than Unity at this point. Mostly, though, I just hope we can get out of this whole, fucking, environment where creatives are treated as an endless mill of free profits that's going to be continuously ratcheted up and up to drive unsustainable infinite corporate growth that our entire economy is based on for some fuckin reason.

Anyways, that's that, I find having these big posts that break everything down to be helpful.

[reachartwork]

How exactly do you advance AI ethically? Considering how much of the data sets that these tools use was sourced, wouldnt you have to start from scratch?

a: i don't agree with the assertion that "using someone else's images to train an ai" is inherently unethical - ai art is demonstrably "less copy-paste-y" for lack of a better word than collage, and nobody would argue that collage is illegal or ethically shady. i mean some people might but i don't think they're correct.

b: several people have done this alraedy - see, mitsua diffusion, et al.

c: this whole argument is a red herring. it is not long-term relevant adobe firefly is already built exclusively off images they have legal rights to. the dataset question is irrelevant to ethical ai use, because companies already have huge vaults full of media they can train on and do so effectively.

you can cheer all you want that the artist-job-eating-machine made by adobe or disney is ethically sourced, thank god! but it'll still eat everyone's jobs. that's what you need to be caring about.

the solution here obviously is unionization, fighting for increased labor rights for people who stand to be affected by ai (as the writer's guild demonstrated! they did it exactly right!), and fighting for UBI so that we can eventually decouple the act of creation from the act of survival at a fundamental level (so i can stop getting these sorts of dms).

if you're interested in actually advancing ai as a field and not devils advocating me you can also participate in the FOSS (free-and-open-source) ecosystem so that adobe and disney and openai can't develop a monopoly on black-box proprietary technology, and we can have a future where anyone can create any images they want, on their computer, for free, anywhere, instead of behind a paywall they can't control.

fun fact related to that last bit: remember when getty images sued stable diffusion and everybody cheered? yeah anyway they're releasing their own ai generator now. crazy how literally no large company has your interests in mind.

cheers

[blurredcolour]

I. "Do You Trust Me?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.

Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4217

-------------------------

The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.

“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.

“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.

He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.

It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.

The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…

The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.

“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.

Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.

“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.

------------

Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.

Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.

Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.

Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.

In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.

“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.

He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”

“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.

“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.

It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”

“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.

You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.

Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.

“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”

You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.

“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.

“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.

Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”

“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.

“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.

“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.

He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”

Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.

“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.

“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.

“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.

“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.

You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.

“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.

Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.

Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.

Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.

‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.

As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.

‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’

You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.

“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.

“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.

You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.

“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.

You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.

You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.

He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.

Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.

“That damn cold fish from operations…”

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”

Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.

“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.

“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.

“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.

“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.

“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.

You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.

He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.

He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.

Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.

“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.

You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.

“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.

You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”

Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”

His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.

“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”

“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.

As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.

-------------------------

Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

[subterraneanna]

I've been scanning and restoring some pieces of original Star Trek: TOS film and wanted to share this before and after from a deleted scene in the episode "Elaan of Troyius":

At nearly 60 years old, the film is in bad shape, exhibiting substantial scratches and color shifting. The magenta/red tint is a good example of dye fading, a sign of deterioration likely due to the film stock it was shot on.

Prior to 1950, color motion picture film was shot in Technicolor, which required a large, cumbersome camera to simultaneously expose 3 separate strips of negative film that then underwent a proprietary dye imbibition process to create a full color image. Though visually stunning and remarkably color-stable, it was a complicated, expensive process reserved only for high budget productions. In 1950, Eastman Kodak introduced Eastmancolor, the first 35 mm “single-strip” color motion picture negative -- in short, a film that was easy to shoot and process, and compared to Technicolor, only used a 1/3 of the film stock. Suddenly color film was an affordable option for studios and its popularity took off. Eastmancolor was composed of a single strip of negative film surfaced with 3 layers of light-sensitive gelatin emulsion. During development, a chemical reaction produced magenta, yellow, and cyan dyes on their corresponding layers, which were superimposed to create a full color image. Unfortunately, these dyes were unstable, something that wasn't apparent until aging films began to lose their color in the following years.

The Star Trek image above is pink because its yellow and cyan dyes have faded away, leaving just the magenta layer. The information may be lost, but digital restoration can improve what's left. But because the yellow and cyan greatly contributed to the overall density of the image, basic color balancing still produces a lower contrast version compared to what the original must have looked like. The missing richness and depth seems most apparent in the skin tones, but hand painting some of the color can bring a little life back to it, as I've done here. It's a challenge because, as far as I can tell, the only remaining footage or still shots of this scene show some level of dye fading. Fortunately, now that the film is digitized, restoration can be an ongoing project. If you own any color motion picture film negatives or prints, the sooner you get them scanned the better. In the meantime, helpful storage information can be found here.

It's been a while since I've shot any film (film major), so it's nice to see it again, even if it's chopped up into single frames. I have a small collection of them so I'll post more restored images as they're completed. BTW @cheer-deforest-kelley has a great post on how this film went from the editing room floor to the hands of fans.

[txttletale]

posting this exchange because i disagree with the first replier but i also think the second replier is a really bad and incorrect reply to what they're saying. it is of course true that the current supply chain for electronics is founded upon tremendous and horrific exploitation at basically every level of production. but i think 'red' here is making an assumption--that this sort of exploitation is inextricable from the very concept of building electronic devices--that doesn't hold up at all.

for a start, there are lots of obvious and simple ways to vastly vastly reduce the production requirements of computers and cellphones in the absence of a profit motive. build phones and computers that last, that can be repaired by anybody, instead of junk with planned obsolescence and proprietary firmware. without apple or samsung trying to make a profit, there's no reason for anyone to be replacing their cellphone every two years.

and secondly, i think that unlike 24/7 year-round global Banana Access, there is a very obvious and very compelling case for the production of cellphones and computers to continue in the absence of a profit motive, which is that access to them immeasurably benefits society by providing new networks of communication, new tools for administration and organization, and other tremendous advantages for quality of life. socialists throughout history obviously understood this -- that's why OGAS and CyberSyn were attempted! there is nothing about the object of a portable computer and communications device that necessitates it being built in inhumane conditions by exploited workers. everything about it could be built, like anything else under socialism, by workers with democratic control over their workplace and production. the marxist critique of capitalist and imperialist production does not lead to 'and therefore nothing should ever be made' !

[aemxnd]

midnight rain | daemon targaryen x niece!reader

Can the sunshine win over the darkness?

Heavily inspired by a gender-swapped Taylor Swift’s Midnight Rain as requested by @prettycutebunny, I hope I did your idea justice (and apologies for changing one lyric to suit the plot!)

WORDS: 5.3k (I’m so sorry)

WARNINGS: canon typical incest, dubcon, angst everywhere you look, p in v, v fingering, physical violence, breeding, degradation, praise, pain kink, Daemon being a real asshat, reader is Viserys and Alicent’s third child, reader has silver hair for plot point, Stockholm Syndrome, terrible High Valyrian translations, crying, power imbalance due to age difference. 

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

My requests are open! 🖤

Such a pretty little songbird.

Little Starling, your mother had once named you as a child. A free spirit, bound only by the towering castle walls that clipped your wings as the youngest child of the King and his second Queen. Weeks, months, years passed daydreaming beneath your favourite tree, reading the same fantastical books and listening to the same wistful odes from your minstrel. 

All the while under the careful eye of your kepus. 

Life’s tragedies and horrors had never crossed your path, never entered your realm, therefore could never harm you. Your childhood as idyllic as you could imagine, save for a loving father. That void was dutifully replaced by your uncle Daemon, whose unrivalled care and indomitable attention ensured you never wanted for anything more, evermore understanding that your father’s duty to his throne far exceeded the loving relationship expected toward a daughter and that his brother could offer the closest companionship to his. Yours was an unbreakable bond that defied all secrets, surpassed all proprietary expectations and often branched into full conversation in High Valyrian to remain undetected by outside ears. 

Meanwhile, your elder brothers Aegon and Aemond sought to salve the absence of a protective male role model closer to your own age, ensuring they trained in the sword to their own degrees should their little sister ever need rescue. No matter how often you reassured them, they refused to share your belief that no danger could come to you, for danger did not seek you. With the guard of three silver-haired Princes, you thought yourself invincible.

As you matured together, however, your brothers discovered distractions. For Aegon, it was women, cups and the sordid activities beyond the castle walls. For Aemond, it was Vhagar, studies and bitterness. You could not begrudge them the right to grow, to extend their roots beyond your all-too-comfortable sibling unit, as you too had become distracted by literature, music and the pursuit of a quiet life with precious few responsibilities. Somehow your tranquil existence had eluded the conversation of marriage, recognising your unfettered spirit aspiring to greater things than a life secluded within the Red Keep.

But not in the eyes of your kepus. 

~~She was sunshine, I was midnight rain~~

“What troubles you, little starling?” Called a familiar voice from behind your favourite reading spot in the Godswood. You squinted against the midday sun to find your beloved uncle Daemon watching over you, an uneasy frown skewing his lips. “Why are you so often here alone?”

“Good day, dear kepus,” you closed the tome in your lap, clasping your hands together. “My brothers are at the Dragonpit, where I fear a princess may never tread.”

“And you are content with reading in solitude?” Daemon stepped closer, treading carefully over the gnarled roots of the tree upon which you sat. “Would you not prefer company?”

“I am sure others would not wish to read the tales I choose to indulge,” you clutched your book closer to your chest, hurriedly attempting to conceal its cover from him. Sighing thoughtfully, you smiled up at your uncle. “I am resigned to the life of a quiet Princess Regent, neither an heir nor a common-born. No responsibility, no authority, yet still no freedom.”

Daemon approached and perched on a root beside you, chuckling softly under his breath. “I suppose that notion is all too familiar to us both, Princess.”

“Then how did you assuage it, uncle?” You looked over to him, noticing a distinct pain behind the considerate smile on his countenance. “How did you counsel yourself to contentment with such an existence?”

“What in the Seven Heavens makes you believe that I have?” Daemon snorted, gaze dropping into his lap. “How do you counsel yourself to contentment with a life of loneliness, niece? You are but seven-and-ten, do you not wish to take a husband? Make an honest man out of some egotistical Lannister?”

You smiled warmly. “I do not wish to marry, uncle. No aspect of marriage or childbearing holds any attraction for me, for I could never find the love of which I read in literature.”

“That I find hard to believe, Princess. If you wish to marry for love, your parents would be only too happy to oblige.” His hand reached to clasp over your thigh reassuringly. “One day, you will find the Prince you deserve.”

A comfortable silence fell between you, enough to hear the rising volume of the wind in the Godswood. You glanced up in tandem to see the once-turquoise sky fading to an ominous grey.

“A storm is coming, Princess,” Daemon clicked his tongue, slapping his knees demonstrably and rising to his feet. With a kindly hand proffered in the space between you, he beamed down at you. “May I accompany my little ray of sunshine to shelter?”

As you reached to accept, Daemon finally caught a glimpse of your book’s cover and smiled to himself. “The Tales of Persephone and Hades, I see.” His voice lowered to a mutter so indistinct you could not hear him. “How apt, vēzos.” Sun. 

You paced slowly toward the library together, Daemon always one step behind, his hands clasped studiously behind his back as you meandered around hallway after indiscriminate hallway, wordlessly travelling as if no conversation could be found. You would never notice the manner in which Daemon consumed the image of you before him, a woman grown so distinctly from the small babe he had observed in your youth, born with gleaming silver hair which now tumbled to the length of your hips. Your regal green gown swayed as you moved and swept the hallway before his intrepid footsteps, Daemon swallowed harshly as he imagined the frame concealed by your bodice and boned skirt. 

~~She wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain~~

Upon your arrival at the dimly-lit library hall, you turned to nod a farewell to your escort. 

“Thank you, uncle,” you smiled before quickly turning on your heels in search of another book to lose yourself in. As you paced, you heard your footsteps echoing with another, realising that Daemon had followed you. After a few more steps, you ground to a sudden halt, giggling gently as he bumped into you and nearly lost his footing. You grasped his arms behind you and steadied him, the gentle clearing of his throat behind you making you chuckle harder. “Kepus, are you following me?”

His hands searched for your waist and skimmed the contour of your hips, pulling you flush to his chest so close his warm breaths fanned your hair. Your laughter silenced with the sudden realisation that this was no child’s play. 

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth, little starling,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, venturing a hand to brush your tumbling silver curls from your neck so he could blaze a trail of butterfly kisses unimpeded. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes fluttering closed as his gentle touch melted your resistance immediately. 

“Kepus… what do you mean?” You asked timidly, almost afraid of the response.

His next searing kiss into the base of your neck lingered a while, his lips wrapping you up in anticipation and longing for a touch you had never before desired, but now that you had it, you craved it more than the air you breathed. Your head threw back into the blissful sensation, earning a low groan from Daemon that vibrated softly against your skin. 

“You have always been the midday sun to my midnight rain, haven’t you, little one?” Daemon whispered. “You were born into this world when I returned from the Stepstones, a ray of light when my world was shrouded in darkness. Whenever my life has succumbed to the pitch black of night, you were always there to illuminate the way.”

Your hands rested on his as they traversed deep into the valley of your pelvis, hovering over the position of your most sensitive place concealed only by the structure of your dress. 

“Uncle, please…,” you muttered in a form of weak protest that came out as an encouragement, unable to scramble through your mind for a reason why you should reject his advances. He had lost Laena, you were unwed, there were no marital connections to stop you. Your beloved uncle, who more or less raised you in the absence of your father, had been the deepest love in your heart all your life. Whether or not that had been a romantic love or not, you could not deny the way your body responded to his touch as if you had yearned for this moment ever since you first read of love. Holding him this close felt as natural as breathing. 

“Hush now, little starling,” he cooed as his lips blazed a trail up to your earlobe and nibbled gently, all while pressing his palm into your skirt so his fingers could make contact with your mound beneath, making featherlight strokes into the fabric and causing your hips to buck into his hand. “Tepagon aōla naejot nyke.” Give yourself to me.

The darkness enveloped the daylight as you nodded in agreement, and in the blink of an eye Daemon gripped your hips, spun you to face him and captured your lips with his. At first tentative, he pulled back to scan your face for a response, only to growl hungrily as he watched your gaze journey to his lips eagerly awaiting their next contact, consuming your mouth with his before you could mutter a protest. Your hands instinctively reached to lace around his neck, drawing him closer and dipping into the kiss as if your hunger could not be sated, craving as much contact as physically possible. 

Without you knowing, Daemon had steered your clinch across the room toward the nearest desk, lifting you to rest on the wood and swiftly hitching your skirt up around your hips in the process. His lips refused to part from yours, nudging his nose into your cheek and humming contentedly against your mouth. With one hand cupping your cheek, the other ghosted a featherlight trail from your knee to your inner thigh, blazing toward your smallclothes between your legs, grazing the sodden fabric as it clung to your core.

“You already want the darkness, don’t you niece?” He pressed, groaning greedily and venturing both hands to rip the weak cotton apart at the seams. With his last obstacle laid to waste and clinging to your hips, his fingers grazed your pulsing folds and collected the waiting droplets of your anticipation. “I have waited so many years to feel your heat, ñuha vēzos.” My sun.

Your vision swirled like a hurricane, conflicting emotions and thoughts blurring the image of the silver-haired prince gazing down at you through lust-blown pupils as he watched his fingers daring to breach your folds before you gave him permission. 

“Kepus, not yet,” you pleaded against your own better judgement, a whimper escaping him as you planted both palms on his chest to keep him an arm’s distance away. “We are not yet married, I don’t think this is right.”

Daemon chuckled to himself before grasping both your wrists in one hand and raising them above your head, his free hand pressing your chest to lay you flat on the desk. Pinning your wrists above you and leaning down to hover over you, two fingers rediscovered your folds and slipped inside in one smooth motion. 

“Then don’t think, sweetling,” he whispered as he buried his fingers inside you to the knuckle, fingertips eagerly curling into your spongy walls and stroking slowly. Your hips tentatively reared into his touch, a palpable trepidation leaving you worrying about your maidenhead, the pain of coupling that literature failed to address yet had always remained on the lips of every birthing woman within the Keep. Daemon noticed your hesitation and thrust his fingers deeper, eliciting a strangled gasp from the depths of your lungs and revelling in your back arching into his motions. “It’s alright starling, the darkness has you now.”

You swallowed harshly, eyes roving to the ceiling as the full sensation in your cunt overwhelmed you. With a disapproving click of his tongue, Daemon tightened his grip on your wrists and slammed them against the hard wood, making you hiss gently. 

“Don’t take your eyes off me, niece,” he commanded until your gaze met his again, ramping up the pace of his pumps as you buckled beneath him. “You need not be ashamed of letting go. Let your kepus take control.”

Daemon’s thumb journeyed to settle on your clit, tracing lazy circles around your bundle of nerves while his fingers drove fervently in a race to reach the furthest points inside you, the wet slaps of his motions echoing through the library. Watching closely as your back arched against his restraint, your eyes fluttering to close as if your climax were nearing, the edge of your pleasure cliff was cruelly snatched from you as his fingers withdrew from your soaking folds with a lewd pop. In a determined hurry and a rustle of fabric, Daemon fumbled with his breeches and freed himself before quickly replacing his digits with a smooth thrust of his length into your cunt. Your determined lubrication enabled his swift entry to sheath himself inside you, but not without discomfort as you winced to handle the stretch of your walls around his girth. 

“Easy now, vēzos,” he soothed, pressing a palm into the valley of your hips to feel his tip grazing your innermost core and sending a shallow shiver throughout your body. “Soon the pain will become comfortable, I promise.”

You swallowed deeply, nodding in compliance and dutifully wrapping your legs around his waist to allow him easier access within you. Daemon grunted, making his next thrust deep and punishing to the point you yelped out, filling the library with the echoes of your cries. 

“That’s it, little one,” he hummed contentedly, working your cunt with his bucking hips like a man possessed, his free hand gripping your hip to impale you further. He leaned further over you to hover his lips over yours, his towering stature blocking out the dim candlelight of the room and enveloping you in pitch black night. “Give yourself to me, let the darkness take you.”

With every merciless thrust deep into your cunt, your helpless mewls grew louder which only encouraged Daemon’s animalistic plunges within you. Gathering what little strength you could muster, you weakly pulled your wrists against his restraint. 

“Please… need to… touch you,” you stuttered, fingers clamouring into mid-air for contact. Daemon’s sadistic grin faded as he acquiesced, your hands firing to curl around his neck and pulled him in for a searing kiss so you could silence your screams into his mouth, his relentless force pummelling you into the hard wood of the desk beneath which was sure to leave flayed grazes on your spine the next day. 

“My little sunshine, you feel like heaven around me,” he cooed against your lips, curling his thrusts to bottom out inside you so hard your blurred vision of him would glitter with stars. “Does this not feel like heaven to you?”

You whimpered an unintelligible response, unable to compose any coherent thought as his cock filled you to the hilt. The searing heat swelling inside you brought the vision of your cliff edge back into sharp focus, begging you to drive your hips up to meet his in a desperate race for your release. Daemon recognised your eagerness and met it with a newfound brutal pace, pounding into you so fast the lewd skin slapping that echoed through the chamber became staccato and relentless. 

“When you are carrying my child, your father will wed you to me,” he leaned to whisper in your ear, anchoring himself by wrapping his hand around your throat, his fingers and thumb pressing eagerly into each side to stem your blood flow rushing to your head, leaving you breathless and helpless. “And I will return inside your pretty little cunt every single night for the rest of our lives.”

His thrusts became jagged, betraying his own approach to the precipice.

“You see, every night the darkness consumes the light.”

With one last devastating thrust, your high flooded through you like a tidal wave and crashed against Daemon’s incoming climax, flooding your walls with his release and blending with your own, his gaze travelling to watch the space between you as his glistening cock hammered into your depths and stuttered as he poured inside you. The once-deafening lewd sounds of your coupling now replaced with ragged breaths, gasps for air and Daemon’s contented grunts as he rode out his orgasm within you, you threw your head back against the wood in sheer realisation of your own weakness. 

Not yet married, but most likely to carry your kepus’ child before long. 

You threw your hands to your belly, clutching at the flatness between your pelvis. Pulling out from you and admiring the soaking mess between your folds, Daemon’s hands rested upon yours as you looked up to find him gazing lovingly at the same space which terrified you to the core.

“Byka vēzos,” he hummed. Little sun. “If you do not conceive this time, we have the rest of our lives together to ensure you will.”

~~She looked like a bride, I was making my own name~~

Some flowers bloom only when the sun sets. 

You blossomed for Daemon in a way he could never have anticipated. His bravery in the battlefield garnered him the courage to risk it all for a chance to make you his wife, but he found so very little resistance in your kind reception that his claim over you simply fell into his lap. The thrill of the chase evaded him, as you caved so effortlessly to his will. 

Each time he requested your presence in his chambers, you parted your thighs and accepted him willingly. Yet each time you requested his presence in turn, he refused, ensuring he kept you wanting more and more, the suspense crafting a new height of pleasure each time you were called to his chambers, bent over his bed and pounded within an inch of consciousness. 

Daemon Targaryen had laid his claim to your body and mind, yet all that remained was his possession of your soul. 

Unbeknownst to you, Daemon had long pleaded with your father to wed you to him. Informally at first, often disguised as a joke to strengthen the Targaryen bloodline by betrothing two dragons to each other to fight for all eternity. But since the night in the library, his requests increased in volume and tenacity, resulting in a physical confrontation in the throne room between dragon brothers. Dismissing Daemon’s demand as nothing more than a vicious clamour for the Iron Throne, your father sought to banish his brother from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, where he would live out his days out of earshot of the Red Keep, where he would never again hear the pathetic whimpers of a man desperate to bed his youngest daughter for power. 

To you, that night came as any other, as Daemon’s maid requested your presence in his chambers at the dead of night and you dutifully obliged, pacing the Keep corridors in eager anticipation of meeting him once more. As you crept through his door, a heavy fabric flew towards you and you grabbed it in mid-air. A dark cloak. 

“Kepus, what—?”

“We need to leave. Tonight.” Daemon’s voice was short, snappy, panicked as his face came into view in the darkness. His brows knitted together, his lips skewed with fear. 

“Wh… why? Did my father refuse our betrothal?”

“Of course he fucking did,” Daemon snapped through gritted teeth, grabbing the cloak still laying in your shaking hands and throwing it over your shoulders for you. “We need to leave for Dragonstone now, there’s a boat waiting for us in the harbour.”

“I don’t… why do we… what happened?” You were frozen to the spot, confusion washing over you in waves. Daemon’s hands balled into fists as he adjusted the hood over your head. 

“Will you stop asking so many fucking questions? Just get down to the harbour, I’ll meet you there soon.”

“Kepus… I’m scared,” you stuttered, hands held out in front of you as if still holding the heavy cloak. “Will I ever see my parents again?”

Daemon smoothed the fabric over your shoulders and tucked the hood over your eyes. Pressing a quick dismissive kiss to the fabric laying over your forehead, he clasped your face and pulled it upwards. 

“Whatever happens, little starling, we are each other’s family from this moment on.” 

Suddenly, the tense silence between you shattered to the sound of deafening bangs on the door to his chambers. Immediately hunching his back defensively, he ushered you across the chamber toward a dark passage where a rogue guard waited to take you onward. “Place your trust in Ser Baleon, I will meet you at the shore.”

The crashes against the wooden portal intensified as you fled, the distinct swoop of metal from the chamber behind you suggesting Daemon had armed himself against the ambush. Searing hot tears blazed volcanic streams down your cheeks as you fought to focus on your steps down the dark spiral staircase to safety, wondering if you would ever see Daemon alive again.

~~Chasing that fame, she stayed the same~~

“Your father is a cunt,” Daemon hissed, storming into your Dragonstone chambers and crossing the room in three great strides to tower over you. 

“Surely not, kepus,” you attempted to calm his temper with a reassuring palm pressed to his chest. “What has he said to irk you so?”

“He’s sent a raven to enquire after you,” he seethed, his jaw clenched tightly as if it might snap at any moment. “He claims that I kidnapped you in the dead of night and will not return you to your birthright in the Red Keep.”

“But I came to Dragonstone of my own free—,” you were cut off by Daemon’s hand firing to grasp your throat, your fingers racing to claw at his grip and prize yourself free. 

“Well why don’t you speak those precious words to your beloved father instead?” He half-growled, sneering down at you as if you were his prey. “He seems to be the one that needs persuading of your own free will, Princess.”

“If you… if you let me, I will,” you stuttered against his restrictive clutch, weakly attempting an escape to breathe properly. 

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” He snarled, using one hand to spin you by your waist while retaining his grip on your throat, pressing his chest flush to your back and steering you to the bed. “You could run back to the Red Keep and your books and your perfect little boring life.”

“Kepus, please,” you protested weakly, reaching a hand ahead of you to cushion your fall as he dropped you face-first into the sheets. “Please, don’t…”

“Please don’t what, starling?” He chuckled, bunching your skirt over your behind and battling with his own breeches. “Don’t fight for my family, or don’t take my wife whenever I so wish?”

You scrunched your eyes closed, willing to block out whatever was coming next. This was not the careful husband you knew, this was not the devoted uncle who raised you in place of your father, this was certainly not the man who you fell in love with under a stormcloud amongst ancient tomes. This midnight rain will pass, no matter how much love it unravels in the eye of the storm. 

Delivering a swift nudge to your thighs, your legs were parted and Daemon crawled between them, grasping your hips and drawing you up to impale yourself on his hardened cock. With no preparation, you yelped at the intrusion and hissed gently.

“The pain will soon become comfortable,” he declared as he ruthlessly bottomed out inside you. “I promise.”

Tears welled in your eyes, threatening to burst their banks as the agony coursed through you in waves, slowly replaced by bolts of pleasure as his tip grazed your innermost walls.

“Please… take me easily, my Prince,” you wheezed out between merciless thrusts stealing your breath from your lungs. “I am… I am with…”

“You would do well not to give orders when I can ensure you lose consciousness in a moment, little one,” Daemon hissed, pounding into you with an inhuman pace, sending your eyes roving to the ceiling as his nails dug crescent dips into the flesh of your hips. “You want to stay awake while I fill you up, don’t you? Maybe this time you will bear me a child.”

“Daemon, please be gentle…,” you fought to finish your declaration while balling your fists into the sheets, your elbows caving beneath you. “I am with child.”

With your last syllable, Daemon’s thrusts ceased instantly, leaving you whimpering at the immediate loss of friction. He stilled completely, not so much as a laboured breath escaping him behind you, his length still nestled halfway inside you. 

“My Prince, I… I’m sorry,” you reassured, venturing a hand back towards him as if willing him to hold it. “I should have spoken sooner.”

You breathed into the deafening silence, wondering if he did not wish you to deliver the news in such a manner. Suddenly, a cool splash of water hit your scalding spine. A tear. Daemon’s tear. 

“I have failed you, starling,” he sighed, completely shattering his blind rage into a self-deprecating reflection. Allowing his length to slip out from your folds, he released your hips and collapsed onto the sheets beside you. “After all this time, I could have destroyed our child with my recklessness.”

“You have never failed me, kepus, our babe is safe inside me,” you purred, reaching to brush another tear from his cheek. “If he’s anything like his father, he can withstand any amount of force.”

Daemon’s saddened gaze turned to you, still on all fours beside him. He ventured a hand to brush your cheek. 

“I do not deserve you, vēzos jehikagon.” Sunshine. 

In the blink of an eye, you threw a leg over his own to capture him between your thighs. Hovering your waiting folds over his length, still hardened and bobbing between your bodies as you awaited a signal to proceed. 

“Let me please you, my King,” you pleaded, one hand venturing between your legs to stroke his cock and line his tip with your aching entrance.

Daemon’s gaze met yours, his wounded pride hooding his eyelids in contrast with your wide-eyed anticipation. You smiled at your silver-haired captor so warmly, he could not resist your brilliant sunshine blinding him to walk into the light. Gently bucking his hips to meet you in the middle, you lowered onto his length and shared a gratuitous moan as he filled you slowly and completely.

“You are truly carrying my babe?” His hands journeyed to your belly, swelling softly beneath his palms as you rocked gently into him. 

“As true as the sun shines above us, ñuha jorrāelagon.” My love. “The Maester says it is early, so I should rest as much as possible.”

Daemon stilled, concerned. “Then you should cease at once, allow me to…”

“And deprive me of this moment with my beloved? Never,” you asserted, sinking down carefully and bucking your hips to graze his tip against your walls, dropping so far you could swear you felt his cock deep in your stomach. “Besides, I may not be able to ride my dragon for much longer so I will take any chance I can get.”

“When you grow too weary to ride your dragon,” Daemon’s fingers splayed out across your belly as you bobbed above him, his eyes journeying to the ceiling momentarily as the sensation of your walls tightening around him stole his breath. “Rest assured that your dragon will take good care of you, little one.”

The mere implication of his words sent you careering to your precipice, clenching tightly around his cock as your walls rippled and pulsed with the approach of your orgasm. Noticing the sensitivity of your walls to his every motion inside you, jolting and surging around him to bring his rhythmic rutting up into you to a jagged pattern, signalling the arrival of his own climax.

“Let go for me,” he commanded through a whisper, keeping his palms pressed to your abdomen and revelling in the strangled gasps you could no longer hold back, grinding your hips to ride through your high as he deftly painted your walls in staccato thrusts.

Filling the chamber with your mixed groans and deep pants as you slowed your motions above him, you couldn’t bear to move from atop Daemon for fear of losing the moment you shared. Instead, he gripped your hips and turned you onto the sheets, keeping his length buried within you as you lay beside each other. 

“Gevie muña,” Daemon muttered under his breath as he reached to brush your silver hair from your face.

Beautiful mother. 

~~All of me changed like midnight~~

It had taken you the best part of half an hour to muster the strength enough to heave yourself from the birthing chair. Propping yourself up on the fruit table stacked high with pomegranates, you gazed out from your Dragonstone chamber to the harbour beyond. The day was bright, gleaming, the waters mirroring the same blissful turquoise sky beneath which you used to read your books, drift off into fantastical realms and dismiss your own captivity as the Princess Regent with no responsibility and no freedom.

The Maester said your third birth would be easier than the initial two, but so far he had been proven catastrophically wrong. When sickness could not claim you, tiredness and weakness took hold. Days blended into each other, weeks dragged for months, your belly swelled overnight as you lay helpless in the birthing chair simply waiting for an end to the monotony of childbirth. After delivering Daemon two sons, you assumed your duty as a birthing mother had been fulfilled, yet another child swelled no sooner than the second had left your womb.

A pair of hands snaked around your hips to cradle your blossoming belly, fingers spread out over the span of the bump to feel every sensation beneath your skin. A chin rested in the crook of your neck and peppered lazy, haphazard kisses over your ear. 

“Good morning, ñuha byka vēzos,” he cooed softly, his breaths warming your neck. My little sun. “You are not usually out of the chair so early, are you not well? Is our Prince keeping you from rest, little starling?”

You sighed as you dipped your head against his, placing your hands atop his as they surveyed your belly.

“I am quite well, husband,” you comforted him, tracing idle patterns over his hands, still as delicate as the day he first held you as a babe. “I’m always well when I am with you.”

Gazing out beyond the Dragonstone harbour, you could make out the faint outlines of the Red Keep from the safety of Daemon’s arms. Word from court suggested your father’s physical strength was at its last. Your mother sent a parchment requesting your presence but your husband intercepted it before it reached your hand, dismissing your concerns and reassuring that a raven would arrive at once if the King was indeed on his deathbed.

King’s Landing lay just beyond the dock, a symbol of the life you gave away for the sake of love. When you once believed you could never attain the love as told in literature, you failed to notice you had already fallen into such an affair. Persephone and Hades, the blinding sunshine tempted into the all-consuming darkness.

Such a pretty little songbird. 

In such a pretty little cage.

[space-writes]

why i write in obsidian.md (and why you should try it!)

hey, hi, have I mentioned my notes app? let me tell you about my notes app! I’ve been writing in obsidian for over a year now, for fanfic and original fiction/worldbuilding (and dungeons and dragons, and life organisation, and a myriad of other things) and so far I’ve gotten at least three people to also start using it, and I am in fact on an endless quest to get more people to try it.

obsidian.md how do i love thee, let me list the ways:

It’s offline. you are not beholden to the whims of wifi!

Did i mention it’s free? it’s free!

you can pay to support the devs, or to access the sync service, but honestly I just use a free file sync service to move things between my desktop/laptop.

It’s super lightweight at its core. you can (and I do) run it with a bunch of plugins and customisation, but at it’s base it’s just text, in simple files. plaintext. readable by anything. your writing is not trapped in proprietary file formats.

HOWEVER you can in fact customise every aspect of it and if you like Making Your Notes Cute I cannot recommend it enough as a Way To Procrastinate Actually Writing

Crucially, you can link your notes. This is phenomenal for not only worldbuilding, but planning, research, outlining and connecting characters and events. You just make a note, type in square brackets, and boom. linked notes. You can make yourself a little writing wikipedia with approximately 0 effort.

I have separate vaults (Instances, pretty much. Big overarching folders with separate sets of content) for my Valloroth project, my day-to-day notes/fanfic, and my D&D game. They’re aesthetically very different, which is so so so great for getting in the right headspace for the work I’m doing.

OH and we have obsidian canvas now! which is a simple mind-mapping feature where you can make and connect note cards, which can also be notes in your vault. I haven’t had a chance to do timelines with it yet, but it’ll be fun for that. I have made relationship charts with it, and it was great for that. If you like visually laying out boxes of information and connecting them into a pepe silvia board of plot, canvas is incredible

this is a pointcrawl map I made for my D&D game. Those red words in the boxes? links to the locations in the city the players were exploring. phenomenal

do you like split screen? you can have multiple notes open at once in horizontal and vertical configurations, and you can also open multiple tabs in each split window. it’s SO great for research and outlining, when you need like ten documents open at once to move between

finally, there are so many addons to COMPLETELY CUSTOMISE your Writing Setup. styling for tags. kanban boards. LINKABLE MAPS. ways to label scenes with metadata and pull just so many different tables/lists of story information. AND SO MANY MORE. I’m gonna do a whole post of my favourite writing plugins at some point so i can yell about them

the only downsides are that it’s somewhat clunky still to export things out of obsidian—I copy my fics into googledocs for my beta, and I have a plugin to make exporting to html easier to post on ao3, but it’s still kinda fiddly. Also, if you want a program that Has Everything and Just Works, this is…not that. you can build a lot of really useful writing specific features, but you do have to build them. it’s a sandbox, so if you don’t like sandbox-style programs, this may not work for you.

that being said, I do think everyone should try it and play with it and love it like I do and convince all their friends to start using it like i did. come play with obsidian with me! it’s fun! there’s a great community in the official discord that’s very active, plus an ever-growing collection of resources, particularly on youtube (highly reccommend Danny Hatcher’s videos as a jumping in point, they’re super accessible imo)

anyway, come try obsidian!

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

I Would Have Killed You

Astarion x Evie (Ace!Tav) Masterlist

Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Asexual!Tav, Astarion x OC, Astarion x Evie

A/N: This took forever, but hey! It's done. This is also my first experiment in using third person instead of second person when writing for Evie (Ace!Tav), so let me know if you want to stick with this or switch back to how it was before.

Warning: angst, blood, dissociation, Astarion being bad at emotions, heavy kissing

Summary: Astarion is reminded of the person he was before the tadpoles and what that means for his and Evie's future.

Word Count: 4.1K

It was so easy. Astarion almost felt bad for the little tavern mouse waiting at the door.

Almost.

He had been instructed to bring a bard to the palace. His master gave no explanation and Astarion knew better than to ask. 

He had found this one playing at the Elfsong. They were a newcomer to Baldur’s Gate. No friends. No connections. Nobody who would miss them. 

He gestured them into the hallway, plastering his most practiced smile. 

The mouse gave him a tentative nod in return as they looked up and around, taking in the space.

 The entryway succeeded in its intended effect, dwarfing all who stepped foot into its open maw. The walls were lined with deep reds contrasted against gold finery before pushing down a dark hallway. The only light came from a handful of candles and the clouded night just outside the windows. Of course, it didn’t look any more inviting during the day. Sunlight had not touched these halls in centuries. 

Astarion guided them forward, placing a hand on their shoulder, just in case. 

He tried not to worry. This was a new kind of trap he had put together, one improvised in the moment. It was rare for his lines to fail him so completely, but he had managed to salvage the conversation with the promise of employment. He was fairly certain it would work, but hardly the guarantee getting on his back would have assured. 

Words drifted in his ears, something clever to disguise nerves. 

He replied with his usual flattery; a few words assuring them how they were the best he had ever heard and something about his master being entranced. 

He could hear their heart hammering as their eyes flickered from window to window, never focusing on one thing for more than a few seconds. Searching for an exit perhaps. 

He kept his footsteps measured, quick to engage them in banal conversation. Couldn’t have the scurrying off now, not when he was so close. 

A pair of double doors forced him to pause before turning to his offering. He said something he supposed was encouraging as they gave him something akin to a smile. At the very least their breathing was less shallow. 

It was good enough and with a grand gesture, he opened the doors, revealing a table set for a lamb to slaughter. 

Foods of various kinds covered the entire surface. The noise of smells bombarded his nose, sickly sweet and ripe as rot. Steam from vegetables and freshly prepared meats choked his lungs. Candles littered every surface. He could feel his eyes start to burn, whether from the smoke or brightness, he couldn’t be sure. All the same, he didn’t need his senses to feel his master’s smile as the lord rose to his feet.

Astarion gave a bow, followed quickly by the mouse. 

It didn’t escape his notice how resolutely they maintained their gaze just left of his master’s shoulder and not the feast in front of them. 

“I am glad to see you have found your way,” the master said, his voice decadent. “Please, join me.”

The mouse hesitated, caught between proprietary and something else. Astarion didn’t know how he missed it. Gods knew he had seen it in the face of his “siblings”. He wore it himself often enough. Little thing was starving. 

A sense of calm came over him. He had been worried over nothing. Desperation was just as secure a motivator as lust. 

Still, the mouse did try to maintain some dignity; something about not being able to accept such hospitality without earning it. 

His master raised a hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. If Astarion’s praise is anything like truth, you will more than earn a meal here.” 

It was the excuse they needed as they took deliberate steps to the lord’s side. 

“Astarion. You will join us.”

It wasn’t a question and he wasn’t in a position to make it one. This held the promise of being wholly painless. Whatever game his master was playing, he would do his part. 

Astarion spoke his thanks and took a seat on the master’s other side. 

The mouse tried so hard. They waited patiently for the master to start the meal before serving themselves, careful not to overload their plate. This was an audition after all, they couldn’t risk making a bad first impression. Of course, it did nothing to quell the hunger in their eyes. Each bite was brought carefully to their mouth with such slowness it appeared painful. 

Despite himself, Astarion had to admire their restraint. He wondered what they would do differently if they knew this would be their last meal. 

He did his part to appear engaged. He moved food on his plate around and pretended to take a drink of wine, mindful to not let any pass his lips. 

It would all be over soon. He would return to the kennels tonight with food in his stomach and the skin remaining on his back. He would not give the master an excuse. Besides, his lord seemed occupied assaulting the bard with questions. 

Astarion tried his best not to listen. If the master wished to play with his food, there was little he could do to stop him. His part was done. The mouse was nothing to him. Sure, some of their conversation had been stimulating, but it did not make up for their fundamental stupidity. They deserved what was coming if they allowed themselves to be caught in such an obvious trap. So what if they were starving? What did they know of true starvation? Let them rot in a tomb for a year, unable to die. That would teach them to accept anything too good to be true. 

“It is good to see you fed,” his master said. “If I may be blunt, you seemed near faint when you came in.” 

The mouse gave an embarrassed look, answering with a self deprecating affirmative. 

“Perhaps now you may give us a proper performance.” 

They nodded, rising to their feet with more confidence than what they came in with. Astarion supposed a full stomach would do that. He wondered idly if that somehow made a difference to the quality of the blood. He knew his master too well to assume he was granting the little snack a kindness before their death. Perhaps fear spoiled the taste. 

The bard took a position on the small podium just to the side of the dining table, pulling out a well kept violin out of a travel worn case. 

“Let us see if your songbird lives up to expectations,” his master said, the words coming as light as a knife pressed against his throat.  

Astarion’s spine stiffened, forcing himself not to swallow. 

So, that was the game. Each of his siblings had received similar instructions no doubt. Find a bard in the city, any bard. He didn’t know the prize for finding the best, but he had a fair idea of what the punishment would be for bringing the worst. 

His offering held their violin across their chest, ready for the lord’s request. 

“Whatever is your favorite,” his master replied. 

Astarion held his breath as the bard let go of theirs allowing strings to fill the air. 

The first handful of notes came like a caress against his cheek, so careful and warm he nearly flinched. It didn’t shy away, and slowly he felt himself relax into its touch. 

They were good. He had gotten an idea at the tavern, but that was for the unwashed masses of the lower city, not the private dining room of a palace. If anything, the change in scenery made their playing all the more potent. 

The music slipped past his ears, boring deeper and deeper until he could feel it in his very bones. He found himself unable to look away. It compelled him back into his body and to the ever present here and now. Each note came as a release, an inspiration to keep living long enough to hear the next. If only they could play forever, perhaps they would never die.

There was something so familiar about it. Not the melody, but the phrasing, the shape of the notes as they whispered unknowable nothings into his heart. He knew that voice. 

A smile spread across the bard’s face, content and lost in the music, wholly unaware.

Oh Gods. Evie.

Fear clutched his chest. He tried to open his mouth, but his lips remained placid. He felt the muscles strain with the effort and yet not so much as a twitch appeared on his face. He pulled at his arms, his hands, legs, neck, anything. He couldn’t move. His skin remained an impassive shell, trapping him inside his own body. 

Bile rose in his throat. Cazador found him. It was the only explanation. Something went wrong with the tadpoles. The bastard was in his head. 

To his horror the song came to a close. 

Evie held her position as every good performer would, not even opening her eyes as the remains of the strings echoed into nothing. 

A slow clap came from behind him filling the sudden stillness. How he didn’t flinch was beyond his comprehension. 

She smiled in appreciation, giving a graceful bow. The triumph in her eyes made him want to wretch. 

Run. Please, my love. Run!

“Beautiful,” Cazador said. “A truly remarkable songbird. It’s a wonder you were so eager to share Astarion. If it were me, I would keep her all to myself.” 

Astarion felt the shell bow its head in respect.  

“Far be it for me to deny you, master,” it said. 

“Indeed.” Cazador then turned his sights to Evie. “I would have this settled tonight. Join me in my study so we may discuss the terms of your employment.”

“Oh…thank you,” she said, the uncertainty clear in her tone. “Will Astarion be joining us?” 

“That will not be necessary,” Cazador said, his tone quickly losing its patience. “As it stands, Astarion has his own duties to attend to.” 

Evie wavered, her eyes darting between him and the double doors. 

This was their chance. Control of his limbs was out, but Astarion wasn’t about to give up. He dug in deeper into this mind. Surely the tadpole hadn’t been removed. It was just dormant, something. If he could just make contact. All he needed was a wriggle. The second he was free, he was going to tear the bastard’s throat out! 

“I thank you for the offer, my lord,” she said. “But if it’s possible, I would like a day to think about it. If we could meet tomorrow morning–.” 

“Do you think I make this offer lightly?” Cazador snapped. “If you wish to return to the streets in which you were found, you may. You are impressive, but do not think I cannot find another.” 

Evie’s eyes widened, her hands clutching her violin tighter against her body. 

The decision was written all over her face. She was still so hungry. 

The shell’s aloof expression faltered. Brows cinched together as its mouth turned into a line. 

“Oh go on little mouse. Off to the slaughter with you.”

Astarion froze. That wasn’t Cazador. 

“I apologize, my lord,” Evie said. “I did not mean to offend. Of course, I am honored by your offer. I will gladly join you.”  

A smile spread across Cazador’s face, one made of teeth and condescension. 

“Excellent.” 

He rose to his feet, gesturing to a side door leading out of the dining room. 

Evie’s heartbeat came hard in his ears. Still she packed away her violin, preparing to follow Cazador wherever he would lead her. 

Astarion’s throat tore with the effort to scream. His nail dug into the walls of his insides, pulling and grasping at flesh. He didn’t know how this was happening and frankly didn’t care. Anything beyond the beating of Evie’s heart was meaningless. He needed to get out. He didn’t care if he had to claw out of his own skin.

Evie all too soon joined Cazador’s side. The bastard placed a hand on her arm much as his own had before, guiding her out of the room to certain death. 

There was only one option left. Instead of turning inward to the tadpole that, for some reason, had abandoned him, he pushed his thoughts outward. 

Master. Please. Don’t do this. Hear me. I’ll do anything. I’ll bring you hundreds, thousands more. Whatever you ask of me, I will do. Just let her go. Please.

Cazador paused, turning his head slightly over his shoulder. 

“You may go, Astarion. Make sure to clean this mess. And take the tray with you.” 

The shell turned its gaze to the one closed tray left on the table. The faint smell of death and something else sickeningly familiar hit his nose. 

“Not as festering,” it thought idly. 

No, he thought. He was thinking these things. He was the one doing this. He was the one killing her. 

He didn’t even look up as the pair of footsteps left the room, the door closing behind them with a decisive thud. 

Like an animal he pounced on the tray, throwing the top aside to dig his hands into the fat, putrid rat waiting for him. 

His teeth tore into its stomach, tainted blood mixed with other bile filling his mouth, but still he drank. It was a drop of water to a dying man, not nearly enough and only meant to serve as a reminder of absence. Still, he could not deny himself. This was more than he had in a week. 

His victory would no doubt be short lived. Cazador would find some way to punish him later for some imagined transgression, but at least tonight he wouldn’t suffer. 

Evie’s heart disappeared behind the door. He almost wished it would stay that way. Silence would bring him the gift of denial, but since when had he ever been lucky. 

Somewhere far away, he heard a cry of fear transform into pleas for help, then mercy, and then just pain until even those fell to nothing. 

He couldn’t speak, but gods did he scream. 

----------------

In a sudden jolt, he was upright, darkness invading his vision blurred at the edges by orange candle light. 

He was breathing hard. His heart didn’t race, but his limbs trembled all the same. In some attempt to calm himself, he raised a hand to his brow pushing back the hair that had fallen across his forehead. 

He paused, a sudden wave of relief washing over him. He had moved his hand. He was in control. His limbs, his breath, his body was entirely his own. A quick focus inward assured the rest. The tadpole was safe and sound, wriggling away. 

The room around him started to come into focus. He was in the Elfsong. A quick glance revealed the rest of his companions fast asleep in their beds. For once he was grateful to hear Karlach’s snoring. He couldn’t be anywhere else. 

His eyes turned to that one candle burning just beside him. 

Evie had insisted, claiming she couldn’t sleep without one. It was a lie, of course. Astarion knew well enough she could fall asleep standing on her head if pressed. The candle had been for him; another small kindness to add to the ongoing list. 

A slight shift in the bed refocused his attention, turning to the other laying beside him.

“Astarion? What’s wrong?”

Her voice was low and thick with sleep. Her eyes were barely open and her hair was a complete mess on the pillow. Now would be the perfect moment to tease her, to kiss her and slip back beneath the sheets, but he couldn’t bring himself to do any of it. He was too focused on the rise and fall of her chest and the steady rhythm of her heart. 

“Astarion?” Evie repeated, concern now slipping into her voice as she turned more decidedly toward him. 

He shook himself out of his head, slipping a practiced smile to his face. 

“It’s nothing darling,” he assured. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t, I’m up now,” she said, stretching herself further awake. 

She held her arms open to him.  He knew he didn’t have to. It wasn’t a demand or even an expectation; merely an invitation, one he didn’t have the strength to decline. 

He fell into her, wrapping her in his arms and burying himself in her neck. He let her scent fill his lungs, chasing away the lingering rot with the life of her blood and subtle musk of her skin. Her heart pressed against his chest so close he could feel it echo inside him like a memory. He felt her fingers card through his hair cradling his head against her in gentle assurance, as if she wasn’t holding a monster who could drain her dry with just the slightest parting on his mouth. Gods, what had he done to deserve this?

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, her breath soft and warm against his ear. 

He didn’t answer right away, pressing his lips against her neck as his mind turned searching for the right thing to say. Words continued to evade him as he moved his touch further up, catching the underside of her jaw, her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the tip of her nose until finally he landed on her lips. He kissed her softly, just a brush really, any more would be too much. 

Another thing to add to the list, the solace in knowing he didn’t need to do anything else. No performance. No seductions. Just this. 

He pulled back, cupping her face in his hand. 

Her eyes were so soft, even as a crease worried her brow. He knew that was for him too. There was a time he would have scoffed at that look, dismissing it as pity instead of the care it was. Now it just made him ache. 

His lips found hers again, kissing her long and deep.

He loved her.  He knew that now. He had a suspicion he had known for a while, but couldn't allow himself to see it.

The word didn’t disgust him as it first might have done, but gods did it terrify him. His dream revealed more than one truth. He knew now the things he’d be willing to do, the parts of himself he’d be willing to sacrifice to keep her safe. By all accounts he should be cursing her name, but he just kept kissing her. 

He couldn’t stop. His lips found new purpose, touching and tasting any inch of skin within reach. Nothing bad could happen just so long as he kept touching her. He’d hold her forever if he could, absorb her into his skin and keep her safe there. Nobody would hurt them ever again. 

“Astarion?” His name came out in a choked breath, pulling him back to himself and to her. 

He pulled back, going rigid in alarm as if he’d just be dunked in a tank of cold water. Somehow he had turned her beneath him, his body pressed between her legs and against her whole body. He pushed himself onto his hands, shame sinking into his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, but it was plain enough by her expression to see she was overwhelmed. He could hear her heart hammering in his ears and cursed himself for not checking in sooner. 

“I should have asked,” he said. “I wasn’t trying for more. I just–.”

“I know,” she assured.  “Just needed to catch my breath. You know that thing mortals do.” 

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He could take a bad joke if it meant she wasn’t truly hurt. 

Her hand found his cheek, simultaneously gentle and rough to the touch. He leaned into her, indulging in the sensation. It centered him in a way he couldn’t put into words. Something about the callous and healed cuts of her fingers made the reality of her all the more potent. 

“You did nothing wrong,” she said firmly. “But I do think you need to talk about it.” 

He let out a short sigh, knowing there was no side stepping the conversation and kissing his way out was now firmly off the table. 

He fell back onto the bed, mindful to keep his distance even as his body yearned to have her close. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, instead focusing on the darkened wood ceiling. 

“I killed you,” he said. There was no softer way to put it and he didn’t have the inclination to try. “I handed you over to Cazador without a second thought, all for a rat and a night’s respite.” 

A mirthless laugh escaped his throat. Gods what a mess, but what else did he expect? This was still his life, for lack of a better word. 

“Why do you trust me?”  he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

She remained silent for a long time before he caught the glimpse of a shrug out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well you did ask me very nicely.”

“I’m serious,” he pressed, turning his head toward her. “I would have killed you. The moment we met, I lied to you and held a knife to your throat. That doesn’t exactly inspire loyalty.” 

Her lips pressed into a thoughtful line, remaining agonizingly silent. He was tempted to use the worm, if only to get a glimpse of what exactly she was thinking.

“You’re right,” she said, carefully.  “And I didn’t trust you, at first. But, that was then. This is now.”

Her hand found his, slipping between his fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve saved my life more times than I care to admit, for a start,” she continued. “You’ve stayed with me when it would have been more convenient to leave me behind. You’ve allowed me to be honest with parts of myself the world kept telling me to bury away. And because of this.”

She moved forward, closing just enough distance just to press the barest kiss to his lips. It caught in his chest, imprinting itself somewhere inside him no one else had managed to find. 

“You’re still a scoundrel and a rogue,” she whispered, “but when it matters, I know you’ll be there. At least, you have been so far.” 

“Always.”

The promise came so easily to his lips, but it was the truth, one he felt more deeply than he realized until that moment. He wasn’t going to let her slip away. The world didn’t get to do that to him.

As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Evie moved closer, pressing herself against his side and draping her arm across his chest. 

He took the offer, pulling her more securely into his arms. The fever had broken, but he would not deny himself relief from the symptoms. He contented himself with the warmth of her body and the perfume of her hair in his nose. He really did need to ask her what exactly she used. He’d buy the whole supply. 

She tried to stay awake. He could feel her fingers trace nonsensical patterns into his skin. It didn’t last long. Her movements still and soon enough her body fell completely slack against him. 

He pressed a kiss against her forehead, lingering on the peace of the moment as a new resolve filled him. 

Cazador would die, that much he knew for certain the moment he stepped into the city. He wasn’t going to spend the remainder of his life looking over his shoulder. He would have his revenge and tear that bastard apart for everything he had ever done to him, made better still by ruining his long awaited ascension and taking that power for his own.  

He knew Evie’s hesitations. She’d expressed her doubts often enough, questioning if it was worth the price. He could understand why, after all it was her compassion that had allowed him to hold her like this, foolish as it was. 

What was a little more blood on his hands if it kept hers clean. His “siblings” were no better than him. He’d be doing the world a favor. And in exchange, no one would ever control him again. No more pain. No more running. Nobody would touch him. He’d be free and Evie would be safe. 

Once he ascended no force in the world would be foolish enough to try and take her from him. And if Evie agreed to become a vampire herself? If he could give her just a drop of that same power, not even time could touch her. They could have eternity. All it would take was a few meaningless deaths. 

He wouldn’t let her trust in him come to nothing. He would keep them safe. Forever. For good. 

[wine-porn]

Conn Job

Didn’t really see this one coming… Pulled a miserably corked Shiraz out and opened this as a back-up, not expecting much. Wow. What a surprise. I want to go down Villa Mt. Eden or even Bradford trails with this one, and old-school people will understand. But this is a proprietary red of relative low price and here at 14 it stuns. Heavy sediment in an opaque black glass with considerable brick.…

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Lord Husband (Chapter 7)

cregan x reader

A/N: yay more lord husband! (does a little dance) we're getting closer to the wedding and i can promise more trauma :)

series masterlist

word count: 1,182 words

You don’t find joy in Winterfell. You find a small sense of peace in its beauty but you are far too stubborn to be happy in the castle. There have been attempts at friendship. Sara Snow had likely been encouraged by her brother for her to try as many times as she did. You do like her but you also do not want to give anyone the idea that you may be settling in. This isn’t where you belong and everyone knows it. The servants talk just like the noblewomen that have begun to arrive for the wedding. They seem to enjoy the irony of your position, the fire princess whose heart is cold like ice. Perhaps the North was where you were meant to be after all. That is, if your life was a poem in a book. The servants also like to say that the fire in your hearth is always blazing so you can burn out your demons when you aren’t drowning your sorrows in the bathtub. The rumours always swirl around you. Perception is a fickle thing but you can’t bring yourself to care all too much, not when you know that talking about you is the most amusement they’ve had in all of their dull lives. Just a chance to look at your dragon would forge a story they would pass down for generations. You ride a dragon and all it takes for them is a glance.

Your family arrives today for the festivities. How kind it is of your mother to entrust her throne to your grandfather so she may attend her only daughter’s wedding. What a joyous occasion it is. You hear the murmurs as you stand next to Cregan in the welcoming party. You look tense and he notices it. You feel a large hand incase yours; you glare at him.

“It would be rude to let go.” He says softly as he looks ahead. You pull your hand from his grasp anyhow and he just huffs.

The carriages roll up. Your mother and Daemon step out first, a pleasing smile gracing the Queen’s face. It’s strange how proprietary causes you not to greet each other until the whole family is present. You just kind of look at one another awkwardly until your siblings walk up as well. Though, you find that little Aegon doesn’t seem to care much for proprietary. As soon as your little brother lays eyes on you, he’s running right over. He calls out your name before launching himself into your arms and you hold him close.

“I missed you so much! Joffrey has been such a bother since you’ve left.”

You laugh. “Oh, has he now?” It seems that the formal greetings have been forgotten as Joffrey comes over as well.

“I have not been a bother.” He defends and he lets you pull him in for a side hug. You didn’t know you could still smile like this.

Cregan knows he shouldn’t be surprised by the affection. It is common knowledge that your family was happy even in the isolation of Dragonstone, but to see you act so tender, it shocks him. He’s never seen you behave in a way other than cold and yet, your little brother is in your arms and looking at you like you’re about to give him the world on a platter. It makes his heart soften.

~~~

After settling in, Rhaenyra visits your new chambers with Baela, Rhaena and a servant in tow.

“Your rooms appear to be comfortable.” Your mother comments.

“They are.” You say in response. Conversation used to flow freely between the two of you but now small talk is all you can seem to accomplish.

“Your dress is finally ready. We were almost worried that the seamstress’ wouldn’t complete it in time.” Rhaena says, gesturing to the servant to bring over the gown.

“It will definitely live up to your vision.” Baela comments. 

You wanted something different, something new. You admire your mother’s style greatly but you wanted to have your own in your new home. That’s why the skirts of your dress are fuller and the sleeves more puffed. You will wear black and red to show where you came from but the style of the gown shows how you’re your own person. The gown still holds much of the King’s Landing structure so you can make the change in style gradual and it holds hints of how northern women dress so it’s more likely for them to copy you, even if there’s no reason for them to not copy the Lady of Winterfell. Well, you perhaps shouldn’t say that. There is still one reason. You are not one of their own and bringing in elements of how they decorate themselves will never change that.

“It’s perfect.” You say in a pleased tone.

“It’s more than perfect.” Baela cuts in. “I’ll be getting married to Jace soon. How am I ever supposed to top that?”

“You simply will not.” You say in a cheeky tone and she slaps your arm.

“The both of you will be more than beautiful on your wedding days, just in very different ways because you are very different.” Rhaenyra muses before she grabs your hand. “How are you?” She asks you and you know how much your mother cares about the answer.

“Cold.” You say. You aren’t quite sure what she wanted to hear.

“Well the warm months will come soon. Have you settled in nicely?”

What do you even say to that? Does she want the truth or the assurance that she hasn’t done something to ruin your life?

“I’m not too sure of that answer yet. It truly doesn’t feel like I have been here for long.” Perhaps you will ruin her day tomorrow instead.

“Things will likely fall into place after the wedding. Once you take up your new status, you will see how these things are for the best, my sweet girl.” Her words don’t feel like assurance as much as a command. Calling you her sweet girl barely softens it.

“Of course.” You confirm but don’t hide a single emotion. The irritation you feel is clear on your features.

Not wishing for an argument to come forth, Rhaena speaks up. “Winterfell is so beautiful and i’m quite antsy from the travel if you would be so kind as to give me a tour, sister?”

“Oh yes!” Baela chirps in. “You ought to take us to the gardens. I want to see if Weirwood trees truly have the faces of the old gods trapped in them.”

“Is trapped the right word?” Rhaena asks as you all stand.

“Will you accompany us, my Queen?” You ask Rhaenyra formally.

“I’m very tired. I think I will rest in my chambers.” 

You just think that talking to you pains her more than she wants to put up with. You try not to care as you take each of your sister’s arms but you won’t play nice to fix a relationship she ruined. You miss your mother but your stubbornness won’t allow it.

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lmk if i forgot u

[ikroah]

I have reached the breaking point, the point of no return, it’s very clear to see a fool like me will never, ever learn. I have reached the breaking point, I hear the drums of doom, I’m gonna flip my wig in one great big atomic boom! —“The Breaking Point,” Bobby Darin (1966)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #27 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding VI

Collaborative Issue! Guest Artist: @sas-afras

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Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Transcript:

Notes

Huge thanks to Monty over at @sas-afras for getting this one done! I handled the original layout and lettering, but the rest was all them. Layouts like this can seem simple and easy because of how straight-forward and repetitive they are, but when all you've got are a dozen and one reaction shots, every single one of those reaction shots needs to be as perfect as you can get them. And Monty did a hell of a job. Especially on the coloring! Monty, if you're reading this, you're a hell of a good colorist (on top of everything else). Thanks again!

Another note about this issue is that it, along with the previous one, were some of the most difficult to write in this whole damn comic so far. I really hate repeating in-game dialogue verbatim without good reason, but there's really not much else I could do here. It's a very necessary part of the story that is also literally a part in the game where your character is fixed in place listening to a monologue. I took some liberties, did some punch-up, not just for its own sake but to really drive home what I find most interesting and vital here about Mr. House as a character.

Anyway, Agnes is in trouble. And there's only one issue left in Volume 2! The next one closes out this arc of the story, at long last. Stay tuned.

Transcript

INT. LUCKY 38 BASEMENT. From an observation deck of sorts, AGNES SANDS watches several SECURITRON robots position themselves in a testing area, containing several sandbags, dummies, and makeshift fortifications. A voice booms from an unseen speaker.

MR. HOUSE: You're well familiar with my Securitron police force. But have you ever wondered: what exactly makes them the marquee option in perimeter security and pacification?

AGNES glances in the direction of the voice, uncomfortable.

MR. HOUSE: Well to start, the reinforced titanium alloy housing of each unit, which protects its electronic core, easily deflects small arms and shrapnel.

MR. HOUSE: As for its offensive capabilities, its X-25 gatling laser—produced to spec by Glastinghouse, Inc.—is deadly against soft targets at medium range.

SFX: BZZTZZTZZTZZTZZT

AGNES recoils as a red glow washes over her from the testing area.

MR. HOUSE: And then for close-range suppression or crowd control, the Securitron is also armed with a 9mm sub-machinegun.

SFX: DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA

AGNES shuts her eyes, wincing from the crack of gunfire.

MR. HOUSE: These features have been sufficient for keeping the peace within Vegas, but with the NCR and Legion closing in on Hoover Dam, and sizing up my city like a piece of prize cake, more than ever we need to be prepared for, well...external conflict. Policing is one thing, but when geopolitical powers are involved, my Securitrons can only pose so much of a threat.

MR. HOUSE: That is...if they're forced to rely exclusively on their secondary weapons--as they have been, all this time!

AGNES looks upward, surprised.

MR. HOUSE: Remember, the Great War interrupted a pivotal moment for RobCo's work. Consequently, all extant Securitrons have been stuck, running on a mere Mark I operating system—the first production version of the OS—which has simply lacked the software drivers for the use of their primary weapons all this time!

AGNES looks around, as if HOUSE were in the room somewhere and she could find him, in a panic.

MR. HOUSE: The platinum chip, you see, was never just a token. At a time when industrial espionage ran rampant, it was minted as a high capacity, proprietary, and uniquely irreplicable data storage device. In a way, it's more like a computer chip. And now—with the data from the platinum chip finally installed onto my nextwork—it's time for a very crucial software update. Behold: the new Mark II Securitrons!

AGNES gawks downward at the testing area, eyes wide. Oh no.

MR. HOUSE: Their newly accessible M-235 Missile Launcher gives them the ability to engage ground and air targets at significantly longer ranges...

SFX: PSSSSSHHH KTHOOM THOOM THOOM THOOM

AGNES flinches, covering her face for protecting, and screams as explosions rip apart the testing area below.

MR. HOUSE: ...and their rapid-fire G-28 grenade launching system, another part of the Mark II, makes them much more powerful in close-range engagements as well.

SFX: THMP THMP THMP KRRSSH KRAKTK KABOOM

AGNES, nearly frozen, watches the bombardment with horror.

MR. HOUSE: It also includes rewritten drivers for the Securitrons' auto-repair systems—although always sophisticated, the new optimizations render them inexhaustible in even the most protracted and attritious of engagements. Altogether, the Mark II upgrade confers a 235% total increase in combat effectiveness per unit—and it's all because of you!

AGNES lowers her arm slowly, jaw slack, mortified.

MR. HOUSE: Vegas finally has an army—worthy to protect not just the city itself, but the best interests of all of mankind, at home and abroad. Which is to say: this simple display of might remains a mere teaser for what I can, and what I will, accomplish, in an illustrious new epoch.

AGNES sinks further into a paralytic terror.

MR. HOUSE: What we will accomplish, Agnes—should you accept my offer, of employment. Ah—but I digress. I'm certain that you've had a long day. You can rejoin Miss Cassidy in the presidential suite for the night, if you'd like to, as they say, "sleep on it."

MR. In fact...say for as long as you'd like. However long you may need, to think everything over. And you'll be very well provided for in the meantime, consider it a taste of what could be...should you make the right choice before you.

MR. HOUSE: That reminds me—I've already sent Victor to collect your belongings from the Vault 22 Hotel, so no need to exhaust yourself further by making that trip on your own, hm? There's much about your future to consider, Agnes—and I would like you to think of it as our future.

AGNES stares straight ahead with a deadened expression.

The testing area in the basement has been reduced to smithereens. Fires rage on the rubble of obliterated structures, gnarled steel, and collapsed walkways. The dummies have been dismembered entirely.

MR. HOUSE: ...Goodness, what a mass. With friends like these, I sure wouldn't envy my enemies.

MR. HOUSE: Wouldn't you agree?

[tadpolesonalgae]

Chapter 9

A/N: Please defer to warning section in Chapter 1

-Chapter 8-

You’re transported to a room of low light—Rhys’ bedroom, you realise.

It’s cavernous, decadently large for one male, though there are currently three in the room alongside you. The High Lord releases you enough for you to scan the room—at least allowing you the opportunity to gather your surroundings before they pounce.

Your eyes mark the Spymaster first, stood by the open window, moonlight catching in his inky hair, making it appear like the softest silk. He shifts on his feet, dark, starving hunger in the depths of his gaze, clouds of billowing lust making you swallow.

Movement catches your eyes, tearing them away from the Shadowsinger.

Your eyes widen marginally as you locate Cassian.

He’s been tied up, as Rhys had claimed. The male’s hands are bound to each of the chair arms, the no-doubt enchanted rope shackling his wrists and biceps to keep him still. Each of his ankles are in turn tied to the wooden legs, his torso pinned against the seat to keep him from moving.

There’s a wooden table before him, as if he’s preparing for a feast—the furniture lengthways to him.

His wings flare slightly at his back when he spots you, drawing a muffled sound from his throat.

Shadows are gagging him, you realise.

“Cassian,” you breath, snapping your head toward the Shadowsinger, concern shining in your eyes. “Is he—”

Azriel crushes his mouth against yours, tongue sweeping in with such dominance and hunger it makes your knees weak. His scarred hands cup your jaw, angling you correctly so he can delve deeper, taste all of you, mark all of you.

A needy sound of surprise is pulled from you as his scarred hands grip your waist brutally, tugging you hard against him, hips dragging against your body as he begins to satiate himself. At your back, you feel Rhysand approach, squishing you into Azriel’s chest as you’re sandwiched between them.

His hands grip your hips, dragging his cock over the swell of your ass as he nips and bites at your neck, already beginning to paint his colours into your skin.

You whimper, unsure where to put your hands. You’ve been in this line of business for around three centuries and you’ve never had an experience where you’ve been so thoroughly overwhelmed—so completely dominated. So completely okay with it.

You’re about to settle your hands over Azriel’s upper arms when he growls, hands dropping to your thighs as he shoves the hem of your dress up, pulling it away as Rhys’ deft fingers work on the ties at your back so they can be rid of it. You’re reduced to your underthings within the span of seconds, and the males growl as they take you in.

Azriel’s cold hazel eyes trace over the red lace set you had adorned yourself in, the matching ruby red heels that accentuated the nail varnish you’d decorated the tips of your fingers in—as if they had been dipped in blood. He grips you by the throat while Rhys’ powerful arms snake around your waist, hand settling with proprietary entitlement over your heat. The High Lord’s front presses into you as he rests his chin on your shoulder, watching his Spymaster intently.

“All dressed up, I see.” He says, icily, and you’re brought back to when you first met. How withdrawn he was. Distanced.

Something intrinsic warns you not to speak back.

His eyes shift away from you, turning slightly to draw Cassian’s attention. “Are you pleased, soldier?” He asks, nodding to your red-adorned body. “Is it worth being tied up for? Seeing her in your colour?”

He’s remarkably good at making you feel insignificant.

Awareness lights your body as Cassian drags his wary eyes over you, starting at your shoulders, down over your breasts, the side of your hip—everything he can see from his chair. The shadows vanish from his mouth, and you can make out how the edges of his lips look raw.

“Yes,” he replies hoarsely, dipping his head in a nod, eyes filling with hunger and ravenous lust.

Azriel merely hums, turning his attention back to you. His fingers hook beneath the strap of your brassiere, skimming his fingers over your near bare skin, before dipping to the waist band of your underwear. “I think you need a closer look at her. Gather in all the fine details,” he says blandly, snapping the band back against your hip, watching for a reaction. Seeking one, by the looks of it.

You keep your expression neutral.

Something like approval flickers in his eyes, before he’s stepping back, allowing Rhys to stand to his full height, hand pressing between your shoulder blades as he guides you toward Cassian, shoving you forward roughly. Close enough you can make out the mouth-watering shape of his arousal through his leathers.

But instead, Rhys’ hands grip your upper arms from behind, twisting you sharply so you’re facing the table. “Not that way, darling,” he drawls softly into your ear. “Cassian won’t be getting anything until we’ve had a piece of you. Teach him not to grab at his food.” And then he’s shoving you down, bending you over roughly so your hips are pressing tight against the wooden edge. Darkness binds your forearms at your back, allowing Rhysand’s hands to greedily grip your hips, one brushing over your ass, making you arch slightly into the touch.

“Better?” The Shadowsinger asks, now stood before you, the other side of the table. He’s staring at Cassian, but his hand fists in your hair, jerking you up so the General can get a nice view of you, makeup and other slight cosmetics undisturbed on your pretty face. “Like the sight of her bent over this table? Ready to take both of us?”

Cassian nods, and you mark the heavy roll of his throat.

“Maybe you’ll like her more when we paint her white,” he muses, and you tighten around nothing. Hazel eyes flick to yours, and you could swear you see a spark of dark satisfaction in his gaze, as if he can sense your every reaction to them.

You don’t have time to ponder it when Azriel’s free hand drops to his leathers, undoing the knot at the top, then stepping closer. His hand is still fisted in your hair, keeping your mouth level with his hips, and there’s nothing but lust in his cold, dark eyes as he jerks you lightly. “Untie them.”

Your eyes drop to the front of his leathers, where you can so clearly make out the prominent shape of his arousal. If you weren’t already wet, you would be now. You swallow, shifting forward slightly as your teeth clamp carefully around one of the strings, pulling it lose, allowing it to swing free.

You move to the other one, unable to help the way your nose rubs against his length, feeling how hard he is. His fist tightens in your hair in warning, and you tug the string free, moving lower.

This time, you angle your head to avoid brushing him again, but Rhys subtly rolls his hips, shifting you on the table, your lips pressing firmly against him. Azriel pulls you back harshly, smacking you hard across the jaw, making your nails dig into your palm with the force. “Such a fucking tease, aren’t you?” He growls softly, bringing you back to the ties. “Just have to push your luck.”

You bite the inside of you lip, before offering an apologetic lap up the seam of his leathers, over the ridge of his cock.

Rhys chokes on a laugh, while Cassian groans quietly, noting something you haven’t. What—

Azriel snarls, yanking you back, shadows constricting around your torso to help pull you upright. His hand grips your jaw as his lip curls, forcing your mouth open as he spits onto your tongue. You blink at the pain, then warmth heats your skin as you feel the wetness in your mouth, his flavour coating your tongue, and you want so badly to rub your thighs together, but Rhys is making sure to keep them spread.

Hazel eyes flick to violet ones, and you stiffen when the High Lord’s hand wraps over your neck, forcing you to crane backward, mouth still open as he puts his own saliva down your throat. This time you whimper as he pulls away, cock dragging over your backside teasingly, fingers deftly brushing over your front as he leaves.

“So lovely, finally seeing you giving something back after such a long wait,” the High Lord drawls, hands leaving to attend to himself as Azriel drags you back for the last few ties. “Don’t praise her,” he says roughly, “she’ll feel rewarded.” You can just picture how Rhys shrugs, carrying that air of nonchalance to him, “I can’t help it if I want to reward her. Just look at her. Wouldn’t you agree, Cass?”

Wisely, the male keeps quiet, just watching you with that carnal lust in his hazel eyes, burning bright in the dark. You follow his example of making good decisions, and continue pulling loose the strings in Azriel’s leathers, salivating at the arousing outline on him.

“Reward her when she’s done something, then. You don’t train a pet by feeding them treats nonstop. That’s how they become errant and spoiled,” the Shadowsinger replies, hand tightening painfully in your hair as you move onto the last set of strings before you’ll be able to have him. You hope to the mother he doesn’t make you do this for Rhysand, too.

“I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of whipping the disobedience out of her, Az,” the High Lord drawls, and it occurs to you he might be buying you time. To free you from whatever nasty punishment the Spymaster had in store for you.

Any thankfulness you had felt disappears as he drags his finger down the line of your underwear, stopping as the slight indent in your soft skin, where the lace becomes shamefully wet. He presses against your entrance lightly. “That being said, if you drip onto my shoes, darling, you’re going to have to lick it up.”

You squirm against his shadows slightly, tugging in search for some form of comfortability. “Stop struggling.” The darkness wraps tighter in consequence and you halt the movements of your arms, following his orders. “Better,” he says, though it sounds reluctant.

The ties are out, and you push as upward as you can manage, nose brushing his lower abdomen as your teeth grasp the hem of his leathers, peeling them away from his hips, then you’ll finally be able to—

He tugs you away roughly, gripping your jaw as he forces you to look at him. “Greedy,” he mutters, icy hazel piercing into you, cold enough that you shiver beneath his grip. Amusement surfaces as quickly as it vanishes, his eyes flicking to Rhys’. His gaze returns to you, watching with anticipation as—

The High Lord groans as he pushes the red lace to the side, devouring the sight of your gleaming cunt. He can’t help himself, he needs to— “Rhysand,” Azriel growls in reprimand, about to remind him that you only receive pleasure when you’ve done something deserving of a reward.

“Open.” He snarls, and your legs shake at the inherent dominance in his voice, the power of your High Lord crackling in the air as you spread your legs further, curving your back in attempts to please him. It seems like it’s enough, because he dropping to a crouch, hands spreading you wide as he laps a firm stroke up your heat, groaning as he does so.

You’re vaguely aware of Cassian shifting in his chair as he’s forced to watch, watch as Rhys and Az get to taste you, fuck you, and he’s strapped to this damned seat.

The High Lord cursed under his breath as he buries his face into you, pushing you forward on the table even as you attempt to push back into him, revelling in the hot wetness of his tongue, finally receiving some stimuli. Your eyes roll from the sudden relief, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you keen beneath them.

Azriel’s gaze drags down to you, still cold and unforgiving, but there’s undeniable heat burning deep within him—perhaps one that’s been suppressed for too long. Maybe that’s why you try again, slowly inching forward, getting him to see what you’re wanting to do, seeking permission.

He grits his teeth, but drags you closer, allowing you to pull his leathers away from him. It’s only when he’s fully out that you stop, holding back from licking him up and down, getting a taste of him.

“Rhys,” Azriel commands, “up.”

It seems the High Lord senses what’s about to happen, because he finally stands, but leaving you feeling cold between your legs. You need his hot mouth encasing you again, need the wet muscle of his tongue flicking over your clit.

A needy whimper is strung from your throat, making Cassian buck with that same desperate fervour.

Your lips part in a sharp inhale when you feel Rhys’ tip press against your entrance, dragging himself through your wetness to slick himself up. And then you’re writhing, pushing back against him as that overwhelming need crushes you, the need to be filled, to be fucked, to be utterly and entirely owned, so overpowering it’s all you can think about.

The High Lord snarls his displeasure, hand splaying over your lower back, shoving you down into the table to still your movements as he guides his cock to your entrance, just the head inside of you. “You know, Az,” Rhys drawls lazily, an edge to his voice, “as much as I want to pleasure her, I don’t think she was very good just now.”

You can practically see the gleam in the Spymaster’s eye at the silent suggestion. Just your luck that Azriel has sadistic tendencies in him. “Punish her, then.” Rhysand hums to himself, as if he’s thinking.

“I don’t think it’ll get through to her… Maybe something more unorthodox will encourage her.”

To your right, Cassian hisses sharply, and in your peripherals you see how his body goes rigid. You freeze, turning to look at the Warlord. “Rhys!” You hiss, worried for the General’s well-being. You don’t miss the darkness that slithers away from the sensitive wings at his back, and you heat with a guess at what that hiss was from.

The High Lord only laughs darkly, “that’ll do. That’ll do nicely, don’t you think? Every time you misbehave, we’ll give your pleasure to Cassian over there. I imagine that’s torture enough for both of you.” His hips shift and he presses a little deeper, but this time you keep your head, for both your sakes. “Very good,” he taunts.

You only grit your teeth as you fight your instincts to grind back on him, to slam your hips against him, bury him deep inside your cunt. You try desperately to catch Azriel’s eye, needing something to distract you with, but he does nothing to come to your aid.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

The Shadowsinger shoves you down onto the table, cheek pressing hard against the wood as your eyes lock with Cassian’s. “Watch him,” the Spymaster instructs, and you don’t have it in you to face the repercussions of disobeying him. You can only imagine what he could gladly come up with, given the chance.

Hazel eyes land on your own, and you know his gaze is a reflection of your own, the need, the hunger, the lust, all going unsatisfied. That is, until Rhys pulls his hips back, to slide in further. In. And in. And in. Your mouth drops open as your eyes widen with pleasure, back arching as you feel Cassian’s attention drag down your body, flicking back and forth between your euphoric expression and the male between your legs.

He barely fits all the way in, but you’re taking as much as you can so it’ll have to do. Rhys groans as he feels the wet heat of you encompassing him, wrapped tight in your cunt, finally. His hands squeeze your ass as he pants, fighting the urge to rut into you, fuck you until you can’t stand, can do nothing but blabber and drool around Azriel’s cock.

The Shadowsinger pulls you from the table, yanking you up so he can look at you. For the first time that night, amusement sparks openly in his eyes as he tilts your face to Cassian, gripping your jaw in a bruising grip. “Who’s that?” He asks, supporting your shoulder carefully. “Can you correctly name him?” Azriel drawls, enjoying how you’re already losing your mind.

“No? Can’t do it?” He asks, turning you back forcefully to look at him. Rhys rolls his hips against you as a moan spills from your lips as you struggle to get a hold of yourself. “What about you, hm? What’s your name?” You look at him through half-lidded eyes, and he moves his hand to grip the muscles in your cheeks, lightly squeezing. “Can’t do it, whore? Come on, say your name.”

Cassian hisses from your side, and you know Rhys is playing with him to entertain himself.

You blink up at the Spymaster, panting deeply.

He has to grit his teeth as your lips part a little further, and he knows you’re doing it to tease him—just as you always are. Your back curves as his attention is drawn to your chest, nipples peaking through the thin lace. How dearly he wants the run his thumbs over them, take them in his mouth, flick his tongue over them—

“Pretty thing,” you moan breathlessly, “you like to call me pretty thing.”

He could kiss you. He could really give you anything you wanted.

Azriel groans, lowering you closer to the table again. “That’s right,” he mutters, the words turning guttural, “such a pretty thing.” He guides you to his cock, and honestly nearly loses it when your lips part for him, eyes peering up at him as you flick your tongue over the slit in his head, lapping up the bead of moisture that had gathered there.

It’s the sign Rhys has been waiting for—the go ahead from Azriel.

His hips draw back, and he slams into you, making you moan around the Shadowsinger’s cock. It comes out muffled and wet, and you’re pushed further down onto his cock with the force of the thrust, back curving sinfully as you run your tongue under the base of him.

Cassian takes in a sharp inhale, but this time it’s not from either of them. It’s from you. The sight of you finally submitting to the males, enjoying them, taking them so readily. Cassian could sob, would beg on his knees to be set free, but he knows they won’t allow that. Not until they’ve had their way with you first. To teach him his lesson about not sharing.

A flush warms your cheeks as you pull back slightly, pressing a kiss to the tip of Azriel’s cock, leaving the smallest stain of pigment decorating the milky slit. “I didn’t think you’d be capable of maidenly blushing,” he remarks mockingly, and you tighten around the High Lord.

“We’ll make sure to fuck whatever remaining innocence you have right out of you,” Rhys purrs, gripping your hips as he pounds into you relentlessly. You’ve been craving him for a while now, and you’re responding so well to him, to the touch of his cock inside of you. You won’t last long.

You whimper, taking more of Azriel into your mouth, but it’s difficult to do so when your arms are bound, having to use your abdominals to leverage yourself correctly. And he’s so big, you need every advantage you can get to make sure you pleasure him. To think he’ll be spilling into your mouth, and you’ll get to taste him—

“Deeper.” He commands, and you can’t tell who he’s talking to. But you moan when Rhys bucks his hips, finding that spot inside of you that makes you weep, the spot that’s been undisturbed for a little too long in your time as a pleasure worker.

You writhe against the Spymaster’s shadows, needing to take him deeper. You need to show him how good you can make him feel, in return for the pleasure he’s giving you in allowing you to outlive such a depraved fantasy as this.

Tears brim at the edges of your eyes as you look at him pleadingly, begging him to let you go as you tug at your restraints. You don’t know what you’ll do if you can’t exhibit the full wonders of your mouth to him.

His fist tightens in your hair in warning, and then his shadows release you.

You sob, hand first raising yourself up, then one arm snaking around his hips, the other gripping his waist, dragging him closer as you take him all the way down your throat. Azriel gasps sharply, hands slamming down on the table either side of you as you work him so well. Even with Rhys pounding into you at that perfect angle, abusing that spot inside of you over and over again, until tears are rolling down your cheeks, you’re set on returning every ounce to him.

You only pull back enough to breathe in deeply through your nose, before you’re swallowing him down again, flexing your throat in a way he hasn’t experience before, nails digging into his skin as your nose touches the dark swirls of hair at his base, tongue dancing over him so deliciously.

With a final buck of his hips, Rhys spills inside of you, thick, hot liquid filling you up in a way that has you moaning straight onto Azriel, each of the sensations triggering your own highs. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull as you flutter around the High Lord, the feeling the Shadowsinger’s release hit the roof of your mouth, shooting down your throat as your tongue swirls over the slit in his head soothingly.

You’re all panting, bodies slick with sweat, the smell of sex heavy in the air—you can’t imagine the torture it is for Cassian.

Azriel pulls you from his cock, thumb swiping over your lip before landing a firm pat to your cheek, ordering you to open up. You do so gladly, parting your lips to allow him to see his come coating you, painting you white as he had said. He groans at the sight, memorising the sight as he ingrains it in his mind.

“Swallow,” he breathes, and watches as your mouth seals, throat bobbing as you follow his orders perfectly, opening to show him proudly. His thumb rubs soothingly over your lip, and you keen into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as you bask in his attention.

Too soon, you’re being hauled away, Rhysand’s hand replacing the Spymaster’s as he forces you to your feet, shoving you toward Cassian at last, watching as you stumble, dumped between the General’s legs. You can guess that you look obscene, lipstick likely rubbed a little out of place—you’d intentionally selected one that was difficult to smudge, but not impossible.

“Go on,” Rhys drawls, his voice rough and breathless from the orgasm you’d gifted him. “You wanted to mess around with him, didn’t you?” You can hear the feline smile on his hellish mouth, “now’s you chance to repay him.”

And you don’t waste a second, slinking forward as you prowl up onto your knees, fingers deftly untying the strings to Cassian’s leathers and he practically whimpers at the prospect of relief, hips bucking into your warm hands, hands that promise soft, endless pleasure. Well versed in male satisfaction.

But of course it’s not that simple. What would be the fun in that?

You yelp as something cool and silky licks between your thighs, making you pause and look down. You whine when you spot Azriel’s shadows settling themselves between your legs, already soothingly flicking and lapping at your clit, getting heat to build in the pit of your belly.

Your eyes flick to his, but he only growls softly. “Go on.”

Cassian’s eyes practically roll as you pull him free, hand wrapping around his base, and he thinks he might come from that alone, make a mess of himself before you’ve even gotten your mouth on him. Maybe that’s their plan, to humiliate him like that in front of you. It would certainly work. He’s not sure if he could live that down.

But darkness wraps around the base of his cock, constricting. Not the silky darkness of Azriel’s shadows. The deep, powerful type from his High Lord. Hazel eyes flick to merciless violet, and he knows Rhys isn’t doing this to help him. It’s just another form of punishment he has to suffer through.

Your tongue laps over him and he moans, hands fisting as he grits his teeth, cursing beneath his breath. Your velvety mouth feels so good, so hot and wet and perfect. He needs to have you on him every hour of every day. To know this pleasure and be without it would be too much to bare.

“So good,” he murmurs encouragingly, wishing he could thread his fingers through your hair. You seem to sense it, raising your left hand to twine with his right, allowing him that sense of comfort as you take him deep within you, feeling the heat of his strong hand, the bulge of him in your throat.

He needs that release. He doesn’t care if it’s quick. You’ll know him better than that, understand the context. He just needs to come.

“Please,” he breathes, head tipping back in the chair, exposing the strong column of his neck. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he stares Rhys down, “please… I understand. I know better… please…”

The High Lord’s mouth quirks at the edges, but his eyes remain ruthless. Darkness disappears from the base of his cock, and he feels the wave about to crest—

You release a strangle moan as you’re jerked back, Azriel’s shadows having made their way up your body steadily, having now formed a collar around your neck that he uses to pull you away. Cassian snarls viciously, thrashing at the ties that don’t budge an inch.

“Rhysand,” he growls, so guttural you hardly recognise him.

The High Lord merely cocks a groomed brow, removing his shirt, preparing for round two. “Someone needs to teach you that lesson, Cass. I think you’d prefer it to be me rather than Az, here.” Sure enough, Azriel’s eyes are colder, promising a longer, harsher sentence. They soften almost imperceptibly when they dip to you, though.

All the General can do is snarl at the two males as his pleasure is taken away from him, made to crawl across the floor, following the leash back to her master.

You feel bad about abandoning Cassian like that, when you’re partially the reason he’s in the predicament, but there’s really nothing you can do against the two of them. Forces of nature in their own rights.

You follow the leash back, until you’re kneeling at Azriel’s feet, Rhys and Cass too preoccupied as his quiet eyes land on you. You lick your lips subtly, inclining your head every so slightly. The Shadowsinger’s eyes flick between the other two, before dropping down into a crouch to be at your level.

He stares into your eyes, and you wait patiently, curiously.

The argument sounds heated, getting more vicious in the background, but it falls away as you peer into the hazel of his dark eyes. His expression is neutral, but you get the feeling that if you wanted to…

You crawl forward, raising your hand to him. His eyes track the movement but he does nothing to stop you. Leans into your touch as you brush his cheek, fingers threading in his dark, silky locks, and you marvel at their softness.

His eyelids flutter shut beneath your touch, and you take the opportunity. Slowly, quietly shifting forward, before you’re bringing your mouth to his, lips pressing against his own, as if made from heated silk.

But he can’t afford too long, or they’ll notice he’s being contradictory and taking you for himself. Even he would be in trouble if Rhys and Cass decided to team up on him. So he presses into you a little, nipping at your lip before pulling away. There’s the faintest flush of colour on his cheeks as he stands, that leash reconnecting to your collar.

“If you’re done.” He says, tone dropping to the ruthless iciness so easily. The argument ceases, and you feel the weight of Cassian’s gaze on your body. As much as you’re enjoying yourself, you needed that momentary reprieve Azriel provided, able to read emotions slightly deeper than the others. Whether that’s from being forced into so much solitary time as a child, or those shadows of his…

Cold eyes drop to yours. “Get up.”

On trembling legs, you manage to stand, feeling the beginnings of Rhys’s come about to start dripping out. You clamp down, trying to keep him inside of you.

The Shadowsinger nods to the table, “bend over.”

You swallow, but do as he says, shifting to the edge, before slowly laying yourself across the wood, eyes latching on to Rhysand’s. His are warmer than Azriel’s, star-flecked and bright, full of hunger and blind lust, and beneath that…

You tense when the Shadowsinger lands a harsh smack to your ass, gripping and squeezing appreciatively as he pushes your underwear to the side. Suddenly he understands why Rhys went to his knees behind you. You’re glorious.

And he gets to bury his cock into you this time, fill you up so perfectly, let you know you were made for the three of them to take. Theirs. All theirs.

“Open,” he commands, mimicking the first order your High Lord had given you earlier tonight. Your legs spread wider, and Rhys’ hand threads in your hair, not nearly as demanding or rough as the Shadowsinger’s. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb swiping beneath your lip as he pries your mouth open easily.

“Are you going to be good about this?” He purrs, “or am I going to have to treat you like Az did?” You bite your lip, letting him know exactly how you felt about the rough treatment you received. A dark laugh drags from his throat as he tilts your head, guiding you to his tip, still gleaming with your release.

“Look how obedient you’re being. Where was this side of you in all those debates, huh? Incessant teasing all year round, flirting with each of us as if we weren’t all thinking about tying you up somewhere you’d never escape from, so we could use you whenever we pleased.” His fingers brush soothingly over your scalp, nails taking close behind. A gentle reminder of his rougher nature.

“But it was only recently you confirmed you’d like that, too.” He strokes your jaw, encouraging you to open up for him, and he eases in, and you hear Cassian whimper with need. It must be physically painful for him by now. “Isn’t that right, little lynx?” He purrs, guiding himself deeper into the wet heat of your mouth. You hum hoarsely in response, throat bruised from taking Azriel so hard.

You feel Azriel press against your entrance, and your thighs tremble with his size.

“Anytime you want,” Rhys purrs, “I can alter your memory to temporarily forget this ever happened.” He allows you to put your hands on him, taking him into your mouth as his Spymaster presses inside of you, stretching you out in a truly delicious way. “That way we can do this for the first time over and over again,” he smirks. “We can make it as fucked up as you like.”

And it starts all over again.

Azriel draws his hips back, then slams in, his hips smacking against yours as you’re jolted up the table from the force. His fingers bite into your hips as he pounds into you, making your mind practically melt as Rhys fucks your mouth. You moan onto him desperately, letting your High Lord set his own pace, gripping your hair as you keep your mouth open, tongue swirling beneath him, throat bobbing as you contact around him, urging him to spill into you.

Cassian writhes helplessly as he groans gutturally, head tipping back onto the back of the padded chair as his jaw clenched, trying to calm himself, but the scent of your sex is driving him crazy. Mother knows what he’ll do when he’s released, but maybe that’s part of their plan.

Rhysand snarls softly above you, jerking your head back, violet eyes plunging to indigo, to icy blue. “Take your attention anywhere except from me and see what I can do to you,” he growls, fist tightening painfully in your hair as he grips your jaw tight. You whimper when Azriel bucks his hips, targeting that spot Rhys had found, abusing it steadily as he angles your hips so he can make you scream. He needs to know how good he’s making you feel.

“Understand?” The High Lord snarls, and you whine, curving your back, tears brimming at the edges of your lashes as you nod your head. “That’s the last damned warning I’ll give you. You fuck up again and you’ll get something worse than what Cassian’s having.” This time you take the threat to heart, eyes widening pleadingly.

“That’s better,” he growls. “Now set that fucking mouth to work so I can have something to reward you for, yeah?”

The second he’s releasing you, you’re diving down, swallowing him whole as you feel him bulging in your throat. Again, you flex and bob your inner muscles, tightening around him and Azriel to make it as good for them as it is for you. Driven by that need to satiate, to please and pleasure.

Rhys groans above you as you do something wicked with your tongue, making him twitch, a sure sign that he’s close. You moan onto him, half intentional, half because you can’t help it. Azriel’s hitting all the right spots, and you can feel yourself unravelling, parting your legs wider. You want more, more, more from him.

Pants and groans echo throughout the room along with the wet slap of skin against skin. You raise one of your legs slightly, enough for Azriel to get the hint. His hand wraps beneath your shin, cocking your leg as he keeps you spread out, and the new angle makes you scream. Your eyes roll, muscles spasming as you come so hard you nearly black out, the pleasure rolling through you in hard, firm strokes.

Rhysand spills on your tongue, his flavour so delicious you could cry. So intrinsically him. And you can feel the waves of come as Azriel releases deep inside of you, how his hands grip tighter with each wave that crests him, panting deeply.

“That’s it,” the High Lord soothes, thumb brushing beneath your lashes, tracing the paths of hot water as he pulls out, eyes fixated on your mouth as you again swallow. “So good, weren’t you?” You nod wearily, tired out from both of them using you so intensely. You don’t know if you have any energy left for Cassian.

But the Shadowsinger’s hands are gently hauling you from the table, easing out of you as you tighten around nothing, desperate to keep their releases deep inside of you. Tucked away nice and safe.

“Looks like you’ve learned your lesson, Cass.” The Spymaster drawls, slightly breathless from the high—you don’t know how he’s managing to keep himself together. But then he’s pushing you forward, and you’re not sure if you can take any more.

“Azriel…” you whimper softly, “I—…I can’t…not again.” He continues guiding you toward the General, and heat’s already looking in your belly from how sensitive you are—you know this one’s going to be intense. “Az, please…” you beg, softly, tears rolling as you attempt to push back.

“Vanilla?” He whispers, lips brushing against your ear as he’s quiet enough the others can’t hear. And it’s enough of a reassurance—that he’ll stop, that he remembers—that you manage to shake your head lightly. You know you can’t take another one, but that’s the fun. Cassian’s going to force you to ascend to that higher level of lust, just like he promised. With the buzzing beneath your skin, you’re not sure you’ll remain conscious.

Shakily, you stumble forward, trembling as you crawl into his lap, feeling his tip press against your entrance.

“Cassian,” you murmur, quietly, “I’m not sure how long I’ll last…” He shakes his head, as if he isn’t either. “Doesn’t matter. Just need to be in you.” Heat flushes your skin, fingers settling on his shoulders as you slowly sink down onto his lap, breathy moans tumbling from your lips.

And then the ties vanish.

He doesn’t have the strength to hold back, and you don’t want him to.

Your head falls back as your mouth drops open in a silent scream. He’s pounding into you, hips bucking sharply with an energy that intimidates you, hands gripping you tightly as he slams you down on his cock.

White spots dance in your vision and you must black out at some point.

When you come to, you can feel Rhys and Az at your back, helping to ease you off Cassian’s lap. You’re a trembling, whimpering mess in their hands, simply allowing them to do the heavy lifting. You clench desperately, wanting to keep them inside of you, all perfectly mixed up by now.

You can hardly tell up from down as they carefully move you to the bed, making sure you’re comfortable and tucked away before all three of them clamber in beside you.

It’s been a long while since you’ve been so thoroughly satiated, feeling as though you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life. And you know you’ll likely be sore tomorrow, but you don’t have the energy to care. Not with the aftershocks of such immense pleasure still simmering beneath your skin.

And certainly not when you’re surrounded by all three of them.

You’ll show your happiness thoroughly…but tomorrow.

Tomorrow you’ll sort through the hard stuff. For now, you’ll enjoy them. Their scents, mixed with yours, heavy in the air. The sound of their breathing, deep and evening out, down to the steady warmth that’s surrounding you.

They’re perfect.

Utterly perfect.

[johannestevans]

Your smut is always so good, I hope it's okay to ask for advice, but I've been struggling with writing smut in that my sex scenes always end up so short - I don't want to just pad them out for the sake of it, but when I read them back they always seem to be over so quickly and it's bothering me, but I can't figure out where I'm going wrong. do you have any tips for keeping up longer sex scenes?

So there are two elements that you might want to explore in detail writing a smut scene from any particular character's perspective, both of which will add depth and complexity - and duration - to a sex scene.

The first is the external, the second is the internal.

The external is the most obvious, right? What are they doing to one another, how are they doing it, where are they doing it?

They touch each other.

How do they touch each other? Tenderly? Roughly? With dominance in mind, or invitingly, seductively, touching their partner purely with a mind of inviting their partner to touch them back? Provocatively, perhaps, with little shoves here and there so that their partner won't just return the favour, but put them muscle into it?

How do you touch someone tenderly?

Is your touch featherlight and delicate, almost afraid to make contact, skin-to-skin? Do you cup their jaw or the underside of their tits, do you stroke them? Deliver kisses along their skin, or mouth over their flesh with your lips parted? Do you hold them, press your bodies tight together, nuzzle against their necks, breathe in the scent of their hair?

How are you rough, if you are rough? Do you smack them, enjoy the loud sound of skin as your palm makes contact with the meat of their thigh, the impact wet when you do it over a sheen of sweat or wetness? Do you grab them, position them, pin them down with your body weight? Do you grip them around the waist, around the neck, by the shoulders, and position them where you want them, bounce them on your cock or drag them to grind against your thigh?

Is your touch rough and impersonal, clinical, reserved, removed, or is it involved and possessive, proprietary? Do you desire to leave a mark, to show your ownership, or are you so focused on your own needs that it doesn't matter to you whether you leave a mark or not?

How do you dominant a partner? With your touch, with the shadow of your body, your personality, over theirs? With your words, talking constantly, or with a few short commands here and there, uttered in low tones?

Do you make them talk, maybe, to beg for your touch on theirs, or say how every touch makes them feel?

Do you continue your conversations you were having before you had sex? Do you laugh together, tease each other, tell jokes, keep on infodumping? Do you argue? Do you bicker and complain and kvetch about your day, or about how you told them those shoes were going to make them sore if they wore them for this long, and did they listen? Do they ever listen? Do they respond wryly with, "I listen to some things..." as they press down on the knot in your shoulder and draw a moan out of you?

What sensations are you describing, depicting, as you write people involved with one another?

Yes, touch, touch is good, the good feelings, not just skin on skin, not just the satisfaction of being filled or surrounded, sucked or bitten, but the thrum of heat that runs through them at the right touch or right word, the tingle up their spine at the right smack or well-delivered impact, the dizzying blur when they lose their breath for a moment.

Sight, too, of course - the arch of their back and the stiffening and then relaxing of their body, seeing the tendons in their wrists flex as they grip at the sheets, seeing the stretch marks and scars shift like constellations on their belly and chest and thighs as they move? Seeing their thighs and belly and arse wobble at the impact, the glorious motion of it? Seeing colour change in and under their skin, seeing the slight darkness to it at a blush, seeing the pink or red bloom underneath it as blood rushes to the area? Seeing the colours an old bruise is turning, or seeing the sheen of sweat on the skin?

Watching their hairs stand on end when you breathe on the back of their lip, or watching their lip quiver as they tell you what they want next?

What about sounds? The sounds of their noises, their moans, their gasps, the sound of flesh on flesh, the wet sound of penetration, of their kissing? The sound of the mattress springs and the headboard squeaking, of the music in the background, of one of them laughing because they hear a thump downstairs and they know it's the cat knocking things over in protest of being locked out while they fuck?

What about the tastes, the taste of sweat on their skin, their coffee clinging to their lips, the sweetness or saltiness or bitterness of their come? The smell of come and musk and sweat, of perfume and shampoo and the new laundry powder they've been using?

All of that is the external, right? The sensations and the two bodies in motion.

Then is the internal - how do the characters feel?

The sensations, yes, but... Have they done this before? With whom? Do they remember, are they remembering it now? The first time they touched each other, the first time they did this particular sexual act, the first time they discovered who they were, or what they liked?

What little things bring back a rush of memory, which sights, tastes, sounds, smells?

Are they comfortable right now? Happy? Pleased? Stressed, and hoping to work it out? Are they slow and already satisfied, but happy to sate themselves further?

Are they angry? Raging? Furious, and taking it out on each other? Are they miserable and desperate to feel a bit of happiness for a moment, to feel like they aren't alone?

How is their relationship changing through the course of the scene? Are they at the beginning of this relationship, still learning to communicate, still learning how and where to touch each other, still learning to learn each other's sweet spots, still learning to trust one another?

Or is this old hat by now? Are they as expert in the other's body as they are in their own, playing their partner as any virtuoso plays their favourite instrument, drawing out beautiful sounds?

Are they confident, or nervous? Are they adept, or still clumsy? Are they eager or reluctant, certain or uncertain?

How comfortable do they feel right now? Do they feel guilty? Why? What brings the guilt most into relief - a scent that reminds them of someone else? A certain word, a certain touch? Is the guilt a constant background hum, almost tuned out, or is it constant, raging, consuming their mind even as their body is focused on other things?

How do they feel at the beginning, in the middle, at the end, afterwards? Do they feel the same way about their partner throughout? Do they feel the same way about themselves? About life, about love, about sex, about everything else?

Do they even know how they're feeling? Are they in-touch with themselves enough to realise, or is it a mystery even to themselves - do their partners have a better idea than they do?

With all that taken into account... A long and protracted sex scene isn't necessarily better than a shorter one. Sometimes, they need to be more perfunctory, and one sex scene might be best kept short while another should be long.

It depends what the story and characters call for!

Hope this helps. :)