#Urg I hate using such generic tags...

[a-mess-of-a-crow]

I feel like a sell-out when I tag more generic tags and stuff, but i dunno, maybe it helps with the reach? What do you think?

((I'll try it with this one, as a test))

Actually lemme post some art with it.

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

later, then | i. rin

✮ tags ; gn!reader, pre-relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, rin in his actor era, assisstant!reader. this is sfw but i am an 18+ blog so minors do not follow me lol.

✮ wc ; 1.4k

✮ a/n ; a comm for @rabbbitseason that i had to rewrite a couple of times. i rlly liked being able to write something like this. i hope u like the direction i ended up going in sdjksdj

✮ synopsis ; on his last day of filming rin tried to keep you out of his thoughts.

"Rin-kun,"

He knows your voice well enough to know it's you before he even opens his eyes. "Hn,"

"We'll be shooting your scenes next," You say, tapping his shoulder lightly. "They told me to wake you up."

It's not like Rin to fall asleep on a set somewhere, no matter how tired he is. He's usually the type to push through it no matter what. It's petty, but it feels like he's lost otherwise.

He was exhausted before hand though. Months of shooting and he still can't get used to his schedule.

He's here from a morning flight from France that he took all the way back home to Japan. After he arrived, he immediately hailed a cab and busted ass to get here on time. He would normally rest on his journey but found he couldn't bring himself to actually fall asleep.

Professor Heartbreak is a Japanese TV drama (airing domestically lived and internationally on Netflix) and Rin's first acting role. The series follows a romance between a graduate student caught in a lot of debt and her relationship to one of her pupils, college student and heir to mega corporation.

Rin has never had any interest in acting, and had even less interest in acting in a romance drama. His manager however urged (read: forced) him to take the offer, emphasizing how good it would be for his public image among other things. Of course, Rin still declined but no matter what he did - he couldn't actually seem to get out of doing it.

He's off-season now though he started filming during. He can say with confidence there's nothing he likes about the job. No matter how much his manager or director insists that all he needs is to have a pretty face - there's still a level of annoying obligation he feels towards doing it.

The reception was more positive then they were expecting. Apparently Rin is a half-decent actor. He's not playing a character he feels is so different from him, if not much more cringe.

Rin plays the love interest Yukio. Not very expressive and rich with a tendency to chase what he wants. Generally aggressive about the female love interest.

It doesn't suit him and he doubts he'll do it again. But a lot went into getting the role. If he's going to do it at all, he might as well do it well.

Rin hates shit that's half-assed after all, lukewarm acting doesn't suit him.

Today is the last day of shooting and happens to be one of the last scenes. Shooting is sometimes chronological, but not always. Regardless, after today it'll be the last time Rin steps foot on this set. No more long nights, or trying to memorize lines, no more out of place press runs. The practice season will start again and he can go back to the busy he's been used to since the debut of his soccer career.

That also means it'll be the last time you and Rin spend time in the same room. It's the first thing he thinks of when you wake him.

Rin sits up and carefully rubs his eye, careful not to disturb the makeup he wears for set.

"When the fuck did I sleep?"

You laugh under your breath, handing him a water bottle like you already knew he would want one. He takes it from you and takes a long drink trying to wake himself up.

"Been a little over an hour. Hour and a half, maybe. Did you sleep okay?"

He scowls, just slightly. "It was fine."

"I'm glad you slept well," You add, voice full of mirth and amusement as you read between the lines said all too easily.

He was moody when he came on set with you, worse then normal and refused to sleep. You suggested he rest his eyes and Rin scoffed at you for thinking he's so stupid. He's not a kid you can trick into going to sleepy.

You conceded easily, made a single sly comment about hoping he's all there when it's his turn. It'd be a shame if he had to keep shooting the same scene and ended up home late after all. Enough of a provocation to submit to your stupid suggestion.

Rin supposes this was why his manager hired you in the first place. You're in a temporary position, your contract to be in place until filming is over and Rin's back on normal scheduling. Rin realized pretty early on that you're more like a glorified babysitter then an assistant which is why he didn't have very pleasant expectations of you at the start.

But you're competent. Push without pushing too far. Clever even when it's annoying. You've known each other for a year and the only thing that binds you is work but you're with him all the time. Maybe it's just the job, but it still feels like you know him better then most.

Not like he cares.

Realizing he was tired enough to sleep and goading him into doing it are two separate things though. But you've managed both pretty easily which he can admit is a feat. You're always like that. You remind him a little of another annoying striker in that way.

A quiet settles between you. Rin gropes around for his phone, checking his messages and the time. Still a few hours until the set wraps and no doubt social obligations afterwards. He groans.

"I'm going home after we're done shooting,"

"You can't," You say, apologetic. "Manager says you have to show your face during the after party."

"That doesn't make any fucking sense."

"You're the main male love interest, you should at least drop in for a little bit. Have a beer, unwind."

"I don't like drinking,"

"A soda then. Don't be so stubborn."

Rin huffs, carefully pushing a hand through his hair careful not to mess up the styling. There's a beat of silence.

"Are you going?"

"To the drinking party?"

Rin looks at you as if to ask isn't it obvious. You just chuckle.

"Why?" You tease. "Will you stay longer if I go?"

Rin pauses. And it's quiet for just a second too long before he realizes. You seem to understand the implication almost instantly.

Even before Rin who catches himself just a second too late.

"...I don't mind staying with you until you've filled your quota. If that's what you're asking." You supply.

Rin frowns, faint warmth creeping his neck. "Then do that."

You fight back a smile. "Sure, sure. What time were you thinking of leaving?"

"As soon as possible," He says bluntly. You laugh that time. Brightly. Sincerely.

"Seems like a waste. You can handle fifteen minutes without me, right? Doesn't feel like I need to go if we're gonna part ways so soon anyhow."

Rin pouts. A petulant, ugly feeling in him. He speaks without thinking. "You're saying it like we're never gonna see each other again,"

You both catch it.

"Are we?" You're grinning at him where you stand next to him, eyes cast down to look at his face. He fights off a blush but fails to keep from turning red. Fuck. "Seeing each other again, I mean."

He doesn't know what it is exactly that makes him answer the way he does.. "No shit."

You grin, beam really - and your fingers brush his hand on the couch. Rin jolts, clearly in deeper than he thought.

"Okay. Then let's go together and get something to eat after," You say, coy. "Since we're seeing each other again,"

Rin rubs a hand on the nape of his neck.

"Shut up. Fine. Whatever,"

You laugh again no longer hiding it. He hands his water bottle to you as he gets called onto set. Standing to his feet, he takes a breather to stretch out all his limbs.

You give him a mischievous smile, staring at him openly when something seems to strike you. Like you've just realized something.

"Rin-kun. Bend down a little. I need to tell you something."

Confused but not concerned, he complies without thinking.

You place your copy of the script strategically to obscure both your faces, and in a single split second - Rin feels something soft and warm press against his cheek followed by another giggle like a bell chime. He flusters, instantly scowling and tomato-faced and nearly cussing as you look so self-satisfied.

(Warm. So warm where you linger on his skin. Hot where you've touched him despite how brief.)

"For good luck. I'll see you later then. Knock 'em dead, okay?"

He curses under his breath before they call him one more time and he watches you disappear to go do the other half of your job. He puts his hand to his cheek and takes a breath.

Stupid. He closes his eyes and buries the explosion of feeling in him as he replies to no one in particular.

"Idiot."

[minkdelovely]

homebodies

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor x GN!Reader

tags: domestic!alastor, fluff, established relationship, alcohol consumption, not “explicit” but as a general rule MDNI 18+

word count: 1.2k

author’s note: more self-indulgence. just a little something that’s been on my mind since i watched ‘casablanca’ over the weekend. i tried my best not to get too ooc, but idk - i feel like under the right circumstance, alastor has great potential for coziness. here’s looking at you, kid.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Tonight was the night. The decision was made a week ago and there was no way you would be backing down.

You didn’t know why you had gotten the urge one day, but once it was there you were determined on getting an antique TV. It had taken visiting several antique shoppes throughout Cannibal Town, but you had managed to find one: a 1949 Packard Bell television (or possibly Hell’s greatest dupe) that was in beautiful shape.

It had been so exciting rearranging your furniture to make room for it, and you set it up to play some of the movies you had also found. The perfect cozy piece that had been missing from the lounge area in your suite. You loved how it looked with the rest of your things, fitting in seamlessly with some of your other antique finds; the morning glory gramophone being one of yours and Alastor’s favorites.

Thinking of him, you began to feel a little nervous about your impulse buy. You knew how he felt about modern technology but… would a TV from 1949 really count? If the concern was Vox, surely the Vees wouldn’t be interested in bugging this old thing?

Uncertainty won out, and you decided to conceal it with a scalloped, ivory tablecloth, placing a vase of flowers on top to complete the transformation. Just until you could work up the courage to show it to him.

You had given yourself a week, and it was finally time. It had been all planned out, from what you’d be having for dinner to the movie you would ask him to watch. The two of you had a long-standing routine of staying in on Friday nights, with activities ranging from you each settling down with a book to dancing in the lounge all while the radio played. Needless to say, it had been a long time since you had felt so nervous about him coming over. What if he really hated it? Or worse… thought it was silly?

A distinct rapping at the door interrupted your spiral, Alastor peaking his head in before fully entering your suite. Despite the number of times you had told him he didn’t need to, the knocking was a habit he refused to give up. Tonight you were grateful, as it gave you the slightest bit of warning to pull yourself together before you hurried to greet him.

He was already removing his coat by the time you reached him, and he kissed your hand in greeting when you tried to take it. A gesture that still left you with butterflies.

“Evening, dearest. Tonight couldn’t have come soon enough, I’ve been looking forward to it for days,” he sighed, finally allowing you to take his coat as he loosened his bow tie with a tug of his fingers.

You would never get used to seeing him be so relaxed around you. He was always so composed and properly dressed that the moments in which he was casual were precious to you, like a secret.

“I know, you’ve been busy this week,” you commiserated, already reconsidering your plan of action as you put the coat away. It was rare that he was tired like this. “What would you like to drink? I’ll get it for you.”

Maybe this isn’t be the best time to try and spring something new on him, you thought as he took a seat at the small table in your makeshift dining area.

“Surprise me,” he said, resting his head in his hand. His eyes trailed you as you made your way to the bar cart, the lazy smile on his face making your heart jump.

Husker had recently taught you how to make a few cocktails, the Negroni turning out to be a surprise favorite. You made two and set his glass down in front of him, exchanging a silent cheers before taking a sip.

Dinner went off without a hitch, and you took turns catching each other up with superfluous details of the week now that you finally had the time. It was during all of this that you worked up your courage to stick to the plan. Maybe a movie might be a nice distraction?

“I bought something last week that I’ve been meaning to show you,” you said, fiddling with your glass.

He raised a brow and hummed. “And why the wait?”

“I was nervous at first, how you’d react to it — it’s nothing bad!” you added quickly, seeing the look on his face. His imagination could be the worst sometimes. “Just… unexpected? I bought a TV from 1949. It’s been hiding in the lounge.”

Alastor turned to look and you got up to remove its disguise. Seeing it for the first time since covering it, you fell in love all over again. It really did fit your space so perfectly.

“It’s not… terrible,” he conceded, standing over it with a suspicious air. “It doesn’t stick out, at least. And you intend to watch it, I presume?”

Here goes nothing.

“I do,” you said, not as confidently as you’d have liked. “I, um… I was actually wondering if you wanted to watch a movie with me? It’s from 1942.”

“You don’t have to keep telling me which years they’re from, dearest,” he sighed, taking a seat on the couch. “But first, I’d like another drink.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“I’d like to think that you killed a man. It’s the romantic in me,” Louis said from the television, and to your surprise Alastor chuckled. Was he… enjoying this? You couldn’t help but dare take a peak, and the relaxed smile you found nearly killed you.

He was actually watching it! This was a victory you’d soon not forget.

You started to covertly look over at him as the movie moved along, curious to see which parts of it he reacted to. He was so absorbed that you were able to get away with it for nearly half the movie.

Alastor nearly caught you when the Paris flashback was over, giving you an unmistakable ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look. You couldn’t help but laugh, and he soon joined in.

You picked up on moments here and there throughout the rest of it, mostly when involving Rick and Louis. And he really enjoyed when Victor began to sing La Marseillaise, singing along with just as much passion. Laughing when Ilsa pulled a gun on Rick, disappointed when she didn’t follow through.

Before you knew it, Rick and Louis were walking off into the proverbial sunset and the movie was over.

“I wouldn’t mind if you ever wanted to watch that again,” he said, looking down at you. You had been inching closer and closer to him throughout the movie, until he tucked you under his arm.

“Really? I’m so glad you liked it!” You couldn’t fight the smile on your face. This had gone so much better than expected, and you were just so happy. “Can I kiss you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Goodness, so well-mannered tonight,” he teased with a laugh, voice low and eyes heavy. “I suppose, since you asked so nicely.”

The kiss had started chaste enough, before he said he wanted ‘payback’.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco

[khywren]

「 Prelude to Your Undoing 」

summary: “Why else would you come find me in the middle of the night?” She asks. “I'd be flattered if you just wanted to exchange pleasantries, but we both know that's not the case, is it?”

“Oh, come now,” Astarion says, his voice practically dripping with lust. “I can think of several reasons to seek out the pleasure of your company after dark,” he insists, his emphasis deliberate. He's deflecting again.

Tav meets him head on. “All right, then, why are you here?”

---

Tav has a way of making Astarion feel vulnerable in ways he's never felt before. He finds this new development rather disconcerting.

pairing: Astarion/f!Reader/f!Tav rating: 18+ MDNI status: complete tags/warnings: vaginal sex, blowjobs, blood drinking, porn with feelings, smut, soft Astarion, mild angst, reader-insert, unnamed reader/Tav word count: 5.5k spoiler warning: nothing outside of a small mention about Astarion's past.

a/n: written in the third person - reader is referred to as Tav but is otherwise generic and not described. crossposted from AO3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time Astarion allows himself to feel vulnerable around Tav is the first night he drinks her blood.

When she suddenly awakens just before his fangs sink into her neck, Astarion jumps back in a panic, certain that she's going to drive a stake through his chest, or at the very least alert the others who will likely do the job themselves.

But she doesn't. Instead, she hears Astarion out, listens to him confide in her just how weak he is. He doesn't go into further detail about how ravenous he is for even a drop of her blood, lest it scare her off. 

He's used to feeling powerless, but that doesn't make the admission wound his pride any less.

When Tav accepts his proposition without a second thought, he cannot help but be surprised. It's an incredibly generous thing for her to do, and perhaps one of the stupidest. But Astarion knows that, fool or not, her blood will be the sweetest he has ever tasted.

He isn't disappointed. When his fangs pierce her throat and she cries out beneath him, it only makes the warm blood that rushes over his tongue all the more delicious.

When the deed is done, she smiles sweetly at him, her blood still welling up from the pinprick marks on her skin. Astarion swipes a finger across the wound and savors one final taste of her, fighting every urge within him to sate himself on every last drop of her delicious essence.

She doesn't judge him for being weak, for practically having to beg for her blood. Faintly, he considers that she might pity him for appearing so frail, that for her, this may be something akin to nurturing a dying animal back to health.

And he hates it.

————————————

It happens again several weeks later, at the tiefling party in their encampment. Astarion lingers alone outside his tent, watching the partygoers, nursing a bottle of the most disgusting wine he can ever recall pouring down his throat. But there are far too many people here for him to even consider staying sober.

A few of the tieflings catch his eye, hoping to entice him, but he pretends not to notice. There isn't much point in seducing someone who he's never going to see again, someone whose use doesn't extend beyond a few quick moments of pleasure.

His gaze flicks across the camp, searching, before at last he finds her. Tav is sitting just within her tent, legs crossed, hair tied back and the loose ends tucked behind her ears, sketchbook in hand. 

Astarion has seen her do this before, once or twice. It's how she documents their travels, as if they're all on some merry adventure and aren't infected with Illithid parasites that may detonate their brain matter at a moment's notice.

It would almost be endearing if it wasn't so delusional.

Tonight his boredom and his curiosity get the better of him, and he saunters over towards her, drawing her attention briefly as he cranes his neck to see what she's been up to as her fingers sketch out quick lines in charcoal.

She's created a remarkably accurate image of Wyll as he dances around the fire, hand-in-hand with a delighted tiefling girl who giggles shyly and leans into his touch.

“Ahh,” Astarion drawls, “So it's our darling Wyll who's captivated your attention. How cute. I'm sure he'd dance with you if you asked him.”

Tav is immediately flustered by Astarion's teasing, covering her drawing to stop him from jumping to any other conclusions. It's adorable, really, how easy it is to play with her like this. She's far more susceptible to his playful banter than any of their other companions, and he can't stop himself from having fun.

“Oh, no, it's nothing like that!” she insists adamantly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “He's just a very good subject, that's all.”

Astarion can almost feel the warmth of the blood that stains her cheeks as the tantalizing aroma caresses his senses. He wonders briefly if she'd let him taste her again tonight, once all the celebrations have died down. It's all he can do not to lick his lips, as if the taste of her blood somehow lingers from the last time she let him feed from her.

She's speaking to him again now, drawing him out of his reverie.

“... and anyway, it's not like he's the only one I've drawn. Would you...” She hesitates for a moment, gathering up the courage to continue. “Would you like to see the ones I've made of you?”

Astarion quirks a brow, suddenly far more interested in the conversation.

“Certainly, love. I just hope you've captured my good side. And in halfway decent lighting.”

Tav thumbs through the pages of her sketchbook, and Astarion catches quick glimpses of some of their other party members: Shadowheart performing her nightly meditations, Gale reading a particularly massive tome. Karlach playing fetch with Scratch.

Finally, she finds what she's looking for and hands the book to Astarion, who cradles the spine in the palm of his hand before studying what's on the pages Tav has selected for him.

She's drawn several portraits from various angles, each and every one a perfect encapsulation of Astarion's angular features. He hardly has time to process the fact that this is the closest thing he's seen to his own reflection in over 200 years before he notices it: in every drawing, his expression looks pensive, distant. There's more than a touch of sadness in the eyes that stare back accusingly at him.

He can't bear to look at the drawings any longer, not when they betray the emotions he has spent so long crafting the perfect mask to hide. It's so much easier to avoid prying questions if he can simply play the charmer; after all, it's what he knows best, it's how he knows how to protect himself. A few well-placed compliments have gotten him much further than a blade in most circumstances.

Astarion's brows knit together, and he grimaces reflexively. Tav chews her lip before snatching the sketchbook back and slams it shut. “I'm sorry, do you not like them?” She sounds disappointed.

“Do I always look like that?” Astarion asks instead, avoiding her question.

Tav hesitates, clearly sensing whatever internal turmoil Astarion is experiencing at this new revelation. She decides that it's best to be honest with him.

“I just draw what I see. But I still think you look rather handsome, if it's any consolation.”

Astarion smiles wryly at her and drains the rest of his wine. Leave it to Tav to try her best to soften the blow.

Earlier, he was contemplating what he might say to convince her to follow him into the woods behind their camp after everyone else fell asleep. A few honeyed words to loosen her clothes, and he'd have her wrapped around his finger like so many others before her. But now the thought of sleeping with her after she's all but exposed him for the fraud he is seems quite pathetic, and he casts the entire plot aside.

Instead, he thanks her dryly for the compliment and retires to his tent, left alone with nothing but his thoughts.

Tav knows too much.

————————————

Tonight, Astarion considers confronting Tav about what's been bothering him, to discover if her assumptions are merely innocent and baseless speculation or something deeper. The more she knows, the more difficult it will be to manipulate her into falling for his schemes of self-preservation.

He needs her to be malleable.

She's volunteered for the first watch of the evening, and as the sun sinks below the horizon, he spots her sitting at the top of the ruined tower that rises at the edge of their camp, her silhouette plainly visible against the backdrop of the stars that blanket the cloudless sky.

He climbs the winding staircase slowly, using the time to consider his course of action. He makes no effort to mask the sound of his footsteps as he typically does, and she hears him before he emerges onto the terrace, her expression questioning the reason for his sudden appearance.

“Feeling restless?” Tav asks, breaking the ice.

“Something like that,” Astarion confesses, settling himself a few paces away from her. She's found a few old cushions from somewhere around the ruins they've chosen to make camp in for the night, and they're far more comfortable to sit on than the dusty stonework that makes up most of the tower.

“I'm sure you must know how dreadful it is to be left alone with nothing but your thoughts rattling around inside your skull. If only this damned tadpole would feed on some of those, it might not be so bad.” He chuckles at the thought, but it's a hollow laugh devoid of any real mirth.

Tav mirrors Astarion's laugh and leans back, stretching her weary muscles. “Are you brooding, Astarion? How very unbecoming of you.”

“Oh, it's nothing that scandalous, I assure you,” he quips back, avoiding playing his hand too early. This is still not a conversation he wants to have, no matter how much avoiding it for so long has gotten under his skin like an itch he can't quite scratch.

“Hmm, I'm not so sure about that,” Tav replies coolly. “I think I know enough about you by now to know that nothing about you is as straightforward as you'd like everyone to think it is.”

She glances briefly at him and Astarion studies her expression, but he can find nothing to hint at her motivations in the casual look she throws his way.

“I'm curious, then,” he says after a few moments of tense silence lapse between them. “About what you think you know about me. Shall we test your clairvoyance?”

Tav tilts her head to the side and ponders the question.

“That's easy,” she says finally. “One, you have a flair for the dramatic. Two, you think heroics are for arrogant fools and those who are too delusional to know better.”

She isn't wrong, but these observations are barely more than surface level. Astarion feels the relief wash over him; it seems like he's been worrying for nothing.

“And three,” Tav continues, “... you wish you could open up to people, but you don't really know how. And I think that bothers you more than you'd like to admit.”

Astarion stares at her in disbelief, and he finds his jaw clenching before he swallows the lump that's suddenly in his throat. He forces his face back into a perfect, stoic mask before Tav says anything about it the lapse in his demeanor.

“I'll have to concede the first two points, but that last one? Darling, what ever gave you a silly little idea like that?” He slips back into his typical mischievous mannerisms, the tips of his fangs bared in a silent warning despite the smile he offers.

Tav does not heed the warning and presses on, her curiosity getting the better of her. This is the sincerest discussion she has ever had with Astarion, and it would be a shame to back out now before she's bothered to discover anything worthwhile.

“Why else would you come find me in the middle of the night?” She asks. “I'd be flattered if you just wanted to exchange pleasantries, but we both know that's not the case, is it?”

“Oh, come now,” Astarion says, his voice practically dripping with lust. “I can think of several reasons to seek out the pleasure of your company after dark,” he insists, his emphasis deliberate. He's deflecting again.

Tav meets him head on. “All right, then, why are you here?”

No going back now.

“That's what I like best about you, you know,” Astarion responds, the praise barely masking his growing anxiety. “Straight to business. Quick-witted and easy on the eyes. You're the whole package, darling.” The irony of his trying to prolong the inevitable is not lost on either of them.

“Astarion.”

“Fine,” he huffs, not unlike a petulant child. “It's not like this is an easy subject to broach. Frankly, I'd rather not do it at all, but every time I look at you, I feel... well, I don't know what it is I'm feeling, but I don't like it.” The frown on his face contorts his typically handsome features into something almost grotesque. “How do you handle it?”

“Handle what?” Tav asks.

“Being vulnerable. Weak.”

It's a backhanded remark, but Tav ignores the accusation that Astarion throws at her nonetheless. “I suppose I'm like you. I try to hide it. It's not like I enjoy feeling inadequate any more than you do.” She regards him sincerely, imploring him to hear her out.

“But for what it's worth, I don't think that having to rely on others is a sign of weakness. Other people can be your greatest strength, if you let them. Whoever - whatever - you were before the nautiloid, it doesn't have to define you any longer.”

Astarion laughs, the sound harsh and sharp. “You've seen right through me, haven't you? You know nothing, and yet somehow you know everything.”

Whatever discomfort Tav feels, she does her best to keep it at bay. Seeing Astarion in such a state is foreign, and she doesn't quite know what to make of it.

“It's not like you made it difficult,” she explains. “When you're with the others, you put on a smile and joke with them like you don't have a care in the world, but I've seen the way you look when you're on your own. How you are when you think no one else is looking.”

Astarion recalls the drawings Tav showed him once before and feels his skin crawl.

“It's okay if --”

“Don't. Don't say it,” Astarion bites the words out, his patience running thin. This whole ordeal has clearly been nothing short of a mistake on his part. “I don't need your pity.”

Tav recoils as though his words are a brand against her skin. She wasn't expecting her prying to cut him so deeply. When she looks at Astarion now, his expression is unreadable, masked both by the increasing darkness of the evening and the thoughts roiling around inside his mind.

“Then would you settle for my friendship?”

Tav reaches out to gently clasp his hand. Her warmth is comforting, and he finds his anger receding. The smile he finds himself giving her is genuine, perhaps the only truly authentic gesture he's ever offered her.

“Yes...” he says after some time. “A friend.” The word feels strange in his mouth, the entire idea of companionship without the obligation of sex something he hasn't had the clarity to consider before.

As Tav studies his face, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and the gentleness in the curve of his mouth, she feels her cheeks warming. Damn him. Even when he isn't trying, it's far too easy for Astarion to disarm her with nothing more than a simple glance.

If only she could still the rapid thundering of her heart.

“Well,” he laughs, “it's nice to know that I'm still as charming as ever. I was afraid that I was losing that particular talent, if you were any indication.”

“I never said you weren't,” Tav almost pouts, struggling to regain her composure. “I may be a lot of things, but I'm certainly not blind.”

“And you have impeccable taste, darling. Although, how could anyone blame you?” Tav is dismayed to find that he's put up the mask again. It's effortless, instinctual. No matter how much Astarion may want to open himself up, the reluctance to expose himself to further anguish is still there.

Maybe, after this is all over, he can allow himself to be completely vulnerable. But until then, he cannot silence the voice that tells himself that what he needs most for the time being is simply to survive by any means possible.

They've grown far too close in the interim and he can feel her warmth, the familiar scent of her blood drowning out every one of his other senses. It would be so easy to kiss her now, to pretend like none of this happened and let his instincts guide him.

And so he does. After all, his shameless flirting had never entirely been a ruse. Ever since he first drank her blood, he's been drawn to her in a way that no one else has compelled him before.

Tav's lips are remarkably soft when Astarion leans down to kiss her, his tongue slowly sliding over them to coax her deeper into the kiss. He half expects her to push him away, to scold him for being so thoughtless after their little heart-to-heart, but...

She doesn't.

Instead, she lets him continue, leaning into him when he cradles the back of her head to hold her steady. Astarion reaches for the buttons on her blouse, the touch featherlight.

“Wait.” Tav suddenly pulls back, face flushed and panting slightly.

“Is something wrong, love?” Astarion questions her. Perhaps he shouldn't have pressed his luck.

“No... yes... I just.” Tav stumbles over her words, the haze of her arousal clouding her mind. “Listen. It's not like I don't want this, but...”

Gods, if you only knew how much I want this.

“But not like this. I wouldn't feel right.” She averts her gaze. There is a twinge of guilt that builds within her; she doesn't want to take advantage of Astarion, not when he's clearly dealing with his own demons, and certainly not after everything that has transpired between them tonight. She doesn't want their nascent friendship to be consummated by something that will only complicate things between them.

“Of course I want you,” Tav explains. “The real you. Not whatever act you've been playing all this time.” The request is plain but hardly as simple as it sounds. She’s not even sure exactly what she’s asking of him, how much of it all has been a façade until now. She’s relying on nothing but intuition.

I don't know how to be what you want me to be, Astarion thinks, but he gives no voice to the thought, pushing it back down into the farthest recesses of his mind where it remains dormant.

She's doing it again, instinctively, reading too much into the way he furrows his brows and presses his lips together in contemplation. 

She reaches out to him and lays a calming hand on his arm. “But only if that's what you want too. After tonight, if it's easier for you, we can pretend that none of this ever happened and carry on as we have been. And when you're ready to talk, whenever that may be, I'll be ready to listen. About whatever it is you have to say. As your friend. And... if we happen to enjoy ourselves in other ways in the meantime,” she adds coyly, “it's not like I would be opposed to that. Far be it from me to squander what could be the final days of our lives.”

Astarion's expression softens as he regards what Tav has just said, the choice she has given him. If he says no, if he decides right then and there to leave, he knows she won't hold it against him. He's feeling vulnerable again, but the discomfort he feels now is less unsettling, almost as if he's grown accustomed to feeling this way around her.

In his own way, he does care for Tav - if he didn't, he doesn't think he'd be so bothered by the way she reads him like an open book - and he doesn't want to cause her any undue harm. For her, he will try. At the worst, tonight will be yet another welcome distraction. At best... well, he can't quite say, but none of the possibilities seem particularly unpleasant.

“All right,” he concedes, cupping her face in the palm of his hand and gazing thoughtfully into her eyes. He finds there's something irresistible about them like this, wide and full of wonder. She struggles not to look away, her heart racing like a caged bird beneath her ribcage. The effect he has on her is mesmerizing, and Tav almost forgets to breathe before Astarion kisses her again, slow and steady as he takes the time to savor it.

Tav opens her mouth as Astarion's tongue slides against her own in languid strokes, eliciting a few small sounds that die in the back of her throat. 

She never expected him to be so gentle.

An idea coalesces in the back of Tav's mind and she seizes on it, shifting her weight forward and pushing Astarion back. He yields to her surprisingly quickly, and Tav lays him into the cushions beneath them, straddling his hips.

He looks strangely at ease, his brow quirked as he implores her to continue. Tav is happy to oblige and leans over him, capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss. She can feel the pinprick points of his fangs as her tongue explores his mouth, eager as ever to taste him.

Astarion has never been a passive lover, and when his fingers slide beneath Tav's blouse and trace icy spiderwebs across her back, she shudders slightly at the sensation. Suddenly craving more contact between them, Tav rolls her hips against him, earning a soft moan from Astarion for her efforts.

She does it again to draw more of those delightful noises out of him; she can feel his growing hardness now, and she finds herself becoming impatient.

Breaking the kiss, Tav slides herself further down Astarion's body, pausing once she's hovering over his waistband. Astarion watches with bated breath as Tav fumbles with the ties there, before finally slipping her hand into his pants and freeing his cock, the tip already slick with precome. 

Tav flashes Astarion a sly smile and wastes no time indulging herself, swiping her tongue over the head of his cock, tasting him. Astarion bites back a groan and props himself up on his elbows to watch her, spellbound by the way Tav's mouth looks and feels wrapped around him. 

It feels even better as she slides more of him into her mouth, her tongue teasing him in all the right places. When she moans languidly against him, Astarion bucks his hips slightly, his mouth hung open as his breath hitches.

“Hells, if I had known you had been hiding this little talent, I would have sought you out much sooner.” There's humor in his voice, but Tav doesn't miss the low tone of need in his voice that sends a shiver down her spine.

He's bigger than she expected, and tears prick the corners of Tav's eyes as she bobs her head along the thick length of his cock, pushing him all the way to the back of her throat each time. She digs her fingers into his hips to hold him still, reveling in the feel and the taste of him.

“Nnngh... fuck,” Astarion groans, his eyes locked on Tav as she continues to pleasure him. When her gaze flicks up to meet his own through half-hooded eyes, he sucks in a breath, biting down on his lower lip.

If she keeps that up much longer, he knows he won't last.

He tells her as much through stuttered breaths, and Tav finally relents, sitting back on her calves and licking her lips. She looks extremely pleased with herself, Astarion notices.

“As much as I would love for you to continue,” Astarion says as he gets to his feet, beckoning Tav up with a hand, “It would be such a shame to not return the favor.” 

He makes quick work of his shirt and slides out of his pants, and Tav doesn't bother to hide her yearning for him as her eyes rake over every inch of sculpted muscle and smooth, pallid skin.

“Like what you see?”

He doesn't have to ask - he knows how beautiful he is.

“Of course,” Tav says, huffing a laugh. “But you already knew that.”

“Certainly,” Astarion responds, a wicked grin flashing across his face. “But I do love to hear you admit it anyway, darling.”

Even as she removes her own clothing and lets Astarion press her up against the cool stone wall, Tav shoots him a petulant yet playful look. “Prick.”

“For you, my love? Always.” He's teasing her again, but there's a fondness there she's never seen before, in the way he looks at her and how he runs his hands over the curves of her body, building her anticipation for whatever he has in mind. If she's not careful, she knows that she will fall hopelessly and irrecoverably in love with this man.

The thought is cut short as Astarion's hands glide over the swell of her ass, and she arches her back into him, feeling his cock pressed against her.

“Patience, patience,” he drawls, “I want you begging for my cock before I take you.”

Tav doesn't bother to muffle the lewd sounds that tumble from her mouth, her entire body alight with desire as his words alone nearly turn her feral.

Astarion rewards her by sliding his hand between her thighs, spreading her open and sinking two fingers inside her. Tav gasps at the sudden intrusion, his touch electric. She whines almost pitifully, writhing beneath him and desperate for more.

“A-Astarion...”

His name on her lips sounds divine in that breathy little tone, and he begins to pump his fingers inside of her, savoring how wet she is for him already. He leans in close, trailing soft kisses and bites down the curve of her neck and across her shoulders, amplifying the pleasure Tav feels over her entire body. 

But it's still not enough. She needs more of him, grinding her hips down to find the friction she so desperately needs. Astarion senses her intentions and slides his other arm around her waist, slipping a third finger between her legs and against her swollen, over-sensitive clit. 

Tav cries out and bucks her hips, chasing her pleasure as she grinds against him relentlessly, her arousal building higher and higher with each roll of her hips. Her legs feel weak and she's thankful for the wall, all but clinging to the worn stonework as she does her best not to lose her balance.

“Gods, yes, Astarion... fuck...” The words tumble out of her mouth, punctuated by breathy moans of pleasure. 

Astarion picks up his own pace, giving her exactly what she needs.

“Come for me, darling,” he purrs against the shell of Tav's ear, “show me how good it feels.” Tav is more than happy to oblige, pressing her face into the wall to stifle her wild moans as her climax washes over her in wave after intensive wave as she finally finds her release. 

When the intensity begins to subside, Tav finds herself breathing heavily, swallowing in great gulps of air to steady herself. Astarion places a final kiss to the nape of her neck, and Tav can feel his pleased smile against her skin.

Astarion slides his fingers out from between Tav's thighs, still slick with her wetness, and runs his tongue along both digits. “Exquisite,” he murmurs, his voice low and hungry.

“I do hope you aren't completely spent,” Astarion muses, his body sinfully cool against the burning heat Tav feels inside herself as he presses himself flush against her. “I haven't yet had my fill of you.”

Tav moans beneath him, revitalized and full of need merely by the promise of whatever else he might have planned for her. She is already so weary, but she cannot deny that she still wants - needs - more.

“Please,” she says softly.

“What was that?” Astarion responds wickedly, pressing his hips into her, his cock thick and heavy against her entrance. 

It's all too much.

“Please fuck me, Astarion,” Tav says more insistently, hardly embarrassed by her blatant desperation. “Gods, I need you inside me.”

“Much better,” he praises, lifting her leg just slightly to allow himself to slide into her with a few shallow thrusts of his hips, his cock stretching her out as he buries himself in her tight, wet heat.

She feels absolutely divine, her body molding to him perfectly as he finds himself seated fully inside her, his hands braced on either side of her hips.

“You're even more incredible than I could have imagined,” he admits out loud, partly to Tav but also to himself. Tav urges him to move, to fuck her, to do whatever will bring them both the most pleasure, and Astarion indulges her, pulling out of her almost completely before slamming back down, setting a steady pace as he finally gives her what she needs.

“Yes, yes, fuck,” she moans, bracing herself against the wall and marveling in the way Astarion feels inside her, each thrust bringing a string of oaths to her lips. After tonight, she will never think about anyone else again; he has completely ruined her.

Astarion buries his face against her neck and parts his lips, tongue tasting the sweat on her skin even as his fangs ask the single silent question. He wants to indulge himself in every part of her, and she would be loath to deny him anything when he's already made her feel so good, so complete.

“Go ahead,” she bids him between her mewls of pleasure, craning her head back to offer herself completely to him as he continues to thrust his cock deep inside of her.

Tav expects the bite to be as it always is - a sudden, sharp sting, a mild pain that settles in as he drinks his fill.

Instead, Astarion is gentle again - or, at least as gentle as he can be for a vampire. His fangs puncture her neck, but the act is far less savage than it normally is, and he doesn't drink as deeply as Tav knows he typically prefers to. 

There is something different this time, almost as if he is enjoying her blood less to sate his gnawing hunger but more for the mere enjoyment of claiming everything her body has to offer him. He seems content to lap lazily at the blood that naturally raises to the surface of her skin, even as the thrusting of his hips picks up in its intensity.

Tav can no longer differentiate between the sensations overwhelming her body; between the bite at her neck, Astarion's body pressed against her, or the punishing thrust of his cock, she feels herself yield completely to him, her body losing control in more ways than one. She's never had anything like an out-of-body experience before, but she suspects that this might be the closest thing to it.

Every inch of her body is alight with ecstasy, and all that remains is her overwhelming desire, the need to be utterly and completely overcome by Astarion the only thing on her mind.

He murmurs something incoherent against her neck and wraps his arms around her body, embracing her almost tenderly as if he can sense the struggle Tav is having keeping herself upright. Enveloped in his arms and in his scent as completely as she is, she keens against him, finding her release for the second time with his name an exhausted cry on her lips.

Astarion continues to surge into her, riding Tav through her climax before finally finding his own pleasure, burying himself with one final thrust as he empties himself inside her with a low and sensual moan.

Instead of pulling out immediately, Astarion continues to hold Tav in place, even as his cock begins to soften inside her. He is content not to end the contact between them, their minds exchanging a few shared thoughts courtesy of their Illithid tadpoles.

Neither of them can express anything but satisfaction, even as Astarion finally pulls away from Tav and helps her retrieve her clothes.

“You should get some rest,” Astarion urges her. “I can take the rest of your watch. Can you make it back to your tent?”

Tav is surprised by his kindness but accepts it gracefully all the same.

“Yes, I think I'll manage. Thank you.” She dresses haphazardly, well enough to make the short trek back to her tent but not enough to be presentable should she happen to stumble across any of their (hopefully) slumbering companions.

They merely exchange glances, both of them content to enjoy the company of their own thoughts instead. And besides, they're both far too exhausted to bother with the effort. 

“Good night, Astarion,” Tav says softly, daring herself to place a single, tender kiss to the center of his brow. If Astarion is displeased by the gesture, he holds his tongue and doesn't protest her affections, which Tav is eternally grateful for.

As she turns to descend the stairs, she throws one more glance Astarion's way, burning the image of him into her mind to preserve the memory.

He stands there, almost basking in the moonlight, watching the stars shimmering overhead. And he’s smiling.

[bwat5-blog]

The Enforcer

**Spoilers For All Of Arcane **

"Traitor!"

"Bootlicker!"

"All for a girl she's known for a few days!"

"ACAB! COPAGANDA!"

As with everything in this show, there are plenty of loud, click-bait takes on this part of Vi's story. And people are certainly entitled to them. But I just don't get it. You are taking what is such a conflicting and important moment for this character and dumbing it down into a hash-tag, rather than letting yourself really think about the story they are trying to tell. If all you are after when you consume media is an excuse to throw buzzwords around, reality TV is probably more your speed. Just for a moment lets try to consider the different dimensions of what Vi is dealing with in this situation.

Vi is caught between her little sister who she no longer recognizes, the woman she loves who is being consumed by grief and rage, her identity as a daughter of Zaun, and her own feelings.

She can't see her little sister in Jinx, only the violent and deranged terrorist who abducted Caitlyn and tried to convince Vi to murder her. But she loves her, and is crumbling under the guilt of who she has become. She is watching Caitlyn sink deeper and deeper beneath the waves of her grief and anger with each passing day, the same Caitlyn who once saved Vi's life and stood up for the Undercity in front of the Council themselves. Vi hates the Enforcers for what they have done to her and her people but it's the only way she can stay be Caitlyn's side, and be present for Piltover's hunt for Jinx, however it ends. Not to mention the fact that even though they are destroying the Chem Barons, and Shimmer, both of which are unquestionably negative forces in Zaun, for wearing the uniform at all Vi has to know her own people will look at her like a traitor, no matter how much good she does for them.

I have written about and analyzed the use of The Grey from every angle I can think of. I'm absolutely not breaking it all down again here in depth. For a few quick points:

There is absolutely zero evidence that exposure in the way they use it is fatal or even harmful long term.

Amanda Overton confirmed their strikes were strategic to a pinpoint.

Jinx is a terrorist who likes to blow things up and Vi confirms they used it to clear the streets and keep people safe. The logic is clear.

Every Chem Baron foot soldier on their knees coughing rather than shooting is a life saved on either side

The alternative to the strike team was a full invasion of hex-tech wielding Enforcers not a five-person strike team travelling mostly in the vent systems and only emerging to fight when necessary.

Ekko was in Zaun when they were. If you think he would have been hanging out with Heimerdinger playing with bubbles and chilling while they were doing something truly terrible to the Undercity, I urge you. WATCH THE SHOW BEFORE YOU TALK ABOUT IT.

All that being said, I am not ignorant of the fact that Zaun has suffered lifetimes due to the pollution caused by Piltover's practices, including their air before the Kiramman vent system was created. So I'm sure Vi IS extremely conflicted. But maybe, just maybe, its time consider the possibility that the reason "her fascist ass girlfriend gasses a city and she doesn't care" is because Vi knows they are making the best they can out of a HORRENDOUS situation. (and Caitlyn isn't a fascist and didn't gas a whole city but I get that isn't what we are doing here).

This is not about trying to convince you they were right to do what they did, or wrong. It is not to convince you to love Vi or Caitlyn. It is simply to say that the heart of a story is in it's characters. Continue to dumb-down, brush off, reduce, generalize, and smash these characters into small easily digestible pieces you can analyze in the time it takes to tie your shoes, and you will only cheat yourself out of the full experience stories like this can bring. They do mean something. They matter. Even if we like to pretend they don't anymore.

As always thank you for reading. Anyone who takes the time to do so is more appreciated than you can know. Feel free to leave your thoughts if you choose as well! And keep standing up for stories that matter.

See yall next time.

[aliteralsemicolon]

hello with kinktober starting i have a question and as a writer i'm hoping you can answer it. why do so many writers write kinky smut and not as much "vanilla" stuff. some of us don't have all these aren't into kink culture and just want normal and regular sex. it's so ooc for Spencer especially. i can't imagine him as anything other than vanilla or a SOFT dom. the softest version. it's such a turn off when your trying to find a good fic to read and then it's just all these nasty descriptions, even in the tags. i also find it hard to believe that writers don't know about this. because there are definitely other readers and writers who've talked about this. their quite well-known blogs in the fandom too. so why don't writers cater to that audience too? this is all no offense btw. idm if people have all their kinks, to each their own, but why is there so much and why is it so in your face?

Read this very carefully because this is the only time I'm going address you and then I'm going to go back to blocking you and anons like you. I don't know if you're one person or some weird little group. I don't know which fucking hole you've sprouted from, but I urge you to crawl back into it. It's extremely entitled of you to waltz into my inbox, spew whatever fuckassery you want and think you can get away with a small "no offence 😊" at the end.

The empath in me is sensing that you're just looking for a fight, but incase you're really here with innocent intentions I'm going to make you aware of this. Also news flash: writing is a hobby!! None of us get paid to do this. Hobbies are self indulgent. My writing is not catered to please the general public. I write it for myself and other's who are into the same thing as me. Not you. This is my blog. You may want vanilla, but I am a nasty whore. I don't know what to tell you.

If you really hate the content you're seeing so much, stop engaging with it. If you're frustrated with the lack of content catering to your preference, GET TO WORK!!!!! Become a writer yourself. This is also to that one weirdo who keeps crying ableism if Spencer isn't exactly as you perceive him. You are blocked by me but for the love of whatever the fuck you believe in: stop harassing writers. We don't give a shit about what you think is the correct way to portray Spencer and all you're doing is wasting everyone's time.

This is not an invite for you to come back into my inbox with more useless input. This is not an invite for you to go harass other writers. Anything after this and you will continue to be blocked and ignored. 

ETA: "crying ableism" = crying wolf. don't even start that with me.

[abearinthewoods]

Ok, so let me get this straight. During 2024 on tumblr dot com..... trans men have been told that they... have male privilege and thus aren't oppressed in any way, told they were TME (trans misogyny exempt) and should sit down and shut up and let trans women talk about trans issues, regularly accosted with demands to clarify they don't mean to imply cis men might have issues whenever they attempt to speak out about their issue, and are now getting death threats from other people in the trans community over an argument on rather or not trans men can talk about their oppression without having to use language that implies all of trans men's issues are actually about hatred of trans women or women or femininity and oh hey @patricia-taxxon has even somehow gotten caught in the crossfire.

(Random aside: why the hell is a trans youtuber using her voice to speak over trans men trying to talk about their issues?)

I'm starting to think there is no room for the oppression olympics in a post Luigi post nov 7 world.

You should never be looking in your neighbor's bowl to see if they have more than you, only to see if they have enough.

Like lets take a step back for a quick moment and restate something. This is an argument over trans men wanting to use terms like trans misandry and trans androphobia to talk about their oppression. Thats it. Thats all. Trans men noticed their issues tend to fade into the background on the general discourse of transphobia and thought using specific language (and tags) would help with that without speaking over trans women and for this they got bomb and death threats from other people in the trans community?!?!?!?!?!?

This is your brain on oppression olympics.

This is the threat to class solidarity.

This is the threat to class solidarity.

This is the threat to class solidarity.

This is exactly what they want. For us to be fighting over who has it worse or better, who is oppressed or privileged. I've seen a lot of arguments on this subject but I haven't seen any on why it matters.

Solidarity means letting go. Letting go of the need to be the most oppressed. Letting go of the need to tell others to check their privilege (but not the urge to check ones own privilege). Letting go of the ego, and all of the hate that comes with it.

No experience is universal and arguments about stats and oppression and privilege tend to paper over peoples individuality.

(Post yanked from answer to standalone post)

[j0kers-light]

His Lighthouse: Wrong Room (LedgerJoker x f!reader)

Wrong Room - Oneshot

Anyone remember when I was sick in January? Trust me, I do. Well I wrote this while bedridden and forgot to post it! That's how out of it I was. Anyhooooooo! Now that I have my computer back up and running (for who knows how long, might I add) I'm gonna get as much work done and play catch up on my fics!

I hope you enjoy this small self indulgence. 🖤✨

Should I tag anyone on this? Yes or no? 🤔

You woke up to someone snapping their fingers in your face. The rude gesture was not much of a shock given your less than ideal stay, however it still startled you.

“Hey. Hey. WaKe. Up.”

Your vision was still blurry but you came to and noticed the ginger nurse poking at your vitals to your left. Every single last medical personnel that attended you just pumped you full of fluids and anabiotics before leaving. None of them chatted with you, acting as though you had the bubonic plague than a common cold.

For five days you brushed off your cold until a coworker found you unconscious at your desk and drove you to Gotham General. You’ve been stuck in this room for three days now, recovering.

If you were more coherent, you would have picked up all the commotion occurring in the background but your limited focus was on the nurse pulling down his mask.

Wait. His?

Your eyes widened as The Joker smiled at you sheepishly. “Hi…”

You couldn't move or call for help, you were too weak. All you could do was blink in shock as he dramatically looked around your room, looking for a person.

The empty space where your roommate used to be caught your eye.

What little you knew, he was some intensive care patient who got wheeled out over an hour ago. You didn’t care much about him, but from how the nurses treated him, (a stark contrast to you) he had to be famous or highly important.

Money made people move differently so you guessed he paid for his exceptional hospital stay.

The Joker didn't seem to care.

He fiddled with this cheap costume wig as he spoke, “I thoughT.. I had the uhh wrong room. Harvey. Harvey, Harvey Dent. Have ya seen him? Hm? Shared a uh jello pack or two?”

That’s who your roommate was? The famous district attorney or Gotham’s white knight as the media called him. What was he doing in here? More importantly, why was The Joker looking for him?

The Joker waved his hands, as if urging you to speak but you were at a loss of what to say. Your voice was hoarse anyways so he wouldn't hear it.

But you knew what happened to people who didn't obey The Joker. Dying in a hospital. At least they wouldn't have to move you far.

You parted your lips to speak but a police officer knocked on the door, addressing Joker who quickly busied himself with your medical chart hanging on the bed.

“Excuse me, Miss? Yeah we’re gonna have to move them now.”

Before you could warn the officer, Joker pulled out a gun and shot the poor man. You were stunned.

The cop's body collapsed on the floor and Joker kicked it under your bed like it was a daily occurrence. You gasped and propped yourself upright in horror. With all the IVs hooked to you, you couldn't go far but you wanted far far away from this psycho.

The Joker noticed you panicking and rushed over to push you back down. You hated how warm his hands felt on your frigid skin. You knew germs hate the cold but did the hospital temperature have to be set to Antarctica?

Joker assumed your full body shudder was because he shot someone in front of you.

“Uh whoops. Hehe should’ve warned ya... NoT like it uhh, matters, I'm gonna level the place.” He took out a homemade device and started tinkering with it.

You did hear a rumor about a bomb threat but who would blow up a hospital? You honestly thought you were hallucinating. Oh boy was it real.

“I’m a man of my worrrrrd. This hospital is gonna..” The Joker made an explosion reaction with his hands and added sound effects. “A pretty thing like you should be evac-uuuu-waiting. Why aren't ya?”

You didn't have the heart to tell The Joker that no one cared about you.

The doctors and nurses on your floor thought a common cold was not worth their time and let you waste away. You barely got any care unless Dent's nurse took pity on you in between her own patients.

They came in to take him away while you were half asleep. They started evacuating people over an hour ago and left you behind.

That fact created a few sniffles that tugged at Joker's heartstrings. Wait.. why did he care about you?

This bombing was about sending a message. A few casualties would get Batman to take him more seriously. You just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time—yet he hesitated.

Joker took in your watery eyes and the pretty curls of your hair. Even while lying on a hospital bed sick as a dog, you were a cutie. An abandoned cutie needing a new home.

J decided then and there to take you with him. Maybe he'd regret it later. Maybe not.

Joker unlocked the bed guard rail and was in the process of unplugging you from the machines when he decided to fill you in on his decision. “Mmm you’re coming with me, cutie.”

Wait, cutie?!

[ominous-faechild]

⚜ INCORRECT QUOTES ⚜

Bringing back an old tag game!!!

Rule: use this generator to create “incorrect quotes” for your wip

(I feel legally obligated to post something actually about Faerie's Dawn today and I want to meme these idiots lmao)

Cloud: Tell me a little about yourself. Nova: I'd rather not, I really like this group.

Nova: I hate when people ask me, 'What did you do today?' Buddy, listen, I woke up at noon and then it was five pm, okay? I don't KNOW!

Nova: I will be using so much pink you’ll be seeing green by the end from sensory deprivation.

Sky: You're violent. Nova: Yeah but I'm also short and that's adorable.

Nova: Wanna get out of here and grab a bite to eat? Sky: I don’t usually eat with losers. Nova: Neither do I but I asked you, didn’t I?

Nova: Branch, you’re in charge! Sky: Branch, can we start a fire?

[while waiting outside the principal’s office] Nova: What are you in for? Cloud: Oh, they just want to know if it’s cool if I miss my classes tomorrow to run sound and lights for a presentation in the auditorium. What about you? Nova: I stabbed a kid with a screwdriver. Cloud: Cloud: Cloud: We live very different lives. Nova: Yes, we do.

Branch: Be careful about succumbing to these sorts of destructive... urges. Addiction can be a powerful thing. Nova: So am I. Bow down before your new supreme overlord, bitches.

Nova: When I get Doordash I order 20 Cheeseburgers at a time and heat them up throughout the week so that I don’t have to pay the delivery fee multiple times. Branch: I hope you understand how food poisoning works. Nova: I hope food poisoning understands how I work. I've never met a burger I couldn’t eat.

Nova: Branch's amazing at concentrating. Once he starts reading, the only way he’ll notice you is if you take his book away. Not even if you hit him or shake him! Sky: That was him ignoring you.

Sky, at Nova's funeral: I need a moment with them. Everyone else at the funeral: Of course. [leaves] Sky, leaning over Nova's coffin: Okay, listen here you little shit. I know you’re not dead. Nova, sitting up in the coffin: Yeah, no shit.

Sky: I hope you have an explanation for this. Cloud: We have three, actually! Nova: Pick your favorite.

Cloud: I bet you’re wondering why I gathered you here today. It’s because we need to have a discussion about how some people in this room aren’t getting along with other people in this room. Sky: Why did you say that so vaguely? Nova and I are literally the only people you called in here.

Sky: I love sarcasm! It’s like punching people in the face, but with words!

Sky: [trying to buy a Father's Day card at Hallmark] Sky: Excuse me, do you have any that just say "You are my dad?" Associate: Well, I- Sky: How about "You banged my mom?" Associate: No... Sky: You know what, I'll just get a blank one. Sky: [writes] You are a father. This is a day. Here is a card.

Cloud: You gave me up, you let me down, you turned around, and deserted me. Sky: But did I make you cry? Cloud: [cries on the spot] Sky: ... shit.

Sky: We wouldn’t last two minutes without Nova. Sky: Sky: Don’t tell them I said that.

Cloud: What language do they speak at the center of the earth? Cloud: Core-ean! Sky: The center of the earth is around 5430 degrees Celsius! Nobody is going to live there, so they don’t need a language! Cloud: Core-ean.

Cloud: You know, it’s fine to admit you were wrong. Sky: [sipping his drink after accidentally adding salt] I just like the way it tastes.

Branch: I never tell people off the bat that I'm gay. I wait. I wait until they say some homophobic shit and then I laugh and am like "you know I'm gay, right?" and watch the look of terror on their face. Sky: Sky: I like you.

Steely: Can you recommend a book that'll make me cry? Sky: General Mathematics 8th Grade Edition.

Steely: We have a problem. Branch: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

Steely: What the fuck. Steely: ESPN is showing 2003 national jump rope championship. Steely: Who the hell watches jump rope competiti- ooh bouncy!

Steely: A pessimist sees a dark tunnel. Cloud: An optimist sees light at the end of the tunnel! Branch: A realist sees a freight train. Sky: The train driver sees three idiots standing on the tracks.

Achilles: We’ll find another route, it’s not safe for amateur adventurers. Nova: That sounds like a challenge. Achilles: I have to stress, that is not a challenge. Nova: ... Is exactly what you say to dissuade the weak of heart from accepting the challenge. Well, challenge accepted! Achilles: There is no challenge!

Achilles: Okay, how do I look? Be honest. Cloud: There’s no critic more honest than Sky! Sky: Bad.

Achilles: We all have our demons. Achilles, grabbing Steely: This one’s mine.

Eve: Asa, don’t go picking a fight with Ailwyn. Don’t forget, they’re powerful, they could make life difficult for you. Asa: Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life.

Asa: Quitting! It's like trying, but easier!

Asa: If I fall down these stairs, I'm just going to lay down and accept my fate.

Asa: [walks into the kitchen, ignoring everyone] Eve: Hey, Asa, how was your day? Asa: [picks up an onion and bites into it, staring at Eve] Hell. Eve, watching this unfold: (whispers) Who hurt you?

Eve: What's worse than a heartbreak? Steely: Waking up in the morning and your phone wasn't charging. Branch: Waking up in the morning. Asa: Waking up.

Steely: Which one of you was going to tell me that tea tastes different if you put it in hot water?? Cloud: Y-you were putting it in cold water?? Sky: Steely. Answer the question, Steely. Steely: Yeah??? I thought people just put it in hot water to speed up the tea-ification process. didn't realize there was an actual reason. Steely: Plus you think I have the patience to boil water? Cloud: You don't have the patience to microwave water for 3 minutes?? Sky: Why are you putting it in the microwave to boil it? Cloud: Do you think I have the patience to boil water on the stove? Sky: It takes less than a minute. Cloud: Is your stovetop powered by the fucking sun??? Sky: How long does it take you to boil a cup of water on the stove? Cloud: Like seven minutes?? Nova: Just stick the mug on top of the stove on medium heat and it boils in like 2 minutes... less than that if you use a saucepan! Sky: Why are you putting the whole mug on the stove?? On medium heat?? Nova? Your stove is enchanted! Steely: Every single person here is a fucking lunatic. Branch: Do none of you own a fucking kettle?!

[during a group project] Branch: [does 99% of the work] Cloud: [has no idea what’s going on] Nova: [says they’re gonna help but does not] Sky: [disappears at the very beginning and doesn’t show up again until the very end]

Just a silly thing I felt like I had to make lol.

Ik you guys don't know half of these characters lol. But it's fun foreshadowing for later... and still funny 😉

(Idk should I @ the whole Faerie's Dawn list? I'mma just @ my "everything" taglist and anyone I know who's really into FD lol)

@honeybewrites @the-golden-comet @illarian-rambling @ashirisu @urnumber1star

@the-letterbox-archives @48lexr @aalinaaaaaa @thecomfywriter @an-indecisive-nerd

@seastarblue @rae-butter @teamarine777 @caffeinated-starsailor @oliolioxenfreewrites

@corinneglass

[the-kr8tor]

I love love love your work!!!! This is my first time sending a request so I hope I’m doing it right 😭,, I was wondering if you could do reader x Hobie Brown,,where the reader is a HUGE bookworm and loves talking about current reads/ literature in general. The reader is worried about annoying Hobie while talking because they think he doesn’t care about books or the topic is boring, so she stops yapping about her books and Hobie finds it weird or something 😭😭🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

Hihi! Thank you so much!! Hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, No specific physical description of the reader, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“—and you know what happens next?” You exclaim, tone high and excited. Hobie sits comfortably in between your legs, his hands tinkering with your broken clock whilst you ramble on about a new read. You answer your own question a mere second later. “She fucking fell of the tower, taking down the villain with her!” Fingers kneading softly at his nape, it's more for your pleasure than his (he loves it anyway)

You can't see it but Hobie has a huge grin on his face. He, like usual, would always sport the same smile whenever you talk about your books. He'd always find himself enamored by the plot just from you talking about it. Whether it's romance or horror, he loves it when you share your stories with him. He'd let you ramble on for hours if you want to. The clock in his hand was repaired by him thirty minutes ago, but he'll be damned if he interrupts your pleasant chatter.

His vision is filled with your face a second later, eyebrows knitted together, and a pout on your pretty lips. He resists the urge to kiss it away.

“Are you okay?” You ask, and he quirks a brow at your question.

“Yeah, why wouldn't I be?”

“I've been a chatterbox all day, your ears must be ringing from my voice.” You clear your throat nervously. “Sorry, Hobs, can you tell me about your day?” You rhythmically tap his clavicle, a nervous habit of yours that he finds endearing.

“Love, my ears are perfectly fine at listening to you talk.” Hobie slithers his hand up to the back of your head, not pushing or pulling you away, just comfortably holding onto you. “And you know I love my chatterbox.”

You sigh, arms laying still on his torso, chin tucked atop the crown of his head. “I haven't given you the chance to talk, I've been blabbering the entire time about my book. You must be so bored, do you want to turn the telly on instead?”

“Love?” He calls tenderly as he leans his head down so he could see you in all your glory.

“Yeah?” You answer back with the same softness, and a small smile on your lips when you see through his lopsided smile and hazel eyes that are practically in the shape of hearts.

Hobie chuckles, hands leaving the clock to hold the side of your thighs, squeezing lightly. The pads of his calloused fingers glide down to your knees, laying there comfortably like you're a seatbelt on a rollercoaster.

“You could talk about how paint is made and I'd listen to you for hours on end.” Your cheeks warm up at his comment, it's your turn to resist a much needed smooch on his handsome face. “I'm just lucky that you're into more interesting things.”

“You're okay with me talking about my stories?”

“I'll do you one better.” He twists around on the floor to loop his arms around your waist. Pushing you close to him, chin laying on your thigh, he tilts his head, knowing that the simple act makes you melt. With a proud smirk, he taps the small of your back. “Read the book to me? You're killing me with anticipation here, love, what happens next?”

You hide your quickening heartbeat with a huff. “Okay, but don't hate me if you don't like what happens next.” You practically leap off the couch to fetch the book when he nods at you. His laugh echoes and follows you around as you rummage through your piles of books.

[joannasteez]

dreams - the public relations series

pairing: cody rhodes x oc (alana) warning: explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy. minors dni. authors note: thinking of just writing little blurbs and drabbles that slowly explain and weave together this little relationship. not totally sure yet but here we are anyways. word count: 580 beanzzzz tag list: @333creolelady @kill-the-artiste @harmshake (co-conspirator for this) .. i tagged my mains but if anyone wants a tag for cody let me know. trying to get back to doing that properly?

for better or worse, mornings are extensions of dreams. this being the better of them. charmed, wispy, little breathes and his blood rushing hot. taut squeezing fingers and the give of her skin just where her hip curves. heaviness in the bones and a daze that lingers. 

cody was, is, maybe still, used to the rip and run and go. a superstars schedule. making entertainment for the benefit of others. a territory that comes tailored to the job. 

heavy is the head, as they say. but his senses are being effortlessly deluded as of late. a swimming behind the eyes. this falling feeling in his chest. an attention pulling weight in the gut before something sharp pricks near his heart. 

the music of her voice singing in his dreams till he breaks awake. maneuvering against the sheets sluggishly. sun bursting pass hotel curtains. an urge to continue the bliss of that little song. 

the way alana tilts her neck, to invite a kiss or the press of his thumb. moaning generously and her legs separating to spread. acceptance and bits of thrill. a deep breath in the nose and her fingers in his hair. mussing the short cut of blonde and chasing the tender roll of his tongue. her lips the perfect touch. pillowy and sweet and—

"i had your assistant send me your schedule". drawing a thin line down the base of his neck. teasing and daring at some painful sharpness. a fresh manicure made to do him in. 

a short hum. this semblance of indignation that has no real room to breathe. swallowed up in the notes of her perfume. staining bed sheets and the curve of her neck. a quick strip of it placed before bed to lull him in come daylight. "now why would you have her do that?"

her words thin, "i have it on good authority...", till they fade. legs pulling up to hook up at the wide stretch of his shoulders. "...that your attention is at a deficit as of late". 

"my attention is where it wants to be". 

"cody—". then comes in the roll of his hips. naked, hot and heavy. nestling at thin panties he'd attempted to strip off the night before. exhaustion too possessive for a proper follow through. 

and cody hates that. improper follow through. sweeping his tongue in to taste the mint she'd brushed in before they slipped back into the sheets. missing the fluff and coziness. his nose knocking, lips moving lax and his hand smoothing down to peel her panties to the side. a soft groan from some mindless rut in his hips. wired for morning pleasure. "alana..."

"i just think—", a sudden lack of air. heat in her cheeks and a brilliant spark at the nerves. hissing and clutching at his neck. "mhmm". a near consumption in seconds, just from the lazy drag of his dick. giving her folds a tender part till he's nudging at her clit. 

and the tease of this is perfect morning mischief. something to light his body ablaze and leave him functionally dizzy till the day is done. labor worked hands squeezing and prying her thighs open and his tongue running flat into her neck till he's suckling the skin. mere seconds of this before she's sinking pliant into the fluff of the sheets and leaving him to stroke messily. wet and throbbing at endless possibility. her nails running the line of his spine and those noises from her throat. the ones reminiscent of his dreams. 

[prettyiwa]

Red

(Previous)

Relationship: March x NB!Farmer Content Tags: March POV, Alcohol Consumption, Light Flirting/Teasing, March is March (emotionally constipated), Developing Feelings, 4-Heart Event, Incidental Shooting Star Festival, Referenced fear of the sea, References to March's parents (spoilers?) Summary: March begins to accept the Farmer's presence in town—at least so far as their usefulness. (Denial). Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Tumblr was being finicky about my header and hiding my attempts to post Summer a month ago. I finally figured out it was my header and instead of keeping Spring/Summer in one post, I decided to split them again. As always, special thanks to @owoasis for letting me talk your ear off about March, your favorite character to hate 💜💜 Also thank you to the metalsmith who let me ask questions for a throwaway conversation ahahaha

SUMMER, Year 1

There is no relief to be found from a summer breeze as the sun bears down upon him, even in the evening. Between the heat of the forge in the early morning and the weight of the sun on his back all day, he’s had no reprieve from this week’s heatwave.

Ryis and Reina are both preoccupied, leaving March alone in his trek to the beach, not that he’s complaining.

As far as he can remember, he’s always found comfort in the sand, in the briny scent heavy in the air. Even now, in his approach, he feels better simply for the whiffs of sea that waft over the trees near Sweetwater. It’s always been this way, but he doesn’t know whether it’s tied to the natural presence of the sea or if it’s some enduring association with his dad he’s tried forgetting.

Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, he’s made it his own.

Breaking through the tree line, the heat turns blistering, the last bastion holding on as the sun hangs low in the sky, blinding in its descent. He raises an arm to block out the light, eyes scanning the shoreline in search of someone (anyone). There’s a figure seated at the docks, looking out to the west, and he heads in their direction.

Not until he’s coming down the steps from Terithia’s does he realize that it’s you, though, again, he’s not complaining.

Despite his hard words when he gave you the hoe, you’ve lingered, almost constantly in his peripheral. Both Olric and Ryis talk about you, the latter more than the former. Since he unleashed on you in the spring, you’ve ensured a steady supply of fresh produce, helped restore the mill, and are currently working with Ryis to renovate the general store. That’s not mentioning the ore you give Olric to give to March. Can’t really complain about someone who’s chipping in.

His boots knock against the pier and you half-turn in acknowledgment, face mostly hidden between the wide brim of your hat and your sunglasses. Adorned in a loose-fitted button up and shorts, your boots sit to the side, allowing you to dangle your feet above the flow of the rising tide.

“What’s up?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the horizon. Do you know who’s at your side?

A wave comes, larger than those before, reaching your feet. With a kick, you splash the water, the subtle lift of your cheeks telling him of your mood. He removes his own boots, tucking his socks within them, and joins you on the edge, bumping your shoulder on his descent.

“Trying to escape the heat,” he answers, ignoring the urge to look at you (made infinitely harder when you start at the sound of his voice, turning to face him with obvious surprise).

“Ah. That makes sense. I don’t know how you can handle the forge for as long as you do.”

“You get used to it. An artisan such as myself can’t afford to stop just because of a little heat.”

With a snort, you return your attention to the horizon, allowing him to sneak a glance. Your shirt’s half-unbuttoned, bringing a new heat to his face—he can and will blame it on the sun if asked. But more than that, he’s drawn to the curve of your lips, the serenity in your smile.

“Oh, of course,” you say, sarcasm drawing out your words. “I guess I’ll just have to spend more time at the forge. Maybe then the rest of summer will be bearable.”

“Are you really such a wimp that this is too much for you?” As far as you’re concerned, this heat is nothing to him (even if there’s a part of him currently wishing he could venture further into the sea than his calves).

Rather than bristling like expected, you laugh, loud and uninhibited. “Jeez, only you.” Wiping tears from behind your glasses, you say, “Beaches up north are cooler than here. Never liked the heat of the capital, either. Maybe I am a wimp.”

You’re completely at ease, more than he’s seen from you sober, though it’s probably just the atmosphere.

The sun hovers near the line of the horizon, turning the sky. Calm azure meets the copper that bleeds from the sun. Salt kisses his skin as the tide ebbs and flows, lapping at his feet, and a breeze finally begins to blow.

“Say, Red?” Leaning back on your arms, your voice lifts with an impending proposition. “You wanna share a beer with me?” A quick glance around confirms a distinct lack of beer around. Anticipating his question, you add, “In exchange for my imported beer, Terithia let me use her cooler.”

“Imported—? Hemlock’s brew isn’t good enough for you now?”

“Ah, you’ll see.” The sun its your face just right so he can see past the shade of your sunglasses as you turn, allowing him to admire the crinkle of your eyes with your grin. “I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing his shoulder, you pull yourself up, the water from your feet splashing where they land. With your back to him, he’s free to watch as you run toward the shack, not minding your bare feet on the hot planks.

He closes his eyes to the sky. What the hell is he doing? The longer you spend here, helping folks, the tighter his chest grows, wary you’ll leave like all the others. It’s only a matter of time.

The padding of your feet brings him back, though he doesn’t turn to look away until you’re only a few feet from him. The bottle you hand him has a black label, some brew he doesn’t recognize (he didn’t expect differently). As he goes to remove the cap, he realizes it’s not a twist-off.

“How am I supposed to open this?”

Settling down beside him, a few inches further than before, you look up. “Hm? Oh. You don’t—? That’s fine. Gimme,” you say, wagging your fingers at him.

Passing over the bottle, he watches you line up both bottles in the same hand, the edge of his lid above yours. Bringing both down against the wood, his cap goes flying backward, clattering against the dock. When offered, he accepts his bottle, trying to hide the sliver of awe he feels.

He brings the bottle to his lips, watching as you pull the knife you keep on your belt, using it to leverage your cap off. Feeling his stare on you, you meet his eyes again, offering a wink and a lopsided smile. Warmth spreads from his neck as he turns away and you laugh as he takes a swig from his beer. It’s smooth as it goes down with a pleasant crisp that lingers on his tongue.

“Nice, right?”

Grunting in response, still a little bitter that you winked at him, he takes another sip.

“That’s what I thought.” He can hear the smile on your voice. “It’s from home, a little town in the mountains. One of the only things I miss from there. Like it better here.”

You probably liked “home” at some point, too, but you still left.

“It’s alright,” he mutters.

Laughing again, he glances over, catching the way you hold your tongue between your teeth. “Yeah, okay.”

Silence falls between you both, the horizon catching fire with the sun almost gone, a last flicker of flame before night takes hold. It’s gorgeous, accompanied by the steady wash of the waves against the shore, the occasional cry of a seagull. He savors the citrus of the beer as the wind grows persistent and his muscles begin to relax.

Giving into impulse, he shifts to watch you.

Stray hairs fall from under your hat, framing your face. You’ve taken off your sunglasses, hanging them from your shirt, allowing him to watch as the remnants of the sun reflect in your eyes. Your smile never falters and he envies you for it.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, you say, “I’m not going anywhere, Red. I like it here. I like my farm. I like working the land. I like helping Ryis and Adeline and Hayden. I like being useful.” Lifting your knee, you rest your cheek, eyes flitting across his face before meeting his gaze. “I think I could even come to like you, too.”

The slow lift of your lips gives away your tease, the reluctant press of the corners of your mouth as though you’re trying to repress your smile that causes his blush to blossom across warm cheeks.

Part of him, and he doesn’t know how large a part, wants to believe you. But he’s heard those words before from another adventurer who once settled down. That didn’t stop them from leaving. Words don’t carry as much weight as actions, not even pretty words like yours, so he’ll wait and see.

He lays back, eyes catching on the stray clouds scattered across the twilight sky. A stronger breeze blows through, combining with the chill of the sea at his feet, sending shivers down his spine. A chuckle escapes you, the sound pleasant, different from the others he’s heard before. Propping himself up, he notices the clouds that gather to the south, beyond the sight of you. Following his line of sight, you sigh, the sound forlorn, though he can’t imagine why.

“Juni gave me a crystal ball that predicts the weather. With how hot it was today, I didn’t want to get my hopes up about its prediction for tomorrow.”

The rustling of your movement draws him to you once more, watching as you start to pick yourself up. He lays back down as you bend over, your sunglasses almost slipping lose as you reach for your shoes.

“We shouldn’t stay here much longer.”

Can’t argue with you there, but he can’t quite find it in him to move. Sensing this, you tuck your empty bottle into the shaft of your boot, freeing your hand to offer it as help. If not for the beer, he’d otherwise smack it away. As it is, he’s already pulling his feet out of the water and reaching for your hand.

Calluses litter your palm, different from his, solidified after years of blacksmithing. His thoughts travel to the life you lived before, the one that gives you experience with your sword, the one that created the habit of keeping a knife on your belt. Did your calluses develop then? Or are they from your first few months here?

Effortlessly, you pull him up, and he feels a little dizzy. The moment he registers the warmth of your hand still wrapped around his, he lets go as though you’re metal fresh from the forge.

As he goes to pick up his boots, his attention remains on the incoming clouds, blotting out the stars as they grow in volume. Before he can ruminate, before memories of the past can pick up, you distract him.

“You haven’t seen the farm yet, have you?”

“You need a chaperone to make it home?”

His shoulder jolts as you push him, clicking your tongue. “You wish. I actually wanted your input on some plans I’ve been drawing up. It’d be easier if you knew what I was working with.”

Yeah, right.

“Ryis is the one you want to talk to about things like that,” he says, denial settling in his chest.

You start walking backwards, urging him to follow if only so you don’t trip over the edge of the docks. That’d be a nightmare—you, finding out he doesn’t swim on the off chance you fucking fall into the sea.

“Please. Can you look where you’re going?” His arms come out, ready to grab you if you fall, though you never do.

Oh, if only he could wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

“Worried about me? How queer.” Despite your tease, despite your glowing smile, you comply, turning, allowing his heart to slow. “If you don’t wanna come, don’t worry about it, but I meant it about wanting your input. I’ve been trying to hone my blacksmithing skills so you don’t have to worry about orders from me, too, but I think I might be out of my depth.”

Of course you are. “What do you mean, so I don’t have to worry about you? Do you think I can’t handle it?”

This sigh is exasperated, tired, making your cheeks fall. “That’s not what I meant. You think I want to hand you yet another order for nails? I’d rather commission you to craft my next sword. That seems more worthy of your skill.”

Oh.

He’s left watching as you finally bristle, rolling your eyes before turning toward the shore, leaving him to follow in your wake. In the silence that follows, he reflects on your words, letting your sentiments replay in his mind. The walk to Sweetwater takes on a different tone until something strikes him.

Reaching the edge of the ranch, he stops you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still using that rusted piece of garbage when you go into the mines.”

You’re still the only person daring enough to enter the mines in any meaningful fashion, and each time he sees that rusted junk attached to your hip, he becomes dangerously close to having an aneurysm.

“Yeah. I miss my old sword, which is why I wanted to commission you for a new one. Among other things.”

“What happened to your sword? What kind of adventurer loses their sword?”

You pause, eyes widening imperceptibly, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s properly asked about your past—up until now, everything he’s learned about you has been against his will. A slow smile appears, your previous irritation falling to the wayside, and you say, “That’s a tale for when I have a few more drinks in me. Doesn’t really matter since I don’t have it though. The way Balor spoke of this place, I didn’t think I’d need it. A little hamlet in need of hard work? Somewhere he felt comfortable staying for a time?” You chuckle at some memory, lost to him. “Imagine getting here and being handed a rusted piece of shit instead of a scythe.”

He’s not sure he wants to hear the story, something grating in the back of his mind at your words, but he does know that the mention of crafting a sword has his mind working overtime. It’s been so long…

“So. Final offer: wanna swing by the farm? Or should I just come and bother you later this week?”

“Olric doesn’t like when the weather gets like this. I should head back,” he says, not looking at you. “But you know what? Come by the shop tomorrow. We can talk about that sword.”

The smile you reward him with is blinding, causing his heart to hiccup at the sight. For as long as you’ve lived here, he’s never been on the receiving end of it, and he’s not quite a fan of the fluttering it causes beneath his skin.

“Hell yeah,” you say, your smile never fading. “In that case, I’m gonna head home.” He watches as you turn, heading toward the path he’s never taken. After a minute, you look over your shoulder, that smile still there. “I had fun hanging out with you today, Red! Thank you for sitting with me.”

Yeah, he really doesn’t like that fluttering you leave him with.

“Eighty tesserae for each ingot? Are you sure?” March asks, eyeing the crates loaded onto Balor’s cart outside of the inn. “That’s… that’s amazing!”

“It is, isn’t it? That means I was able to get quite a bit more iron than we had originally agreed upon for the same price,” Balor says, pride heavy in his voice. “The problem is, I injured myself loading all of it beforehand, so I won’t be able to help unload. I’ll cut another five percent off the price if you and Olric take care of it yourselves.”

“That’s… You’re joking.”

“I am not. I’d like to get to Valen before my next excursion, but I can’t do that until this is taken care of.” While Balor’s smile hasn’t faltered, there’s an edge to his voice that March would rather not test.

He’s in no position to complain, nor can he pass up the opportunity to save tesserae where possible. Factor in his current workload and there’s no time to complain.

“Right. We’ll handle it. Let me get Olric.”

Balor’s response is lost to him as he hurries down Main Street, eager to not let this deal go to waste. He’s grateful, not just for the discount, but for the extra ingots which will be useful in the coming weeks. With fall around the corner, the rush for repairs will compound his workload and the additional iron will allow him to get a head start.

Rounding the corner, he calls out to Olric, apprising him of the situation, only for his eyes to fall on you.

You’re slipping on your blacksmithing gloves and his first thought is that you’re here to try and work on your own projects, comfortable in your skill to handle them without help in the immediate.

“What are you doing here? Not trying to use the forge, right?” he asks, though it comes out like a bark.

Olric chimes in and March realizes what happened. The traitor. As March readies himself to dismiss you, he’s reminded that Hemlock asked if he could craft the inn a new cauldron, something he wished to deliver tonight.

Fuck.

“Fine. Stick around and help if you think you won’t slow us down.”

Your eyes narrow, but your lips curl into a wry smile, asking, “When have I ever genuinely slowed you down, Red?” Olric shifts beside you and your eyes flicker to him. “Alright, what do you need, Boss Man?”

Another—? “First: Olric— no, wait. First, don’t call me that.” Olric’s worry lines disappear at the sound of your laughter. “Second: Olric, I need you to start carrying over the shipment. Balor has it at the inn. You,” he commands, finding you annoyingly attentive, “get the forge fired up.”

Olric disappears from view and March follows as you prepare the forge, something akin to pride flaring in his chest at how easily you take to it, remembering the lesson. With the fire going, you look over your shoulder, smiling when you find him already watching.

“So you have a problem when I call you ‘Boss Man’ but not when I call you ‘Red,’ eh?”

Heat crawls up his neck, settling across his face and he rolls his eyes. “Shaddup, will you? Let’s just get this done.”

“You got it, Red,” you say with a wink, laughing when he turns around.

Working alongside you is different than when you watch him in the afternoons or he watches you in the evenings. It’s different when you move around him before he can ask, when you’re quick to take direction (and you’re so easy to direct). Unlike when he works alone, you’re largely silent, offering little more than the occasional wink or small nod as you two work.

About halfway through, you step back, slipping off the glove on your right hand to grab your canteen. His eyes are drawn to the bob of your throat as you drink, to the trickle of water that escapes your lips. With your forearm, you wipe away the sweat gathering on your forehead.

“Think you were one hundred percent right, Red,” you say, removing your second glove. He pauses, openly watching as you pull your hair up.

“Of course I was. About what?”

“I am a wimp when it comes to the heat. I’m more than a little impressed that you can do this everyday.”

“Then why even come? Your plan of avoiding the forge until the evening seemed to be working for you.”

Grabbing your gloves, you start slipping them on again, teeth biting your bottom lip before that grin breaks free, wide and carefree. Your eyes meet his and he can’t look away. “And miss out on the opportunity to do all this?”

There’s something in the way you say it, something in the way the words drop from your lips like honey. Is there more that you’re not saying? Your following wink seems to support that (you need to stop).

“S-stop joking around.”

Returning to the barrel hoops, each strike of his hammer seeks to suppress the creeping flush, the image of you burned so thoroughly into his retinas that he sees you without looking. Venturing a glance, he sees you hard at work, focused on your hands, smile still present.

When Olric returns from speaking with Adeline, you grow chatty, cracking jokes and telling anecdotes of your life in the city. Then come the compliments. Compliments to Olric, to his patience and strength. Compliments to March, to his efficiency and concentration. Things neither would even think of, things he doesn’t believe to be deserving of attention as they’re simply facts of his work, but the way the words come make him pause. They make him fluster.

Which is stupid.

He doesn’t need your supposed praise to know he’s doing a good job or that his work is the best around. There’s no reason for him to be heating up at your words. Even if he finds himself getting into the zone a little easier. Even if the weight of the work before him seems lighter. Even if, for all intents and purposes, he’s starting to have fun.

You say as much when the work is finished, when the three of you are sweating and tired from everything you’ve accomplished. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you almost look like you belong here.

The moment it crosses his mind, he feels on edge, eyes shifting to Olric who looks all too pleased by the outcome of everything (of course he would; he’s the one who invited you in the first place). As possible as it is that Olric only invited you here to lighten the load, it’s possible there was another reason for his actions, some quiet wish he hasn’t voiced to March.

Whatever that could be…

It’s suddenly all too hot and he’s entirely too aware of you and Olric to think.

“I… I need to cool down. I’ll be inside,” he says, rushing past you to the shop. As his hand wraps around the doorknob, he turns to you, spotting the slight pout of your lips. That’s— “I’ll need time to recover from all the work we did today. Come by again on Sunday and we can talk more about your sword.”

Your tongue laves your bottom lip before you offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. Okay. See you then, Red.”

The door shuts behind him as the nickname leaves your mouth and he presses himself against it, trying to catch his breath. That he has to catch his breath at all is—

maddening.

Crickets begin their song along the path leading to the Narrows and the moisture that hangs in the air adds to the weight of the swing of his hammer. March’s clothes stick to him as he works, partly because of his refusal to stop working, partly because of the insufferable humidity lingering from last night’s storm.

Harsh clangs ring throughout the square in time with his strikes as people start making their way to wherever they’ll be viewing the stars. Every strike of his augments the irritation that’s been building since this afternoon, your noted absence making it worse.

He’s seen scant trace of you since you helped out on Thursday, barely catching sight of you at the inn on Friday. Even if his appointment with Vera ran long yesterday, he expected you to stop by in the evening as you are prone to doing. But there has been no sight of you. The heat has come and gone, the shadows have danced across the ground until swallowing the world, and still no sight of you.

It’s not as though you two have a lot of history making plans—you come and go as you please—but the two times he has asked for you, you’ve been punctual. Hell, when last he asked you to stop by and talk about your commission, you were waiting in the rain before the shop even opened. It…

It shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t be bothered by your absence. (If anything, he should feel relieved). (If he is bothered, it’s only because he asked you to come and you agreed). The longer he ruminates, the more irate he grows, blaming it entirely on you because it’s your face he sees when his hammer makes contact and sparks fly.

Laughter rings out near the fountain and he looks up, catching the amethyst of Juniper’s hair as she leads Valen. They turn their heads toward the anvil and Valen offers a wave. As March nods in acknowledgment, Juniper adopts her usual haughty smile, heading down the steps toward the inn. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear Balor and Hayden. Are you caught up with someone else in town, readying yourself to look at the stars with them?

Something ugly starts gnawing behind his sternum and he rolls his eyes. Footsteps approach from the woods, and he assumes it’s Olric with one last ditch effort to get him to watch the sky.

“I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but Red,” he hears you say, making his heart pick up in his chest, prompting him to look over his shoulder, “I think you will be.”

You’re dressed in a thick cotton blouse and jeans, though they’re torn just above the knee. Blood stains the fabric and there are light scratches littering your forearms. Either you’ve done him the courtesy of hiding that rusted abomination, or you went into the mines unarmed. A flash of heat flares in his chest at the thought, and you smile knowingly, eyes twinkling in a way that promises nothing good.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, fist clenching around the handle of his hammer before releasing it, letting it clatter against the anvil as he turns around.

“Did you want to spend more time with me that much?” you tease, oblivious to the anger that must be radiating from him as you shuffle out of your sack, positioning it for easy access. He steps forward and your eyes flicker up, flitting across his face. The edge to your smile softens as you turn your eyes back down.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” you start, unexpectedly earnest. “I justified it by telling myself I wouldn’t be too long and that we never agreed on a time and…”

You’re rambling. You don’t ramble. Do… Is it that you feel bad for what could ostensibly be considered standing him up? (That makes it sound like a date, which this is very much not).

Deft fingers pull at the leather straps of your rucksack, pulling the flap to reveal the familiar sheen of silver.

“I found silver.” There’s pride in your voice and something that sounds almost conspiratorial. His anger begins to dissipate as you loosen the strings, letting him slip his hand inside to grab a piece.

Its weight is familiar, sitting differently in his hand than the copper or iron you’ve brought him thus far. It’s been over a year since he was able to work with silver. Rotating it in his hand, his thoughts drift to Josephine and Valen, to much needed silverware and medical supplies.

“You found silver.”

You beam at him, the same smile you shared with him when he first promised to do something about your sword, and the back of his knees start to feel weak.

“It’s all yours if you forgive me for being late.”

“Not a chance. It’s not like you know what to do with it otherwise,” he bites, not quite ready to free you from his ire. He hasn’t taught you how to work silver, but that lesson isn’t too far away.

Swiping the silver from his hand, you say, “I could give it to Balor with explicit instructions to sell it outside of Mistria.” A hollow threat if ever you’ve given one. With how much you insisted upon a silver sword, you wouldn’t relinquish it so quickly. “And what, you’re gonna make something for me if I gift it to you?”

“You wish,” he says, eyes narrowing. Truth is, he’s tired of the orders he’s been working on and he’d need to re-familiarize himself with silver before undertaking an order from Josephine or Valen. The silver you give him now will likely go to something you could use if only because he knows you’d be quick to bring more.

But you don’t need to know that.

(Even if he suspects that you already do).

“Yeah, sure,” you dismiss, bringing your bag to his work bench. He follows, watching as you unload your silver delivery until the bag is empty. Reaching into the front pocket, you pull out what he can only imagine to be food, wrapped in the butcher paper from the inn. Glancing at him as your fingers begin to pull at the wrapping, you ask, “You mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t sat down since I got up this morning.”

“Would you stop if I told you I minded?”

Your fingers stop pulling at the tape, the hint of a smile disappearing before you bob your head. Guilt pulls at his throat, not expecting you to take his rhetorical question seriously.

“It’s fine! Eat if you’re hungry! Should’ve taken a break earlier.”

Without missing a beat, your finger slips under the tape to undo the wrapping, revealing a lobster roll. He watches as you tear the sandwich in half.

“Share with me?”

You pose it like it’s a non-issue, like you couldn’t care either way, but he has a feeling you do. As he prepares to turn you down—it’s your food and you just said you haven’t rested since you got up—his stomach growls, betraying him.

“... Fine.”

“It’s Reina’s, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking the offered roll.

You follow his lead, coming to sit at the edge of the steps of the forge, arm’s distance from one another.

Just as he’s about to take a bite from the sandwich, you say, “So. About my sword…”

He closes his mouth, lowering his sandwich before looking at you. “You want it to be silver?”

“I do! I know what you’re gonna say: steel will last longer and work better. But silver’s great against monsters.”

Rolling his eyes, he sighs through his nose. Hunger wins out over the urge to rehash this argument, so he tells you, “Go ahead. Make your case while I finish.”

“I mean, what’s there to say? Silver weaponry always works better against monsters, and considering that’s all I’m using my sword for, I think it’s for the best. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the magic here is overwhelming. Silver just… cuts through it all. It’s not like I’m fighting people in Mistria, so silver will protect me just fine. Any other situation, hell yeah, I’d defer to you, but I’m gonna be a little pushy here. And before you even say it, I do trust you as a professional, but I’m asking that you trust me as a professional, too. You’re the best blacksmith I’ve seen, so I don’t want you to think that I’m discounting your opinion.”

Swallowing, he wants to suppress the heat that crawls up his neck. “I’m the only blacksmith you’ve seen.”

“In Mistria? Yeah,” you laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re certainly my favorite.” Glimpsing in your direction shows your cheeky grin. “I could always commission you for a steel sword after we get the blast forge built?”

“I’ll charge extra.”

“Worth every tesserae.”

Outside of Balor, you’ve certainly the most experience with monsters (perhaps the only one with genuine experience). He’s unsure about all this magic talk, but he’s coming to trust your experience as an adventurer. As you eat, he weighs your words, eyes dancing across the scratch on your leg, the nicks across your arms.

“I’ll get started on your silver sword.”

“Thank you, Red,” you effuse, your smile audible.

The sincerity of your gratitude eats at him, making his skin tingle, and he can’t stand watching you. Beside him, you turn your face upward. It’s a moment before you nudge his shoulder. When he looks, your free hand is extended, pointed toward the sky.

“Hey, look.”

Stars shoot across the sky, vibrant against the backdrop of the cosmos, one right after the other. He’s mesmerized by the way they move, unable to look away.

“Did you know this was tonight?” Reverence drips from your tongue, so strong he wants to watch you instead (he doesn’t).

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.” Even as he says it, he’s not so sure anymore. He never felt like he was missing much when he skipped this night every year for the last couple decades.

“Wow, they’re so clear here. I’d watch them when I was in the capital and sometimes at home, but they never looked like this.”

The urge to look at you grows, demanding his attention be torn from the sky and be placed upon you. Uncertainty grows at the revelation and he keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even if he’s otherwise focused on you. Even if he wants to meet your eyes when you turn to look at him.

“Did you ever hear about the legend surrounding tonight?”

“No. I… never cared about the festival.”

“... That’s fine. It’s just a story anyway.”

Something in his chest aches and it feels almost as though something is crawling under his skin at the thought of asking you to clarify, so he doesn’t. You’ll probably share it with him one day anyway.

Red Masterlist | Next ➥

[thevampiremarie]

Summertime Sadness (part 1)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Second chance romance, heavy angst, hurt/very little comfort

Later’s better than never… right?

Ten years ago, Simon and you met at the same therapeutic boarding school. You fought, he said some shit, he left. He thought he’d never see you again.

Until one day, a hospital calls and informs him that you’ve listed him as your emergency contact.

(title from the song by Lana Del Rey)

-

Tags: mental illness, abuse, addiction, self harm, suicidality/suicidal ideation/suicide attempts, angsty shit in general, Ghost being very mean as a fucked up 17 year old boy

There’s an old battered flip phone he hides in the back of his locker wherever he’s deployed. Ghost doesn’t turn it on all that often. Everyone who knows the number is dead.

But sometimes he does, just to stare at the contacts and click through the photos and remember what it was like to talk to them.

Today is one of those days.

He can only take so much talk from his team about families, friends, dogs waiting back home, and pretty girls before feeling the urge to break things.

So he excuses himself to hide in the bathroom like a fucking pussy and takes the phone with him. Simon can pretend he’s waiting for his own phone call from people who love him for a few minutes. Then he promises himself that he’ll put it away and not touch it for another six months.

It takes forever to power on. It’s still janky from the last time Ghost threw it at a wall, it seems.

One (1) missed call.

…What?

They left a voicemail.

His fingers shake as he listens to it.

There’s a long, tinny beep. “Hi, Mr. Riley, I’m…” A woman says in a rushed, businesslike manner. “I’m one of the nurses at-“ Ghost hears a bustle of background noise; faint murmurs, emergency sirens, doors sliding open and shut. “…Hospital. I’m calling because a friend of yours,” The nurse says your name. A name he hasn’t thought about in years. “…Put you down as her emergency contact when we admitted her to our psychiatric inpatient ward. Unfortunately, she did not provide us with anyone else. Please give me a call back at this number if you’d like to speak with her.” Click.

Ghost starts packing an overnight bag before he even realizes it.

Then he’s on a plane.

-

TEN YEARS AGO

“I hate you.”

You’re crying as you run after him in the forest. He speeds up, trying to lose you in the trees. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Simon. I’ll never bring it up again.” Snot covers your upper lip and your eyes are bright with tears.

He hates this fucking place. He hates this fucking school, the kilometers of wilderness separating him from his life because the fucking shrinks think he’s crazy. He hates you for trying to keep him here.

And just when Simon was about to fly the coop, you spilled the beans. “Leave me the fuck alone. Never, ever, ever talk to me again,” He barks, stopping abruptly and turning to loom over you.

When you reach for his hand, he slaps you away. “But you promised you wouldn’t leave-“ You end up on the ground, the pine needles biting into your bare knees as if Simon shoved you.

That makes him angrier. You’re too soft for a world like this. You’re practically begging for someone to hurt you again, someone like him, with your vulnerability and open, bleeding heart. Well, he’ll fucking oblige. You’re not strong like you think you are. You’re the weakest person he knows, and weakness is something Simon could never respect.

“I lied. I fucking lied, you dumb bitch. Didn’t you realize it?” Simon snarls, wishing desperately he’d never let you befriend him on his first day at this therapeutic program.

You're sunshine and innocence and friendship bracelets, the kind of girl who will always be a victim because this world devours little girls like you. Simon is nothing like you. Simon is a survivor. A warrior. Simon is steel where you are china.

Your American accent is almost as unbearable as your pathetic weeping. “…What?” Your bottom lip wobbles.

Hopefully this will teach you a lesson about tattling. Nobody likes a snitch. “Forever doesn’t fucking exist. You were the only tolerable person in this shithole, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to be friends forever. What are you, a fucking infant? God, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass.” If anything, Simon is letting you off easy. You told the counselor things Simon told you in confidence about his dad because you were ‘afraid for his safety.’

But you just don’t get it. Simon can’t spend another day here. And the longer he stays, the angrier his dad will get. You just earned him another week of shit and black eyes.

“Newsflash. People lie. Everyone’s been lying to you. Nobody likes you, not even your mum. And I can’t stand you. You were useful, but I don’t need you anymore. I’m better,” Simon hisses as cruelly as he can, using every blade in his arsenal to cut at the sensitive parts of you where he knows you’ll bleed. Just like you did when you told.

You’re only stuck in this place because your mum left you here. You don’t have anyone, not like he does. He has Tommy and his mum. He has a future. You’ve got absolutely fucking nothing.

“I was just trying to help.”

“I’m getting out of here. I don’t need your help. I’d tell you to keep it, but it wouldn’t even help you.” Simon pauses. You’ve stopped crying. Good. A crying fox is easy prey for the hunting dogs. “They won't believe you. And you wanna know why?” It feels good to be the hunter instead of the fox for once. You make excellent prey.

“‘Cause I told them the truth. That you’re an obsessed freak who’s hyper fixated on me and you’d do anything to keep me here. That you’re a sick, compulsive liar and that you’re the one who’s a danger to herself, not me.”

You fall silent. Finally, blessed silence. You look up at Simon with glazed eyes and a still tongue. He feels better. Good, even.

“Goodbye. I hope I never see you again,” Simon says flatly.

-

TODAY

You picked a good place to get yourself locked up in. This is one of the nicest hospitals Ghost has been in recently. Shiny floors, no dirt caking the walls. New York City puts Kabul and Moscow to shame.

He’s wearing a plain black balaclava. Nothing identifying or particularly memorable. This is going to be a short visit. Ghost will see what you want and then leave. That’s it.

You look tired, exhausted to the very bone.

None of the shiny pinkness that drew Ghost to you in the beginning when you were fifteen and he was seventeen. None of the glow, the round cheeks, the wide doe eyes.

There’s dark circles chiseled into your face, so dark he almost thinks they’re bruises. A couple of IV bags run through a drip hidden under bandages covering your arms from wrist to elbow. Your eyes are as quiet as you are. A couple of marbles would be more lively. You look almost like a doll forgotten in a corner.

The nurse gave Ghost the run-down as she guided him to your bed. Police picked you up on a bridge trying to off yourself. Your fifth time this year. Unless you show some real improvement, the doctors will recommend an indefinite hospitalization.

You’ve been busy in the decade of his absence. Multiple addictions, more attempts than he can count, and some small stints in jail. A list of disorders he wouldn’t know how to pronounce. And nobody left to call.

Is this his fault?

When Ghost rounds the corner, you smile like he should be proud of you. “You came,” You say.

I have absolutely no business starting a new fic. Absolutely none. Idk. I have brainrot. No clue when this will be updated. But here, have it.

[slutsareteacherstoo]

I Hope Part 4 - Terry Richmond x Black OC

Black Fem! OC - Savannah (dark skinned, curvy, and disabled) x Terry Richmond (Gentle!Terry, Sweet!Terry, Nervous!Terry)

(I gotta get better at these tags, suggestions welcome!)

Summary: Savannah works an (unplanned) Saturday shift and has to cover a program unexpectedly! (Terry not in here....til the very end)

Warnings/Things of Note: Mentions/glimpses of disability, medications, shoutout to Black lesbians, divorce, disordered eating, ARFID, libraries (you should have a card if you don't), shoutout to library workers, masks, pandemic mention, brief medical trauma

Word Count: 6K+ (6,667)

Author’s Note: Hi y'all. Thank you for your patience. I decided to just post everything together like it was originally supposed to be but omfg. I think I overdid the exposition and description. I kinda don’t like it but thats okay cuz as i write more I’ll improve my style and be ok with it

So glad I got this part done. I told my therapist these characters are haunting me and doing shit behind my back like yall better slow down. 🤣 i might go back and fix the tags and warnings probably so if there's something I missed lmk. It was also kinda not proofread, so lmk if I missed anything. I hate that this is soo long mostly cuz Terry didnt get his depth in part 3 but Imma work on it.

I don't give my consent for my work to be copied, reposted, translated or used to train AI.

If you wanna be tagged or removed let me know.

Okay🧍🏾‍♀️ gonna go now 🏃🏿‍♀️

The trilling of a phone alarm rang through Savannah’s bedroom, startling her awake. Pillows and blankets were thrown askew, some falling to the floor. She reached toward the nightstand to silence her phone. With weary eyes, she looked at the blazing screen with the time of 6:30am on display. This was too early for a Saturday morning. She put on her glasses and swung her body to the side of the bed, counting mentally for 30 seconds before rising with a groan.

Savannah made her way to the bathroom, wincing as she turned on the light and at the overwhelming urge to pee. After flushing and washing her hands, she began her morning routine: water flossing, electric toothbrush, mouthwash. Wiping her mouth with a towel, she looked at herself in the mirror. She was NOT supposed to be up this early for a Saturday. Savannah had volunteered to cover for her coworker, Desiree, whose child had an important meet today. This was the sixth day of the week she was going to be working at the library, and right now she resolved to never volunteer herself again. Even if it was time and a half.

Reminding herself of her bonnet and the hair she needed to take care of underneath it, she grabbed her plush, forest green rolling chair and sat. Savannah pulled off the bonnet and felt her hair with two hands. She softly stretched it and wondered how she’d do it today. Saturdays were normally wash days but Savannah didn’t have time for that. The reminder ping to take her medicine only emphasized that. The mirror cabinet swung open to reveal prescription medications, supplements, painkillers, a first aid kit, alcohol, hydrogen peroxide and 2 mini water bottles specifically to ensure she wouldn’t dry swallow. It was hard not to. Savannah downed her meds and supplements. She didn’t touch the painkillers, resolving that maybe her liver deserved a break.

Savannah closed the mirror and stared at herself again. Deep brown skin with hints of gold was looking a bit paler and the under eye circles, courtesy of her glasses and general fatigue were looking a bit more prominent than usual. Who would ever choose to be up at this god awful time on a Saturday morning? The answer to her mental thought was answered by Hip Hop Harry’s, “I Love to Learn”, the signature ringtone from none other than her best friend, Marisol. Grad school classmates turned librarian coworkers, the two had been inseparable since. Savannah glanced at the phone and saw it was a video call of all things. Savannah rolled her eyes and accepted it.

“Why are you calling my phone this early in the morning?” Savannah grumbled and absentmindedly adjusted her glasses.

“Well, good morning to you, Miss Sunshine. You can’t greet?” Marisol said in a mocking tone, a thick eyebrow raised and fully lashed eye moving closer to the screen.

Savannah was fighting the urge to smile and laugh. Seeing Marisol’s face —round, dark brown with cool red undertones, and never without pink blush always made her smile. Her deep red hair was braided down in two plaits with pink bows at the ends and her silver septum ring glinting in the light.

Savannah responded with an eyeroll and Marisol smacked her lips, glossy lined in black, “Tuh. Don’t be mad at me for trying to make sure you got up early this morning and make it to work on time.” Marisol was being playful.

“I’m up aren’t I?” Savannah retorted, “How are you already ready this early? It’s not even 7 yet!”

“Well, I had a bit of an early start,” Marisol said with the bite of her lip and looking across her shoulder. Savannah couldn’t see more than her friend’s face in the frame but the low, morning voice that followed was hint enough at what gave her best friend that morning espresso.

“Good morning, Savannah,” Demi, Marisol’s partner, responded before coming into view. Her dark brown locs were up in a bun and sweatband covered her tapered hairline. It looked like she was heading out for her morning run. Demi gave Marisol a quick kiss on the cheek, joining Marisol in the frame; her brown skin was beaming at the sight of Savannah’s best friend.

“Eww,” Savannah responded, eyes wide with fake disgust and but also genuine awe. She didn’t know how they had the energy and so early in the morning. Now it was Demi and Marisol’s turn to roll their eyes and scoff. The three of them let out a laugh. Savannah went back to observing herself in the mirror. She didn’t know what she was going to do with her hair.

“Put it in a puff,” Demi said, catching Savannah off guard. Savannah looked back at the screen again. “Put in a puff and slap on a bandanna,” Demi repeated with the sip of her coffee mug.

Savannah liked Demi a lot. She was the favorite of Marisol’s partners over the years. And while Savannah hated unsolicited advice, Demi’s was never wrong and always gave it at the right time.

“Yeah. I agree. Just get a big scrunchie or an old headband and tie that thing back. You won't have to worry about it the whole day.” Marisol added.

Savannah nodded in agreement. She’d just deal with it tomorrow. She reached under the sink for one of her organizers. It had the detangling spray, wide tooth comb, clips, gel, brush and scrunchie she needed. Savannah began the puff process while responding to the lovely couple: light spray, section, clip, comb, clip again.

“Thank you for calling me though. I was so close to giving Blue Monday on a Saturday,” Savannah said while shaking her head.

“I know! That’s why I did. I don’t know why you agreed to cover for Desiree anyways.”

“It’s time and a half.”

“So?”

”So?! Being disabled is expensive and I got bills to pay.”

“Say less,” Marisol agreed, letting it go.

Demi, however, decided to butt in, “But I thought the money from—”

That gave Savannah pause. Stunned at Demi’s almost question, she put the comb down on the sink counter. The sound echoed in the morning quiet. She took a breath to still herself before glancing at the phone screen again. 

“Oop!” Marisol scurried out the frame with her hands raised and backed away from the camera, leaving her partner to fend for herself. Marisol had already tried to have this conversation with Savannah many times before. It seemed that Demi’s unfinished question was another one of Marisol’s sly attempts. Demi reluctantly inched forward as Savannah stared daggers through the screen. 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Demi exclaimed. “I just meant that you’ve been working so hard. I just wish that you let yourself rest a bit more and take it easy, well in that regard. I just—” 

Savannah cut in right there. “Now, I’m gonna stop you before you go any further. I’m gonna give you grace because I know that your girl put you up to it.”

Demi’s eyes moved slowly over to look at said girl out of frame and back at Savannah.

“But that money,” even saying the word made Savannah’s mouth sour, “wasn’t free. It still isn’t.” 

She understood what they were trying to do. To express their concerns about her pushing herself. But they didn’t get it. The money she got out of the divorce was secured out of necessity not greed. And it would never be enough to pay for the long-term damage her ex’s betrayal had done.

“Well,” Demi began “…it definitely was not but,” she was finding her footing again, in spite of Savannah’s Scorpio stare, “you ARE free from that nigga.” Demi was preaching now, the spirit of encouragement influencing her oration. Marisol ad-libbed a churchy “Thank you, Lord” from the background. Oh great, Savannah thought as her steel started to crack.

“And the State of California, declared that in addition to that freedom,” Demi continued, while Marisol hummed in the background to goad her partner on, “he has no choice but to pay for his lies.” Demi declared with a pointed finger, as Marisol shouted, “Come on.” Wait, was that organ keyboard music Savannah heard coming from their end? Her anger was dissipating into chuckles of amusement.

“So all I’m saying, Sister Savannah,” Demi said softly with preacher’s cadence still in effect, “and I hold your hand when I say this,” she held her own two hands for Savannah’s emphasis, “you should hold no guilt when it comes to using it. No shame for using it when you need it. Exactly like you said, it wasn’t free. But in this new life, you deserve to give yourself the ease you desire. You can do that now.” Demi ended, punctuated by Marisol’s soft hallelujah and towel-clad hand on her forehead. The music faded out and the space was silent for a beat. Savannah’s eyes circled upward for a bit, trying to hold in tears because it was too early for all this. When she looked down again, two pairs of eyes were staring back at her. Savannah’s moved pursed lips from side-to-side, mulling over what to say. In a low tone, “You two…” a snort is what actually came out and then a chorus of laughter and chuckles. “Y’all are something else,” she said with the shake of her head. 

Savannah went back to finishing up her hair and her favorite couple watched.

“So, does that mean you won’t beat my ass?” Demi asked. 

“I guess,” Savannah deadpanned.

“And does that mean we’re still splitting Ms. Taylor’s leftovers at lunch?” Marisol added.

“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it,” Savannah said with a smirk. Of course she would. She always did.

“Well, at least I’m in the clear.” Demi said, preparing to head out. Marisol scoffed in time with the kiss she left on her cheek. “I’ll catch you later, Sister Savannah.” 

Savannah put her hands together and bowed her head slightly, “Thank you, Pastor Demi.” With the grab of her keys and wink, Demi was gone now leaving the best friends to themselves.

Marisol watched as Savannah put the finishing touches on her hair, smoothing and pinning it. It was a simple and classic style. She admired her friend’s handiwork. Especially because Savannah was getting back into it again. And was actually able to. Savannah was proud of the fact that she could do her hair…when her body would cooperate with her. It was always touch and go but the last few months were a lot for her, especially with fully sitting and internalizing the aftermath of the divorce. So, Marisol was soaking in her friend’s born-again pride with a smile.

Savannah’s voice floated in, interrupting Marisol’s thoughts.

“You know you not slick right?,” an eyebrow of Savannah’s own arching.

“I’ve never claimed to be,” Marisol replied

“‘You deserve to give yourself the ease you desire’. Your girl is good with her words. I got the message,” Savannah nodded in acceptance.

“Hey, as long as it got through, that’s all that matters.” Marisol said with hands up. “And she really is,” a smile growing at her lips. She loved the woman badly.

“Also, why do I get the feeling that preaching routine I got a glimpse of is something that you do on the regular? Y’all don’t even go to church,” pressed Savannah with a knowing look. Marisol smirked in a response.

“Anyways, I’m glad that you’re almost ready and that I get to work a Saturday shift with you.” Marisol smiled

Almost was the operative word. For all the time she spent on her hair and being on the phone, she was still in her pajamas! Hadn’t picked her outfit, ate her breakfast, gave herself time to lollygag or pack her lunch.

“Yeah, almost. Girl, I love you but I gotta go,” the words came out hurriedly, as she was about to hang up.

“Don’t forget that food, Savannah,” Marisol reminded her. “You know she gon ask me,” continued with a pointed look. Savannah nodded in reply. “I love you too. See you soon.” Marisol blew a kiss through the phone that Savannah dramatically caught and held to her chest.

When the call ended, Savannah scrambled into action to find her clothes for the day. The plan was shades of brown. There was a chocolate brown pullover in the car she planned to wear after letting Mari borrow it. For now she’d go for the white collared shirt, tan khakis and multicolored sneakers in shades of brown and white. So followed the routine of bra, ribbed high neck tank top, compression socks (that were easy to slide on thank god). She padded to the closet to get her shirt and pants but they were nowhere to be found. Sliding hanger after hanger, forwards and backwards but neither of them were there. Savannah knew she wasn’t tripping. Where were her clothes? When she made a slight turn around, she came to face with her dirty laundry basket and peeking out the top were the desired shirt and khakis. Savannah groaned remembering that today was Saturday. That was the outfit she planned for yesterday, which she wore…yesterday. It was also washday in every sense of the word. Savannah didn’t have any other clothes that she deemed work appropriate. She needed to throw together something, because if she wasn’t ready to go in the next 10 mins she was going to be late! Fuck it, she whispered. 

She went through her closet again and found some black yoga pants. This would do, she guessed. At least she had the pullover in car to cover her upper half. Despite the fall heat, the building’s air conditioning made the circulation desk, especially, a freezer; whoever decided to place the desk directly under that vent was incompetent in their design of the building. Savannah’s phone rang, which told her she was definitely going to be late for work. She walked back to the bathroom to silence it and grab her makeup bag. So much for shades of brown, she grumbled as she lifted her glasses, applying black liner to her lash and water lines. The light turned off when she headed toward the exit of her room and grabbed two thin, oversized gold hoops on her way out. In the kitchen, she grabbed a lunch tote, the two Tupperware dishes Ms. Taylor had given her, some chips, applesauce and two bottles of water. She decided to throw in a protein shake as the breakfast she didn’t plan to have. Savannah was close to making her way out the house. Her lunch tote and bag were already set by the entryway table, all she needed to do was put her shoes on, grab her keys and hit the road. When she looked up after tying her shoes, the mirror in the entryway revealed that with all the running around she was in earlier, she’d forgotten to tie her hair down–which was now frizzy and white? Oh hell no!

- - - - - - 

When Savannah pulled up to her place of work she was already annoyed for a variety of reasons. For one, the front of her hair decided to build a white cast due to the detangling spray and gel she used not mixing well! Because of that, she had to go back in her house and find something to cover the mess. It was a magenta bandana she grabbed at random, which was fucking with the color scheme. Second, the coveted pullover that Savannah thought was in her vehicle was nowhere to be found. She saw Marisol give it back to her and Savannah placed it in her own car, or so she thought. So it meant that she’d be out of her self-prescribed uniform and cold as hell. Arms and chest out, Savannah looked she was going to the gym NOT her library workplace. Luckily, she had the foresight to leave an extra cardigan in her workspace. But the look and vibe she wanted for the day all went to hell. And now, third, she had to cover a program she had NOT planned to and had to figure out what to cobble together. It was too early for all of this!

“What do you mean I have to cover for Amir’s program?! Can’t you just cancel it?” Savannah was in the face of her boss, Dante, who was mirroring her similar exasperation, but with eyes had a hint of fear. He was trying to keep himself together. Dante wasn’t scared of Savannah. He quite liked her a lot as an employee. She was a great librarian to the patrons, warm and inviting. Always willing to answer any question and help troubleshoot anything the patrons were struggling with. She also wasn’t afraid to break up the occasional teen fight or kick someone out of the library for doing wild behavior, like searching for or watching certain things on public library computers. Or some people thinking they could talk to her interns and volunteers any kind of way. Believing that if they threw a tantrum, they’d give in to whatever ridiculous demand they had or could solve whatever issue they deemed to be the fault of library staff and not their own inability to follow basic and clear instructions. Savannah was not the one, or the two. She seemed to have a sense that things were amiss, even if she was all the way in storage. With just a look and/or a fire tongue, she could put anyone in their place and make them reevaluate their life choices. Right now, Dante was on the receiving end of one of those looks. And he was definitely a bit unsettled. Adjusting his blue tie and white button-up, he tried to continue with his request.

“Well, Amir’s program brings in a lot of traffic for the library. That you know we need, especially since we're expanding our services again. You know, opening up.”

Savannah stared at him, not understanding how that was her problem, clearly annoyed.

Dante cleared his throat, his skin reddening at the intensity of her annoyance. “And well…I think it’d be a, um–good opportunity for you, for, for the community, to listen to what you have to say. You are a wealth of knowledge—”

“We all are, that’s why we work here,” Savannah cut him off.

“Well, yes. But the rotation was already set for today and I believe that you can come up with something great, that’ll keep the patrons here, maintain the traffic and inspire them with something new?” There was a squeak at the end of that. A fucking squeak. It definitely didn’t go unnoticed by Savannah. The smirk he couldn’t see was slowly beginning to take shape on her face. Her intense stare of irritation turned into one of satisfaction, like watching prey fall right into a trap. She considered her words before she spoke, rolling around ideas to see what she could get out of this. 

“Ok. I’ll do it,” Savannah said, crossing her arms.

“Oh thank you so much. I—”

“On two conditions.” Savannah interrupted, holding up a long, manicured nail.

“Sure,” Dante quickly nodded. He’d agree with whatever she asked for, before she changed her mind.

“One, you write Casey their letter of recommendation for the Junior Fellows Program.”

Dante considered it. He hated writing letters of recommendations, even though it was part of his job, given they had volunteers year after year who yearned for them for one program or another. He was also really great at them and Dante knew that too. Dante did like Casey, the young college student. And if Savannah vouched for them, why not?

“Done.”

“Two, you get someone else to represent our branch at the next two county meetings.”

At that though, Dante grimaced. Savannah saw his lips and face contorting in annoyance and hesitation.

Savannah hated those meetings. They were mostly people up at the bureaucratic top talking down to the “lowly” library workers who would make decisions not based in the reality of being on the ground. Savannah had gone to the last 3. The first 2 were luckily on Zoom, so she didn’t have to hop in her car and drive all the way over to meet up with all the other representatives of their respective branches and be bored out of her mind. The 3rd one was in-person, which Savannah was apprehensive about. Yes, she wore a mask and worked in such a public facing role, that she probably came into contact with people who were experiencing acute infections that she didn’t want to think about. But this had been jarring for her. Before the pandemic actually and even earlier when she started out, she didn’t mind going to the meetings, wanting the opportunity get to know other librarians and be in the know about being with her supposed colleagues, who she used to commiserate with especially in regards to the changes happening in the library system because of the pandemic; how being chronically understaffed and overworked was the norm now because people were out sick so much and people at the top weren’t getting it. Since it began, Savannah had probably covered at least 10 other branches as a one time thing or on a certain recurring basis, give or take. Everyone talked about how taxing it had been and scary and frustrating dealing with the arrival of this new thing. Because of these shared feelings, she thought she was on the same page as a lot of her colleagues. Not all of them, but at least a good number as the time kept moving forward. So when she walked into that last meeting and saw only 5 other people masked in a room of 40 people, it irritated her. She didn’t know these people intimately. And could understand why so many of them weren’t masked. Frequently given responses played in her head:

It’s not so bad anymore.

We have vaccines now. 

I don’t want people to think I’m sick.

I don’t want to attract attention.

My friend wore one and still got sick.

It’s too expensive now.

I had it twice and I’m fine.

But memories began to flash in her mind: laying down in bed struggling to breathe; the fuzziness of paramedics rolling her out the house, Damian at her side; grogginess in hospital bed but total awareness of pain; months of fatigue like she never felt before; scorn and fury toward husband turned ex-husband; scorn and fury towards family and friends who no longer had the privilege of speaking to Savannah; depression like a weighted blanket— 

And she couldn't, she just couldn’t.

Savannah maintained her steel. Not wanting to give her boss insight. She wasn’t begging or pleading. And she wasn’t asking him either, these were just her conditions. And if he wanted that program covered for real, he would say yes. She didn’t have to explain anything to him! But Dante’s face softened and Savannah feared she let something show that she shouldn’t have. Even though half her face was covered, Savannah’s eyes were always one of her most expressive features, even when she didn’t mean them to be.

“Fine,” Dante sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, I’ll get someone else to do it.”

Savannah gave Dante a nod in appreciation, “Thank you,” and turned to her workspace

—---------

The sound of a fast swinging door interrupted a conversation between the pair in the shared workspace. The two turned around to see why Savannah of all people was opening doors that hard in the morning.

“Damn, what’s got you in a mood?” Marisol interrogated looking Savannah up and down. 

Casey chuckled and answered for Savannah, “Dante voluntold her to cover Amir’s parent program.” They pulled down their Black surgical mask, smirking and taking a sip from their water bottle. Casey was dressed in a black button up, blue jeans and white sneakers with a grey zip hoodie, and black durag still on their head.

“What? Why didn’t he just cancel?” Marisol asked 

“That’s what I said!” Savannah retorted

Casey was twisting in their rolling chair, “You know them thirsty ass parents gon be disappointed and mad as hell.” They arched an eyebrow in amusement. And the three of them laughed because yes, Amir was widely regarded as attractive with a full beard, cheekbones to die for and smooth, velvety voice that could pause most children and adults. For the last 2 years, he had been one of the main facilitators for a virtual storytime program, catapulting him to larger audience of parents that have followed him back to the libraries. It was kind of wild.

“I still can't believe that he drew all them parents from Zoom. They can‘t even see his full face now but they STILL be coming in here.” Savannah said

“That face card never declines.” Casey said. 

Mari hummed in agreement, while Savannah was trying to figure out what she was meant to put together for these parents.

—

Her 2 hour shift at the front/circulation desk was spent searching up ideas for this program. It was for parents of different age groups. So a varied range in audience. A patron’s return of a cookbook sparked the idea of knowledge sharing: cooking for your family in simple ways and still getting in the nutrients with less stress. Savannah typed in a doc some of her points and searched the catalog for relevant titles that patrons might be interested in checking out.

On her break, she went outside, took her medicine and some sips of water, pacing around a bit to improve her circulation. Savannah’s phone vibrated and she checked her phone. It was from her neighbor across the street, Ms. Taylor Richmond.

My nephew Terry is coming today. So I’ll drop something off a bit after he’s settled in and you get off work.

It made Savanah smile. Ms. Taylor was absolutely wonderful to her, as a welcoming neighbor and good friend. A few more texts from her came through.

Enjoy your lunch :)

And you better give me my containers back. That’s my good Tupperware Savannah!🤨

Thank you 😊 

I’ll make sure. Marisol will too.😌

Savannah rolled her eyes in amusement. She couldn’t wait to be done with this program and eat her lunch. Ms. Taylor had told her what it was when she dropped it off, but Savannah had been tired when she picked it up and wanted to go lay down. Savannah would welcome this surprise though. 

Back inside and now free from the circulation desk, Savannah was in her workspace editing her mini slideshow. The info was good and the visuals were everything, even with adults. Shoutout to the templates of the internet. She pulled her books and other materials they might need. Not too much though, Savannah wasn’t going to stress. Even though Amir did bring in a lot of patrons and helped with the engagement of the library, a lot of parents would probably turn the other way and not show up. That was one of the first things she learned: you can put all your effort into a program and sometimes people wont show up. Savannah’d learned that it was never anything personal. Well, maybe except for this case.

——

Casey was helping Savannah bring out the A-frame for the program, letters drawn expertly in marker by their calligraphic hand. Savannah was at the reserved area, waiting for participants to arrive.

“Yeah, this shit look fire,” Casey crossed their arms and nodded at their handiwork. 

“It really is. Thank you for your help,” Savannah said with a smile that reached her eyes. Savannah knew that she wasn’t supposed to have favorites but Casey was her favorite intern by far. Well, Casey did work at the library now but they’d be gone next academic year and it kind of made her sad. She’d seen Casey grow so much over the last 2 and half years, even though half of it was in a virtual way. From getting more clarity about their future, their confidence in their abilities as an up and coming professional, their values and ways of being, pronouns going from he/him, he/they, they/he, and finally they/them, hell even being the one of the social media managers of the TikTok for their branch; which inspired them to create their own— be more visible, unafraid to take up space and indulge in the little things. Savannah wished she was like Casey when she was that age.

“Of course. And don’t worry, if any of these parents start talking to you with some bass in they voice wondering where they man at, I’ll be right across,” Casey pointed to the circulation desk, “and ready to set somebody straight.” Casey began to mimic what Savannah believed to be the yellow emoji of steam coming out the nose, and flexed their arms downward. Savannah laughed and shooed Casey to their post at the circulation desk. Once seated, Casey pointed their first two fingers from their eyes to Savannah; to which Savannah gave a mock salute.

And so the patrons began to enter, some earlier than expected. Savannah answered the question of where Amir was about 100 times, it felt like. Some parents and kids she knew from during the week, surprised to see her on a Saturday and were excited to see her. Some parents walked in the direction of the group and seemingly went the other direction, when they saw the man they were expecting wasn’t there. Some gave pause, leeriness aside, they still signed in and took their kids to a different part of the library before returning up front with Savannah. She took a breath. It’s all going to be fine.

And it was.

The hour and half had flown by faster than she’d expected. The group of parents and caregivers were a mix. Some were new, had been at it for a while, had kids who were all grown up now or were raising their own grandkids and wanted a different perspective than they had before, some caregivers were siblings raising siblings, new caregivers raising new teens. And she was surprised about their general engagement and their participation and suggestions.

Sheet pan this. Air fryer that. Blending up veggies and hiding it in pasta sauce. Bulk buying. The freezer is your best friend. Topping off water with a hint of juice and kids would be none the wiser. Frozen fruits and veggies were just as good as fresh ones (that one she got from a TikTok, and it was working for Savannah! No more wilting or spoiled produce). Vegetables need to be seasoned for kids to eat them or a nice sauce on the side. Safe foods for kids were a thing, and no sometimes they didn’t grow out of it at their big ages. Any food is better than no food. There’s nothing wrong with a lot of traditional foods. A lot of it tastes good for a reason. Sweets were okay after dinner. If you don’t restrict the sweets so much, they're bound to choose other options anyway. Your child is your child, which may even be different from your other children. They’re habits are not all the same. If your child won’t eat something that’s not your fault. And it’s not theirs either. Any food is better than no food. You can buy protein shakes with EBT. Eating out isn’t the end of the world. Let them be engaged with the process of cooking and putting their food together. 

For the most part, it seemed that everyone took away something important for them. People shared recipes they’d seen on Facebook, on Instagram, on TikTok. In fact, a good 20 minutes was spent on Savannah pulling up said recipes on the computer, so she could project them on the TV. And they all watched, bringing other curious onlookers to their area and see what was going on.

When her lunchtime came, Savannah shared more of the details with Marisol as the two ate outside.

“Wow, I’m surprised no one came for your head,” Marisol said

“Listen! I was shocked too. Although I feel that Casey may have also played a role in that. They were telling me how some guy was staring me down and—”

“What?! Wait staring you down because he was looking for his mans too or…”

“No, I don’t think so. Casey never saw him before. I just brought it up because they were lowkey doing crowd control. There was this one lady though—”

“Before you continue that thought,” Marisol gestured to the containers in front of them. Right. It was lunch time. As hungry as Savannah was, she could talk about anything long enough and forget to eat. Savannah followed suit and opened the containers. Chicken and mushroom pasta. A mini platter of sliced fruits and veggies. A large slice of pound cake. Seeing it all made her mouth water and definitely made her stop talking quickly. Savannah took her fork and got to work. In all her excitement, she hadn’t noticed Marisol taking a picture. It was as off-guard as a picture could get. Marisol sent it off to Ms. Taylor, who sent a prompt text back.

Now you know she’s gonna be mad at you for this one.😂😂

She’ll forgive me 🤷🏿‍♀️

Marisol put her phone away, tossed her two red braids behind her and dug into her food. She was happy that Ms. Taylor had split everything in separate containers for the two of them. Neither her nor Savannah were above licking the container because that’s how good the pasta was. After some time had passed, Marisol decided to go 2 for 2 in talking about something Savannah didn’t not want to hear.

“So…have you given any thoughts on what you’d want to do for your birthday?,” Marisol questioned. The look Savannah gave her should’ve made her nervous but the sight of her with food all over her mouth made her want to laugh.

“And sorry to break it to you, but your powers hold no effect on me.” Marisol fake huffed and Savannah rolled her eyes. One day they’d fall right out of her head.

“No, I haven’t. I just want to be at home,” the word home came out of Savannah’s mouth with a hint of sadness and grief.

Marisol tried to lighten the mood with some suggestions, “We can do things at home. Karaoke. Dinner and a movie marathon. Pinterest vision board. Ooh, maybe I can ask Demi if she can do like spa day massage for you.” That quirked a small smile on her lips

“Ooh maybe. I gotta see about those oh so talented hands you talk about.” Savannah said playfully and Marisol gave her a deadpan stare. 

Savannah chuckled and continued, “Look, the tension all over my body has been ridiculous. It’s got me pulling out old PT exercises. And Demi got that knot out your shoulder that’d been there for like ever, so I trust her.” She shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of a carrot.

Marisol smiled at Savannah and to herself. Savannah was grasping onto an idea, one that gave her a small hope about the future. Which is what Marisol wanted for her friend, especially after the last year she had. This was a start and she was ready to put the plans in motion.

—

It was after 5:30 when Savannah pulled into her driveway. Her lunch tote, her bag and chocolate pullover (which she’d actually left at the circulation desk of all places) were in her left arm as she wrestled to open the door. She was beyond exhausted and needed to lay down.

Savannah closed her door and placed her items on the counter. Piece by piece, she began to strip in the entryway and put those clothes in the other hamper she had. It didn’t matter how tired Savannah was. Outside clothes were never touching her furniture. She padded her way toward her room to use the restroom and find a shirt and some shorts. After she was done, Savannah took her medicine and resolved to take a nap on the couch. She laid down and placed the weighted blanket over her. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and make her way to the shower or her bed. For now she’d take her rest and wait for Ms. Taylor to drop off her Saturday and Sunday dinner. The three knocks at the door made her wince, because damn she thought she had more time before she had to get up. 

Savannah groaned lowly and announced she was coming. Bumbling her way to the front door and picking a random mask off the hook, she was so ready to greet her neighbor and then bid her adieu. She was NEVER volunteering herself ever again. Savannah opened her door and went to greet Ms. Taylor but the person in front of her was someone different altogether. And it left her in shock. Because who was this man? Showing up in a mask? With her food? With this presence?

“Hi,” Savannah’s brain spoke for her, “You must be Terry?” because she was noticing too much about him.

He nodded, “Yes, how’d you know that?”

“Your aunt. She said a nephew was staying over, that and your eyes. You two are definitely the same. Thank you for bringing this over.” Savannah had replied. “And my name is Savannah,” she added, holding her hand out for a handshake. She hoped her hand wasn’t sweating. Outside of her job she wasn’t good with new people. And well, she hadn’t had a man so close to her threshold in damn near a year. And he smelled really good too. She kind of wished she’d worn her robe out because she felt so aware of everything, including her chest she hoped he wasn’t staring at. But it was hard not to, she guessed. She was staring right past him though, not making eye contact with him for real.

But then he touched her hand. His large palm covered her own, their calluses complementing  each other; the backs of their hands so smooth. And Savannah felt something stir in her like recognition, like memory. Which would be absolutely impossible because she’d never met this man in her life. Maybe it just felt that way since Ms, Taylor did bring him up from time to time and there were pictures of the child turned man in her house. The touch made her look at him, fully. 

“Savannah,” Terry said her name as if trying to memorize it and savor it. The smile that formed on her lips when he said it. Thank goodness he couldn’t see it because she liked the way he said her name. She hoped he’d say it again.

“Savannah?” Terry asked. She must have zoned out.

“Sorry about that,” Savannah blinked herself back to reality. “Um, well yes thank you for bringing this over. And it’s nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” She was fumbling her words. Badly. And trying to act normal. Horribly! Why was she acting weird? He’s literally just a man! And she can’t even see his face! And did she just snatch the container from this man? 

He looked just as stunned as she was at herself. He blinked a few times before responding back, while rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I’ll see you around.” He gave her a short wave which Savannah returned and she watched as he made way back to the other side of the street. He reached his front door and stepped inside. When he surprisingly turned her way again, the mask was off. And her stomach dropped at the sight of him. Savannah was fucked. She was absolutely fucked.

Part 5 Preview

[zoophilic-disorder]

🌱 Welcome to my account for people like me (but really anyone).

Alt: @zoophilic-confessions

This is a primarily positivity blog for those with zoophilia, but I will work to have education, discussion, and community as well.

If you're a zoophile and struggle with finding any sort of community outside of pro-contact/animal abuse rings, please have hope. There are resources and places for you to be okay and not worry about harming an animal. These thoughts can be violent, scary, and deeply uncomfortable and unsettling, but you will be okay, and you will not act on them.

Feel free to send requests for posts! (ie. "Can you make affirmations for zoos who..."Can you make a positivity post for zoos who are..." or anything really, as long as it's relevant).

🌱 This blog advocates for:

• destigmatization of paraphilias, primarily zoophilia.

• anti harassment against anyone.

• pro fiction- acting out fantasies and attractions in fictional settings to cope does not make you a bad person, and you are not failing at "repressing" your paraphilia.

• anti offending/contact stances for any paraphilia that's harmful to act on. there will be no posts that cater towards other stances.

• understanding that paraphilias cannot be "cured" and instead must be accepted and coped with healithy to survive.

• saving people. you should not die simply because you have a paraphilia, your life is valuable and wanted, and you are not disgusting.

🌱 About Me & Tag Key below the line...

My name is Sprout (they/them)!

I'm 22 years old, and I'm physically disabled, which may cause me to post less than I want due to flareups. I'm also wasian- I'm unsure if this will be entirely relevant here, but I'm mentioning it regardless in case discussions come up about the POC community (especially asian) when it comes to paraphiles, and the differing experiences.

And of course, I've suspected being a zoophile since I was a young child.

I've struggled with thoughts, urges, and attractions for a long time, bringing in self-harmful or otherwise self-destructive behavior. I've been riddled with guilt for simply existing and having a disorder I had no control over, one that made me absolutely miserable (and still does to an extent).

Looking for community was impossible. It felt like there were two sides- people who wanted those like me dead, and people who genuinely wanted to act on their thoughts. Both were insufferable, but I ended up choosing the side that hated zoophiles out of disgust and fear.

I also wasn't certain at the time whether what I was experienced was zOCD, or an actual zoophilic disorder. This year, 2024, is when I finally came to the understanding I do not have zOCD, it became impossible to ignore anymore. I felt so ashamed and embarrassed, with nowhere to go.

I wonder if the reason the pro-beastiality side of the community got so large is because people kept running out of options and eventually gave up looking for a better one.

So I want to try and help mend that, and try to start proper support groups for those like me, who just want a shoulder to lean on, someone to talk to, and comfort.

🌱 Tagging System

#🐾 discussion - talking about zoophilia in any way. I wish this was a general tag that all zoos would use so we could find each other, since any other zoo tag is entirely taken over by people who want us dead.

#🐾 help - resources and advice.

#🐾 positivity - positivity posts specifically for zoos.

#🐾 therian - posts catered towards therian with zoophilia.

#🐾 system - posts catered towards systems with zoophilia.

#🐾🥩 - posts catered towards zoosadists. (im not a zoosadist, if I spread misinformation please let me know).

-

#🍐 positivity - general posts for positivity, not aimed specifically at zoos.

#ask recieved - answering asks.

#snarling - discourse or potentially triggering discussion.