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I REALLY do think 15 and Martha could be buddies like I think 15 is so so so much more willing to apologize and acknowledge his mistakes and ALSO be in a place mentally where he CAN be a good friend to Martha!! He's no longer asking for her to simultaneously fix him and be someone else and put up with all that shit for no reward he wholeheartedly would just be looking to be a good and caring friend to her. Martha special when.
#doctor who#martha jones#i personally dont think that Martha had a bad ending i actually rhink that#while the doctor and some of the writing was sooo shitty to her#that there is also value to having someone who genuinely is better off without the doctor#and learns that she neither can fix him nor fucking WANTS to fix him#BUT i do think she was done several injustices and that she should get am apology!!! in the show!!!
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fuck it, bg3 companions shower routine
Shadowheart: Shar hates self-care, but a Shadowheart does take pride in her hair, and a Shadowheart who has learned to be kind to herself can indulge. Long, complicated hair routine, very specific water temperature, and a tendency toward long-ass depression showers. LOVES a bubble bath and will make a whole event of it with flower petals and candles just for her. Will bring a book with a little book tray and a glass of wine.
Astarion: Similarly complicated hair routine. Gotta hydrate the curls, and being dead does not do nice things to your hair. Less prone to standing there staring at nothing while the horrors set in, but prone to scrubbing too hard. Similarly fond of a bubble bath, although without the book or flowers, although he will fuck with an essential oil heater and likes to make his own blends.
Lae'zel: Queen of the 4 minute shower. She has been accused of not even waiting for the water to heat up, but she likes it blistering. Does not actually use 3-in-1, thank you. Having fairly short hair helps. She finds the other companions baffling. Would get bored in a bubble bath unless she had company (rubber duck counts).
Wyll: Sings. If someone called him on it, he would be embarrassed, the first time, for about a minute. Neither wildly efficient nor inclined to standing there for ages and ages and prefers to shower in the morning. Washing his hair is a chance to relax and take care of himself, although before he has his family back, it can be a bit melancholy. He has fallen asleep in the bath before. I feel like he'd love a bath bomb and he'd love the full romantic evening with candles and flowers and music.
Karlach: Please, please someone boil her. Once she gets her engine fixed all the way, she tries a cold shower just to remember what it feels like and keeps up a running commentary about how much it sucks while also not turning up the temperature. Absolutely loves sharing a shower with someone and will also sing. Should not attempt her little jig on wet tiles. May try anyway. Someone should introduce her to proper hair/skin care because if anyone is using 3-in-1, I'm sorry, it's Karlach. Genuinely cannot sit still for a bubble bath unless she has company to cuddle.
Gale: Voted Faerun's Most Likely to Relitigate Arguments in the Shower, Even if He Won Originally. Loves to pamper himself, canonically, loves a spa day, also canonically. You simply are not getting the bathroom back for a good hour, although not all that time involves running water. Plays around with different products and researches the living hell out of everything. Loves a long soak. The only person with a feline in their house to ever bathe in peace. Constantly torn between wanting a book with him when he has a bath and not wanting to get the pages steamy and damp, much less actually wet.
Minthara: Her ideal hair wash involves someone else doing it for her while also having the utmost certainty that the person will not attempt to murder her. If her partner washes her hair for her, she turns into a puddle. She has an incredibly specific lineup of products. If she shares, understand that she has bestowed upon you a great gift. More about bath salts than bubbles and could be persuaded to a sufficiently elegant bath bomb (it would not be a difficult check).
Halsin: Low-flow showerhead user. Hell, he might be the kind of person to turn the water off entirely when not soaking/rinsing out his hair... However, he is not immune to the "shower together to save water" line even though he KNOWS it doesn't work that way. He needs low-scent soaps/etc considering his heightened sense of smell. And listen, this man does not fit in a bathtub unless he goes somewhere special or finds a particularly large one. He made everyone floaty ducks, properly sealed against water damage, and he has one for himself that holds his soap.
Jaheira: Understands that having a chair in the shower is just being kind to yourself and proceeds accordingly. Will revisit arguments she had that day, but despite that has a quick and fairly simple routine. She needs the water pressure to pound the everloving hell out of her back. Loofa on a stick user. Like Wyll, she has fallen asleep in a bathtub, in part thanks to having and using a bath cushion. Truly, the expert on bath-based comfort.
Minsc: Also sings in the shower. LOUDLY. Boo is allowed to sit a shelf out of the way. The best way to get him to use lotion is to give him something that smells yummy. He has similar problems to Halsin regarding fitting in bathtubs. He tries anyway. He has been banned from at least one hotspring for doing a cannonball.
#text#bg3#wyll ravengard#Shadowheart#Astarion#Karlach#Lae'zel#Jaheira#Minsc#Minthara#Halsin#Wyll#tadfools
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A Doe in Fall (part 7)
⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall
Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie
Part 7 Recognition
It was time to start again. Alastor couldn't forget what his mother had wanted, even if she didn't ask it of him directly. And while he finds his comfort again in killing, Detective Brady finds a lead.
「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, reader's thighs as ear muffs, referencing cruel racists in the early 20th century south, reference to marital violence, pussy eaten, p in v sex, no creampie BOO, bad dancing, Alastor's southern accent, Alastor's mother, gossip, murder, greed , two idiots pretending they aren't madly in love, poor family planning, lots of 1920's slang with notes for your ease」
I think I fixed the broken tag list!
....it's been over a month. Here's nearly 9000 words of our favorite idiots. I feel weird labeling this smut now as...we are...kinda past the smut point and just making sweet sweet love. lol ugh gross. thank you to everyone whose offered help, donated, and shared the word about my mom! It’s been an immense help and has made her a little emotional (in a good way) <Florida stole my moms teeth— explanation and donation link> unrelated, anyone want some RadioDust?
Minors…. Minors. My inbox counts as interacting when you’re literally in there requesting smut. I know your bio has no age but baby honey darling I can tell by your writing. 🔞 Do Not Interact 🏠🚗
A development he knew was coming even if no one else believed him. A drug addict with debts to the local crime syndicates disappearing was neither suspicious nor a mystery. Everyone was confident it was obvious Tommy was at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain or halfway to California.
But not to him, not for Detective Brady. He had been on the beat for the better part of a year, convinced there was a connection between some of the disappearances in town.
No one wanted to hear it though, most people didn’t even care the people were missing. Only the occasional wife, concerned how she would keep a roof over her head and food in her kid’s bellies with the man of the house gone. But other than that, no tears or chest beating for the missing men and women.
Which made him confident there were countless more unreported cases. Just because no one missed them, a crime is a crime.
But, no bodies, no blood, no crime scenes… he looked like he had lost the fucking plot to his colleagues.
The city didn’t want the bad press, not to mention the fact there was no actual crime to be reported. Someone up and left down? Okay, he was a wife beater? Probably left with his mistress. The cruel den mother of the home for unwanted kids? Her assistant takes the lead and she moves onto a new town to menace. Probably running from the people angry with her.
But he finally had something. Tommy was pimping out dancers, and even laid hands on one. Surely there was a man looking for revenge for that. Can’t knock around a man’s woman and have it go unanswered.
So he tried again to find the woman whose only name he knew was a moniker. Autumn Hind.
Every time Brady came to the theater, another excuse. You left early. You were on the roof smoking—- oh, you slipped out the back. Weekends were your off days, so that was useless.
“You’re obsessed.” Detective Freeman threw an eraser he’d picked off his pencil at Brady. He had seen the man devolve slowly over the past couple months.
“Thanks.” Brady was staring at his notes.
“Not a compliment, Kenny. Shit happens, people leave town. You’re acting like a handful of no shows are some conspiracy.” Freeman came to stand behind Brady, leaning over to read his notes, “How can you even read that chicken scratch?”
He clapped the notebook shut, “Every report was a person less than liked. What are the chances they all leave town in the middle of the night, last seen in the same general area?”
Freeman patted his shoulder, “Did you just ask me why a bunch of assholes,” he stood up and made a show of stretching out tired muscles, “who liked illegal hooch* and jazz with plenty of enemies disappeared?” (*booze)
Brady slapped his desk, “There! You said it! They had enemies. But what— what if they had one enemy in common. A bar manager or — or a,” he was still looking for that link.
“Kenny, the boogeyman isn’t roaming New Orleans killing people. If the higher ups don’t care, if the families don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.”
The sleep deprived detective sunk into his wooden chair, swiveling side to side anxiously, “Tommy’s mother cares.”
“Yeah well mom’s are famously bad judges of character.” Slipping on his jacket, he shot a worried look to his partner, “Ya gonna go home? Janet’s probably a mess. You’ve been keeping late hours.”
“Nah not yet. I gotta get to the theater before this dame goes ghost on me again.”
“Yikes, still? You’ve been chasing her for a while.” He was making a slow inching walk to the door.
“It’d be easier if I had some support. I gotta do this on my own time.” A deep sigh, well past the point of hiding his frustration with his colleagues and bosses. Freeman looked over the wrinkled shirt and wilted tie, evidence of a man losing his grip.
“Welp, good luck buddy. Hope you get to the bottom of whatever this is.” He gestured at the messy desk and disheveled man, “See ya tomorrow.”
Brady waved without looking up. His eyes were staring into the black leather of his notepad. Tommy was the only recent assumed victim with any real suspicion. The woman whose husband disappeared after going to see a show? Only enemy to him was her, and she wasn’t strong enough to take him down. Deadend.
Most recent, nice young man from up north. Went out for a good time, hoping to catch a little lady for some stress relief, according to his coworkers. Never showed up at work the next day. No one had a bad word to say about the man. Making him an outlier, but still. He was young, strong, soft spoken. Not an enemy in sight but no family to worry, either. Deadend.
But Tommy. Someone cared he was gone. He was in the jazz game, the drug dens, the illegal drink business, and had a heavy hand. He was the perfect bad man, right?
He looked across his desk. Bad men. The occasional unsavory woman. Maybe it was just their time. They pissed off the wrong people.
Or the wrong person.
Someone who worked downtown, someone into dance and drink, someone with nights free to do his work. Maybe a hired gun? No, some of these people didn’t have the money for that.
Plus, one person and so many missing? That would be unheard of, it’d be some kind of record for Louisiana.
A record Brady could claim.
When he entered the theater James, the manager who replaced Tommy, noticeably rolled his eyes, getting in front of the man. “It’s real bad for business to have a cop in here all the damn time. Come on, if you’re not here for a raid then could you be a little less obvious.”
Brady looked past him, “What do you mean?”
“You’re— what is it? What can I do for you?”
“Here again for Miss Autumn. Care to give her real name yet?”
“No can do. Ain’t my business to tell. She’s finished her set, asked to head home early.” Brady turned and kicked a chair over, a large man approaching behind the manager before seeing the hip badge and backing up. “Nah we’re not doing that. We’ve told her you’ve come by but she’s a busy lady. Several gigs here and there. Enough, you’re harassing the dancers now.”
With a snap, Brady had his finger in the manager’s face, “Whatcha gonna do? Call the cops?”
“She. Isn’t. Here. What the fuck do you want? For me to tie her up and bring her to your station?”
That’d be ideal.
A month, nearly. Coming once or twice a week to try and speak to you but every time he missed you. He was going to snap if he heard one more time you were gone. Maybe everyone was in on it. Maybe you werenin the back right now laughing at him.
Brady scanned the room, “Where’s she live?”
“How the fuck would I know— please, leave.” James gestured to the doors.
He lifted his badge up, waving it at the patrons seated closest to him, “Yall know it’s still illegal to partake-,”
“Jesus! Enough!” The manager pushed him back, flashing an apologetic smile to the guests, “She moonlights Sundays at The Dime near the park on 5th, singing for a friend. That’s all I got about her life off stage. Will you fucking go?”
The detective perked up, “See, was that so hard?”
Finally, he could feel his fingers grasp the shifting shadow that was his only lead.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“I never said sorry.”
You turned your head, not expecting him to say something serious. Waiting, he didn’t add explanation. Sorry? What had he done… ran out of milk? Forgot to bring in the towels before it rained last week? A quick search of your memory yielded nothing.
“For what?”
He was staring off in front of him. “For putting you in danger before. In the park. I am sincerely sorry.”
You’d somehow almost forgotten. It’d been weeks. Every bad feeling that night had brought you had been carried away by good morning kisses and gentle words before sleep. Nearly every night was spent in his bed, Alastor dropping you off at your apartment when he went downtown for work. The incident in the park was a different lifetime already.
Had he really put you in danger? Or had you rushed into the danger of his hobby to feel closer to him?
“I put myself in that situation. You didn't throw me at that guy. I don’t do a damn thing I don’t want to do. You should have learned that by now.”
Tough act for a woman who jumped up to pour some man’s coffee.
You shook your head, you had to stop equating doting on Alastor as a show of weakness. It wasn’t. Even if admitting that meant admitting you were wrong.
But he had put you in danger’s way, he knew it. “No, you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if it wasn’t for me.”
Your laughter bounced off the car windows, “Alastor, you met me getting choked to death by a strange man. People will always make dangerous situations for women to be in. Don’t act like you’re special.” A sly smile to ease his anxious heart. “I’d rather be in danger for you than just because I’m a woman. If it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well be worth something.”
His hand slipped onto your thigh, expression softening before his own smile grew again, “Don’t lie to my face so easily. I am very special, we can all agree.”
You looked around, the two of you alone in his car on a side street, “All? You know the trunk is still empty, right?”
“Oh, is that so? You’re quite dangerous yourself, I nearly forgot why we were here.” He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. “When I give you a wave, back up to me, okay? Don’t leave the car. Just drive off if-,”
You kissed his cheek, “Shut it. Not a chance. Go give em hell, baby.”
Alastor crumpled against his steering wheel momentarily, your words cutting his heart open in a most wonderful way. He could never have predicted getting kisses before beginning his dark work. What had he done to deserve this? Perhaps proof someone in hell was in full support of his actions. Straightening his back and checking his hair and glasses in the mirror, he flashed you a smile before slipping out of the car.
When Alastor said he was ready to begin killing again, you were a mix of excited and scared. Excited for normalcy to return but scared of the dangers presented there in. You’d been dodging the blue eyed detective for a while already, and moving forward meant possibly making mistakes he could grab a hold of. Not mentioning the risk of someone hurting Alastor again…but for your part in everything, you and Alastor found a compromise.
A deal had been made. You’d stay in the car and bring it to him when he was done. He had asked you flee if something went wrong but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Crawling into the driver’s seat, you tried to remember what he had taught you. How to get it started up, how to make it go backwards. How to make it go, in general. You’d never driven a car. Well, not until Alastor insisted on teaching you. Driving up and down the long stretch of road he lived on, Alastor white knuckling the door handle as you jerked the car forward with every failed shift. You had started on his land, but he feared for his home's safety with you behind the wheel.
Your hands slipped down the steeling wheel, big and round. Your mother would’ve had a hoot had she seen you in the driver’s seat. Clearing your throat, you leaned into the back of the car and double checked the canvas was properly secured.
Another man tonight. The few times you’d both gone out for leisure, having preferred to spend time alone at home, Alastor had gotten gossip that piqued his interest.
You remembered the way the woman’s hand touched his arm when she leaned in. “You didn’t hear it from me but it’s best to avoid French Study on Thursdays. Real piece of work slipping something in drinks and robbing people.” He reported what she had said back to you. It’d panicked you, realizing you were closer to being on Alastor’s list than you’d realized.
“No, the issue isn’t the stealin’. It’s what he does with the people with,” he had been delicate as he said it, taking another long sip of whiskey, “other things of value. And the fact this man has no need to steal. It’s ridiculous! His family has been land ownin’ and well off for generations.” Alastor was always impassioned when discussing the things he hated, even when slipping into drunkenness. His accent came through when he had too much to drink, his real accent. The accent his mother had. “You robbed men for power balance, for their assumptions you were easy to manipulate to begin with. He? Uh, Him? He’s just a piece of shit. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. And no one would report him ‘cause his family name.”
His drink spilled a little, when you had offered to clean it he just slipped the button up off. He lost his usual classy air as the bottle emptied. Which you actually liked.
The benefits of drinking on his back porch was no need to worry about decorum. Music was softly spilling from the open window behind you, Alastor’s prized record cabinet spinning the newest presses.
“It’s like there’s a little bug under my skin,” he wiggled his fingers over his sternum, “It’s gonna dig into my bones if I don’t cut it out.”
Despite your own drunkenness, you nodded and followed along, “So, ya gonna kill ‘em?”
Alastor pouted, making you snort, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” He enunciated every word clearly in his practiced and professional voice.
You’d ended the evening playfully arguing the merits of prohibition on the jazz scene and watching Alastor dance around the wrap around porch. But the conversation hadn’t ended for him.
Little hints he was still focused on it popped up over the following week. Alastor randomly asking you how it felt to be drugged, did you wake up in pain? Embarrassed? Scared? You caught him staring at the greenhouse from the window one morning, lost in thought. Before he had finally said he wanted to go out again, you understanding what that meant, you’d seen him turning a dinner knife over and over in his hand impatiently.
And now here you were. In the car beside a park late Thursday, Alastor having done some scouting while you’d finished up early at the theater.
It took hours. Which was good, it meant Alastor wasn’t rushing. He liked the stalking aspect of killing, of watching someone from across a room knowing exactly how their night would end. And as that man whose name would soon be buried with him alternated smiling and barking orders at staff, Alastor felt his stomach flutter. Like watching a slab of meat slowly turn over the fire. The crueler he was, the worse he acted, the more Alastor found his fingers tapping on the bar with anticipation. Perfect. Damn yourself more. No fake smiles or double faces, no, people like him didn’t even try to play the game others were forced into. Born with money and land already theirs, they didn’t even know the rules.
But Alastor did. Alastor mastered them at the tender age of 14. When he realized his father’s features were a shield. His mother’s lessons on manners and charm his weapons. The first time he was in mixed company, when someone leaned in and whispered a cruel “prank” he had planned for a young dark skinned woman on the other side of the room, he understood. They pulled back and smiled at him, and he managed to muster one of his own. Just smile, they’d take it to mean whatever they wanted it to mean because they thought he was of the same mindset. They assumed it. Like so many other things people would assume about him as he grew.
When he told his mother the story after getting home, she shook her head. When he had asked her what he should have done, she set down her book.
“Well, I’d love to say you should have stood up for her. But I’d also like to have my son above ground.”
He asked her why she couldn’t have both.
“Sweetheart, we don’t usually get the choice to do either, let alone both.”
He offered a solution, after a moment of thinking, “I shoulda buried him first then.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was how the world worked?” She returned to her book, “If God just struck em down dead as soon as they hurt people. Better yet, before.”
It would be nice. It was nice. Because Alastor couldn’t wait for God to make the world his mother mentioned. He grinned ear to ear, gloves a second skin, as the man crawled backwards in the grass like an animal cornered. His heart was pounding in his ears. Where to cut first? The gut, his family fat and soft from the money they made off the labor of others? The pale neck of a man who never spent a day outside, instead indoors drugging strangers for sport? The chest covered in a fine cotton shirt he didn’t appreciate?
He wished he had many arms, as many as he could imagine, to slash and tear in tandem.
“What do you want? Money?” the animal asked him.
Alastor shook his head no. No, he didn’t want money.
“Do you know who I am?”
Alastor nodded. “That is precisely why I am here.”
Would he beg? Cry? Bargain? Experience told him it’d be the latter.
“Alright well, if you know who I am you know you’re making a mistake. Here.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out a few greenbacks, holding them out for Alastor. Alastor’s smile softened slightly, remembering tossing you a wallet once before.
He reached down with his left hand to take the money, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist. Swiftly, quicker than the man could process, he took the knife tucked into his belt behind his vest and stabbed the man in the stomach.
Staring into his eyes, he could see his own image looking back at him. Smiling.
Alastor grabbed your face with both wrists, hands bloody and one still holding the knife, and kissed you when he’d flagged you down.
“Is this for bringing the car around without running you over?” Your eyes glanced at the knife beside your head. He apologized, tossing it into the trunk.
“No, just happy to see you.” A mischievous grin that made your knees weak, his body shimmied closer until he was pressed against you, stealing another kiss. His arms stretched out to keep from bloodying you. Your fingers slid up his cheeks to return the kiss. “Thank you, dear.”
When you returned home, to his home, that is, you took to task bringing in the laundry he’d left on the line and putting away the things still on the counters from breakfast. You couldn’t resist going to the second floor room and looking down into the greenhouse. You couldn’t see perfectly well, but you could see nonetheless. Alastor didn’t want you in the greenhouse yet when he was working. He said it was the ugliest parts, the kind that would sure give you nightmares or rob you of your appetite.
Considerate. But, it only made you more curious. Would you be sick if you saw? Would you never eat meat again?
What would you do if you didn’t have any reaction at all?
You watched Alastor leave the greenhouse and lock the door behind him, so you hopped down the stairs to meet him in the hall beside the kitchen.
He’d been sweating, shirt open to reveal a thin white undershirt, and under his arm was a canvas roll. He lifted it up, “Tools. Rinsed them off but I’d like to dry them under the electric lights.” You grabbed the aprons from the wall hooks, Alastor letting you slip it over his head and tie it for him. “Why so tight?”
“I like the way it makes your waist look.” You’d seen him wear it when making biscuits. It made his shape so clear. It reminded you of watching water drip down his sides and roll off his hips in the shower.
He beamed, “I’m listening. What exactly do you like about my waist?” Sharp brows raised as that friendly tongue peeked out at you.
“Hush.” You cooed.
You stood on the long side of the table, him at the short, and took turns wiping the tools dry and checking the other’s work.
As he grabbed each one he would tell you what he used it for. Holding up the garden shears and explaining the point along the blade that had the strongest force. The advantage of curved pruning blades when used on a human body. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, looking so lovingly at each item like it was a loyal pet.
He finally noticed you were grinning and chuckling softly, so he dropped his smile for dramatic effect, “What? What’s so funny?”
Shaking your head, you set down the next item for him to inspect, “Nothing. You’re just so cute when you’re talking about your passions. Your face lights up from the inside out.”
His breath hitched, smile actually lost as he processed every syllable. Your turn now to notice him staring as you looked up from your work. You recognized that look though, the wide eyes and serious lips. The air of the kitchen felt like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm rolled in.
Alastor set the tools back onto the canvas one by one and carried them to the counter. Before returning he picked up a small knife and set it near the edge of the table.
“Come here.” He nodded his head to space in front of him. The way he said it, that tone, made your heart begin to skip beats.
You slid between him and the table, Alastor lifting you up with a startling ease and setting you onto cool wood. Kicking your legs a little, you set nervous hands onto your lap. You wanted to touch him. To pull him by the apron straps into you.
“How do you always say the right things?” He closed the distance between you, one hand on your neck while his mouth came to your ear. “The things I didn’t know I wanted to hear?”
Swimming. Your mind was swimming. “Why is your idea of right the same as my idea of the truth?” You could feel the grin. Sighing into your ear, down your neck, his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you off the table enough to press your core into his clothed erection. Even through his pants and the apron, you could feel him clearly. When did he get so hard? You always wondered in those moments if it was the topic of discussion. Or the knives. Or your need. Biting your lip wasn’t a thought out action, but Alastor loved to see it. Rolling his hips into you in response.
“Wanna go upstairs?” you asked.
He shook his head, slipping off his glasses.
“Oh no, don’t even wanna see me?” You teased, but firm hands held you tighter to him in response.
“I won’t be letting you get far enough away from me for that to be a problem.”
When he leaned down and his lips so very gently pressed into yours, you could feel it. That missing something from before. It was in the air, it was rolling off of his body and dampening your senses. A desire, a drive that you felt that first time you had sex with him in that apartment above the theater. A motivation that was lacking last time in his bed.
His eyes were staring down into yours, waiting for your response. Eagerly you replied by chasing his mouth with yours. A chain of kisses as you tried to ever remember enjoying kissing another person as much as him.
Not a single soul. Why did it feel like this was all you ever needed? Eyes closed and lips on lips, hands in his hair, it felt like you’d been holding your breath all of your life. His body on yours was a gasp of air.
For Alastor, he couldn’t even think of breathing when around you. Let alone when your mouth was on him. Every time you touched him all he could think about was the word ‘affection’.
So when your tongue swiped up his lips, he moaned as he opened for you. Not because he was new to kissing someone with so much lust. He’d grown accustomed to the things you did to him. No, because you were a fever that had taken hold of him and your kiss the medicine that soothed his delirium.
He wondered, was that why people called it ‘love sick’?
“You really like me, don’t you?” He asked, nose sliding up your jaw.
An opportunity presented to you. A chance to spill over the edges.
You pushed it away, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer.
“Something like that, yeah.”
His hands pressed flat against the table to balance the deep roll of his hips against you. One of your own fell behind you to keep from falling backwards, the other flung over his shoulder. When you moaned into his cheek he captured the sound with his mouth and slipped his tongue back into you.
You liked him. He’d known people to love and not like their partner an ounce, but the way you appreciated his quirks made his heart sing in its brittle cage. You never ceased to see him. The issue with always putting on a show is people tend to be disappointed when the actors become human again. But you never met his persona. He was knife wielding, bloodlusting Alastor from the first word. So when he was himself, you recognized him clearly. Because he was all you ever knew.
And you liked him
You appreciated him.
He dared to think maybe he could inspire more from you. A thought that made him twitch below the belt.
Closer. He needed you closer. He needed you so near to him that he’d never forget the feeling of being wanted. It’d be imprinted on his chest and his arms and his lips.
Impatient hands slipping up your sides, along your neck, down your chest. His greedy mouth suddenly understanding the same greed he once marveled at in your own kisses. Hot tongue sliding over yours, delving deeper into you with every return.
When his hands seemed to come to an agreement, they yanked you forward again. You’d fall off ass-first if he pulled you any further.
You watched with only slight horror has he grabbed the small knife and hiked up your dress in tandem. A gulp, worried the other shoe had finally dropped on a too-good situation.
“Are you particularly attached to these panties?” His eyes were looking up and over his glasses.
“No?” Did you really need panties, you wondered. Ever? Girdles we’re falling out of fashion perhaps you’d all be naked again soon enough. Maybe you two could start another Eden. A pomegranate’s juice the new red staining his skin.
Not even a tremble, his hands lifted each side and sliced them free.
“Oh?” You didn’t have a real question in mind when he tucked the panties into his back pocket. Just a need to express you saw it and didn’t understand it.
Alastor took your hand and pressed it against his hardened length, eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness to them. But when your hand took hold of him and squeezed, everything softened in his features. Funny how where one area grew stiff another melted.
He rolled his eyes closed as you finally undid his belt and pants. A struggle you didn’t see, Alastor trying to keep from pouncing on you like a horny virgin. He didn’t want to rut into you, he didn’t need the pleasure. He needed something he couldn’t see or explain. He just knew you held it behind your teeth.
When your skin pressed into his and you both moaned together he was sure you were the same. One person, split into insufficient parts. Finally lined up flush in place.
When you circled your hips against his aching cock, he wondered what you were chasing after. Was it the pleasure? He’d give it to you in spades.
He was on his knees with his face between your legs before you could close your thighs in surprise.
You needed both hands now to keep from falling back onto the table. “Alastor,” a whine.
He knew better than to talk with his mouth full, so he let two fingers work their way into you with shallow thrusts. Easing you open for him.
“Yes?” His eyes didn’t leave his fingers, glistening under the kitchen light. You hadn't thought much ahead past his name, once his fingers were in you and curling up to find your spongy and soft bundle of nerves your mind had gone empty.
“We can just fuck, if you’re horny.” You watched him watching himself.
“Where’s the fun in that?” His mouth returned to your mound, broad tongue forming a point and finding your clit.
A lazy moving tongue would be frustrating if not for his fingers punishing your g-spot. Consistency was key, and his hand was focused and skilled.
Suddenly you remembered the piano in the sitting room. That’s where you knew that movement from. That clearly practiced muscle memory.
Alastor felt confident everywhere but rarely did he feel comfortable. When your thighs came together and squeezed him at the ears, he felt positively cozy. Would you be so kind as to be his ear muffs come winter? He’d have to remember to ask when his mouth was free. How many cold nights he could now rest assured he would have warmth just a little dive of his head away.
Lowering his mouth, nose buried in your muff, he wriggled his tongue in with his fingers. Not enough, rarely was anything enough any more. He stilled his hand and prodded at your sensitive walls with that intrusive tongue, relishing the little movements you made in response. Taking his digits out entirely, he buried his wet muscle as deeply as he could reach.
The huffs of exhales you were making triggered a moan from him that you felt through your skin. His enjoyment was tripling your pleasure.
Goosebumps ran up your arms at the combine sensations of his moaning and prodding.
When his lips and tongue returned to their uneven teasing of your clit, three fingers now swiping past your inner spot with every thrust, your hands came to his head. Fingers slipping through his hair and gripping every time your body shook. Encouragement, the more you tugged the surer he was he was doing the right things.
And oh, he was. You said the right things but Alastor always seemed to act on them. Your senses lodged themselves between the even stroking of your g-spot and the unpredictable movements of his tongue. One kept the pressure rising as your orgasm climbed, the other pushed you along jolt by jolt.
Curious thing. That night in the park he didn’t have much reaction to your enjoyment, but he found himself not fully softening in his lap as he continued. Normally, unless still physically stimulated or the rare time you stirred something in him, he wasn’t very… battle ready.
But the feeling of you pulling him in by the head, fingers in his hair and thighs at his cheeks; this was different than the others. He was sure now it wasn’t just physical pleasure you wanted. His pride said it was more.
Dozens of times before— he truly was a rake in some aspects, though admittedly it was all in the pursuit of avoiding “sex”, as defined by most, not chasing it — he helped a date find release with his tongue. But it never did anything for him. They moaned and said his name and screamed. Which was lovely. Who doesn’t enjoy recognition?
When you said his name, it was heavier. It was material, it had mass and as its gravity began its pull he found his mind circling that sound. He was pleasing his darling, not placating. And it made him react in that unusually crass way.
He felt like an apex predator when killing, tearing open animals made for him to hunt. But you made him feel baser. Prey in your gentle bite.
As your orgasm mounted, you began tugging at his hair to pull him off. You didn’t need him to stop, but everything was suddenly too sensitive. It was alarming to feel your body rocking from overstimulation. A strident cry filled the kitchen as your back arched off the table. He didn’t let up, despite how much you thrashed under his mouth. Rolling pleasure, muscles electrified and shaking beyond your control.
You patted his head harshly, “Good, I’m good. Alas—tor! Fuck!”
Ah, he loved when you swore. It punctuated your otherwise preternatural aura with a touch of humanity.
He stood and leaned over your now reclining body. Your pussy still clenching and legs shaking as he admired his work. You admired his shape in his apron, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. Caught between your legs like a lion in a mouse trap; he acted like he had no way free of you. His grin widened and he made a display out of licking each finger clean. Eyes never leaving yours.
You knew many men to squawk at going down on a woman. To balk at wearing an apron. To grimace at the suggestion of cooking a meal while their lady took a nice bath or enjoyed a coffee. Alastor seemed to not think twice about any of it. How nice it would be. To have a partner beside you, to not be the woman in the often referenced “behind every great man is a great woman.”
“Alastor, I want you.” You pulled him down by the neck and stole a kiss. When he began to stroke himself fully back to life you pressed that hand to his chest. “Not like that. Though I’m not declining the offer.”
His eyes saw something in yours. “Sweetheart, you have me. There is no part of me that isn’t possessed by you. I know we keep things relatively… tightlipped for safety but I’m your fella and you’re my gal.” His nose touched yours. “But if you want more, I’ll become more. I’ll break myself apart and make myself better.”
Your heart sank. Sitting up to command a little authority, a feat given you were sitting panty-less on a kitchen table, “Don’t you dare. I’ll always meet you where you are, got it? Don’t go… groping around in the darkness for me; trying to find what I need. I’ll always come to you. Because you’re more than enough as you are.”
A little cough to clear his tightening throat, “I’ve not had a day of darkness since you arrived.” A kiss to your forehead before a soft thumbpad wiped at the corner of your eye. “Did I make you sad?”
You wanted to say it. But not now, not like this. You didn’t want Alastor to connect love and sex. To think one was necessary for the other.
While you were coming to learn how lovely it was to pair the two together, it was a fact they were wholly independent things. And you couldn’t allow him to think they were a set.
“You’ve made me too happy. It’s absolutely terrifying.”
But Alastor had found your expressions of acceptance always tumbled the circle of Love to overlap with that of Sex. It was only in that mixed space did he find desire in pleasure.
A wicked smirk, “Let me pile on my affections and drown out your fears.” His hips rolled into you again, a surprising eagerness returned to his lap. “Can I continue?”
With a nod and a smile, “But not another word of change, buster.” You leaned back on your hand for support. Alastor was happy to return to your heat, lining up and sinking into you. An embrace like no other, one he found particularly earnest when with you.
Close. Finally. You began where he ended, a natural extension of who he was and who he could be. The things he could have. A relieved sigh he didn’t try to hide before he began moving, a moment when his tension could melt. You were both an unseasonably warm autumn day and the cool comforting shade of an unfamiliar tree. Both the heat and the relief.
He watched your body rock against the table, even fully dressed you managed to look more scandalous than any show he’d seen downtown. He was grateful he didn’t seek this comfort often in others, the way his mind melted made him feel vulnerable. He couldn’t think straight. And then you began to make those lovely little groans, high pitched and needy, and he was sure his soul was errant.
As his thrusts deepened, cock no longer kissing your cervix but ramming into you with good intentions, you dropped back as you lost the battle against his hips.
Alastor’s arms slid up our waist and pulled your arms towards him, “Too far, I can’t see your face.”
Your arms were slung over his shoulders as your back curved for him, “You don’t need to see my face.”
“Tsk, wrong.”
Your new favorite place was right in front of him, wherever his line of sight was you wanted to be in it. Nose to nose, heads tilting to recapture soft lips and softer moans.
Until the softness left, Alastor’s skin slapping against yours as he dragged those lovely sounds from you. He watched your eyes roll closed, mouth open as you moaned with the safety of the seclusion of a country home. A thought bubbled up, inspired by you.
“I want the neighbors to hear you.” That smile half cocked across his upsettingly handsome face. His hand slipped between you both to repeat the motions he learned before. Hard and fast, no choice but to raise your voice.
Your head fell back, clit still sensitive, “You don’t have neighbors!” A new moan hitting the walls.
“I do— just a few miles down the road, dear.” His mouth latched onto your neck but he didn’t suck like he wanted, he couldn’t bite. Your skin was your job, your body not his to mark. Suddenly he remembered, “Do you still have that make up? For your bruises?”
You couldn’t understand why he would bring that up while balls deep in you but you nodded.
“Would it work on your neck?” He nipped lightly.
It clicked, “Absolutely.”
You felt like a teenager again. When his tongue swiped over your soft flesh before he began to suck on the skin there you could feel the heat rising off your chest. You could feel him everywhere, and with the knowledge he wanted to hear you, you tossed your shame out of the kitchen window and relaxed into the pleasure.
As he moved up your neck he left little marks behind. There was no sense left you didn’t occupy. He could smell the soap and sweat of your skin, taste your cunt still on his tongue, your sights and sounds a decadence he couldn’t get used to. And the feeling of you… velvety walls, a feeling finer than silk as he slipped in and out of you. So incredibly hot on his most sensitive areas, pulling him back in with admirable strength.
He felt his orgasm ratcheting up but tried to hold back. He wanted more time to experience your ecstasy, to wallow in your openness. Even pressed skin to skin now wouldn’t satisfy that deep desire for this unique level of intimacy. So he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he had it.
But, he knew he should prepare. “I don’t want to dirty your dress.” A lust heavy voice penetrating the nap of your neck. He’d made a risky release before at your urging, something he often thought about when work got quiet. But he knew he needed to think clearer now.
“Then don’t.” A terrible reply but you wanted all of him, every drop of his hunger for you. “Keep the mess in me.”
“My dear,” he slowed his hips, autopilot keeping them moving at all, “I don’t think now is the time for,” you tightened around him to trip him up, which worked spectacularly. Alastor had take several seconds before continuing, “talks on family planning.”
A pang of nausea and fear, small and sharp in your abdomen. It wasn’t that you weren’t aware of biology, just that Alastor brought out your baser animal instincts, too. And before, when he came buried as deeply as he could reach, it felt like you’d actually completed some ritual. Bears hibernated, birds migrated, Alastor came in you.
You’d never let a man do that before Alastor. “I just want to… accept everything you are willing to give me.”
He bit his bottom lip to redirect some attention away from his now throbbing member, “And when you’re sure on me, I’ll always provide.”
A pout that he kissed, you accepted the terms. An argument could be made you were already very sure, but you were well aware how naive that sounded when you’d known each other for so little time. Had a coworker told you she’d met a guy and within three months was ready for… the consequences, you’d have laughed and asked if she was drunk or just stupid.
Alastor wanted to provide. But he knew you’d be the one with the raw end of the deal, he couldn’t risk coercing a decision in the heat of the moment. If your mind was half was addled as his with pleasure then you were in no state for big decisions.
Life changing decisions.
Decisions that filled empty homes.
Fuck, why wasn’t he a less considerate man?
When his kiss deepened, so did his ministrations. He was fully sheathed and so unwilling to draw back more than a couple inches you wondered if he had changed his mind. It felt like a man not wanting to stray too far from home. One hand on the small of your back, his other other on the back of your neck. When he pulled out he pressed his tongue further, only stopping the kiss when he came onto the little space of table between your thighs. Soft and swollen lips parted as his breaths ran ragged. A smile spread across your face as you watched his eyes open, witnessing a pleasured blow out of his pupils.
When he grabbed a kitchen towel and cleaned the table, you chuckled at his grimace. “See? My way is cleaner.”
He didn’t reply at first, taking the cloth and hovering over the sink before tossing it into his trash. “Only in the short term. We can finish up tomorrow with the tools?”
Your legs kicked again, not ready to slide off, “Mm, it’ll be easier in the daylight.”
“Instead,” he zipped his pants but removed the belt and set it on the counter, “Let’s get zozzled* and sway around the sitting room? Crash where we land.” (*drunk)
“I’ll pour if you get the music on.”
He turned to leave but paused, “No, I’ll handle the drinks. You always have too heavy of a hand.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining last time…”
“I’m not sure I remembered I was at home and not at a drum* last time…,” He uncorked the label-less whiskey, grabbing two glasses with one hand. “Didn’t wanna insult the pretty waitress.” (*speakeasy)
Fair. You weren’t much for drinking and always underestimated the strength of illegal hooch. Some were weak and some could kill you. But fancy Alastor had connections with the kind of people no one dared to risk harm to, so he always had the most trustworthy goods.
Good music, great whiskey, and even better company. You thanked him for being safe while working, he praised your ability to learn new skills so quickly. After a few drinks he pushed the coffee table against the wall and you drunkenly swayed around the room to something playing smooth and low. As much as you enjoyed your conversations, having your head tucked under his chin as neither of you said a word somehow filled in the little cracks of your heart more so than any talk. For him too. No tension after sex, no stress of how long he’d get to breathe before the next instance of prodding to do it again. He could smile and close his eyes and feel the room swing and sway in total safety.
A safety neither of you knew was being threatened from afar.
When you woke, Alastor was gone. A note on the table letting you know he’d run out to grab some things for breakfast. Telling you to relax and recover.
You put the furniture back, bringing the glasses to the kitchen and his belt to the bedroom.
Coffee and a slow perusal of his home. Intimate details you tried to not stare at when he was there. The rare photo of his mother, a woman you didn’t speak about, a conversation you didn’t need to have, but someone you knew existed fondly still in his life. A silent thank you to her.
No photos of a man to give thanks to you so you turned to the little curios and mementos.
Little seashells and sand dollars, a small gator’s skull. Books, about anatomy and history. Novels about crime and love and mystery. Ticket stubs for films he’d seen. Little bits of his mother scattered in. A woman’s necklace. A chatelaine* with all of the accessories and tools. (*wikipedia page)
When you felt you’d spied enough, you crawled into his side of the bed and inhaled as deeply as you could. His pillow smelled like him. You let yourself sleep off the hangover surrounded by pieces of Alastor.
Pieces you couldn’t contain. Pieces left around town as a dick* hunted for his personal monster. (*a detective, but also, a dick, fuck this dude?)
Beth, or Betty as you called her, the friend you often sang for, was cleaning up from the previous night when Brady walked in. She tried to tell him they were closed, but he took a seat at the counter anyway.
“I’m looking for a singer named Autumn. She been around lately?”
She paused, knowing the name was tied to your work. This man didn’t know you. “Whose asking?”
“The city of New Orleans”, he set his badge on the counter top.
“Is she in some kinda trouble?”
“She the kinda dame to get into trouble?”
Beth laughed, “She doesn’t try to but men, liquor, and jazz tend to make it happen. She’s okay, right?”
He took a deep sigh, trying to blink away the exhaustion and remember he needed to be someone strangers trusted. Being honest hadn’t been working and being rough barely got him a lead. “Well I was hoping you’d know. Found out someone roughed her up a bit ago and just wanting to make sure she’s okay. But I don’t have her legal name, no address, nothing to track her down.”
Shaking her head, she leaned onto the counter, “What? Some egg* forget it’s just a show?” Brady shrugged. “I can’t say. She hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” (*man)
He asked why. Feeling the deadend approaching.
“She was just doing me a favor. Once she got a guy she didn’t have much time.”
Fighting the urge to slam his fists against the wood and sling his notebook across the bar, Brady took slow breaths. Jaw clenched as he grabbed his pencil, “That is wonderful news. Hopefully a fit guy who can… keep her safe.”
Beth laughed a little, “I don’t know about that. He’s kind of a daisy*, but real kind.” (*a non-masculine man)
“Could I get a name? Or her address? Wanna follow up. See for myself that she’s doing well.”
She tapped the bar with two fingers and winked, “Ah no can do. Flatfoot* or not, I don’t tell men where to find sleeping ladies. But her fella is in radio though. I recognized his voice right away. Popular too, really ritzy air about him.” (*cop, detective)
As he left, he slapped the notebook against his palm over and over. When he stopped to take a second to congratulate himself something caught his eye. Across the street was a park he knew well. Following the block and turning, he could see the white and green awning of the cafe he’d seen you at before.
Had he been there? He hadn’t questioned why you were alone on such a nice day. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d been playing him from the start.
Enough games.
When you took the stage that evening, a Friday show with a promising crowd, you felt like solid gold. Alastor would be there to pick you up in a few hours, you had every need met. And now you had the adoration of strangers to pump up your chest.
Until you passed your come-hither eyes over the crowd and a striking ocean blue pair knocked the wind out of you.
James was standing behind Brady, mouthing an apology. You missed a beat in your routine but forced your smile back. It took a second, to slide back into the actress you were when away from Alastor. Every time it got harder and harder to fall back into that role but you managed. His eyes never left your face, and you thanked God your heaving chest could be seen as fatigue and not the sheer panic that had taken ahold of your body.
When you were on the other side of the curtain you considered rushing out the side door, into the alley and down the street. But you couldn’t. You’d successfully brushed him off for so long but now that he had seen you, had made it clear he was there for you, you couldn’t flee. Innocent people don’t hide from cops.
Feet dragging, you saw some of the dancers standing around the dressing room door. “He’s out of his gourd if he thinks I’m changing with him in there.” One said loud enough to ensure Brady heard. When you entered the room he was sitting at your make up table, legs spread and your shoes in his hands.
“There she is!” standing, he extended the shoes to you, “Don’t stare like a deer in the lights. I’m sure you knew I was coming. Slip these on, we’re going for a ride.” He gave them a shake, “You can call your mac* from the station and let him know you’ll be late.” (*man)
˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖
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Girl dad Astarion who is mourning the times when his biggest problem was coming up with more or less child-friendly excuses to not read yet another bedtime story. Or to fix the dress of a shabby old doll that gave him the creeps. Or to kiss some scratches better, even though the minuscule wounds usually troubled him more than they did the damn child.
Nobody ever told him that children grow up this fucking fast, okay?
But now he has to watch his darling little girl grow into a beautiful young woman, and he is—quite frankly—terrified for her.
Because wherever he looks, he can see that strangers are watching her, too.
It doesn’t even bother him that they notice his daughter’s beauty, no, you would have to be blind not to see it. She’s stunning—obviously. She's his child after all…and Tav’s, of course, but that’s not the point.
It’s the way they're looking at the girl that disgusts Astarion to his very core. Leering eyes following her every move. Ulterior motives buried under layers of false niceties. Seemingly innocent little touches stolen as if those filthy hands were entitled to her body in any way.
And for all their obnoxious gawking, they don’t even see her. They seldom care for his daughter’s talents, her sense of humour, or her intelligence. Her heart.
Those heads are only turning for a pretty face, and for all the small privileges that might afford her, they always come with a price—a price Astarion has paid once upon a time; a price he doesn’t ever want his daughter to even consider accepting.
But the world is not kind. It’s already leaving scratches on his child that neither he nor Tav can kiss better any longer.
And Astarion hates it because the last time he felt this helpless was when his own pretty face was all that kept him, well, as alive as he could be. A thing to be used for other people's gain. Selling himself out for crumbs.
And then, one day, he notices a new bracelet on his daughter’s wrist.
She happily hands it over to him so he can take a look. Then she tells him some stranger gifted it to her. Just like that!
All they wanted for it was a little smile—isn’t that so great, father?
It’s not. Far from it. Astarion is fuming inside.
How dare some random nitwit think that ugly trinket worthy of his daughter’s wonderful smile? The audacity. The nerve. Unbelievable!
“Darling, it’s not a gift if they’re expecting something in return,” a forced smile tugs at his lips, trying to soften his scolding tone.
It doesn’t work.
“But it’s so pretty, I had to have it!”
The girl sulks, her little nose scrunched up as if he just sent her to bed without her fairy tales. Astarion supposes, in a way, he has.
“And what do we do when we see something we want, dear?”
She rolls her eyes at him in a way that always has Tav cackling up. Maybe it's because, in moments like this, she looks a little too much like her father.
“We just pocket it.”
“Exactly, my darling child, we just pocket it,” Astarion nods approvingly. “And if they ask for a smile next time?”
“We stab them,” she sighs.
“Absolutely, we do. Now, off with you, lest your daggers get all rusty, you lazy duck.”
Ending the discussion with a gentle smile, Astarion watches the girl go before he produces the offending bracelet from his sleeve.
It’s always out of sight, out of mind with pretty things, isn't it?
He takes another look at the bracelet, scrunching up his nose as if it gave off a particularly vile smell. In a way, it does.
In fact, it’s giving Astarion the creeps. And it's not even made from real gold, by the way.
Astarion scoffs at the cheap trinket. This child still has so much to learn.
#astarion#baldurs gate 3#bg3#baldur's gate 3#dadstarion#astarion x tav#astarion headcanons#baldur's gate astarion#astarion ancunin#to the best worst dad#astarion father of the year every year#being perceived is pain#girlhood in a nutshell
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hc for adrian having a girlfriend or s/o prior to his mother's death. they're human and maybe her apprentince or something. and the church takes her too, but before they can burn her at the stake, dracula shows up and rescues her because he knows lisa was fond of her. during adrians and draculas fight maybe she interbenes at a critical moments so drac doesnt kill him and alucard gets away but she's now a prisoner of dracula w/n his castle. and maybe she befriends the generals?
A/N: Aw, man. Sometimes I wonder if Lisa did have an apprentice, that maybe Dracula wouldn’t be as anti-human as he ended up being, or if she could start to turn him to see the error of his ways sometime before Alucard and Dracula end up in Adrian’s childhood bedroom.
Apologies for the delays in updates. But my brain went WILD with this request so it’s a long one, I hope that makes up for the less frequent posting. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these somewhat bittersweet (then depressing then bittersweet again) headcanons! (Also this is unbeta-ed and prob grammatically messy as hell, so read at your own expense lol.)
Word Count: 6.2k
TW: Canon Typical Descriptions of Graphic Violence; Brief Mentions of Sexual Violence; Canon Death; Descriptions of Torture (the church is high-key fucked up here)
Adrian W/ A Human S/O Reader (Who’s Also Lisa’s Apprentice, Prior to Her Death):
━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━
The Beginning:
Okay, so let’s get one thing straight… FIRST OF ALL, Lisa would adore you!!! Like, you make her baby boy happy and you’re smart??? What else is there to it? And then to top it all off, you’re super sweet and kind and interested in learning about medicine and the world around you!
Lisa meets you once over dinner and she’s already planning the wedding in her head.
Adrian is smitten, because of course he is, but in an adorable, somewhat restrained way. He doesn't have a lot (ahem, ANY) experience in this department, so he’s hesitant to take things forward with you, mainly because he doesn’t want to scare you off or make you suspicious about what he is. (It’s hard to make out with someone when you have two big vampire fangs in the front.)
Adrian is young, like you. So, on top of all the complications, he feels no need to rush things. Sure, he’s heard a few whispers here and there about Dracula having a son, a son who according to rumors and gossiping villagers is to rise as the antithesis of Dracula. It’s all silly superstition, but it does stay fixed in the back of his mind. What would this future legacy mean for his relationship with you? And, should it ever come to pass, would you even be a part of it?
That’s neither here nor there though, and in the meantime, the two of you simply enjoy the talking phase. You get to learn more about each other's interests, and beliefs, but mostly, you spend time in proximity to one another— you remain busy attending to his mother, learning all you can about healing while he, just a table over, spends his time rereading one of his many favorite tomes.
I honestly don’t see you meeting Dracula until you and Adrian are like a fully committed couple. I’m pretty sure you would have to have been Lisa’s apprentice for a while and/or lived with the Tepes in their Lupu cottage for months before Lisa finally breaks through Dracula’s protests and makes him officially meet you.
I don’t think that meeting would happen in Lupu either. No, I imagine it would have to take place at Dracula’s castle, just in case you were to freak out, you’d have no way of escaping and telling any others.
I can almost see your reaction being similar to Lisa’s upon first entering the castle, especially if Adrian is already at your side. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Dracula is terrifying, but there’s also a giant telescope in the next room calling your name so….
Much to Adrian’s relief, this newfound information doesn’t make you frightened of him at all, if anything, it simply reignites your fascination with him. You throw rapid-fire questions at him: If he's part vampire, how come you’ve seen him eating human food? Does he need both food and blood to satisfy each of his halves? If he needs blood, he could take some of yours you know…
Your penchant for learning softens Dracula a little. For a brief time, he wonders if, perhaps, it was as Lisa said, that the humans could change, that humanity was changing for the better.
He sits across from you at their grand dinner table, watching you intensely as you and Adrian talk about the recent literature you’ve read. You’d no doubt feel Dracula’s all-powerful gaze on you, making you turn to him and… Wait, did you just smile?!
You’ve got guts, Dracula will give you that.
Knowing the family secret, you can’t exactly break up with Adrian, nor do you have any desire to. I wonder if Dracula would have rings made for the two of you, maybe commission a new family portrait or two.
You stay with Lisa in Lupu during Dracula's travels. Adrian is around, although he's always off between the castle and their cottage, so you never feel entirely alone or vulnerable. Your life is perfect! It’s better than you could have ever imagined!
That is, until…
━━━━━ ● ━━━━━
The During:
When the Church comes to take Lisa, you beg them to see reason. You cry and scream, hell, you even try to fight your way out at one point, only for both you and Dr. Tepes to be overpowered by the Church’s henchman.
The two of you are taken, violently, to Targoviste, where you’re thrown into dark, damp cells with little to no light. Freezing, you huddle together for warmth, each trying your best to reassure the other, that all will turn out well. Adrian was still around, right? He’ll have to come home to find you missing, he’ll come and rescue you. And Dracula was due to return soon, correct? Surely, they’ll come. Surely, they’ll stop this madness.
It’s a few days later, after hours of interrogation and brutal torture that you realize with a heavy heart, that no one is coming to rescue you. And what’s worse, that these so-called men of the cloth cannot and will not listen to reason. You’re starved and beaten, your hair is sliced off so close to your skin, that they take bits of your scalp with it in some places. And despite initially being imprisoned with Lisa, you find yourself being separated from her for longer periods.
The men try everything to get you to turn on her. They tell you if you recant her wicked ways now, say she used her evil magic to trick you, your sentencing will be easier. You could still live— they dangle betrayal in front of you as a last lifeline. You don’t take it of course. You love Mrs. Tepes, and you know she’s no witch. You muster what little might you have left, spitting at the men as you tell them to go to hell. You swear she’s innocent, that she knows nothing. Hell, at one point, you find yourself confessing to having manipulated her! You don’t think they buy it though, if the poor doctor’s screams from down the hall are anything to go by.
The night they light the pyre, the night of Lisa’s murder, you’re sick on more than one occasion. You scream your throat raw, begging them to burn you first! That she was innocent! That you corrupted her! That it was all your doing! But to no avail.
In a scene that could only rival the Crucifixion of Christ himself, you look up through tear-soaked eyes to see Lisa, enshrouded in flames, begging Dracula to show mercy on her killers, to forgive them, that they know not what they do. “I know it's not your fault,” she cries out, “But, if you can hear me, they don't know what they're doing! Be better than them. Please!”
You sob and wail, watching as your would-be mother-in-law is burned alive. You scream out for someone, anyone! To please help you, save you! With Lisa’s last words echoing in your mind, you can’t help but fear Adrian’s and his Father’s reactions, should they find you both killed.
Oh, gods…
You don’t know what makes you feel sicker… The barbaric display you’re witnessing now or the hypothetical one that threatens to wipe out all living people in Wallachia once Dracula learns of what’s happened. You need not wait long for an answer.
In a fury of fire and grandeur, Dracula’s head appears, molded in flame, demanding to know what has happened to his wife. You cry out to him, apologizing profusely, saying you begged them to burn you first! You scream out how they refused to see reason, they killed her for helping! Injudiciously, in your indignant anger, you plead with Dracula to release his fury on the priests who did this, to send them to hell to be tortured for eternity for this unforgivable transgression!
With the silent fury of a gathering storm, Dracula’s fiery visage speaks calmly as his anger grows concertedly less. "I give you one year Wallachians,” he finally decides. “You have one year to make your peace and remove any marks you have made upon the land. One year, and I'll wipe all human life from the land of Wallachia. You took that which I love, so I will take from you everything you have and everything you have ever been. One year."
No sooner than he spits out the words, a coil of fire bursts from his image, winding itself around your body. The guards surrounding you gasp and flee, avoiding the coil’s tail as it whips back and forth, hoisting you into the air.
The fiery coil burns your skin, and the smell of even more burnt flesh makes you gag. If you had any bile left over at all, you’re certain it’d come up yet again. The pain is like a thousand stinging nettles and boiling water constricting your arms and midriff all at once. Your vision grows blurry as you feel your body move through the air, your nostrils taking in one last wretched breath of sulfur and smoke.
━━━━━ ◉ ━━━━━
The After — Part One:
When you awake you find yourself laid, practically bare, a heap on the floor within Dracula’s castle— the evil Lord himself only feet away, raging over his magic well— as shards of his magic mirror whip around him at incredible speeds. Your head is pounding, it feels as if it might explode, and your arms… Fuck.
Where the supernatural coil grabbed you, your skin was red and raw, small pockets of blisters already beginning to form. Your arms tremble uncontrollably as you try to move them, the pain that’s consuming your nerves is far too intense to hold them steady as you sit up into an upright position.
It doesn’t feel real; nothing feels real. It feels like a nightmare. It had all been perfect, everything was perfect— you all were happy! How did it turn into such horror so fast?
Shakily, you rise to your feet and clutch the remains of your clothes to your chest in an attempt to preserve your modesty, although it’s more of a subconscious act on your part. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, yourself included. It’s like the air is heavier here somehow, its weight filling your lungs and weighing you down.
A loud noise shocks you back to the present, nearly making you stumble over in fright. At least you would have, had Adrian not used his superspeed to catch you before you fell. One of his gloved hands grasps your left arm directly over the burn, causing you to let out a hiss. His rectangular eyes look wider than you’ve ever seen as he releases his grip, looking over your battered form.
“(Y/N) ...” Adrian says, his voice serious and quiet, barely a whisper.
You shake your head furiously, unable to trust your ability to speak without breaking. Upon Adrian’s gentle insistence, you feel your mouth opening, and the words slipping out, scraping against the back of your reddened throat as they exit your frail body.
“They killed her, Adrian…” you whisper, your voice quivering. “I, we tried to stop them, they just wouldn’t listen!” Somehow, your eyes begin to water again, despite your earlier certainty that your body had no water nor tears left in it at all.
“Once she realized they wouldn't listen to reason, she lied and told them I was innocent. She told them she had manipulated me, that I was just a child, that I didn’t know what I was doing, that she never got the chance to teach me!” A feeling of guilt consumes you as you speak the words aloud, and soon enough, your body is once again plagued by uncontrollable sobs.
Adrian listens intently to your words, his brows furrowed. You watch through teary eyes as a range of emotions flash across his face: anger, hurt, pain, sorrow, and finally… acceptance. Your beloved hardens his gaze, choking down whatever grief he may be feeling. At the present, Adrian knows, there are more pressing matters at hand.
You follow Adrian’s steely gaze back, seeing his Father where he is bent over his summoning circle, cursing in a language that is foreign to you before he switches back to Romanian.
“One year! It will take me one year to summon an army from the guts of Hell itself!” Dracula proclaims, promising to enact vengeance for the death of his love.
“No.” Adrian counters, slipping out of your grasp.
“Adrian,” you whisper, warningly. “Don’t—”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? That woman was the only reason on Earth for me to tolerate human life!” Dracula retaliates, enraged his son could even conceive of such lenience.
“Then find the one who did the deed,” Alucard proposes. “If you set loose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as her will suffer and die.”
“There are no innocents! Not anymore! Any one of them could have stood up and said, ‘No, we won't behave like animals anymore.’"
“(Y/N) did.” Adrian points out. “She tried to take all the blame, in an attempt to save Mother’s life.”
Dracula looks over at you with blood-red eyes, contempt clear on his face. “And yet,” he snarls, “Here she stands, and my Wife, your Mother does not!” He hisses the last word, livid that out of the two of you, you were the one who survived.
With large, fearful eyes, you watch as Adrian closes the gap between him and his Father.
“I won't let you do it. I grieve with you, but I won't let you commit genocide.”
“Adrian,” you warn again.
The next bit happened all so quickly.
Faster than you could blink, you watch, helpless, frozen in horror as Adrian charges his father, his longsword drawn. Despite their vampiric speed being unrecognizable to the untrained human eye, you swear you watch the scene unfold in slow motion. Adrian charges first, but Dracula, roaring in a fit of rage, counters faster— his Father’s elongated claws slash diagonally across Adrian’s chest, before his fist pauses, still embedded deep within your lover’s gut.
You don’t have time to think before you act. To you, Adrian has the abilities of a god, but to his Father… It was clear there’d be no match. You have no clue how you got your hands on it, no idea as to how you even managed a successful hit, but the next thing you know, a triangular shard of magic mirror is impaled in Great Lord Dracula’s back, put there by your very hand.
Too terrified to even breathe, the only sound you can hear beyond your racing pulse is a wet, gory squelch as Dracula retracts his claws from Adrian’s body. You hear the spray of blood before you see it, a rush of bright red blood gushes onto the marble floor between Dracula and his son.
Standing at his impressive full height, Dracula turns ever so slowly, ever so menacingly, to face you. His pupils are that of a blood moon, his sclera so bloodshot they practically look as black as night. In that second, you know you’ve fucked up.
You cower as Dracula raises one hand to you, instinctively shielding your neck from his nasty bloodied talons. With surprisingly repressed strength, Dracula backhands you, the force sending you flying backward, smashing into the base of one of the curved bookshelves lining the walls of his summoning room.
With his focus still on you, Dracula stalks toward you. Knowing it’s now or never, you scream at Adrian to flee. “Run!” The words rip out of your raw throat, sounding like an eleventh commandment.
You see Adrian, previously stunned by his Father’s disregard for his life, holding together the gaping wound across his chest. He has no time to even spare you, his beloved, a last look before evaporating into clouds, his cloud of bloodied mist bolting for the door, fleeing as fast as his injured state would allow him.
Dracula only turns to watch as his son, his very possibly fatally wounded son, flees the confines of his castle. For a moment it is silent— only the sound of both yours and Dracula’s heaving breaths echo across the chamber.
Clenching his clawed fingers into a fist, Dracula says nothing as he too makes his way to the castle doors, leaving your bruised and broken body alone in the dark.
━━━━━ ❍ ━━━━━
The After — Part Two:
Somehow, Christ only knows, you find your way to one of Lisa’s old labs and do a half-assed job of patching yourself up. You find your burns and dislocated shoulder to be the most painful of injuries.
Thankfully, Lisa had taught you enough about setting a patient’s shoulder that you managed to smash it into an adjacent wall, popping your joint back in yourself. The burns you wrap in honey and milk-soaked linen gauze, wincing every time the bandages brush against your skin. It’s awful work, slow work too, but you must have managed it alright because you find yourself patched up and passed out in one of the castle’s kitchens a few hours (or days? had it been days?) after that.
You eat raw vegetables and berries— nothing that requires cooking. Lord knows you couldn't prepare anything successfully now even if you were to try. Eating your foraged meal in silence you debate your next steps. Do you go back home? Would your family even welcome you home after your long and unexplained absence? And if they, along with all the humans in Wallachia were ultimately to be driven from the land, did it matter anyway?
‘Oh god,’ you think. You have to warn them, have to make them flee before a year is up. But where would you go? Where could you go? Greater Styria was a possibility, although it was not by any means an easy journey, and the climate there was much colder than your folks were used to here. You shakily rise to your feet and set out to find a map within one of the Castle’s many libraries.
After a good night’s rest, you find your mindset with a newfound determination: you will go home. You were going to get your family on the move and then… Then, you’d come back here.
You knew, in all likelihood, that returning to Dracula’s castle after the fact entailed certain death. But you also knew, things would get worse if he were to be left alone.
Dracula may not have ever loved you for a daughter-in-law. Hell, he may not have ever loved anyone aside from Mrs. Tepes, but you promised her while huddling together that first night in those dingy cells that no matter what happened, should either of you get out alive, you would not leave Adrian and Vlad. “They need humans, (Y/N),” Lisa coughed into your ear. “And most importantly, humanity needs them.”
Dracula would resent your company, he would want to be rid of you. But you could not be rid of him, not after what Lisa had asked of you.
‘Besides,’ you thought, ‘Nobody should have to grieve alone.’
The journey back home to your parents is majorly uneventful. Sure, it was touch and go for a while, your body was exhausted after the ordeal you endured, and your wounds had gotten infected once or twice. Thankfully, you had the mind to pack with you any potential treatments you might need.
It felt good to be home, to be amongst family again. You couldn’t stop crying and hugging everyone when you first arrived. You kept the details to a minimum but made it clear they needed to be the hell out of Wallachia before a year. You told them you had found an apprenticeship, that the woman was kind to you, but while in Targoviste, you saw the burning of a witch, and soon after the face of Satan himself appeared in flames, threatening the crowd. It caused a panic, you see, and you had gotten trampled in the process.
You didn’t bother to explain that the woman you were learning under was this so-called witch and that this Satanic figure was her husband. Nor did you tell them of your half-inhuman partner. You knew had you told the family the whole truth, they might have cast you out as a devil worshiper and a liar and choose not to heed your words.
Your warnings spread through your extended family like how ivy creeps up a stone wall. A fair part of your relatives in the country believed you enough to agree to uproot their lives and settle outside of Wallachia: some settled on Syria, others had decided on Greece, Egypt, or Rome. The more skeptical ones who hemmed and hawed over the validity of your claims agreed to move into the countryside, a decent distance from any major Wallachian city or village.
When you were certain they’d heed your words, you told them you could not stay with them, your Mother wept for three straight days and your Father could do little to console her. As much as it broke your family’s heart, you knew that your need to return to Castlevania was larger than yours. You weren't just doing it for your family, you were doing it for every family across the land. You couldn't be selfish. Mrs. Tepes was the most selfless woman you had met, and she taught you well. If you meant what you said to her when you first met, that you wanted to help people, you would need to buck up and accept the consequences of that.
Your journey back to the castle was much more melancholy than your journey home. You could almost feel the whispers of the tortured souls Dracula had slain before blowing cold air into your ears, begging you to turn back. Nevertheless, you continued. You entered Castlevania to find you were alone, however, that would not be the case for long.
Months later you had fallen into somewhat of a predictable routine within the castle and its new occupants. Dracula had recruited two humans to serve as his war planners— men by the names of Hector and Isaac, respectively. You appreciate the levity Hector, and his undead pets bring, and you admire the intelligence and loyalty Isaac has. You just wish they weren’t going along with Dracula’s plan.
You tread carefully as you find the time to express to each of his Generals that you wish they wouldn’t go through with this plan. You explain humans are not the kind of species to give in to subjugation, they will revolt eventually. You suggest the vampires come up with some sort of tit-for-tat system with the humans instead like, for example, promised blood servants would equal vampiric protection for that territory.
It’s safe to say no one is impressed with your centrist ideals, so eventually stop taking part in the conversation. You silently hang around Hector, and just listen with a sorrowful expression, satisfied with knowing that if you can’t change the Generals' minds, you can, at the very least, make them somewhat uncomfortable.
When Carmilla arrives, you’re immediately put off by her little display of insolence. Unlike yours, her dissent doesn’t seem to come from a place of concern. You make a mental note to keep an eye on her.
It’s during the General's next argument that you receive a ray of hope: “We are quite certain that Alucard sleeps at Gresit.”
You feel your body grow lighter.
“So, that means,” you speak aloud to yourself more so to anyone else, “Adrian is alive?”
You’re met with a handful of annoyed glares from the other vampires as Isaac continues: “And that there was recently a Belmont there.”
Upon hearing Carmilla berate the others for not sending night creatures to the ancestral Belmont home, your smile falls and your improved mood falters. These Belmonts were famous monster hunters, famous enough to frighten your current vampire company. That means, if there was a Belmont in Gresit, at the same time as Adrian, as Alucard, whatever the hell he’s going by these days, it could prove disastrous for your love. For all you know, he’s still recovering from the wounds dealt to him by his Father. And if this Belmont, this monster hunter strikes first and asks questions later, he may accidentally kill the only living vampire in existence who stands against the very nature of this war.
‘How ironic,’ you think solemnly. Just as fast as the universe gives you hope, it rips it away once more.
You excuse yourself, and make your way towards Hector’s forge, aiming to distract your distraught mind with some cute reanimated pets.
Shortly thereafter, Hector joins you. He asks if you truly did not know Dracula’s son was still alive. You shake your head ‘no’, telling him how you had prayed every past night to any God who would listen, that they would send their holy armies and angels to guard him, but no, you had mostly just feared he was dead.
You spend the rest of the night talking to Hector about Alucard, Adrian as you knew him. How smart he was, how much the two of you used to laugh, and how much he looked just like his Mother.
“Perhaps that’s why,” Hector supposes, “Dracula could no longer bear to see him.”
You say perchance he’s right, conveniently leaving out the part where the Father and Son duo almost fought to the death right in front of you.
The conversation with Hector reignites something within you. You feel as if you had been praying all this time for an answer, and this was it. Alucard was alive, and so was Belmont. You understand now what needs to be done.
Your lover must once again fight his Father, and this time, he must win.
Your silent observations allow you to learn of Carmilla’s scheme fairly early on, as well as Godbrand’s demise at the hands of Isaac, yet all that time, you say nothing. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes down. If Carmilla divides Dracula’s army and court, she will inevitably make it easier for Alucard and Belmont to destroy him.
The Generals, and even Dracula himself, believe you are mourning the loss of your love for the second time, as his demise will be inevitable the moment he meets his Father and his armies— or at least, that’s what they assume.
When Carmilla has Hector send special night creatures to the remains of the Belmont home, you attach a letter around one of the creature's necks, hoping your love will notice it, and if he doesn’t, you pray he instinctively outwits the traps that await for him within his Father’s castle.
━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━
Beginning Again:
The night Dracula chooses to move the Castle to Braila, you manage to speak with him one last time.
You bring him some tea, even though you know he won’t drink it, and you tell him, for what must be the hundredth time, how sorry you are about all that’s happened. You apologize for not being able to do more to save his wife. You tell him that if you could do it all over again if you were given a choice between who they should burn first, you’d demand it be you.
Dracula turns away from the fire to look at you upon hearing those words.
“She was fond of you, you know.” He says, sounding far away as if lost in a distant memory. “She was overjoyed at the thought of gaining a daughter”
You nodded along a hurt smile on your face. “It was my honor.” Gathering your courage you continued: “Even though it didn’t work out, I want you to know I loved your wife very much… And,” you kept going. “I love your son very much.”
Dracula said nothing. He simply turned his attention back to the flames within his study’s fireplace.
“It’s not too late, you know,” you prod gently. “If Adrian is alive, he could still come back, we could still be a family-”
“No!” Dracula’s low growl sent shivers down your spine.
For a moment you feared he would rise to attack you or perhaps berate you further, but no such action came. Instead, the former Great Lord Dracula’s shoulders deflated back to their hunched position, as he fell silent once again.
Quietly, you made your way back to your room, shutting and locking the door behind you. If you had any tears left at all, you would have shed them throughout the night. Instead, you merely lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there would even be a tomorrow to awaken to.
Pleased to still be alive at this point, but feeling increasingly suffocated by this overwhelming sense of doom, you spend the next day cooped up in your room, on your knees, the rosary in your hand, whispering prayers of safety for your loved one. You couldn't explain it, but at the time, you felt compelled to recite prayer after prayer and reveal all the fears and worries in your heart.
You speak out to Death, to God, to all the angels and saints, and beg them to grant Adrian safe passage as he completes his task of saving humanity— it’s something his Mother would have wanted after all.
Amidst your fervent prayers, you feel the Castle shake and creak, but you soon realize something is off: it keeps jerking from side to side, several times, way too many to be a case of a single relocation. Your heart races, and in the pit of your gut, you know this is it:
The Alucard has come.
Your love has come back for you.
You scramble behind the door, poised with a wooden stake in hand (just in case, you never know), and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Following a crescendo of metallic crashes and screaming, you hear more crashes, this time lesser in intensity and they’re accompanied by the distinct scent of fire, sulfur, and burnt flesh.
It terrifies you, bringing such horrible memories of your almost demise to the surface. You look down at the burn scars on your arms and feel physically ill. Every time you shut your eyes to blink, you see the corpse of Ms. Tepes, burning alive right before you as if no time has passed at all, as if you’re trapped in the permanent hell of that memory.
The overwhelming ornery atmosphere in the castle only grows, seeming to suddenly flood your nostrils and every pore.
You watch in shock and horror as thousands of soot-colored transparent ghouls burst through your doorway, the shock of the impact sending you reeling into the bed. Tortured faces of all shapes and sizes circle you menacingly, before bursting through your room’s glass window, vanishing just as fast as they came.
Within an instant you feel… lighter, freer almost. It’s as if something major has changed, but you don’t know what.
Timidly, stake still in hand, you make your way down the castle corridors. Unfortunately, you have to take several detours, your regular route being cut off by giant holes in the architecture. A good portion of the castle looks like it had been hit with cannon fire.
You sincerely hope that whatever caused that damage is no longer rampaging around these halls, lest you stumble upon them yourself.
By the time you reach the throne room, the sun is just peeking out from behind the horizon. The sight of it flowing freely into the castle interior lifts your spirits with hope. Sunlight means no vampires. No vampires means…
You follow the originating path of the sun’s beams, finding three figures illustrated against the sunrise. One of them is a burly-looking man, with a large frame and broad shoulders. Another is a woman, at least, you’re fairly certain they’re a woman, with curly hair, dressed in flowing blue robes. And the third is….
You don’t even need a second glance to know who the third person is.
Crying out his name, you run towards your long-lost lover, almost losing your footing over all the debris covering the floor. But just as he would before, and just as he always would, your lover, Adrian, catches you before you can fall.
The two of you cling to each other for dear life, just silently sobbing, feeling grateful to be in one another’s embrace. You’re not sure how long the two of you stay intertwined like that, you just know however long it was, it could never be enough to make up for how much you missed him this past year.
“Adrian,” you clutch his coat, “I thought you were dead! I thought he had killed you! I was so worried.”
“He almost did,” the strange broad-shoulder man reveals in a teasing fashion. You watch as the robed woman elbows him in the gut.
“Alucard,” Adrian says, regaining your attention as he grasps your hands in his. “I am Alucard now.”
You look into his golden eyes, sensing while this is still very much the body of the man you loved, this Alucard before you, is not the same person that your Adrian was. After all this time, it feels like quite the loss, and yet, you cannot fault him for it. You are unaware of the journey he’s been on, of the sacrifices he’s had to make. God knows your character must have changed as well, living amongst a vampire court and necromancers for just under a year.
You back away from your love, temporarily ignoring his concerned expression.
“Hello Alucard,” you say, extending a hand, “My name is (Y/N). And I’d very much like to share a drink with you if you’d let me.”
“Don’ know about Alucard,” the broad man mumbles, gripping his side in pain, “But I’d very much like a drink. Or five.”
“Trevor!” The robed woman scolds.
“What?”
You smile at the three of them, feeling beyond blessed that your love has found such wonderful new friends.
When you had first fallen for Adrian, you assumed your family would consist solely of him, his mother, and his father, that you’d spend the rest of your days learning medicine in a little cottage nestled in Lupu. That simple life was to be yours. But now, it’s all changed. And Alucard is all that remains of that family you once loved.
You gaze out into the forest beyond the castle grounds, closing your eyes and sighing as you feel the morning’s sun on your face.
Yes, it was true Mrs. and Mr. Tepes were gone.
It was true that the old Adrian could never come back.
But if you had to choose a new life, a life here amongst a gorgeous castle, with your former lover and his two new friends, well… you doubted you could pick a better one than that.
A/N 2.0: WHY DID THIS TAKE ME SO LOOOONG? Who knows? Anyway, it’s here now. And hey— did you pay close attention to the symbols in the dividers? Go ahead and look back if you didn’t, just a silly little fun symbolism storytelling. Oh, also, I will finally be updating The Queue List to reflect all the asks I’ve since answered and posted to not confuse people checking on the status of their ask/new readers.
If you liked reading this, please REBLOG! Likes are great but reblogs spread my work much further.
If you really, really liked reading this, Consider Buying Me a Coffee <3.
#adrian tepes x reader#alucard castlevania#alucard x reader#alucard x you#alucard imagine#adrian fahrenheit tepes#adrian tepes#alucard#castlevania imagine#castlevania x reader
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𝘋𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘺𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦
Tom Ryder x Fem!Reader
◢ Genre: Headcanons — Suitable For Adults Only
◢ Warnings: 18+ Only please! Mentions of sex, smut, and relationship with F!reader. Also includes mentions of jealousy, narcissism, and famous relationships.
◢ A/N: I am back, doing some warm-up writing. I still have everything in my drafts, and currently have some free time to try and get caught up. Keep an eye out for new content. Gif was made by me, please credit me if you use it. Likes are enjoyed. Reblogs are always greatly appreciated.
Dating a celebrity is never easy. Especially Tom, who right now is one of the most famous action stars in the world.
It'd be a lie to say that it hasn't gone to his head.
The man is narcissistic and not at the same time.
He's got an ego for days.
But he's not the type to gaslight you, at least not all the time.
He's capable of emotions, and yet he won't hesitate to try and cover up a murder with the help of his agent.
He's a man of morally gray standing. He's neither good nor evil, but will put himself first and foremost when his career is on the line.
When you and Tom started dating, it was unexpected.
No one expected it to happen. But he knew what he wanted and he went for it.
There was even a sticky note in his house about asking you out.
That note he didn't forget.
You aren't a celebrity like he is, so this forced you into the spotlight.
The tabloids ran with it, either making you look good or bad. It didn't matter to them.
What mattered was that Tom was dating someone new, and someone who wasn't a co-star.
It's strange being in the spotlight. Maybe a part of you hates it. Maybe a part of you likes it.
But you aren't dating Tom for his money or his fame, not like some people claim to.
You are probably the most down-to-earth person he's dated.
You don't ask him for things, or money. Which caused him to spoil you slightly.
He clings to you, keeping you close when he goes out.
He likes to show you off, even if people are criticizing him for who he's with.
His agent isn't a fan of you and tells him that he should be with someone else who is famous because it will help him.
There has been a time or two that she had almost convinced him to do it.
But when someone was said, it never turned out like he expected.
The arguments are heavy, mostly because that is when his ego comes to blows with you.
When you approach him to fix it, not wanting to fight, he tends to cave to the feelings you show him.
He starts to feel like you understand him past the fame and who he is as a person.
You've come to learn how to deal with his weird quirks, like the sticky notes.
More often than not, you are reminding him about things and trying to keep them cleaned up.
But some of the notes he leaves are utterly ridiculous and you tend to leave those up because they make you laugh.
Then you started to find notes about his feelings for you. Things he wanted to remember to say for later.
When he realized you saw them, all he could do was give you this boyishly charming smile.
Maybe the notes are a good thing.
It becomes a small form of communication between you two.
You have learned to deal with the parties, the drinking, and the drugs.
It may or may not be your scene. But somehow he manages to bring you out of your shell.
You have a good time with him. Letting loose. You always go home together.
The sex is amazing. Hot and heavy, a lot of heavy petting, moaning, and groaning.
He's vocal. Often telling you how he loves your body and how you feel wrapped around his cock.
"Fuck babe. You feel so good."
"You're going to make me cum babe if you keep doing that."
The man has his moments of being vanilla.
But when he gets kinky, he can get weird about it in a good way.
He's always willing to try something new.
But when you get submissive and worship him, he goes crazy.
The guy has a praise kink for days.
When you lean into his ear and start telling him about how you adore him, adore his cock, how good he feels, then he starts to go crazy mentally.
"Say it again babe. Louder."
"I'm gonna make you scream my name."
It makes it hard for him to keep his hands off you.
When he's gone, he thrives off the images and videos you send him.
Phone sex can be a regular when he can't get to you.
But there are times when he would take you wherever he's going.
The man won't hesitate to take you back to his trailer to have his way with you.
You'll make him late to set a time or two, but he doesn't care. He can get away with it for the most part.
He doesn't like other guys touching what is his. Ever.
He's going to make it known to his "friends" that you are off-limits.
He doesn't want them hitting on you.
This will bring out that small bit of insecurity that lingers in his mind.
He'll get jealous if he thinks the wrong thing, or see something that can be taken out of context.
If you two were to break up, Tom wouldn't handle it well.
You'd make him emotional, and the idea of seeing you with another man would frustrate him.
He'd try and get you back because of how you treated him and understood him.
This time, he'd be calling you while laying in the bathtub almost crying.
He might try and date someone else after, but chances are they aren't going to compare to you.
ATJ Taglist: @voxmortuus @earth-elemental18
Some of my tag list people aren't working anymore. If you want to be added for ATJ stuff let me know, and I can update my list.
#Tom Ryder x reader#tom ryder x f!reader#tom ryder x you#tom ryder smut#tom ryder fanfiction#tom ryder imagine#tom ryder#aaron taylor johnson smut#aaron taylor johnson fanfic#aaron taylor johnson x reader#aaron taylor johnson#tangerine x reader#tangerine x you#the fall guy#the fall guy fic#nyxvuxoa writes
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Help Me Hold Onto You
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Ended relationship)
Setting: Alexandria after 6 year jump
Warnings: Angst, More angst, No happy here, mentions of pregnancy
Summary: Daryl comes back after his 6 year absence to talk to you. He receives quite the shock.
A/N: Feeling blah. Needed to channel negative energy. Sorry!
*Click here to be added to taglists.
Moodboard by @dannyo000
Daryl gnawed on the skin of his thumb while staring at the edge of the crop rows. Michonne had told him you would be there and that he should really go see you. She was, in fact, rather insistent. He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. Would you even want to see him? Things hadn’t exactly ended amicably when you had stumbled upon him with Leah. Even allowing the other woman’s name to occupy his thoughts for a mere second brought an onslaught of guilt and self-loathing. He had been caught in a moment of weakness, not putting a stop to Leah’s advances when it was your lips he craved.
‘Idiot.’ With a heavy sigh, he trudged forward, scanning over the individuals hard at work maintaining the surplus of crops in the community. It was your hair he noticed first, no longer flowing wildly down your back but cropped off just below your shoulders. His eyes studied the visible skin below the spaghetti straps of the sundress you were wearing. He had always envisioned you in a dress. It was not the right color and looked to be a little longer than the one his imagination supplied, but it was hard to tell while you were kneeling in front of the tomato plants.
The familiar spread of freckles were shining with a sheen of sweat from work in the midday sun. With narrowing eyes, he took in the way your shoulder blades seemed more pronounced and your arms were much slimmer than the last time he saw you. He could see the muscles flex beneath your skin as you dug in the soil. Even from his limited vantage point, you appeared…frail.
Forced to steel his nerves, he stepped closer, only coming to a stop when a few feet separated you. “Hey, Y/N.” The archer eyed you carefully, even took a step back when your movements froze and a visible tension seized across your body.
“What are you doing here, Dixon?”
Your cold tone forced his heart to freeze and drop into his stomach, twisting a knot that made him nauseous. What the hell had Michonne been thinking? Daryl closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose. Words were failing him, any and all logical responses lost in the tension. “How, uh…how are ya?”
“Fine. You done?”
You had yet to move, to even look at him. He had definitively fucked this up royally. One kiss—a kiss he neither wanted nor reciprocated—had destroyed this precious relationship that had taken years to build. The archer sighed. “No. M’not.”
You stood then—with quite a bit of difficulty, he noted—but kept your back to him. “Just save it. I’m not interested.” Your gardening gloves were peeled from your hands and tossed roughly to the dirt. “Unless you’ve got other business here, you can go.” He watched you pivot away from him, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.
“Damnit, woman, m’trying t’ fix this!” Daryl was careful not to raise his voice, to not be so quick to anger; something he was still learning to control after all these years.
Your steps halted, eyes hesitantly peering back at him from over your shoulder. Pale skin gave way to dark circles around dull orbs. You really didn’t look well. He opened his mouth to inquire and was quick to close it when those same eyes narrowed angrily.
“There’s nothing to fix, Dixon.”
It was more than clear that you didn’t want him there. He could feel the anger permiating the air in waves, the knot in his gut twisting tighter. He was treading dangerous ground. He could push you, say what he needed to say and hope for the best. Or he could obey your wishes and go, maybe try again in the future. Maybe not.
You were still watching him as the breeze picked up, cool but not chilling the early autumn air. He was still weighing his options when your shorter hair blew to the side and revealed the back of your neck. Light reflected off a silver chain there and hope rekindled in his chest. You were still wearing the necklace he had gifted you during one of your nights on the riverbank.
“Y/N, I—”
You rounded on him so quickly that he stumbled back a step, hands out in a placating manner as you reached for him and shoved him back further. “You stupid, selfish, cowardly pig! How dare you! I can't believe you came here now with this shit!” Your shoves continued but Daryl had stopped blocking, taking each hit with an unreadable expression. You stopped, breathing heavily, and stepped back to throw up your arms in exasperation.
“Y/N.” It was almost a whisper, so quiet and full of emotion that if you hadn’t been so angry with him, you would have gathered him into your arms and never let go.
But you were angry. “What?” You bellowed. “What do you want?”
Daryl couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His heart was slamming a tattoo into his ribs. The world around him was blurry, voices fuzzy like being underwater. Except yours. Except you. The archer finally managed to bring you into focus, just as realization of what you had revealed became evident on your pale face.
Yes, you did indeed look thin and sickly but that wasn’t why Daryl couldn’t seem to look away. He couldn’t even seem to blink. Your dress, loose as it was, still managed to hug your swollen stomach. The bump was not large but still evident, your small hands now twisting into the fabric of the dress nervously.
His mouth moved but he couldn’t force his voice to work, so he clamped his lips shut. The anger was still evident in your expression, and he somehow noticed that you were trembling but he couldn’t look away from the area beneath your fisted hands.
“How?” Daryl heard the words but didn’t remember speaking. “Ya said ya couldn’t—”
“Does it matter?”
“S’it—” he shifted uncomfortably, pointing and withdrawing only to point again. “S’it mine?” Daryl finally forced his gaze away from your belly to lock eyes with you. It wasn’t long before your anger dissipated and morphed into something else, tears springing to your lashes. “Y/N.”
You flinched but he needed an answer and he needed it now.
The people had heard the commotion and hushed whispers were hissing all around the two of you. Daryl could see Michonne from the corner of his eye. She had kept her distance but had apparently wanted to stay in the vicinity in case things got heated. The archer couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t still end that way.
“It is.” You finally acknowledged, inciting a collective gasp from the onlookers. Your hands had dropped to your sides to take up twisting the fabric there.
Michonne stepped forward after a few more unnerving moments of silence, motioning toward the small crowd that had gathered. “Okay, everyone! Nothing more to see! Let’s get back to work!”
The two of you remained stoic as the people dispersed back to their activities, neither moving a muscle even as Alexandria’s leader stepped up to plant herself between you. “I think this should continue somewhere a little more private.” When neither indicated you had even heard her, Michonne leaned into Daryl’s line of sight to catch his eye. He seemed to snap out of his trance and gave a jerky nod.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” You replied quietly when the same was done to you. You swayed a little when you took the first step. Only through sheer force of will did Daryl not reach out to steady you. It didn’t matter. Michonne had already taken hold of your upper arm.
“Can you make it there?” The sword-wielder asked with obvious concern. “I can end this right now.”
A rush of panic surged through the archer’s chest, nearly suffocating him where he stood. What was wrong with you? Was something wrong with the baby? His baby? “I’ll make sure she’s alrigh’.” With a deep breath, he stepped forward and reached for you, careful not to touch. Neither of you needed that right now. His hand hovered as Michonne held fast.
“Y/N?” The other woman questioned. You only spared Daryl a glance before facing your friend and nodding. Michonne returned the motion and let go to step back out of the way. Just as you started to leave, Daryl staying close by, Michonne called out his name. It was a clear warning.
Take it easy on her.
He nodded without looking back and continued to follow. The community looked so different compared to his last visit. The rebuilt homes were less alluring, most having been constructed on top of anything that had been left of the previous structure. The place still had its appeal but it gave off more of a farmland vibe now than a prestigious community.
The tension had seemed to fizzle out along with your energy. You walked slowly at his side, shoulders slumped and head down. Your face was hidden by a curtain of hair when he risked a sidelong glance. Daryl half wondered if you were even paying attention to where you were leading him. Just as he opened his mouth to ask, you pivoted to the left and crossed in front of him to ascend the few steps of a porch. He followed close behind but chose not to hover. You pulled open the screen door and pushed the main door inward, letting the first slam closed behind you. You had left the other open, for him, he assumed, but it felt wrong to just walk in.
Daryl pulled a cigarette from his vest pocket, along with a book of matches. When the tip had sizzled down and the first draw of smoke entered his lungs, he shook out the match and laid it on the small table next to a chair. Forgoing the obvious seating, the archer hopped up onto the railing and stared into the house. He couldn’t see you but could hear you moving around. You hadn’t come to investigate yet so you had to know he was still there.
Daryl finished his cigarette and stamped it out on the porch, crossing the two steps to the door. The uneasy feeling was still there. It weighed heavily on him that he couldn’t just walk in like he would have before Rick.… Clearing his throat to swallow down the new flood of emotion, he raised a fist to tap on the screen door with his knuckles. You appeared from around a corner at the end of a short hall, briefly locking eyes with him. Averting your gaze, you jerked your head to invite him in.
The home was simple inside, all mismatched furniture and mostly bare walls save for your handheld crossbow hanging next to the door. Looking for too long felt intrusive, so he lowered his eyes to the floor and proceeded down the hall and into what turned out to be the kitchen.
You were standing there, on the opposite side of a small island with one hand wrapped around a glass of water. The other hand was sitting atop your rounded belly, mostly hidden from where he now stood.
A few awkward moments passed with Daryl staring at the part of your hand he could see and you watching him uneasily. “Where’s Dog?”
The archer’s eyes slowly raised to your face, where he found he couldn’t seem to keep them. Leaning against the side of the refrigerator, he began to pick at his palm. “Jude’s got ‘im.” You nodded and took a sip from the glass. More silence followed before Daryl couldn’t wait any longer for the answers he felt so strongly he was owed. “How long?”
“What?”
He didn’t really feel like repeating himself but if he wanted you to answer, he’d have to be willing to communicate past the unsettledness. “How long ya known?”
Your lips formed a small “o” and you nodded. “About three months, I guess.” Your fingertips busied themselves tracing shapes on the countertop.
“An’ ya ne’er thought t’ come tell me?” There was an edge of agitation to his voice. Hell, he was agitated.
“Oh, I thought about it plenty of times.” You snapped, expression hardening when he looked up to meet your eyes. Your hand was wrapped so tightly around the water glass that it was a wonder it hadn’t yet shattered. “But then I always seem to remember that you have plenty of things to occupy your time.”
Daryl wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what you meant. “Ya don’ even know whatcha saw that day.” It was taking some serious control to keep his tone level now. Everything inside him screamed that this would not end well but he pressed on anyway. “Ran away an’ didn’ even gimme a chance t’ ‘splain.”
“I saw plenty, Dixon!” You wisely pushed the glass away from yourself. “That woman’s tongue down your throat! You wanna explain though? Go ahead! Explain!” You hissed, rounding the island. You stopped yourself a few feet from him. “Who is she?”
Daryl was listening as he worked hard to keep himself in check. His temper was itching to flare. “‘er name was Leah. She’s not ‘round anymore, Y/N.”
“So sad for you, I’m sure.” You mocked, crossing your arms. “So what is this? She left you so you thought you could just come back here and we’d pick up where we left off?”
“S’not like tha’.” Daryl sighed. He straightened his stance and dared a step forward, his heart nearly sinking when you stepped back. “There weren’ ne’er nothin’ with ‘er.”
You seemed to consider that, your eyes almost seeming to shake back and forth to hold his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.” You shook your head and started to turn away but the archer quickly crossed the distance between you to lay a hand on your shoulder. Your skin was so cold. You both stared at his hand before he quickly removed it.
“Y/N, I…I stayed away cause I didn’ think ya’d want t’ see me.”
“You were right.” You answered quietly after a few moments. His heart sank. “I didn’t. And I don’t.” You did walk away then but stopped in another doorway, keeping your back to him. “I won’t keep you from your kid, Dixon. They’ll need their father.”
Daryl swallowed hard, feeling a familiar sting in his eyes.
You reached out to place your hand on the doorframe. You looked tired. “I’m due in the winter. You can be a part of this, as much or a little as you want.” You took a step into the room and paused again. “That day in the woods, when I saw you with her… I was coming to tell you about the baby.”
And then you were gone.
The archer sniffed, forcing back the fierce assault of emotion that threatened to take him to his knees. He wiped furiously at his eyes with each arm and paced to one side of the kitchen and then back. He couldn’t leave it like this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This isn’t what he saw when he would envision your future. It was all wrong. Daryl looked to the door where you had been and took a step, his body freezing afterward when he remembered Michonne had made it clear he shouldn’t upset you.
Clenching his fists, he spun toward the hall and all but ran out the door, slamming it closed behind him.
#murda writes#daryl dixon#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#the walking dead#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon angst#no happy ending#daryl dixon x female reader#Spotify
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I'd like to hear about leatin
ah yes my favourite topic:
leah, just a lonely girl living in a lonely world. a girl who falls in love with an older disgusting man only to get her heart broken later on.
then there's fatin: bold, gifted, and tired. so fucking tired of being held back by her busy schedule that she doesn't even want.
both of them fear love for different reasons. fatin thinks she's incapable of it and even if she was, all it brings is pain and heartbreak and she's had enough of that. besides, she doesn't have the time for anything like that: not romantic love nor platonic. familial love for fatin is... well... complicated...
leah on the other hand is familiar with the sting an intense, burning love leaves behind. she's suddenly left alone and has to deal with the consequences on her own. despite everything, all she wants is that toxic love back. to her, it's the only thing that can cure the emptiness she feels.
even on the island all she can think about is jeff. she gets into a literal fight with fatin over him (and fatin's "laziness" and lack of cooperation, but anyways).
then shit gets real. specifically, fatin goes missing. (cue the beginning of a beautiful, complex, sometimes toxic relationship).
only after Leah's confronted with the thought that holy shit someone could die - Fatin could die, does she finally burn his fuck ass book and metaphorically let him go (for now, anyways).
things are good for a bit, then they're bad. the ups and downs of the island. sometimes they get along, like when they think they're going to get rescued. other times they still have trouble getting along and that's okay too; they're learning and they're there for each other and that's all that matters.
well, they're there for each other until they're not. leah's mental health goes into a decline as season 2 begins. fatin tries to hold it together for the both of them, but she can't help but (homoerotically) argue with leah (for the second time) to defend her grieving friend.
eventually they make up because of course they do. afterall, fatin "was starting to like her" and knew that she could never really stop caring about leah.
in fact, the opposite starts happening. she cares about leah so much that she begins to look for the truth for leah. she devotes herself to the very thing that nearly drove leah insane. because she believes leah, for real this time.
and it's good but it's makes her feel so guilty because holy shit leah was right and fatin let her believe that she was insane. she unknowingly helped in gaslighting leah, but she can't give up now. she has to prove that leah was right; it's the only thing that can make up for it.
so, fatin attempts to pick up what leah left behind. fatin, who less than two months ago was unwillingly to help in building a simple shelter, puts in so much of her time and energy in figuring out the truth for leah. she'll let herself go insane the way leah did, do all the ethically questionable things, as long as leah doesn't have to do it anymore.
because fatin loves her:
and even though leah doesn't know fatin does all of this for her, leah loves her back:
(i could not for the life of me find a "the voices you love" gif, sorry)
ultimately, i love leatin because it's a story of these two complex teenagers who heal and break together. neither of them are fond of the idea of love when they meet, especially not with each other but together, they form a unique bond. their love doesn't fix each other but instead, they do things out of love for one another that helps them both.
they relearn how to love together. it's not perfect, but it works for them.
in the words of basically everyone left in this fandom: THEY COULD HAVE BEEN EVERYTHING but also they kind of already were everything and i don't think i'll ever get over it.
anyways if you liked this you should read my new fic too lmao
#tl;dr leatin is the best and i love them#god i hope this is coherent#i dont think you meant for me to write an entire essay#but i did#and then used it as an excuse to promote my fic lmfao#whoops not sorry about it#so thanks <3#leatin#the wilds#ask and you shall receive#btch talk
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Little dead plate talk. (Plus a little drawing near the end).
This is long so be warned.
Rody VS Vincent - Selflessness VS Selfishness
From the way Rody acts it feels like he might have a lot of self hatred? Or not a lot of self worth? He’s far too focused on how to make other people happy. This is the complete opposite of how Vincent is. His hatred is pointed towards other people. Hatred for the world maybe?
Rody doesn’t take care of himself at all. He can’t cook so he can’t feed himself, his living space is filthy, his apartment besides being a mess also needs repair, he barely has any food in his fridge, and he doesn’t own things like an umbrella when his only form of transportation has no way of keeping him dry. The server job he’s working isn’t something he’s doing for himself. That money is never going to be used to change his living conditions. He won’t do that because he will want to use it for Mammon. She left him because of that. Having someone you love be self destructive so you can be happy isn’t great. Rody doesn’t learn from what she says because he can’t see himself being happy any other way.
The act of caring for himself seems like a taboo. Doing things for yourself isn’t a thing in his eyes. Putting effort into something for yourself isn’t a valid idea in his mind. I get this idea from the fact he questions Vincent on why he put so much effort into his career.
Vincent is entirely the opposite of Rody. Someone who is incredibly selfish. He’s willing to scare, hurt, and even kill someone for his own wants and desires. Everything he does is for his own happiness. His cruel control of the chefs is to make sure they don’t mess up what he has built, the hole he has in his offices wall so he can keep an eye on the dining room to make sure everything is going well, and killing Mammon to try making food with “love”. The only reason he tries (in his fucked way) to cook with love is because he believes it may be something he’ll be able to taste. He can’t taste of course but when he hears people saying his food is missing that taste of it he grabs onto that. Delusional in thinking this will somehow taste like something.
Just like how Rody doesn’t understand why he did so much for only himself, Vincent doesn’t understand why Rody is dedicating so much to Mamon. Why spend so much effort to make someone that isn’t you happy? How is that going to make you happy?
They have a lot in common. As I said, Vincent is delusional and so it Rody.
Rody thinks he just has to earn enough money to do a big act of love for Mammon and that’ll make everything better. Not listening to the reason she gave. He doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to care for himself so he makes his own false idea I his head on how he can fix this and be “happy” again.
Vincent against reason thinks that he just needs to cook with “love” and it will somehow let him taste again, or taste at least something. No medicine nor dish has fixed his problem but somehow the thing which he doesn’t even believe in will change things? It’s desperation. He believes taste will be the key to being “happy” again.
Vincent and Rody act this way to be happy. Vincent tries to do things to make himself happy and Rody tries to do things to make other happy which makes him happy. Neither are truly happy. Rody hates himself because he thinks he’s a fuck up, someone that just can’t be happy by themselves. Vincent hates people because they have what he doesn’t and then they complain about his food in a way he’ll never understand.
Saying that their different sides of the same coin would be fitting
Being selfish or selfless isn’t a bad thing, you can care for yourself and others. But taking either to the extreme is just going to drive you crazy and hurt the people around you.
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hihi! i’m jay i use she/they pronouns and i’m excited to plot with everyone! under the cut you can find some info about nic and below are the links to his stats and some plot bunnies (that will be added to eventually). smash that mf like button for me to slide into ur dms i promise i’m nice.
STATS - MEMORIES - PLOTS - PINTEREST - PLAYLIST
𝒊. 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 —
nic arrived to ansong around a month ago as the seasons started to change, mostly confused, a little concerned.
he does not currently remember any of his memories but he refuses to take the ring he arrived with off. even when he's throwing clay, he wears the ring on a chain around his neck. he isn't sure why, but he just knows it's important to him.
when he spotted glaaze as he was exploring ansong, nic knew that was where he wanted to work, drawn to pottery in a way that he couldn't quite explain, but he finds himself to be a patient and excellent teacher (especially since he speaks both korean and english fluently)
he can normally be found at one of the sitting areas around the apartments with a cigarette, mirage, illusion, and very infrequently, divine.
𝒊𝒊. 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 —
nic is always conscious of other people, not in the way that he's concerned with what they think (most of the time) but more so in the way of if they're in need of assistance in one way or another. he's a "i can fix them" kind of guy and it's almost never romantic in intent. he collects people like stray animals and nurses them back to health. if at any point you look distressed where he can see, he will swoop in to try alleviate the situation. that being said, he does come off extremely flirty in some situations, and while he might have once meant it, these days he's flirting just to flirt. TW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE, DRUGS in life, nic abused substances in lieu of therapy (which he definitely needed, but that's neither here nor there) and in ansong he finds himself falling into the same habits. it's not uncommon for him to toke up in his apartment, or to be found outside with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. he's a frequent flyer to bars and nightclubs and always with a drink in hand. nic is incredibly emotionally intelligent (we get it, fix-it-felix) and while he's the first one to rush to someone's aid, he has no qualms fucking right off if someone sets a boundary with him. he's very respectful of people and their wishes and he doesn't want to intentionally upset anyone if he can help it. this means he tends to ignore his own problems, but that's his own business okay!!! tl;dr: nic loves u and he's a loser about it. but if you need a good smoke sesh or cigarette to calm down and to talk it out, he's your guy. just don't ask to fix his problems in return, he won't let you.
𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒔 —
to preface everything below, i'm v v big on chemistry first. i love plotting, but it doesn't necessarily work if our characters don't have chemistry to begin with. i tend to lead with quick and fast plotting to see what we can get our characters to do and then we can go into more detailed plotting after, but i'm always willing to discuss things regardless!! TW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE, DRUGS
people interested in pottery (coworkers or people looking to learn!)
anyone entrenched in ansong nightlife (party people aye)
smoking buddies!! (nicotine AND thc)
people in need of a solid father figure to give them unconditional love (pls let nic adopt everyone thank u, he would be so happy)
honestly, literally anything else just shoot me a message and we can chat!!
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Drafted all the stuff I need done, and could do with something cheerful, so... This isn't really a whole scene, its just some silly hours that were in my head. With the whole taking old games back to the ship to give people something to do, and sure Etoiles is the most competitive, but nobody said anything about everyone else...
XCOM au, but really it's just Pac, Mike, Felps, Cellbit, and Bagi playing Mario Kart (wii version as its the one I know best)
Bagi wakes up to shrieking laughter, and is never more thankful for the sound-cancelling earplugs issued as standard to the entire team. She rolls over - the clock on the wall says she has an hour and a half before her shift, and sat on the floor of the common room are four very familiar faces. Felps is on the couch, almost serene as he sits crossed legged above the chaos below - Mike, leaning over Pac to try and grab Cellbit's controller with a scream of "Bitch!" as Cellbit laughs. Pac is leant back, trying to keep his controller from the chaos. Only his and Felps' characters managing to keep their vehicles on track.
She yawns, and sits up - oh, Christ, Mario Kart.
Somehow the people on the other seven bunks are sleeping through this but, again, sound cancelling earplugs as standard.
"Morning," she yawns in their direction, already thinking about a coffee from the kitchens down below.
Hmmm coffee.
"Morning!" Cellbit leans around of the sofa, mischief in his grin. "Do you want to tab in?"
"Not if you're tagging out," Bagi looks back at the clock, and counts. "Let me grab a shower and you're dead meat."
Cellbit and Mike's squabbling continues.
When she gets back ten minutes later, Felps is now in on the argument, and it seems an intense debate over whether Super Mario Galaxy is a happy game or not.
"Bagi!" Pac and Mike are even more in synch than usual today, matching expressions and tones as they speak. Mike turns back to the argument, seemingly having a blast, while Pac waves his controller and carries on, "help? Or steal a controller and play with me while they fight."
Bagi steals Felps', left unattended to one side. She and Pac are two laps into an especially viscous run of Mushroom Gorge. She's Roselina in a tank of a car, and Pac's playing Peach on a motorbike, and she can only laugh when Cellbit's offended "you started without us!" comes out a bit like a dejected cat.
They are both cat hybrids, but that's really besides the point.
(She hasn't seen his claws since they were children - did he learn better control or something? Doesn't seem like Cellbit, but what does she know of him now?)
"At the end of this race," Pac promises.
"Do you need me to sit out?" Felps offers. "Bagi has my controller anyway, I'm happy to watch."
"You can have mine," Mike offers, a slight wicked grin in his eyes. "Pac and I are only on call for another ten minutes, so I might just go lie down."
"Don't you fucking dare-" starts Cellbit, except that Felps takes the controller and laughs Mike away.
Mike goes and takes the bunk Bagi had been sleeping on, grabbing a clean pillow and then immediately face-planting into the sheets. It's unusually fast - a few seconds later Pac, just over the finish line, turns to her. His eyes aren't right - not brown, and neither green nor blue, but a pale shade somewhere between the two.
He raises a finger to his lips with a wicked, Mike-shaped grin, before turning back to watch Bagi finish the race.
There's not really time for her to think much about that as a fight starts over which track to play. She refuses any part in it, and then goes and selects random anyway.
Rainbow Road.
"Baaaaaaaagi," Cellbit whines for all of a second before curling over his controller, eyes fixed in concentration.
Pac, similarly, knuckles down and prepares for the race.
Felps flexes his wrists - he'd been advocating for it anyway.
Bagi cracks her neck, and sets to work.
It starts with extreme focus, quickly breaking when she sends a red shell straight into Felps, and earns a soft kick between the shoulderblades as it knocks him off the course. That one kick sets everything off - Cellbit elbows Pac to try distract him, only to be the one distracted in turn. Bagi swoops in, using her car's superior weight to drive Pac's bike from the course.
There's laughter winning out as three of the four of their cars are fished out of the depths of space.
It's also time for Cellbit to notice Pac's eyes and yell a quick, "that's cheating!"
"How's it cheating?" Pac asks. "It's the best way for all five of us to play."
The smirk on his face says he absolutely knows it's cheating. Bagi, with only half an idea what's going on, joins him anyway.
"Don't you love Pac?" she asks on his behalf. "And Mike? Why would you not want them to play?"
Bagi, distracted defending him - them? She isn't sure what pronouns to use when Pac and Mike are possessing each other, let alone like this where they seem even more unified than usual - drives herself off the course.
"Oh, fucking shit-bitches," she swears as she's fished back up, the others now taking the lead.
Above her, Felps cackles, while beside her both Pac and Cellbit giggle in their own ways.
Bagi isn't even sure who wins the race, in the end - it quickly devolves into pushing each other off the track, so probably an AI, and she thinks only Pac (and Mike) ever finished.
It doesn't matter though - no sooner is Rainbow Road over than she downs her coffee, slams random track again, and this time she's determined to /win/.
#qsmp fanfic#qsmp x xcom#qsmp bagi#qsmp cellbit#qsmp pac#qsmp mike#qsmp felps#qsmp tazercrafft#pac plays peach as she has the best drift rating and have you seen the pictures from vegas#the others idk just vibes#qsmp au#i'll see if i'm in the mood to upload it later#favela as family#i don't want to abandon this au so i'm not going to#but chewing over how to handle it at present
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Let’s talk about Erik Martin’s approach to season 2 and why I think it was lacking.
Based on Martin’s likes on Twitter it seems he loves Sylvie, and I truly think he does. I still think he might be the reason for her getting pushed to the background and her lackluster arc in season 2.
Martin has been quite active on Twitter, and interacted often with fans, at the beginning even those who are critical. (Kudos to him for being unafraid of conflict without getting insulting, as taika did.)
And when you take a closer look at all the points criticized on Twitter (Loki being not the focus of the show, lack of magic, lack of new outfits, the romance being icky, etc..) it looks like Martin did something with every single one of those criticisms.
Just, not in a way that would make the show better. More in a way of “look, I fixed it. Are you happy now?” while being mostly focused on getting the work over with.
Hence, I think he’s a people pleaser (in contrast to someone who actually has a creative vision and deeper understanding of the main characters).
Yeah. Also, all the fixes are just like painting over a really ugly piece of furniture. Sure, it might be slightly less offensive, but that doesn’t make it beautiful or meaningful. It’s just enough to make it possible to counter all major criticisms with “but they changed that!!” But in the end the initial basis for the problem is still there. Just … less visible.
Loki got a new outfit, but a) it’s ugly as fuck, and b) it lacks meaning.
Loki is now the center of the show and a driving force but he’s still out of character, since they didn’t address the delusion he ever wanted to rule or willingly helped Thanos.
Loki is using his magic more, but what he can and can’t do still changes from scene to scene and his magic use stays quite pointless for the overall development. Captain America could have found the same solution for the problem, meaning it’s not a story tailored for Loki.
Yeah, they didn’t non-con strip Loki for lulz a second time, but the “he’s Loki, so he’ll fuck up sooner or later” mindset is still there beneath the paint of new outfits and new magic.
And yeah, last but not least - Martin got rid of the romance, assassinating the obviously planned arc for the series that would have Loki accept his own “shortcomings” (which were based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the character, but -alas- the basis for the planned arc of the series) by guiding and helping Sylvie to overcome her version of the same shortcomings. I guess they wanted to parallel her conviction that she knew better in the S1 finale with his conviction to rule, and let both of them learn that being wrong is ok, and friendship/love is more important. So, by cutting her short in s2, they had to find a new end to Loki’s arc in s1, and we all saw how that turned out.
Imo, Martin still doesn’t understand Loki, and what makes him compelling as a character. In the end, the part of Loki’s character that most fans I interacted with love is the same in the OG and the Sylki-fandom. The difference is that for the OG fandom Loki was characterized like that before the show, already. And for the Sylki-fandom he was characterized like that AFTER the series. As if the show had just done a more widely accepted repetition of Loki’s former arc.
Now the og Loki fans are still pissed (but probably will never engage with the mcu again anyhow) AND the TVA Loki fans are now pissed too because this shiny new character (which was mainly defined by the romance) was now put through the meat grinder, too.
Sometimes *really bad* stuff is still better than mediocre stuff. At least it’s SO bad that it gets its own dimension by its badness. But this mediocre stuff is neither real nor fake. Just… lukewarm.
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So I've talked a bit recently about wanting to figure out how to make money off my writing. Part of the reason I've been thinking about that more is because I have this new* baby: a science fiction/speculative fiction novel I'm tentatively calling Whispers from Penitents. The screencap above is a (draft of a) passage from one of the first chapters. I'm not very far in, it's not polished (in fact you can see the cursor where I was just making edits like 15 minutes ago lol, and I can already see multiple other problems in this image that need fixing), but I have been working and planning and planning and working and daydreaming my little Ass off, and I'm getting the Good Feeling from this story. The same feeling I had while writing the early parts of Brighter Fires - of like, oh, I'm starting to do something that's going to define me and change me. Something that's going to be really hard and really, really worth it. I fucking missed that feeling.
Point being, I'd like to figure out how to do something with this. I enjoyed self-publishing serially. My initial thought was Patreon but, um, their fees seem very predatory honestly. I made a Ko-fi account years ago but never really touched it, but maybe that? I've heard Buy Me A Coffee is supposed to be good? If anyone has other suggestions PLEASE do let me know.
Anyway, I freaking love Sam and Mariket. They are two soldiers, rivals-to-platonic-soulmates, who end up assigned to protect a young doctor while he investigates a mysterious disease. But they're only part of the story - the other half involves Sam's estranged sister Rachel, an amnesiac living with a secret order of nuns and trying to learn who she used to be. Neither Sam nor Rachel get very far in answering their own questions... but their investigations happen to converge, and soon they find themselves unraveling the secrets that have been essential to the functioning of their society for generations.
*new is not totally accurate; these characters are based on Warriors OCs I had in middle school and their dynamics are mostly unchanged, but the plot has been radically altered by many many iterations
Image transcription below the cut
Nose wrinkling, Mariket said, “You’ve got to pay attention when I’m giving you an order.” He cast his eyes down, and started to busy himself with putting their supplies into bags and baskets. “Like, that’s the only thing you’re here to do. Because when you don’t-”
“I know,” Sam cut her off. “I screwed up. Let’s pack up the boat.”
She had the decency to look embarrassed. The sunlight grew pale and indirect and bluish as they worked, until a sole patch of the cloud cover above was lit with a ray peeking from between two western mountains. The temperature was dropping rapidly as Sam straddled the carryall bag, roughly the size of a 10-year-old, and zipped it closed. Beside him, Mariket dressed in her overcoat, pulling mittens and a scarf from one of the pockets.
He stood and got off the bag, allowing Mariket to hoist it up onto her back. With twenty seconds until the freeze, he cut the motor and chucked the hemp rope into his pockets - he’d have time to fix it later - then took a careful, bracing position behind the engine case. Mariket copied him at the stern. Taking advantage of the last moments of light, Sam peered over his shoulder at the dark smudge of pines and rocks that was the shore. It was only a few hundred feet. Panic seeped in slightly at the edges of his thinking. This wasn’t ideal, he reminded himself, but it was doable.
Then the light turned off.
Instantly, the boat shuddered, and scraped horribly against something with an earsplitting groan. Another spray over the side of the boat hit him, but this time it was pinprick shards of ice that melted even as they pierced him. He heard but could not see Mariket scream. Blinded by the sudden darkness, all Sam could do was clutch the canoe and press his knees to his chest.
The lake had begun to crackle and rumble at its edges, and the sound was getting closer. More sprays of ice assaulted them, now mixed with slush, and the canoe rocked all the more violently. Mariket lowed and heaved. His eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and he could see her chestnut hair whipping at her face, and the dark patches where it had met blood. Sam might have said something comforting, but fear always kept his teeth locked rigidly together.
He forced himself to look out over the bay. The freeze had begun, as it always did, at the coasts, and moved in to the center of the water. This created a pool atop the ice that repeatedly cracked and shattered the ice sheet, then refroze instantly in the insane temperatures. He’d watched the spectacle many a time from the windows in the barracks. And seen God knew how many fish and seabirds fail to get away from the surface on time. The lucky ones were frozen in their entirety - others were stuck partly encased, often upside down or a hundred feet in the air, and usually picked off by predators before sunrise.
The canoe had become partly embedded in a chunk of ice. It seemed solid, but it was fused more loosely to other parts of the sheet, and he could see another crack rapidly expanding as it approached them.
#wip intro#because i guess that's what this is?? even though i did not put in any fun graphics or polish or anything#i am simply not a polished person honestly. i would say sorry but im not#scout.txt#whispers from penitents
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FMK:Zoya,Alina and Inej
Now, this is getting complicated.
Books:
Marry Inej for reasons stated here.
TGT version:
Fuck Zoya, because I respected her as arrogant mean bitch AND I'm a huge fan of the Snow Maiden look she used to have.
Kill Alina, which I count as mercy killing, considering how she's constantly being brought down, and eventually mutilated.
KoS version:
Kill Zoya, because she seems to be unable to learn and objectively she should doom at least all of Ravka, for which I might not care a drop, but I'm prone to honour and respect Aleksander's work and sacrifices.
This would leave Alina to fuck, but that feels too much like necrophilia or molesting feeble-minded, so I'm afraid I'd have to fuck Inej, and marry Alina. I dare say I'd be better choice than Malyen (and keeping her away from him is certainly a plus). I might look after her for Sasha, and once he'll crawl out of that tree we can search for the rest of her. Maybe we can work on her other issues in the meantime. I'm not a therapist, but I'm good in giving great advices (and not following them)!
Show:
Until cca. 01×05:
Marry Alina. *delusional voice* BECAUSE I COULD TOTALLY FIX HER!!!
And Jessie's incredibly cute.
Fuck Zoya, because she doesn't seem to have problem with one night stands as long as they don't repeat.
Kill Inej (again- reasons in the link above).
After 01×05, ESPECIALLY S02:
Okay, here we go...
Kill Alina, because the amount of times I wanted to do that during this period... watching the entitled, cruel psychopath they wrote her as... there hasn't been a day since when I wouldn't feel sorry for Jessie for getting ~that~ to work with.
Fuck Inej, I guess... It's neither a person, nor activity I'd choose out of my own free will, but Amita is pretty, so that's a plus...
I cannot believe I'm gona write this, but I'd marry Zoya! She DID have her five seconds of lucidity in second season, so I guess I'd be left to hope there will come another, one day...
#reply#Grishaverse#Shadow and Bone#What if/AU/...#já a švábi#Zoya Nazyalensky#Alina Starkov#Inej Ghafa#MU plays FMK#The Darkling#somehow found his way into this.#anti S&B writers
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friends I can't stop thinking about this post
I tried to do it myself but Gale cockblocked it with his brooding 😒
so according to the post this is before getting Lae'zel who offers a cure, and I also assume before the grove and meeting dammon.
so best girl Karlach assumes that her heart is going to be fixed, and tadpole is not that big a deal she will find a healer and fix it in no time right?
well
so her first thought is how to fuck everyone and their mothers, who will consent of course.
"Then I'm horizontalling my way around Baldur's Gate, from halfling poet to goliath berserker, until the gods themselves step in."
this shows that she's been thirsty for so long, she wants and needs to have sex, 10 years of pend up sexual frustration.
she wants ALL, all shapes and sizes, all genders, she doesnt discriminate, she would fuck a goblin, she would fuck the ogre lady from the blighted village, she only mocked them because she knows she can do better LOL
she would fuck the hag if she didn't fear the consequences.
and then she proceeds to write(or think) self insert fic
sweet silver-tongued halfling perched on my lap - I'll have one hand up her skirt, she'll have one down my top, when there's a knock at the door.
he doesn't wait for my reply - it's…Logus…and all ten feet of him are back from the hunt. He steadies a brace of rabbits against the wall and sees us tangled up when - wait! No! Brain! This isn't the time…is it?
and this is proof that she so into poly, or 3-4-5somes, because this implies that the berserker joined them. this also implies the domestic life she wants, because this is not a random setting this is her house, and she has both a wife and a husband.
but then Karlach learned that her heart can not be fixed, and her dream to fuck all baldurians who will have her, is not something she can do anymore. so she grasps to the only tangible thing she can dream of, a romance with tav. and she wants to protect it, she wants it for herself alone, and noone else, because she knows her time is short and tav can have all the romance they want after she's gone, so when tav asks if Halsin can join (the only poly option the game allows) she says no, she firmly objects of even the thought of it.
in different circumstance tav would have been the halfling hottie, and halsin the berserker in her life's fanfic.
but now she's dying, so she doesnt want to share, neither her body, nor tav.
her dream of horizontalling has been far gone. death put her sex/romantic life in perspective very fast.
she grasps at the prospect of romancing tav with both arms and legs, and she's not willing to let go, because that's her only chance to live it.
I assume by her first lines, that her life before the hells was pretty much about having good sex with everyone who would want her, and no thought about the future.
so I think Karlach never got herself into a relationship before, because she just liked having fun, after a busy day, protecting Gortash's ass from some random thugs, her and Fytz would go back to their shared room and fuck until next morning, no strings attacked, just two besties having a good time.
same deal with everyone else close to her, and then partying picking up lovers 4 per night, big and small, she was enjoying equally railing others and getting railed herself to oblivion.
that was the life. but then hell happened.
when she gets to share a secret she never told anyone before, she tells tav that when down in Avernus and two years into being celibate she masturbated so hard she burned her tent.
(and that's why I think Karlach and Lae'zel would fuck instantly the moment Karlach would stop burning)
I also now want art of Karlach and Fytz fucking because im 99.999999% sure that has happened and it's canon LOL
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Longest Tag: 140 characters
#i do remember the safety rate for condoms being used incorrectly a little higher from when i worked at the abortion and contraception museum
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
Well... mark me down as scared and horny!
76 notes - Posted September 30, 2022
#4
See the full post
85 notes - Posted March 27, 2022
#3
I can literally see this Catholic German journalist (well-meaning and open-minded from what I could gather, but you know) googleing "schöner Priester" to make his point about priests being the backbones of the church in this meme. No one tell him that this is a gay Irish actor who has a rather complicated relationship with the faith and the character is about to break his vows!
89 notes - Posted June 26, 2022
#2
I have seen that tiktok on a bunch of different sources now and while I agree with the main point (some “in my Fleabag era” posts really brush over or even glorify mental illness and unhealthy behaviour) and hence won’t link the video here, I am still sure that neither the ill-advised “in my Fleabag era” posters nor the girl in the video have actually watched the show, beyond some clips or gifsets.
Fleabag does not glorify its protagonist nor her bad decisions.
Yes, the media LAUNCHED itself at the promiscuity and the raunchiness and yes, it literally starts with an elaborate and dirty anal joke. But like I’ve never said in the essay I will definitely post one day on how comparing Fleabag to that other brilliant show by the other highly lauded female British show runner makes no sense since they’re fundamentally different in many important aspects and yet people still kept doing it in the tag all the time which led me to block a ton of mofos: The beauty of the first season of Fleabag is that it pretends to be one of those cheeky, funny, troubled-but-nice girl shows for like two minutes, then the cracks start coming in.
Her whole speech on sex while she’s on the toilet? Yes, it’s delivered with a smile and a wink, nudge-nudge haha, look at the funny woman talking about sex so frankly, but actually listen to what she says and tell me that this is meant to be healthy in any way. By the time the big reveal hits at the end of the first episode, it should be clear that this isn’t really a comedy. I’ve been a bit slow on it too, other people figured out what the scenes with Boo were quicker, but at that point the latest it breaks with the typical format.
I’ve been saying this a lot, but Fleabag Season 1 isn’t a comedy, it’s a very funny tragedy. She does a ton of fucked-up things and they eventually catch up to her and ruin her. This may be relatable af, but it’s not something to model your life after nor does the show say it is. Fleabag is deeply flawed and the show never pretends otherwise. Season 2 is about partially fixing these flaws, about building yourself up again and learning to deal with things you cannot change anymore and how life and love goes on.
Quite a few people who joke about being “in their Fleabag era” understood that and their posts are meant to be read this way. Others didn’t and I think it’s fair to point that out, but it’s not the show’s fault. Fleabag’s failures aren’t shown as something you’d want to experience, nor as something light and cool.
100 notes - Posted January 29, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
Andrew at the Harry Styles concert in Wembley June 19th 2022 (via @PUREDEVOTION)
I'm not envious, no I'm not, lalalalalala.
179 notes - Posted June 19, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
#tumblr2022#year in review#there's clearly a theme teehee#andrew scott#I'm still pissed I didin't flip the pic right
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