#anyway this prompt appeals more to me as well

[punkranger]

Thinking of doing huevember, maybe not for every day but i will still need some extra characters to draw so if you want me to draw an oc of yours feel free to comment on this post with their name and tag if they’ve got one + one or more of these colours if there's any they vibe with in particular!

To participate you must follow me, also I will pick characters I'm familiar with first so if you're new or your oc is from something I'm not familiar with I might not get to it. But if I have time over i might, so feel free to join in regardless!

[hourcat]

👇

[inosukijiro]

𝗚𝗜𝗬𝗨𝗨 𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗧

𝙨𝙮𝙣. ━ giyuu decides its time to tell you how he feels.

━ 𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. this is part two. or not, it really doesn’t matter if you read the first part. loved this idea bc i love crochet. currently making a giyuu amigurumi doll atm, so yay me ig

━ 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. im so sorry for being gone for almost two months. i was burnt out. but i have lots of prompts / plot ideas written down and just have to finish them. also also!! season 4 was crazy, i loved every minute of it but that ending – im so not ready for the final arc. anyways, thank you for the support as usual, luv u besties

━ 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨. fluff. use of swear words (not a lot, but they are there). giyuu-centric. modern reader in kny. mentions of crochet and amigurumi. gender-neutral reader. also very poor dialogue probably, i avoid talking irl so yk. 1.9k words.

first part (optional); giyuu has a crush

Giyuu is about to have a stroke. He’s alone in his room late at night. He should be sleeping, but he can't imagine doing so. The moon light is coming through his window and all he can do is stare at the crochet hook in his hand as his fingers remain still. He is hunched, hovering over a ball of yarn in his lap. He can't shake the feeling of inadequacy that heavily weighed on him because he really has no idea what he’s doing.

You had this habit of making him gifts. Cute little amigurumi things and it had become a habit of his waiting when you’ll show up with one just for him. They’re almost always an animal or some sea creature, maybe even a small plant that he has sitting on display in his room somewhere. They are always so adorable and tiny, always fitting in the palm of his hand. It's almost like clockwork at this point, and Giyuu is always so flattered to receive them.

He remembers the little tiny baby sea turtle you have made for him. Its flippers rested against the palms of his cupped hands; its eyes and lids sewed on so perfectly along with the rest of it. It’s so intricate, he almost thought it was real. He remembers bringing it up to his face, staring at it in its tiny face, because for some reason this time he really didn’t know how to act.

He remembers you giggling, quickly explaining that you really didn’t know what to make him this time – lies, you have so many patterns. You just care too much about his opinion and his likes. Honestly, you could make him anything you wanted and he would be happy.

❛ And then I thought, ‘well you are the Water Pillar after all’. And I thought the sea turtle was kinda cute too, so I wanted to make it for you. Now you have a little friend to keep you company on your mission! ❜

Now here he was, with little idea of what he was doing. A frustrated sigh left his lips. He began working the yarn along with the hook – all his movement completely hesitant and fumbling. It would be a lie to say that he had never been skillful with his hands; he is a swordsman after all. However, it was clear that he wasn’t as skillful as you regarding this, and it makes sense. He had never picked up any knitting or crochet hooks until tonight at this ungodly hour.

Sure, he could have just crafted a wooden figurine. It is something he vaguely knows how to do, and seems like a more appealing thought now, plus, he knows that you would love it either way. But all he wanted to do was something special. He wanted to convey his feelings to you through what you love doing the most and give you something that he knows you would like. And for about a moment he wonders if this is a good idea. Then decides that he doesn’t care anymore. This is going to make or break him. He procrastinated this long enough.

Though hours passed and Giyuu is shocked to consider it done. He hoped it was. He glances over at his window and the sun is barely over the horizon. And as much as Giyuu loves you, he can't do this again. No, that is also a lie. He would if you asked. But he couldn’t help but feel disgruntled. He didn’t even know what he made. It is some type of plushie. It has a big body with some stubby legs. Its arms are almost the length of it too, if not longer, making them seem like large floppy paws. Its head; he is unsure if it's too big as it’s the same size as the body, but it’s a bit too late now to do anything about it. He made small ears on the top, and added some type of embroidery to make the eyes – as no buttons seemed to look right to him. There was no nose or mouth either, because Giyuu couldn’t figure out how to add them without making it look worse than it already does.

He frowned at the finished product, before hanging his head. It was done, yes. But to him, he knows that he could have done a much better job. And the pang of disappointment didn’t help. Because surely you deserve something better than this crude attempt at a gift.

However, for some reason Giyuu was oddly excited. Maybe it was the ice cold water he almost drowned himself awake to. But he really didn’t pay it any mind. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore. Maybe he just wanted to get it over with. He was afraid, so very afraid because this was the first time he was outwardly seeking your validation. But he was also anticipating the interaction. Because you were so nice. And he shouldn’t be afraid.

So here he was now, standing in front of you. And suddenly, he can't remember why he was so afraid in the first place. You looked so delightfully happy just like he had hoped. He watched as you took the plush from his hand, your fingers just barely brushing against his. And he felt his palms get clammy again. You were so delicate with it, and honestly, if you had asked Giyuu, perhaps you were a bit too delicate. He didn’t think that it deserved such care. He watched as you brushed your thumb over the soft yarn. Your eyes staring intently at it, and Giyuu couldn’t place the look you were giving.

“Giyuu, it’s adorable!” Your eyes sparked just a little bit when you looked back up at him. The plush is pressed against your chest right now. So softly, almost protectively and Giyuu actually can't believe it. Truly, he is in disbelief. You actually liked it? You really must’ve, because you’re going on about the plush; gushing over it and completely unfazed by any of its imperfections. You asked how he made it and when he had the time. It was nice, until you asked him why. And he got all nervous again.

Well… He responds. “You make me such nice things all the time. And I wanted to make you something as well. To show my appreciation.”

Oh! You are a little taken aback by that as a light blush starts to burn on your cheeks. You were definitely feeling the appreciation. You just never really anticipated Giyuu to make you something. Not because you thought he was incapable, or anything like that. You just… liked making things, and if that happened to be for Giyuu more than others you weren’t going to deny it. It made you happy to do so. And you never really expected anything in return. But for him to make you something, the gesture kind of made you feel special. It was so sweet!

“Of course, I’m glad you like it. You… mean a lot to me you know. Um…” He stops because he's a bit flush. He wants to confess so badly and he doesn’t understand; why is it so hard. Just say it. It's like you are waiting for him to – and you are – but you are so completely and utterly patient with him that sometimes he wished you weren’t. “Ngh, don’t look at me like that.”

You giggle softly. You can’t help it. Why is he so cute? “I’m sorry,” You say sincerely, still hugging the plush to your chest. “Please continue.”

His heart is beating out of his rib cage. He feels like he is going to die. He has never expressed his feelings so openly before and as much as he wants to say that he is uncomfortable, he's only half way there and he only needs to get the words out. He's been afraid of rejection for so long that, even deep down knowing the possibility of you loving him exists, he can’t help but worry about it. The words are on his tongue and at some point, he has to come out and say it.

“I… I love you.” Finally. “I’ve loved you for a while now. I just didn’t know how to tell you. You don’t have to say or do anything, I just… I just wanted you to know.”

“You love me?” You had a big, stupid smile on your face, which made the question you had asked seem hopeful to him. If you had been home, you might have thought he was pulling a joke on you, not that he would know to assume that. And you, yourself are having a good time telling the small voice in the back of your head to fuck off because – yes, Giyuu Tomioka just confessed his love for you and you were not going to let the universe take it back.

He nodded, silent. The smallest, timid, smile pulled at his lips as he waited for you to continue. “Giyuu, I love you too. Actually, I..” you stopped before you started tripping over your words and let out a deep breath. Your grasp on the plush tightened, clutching it closer to your body in an attempt to ground yourself. “I… may have been in love with you for a while, too.”

He stares at you for a moment, another dumb look on his face. It's like the gears are turning in his mind. That yes, just like you had, are realizing this is all actually happening. And if he promptly pulls you into the softest, brain melting kiss you've ever had – that's between the two of you.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᘡ ۫ 𖨂 𓈒 🦑 ۟ ៹ 𓂂

Of course, now it’s later and Giyuu is watching you show off the plush to the rest of the Hashira. You had grabbed his hand in a rush, so excited and happy. He let you tug him along, squeezing his hand so tight; never minding the clamminess. He watched as you shoved the crochet piece in Rengokus face, telling him with pride that Giyuu was the one that made it for you. ‘I see that,’ he says and lets out one of those joyous laughs, almost amused.

You tug him along, going from Hashira to Hashira. Giyuu vividly remembers you shouting at Shinazugawa from across the training grounds about ‘Look at what Giyuu made me! Suck it you fuck face’ before running off and taking him with you again. He remembers in the background the Wind Pillar shouting, something about how it was ‘Ugly as fuck’ and a few other things but Giyuu ignored it.

Others recognized the effort Giyuu put into it, much like Rengoku. He gets a ‘That's kinda flashy’ from Tengen, and surprisingly Shinobu didn’t really poke at him too much, but maybe that was because you were there. Mitsuri squeals about it. She thinks it’s the cutest thing she's ever seen, and Giyuu makes sure not to look at Obanai at all. Otherwise, the man might force Giyuu to teach him. Or force himself in between you and him to teach him, and Giyuu doesn’t know if he can handle that.

The afternoon passed by after that and you both ended up back at his estate, just like always. This time, you were much closer to him than usual, not that Giyuu minded. He watched from over your shoulder as you continued your own little crochet project. He had half a mind to join you, but instead opted to enjoy just being with you; resting his head near yours and wrapping his arms around your waist. Though, somewhere close by the little turtle and the plush were laying together where you had placed them. It was almost like they were watching you, like they were proud of him.

Thank you once again for reading!! ໒꒰ྀི ˃ ∩∩ ˂ ꒱ྀིა

[petermorwood]

Food on St Patrick's Day (in the USA)...

...is usually Corned Beef & Cabbage, which is the Irish-American version of the original Irish boiled bacon & cabbage, but while the celebratory Irishness is still going strong, try something a bit more authentic.

A nice warm coddle. Not cuddle, coddle, though just as comforting in its own way. (Some sources suggest it's a hangover cure, not that such a thing would ever be necessary at this time of year, oh dear me no.)

Coddle is a stew using potatoes, onions, bacon, sausages, stout-if-desired / stock-if-not, pepper, sage, thyme and Time.

You'll often see it called "Dublin Coddle", but my Mum made Lisburn Coddle lots of times, I've made West Wicklow Coddle more than once, and on one occasion in a Belgian holiday apartment I made Brugsekoddel, which is an OK spelling for something that doesn't exist in any cookbook.

*****

I do remember one amendment I made to Mum's recipe, which met with slight resistance at the time and great appreciation thereafter.

Her coddle was originally cooked on the stove-top, not in the oven, and nothing was pre-cooked. Potatoes were quartered, onions were sliced, bacon was cut into chunks and then everything went into the big iron casserole, then onto the slow back ring, and there it simmered Until Done.

However, the bacon was thick-cut back rashers, and the sausages were pork chipolatas.

Raw, they looked like this:

...and the bacon looked like this:

Cooked in the way Mum initially did, they looked pretty much the same afterwards. The sausages didn't change colour. Nor did the bacon.

While everything tasted fine, the meat parts always looked - to me, anyway - somewhat ... less than appealing. "Surgical appliance pink" is the kindest way to put it, and that's all I'm saying. This is apparently "white coddle" and Dubs can get quite defensive about This Is The Way It SHOULD Look.

I'm not a Dub, so I persuaded Mum to fry both the bacon and sausages first, just enough to get a bit of brown on, and wow! Improvement! I remember my Dad nodding in approval but - because he was Wise - not saying anything aloud until Mum gave it the green light as well.

Doing the coddle in the oven, first with lid on then with lid off, came later and met with equal approval. So did using only half of the onion raw and frying the other half lightly golden in the bacon fat.

Nobody quoted from a movie that wouldn't be made for another decade, but there was a definite feeling of...

*****

There are coddle recipes all over the Net: I've made sure that these are from Ireland to avoid the corned-beef-not-boiled-bacon "adjustment" versions which are definitely out there. I've already seen one with Bratwurst. Just wait, it'll be chorizo next.

Oh, hell's teeth, I was right. And from RTE...

Returning to relative normality, here's Donal Skehan's white coddle and his browned coddle with barley (I'm going to try that one).

Here's Dairina Allen's Frenchified with US measurements version. (I feel considerably less heretical now.)

And finally (OK, not Irish, but it references a couple of the previous ones and is a VERY comprehensive write-up, so gets a pass) Felicity Cloake's Perfect Dublin Coddle (perfect according to who, exactly...?) in The Guardian.

*****

Returning to the beginning, and how boiled bacon became corned beef (a question which prompted @dduane to start an entire website...!)

The traditional Irish meat animal for those who could afford it was the pig, but when Irish immigrants (even before the Great Famine) arrived in the USA, they often lived in the same urban districts as Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe.

For fairly obvious reasons pork, bacon and other piggy products were unavailable in those districts, but salt beef was right there and far cheaper than any meat Irish immigrants had ever seen before.

Insist on tradition or eat what was easy to find? There'd have been contest - and do I sometimes wonder a bit if sauerkraut ever came close to replacing cabbage for the same reason.

The pre-Famine Irish palate liked sour tastes: a German (?) visitor to Ireland in the mid-1600s wrote about about what were called "the best-favoured peasantry in Europe", and mentioned that they had "seventy-several sour milks and creams*, and the sourer they be, the better they like them."

* Yogurt? Kefir? Skyr? Gosh...

Corned beef and Kraut as the immigrants' celebratory "Irish" meal for St Patrick's Day? Maybe, maybe not.

Time for "Immigrant Song" (with kittens).

*****

Corned beef got its name from the size of the salt grains with which the beef was prepared. They were usually bigger than kosher salt, like pinhead oats or even as large as grains of wheat, and their name derived originally from "corned (gun)powder", the large coarse grains used in cannon.

BTW, "corn" has been a generic English term for "grain" for centuries, and "but Europe didn't have corn" is an American mistake assuming the word refers to sweetcorn / maize, which it doesn't.

Lindsey Davis, author of the "Falco" series, had a couple of rants about it and other US-requested "corrections". As she points out, mistakes need corrected but "corn" is not a mistake, just a difference in vocabulary.

*****

In Ancient and Medieval Ireland pig would have included wild boar, the hunting of which was a suitable pastime for warriors and heroes, because Mr Boar took a very dim view of the whole proceeding and wasn't shy about showing it (see "wild boar" in my tags and learn more).

Cattle were for milk, butter, cream and little cattle; also wealth, status, and heroic displays in their theft, defence or recovery. It's no accident that THE great Irish epic is "The Cattle-Raid of Cooley" / Táin Bó Cúailnge (tawn / toyn boh cool-nyah).

Killing a cow for meat was ostentation on a level of lighting cigars with 100-, or even 500-, currency-unit notes. Once it had been cooked and eaten there'd be no more milk, butter, cream or little cattle from that source, so eating beef was showing off And Then Some.

Also, loaning a prize bull to run with someone else's heifers was a sign of great friendship or alliance, while refusing it might be an excuse for enmity or even war. IMO that's what Maeve of Connaught intended all along, picking undiplomatic envoys who would get drunk and shoot their mouths off so the loan was refused and she, insulted, would have an excuse to...

But I digress, as usual. Or again. Or still... :->

*****

For the most part, "pig" mean "domestic porker", and in later periods right up to the Famine, these animals were seldom eaten.

Instead, known as "the gentleman who pays the rent", the family pig ate kitchen scraps and rooted about for other foods, none of which the tenant had to grow or buy for them. These fattened pigs would go to market twice a year, and the money from their sale would literally pay that half-year's rent.

For wealthier (less poor?) farmers, pigs had another advantage. Calves arrived singly, lambs might be a pair, but piglets popped out by the dozen. A sow with (some of) her farrow was even commemorated on the old ha'penny coin...

What with bulls, chickens, hares, horses, hounds, pigs, salmon and stags, the pre-decimal Irish coinage is a good inspiration for some sort of fantasy currency.

But that's another post, for another day.

[silverstonesainz]

ohhh this prompt:

‘i told you not to fall in love with me’

would go so well with like a brothers best friend!carlos situationship

i told you, he told you 𐙚 or the one where things don't quite go according to plan (1k words)

d rambles. . . i hope this was okay, and i hope it was enough. thank u for requesting

Carlos’s fingers comb through your hair to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in to press a kiss against your forehead. “I have to go.” 

You knew why he was doing this. It’s meant to be precautionary, to keep the lines from blurring and muddling the mess of a situation you’re in any further. But what did it matter if you had blurred the lines yourself? What’s the harm then? 

“Why can’t you just spend the night?” You make your voice small, look up at him with wide eyes in hopes that maybe it’d be enough to make him feel guilty. 

Though it isn’t guilt that you see etched into his face. It’s much more stern, maybe even annoyed because he knows you know why. He sighs your name, resigned. Tired. “You know why.”

“There are worse things than spending that night,” You defend, tugging the blanket against your chest as you sit up, “We’ve done worse things.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Still worse.” 

Carlos rolls his eyes, no longer amused by your act. “I don’t wanna have this argument with you.” 

“It’s not an argument, it’s a discussion.” You reach for the shirt sprawled on the bed, slipping it over your bare body as you begin to clamber out of bed after him. 

Carlos collects his belongings, slips on his clothing one by one in haste, like he couldn’t get further from you quick enough. It’s an argument, he refutes as he slides his sweats over his hips, “when you and I disagree, it’s always an argument.” 

“I just don’t understand why you’re so repulsed by the idea of sleeping over.” 

“And I don’t understand why you’re so insistent I stay.”

Your reluctance to give him an answer sits in the heavy silence. Its a brief moment where neither of you move, neither of you gather the guts to answer the questions posed. Instead the mystery brews above you, makes the air thicker and harder to swallow. 

You knew why you were so insistent, but you beckoned to know why he was resistant. 

“We’ve been sleeping with each other for months now and I just can’t wrap my head around—” 

“— Why is it suddenly such a big deal?”

You pause, frozen in the spot you stand in. Your body is rigid, nerves and anxiety holding you tightly. You couldn’t tell him when this became such a big deal to you, even if you wanted to. All you know is one day you looked at him and everything was different. Suddenly every little thing had become a big deal. The playful touches, the knowing smiles across the rooms, the late nights of sneaking over, everything meant more. 

“It’s like you’re scared or something,” You shake your head, turning away from him and walking over to your vanity. You lean on the desk, trying to steady your breathing and calm your nerves, “Scared that it might make all this mean something.”

You stare at the wood of the desk, stained by every attempt to impress, every attempt to make yourself appealing and ideal. Every swipe of a brush, blot of a sponge, just so Carlos could see you as something more. You’re too afraid to meet Carlos’s gaze in the the reflection of your mirror. But you know he’s looking, you feel his bright brown eyes staring at you, studying you, trying to find a flicker of emotion that might be able to tell him what has suddenly gotten into you. Where words fail, your expression compensates. You face the fear anyway, locking eyes with Carlos and staring at him hopelessly. And then it clicks. Like a flick of a light switch, everything begins to come together and the boy is able to make sense of the situation before him. 

He shakes his head. He smiles, but it’s pained— unamused. Your name slips past his lips, every letter despondent in tone. “I told you—”

“—I know what you told me—” “—I told you not to fall in love with me.”

The words, the indignation and resignation bumping into each other— much like dousing a camp fire with more gasoline. Salt to a wound. Twisting the knife when it’s already embedded in your chest.

You push yourself off your vanity, crossing your arms over your chest, “You act like I wanted this to happen. Like I planned to.” 

You didn’t. Falling in love with Carlos was never part of the plan.

Committing his mannerisms and ticks, the crinkles by his eyes and the small dimples above his lip to memory was a complete accident. Finding comfort in the way he touches you, in the way his skin feels against yours, was never the intention. What was meant to be a hot and heavy temporary fix, became an addiction. You never meant to grow this attached to him, never meant for all this to be anything more than what you agreed upon four months ago. Carlos was never meant to be more than the person to entertain you in your boredom, to make nights a little less lonely.

There was no point in denying the obvious, in denying a truth you’ve known for much longer than you would ever admit out loud. Why hide it? Tears skew your vision, drips down your face and forces you to turn away. 

“I should go.” Carlos mumbles behind you. 

You nod, pretend like your ego isn’t wounded and your hear cracked beneath your ribs, “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence. You hear the hesitation in the breath he takes, the words that are stuck at the top of his throat and held back by the pride he wears so comfortably. It’s the longest second you’ve ever lived through, just waiting— anticipating something you know would never happen. Hoping in the impossible, you were too good at doing that.

Carlos walks out of your room, leaving you to wonder what he wanted to say if it weren’t for the sake of his ego. He shuts your door softly, and then he’s gone. 

‎‧₊˚✧ add to the mix ✧˚₊‧

[fishsinsareacknowledged]

hellooo!! i just firstly wanted to say i have binged every nikto post you've written and enjoyed them very much. you write that feral dog man very well.

i do have a self indulgent prompt idea that i'd love to see if it appeals to ya! what might a relationship with nikto look like if the reader was a chronically ill person? specifically if they often had dizzy of fainting spells/ joint pain?

Thanks for reading through all my bullshit bae, appreciated really. I'm very easy to amuse so i read every single one of my asks as long as it doesn't look like a bot especially the spam ones. I see you. I know. Ill write another someday.

Anyways Nikto with a chronically ill SO would be honestly better for him in the first stage of the relationship. Getting to know each other, and when he sees how weak you are he's going to relax. Mostly cause then he believes that you are of no threat to him, even moreso when he finds some hospital records of you when he was snooping.

Later stages of the relationship when he actually starts to care about you is when he starts getting worried and actually taking action. Oh you need to grab something from the top of the shelf. No. Just no. He's getting that for you, so sit the fuck down.

Oh you want to take a long shower but you're scared you're going to fall because you have random fainting spells? Yeah he's joining you and watching your every move. Grabbing you by the sides of your chest and pulling you against him, making you lean on him at the first signs of any weakness.

"Better?", he asks after you start to get back on your feet. Or at least trying to.

"Worse", and he's just going to rinse you with water, making sure youre atleast somewhat clean and carrying you back to bed.

"A bit", and he's going to very carefully. Very reluctantly, set you back down. Hands hovering over the sides of your chest as a precaution before letting go of you and finishing up the shower.

A simple "Mhm", and he's just going to hold you there for a few more. Slowly and lightly patting your back as his hand goes higher, gently running through your hair and massaging your scalp.

You know you've got to get out of the shower someday but ah. He'll wait for you, even if his fingers get pruney from the water.

A hand grabbing your elbow as you get out of the shower. A simple reflex by now, almost an instinct to hold you from anything anywhere. A simple measure to make sure you don't fall.

If you have joint pain hes probably going to make you exercise lightly. Mostly there just to accompany him but also look, theres a new machine, do you want to try lyubov'?

Supportive bf nikto who just holds up a thumbs up whenever you do something right is real TO ME OKAY.

Some light walks with him and he's going to hold your arm the whole way through, making sure you're not even an inch from him throughout. Though his now clingy habits backfire on him the first time he gets back on missions after meeting you, finding the loss of presence almost infuriating.

And the first thing he does when hes back is do it all over again. Just a failsafe he says. And is somehow even more clingy, holding you especially when you stand up after a long time of lying around with him.

××××××××××××××××××××××x x××××××××××××××××××××××

Masterlist

[butchcarmy]

hi tuna! i was wondering if you could write something where carmy and reader are at a house party and either one of them is sitting on the roof smoking a joint and the other finds them up and there joins them? thank u in advance <3

YES. I really loved this prompt... so here ya go!

word count: 1.4k

content tags: smoking, substance use, first meetings

Parties like this aren't usually your scene. 

It's not like you can't appreciate it as a bystander—you suppose there's an appeal to music so loud you can't hear your own thoughts. There are certainly some days where you want to lose yourself in a crowd, drunk and careless. Today is not one of those days. 

You can't quite remember how your friend convinced you to come to their party. It'll be fun, they promised, a nice change of pace. It is a nice change of pace, sure. It's different from sitting by yourself at home, but…

Now you're just sitting by yourself at someone else's home, smoking a joint on their porch. 

This is more your pace. You're relaxed into one of your friend's water stained outdoor chairs, feet propped up on a low table. This is about all you can handle today—slow drags of weed and the sound of summer bugs in the trees. The sound of the party lays muffled behind you, sealed by the porch door. 

The noise of the music and dancing inside becomes sharp for a moment as you hear the door opening. You look over your shoulder to see someone you don't recognize hastily stepping out. He seems frazzled, brushing back the brown waves in his face back with his hand. He also seems very…handsome.

“Sorry, didn't know anyone was out here,” is the first thing he says. He has a nice voice, low and smooth. And nervous, you notice. 

“It's cool. It's not like I own the porch.” You shrug, taking another inhale from your sizzling joint. You had hoped that your comment would loosen the tension that'd tied knots all in his face, but it doesn't. He just laughs breathlessly back, short and shaky. “Not a party person?”

“Not really.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. That's when you notice the tattoos on his hands, emblazoned across the backs and his knuckles. Pretty. “You?”

“Sometimes. But not today.” That works—you see him visibly relax, even if just a little bit. “My friend invited me—it's their party—but I, I don't know. I guess I thought I'd be up for it, but…” You shrug. “And now I'm here.”

“I see. I get that. Uh—” He pauses, taking a slow hit from his white cigarette. “My coworkers, um, they invited me. I didn't wanna be an asshole, so I came, but…” He sighs. “Yeah. Now I'm here.”

“Tough.” You nod at the empty seat next to you. “Seat's open, if you want it.”

“Thanks.” He takes the seat next to you. This is when you really take notice of his muscles, especially his biceps and pecs wrapped tightly in that white t-shirt of his. A burst of attraction rushes through you.

“Uh—” You should keep talking. Distract yourself from his, uh, everything. “Do you smoke?” He gives you a funny look, eyes glancing towards his cigarette. “Fuck, I mean, do you smoke weed? Sorry, I'm a little high.”

“It's cool.” He's actually smiling now. It's a nice smile. “Yeah, not often, but I do.”

“Well.” You extend your hand towards him, offering him the joint. “You can have some of this if you want. Might help you relax. No pressure, of course.”

“...Actually, yeah. That'd be nice. Thank you.” He takes the joint from you with his other hand. Now he's got a cigarette in one and a joint in another. You both share an amused, knowing look. “You smoke cigs?”

“Sometimes. Here, let's trade.” He hands you his cigarette. “Not that there's anything wrong with dual-wielding. Take one hit off the joint, and then off the cig…”

“Dual-wielding,” he repeats, laughing under his breath. You chuckle, entertained by the thought and his reaction. You don't mean to watch him as he brings the joint up to his lips and pulls, but you do anyway. You're not sure if him smoking a cigarette or a joint looks more attractive. 

“I feel like we should know each other's names now.” You know it sounds a bit forward, but the high's making you brave. You introduce yourself to him. “And your name is?”

“I'm Carmen.” Of course even his name is pretty. “Most people just call me Carmy, though.”

“Carmy.” You can't help your smile. “That's cute. Do you have a preference?”

“Uh—” He looks good with a little bit of pink on his cheeks. “Carmy's fine.”

“Okay, then. Carmy it is.” 

You two develop a rhythm. You trade the joint and cigarette back and forth, inhaling puffs of weed and tobacco back to back. Intimate is not quite the right word to describe it, but you're not sure if there's a better word for it. You definitely feel something of a connection pulling the both of you closer together. You even think that somehow, the space between your seats is shrinking too.

“I used to smoke more weed back in college,” Carmy says. The joint's almost finished by now, and with it, you both become a lot more loose-lipped. He's staring into the distance like he's remembering something. “You ever green out?”

“Oh yeah, plenty of times.” You laugh to yourself, shaking your head. “Back when I first started smoking—well, I started with edibles.”

“As does everyone.”

“Yeah, and it's stupid. It's way too easy to go overboard with edibles.”

“Seriously. I've only ever had edibles once, and. Well.”

“Ah…It was bad, I take it?”

“Yep.” He laughs quietly, and the infectious sound of it makes you smile. “It was awful. I even threw up.”

“Oh no,” you gasp. “That's how you know it's bad. I've managed to stop myself from throwing up, but I've definitely felt like I was dying a couple times.”

“Oh, of course. As it goes.” You both chuckle. “I thought my tolerance was high enough. It wasn't that many milligrams, but I guess my body hated it.”

“It happens.” The cigarette dies out in your hands, burned right down to the filter. You snub it out on the arm of your chair. “I used to enjoy edibles, but ever since I greened out real bad one time, I just can't do them anymore. They just wreck my shit.”

“Maybe that's for the best.” He puts out the joint too. “Just stick to regular lung damage like the rest of us.”

“Lessons learned, I guess.” You grin. A comfortable pause settles. “...Carmy?”

“Yeah?”

“We've smoked it all. Everything.”

“I have some more cigarettes if you want one.”

“No, no…” You lean forward, propping your elbows on your knees. He instinctively mirrors you, sitting up in his chair. “It's all gone.”

“Oh. Well.” He tilts his head to the side. “What should we do now?”

“We could sit here and suffer. Or…” You rest your chin in the palms of your hands, cradling your face. “I could roll us another joint back at my place.”

“Oh.” Looks like it clicked. His blue eyes are widened with surprise.

“You don't have to,” you say quickly, “really. But I've been having a good time with you, and I…I like you. I think you're cute.” Ordinarily, you wouldn't be this forward, but you swear you feel something here. “Sorry if this is—too much.”

“No, not at all,” he replies, just as quick. “Don't apologize. Please. I just—” He fumbles, making a vague hand gesture. “This has been really, really nice. You're so easy to talk to, and I, I'm not used to that.” He smiles at you, shy and adorable. You're momentarily gripped with something akin to cuteness aggression, but you keep it under wraps. “I…I like you. A lot. I'd love to go to your place.”

“Yeah?” He nods. “Okay. Cool. Um…” You feel your insides jumbling all over each other. “Sorry, now I'm getting all flustered.”

“It's okay.” His smile blossoms further, turning into something radiant. “I like it. You're cute.” You make a small noise at that.

“Smooth talker.” You stand up from your seat, and he looks up at you momentarily before following suit. “I'm just down the block. Up for a walk?”

You don't bother telling your friend you're leaving. The two of you chat and laugh all the way to your place, your voices echoing down the quiet road. Turns out your friend was right after all—the party turned out to be very, very fun. 

[fili-urzudel]

Hi I absolutely love your writing!!! Like seriously you have me smiling to myself hard I feel like an idiot lol. Anyway, can I request a romantic Kili with fake relationship + forehead touches? Bonus points if you add teasing brother Fili into the story too!

I love getting compliments like this omg! I'm so sorry that it took me so long to get this out for you and that I sort of left Fíli out (though whoever said this couldn't have a part two?).

When I put 50. under the meet cute prompt, I meant exactly that: you're strangers when one or the other of you finds yourself in need of a fake romance to escape some situation.

I also have Taylor Swift on the brain

9. Forehead touches (again yippee!)

12. Dancing (added this one)

50. Need a fake relationship immediately

Warnings: Dancing, being a little intoxicated, lying, reader describes self as a woman

Word count: 1.2k

Enchanted - Kíli Durin x Reader

It was nice to be recognized as equals by the dwarves of Erebor. This was what you reminded yourself as you leaned against a pillar in the back of the ballroom. It was nice that they were attempting to involve the people of Dale in their culture. It was nice that, after three years of instability, the two kingdoms could afford a night of leisure.

You had never really been one for parties. Talking got to be boring and stressful quickly, most of the eligible men had already picked their dancing partners, and you had made a promise to yourself to stay lucid. Unfortunately, dwarven liquor was quite strong, so you could only manage one drink for the time being. 

You sighed, wondering if you had wasted too much time tailoring your dress for this event. If you had wasted too much time on practicing what few traditional dwarven group dances you could find information on.

As your eyes swept the room again, they landed on an attractive side profile. Dark hair with bangs, strong features, a dusting of stubble that you hadn't seen before but found appealing, and brown eyes—oh, no. You quickly glanced away, wondering how long you had been staring. You decided to risk raising your eyes again, in the hopes of appearing less awkward. He made eye contact once more, and smiled. It was a dazzling smile, one that you couldn't help but respond in kind to. 

He was moving through the crowd before you knew it. 

"I can see you're having just as much fun as I am," he said sardonically, and you chuckled. 

"Never have I been so excited," you agreed with him.

"Well, there are ways to make the evening more interesting," he mused, and you wondered what he could mean. He glanced to the side, clearly recognizing someone, and he stepped closer, well within your personal space. "Are you a good actor?"

"What?" You asked in a daze. You feared your tipsiness dragging down your understanding.

"A dwarrowdam has been eagerly pursuing me for some weeks and she is beginning to refuse to believe that I have a partner."

"And do you?"

"No," he admitted, and the two of you laughed. "But you could help me uphold the lie."

You contemplated it for a moment. He was certainly more interesting than any man you had yet met. You would go so far as to say he was incredibly handsome. It was all almost enough to make you wish that his interest was more than just a ploy to escape an annoyance. But a dance partner was a dance partner.

"Dance with me," you offered, which earned you another bright smile.

"Of course, my lady," he held out his hand. You realized that neither of you had asked the others' names. Neither of you had offered. 

You took his hand.

"Do you know this dance?" he asked.

"I practiced," you nodded seriously. "Just... never with someone who learned it traditionally."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said with another easy smirk. The violins signaled that you had no more time to wonder.

The dance would have been head-spin inducing even if you were sober, especially being the tallest among the dancers. That was rare for you. Still, the intertwined elbows, quick turns, and aisles of other dancers were a thrill, and you were glad to finally be able to participate.

You gave a hearty laugh as the dance finally came to an end with a stomp and a loud cheer. "I did it!" You said proudly, to no one in particular.

Your partner smiled along with you. "You did excellently!" His expression suddenly changed. "Here she comes," he muttered, and you were barely able to steal a glance before the mass of petticoats made herself known. 

"My prince!" She said with fake politeness and a painted on smile. You did your best to hide your surprise. Prince? Was that only a pet name?

He did look awfully similar to your father's description of one of the dwarves that had paraded through Laketown, now that you thought of it. "May I ask who your lovely partner may be? It's quite unusual, men dancing with dwarves, don't you think?"

"Well, then it is a good thing I am a woman," you said, chuckling in a way that you hoped matched her energy. You introduced yourself. "Thank you for calling me lovely. I am courting this handsome dwarf!"

She glanced between the two of you, looking confused and mildly angry. She hid it surprisingly well. "Is this true?" She asked your partner, and he laughed nearly naturally. 

"Of course it is! I keep telling you about her, and well, here she is," he gestured to you with his free hand.

"You never mentioned her name before," she insisted.

"She's a private, quiet maiden. Something I appreciate about her," he said, pushing more warmth into his voice. He was selling it very well.

She stood, upset, observing the two of you for another moment. Just as you were about to excuse the two of you, she spoke up again. 

"Why is it that neither of you have courting beads?"

Your partner's mouth gaped for a moment, and you scrambled for a believable lie. What on earth and in the heavens was a courting bead?

"Ah, well, men's traditions are different, and I am waiting to give..." you realized you still didn't know his name. "...my love a bead of his own until I can learn to forge one well enough that it is an adornment rather than a burden."

"No matter how much I assure her that any gift from her is a treasure," he said with a smile, looking up at you. 

You took the opportunity to hopefully shake his suitor for good. It was the least you could do for your new friend. You dropped your forehead against him, putting on your best lovesick smile. "You're too sweet, beloved."

"Well," the impatient dam huffed. "Congratulations."

Your hair blocked your view. "Is she gone?" You murmured, realizing you could feel his breath on your lips.

"Yes, I do believe you've rescued me," he chuckled, eyelashes fluttering at your closeness. 

"My pleasure," you smiled, before remembering yourself. You straightened, allowing the two of you to clear the floor before the next dance. "Why did she call you Prince?"

"Ah, right," he cast his eyes to the floor. "I am Kíli Durin, Prince of Erebor. Not that it means much, since I'm not in line for the throne."

"Huh," you said simply, sure that if this were any other circumstance, you would be all but panicking. "Well, um, I believe I've already introduced myself, Your Highness. It's a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

The prince's face seemed to fall. "Come now, we don't need all of that," he assured you. "I much prefer for you to call me by anything other than my title."

You laughed. "What, like 'my love'?" You referenced your earlier bluff. "I don't suppose that would do for a man I just met."

You thought you perhaps could have seen his cheeks turn pink at the name. "Well, no, but Kíli is a perfectly acceptable middle ground."

"Nice to meet you then, Kíli."

"And it is an honor to meet you."

[babyjakes]

lock them out and throw a feast.

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

event | kinkmas 2023

prompt | food play

pairing | soft!dark!curtis everett x front-ender!reader

warnings | soft!dark!curtis. non-con. crying. restraints. use of gag. fingering. minimal dialogue (curtis is a quiet guy.) oral (f receiving) with plenty of clit focus. messy food play (a whole bakery's worth of sweets.) forced orgasm. squirting. implied multiple (forced) orgasms. written in 3rd person for some reason. showered!curtis :D

word count | 1,698

an | my snowpiercer knowledge is soooooo rusty i haven't watched the movie in years. this is kind of written in a universe where curtis and his rebellion were able to take over the engine. he picks out a pretty little front-ender as his reward and throws himself a feast... anyway, please ignore any details that might not align with the movie plot. this fic is dedicated to my sweet precious wonderful somny @onsunnyside, she isn't active much these days but of course i wanted to write her a kinkmas piece still, she is so special to me. and i know she loves curtis, so this felt like the perfect opportunity. love you, sonson<33 hope you're well and having happy holidays!

Everything was just the way he ordered it. An empty car all to himself, with both exits locked, dark curtains drawn. Lights dimmed, just bright enough to see through the stilled air. One shining down stronger than the rest in the center of the room, illuminating his long-awaited bounty. His final reward. His feast, fit for a king.

The moment he had laid eyes on her, cowering and weeping as her family's luxury quarters were broken into, he knew she was his endgame. He promised himself he'd have his way with her once he made it to the engine and overthrew the elite. Now that the hard work was done, it was time for him to revel in his victories. And there was no better way to do that, he had decided, than to feed the hunger that had been eating away at him for as long as he could remember.

He stood back in the shadows for the longest time, just taking in the glorious scene before him. Sucking in a strained breath, he pressed a tentative hand over the bulge in his pants. They were new; everything on him was. As his trusted second-in-commands were preparing his private car, Curtis had disappeared to care for himself and his body for the first time in seventeen years. He had a long, tedious shower, taking his time to remove nearly two decades of filth from his tattered body. Once he was clean, he had first choice from an entire car full of clothing- everything brand new. He remained modest with his choices. All the glitz and glam of the elite had no appeal to him.

Taking a step forward, he let his dark brown overcoat fall to the floor, leaving him in the simple gray t-shirt and utility trousers he had claimed earlier. Biting his lip, he pried his hand from his raging hard-on. He would relieve himself, in time. For now, he wanted to savor every moment he spent building up to that release.

Her quiet whimpers were the loudest thing in the room, accompanied by the low rumbling of the train's machinery in the background. Her crystalline tears only made her more beautiful, Curtis thought to himself. There was something so exquisite about her agonized expression; it didn't matter how wrong or cruel this was. He had given it all, risked his life for that damn train. This was his; he had earned it. He would allow himself that.

His men had done a fine job with the setup. She was as captivating as he had dreamt for all those years- no, she was better. Her body sprawled out elegantly over the smooth oak finish of the table below her, tied to the corners by her wrists and ankles, she was nothing more than a piece of meat to be feasted on, a meal to be devoured. And Curtis hadn't had a proper meal in years. The rest of the table's surface was covered in all the sweets and confectionaries his subordinates could find. Ripe fruits, delicate cakes and pastries, bowls of thick chocolates and creams- and to top it all off, his main course had been decorated lavishly to the likings of the delicacies surrounding her. Her most sensitive places had been drizzled and dipped, sprinkled and powdered, making her the most divine-looking creature the man had ever seen.

He took another step forward, surveying her as a vulture would its prey. Her dewy eyes peered up fearfully at him as he slowly approached the side of the table. Voice slightly hoarse from all her crying and struggling, she whined weakly through the thick cloth gag secured snugly between her chocolate-smeared lips.

"Shhhh," Curtis breathed out, the steadiness of his voice and posture such a stark contrast to the girl who lay weeping and bound before him. As he turned to make his way to the end of the table, her bare feet thrashed and kicked uselessly in protest. He simply shook his head at her pitiful displays of defiance. "No use fighting it, sweetheart," he hummed, his voice almost consoling in tone. "You're not going anywhere. Not until I get a good taste of what's mine."

With heedless, eager motions, the man cleared the portion of the table that sat between the girl's trembling legs. As mouth-watering as everything he was pushing aside appeared, his only focus was closing the space between him and the one thing he was truly starving for. Lowering his front down onto the now empty surface, Curtis' greedy eyes trailed up his victim's messy legs, finding the sacred point at which they joined. He drooled at the sight of her perfect cunt as it sat before him on display, dribbles of cream and what appeared to be nervous arousal collecting beneath her rounded ass.

"Mine," he repeated, this time nearing a growl. His rugged hands came up to squeeze at her soft, heavenly thighs, earning tiny squeaks of fear from the poor girl as she shook her head pleadingly- but it was no use. He had her before him now; nothing would come between him and his feast. "This body belongs to me now, angel. Do you understand?" He brought a hand up to push back her mound, exposing her swollen clit and leaky hole to his prying eyes. The confidence he was speaking with was impressive, given the fact that he'd never spoken to a woman like this in his life. But after all he'd lived through, he felt entitled to that sense of authority. He held her life in his hands, quite literally. And he sure as hell was ready to make the most of it.

"This pretty cunt-" he dared to take his words further, his other hand dragging a finger up through the streams of sugary icing coating her thighs to begin prodding at her tiny hole. "-is mine. All mine," he hummed, perfectly happy to be stating these truths to only himself, if his new possession was so insistent on denying them with her angry sobs and harsh glares. She would come around in time; he knew she would. She wouldn't have any choice in the matter.

His finger nudged and teased at the opening a bit more before gently dipping inside, the man's patience wearing thin. At the feeling of her tight, slippery walls doing everything in their power to fight off his intrusion, Curtis wasn't ashamed of the way his cock only grew harder from her unwillingness. He savored the distressed grunts and groans she let out as he forced his digit in up to a first knuckle, then a second. Turning his hand in a fluid motion, he began fucking his finger up into her, groaning lowly at the sight of her quickly growing increasingly responsive to his efforts.

Free-hand momentarily moving back to grab harshly at her hipbone, Curtis licked his lips as his gaze settled in on the tiny nub sitting at the top of the girl's messy slit. Bringing his thumb and pointer finger back down, he forcefully spread her upper lips apart, exposing her poor little button to the cool air of the room. Her legs kicked and struggled as he drew his face in closer, letting out a low groan as the bundle of nerves was finally taken between his parched lips.

The girl let out a howl through her gag, choking on her cries and spit as Curtis worked her aching clit. Closing his eyes, the man savored the feeling of the tiny bump twitching and trembling against his steady suckling. Letting go of any last hesitations, he submitted to eating her fresh cunt like a beast that'd been starved. He paid no mind to being gentle or polite as he latched onto her helpless core, delivering punishing waves of pain and pleasure well outside the realms of her wildest nightmares.

When his lips grew sore from sucking, he switched to dragging his tongue over the pulsating nub, starting with slow, teasing licks before switching to fast, merciless swipes in the blink of an eye. The alternating paces reduced his victim to softer sobs and hiccups, her hips bucking up wildly as her body struggled to tolerate the intense stimulation. And as soon as he'd had enough of the tongue work, he was back to nursing at the poor button, now so puffy and swollen from receiving his undivided attention.

As the girl's thighs shook, Curtis could see something shifting within her. The noises she let out were becoming more desperate, more panicked, with an expression of impending doom appearing on her tear-stained face. At the realization that she was being brought to orgasm against her will, the unrelenting hunger in Curtis' gut only rose. "That's it," he grumbled lowly, her sweet, sticky juices coating his reddened lips. "You're gonna come for me now, babydoll. Come on, give it to me," his face was hardening with determination, his finger thrusting more forcefully up into her fluttering walls as she hurled towards her climax at full speed.

The cry she let out as she finally came was the closest thing Curtis had ever heard to an angel on earth. As the incredible pressure in her tummy finally shattered, her poor clit spasmed helplessly in the man's awaiting mouth. A flood of sweetness sprayed against his scruffy facial hair as she squirted, the sight of her body coming helplessly against his efforts nearly too much for Curtis to bear. Groaning loudly, he coaxed her through the spectacular high. Only when her sobbing turned to weak sniffles did he finally pull away, his darkened eyes trailing up to find her tender face.

As he went to remove his digit from her soaking heat, he could've sworn she almost seemed to cling to him, in a way. He brought the creamy finger up to slip into his eager mouth, the sugary taste of her climax making his head pound with want.

His next words sent her into a fresh fit of tears. "One more," he decided, lowering his head back down to her sticky cunt. One more, he told himself, before he'd finally seek some relief of his own.

[jae-bummer]

Best Sleepover Ever

Request: heyaaa!!! welcome backkkk!! ^^ i saw your prompt list and no 4 "you look good in my clothes" really caught my attention... like you can NOT tell me cheol wouldnt say that to you... like imagine having a sleepover w/ him or smth and you wear his hoodie/shirt and when he sees you he'd be like that....

Prompt:

4) "You look good in my clothes."

Pairing: Seventeen S.Coups x Reader

Genre: Fluff

.

"I feel like a kid again," you grinned, looking up at your partner. "I haven't had an actual sleepover in years."

"Lucky you," Seungcheol smiled in return as he fiddled around with the wires connecting his gaming console to the television in his room. "I get to have one almost every night."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to make me jealous," you laughed.

"Oh yeah," Seungcheol responded, giving a small roll of his eyes. "I'm really living the dream having multiple men in my bed almost every night."

"Hey, you are living someone's dream," you pointed out.

"Fulfilling them too," he chuckled, finally giving up on the chords and scratching his head. "Maybe I should cut my losses and just put this back into the living area."

"Probably for the best," you nodded. "There's no telling who would launch an attack when they realize it's missing."

"Probably Wonwoo," Coups sighed. "And it's the absolute worst being on his bad side."

"Didn't realize he had one," you hmphed.

"I'm not sure if you're commenting on his cool nature, or complimenting his appearance," he said with a side-eye. "Either way, I'm choosing not to know."

You huffed out a laugh. Like you could ever be complimenting someone else's appearance when you had a whole Seungcheol standing in front of you.

"Anyway," he continued. "I'll move this back. You can change into your pajamas."

You winced as you looked down at your jeans. "I may or may not have forgotten to bring any."

"While sleeping in the nude does sound incredibly appealing, hanging out in it is probably not recommended," your boyfriend sighed. "People don't know how to knock around here."

"I can run home and grab something?"

"And walk alone when it's already dark? Absolutely not. Just grab something out of my closet."

"You're the boss," you smiled as he began to leave the room.

"About time somebody noticed."

Closing the door behind him, you were left alone. You spun toward the curtain that was currently Seungcheol's closet door and yanked it aside. It wasn't as messy as you had originally thought it would be, but it definitely had a controlled chaos vibe. It wasn't quite time to call in Mingyu and his organizational cubes, but it was getting close.

Tossing aside some clothes that you weren't entirely sure were clean, you found a stack of t-shirts. It took a few more minutes to dig out a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband. You weren't sure how Seungcheol's clothing would fit on you, but drawstrings were always promising.

Tugging off your clothing, you slid into the ridiculously oversized shirt you had selected. You quickly pulled on the shorts as well and noticed how short they were in comparison to the shirt. Turning toward the wall mirror, you covered your mouth before laughing. If someone didn't know any better, it looked like you were Winnie the Pooh-ing it.

"You look good in my clothes," Coups' choked voice sounded from the doorway. You looked up into the mirror's reflection and caught sight of him eying you.

"What?" you asked, startled by his silent appearance.

Clearing his throat, he entered the room, and closed the door promptly behind him. Leaning back onto the frame, he tilted his head upward. "You look good in my clothes."

"Looks like there is in fact a knocking problem in this dorm," you smirked, turning and taking a few steps toward him. "What if I wasn't dressed yet?"

"It doesn't really look like you're completely dressed now," he chimed.

Yanking up your shirt, you tried to swallow your laugh as Seungcheol's face went from shocked to amused.

"There are pants under there after all!" he grinned.

"Against your wishes I'm sure," you said quietly.

"Am I disappointed? Maybe," he chuckled, closing the distance between the two of you. "Am I a problem solver? Absolutely."

"And what problem is there to solve?"

"How to eliminate your clothing in the fewest number of tugs," he grinned, pulling you by the waist to the edge of his bed.

Plopping on the mattress, he situated himself before pulling you to sit down on his lap. Wrapping his arms even tighter from behind, you giggled as he leaned back.

"You're so goofy," you wailed as he wiggled you around.

"Not the wording I was hoping for," he laughed, finally allowing you to lay on your back. Scooting in close, he lay on his side beside you, his arms wrapped protectively around your middle.

"And what were you hoping for?" you asked, quirking a brow. "You're so amazing? You're-"

"Wildly sexy and incredibly appealing," he finished. His smile was huge in your periphery, causing you to take a mental picture of this moment. He was such a beautiful human.

"Do I really have to say those things aloud for them to be true?"

"I mean, a little positive affirmation never hurt anybody," he whispered, nuzzling his face into your neck. "For instance, you are gorgeous, and I'd love to -"

"Cuddle me into oblivion?"

"Oh yeah," he huffed. "Definitely what I was going to say."

"Thought so," you grinned.

Kissing lightly along the side of your neck, Coups lifted his hand to tilt your chin away from his face. Getting better vantage of your skin, these new kisses began to send shivers across your body. Letting out a giggle as he reached the dreaded ticklish spot, you attempted to scoot away from him, but he held on tight.

"Nope, there's no escaping me," he said, clearly amused. "I am inevitable."

"Coups in his supervillain arc," you laughed. "I'm into it."

Smirking, he detached himself from you, only to climb on top of your legs and straddle your waist. Blinking up at him in surprise, you watched him carefully as he assessed you from this new view.

He looked at you reverently, but also with a tinge of hunger. Like something he knew he should protect, while simultaneously considering if he should devour.

"Forget what I said earlier," you breathed. "This is not the type of sleepover I remember."

"I mean, we can have a pillow fight?" Coups croaked, his voice suddenly like gravel. "Feel free at any time to braid my hair."

You were rendered silent by his tone alone, feeling it deep in your core and all the way to your toes. Moving carefully, Coups leaned forward, sliding across the blankets on either side of your body until he encased you. His forearms rested on either side of your head, your faces now only inches apart from each other.

Licking his lips, his eyes roamed your face as if he was trying to permanently keep the image of you printed across his irises. "Thank you for staying over tonight."

"You don't have to thank me," you said quietly. "I want to be here just as much as you want me to be here."

"Impossible," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"Well, maybe not," you smirked. "I'm not the one using my body as a human prison to keep my partner in bed with me."

"Should i move?" he asked, furrowing his brows. "Are you comfortable?"

"Coups," you whispered, reaching up to run your hands through the strands of hair falling across his forehead. "You are the comfiest."

"Good," he smiled slowly. Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Pulling only a few centimeters away, he studied you again. Seeming to find whatever he was looking for, he leaned forward again, slowly licking your bottom lip. Your mouth popped open while your brain entered a daze. His tongue swept across yours, something sweet dominating the taste.

It was in that moment that you decided you could kiss Seungcheol forever. Your lips seemed to melt together as you moved in tandem, enjoying him every bit as he was enjoying you.

After only seconds, he pulled away slightly. He furrowed his brow at the same time he bit his lip.

It should be you biting that lip.

"What is it?" you asked breathlessly.

"I should probably lock the door."

[luxeavenger]

Shark

Kinktober prompt: Overstimulation

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Backstage pass!Natasha x reader

Warnings: Overstimulation, vaginal fingering, oral sex, top Natasha

Words: 1055

If you like it, please give it a reblog! I've been away for awhile, and I think a lot of people forgot about me.

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The redhead’s muscular shoulders block the light when she hovers over you. Her wide, lipstick-smeared grin is intimidating the way a shark's grin is intimidating.

And apprehension curls through your gut, just as it would if it were a shark grinning back at you right now.

You whimper as her fingers ease out of your pussy, just to be pushed into your mouth. You tongue the taste of you off her digits. They’re pruny, because they’ve been inside of your dripping cunt for the better part of the evening.

“Be a good girl, and clean ‘em for me, sugar,” she commands in her rough, sultry voice.

Each time she praises you, chills scatter over your too-hot flesh. It makes you eager to please her, and you know you’d do anything she asked of you just to receive more of it.

Natasha’s naked skin is so pale it nearly glows everywhere it peeks from behind the tattoos cluttering her naked body. She’s singularly the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, and you felt unbelievably lucky when she picked you up after your bartending shift ended.

Now? You’re pretty sure if it were possible to die from being overwhelmed by orgasms, this is the woman they’d send to do the job.

Her chin is shiny with your juices when she looks down at you. Hoping for a break, time for your body to relax for a bit, you ask, “May I please eat your pussy now, ma’am?” Her fingers are still in your mouth, so the words come out garbled.

She pulls them out and you repeat your question.

She grins again, and you’re foolish enough to think she’s going to let you do what you asked.

Instead, she takes the fingers still slick with your spit and pushes them back inside of you. The squelch when she pushes into your cunt is obscene, and you blush, heat rushing over your body like slow-spreading flames.

With a low chuckle she says, “Oh, sugar. I’m not nearly done with you yet.” Her fingers rub against your g-spot, and you mewl. “When you’ve come so much—once you’re so sensitive you can’t even stand the touch of fresh fucking air on your needy little clit—that’s when I’ll let you eat my pussy.”

Then, just to tease you, she curls her middle and ring finger into her cunt—the cunt you’re dying for a taste of—with a moan, and you whine pitifully.

She leans over to whisper in your ear, “Seeing you squirm and cry for me has got me so fucking wet, sugar. I can’t wait to sit on this pretty little face.” She wraps the hand she was just using to toy with herself around your jaw to gently shake your head back and forth. Her fingers are sticky with her slick, and it leaves a streak of her arousal across your cheek.

“Ma’am, please. I can’t anymore. It hurts.” You know you’re whining, but you have no idea how to stop. She’s made you come more times than you can count. And, well, you know she’s not going to stop, so you might as well beg anyway.

“Now, now, sugar,” Natasha purrs, “we both know you fucking can, and I promise you that you absolutely fucking will come again, if I have to use my fucking fist to yank an orgasm out of you.”

“Ma’am–” you try to make another appeal to her. You try to come up with something coherent. Some words to tell her you’re too sore, too tired, too something, but instead, “–oh, fuck.”

Making you feel like you don’t even know your own body anymore, your traitorous pussy gushes slick over Natasha’s fingers, and your muscles strain as your back bows. The gorgeous woman purrs silky praise at you, that sends butterflies swarming through your stomach.

“Look at you sugar,” she beams at you, her angel bites glitter in the light when she licks her lips like a cat. “So beautiful when you come for me. I knew you could do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you sigh deliriously, drunk off her attention.

She slowly descends your body, nibbling her way down, her perfect mouth leaving a trail of bruises in her wake. Her green eyes stay trained on your face when she slurps at your clit. Your hips rise off of the mattress, and she throws a deceptively strong arm over you to keep you in place. Your body already feels like one raw nerve ending, and she keeps plucking at that tight, strained feeling inside of you like it’s a guitar string she intends to play until it breaks.

Her persistent fingers on your g-spot pull a messy, squirting orgasm out of you, soaking Natasha’s chin and hand again. She laps at you like she’s starving, and you’re her only source of sustenance.

Your thighs are visibly trembling, and Nat smooths a hand down your flank. She coos, “Such a good girl for me. So fucking good. You came so fucking hard for me. It was fucking beautiful.”

Her tattooed fingertips make swirling patterns over your sides until your thighs are done shaking. She runs a knuckle up your slit, smiling lazily when your hips jerk reflexively at the lightest graze of your clit.

“Mmm, baby girl,” she hums, “look at you. So sensitive. I think you’re there. I think you’re right fucking there, sugar.”

She blows gently at your mound to cool your heated skin, then spreads you open with her thumbs. Then a quick puff of air hits your clit, and a bolt of electricity zings up your body. Your entire body jerks, and you mewl pitifully, “Please, no more, ma’am. No more. I can’t. I can’t. I really, really can’t. Don’t make me.”

She abandons the space between your thighs, and straddles your body. Silver tear tracks on your cheeks are wiped away by her thumbs, and you hiccup a sob at the gentle gesture.

Her voice is rough, and syrupy sweet when she soothes, “Shh. That part’s all done for now, sweet girl. You were so good for me.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” you sigh dreamily.

The too-sharp grin is back now. “You’re not nearly done, sugar. So don’t thank me yet,” she wryly remarks, grabbing a handful of your hair as she lowers herself over your face.

Everyone who reblogs gets my undying, and eternal love. No, really. xoxo

[whomeidontknowthem]

A few days back I learnt that interactive whump exists, which means that I need to make one right now!

I have assembled a list of prompts I would have fun writing. Every single one of them would be fantasy, and as SFW as you can get with the topics of slavery, torture and death -- I'm not interested in writing smut (nor can I do it well).

Each prompt states the main role of the character the decisions of which you would control.

1. Whumper/caretaker. A slave owner purchases and begins training their new property. Would they be an intimate and kind master or a monster turning their existence into hell?

2. Whumper. The leader of a rebellion captures the king's siblings to extract information and use them in their plans. Would they be able to break the royals' wills and take over the country?

3. Whumpee. Three friends are taken captive and struggle to find the means to survive and escape. Would they survive the cruelty of their captors together or choose their comfort over the lives of those they love?

4. Whumpee. An adventurer is lost in a mystical forest and seeks shelter in a suspicious manor. Would they be able to convince the owner to let them go, or spend the rest of their lives following their every whim?

5. Whumpee/caretaker. The leader of a small adventuring party watches their friends slowly die one by one to an unforgiving dungeon. Would any of them manage to escape alive and sane?

6. Caretaker/whumper. A young person finds an escaped slave on their doorstep. Would they hide and help the poor thing or use their privileged position to torment them more?

Please tell me whichever one you chose and what exactly you found the most appealing about it. If you have any ideas of what can happen during the story, please tell me about them too -- it will make them this much more likely to be incorporated into the plot, if not in substance than in vibes!

I will also need character names, please write if you have any ideas! Or any ideas about the personalities, appearances, everything!

[thalialunacy]

[Written for the @calaisreno May Prompt Prom. We are in the homestretch, people. It's like… plot (?) from here on in.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) 27: jealousy (28) (29) (30) (31)

In his memory, John's mum had had a thousand words for rain. In reality, it was probably more like… twelve, but he never bothered sorting them. Or learning more about them.

He squints up at the overcast sky while Sherlock locks the front door behind them. 'My mum would call this "cloudybright." The kind that makes you want sunglasses despite not being able to see even a sliver of the sun.'

Sherlock raises his arm for a cab. 'That's actually just because--'

'Nope,' John interrupts swiftly, shaking his head. 'Don't want to know.'

Sherlock stares at him.

'Sentiment,' he says with a shrug. Then he climbs into the cab.

---

He's been standing behind Sherlock, who is crouched down examining part of a body, when someone approaches on his left. 'Brolly?' a feminine voice says.

John glances at the umbrella, then at the admittedly curvy and bright uniformed offerer, then at the sky, which has indeed started emitting moisture. 'Huh, I hadn't noticed.'

She shrugs. 'To be fair, it's not actually raining.'

'No, sure, it's more like aggressively misting.'

She laughs, her nose wrinkling. 'That sounds unpleasant.'

'Yes, well, I have been told it ruins a person's hair,' he says with a grin, thinking of Sherlock whinging about the subject several weeks prior.

Then Sherlock stands abruptly. 'We're done here,' he says, not looking at John before stepping away.

John nods briefly at the umbrella-bearer. 'Thanks anyway.'

'Sure,' she says with a high-wattage smile. 

John catches up with Sherlock quickly. 'Cab?' 

'I'd rather walk,' Sherlock says shortly.

They walk for several blocks, Sherlock's temper darkening along with the skies. As the aggressive mist turns into actual sprinkles, John's heart twists a little as he clocks what's going on.

He girds his loins and dives in. 'We agreed that I'd never be able to have any secrets while being involved with the cleverest man in all of Britain, didn't we?'

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment, and John tries not to let it frustrate him. When the detective does speak, his voice is quiet, with anger but also with what John can only identify as shame. 'We did.'

'Then what is it?'

'You barely noticed her interest.'

'I would think that'd be good?'

'If it weren't because it's so common of an occurrence that you're practically inured to it.'

'Am I?'

'She wrinkled her nose at you.'

'Huh. And?'

'And I've heard that's supposed to be appealing.'

John considers this. 'It's certainly cute when Rosie does it.'

'Don't be obtuse.''

'Sherlock.' John hooks three fingers into one of the Belstaff's pockets, thus arresting Sherlock's movement.

The sprinkling has become soft rain, tepid drops on John's forehead, but he ignores it. They're in the middle of a deserted footpath, so John steps closer and folds his left hand around Sherlock's right palm. He's honestly not sure what to say, and while he's considering his options, Sherlock speaks first.

'I do not enjoy this feeling, John.'

'I know.'

'I never have.'

'I know.'

'It's illogical and unreasonable, which is very annoying.'

John's lips twitch. 'Yeah, I know.'

'I expected it to lessen once I knew what it was, but it didn't. I expected it to lessen once you and I were--' He pauses. 'Once I was assured of your feelings for me.'

'And are you?'

'Am I assured?'

'Yes.'

A ghost of a smile tips one side of Sherlock's mouth up. 'Frequently and soundly, thus far.'

John huffs out a laugh, trying not to let himself feel relieved just yet. 'You can't be too cross with me if you're making rude jokes.'

'I'm not cross with you at all.'

John raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighs. 'Must I say it out loud?'

And John understands his reticence, very much so, but they've been intentional about eschewing the Keep Calm & Stuff Down All Emotions bit, despite it being exhausting and really sodding embarrassing. 'Either right now or in therapy next week, yeah. But I'd prefer right now.'

Sherlock scowls, but there's not much heat behind it. 'I take back what I said about not being cross with you.'

John tips up and presses their lips together briefly. 'No you don't.'

Sherlock's free hand touches John's jaw for a moment. 'No, I don't.' He makes a disgusted sound. 'I know it's not to do with you, really.'

'Maybe that's why all the advice is to look inward, instead of trying to find a problem within the relationship.'

'"Look inward"? Have you been dipping into the self-help books?'

John shrugs. 'Maybe. Maybe I want to fix this so you don't feel like hell every time a woman smiles at me.'

'Annoyed?'

'A little.'

'I see.'

'Annoyed mostly that you don't even notice when people smile at you.' 

'That's because I'm not interested.'

'Neither,' John says firmly, gripping Sherlock's hand and looking him hard in the eye, 'am I.'

'I know that. But--' Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and tugs on his wet hair. 'Sentiment.'

The rain has started coming down in earnest. John doesn't care. 'Alright, then,' he says brusquely. 'Worst case scenario, please.'

Sherlock stares at him. A drop of rainwater wanders off the tip of his nose. 'Are you quite serious?'

'Yep,' John answers, popping his P on purpose. 'Worst case scenario, go.'

'That you'll do something idiotic, like find a woman you think better suits, and leave.'

John nods, feeling the rain sneak under his collar. 'And to be fair, I have done.'

'Yes,' Sherlock grinds between his teeth. 'I am aware.'

'So your instinct to fight or flee is rooted in reality.'

'Are you trying to make this worse?'

'No, because I'm not a dick.'

'You're certainly acting like one.'

'So are you! Can't you ever just bloody listen for once?'

'If you were saying something worthwhile.'

'Oh, we've reached that point in the row, have we?'

Sherlock's mobile rings.

He retrieves it and answers it on speakerphone without looking away from John. His lashes are spiked together with raindrops. 'What.' It's definitely not a question. 

Lestrade skips the pleasantries as well. 'We've got a live one.'

Sherlock's head snaps up quickly enough to shake some droplets into John's face. 'Beg pardon?'

'Your suspect just showed up half-dead,' the DI explains. 'And I think you'd agree that he's not clever enough to be faking a broken jaw.'

'It's unlikely. We'll be there as soon as we can.'

Sherlock hangs up and strides away, somehow making puddle-splashing look good.

'We are not done with this conversation,' John calls as he starts after him.

'Yes, we are,' Sherlock says carelessly over his shoulder.

John is glad for the rain cooling his face, which he's sure is red with anger. He sucks in several deep breaths, unclenches his fists, and goes to catch up with his detective.

[ <3 ]

[velvateen]

snow and mistletoe - zoro x reader fluff!

gn reader, no pronouns!!

literally just a fluffy little thing i wrote before work bc i kept reading mistletoe prompts and i had to hop tf on that train. enjoy!!!

no warnings for this one, happy holidays everyone!!

You groaned as you rolled out of bed, the cool winter air hitting your feet as they landed on the wooden floor of your bedroom. another sleepless starless night, the gentle rock of the ship failing to lull you back to sleep. you ran a careless hand over your face as you opened the door and made the short yet cold trek to the ships kitchen.

You’d gotten into the habit of trying to move around on nights when you couldn’t sleep, and the kitchen was ripe with peace and warmth. so you pulled the door open and promptly shut it to prevent any more cold air from seeping into the room.

The kitchen was decorated in holiday lights, a small Christmas tree settled in the corner with a few small gifts laying under it. You smiled as you walked to set a kettle to boil, the notion of hot chocolate sounding especially appealing considering the mood.

You stirred the coco mixture into the warm milk and poured it into a mug. Digging in the fridge for the can of whipped cream, you almost missed the sound of the kitchen door opening and being pushed shut. It must’ve started snowing since you’d entered the kitchen, because Zoro nearly didn’t notice you either , too distracted by ruffling the snowflakes out of his hair.

His footsteps alerted you to his presence as he sat down heavily at the table. You turned around, having finally found the whipped cream.

“Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were still up,” you said.

He let out a small huff, stretching his neck so slightly.

“Just got done training. Didn’t know anyone else was awake.” You hummed, turning to the cupboard to grab another mug.

“You’re lucky I measure with my heart.” You poured the remainder of the hot chocolate into the mug and pushed it his way. Zoro opened his closed eyes and hooked a finger around the handle.

“Why are you even up anyways? Got night watch or something?” he inquired.

“Nah, just couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come here and soak up some Christmas cheer while I still can.” You picked up your mug, noting the way the steam felt on your cold nose. You took a sip, unaware of the careful eyes watching as your tongue peeked out between your lips to wipe away any remaining whipped cream.

“I don’t think I’ll stick around though, I can already feel this putting me back to sleep,” you spoke through a yawn, heading towards the door.

“I like the way you think,” Zoro spoke, and you two made your way to the door.

He pushed it open, and you started to walk through before something above you caught your eye.

“Oh,” you pointed upwards. Zoro followed your gaze.

“Oh, oh yeah.”

You’d forgotten all about that mistletoe that Sanji had no doubt hung in the doorway.

“Well, no one’s here to enforce it and it’s just a stupid tradition anyways so who says we really have t—“ Before you could finish your sentiment Zoro had promptly cut you off.

The cold from the snowy weather outside was hardly a match for the warmth that bubbled up from your chest as Zoro gave you the briefest of kisses, just long enough to feel the heat of his chapped lips and the touch of his nose against your cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled as he walked towards his room, still shakily holding the mug of hot chocolate.

Maybe that was why the kiss was so sweet.

*.• merry christmas and happy holidays everyone i’m so sorry ive been actually MIA that’s my b lol 😖 hope you enjoyed this !!!!! meow meow

[leftoverdinosaurbones]

Drawn Together

One-shot: Gortash x fem!Tav

This is a gift for @nusaran for the Elfsong Tavern’s Valentine’s Day gift exchange. Thanks for the fun prompts!!

Content Warning: NSFW (minors do not interact), little bit of smut (afab Tav), house fire

Summary:

It's a day of celebration at the Elfsong Tavern, which is bursting at the seams with decorations, ale, and patrons. Everyone is eager to partake in the festivities and express their love for one another.

Well, almost everyone.

Your mind is elsewhere tonight. You have yet to find your soulmate, though one person in particular has been consuming your thoughts. And he isn't the type to attend a party at the Elfsong Tavern. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be, anyway.

Set in game during Act 3 (spoilers!). You can read it below or on ao3.

Gale is in particularly high spirits this morning.

He hums softly and smiles to himself, like someone just shared the most delightful secret with him.

His hands work in their practiced way, pulling the most beautiful decorations from the weave. Soft pink pastels dance among deep burgundies while pearl white accents twist them together, joined by garlands of flowers. It reminds you of home. Of celebrations with your friends, your family. Of a lighter time, seemingly lifetimes ago.

His outlook on life has taken a turn for the positive these days, though you suppose having a new lease on life could do that for a man. Only just a few days ago, you convinced him not to sacrifice himself to the netherbrain - instead, you believed that he was worth sacrificing for. Even if that meant more danger in the future, or an unknown path. We would all do it, together.

You grip a bit tighter to the warm mug in your hands as you walk over to Gale.

“What are we celebrating?” You ask, coyly.

“Oh,” Gale breathes out with a deep, content sigh. He drops his attention from the weave and focuses his eyes on yours.

“You must know what day it is! What we are celebrating! We partook in the festival each and every year back home in Waterdeep. I assumed it was well-known in Baldur’s Gate as well, but given your reaction - and Astarion’s as well - perhaps you’ve been suffering without such a holiday your entire lives! Please, allow me to explain it to you. It is a celebration of love - the divine and sacred bonds between family, treasured friends, and lovers.”

His hand reaches out for your arm, gently squeezing near your shoulder before letting his hand drop back to his side.

“I just wanted to thank you, again. I know that I truly cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. For every single thing you do for me. You’ve made me start to believe in myself again - to believe that I am worth lifelong friendship… and perhaps even love.”

Your eyes dart away from his to look towards the ground. He is being so vulnerable and forthcoming with you, like always. But you can’t help having this wall up between you, holding you back from letting him in. You bring your mug up to your lips to distract from the growing silence.

“…perhaps even love, with someone, one day,” Gale relents. “I know we are only fated to be friends, and I respect that. Our friendship means the world to me, I hope you realize that.”

Gale’s words are warm and sincere. You return his kind words with a soft smile, looking back up at him.

“I really appreciate your friendship too, Gale.” You settle down on a seat nearby to watch as he brings the weave back to vibrant life.

You know, deep in your heart, that Gale will find his perfect match. At least they will be relatively easy to recognize, given the unique scar decorating his chest.

While many people form relationships - largely temporary - with others without matching scars, that idea never appealed to you. Oh, perhaps a stolen night here and there, but never anything real. You couldn’t see opening yourself up to someone, to let them in so deep, just to have them leave you for their real soulmate.

Your eyes scan the room at the Elfsong Tavern until you find Astarion. He is sitting on the ground, cross-legged and hunched over something he was working on in his lap. His scowl is present in every feature of his face - his lips drawn into a tight frown, his forehead knit together in frustration, his eyes narrowed. You assume he is bitter about the festival, and it goes beyond the fact that romance makes him feel uncomfortable and self-conscious.

This festival would only serve as another reminder of the many impacts of his vampiric affliction. Though otherwise a good thing, his skin can heal on its own - therefore, he has no scars. He will never be sure of his soulmate like the rest of us. And so he certainly can’t be sure that Wyll is his soulmate.

Time and time again, Wyll has offered reassurance to Astarion. Wyll will claim that the matching scars don’t matter to him, that he knows what is in his heart, that his love will never stray to another. But you can see the fear behind Astarion’s eyes. And you understand it.

Even now, you see Wyll crouch down next to Astarion and start to rub his shoulders, leaning to whisper something in his ear. Astarion flinches from his touch, reflexively. You look away to give them at least a modicum of privacy within this shared living space.

Swirling the liquid in your mug, your mind is pulled back into the events from the other day, when you entered Wyrm’s Rock. After your confrontation with the guard and the Steel Watchers at the bridge, you were surprised to receive an invitation to Gortash’s coronation. Though, from everything you heard of the man, he did seem a bit full of himself. Of course he would demand your attendance to that charade of an event, in his honor. Especially after you so easily defeated Ketheric.

You aren’t entirely sure why you accepted a strategic alliance with Gortash. He was clearly a better choice than Orin, though logic could also assume that you need not choose to ally with either of your enemies. His words were tempting, a seemingly genuine and alluring offer of shared power.

But that wasn’t what tempted you. The way he moved towards you with cool confidence. His tall figure loomed over you as he drew near. He didn’t have the same physical presence as someone like Halsin, but he frightened you all the same. He didn’t need it to appear formidable. To be imposing.

When he gripped your hand in partnership, you could swear he held on for just a moment longer than necessary. His dark eyes lingered on yours before trailing, slowly, down your body. Your heart lept into your throat as a flush of heat warmed your face and brightened the tips of your ears.

You tore your eyes away from his, embarrassment washing over you. Though, admittedly, this wasn’t the only feeling you were experiencing… You hadn’t felt those kinds of stirrings within you before. Not for any of your companions, despite their (many) advances.

No. You shook your head to try to distance yourself from such thoughts. A man like that, a follower of Bane, knows how to pull you into his web. This isn’t personal - it’s his own strategic manipulation, just like he used Karlach.

“Here.” You are startled out of your memories by a tight, strained voice. You look up to see Astarion handing Gale a delicate, embroidered heart.

***

The Elfsong Tavern is a sight to behold tonight. Gale, as convincing as ever, was able to fill the room with decorations for the festival. He stood by the door to greet each patron and provide them with a rousing introduction to the holiday, whether they were interested or not.

You find yourself at the bar, sipping on a glass of wine. You glance around the room as it is filled with joyful guests. Some were paired off and dancing - Wyll gracefully led Astarion as they danced together. You recognize it as one Wyll had been practicing on his own for several nights at camp.

Others were locked together in deep conversation; Lae’zel and Shadowheart among them. Over the past few months, you’ve watched their relationship move from enemies to friends. You saw perhaps a hint of something deeper, here and there, but they didn’t seem ready yet to admit that to themselves. You smile into your wine as you take in a deep drink.

Karlach and Halsin were making their rounds throughout the tavern. Halsin made fast friends wherever he could, offering stories and friendship to anyone who might be in need of it. Karlach, with her recent upgrades and ability to touch people, was very eager to make up for lost time.

All around you, people were happy. Your companions were coupling up - perhaps not with their soulmates, no. But at least they had some companionship, some connection. Why does it matter if it is only temporary? You might not even make it through all of this alive.

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself away from the bar and walk out to the front patio. You rest your forearms on the railing, closing your eyes. No one at the tavern caught your interest, anyway.

Your mind begins to drift, filling with ‘what ifs’. What if Gortash were at this party? Would he even notice you? Has he been thinking of you? Does he feel as ridiculous as you do, pining over someone after one simple interaction? What if...

The smell of smoke fills your nostrils and rips you away from your thoughts. Your eyes snap open, scanning the sky for smoke. You see a small plume of it begin to stack and rise into the air. You feel your legs propel you towards it before you can even register your actions - you know you don’t have much time to think about a plan of action before it’s too late.

Soon, you arrive in front of a small home. Through the window, you can see the flames rising, building up in strength. Amid the smoke, you see a figure, hunched over and immobilized in fear. You cast misty step to get inside the house.

“I’m here to help!” you call out to the person over the roar of flames. They lift their head towards you, their face contorted between fear and hope. You see a back window nearby, close enough that they could escape.

“Step to the side!” you command, and they dive for shelter out of your path. You cast thunderwave to bust open the window so they can make their escape. Glass explodes out through the back, allowing enough space for the person to make a quick leave. However, the new opening allowed for a rush of fresh air to flood the house, adding new fuel to the fire.

The flames leap up with greater force, tongues lashing at the ceiling and quickly melting through the thatches of the roof. The force and ferocity of the flames knock you back, breaking your concentration. You lost the small opportunity you had to fly out of the house after casting your spell.

The walls of flames burn hotter around you and smoke starts to fill your lungs. Panicking, you fall to the ground, desperate for air, throat burning. If you had only taken the time to think, for even just a moment, perhaps you’d have called for help from Karlach before leaving the tavern. Or you could have asked for a Steel Watcher on your way.

One last idea comes to your mind as your body begins to shut down for self-preservation. You feel your magic build within you as you summon everything left inside. Eyes blurry, the spell leaves your lips in a whisper.

Slowly, heavy droplets begin to build into a steady downpour, dampening the roar of the flames. You welcome the stinging rain as bit at your cheeks, offering relief from the heat gathered on your cheeks. Coughing, you struggled to try to get up, weak from the inhaled smoke and spent magic.

Through your blurry peripheral, you notice a figure enter the house. Could it be one of your companions, looking for you? Grateful, you remained on the ground and raised a hand, hoping they could notice you and help you out of this mess. Heavy steps come briskly towards you, and you feel one arm scoop up under your knees while the other holds your back. They lift you up into their arms to carry you out of the building.

Exhausted, you let your head fall against their chest, clutching the fabric of their jacket with your hand. Rain continues to pour even outside of the house (how strong was that spell?). Completely soaked, you begin to shiver, in violent contrast to the state you were in only moments ago. They hold you tighter to their chest as they walk briskly, tirelessly, down the street.

Finally, you are able to open your eyes and register the direction you are going.

“The Elfsong Tavern is the other way,” you mumble softly, bringing your eyes back to your hand that is pressed against their chest. You freeze, a jolt sent straight down your spine. This body doesn’t feel familiar to you. Against all better judgment, you will yourself to look up.

You see his long black hair, plastered down against his face from the pouring rain. The rain traces his cheekbones and small wrinkle lines, outlining his features. His dark eyes catch yours. They look right through you, piercing, hardened, angry. Your body tenses as you flatten your palms against his chest, ready to push yourself away.

He lifts your body up slightly to press his lips into the top of your head.

“Don’t.” He whispers before bringing you back down again and pressing you against his chest.

You aren’t sure why, but you listen to him. You close your eyes and lean your head back into his chest.

***

Finally, you are inside. Warmth burns your cheeks, though your body is freezing from the wet clothes clinging to your body. You are brought to a room where he gently sets you down on a chair. He hands you a health potion, which you quickly drink without a second thought. The liquid starts to work immediately, repairing your raw throat and the other, thankfully minor, injuries from the fire.

Gortash bends over a hearth, coaxing up the flames. You are surprised to see him like this - Lord Enver Gortash, on his knees, making a fire for you?

He crosses the room in a couple of broad steps, soon standing at your feet.

“We need to get you out of these wet clothes.” Gortash extends his hand towards you.

You raise an eyebrow up at him.

“Unless you want to get sick, and make an embarrassingly easy target for Orin.”

Of course. That is what this is about. He is simply protecting his business partner. Protecting his assets.

You roll your eyes, feeling self-conscious about your earlier thoughts and curiosities about your potential relationship. You take Gortash’s hand with an aggravated huff, masking your hurt feelings and slightly wounded pride with a show of annoyance.

He brings his gold-adorned hands up to your shoulders. His fingers linger near the straps of your dress, the metal tips of his gauntlet ghosting your skin. Gently, he slips the straps off to the side of your shoulders. Surprised by the softness of his touch, a small gasp escapes your mouth.

He touches your shoulders again, urging you to turn around. You give in, the tips of your ears turning bright red as you face away from him. His fingertips drag, slowly, from your shoulders to the middle of your back. Though his touch is gentle, it scorches your skin, sending waves of white-hot heat through your body. You tighten your hands into fists, nails biting into your palms and bite your bottom lip to stifle any unintended sounds that threaten to escape.

His fingers find purchase on your zipper and he pulls it down, opening your dress to the bottom of your back. He brings his hands up to the top of your dress and drags it down your body, the wet fabric clinging desperately to your skin. He follows it down your body, around the dip of your waist, over the curve of your hips, down to your ankles, then helps you step out of dripping cloth. He hangs the fabric over a chair near the fire, with care. Who is this man?

You try to make sense of this. He is just helping you. Helping his business partner.

You turn back around to face him. The hair on your body stands on end as goosebumps fill your exposed skin. Gortash steps back in front of you, closer this time.

He reaches his hand to catch your jaw in his grip, the metal tips biting into your skin. He lifts your chin up, eyes blazing as he takes you in. Eager to consume you. You struggle to pull away, to shield yourself from his hunger, but his grip on your jaw is steadfast.

He swipes the pad of his thumb across your chin, tracing a faint scar. A deep sigh rumbles within his chest. With his free hand, he brings yours up to his face. You copied his movements, placing your fingers along his jaw, running your thumb along the scar on his chin…

Wait.

Wait.

No. That’s…that’s just a common scar. So many people have scars on their face. It will take more than just this to convince you.

With trembling hands, you reach up to unlace his shirt. You fumble a bit, unsure if it’s because of nerves or the sloppy way in which he laced it in the first place. Finally, you grasp the bottom of his shirt and pull it up over his chest, peeling off the wet fabric as it clings to his skin. You take in the sight of him, the fire casting a dim light and deep shadows across his features. Your eyes trail along his warm, tanned skin, watching the subtle flex of the muscles in his arms as he pulls the shirt over his head. Dark hair, damp and lightly glistening, decorated his chest down to his stomach, disappearing in the waistband of his pants.

But, most importantly, your eyes land on a spot on his side. Impulsively, you reach out a hand to trace the line etched into his skin, a jagged edge, poorly healed. You hadn’t been able to stitch it up well enough to prevent the lasting mark. And here it is - reflected in another.

You drew in a sharp breath as the reality of this situation came crashing down into you. Enver Gortash: The man who kidnapped your friend’s father. The man who betrayed your friend and damned her to the hells. The man who controls the Netherbrain, and wants to rule over all of Faerûn.

Your soulmate.

Gortash laces his fingers into yours and leads you to the bed nearby. He sits you down on the bed and steps back. His hands move, slowly, to unbuckle his pants.

You bite your lips, holding your breath.

He let his pants fall to his ankles, kicking away the gathered fabric at his feet. Your eyes flick down below his waist for just a moment, long enough to glimpse the size of him straining at his undergarments. Gortash meets your wide eyes with a lazy half-smile, the knowing smile of a man with a dangerous amount of self-confidence.

He parts your legs to stand between them, raking the sharp points of his nails up and down your thighs. You shiver, feeling a burning need start to wind up inside your core.

He continues his exploration, hands running slowly over your hips, your waist, and dragging up to your breasts. He cups one in each hand, massaging gently before bringing one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks and swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud, pinching your other nipple with his hand. You cry out, throwing your head back as you tangle your hands in his damp hair.

He releases you from his mouth to continue his slow worship of your skin, leaving soft kisses up your chest and over your shoulder. Once he reaches your neck, his kisses get more needy, more desperate. He opens his mouth to bite - hard. You gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist to press him closer to you. You know that are already leaking through your panties, and that doesn’t stop you from trying to grind your hips against him, making sure he feels just how badly you want him.

His mouth is replaced by his hand over your throat, metal-tipped nails digging sharply into your skin as he dulls your air supply. You bring your hands to the one at your neck, but his grip is firm. Your thoughts are swimming as you pull in shallow breaths, and you claw at his grip in vain. As he takes more and more from you, your need for him only deepens.

He pushes you back on the bed, caging you in with his arms around your head. A moment passes as you look at each other, his pupils blown.

You bring his head towards yours, inviting him in. His lips meet yours, tentatively at first, then mad with fervor - clashing against yours like a man starved. His tongue dances against yours, exploring your mouth, desperate to taste all of you. Your nails dug for purchase across his back as he groans into your mouth. You line your hips up with his, grinding yourself against his clothed erection, soaking it through. You wanted more, needed more of him, clawing and pulling at him to press you both together.

He breaks from the kiss, panting, and pushes his body off of yours.

“Ilyana.” Gortash says your name with confidence, possession. Hearing your name from his lips did something to you. You arch your back, keening towards him, wanting him - needing him - to take you. He slips off your panties and removes his last layer. You watch as his hard cock springs loose from his clothes, the tip of it already glistening with precum. Your body aches, desperate for him. He watches you writhe with anticipation as he slowly strokes himself.

“I have been waiting forever to find you. To have you. And now, you are mine.”

[gaslightgallows]

Please imagine a pithy title about fresh starts here.

(crossposted from Patreon)

Coming into 2024, I had big plans for how I was going to get back on track and get back to posting once a week and yeah, obviously, that hasn’t happened.

But what I have been doing is looking at my Patreon and at my own projects and figuring out some things I need to do differently. Last April, I changed my nom de plume because I wanted a fresh start. Now it’s time to give this entire Patreon project a refresh.

Here’s what’s happened so far:

Deleted my old A.F. Linley website and gave up the domain; the cost for hosting has risen by $200/year and I wasn’t using it as much as I thought I would back in 2018. Also I kept getting spam emails through the contact page.

Took down my Smashwords account; the single title I had managed to self-publish, a short story collection called Creeps, Ghouls and Jewels, had some serious formatting issues that it was not going to be worth the time/money to correct. Plus, I’m not happy with the changes that have come since Smashwords merged with Draft2Digital. (I’m considering moving to Payhip for future self-pubbed titles but that’s a discussion for a different post.)

I’m starting the process of taking down my Redbubble shop and....Okay, actually, I might have done that already? I just went to grab a link to the site in case anyone wanted to order a Moonicorns t-shirt before I deactivated but uh, it looks like it might’ve deactivated itself? Anyway, merch isn’t the right direction for me at this time, but I’ve still got all the actual designs and I really do like the “Finishing Things is Hard” logo, so I’m definitely going to hang onto that and slap that onto some stuff at a different print-on-demand site in the future.

Here’s what’s happening next:

New posting schedule: Starting in April, patrons will receive one short non-fiction post every week (500-1k words) and a piece of fiction every month (2-2.5k words). Oddments posts will continue to be free to read, but these take a decent amount of research and will be sporadic, basically happening around patron-only posts.

Revised patron tier perks: Getting rid of physical rewards and adding more digital ones. More details to come.

Current and long-time patrons: Thank you for sticking around while I get my shit together. I say that frequently. I mean it every single time.

Potential new patrons: Hello. I have just met you, and I love you. My name is Ethan, I live in a 200-year-old house and I’m writing a novel called The Lion’s Paw. It’s set in 1925 and is about an immortal queer disaster woman and what happens when 400+ years of terrible decisions catches up with her.

(I will neither confirm nor deny that she was inspired by H.G. Wells from Warehouse 13.) (Yes I will confirm it, she totally was.)

There are séances and ghostly possession and psychics, there is historical romance, and psychological horror, there are haunted houses and artists behaving badly and a lot of ladies making out.

I post about my writing process and all the weird little historical niches that pop up during my research. Frequent topics include: 

Spiritualism

Cryptids

Historical curiosities

Medical quackery

Weird tech

General oddball occurrences and serendipitous intersections of history, folklore, and culture

And sometimes when I’m really bored I write short fiction via random prompts.

If any of that appeals to you, please consider subscribing! I’d love to have you along for this journey and my caffeine habit needs all the support it can get.

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Banner photo by Ryan Snaadt on Unsplash.