#he's the one that needs all the comfort in the world; comfort that david simply cannot give because ahhhh policies

[aoioozora]

Platonically sharing a bed with the Ghosts

One-bed scenario hcs with the Ghosts, and you get to see their sleeping habits. Enjoy!

Logan Walker:

A little awkward about sharing the bed, but not against it.

Even though he's shared beds with Hesh when he was younger, he hasn't done it in a long time. And with someone of the opposite sex? It's a little awkward.

But he's not awkward in his sleep. He'd probably sleep in a starfish position, accidentally kick your back or put his leg on top of you

And maybe if he's having a nightmare, he might cuddle you for some comfort.

David 'Hesh' Walker:

Also awkward about sharing the bed but tries to hide it and plays it cool, telling himself, "it's just gonna be one night."

But he cannot keep his cool once you hit the bed next to him.

He loves cuddling but since both of you are just coworkers, he's fighting the urge so hard because he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable. He ends up not getting a wink of sleep for a couple hours

But when he does sleep, he sleeps like he's a dead body in a coffin, fingers intertwined and all, straight and tall like a soldier.

Sleeptalks sometimes, but it's just incoherent mumbling.

Elias 'Scarecrow' Walker:

He gets in bed, says "good night" and proceeds to not acknowledge you unless necessary. He is visibly embarrassed and annoyed by this arrangement, but doesn't complain about it.

He sleeps in a rather loose fetal position, tosses and turns around a lot and it keeps you awake for a while until he finally stops and falls into a deep sleep.

Tends to wedge his hand in between his knees when asleep.

Although he can sleep anywhere, he prefers a completely dark room with minimal light

If there's too much light, on goes the eye mask.

Thomas Merrick:

It's written all over his face. He's AWKWARD. But he doesn't say anything so as to not make you uncomfortable. And you don't say anything to him either.

He even offers to sleep on the floor to escape this ordeal, but you refuse and have him sleep on the bed, since it was big enough for two and you didn't want him to be uncomfortable.

He obliges and gets in bed, but makes sure he keeps plenty of space between you and him (he's at the risk of falling off the bed)

And when you tell him to chill out, he grumbles, "I'm... chill." The hip and groovy slang doesn't roll out of his Millennial tongue very well.

He eventually falls asleep facing away from you, hogging the blanket and burying himself in it like he is a worm in a chrysalis.

Big, strong guy sometimes feels like he needs some protection from the world too.

Keegan Russ:

His face is blank. He does feel awkward about it but neither his face, his voice, nor his body language betray any of what he feels.

He sets up a wall of pillows in the middle of the bed. "Neither of us are crossing this line, alright?" he says, and you nod, not planning on doing so anyway.

Both of you go to sleep. He sleeps in a tight fetal position and hugs the pillow he's sleeping on.

Another position he sleeps in is on his stomach with his knee hoisted up. He won't care if it's bad for the spine, it's comfy.

Give him a few hours and he's already disregarded his own rule, and has pushed away the pillow wall to simply press his head against your back, just to feel a little less lonely.

Kick:

Not awkward AT ALL. He actually digs this arrangement but is trying not to show it. But the amused smirk on his face blows his cover.

He sleeps very comfortably and if he's close enough friends with you and ensures you don't mind his touch, he would actually shamelessly cuddle you.

And you find his cuddling comfortable.

Sometimes sleeps like a Victorian child dying of a disease, having his hand on his head and all that

By the time it's morning, he's on the floor

Alex 'Ajax' Johnson:

Ajax genuinely doesn't care. Only one bed? He'll just shrug and go along with it. He's done this countless times.

In a way, him not caring makes you feel a little less awkward about it.

He keeps his distance from you and doesn't trouble you at all

He's an absolute madman to sleep without a blanket, and it's not just because he's used to it. It's a preference. He doesn't feel very cold.

Light sleeper. But he snores a bit.

Not a cuddler, but he wouldn't mind if you cuddled with him to keep warm.

Riley:

No awkwardness, no shame, only a little baby happy to sleep on the bed with you.

BED HOGGER!

Normally a light sleeper since he's a dog, but in complete safety, he sleeps like the dead, deep enough to dream

On hot days, he likes to lean against the headrest and sleep on his back to support his legs.

On cold days, he sleeps in a doughnut formation with his nose tucked under his tail.

He's a warm boy, loves to cuddle. Even when he needs his space, he'll make sure he keeps either his tail or his paw touching you.

He's an early riser and to wake you up, he'll either lick, paw, or nudge your face with his cold nose.

BONUS - Gabriel Rorke:

Like Ajax, he doesn't care. Once he hits the bed, he's conked out.

He has one of his legs hanging out of the bed, a nightmarish thing for a kid who might see this. You tell him jokingly, "The monster under the bed will grab your leg and drag you underneath." And he just says, "I am the monster under the bed," to assert dominance to the imaginary beasts.

Light sleeper, and sleeps on his back, arms crossed like he has a meeting to attend in 30 minutes.

He sometimes has his eyes half-open, which is kinda freaky

And being a light sleeper, you don't know whether he's asleep or awake and trolling you.

Read this next! Romantically sharing a bed

[heartpascal]

can we get more father figure joel? You know when Ellie killed the David, and then Joel comforted her? Maybe that but instead of Ellie it’s the reader, thank you <3

i am good

▹ joel miller x platonic!f!reader

▹ — summary: joel finally sees the darkness in himself reflected in you.

▹ — a/n: ok first request i hope it’s ok!! i know its kinda similar to the game but erm. its reader and joel this time!! and reader is much much less ok with the whole. murder thing but its ok bc joel is there to fix it &lt;3 yes he is your dad no you don’t get a choice he has decided it

▹ — warnings: allusions to sexual assault (nothing happens but the intention was there), vivid descriptions of murder, reader is misled and attacked, similar to the game with ellie (so kinda spoilers?), joel is ready to kill for you (and does), lots of blood, tears, father figure joel, lots of angst and upset, vomiting

masterlist

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Getting air into your lungs was proving to be one of the hardest things you’d had to do for a long time, which, considering the journey you’d been on, was shocking. The act of simply breathing should have come easily to you, but it didn’t. It couldn’t. Not as you saw the reflection of your own bloodied face in the knife that was held up, a clear threat polluting the air.

You knew you had probably been lucky to even make it as far as you had — born into a world full of death and chaos and infection, you were bound to meet your gruesome end some day, but you didn’t want to die.

For the first time in a long time, your chest ached for the breath you couldn’t seem to provide, the want, the need to live almost suffocating you on its own. You had someone now, someone who cared whether you survived or not, who felt like you deserved even a glimpse at a happy ending, even if he didn’t like to state those things out loud.

Resentment was growing in your stomach, filling you with the need to be sick. Why did you always have to listen to the words Joel didn’t say, rather than the ones he did say? If you had just listened, conserved your trust for those who actually earned it, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

When your hunting escapades had led you into a small horde of infected, you had just blindly put your faith in the aging couple who came to your aid, not thinking of what they might want for their troubles. You’d never had to escape without Joel’s help before, and you quickly discovered you weren’t all that good at it.

The two of them had dragged you back to their nearby settlement which they shared with a couple dozen others, all whilst you were kicking and screaming, trying to get away, your resolve fading each time they hit you to near unconsciousness. When they passed by a young man stood beside an older lady, you had called out to them, “Please, help me, please.”

“Gotta get something in return for the gear we wasted saving her ass,” the man had snickered to the two of them as glanced at the couple, just nodding at his words before turning back to their conversation.

You’d been knocked out when they approached a large community house, just getting a glimpse of the carpeted floor before the woman had struck her gun against the side of your head.

You had woken up in the middle of a chilled room, your arms straining with effort as you pushed yourself to sit up, seeing the woman holding a knife towards you. You couldn’t be sure how long it had been since they’d taken you, not with the way your stomach clenched with pain. The whole reason you’d been out there was to solve that, but you were sure that it had gotten worse.

“Listen, please,” your scratchy voice came out, much quieter than you had meant for it to be, “I—I can get you replacements for everything you used, but you gotta let me go.”

“We don’t gotta do anything, girl.” The lady snickered, as if even you saying such a thing was amusing. It made you feel small, powerless.

She got up, hearing her name being called, Cheryl, you noted, and sneered at you. Her skin was dull, and she looked vaguely ill, but that didn’t change anything about her threatening demeanour. At least one thing you’d taken from travelling with Joel was never underestimate your opponent, no matter how small, or ill, or kind they may appear to be.

Her hand grazed your face as she strode past, “Yeah,” she said quietly, like she was complimenting you, “You’ll do nicely. We’ll both enjoy you.”

You managed to avoid throwing up until she left the room, hearing a lock click into place. All that came up was bile, the clench of your stomach just becoming sharper afterwards. Your muscles felt weak, likely beginning to waste away with you having been inactive for a little while and injured, less energy wasted on muscle cells and more going into fighting off the infections that were likely trying to poison your blood.

Scanning the room, like Joel would’ve advised you to, you found nothing of much use to you. An old rickety chair, perhaps, but that would only help you if you could lift it, and you weren’t convinced you had the strength left within you, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

Something deep in your chest nagged at you, the longing for Joel, probably. He had saved you on countless occasions, and you could only hope that it had been long enough that he had finally gotten worried. It seemed likely, he really did worry a lot for a man who wasn’t meant to care, but then there was the factor of him finding you, managing to take down all the people in the settlement that might fight to protect each other and—

You took a deep breath, finally feeling your lungs expand and take in some oxygen, and pulled yourself from the ground, keeping the bile that threatened to rise down as the nausea hit you.

The chair was lighter than you expected it to be, the insides of the wooden frame likely rotten away, and you managed to pull it towards the door, waiting beside it with shallow breaths. When the lock finally began to click open, you raised the lightweight chair as high as you could, and smacked it down against the person who entered the room. Splinters flew from it as it impacted, and you heard the clatter of metal as a tray they carried hit the ground with them.

Food, maybe, to keep you alive for… whatever it was that they had planned for you, you reasoned, but didn’t look to check. Instead, you grabbed a mostly-intact leg of the chair that caused splinters to dig into your palm, and stepped over the body of the man who had taken you, exiting quickly.

Footsteps hurried you, and you ducked behind a booth as they approached the room you were being kept in. There were lanterns lit all around the room, giving it a warm look that greatly contrasted the cold air and feel it had.

“Shit!” Cheryl cursed, and you saw her bend down to check on the man from over the top of your booth. A radio crackled though the air, before, “Lewis is down, the girl’s out. Anybody got eyes?”

Your fingers shook and you gripped on to the booth to stop them, hearing the distorted reply of whoever was on the other end of the radio, “She ain’t got out, yet, she’s gotta be in there with you. You need backup?”

“No,” Cheryl replied, her cold voice sending shivers down your back, “I’ve got her.”

The drag of Lewis’ clothes against the floor made you peak your head up, seeing her drag him into the room, before she exited and locked him inside. You ducked back down, heart hammering. You couldn’t escape from them in an open forest — how would you get out of a locked down building?

“Come on out, kid. It’s okay, you just gotta start behaving yourself.” She called, her slow footsteps failing to mask the sound of her unsheathing her knife. It wasn’t okay, it was very far from okay, you would argue, and you could feel that crushing fear of death pushing down on your shoulders, your chest constricting once again.

You tried to reassure yourself — you had faced countless amounts of infected and come out on the other side, what was one woman with very bad intentions? But it didn’t make you feel better, not when it was another human, who could feel exactly what you felt.

Her footsteps approached, and you leaped from where you were in the booth, trying to run as far away from her as fast as you could, but she caught up to you with surprising ease, your muscles clearly weaker than initially thought, and she grasped the back of your shirt, pulling you to a stop as you fell to the ground.

“Get the fuck off of me!” You cried out as she knelt down, one knee beside you and another pressing against your stomach, knife approaching your throat as soon as she settled you firmly against the carpet. It was red.

“You could’ve made this real easy for all of us,” she muttered your name, and you froze, having forgotten the way you’d yelled it out to them in the midst of the battle. “Be a good girl, now.”

You heard gunfire outside, and when her face glanced toward the guarded front door, you twisted underneath her, pushing yourself away to find enough room to kick the knee against the floor out from under her. She fell, her chin hitting the ground with a satisfying crack, and when she cried out, anger overcame you.

“You were gonna hurt me,” You said aloud, almost as if it was a realisation, rather than just fact. Your eyes hardened, gaze going red as you snatched the knife from her weakened grip. She reached out to try and snatch it back, but only got the drops of your blood that fell from the blade as you held onto it, twisting it until you finally held the handle. “Why— why were you going to hurt me?”

Her response didn’t filter through your ears, and the rage at how easily she and Lewis were going to do it pulsed, making your vision go blurry. When she sat up, tumbling forward to take you down again, you swiped her own knife until you felt the drag of something resisting it, and then you pulled harder, feeling something warm gushing down your hand.

Cheryl’s breath stuttered slightly, her hands rising to her chest as she groaned in pain. You looked down to your hands, where they were coated in a red that was darker than the carpet below them, and you were so lost that you didn’t notice her hand coming below yours, hitting it so hard that the knife went flying to the other end of the carpet.

Like a reflex, your fists came down on her face, feeling the shift of bones beneath your knuckles as they shattered upon contact. You didn’t stop, too wrapped up in the fact that you didn’t want to die, that she was going to hurt you, to kill you when she was done, she was going to tear you apart and throw away the pieces, she was going to take away what little humanity had left, she—

Arms pulled you away from the body beneath you, arms much stronger than your own, and you screamed, yelled out with your broken voice, “I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you, get off of me! I’ll kill you!”

The person shushed you, only holding tighter as you thrashed, turning away from Cheryl where she… wasn’t breathing. You stopped, tense muscles in your body going slack and burning as you stared at her, at her body, lifeless and covered in blood.

“Kid, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” said the person holding you— said Joel. Your hands dropped from where you had scratched his forearm, his arm covered in blood — though whether it was his, or Cheryl’s, or yours, you didn’t know.

He loosened his grip on you, eyebrows creased in concern as your entire body slipped when he moved his arms away, as if you couldn’t even hold yourself up.

“No… she— it wasn’t, I didn’t—” you trailed off, unsure of what to say, the words dead on your tongue, because you didn’t what? Didn't mean to kill her?

Joel followed your blank eyes to the body he’d pulled you from, and he turned your head towards him quickly, eyes hard. “No.” He said, and at your somewhat confused expression, he continued, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Joel, I—”

“No,” he repeated, and pulled your head towards him, keeping you looking away from Cheryl as a gunshot rang through the room, echoing in your ears so loudly you couldn’t hear Joel at first, as he held up the smoking gun for you to see, “—killed her, see? I killed her.”

“They were going… they wanted to—” You choked on the words, feeling that bile come creeping back up your throat, and you lurched away from Joel as it came out, feeling him pull your hair back from your face.

Something in his eyes settled, however, at the choice of word you’d used — they. So this body wasn’t the only one in here? His question was answered by a bang at a door on the other side, the way your entire body flinched at the sound.

The door splintered, and a battered man came tumbling out, hurrying over to where he could see people crowded. His face went red, and he began to shout, “You fucking bitch—!”

Joel shot one between the eyes, and the man crumpled before he could get anything else out. He turned back to you, to where you were hunched in on yourself. He shoved his gun back in its rightful place, and held your cheeks between his hands, gunpowder residue transferring to your skin.

“Do you hear me?” His muted voice said, and you looked up to his face with a confused shake of your head, “It was you or them, and the only answer is you.”

“But, Joel,” you were interrupted, and he wiped the underneath of your eye of a tear that you hadn’t even known had fallen.

“No. You listen to me, remember?” Joel affirmed, and you nodded, the tears falling more now that you’d acknowledged them, your hands shaking as you tried to look past Joel, but he just pulled your face back to him. “I’ve got you, kid. Keep your eyes on me.”

You turned your face into his neck as you all but threw yourself into his arms, and they wrapped around you like they’d been waiting to do so. You missed his pained expression at the words, and the way heartache burrowed in his chest as he stood the two of you up, his knees clicking.

He swept you up, as if you were the smallest and lightest thing he’d carried in years, and he carried you away, your eyes staying glued to him as the two of you left behind the carnage he’d caused in looking for you.

[gyllenhaalstories]

SOMETHING TO RELY ON — DETECTIVE LOKI 🖤

summary: detective loki comes home after a long investigation, needing nothing more than something, or someone, to rely on.

warnings: i can’t write canon and accurate portrayals to save my life, mentions of loki’s work, fluff & comfort. 18+ NO MINORS. yes, even if this fic has no smut, i don’t want minors interacting with my content.

word count: 1700

gifs credits: @/magnusedom (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i have the selfish need to take care of this man and protect him from all the bad things in this world so this is exactly what i’m doing with this fic. no plot, only rambling. 🖤 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

“Oh, David.”

He grunted, rejecting what sounded like pity in your voice. It was a reflex, despite you telling him over and over again that you empathized with his hard work. He simply refused to let you feel bad for him.

And you refused for him to not let you do that. How could you not feel bad for your man? He looked dishevelled at best. His clothes were wrinkly, his coat was wet from the rain outside. His beard was unusually long. He smelled of cheap body soap, one labelled a manly tornado of masculine jungle and virile storm clouds.

David started to explain, calculating his words so that he would not speak in vain. He told you that he found a truck stop and used their showers before driving back home. His presence for the investigation was supposed to last a day or two, but he was required to stay on the field for about a week. Unlike his colleagues, he turned his back to the offer of a comfortable bed at the motel and a warm breakfast every morning. He stayed ready and awake for as long and as much as he could, in case of something happening.

You helped him out in silence as he spoke. How you had missed the sound of his voice without the bad network of the phone service struggling to pick up from the place he stayed for the past week. It could have been in the middle of the Bermuda triangle for all you knew, it cut you off too many times and prevented you from falling asleep to the gentle humming of David as he played in his mind songs that looped on the radio during patrol.

He let you remove his drenched coat. He watched you until you disappeared into the bathroom, he assumed you were hanging the coat in the shower where it could drip and dry without making a mess. He loved your attention to details, and how it mirrored his very own. He let you untie his boots so that he could step out of them. He let you do every small and big gestures to get him comfortable.

You offered him a fresh set of clothes, soft worn-out sweatpants and an old t-shirt that had been waiting for his arrival since the moment he walked out of the door. While he changed, you discarded of the dirty work clothes that he wore. You did not comment on how difficult it would be to wash away the dried stains of mud. He was probably kneeling outside in the rain, searching for a piece of information regarding the investigation. Day and night, you knew he devoted himself to his case.

“Love?” He called out for you. He blinked as he caught sight of you, being a busy bee from one room to the other around the house. You hands were full one second, empty the next one. Loki both loved and hated how this all came naturally to you. He loved the ways with which you both took care of each other. You handled the seemingly mindless tasks that weighted heavy on his shoulders while he provided you with a safe, strong presence and with arms to fall into when you needed. When he was actually there.

You finally reappeared in the living room. Your face lit up with a smile at the sight of him. He already looked better in the clean clothes. The shirt stretched over his broad chest, over his soft tummy. “Tell me the story of when you got this t-shirt.”

Loki grinned and looked down at the World’s best fisherman shirt. He explained how he picked it up from the lost and found box at the police station he worked prior to the current one. A cliché altercation between him and a box of donuts had led to him interrogate his first potential criminal with a prideful fisherman shirt. His retelling of the story always made the two of you smile.

It worked as a way to bring his feet down on the ground, to focus on what was important. As a bonus, it was simply entertaining to imagine Loki walking around with that shirt while trying to appear as almighty and professional. “Do you want something to eat?”

The corners of his lips curled into a smile and he followed you to the dimly lit kitchen. In a few swift movements, you had bread, peanut butter, jelly as well as a couple of utensils pulled out on the counter. The final touch was added by David’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind as you assembled his sandwich.

You spread the peanut butter all the way to the crust of the bread and on the other slice, you scooped strawberry jelly and made sure to get chunks of fruit too. Just how he liked it, just how you made it when you packed his lunch for mornings where he was too busy and tired to remember to take care of himself. You pressed the layers together gently and cut it in two triangles, handing him the bigger half.

He thanked you with a kiss on your cheek as he grabbed one of the triangles, taking a big bite out of it. He could easily guess you would have preferred to welcome him home with a big, warm meal. Although, in his mind at this very moment, he saw no difference between that sandwich and something that would have taken hours to make and double the amount of time to bake. And besides, he thought a lot about what he wanted to do during this break from the investigation. He needed to keep his mind and hands busy. This sounded like the right opportunity to invest crazy amounts of time into food you could cook together. Or you’d settle from ordering takeout from the Chinese food restaurant.

You cleaned up once you were both done eating, still with David holding you tight like a safety belt. “Want me to tell you about my day?” He hummed, agreeing. So you did just that, you shared the silly details with him as a way to make him feel included despite his long absence. Sometimes, you disliked sharing stories of your life with him. He was a creature of habit, it was hard to remind David that you were just telling about your encounter with a rude person at the grocery store and it was not an investigation. He would analyze your words, scrutinize your reactions, until you told him to relax.

He did not need such a reminder, at that very moment. Loki leaned his head on your shoulder, not minding how contorted his spine was to maintain him in that position. His eyelids were getting heavy, and so was he. He was half listening and half falling asleep on you.

For every night of the past week, you would have traded anything just to be crushed by his sleeping body and keep him safe and warm. However, you imagined it would be in bed and not laying flat in the middle of the kitchen if you even found the space for that anyway. “Come on, big boy. It’s time for your nap.” You turned gently in Loki’s arms, causing him to gain just enough consciousness to grunt in dissatisfaction. You draped his left arm over your shoulders and held him tightly as you both limped your way to the living room.

Any further, and David would have fallen down on the floor. You helped him to the couch so he could lay down. He shook his head slowly when you presented him with one of the throw pillows. He opened his eyes just long enough to lock his gaze with yours and he grinned when you understood his silent request. He sat up, struggling to stay still, until you joined him on the couch.

You stretched your legs up on the coffee table and you let Loki slowly rest his head on your lap. The sigh he let out made your heart clench inside your chest. He was killing himself trying to save people from dying. All you could do was stand by his side and help keep his head above water for as long as he would let you.

Loki saw it differently. He saw all of the love-filled gestures as a sacrifice as big as his. He appreciated each and every single one of them, and tonight was just the same. He appreciated how you peeled away the layers of stress, of turmoil and of fear. You did that by helping him with his clothes and also by keeping safe physically and at peace mentally.

“It’s okay, now.” You whispered as you placed your right hand on his stubbly cheek, your left one played with his hair. You were soothing both of your souls while trying to make up for all the time he spent away.

You repeated that it was okay over and over again until he, too, said the words to himself. He was okay. For now. And, for now, it was all that mattered. There would never be enough words and actions that could show you how thankful he was to have someone to rely on.

“You’re home.” You smiled down at him and watched him closely as he relaxed under your touch. You stroked your thumb over his lips, tickling his sensitive and chapped skin until his mouth parted open and his breathing slowed down.

He was seconds away from drifting into sleep. His eyelids were heavy. On your thigh, his head was heavy too with all its of horrors and sorrow. His voice sounded gentle and calm. “My love.”

A single tear fell from your cheek and down on the hand that was caressing his. Hearing the words in person rather than on the phone healed the pain that Loki’s absence had put you through once more. You leaned your head back to rest it on the couch and you closed your eyes too. Though it came with all sorts of tribulations, you were just as thankful as him to have someone to rely on.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt XI good omens season 1 finale I'M SORRY THIS IS LATE, I WAS READING FANFIC.

How is this a title I'm now forced to write. Yes, I know it's been a week since I finished episode 6 with you maggots. And today is the day we start season 2. However, I, the Official Good Omens Mascot, procrastinated writing part XI, because I was reading too much good omens fanfiction. Yesterday I do believe I was reading till 3 in the morning. Thanks guys.

Season 1 finale, or whatever I can figure out with my records of the watch along chat, at least. WAHOO.

[EDIT: I'm back at the intro after finishing this post, and I realised this is a very long summary, because most of it is me yelling at you guys. As I typed it I started reliving my rage of last week. Read on if you dare, yes the post is long, and yes the second half is in all caps. THIS TOOK EMOTION. YOU GUYS BETTER REBLOG IT INSTEAD OF LIKING IT SILENTLY WHILE LAUGHING AT MY PAIN. I WANT MY RAGE EVERYWHERE ON TUMBLR.]

Someone puts a message about how Crowley can no longer sense Aziraphale's presence, and again for some reason covers it with black. My reaction is of course horrified, and then everyone tells me to STOP CLICKING THE SPOILERS, ASMI.

So that's what that was. I realise this out loud, and everyone is ready to cry with exasperation. I explain to them very reasonably that while I don't read every message on the watch-along chat, every time there is a black message I assume it's important and I click on all of them to reveal the text.

Realising the spoiler function has backfired, as most things do with me, the chat sighs and everyone goes for a break. Then someone puts another blacked out message about the bookshop, and I react to that, leading to another blacked out message which simply says STOP CLICKING THE BLACK.

Oops, I already forgot. THE SPOILERS ARE JUST TOO CLICKY. CLICK CLICK CLICK. I HAVE TO CLICK ALL OF THEM.

Someone says I forgive you, Asmi. I reply with Don't bother, which leads to tears and threats to stab me. The chat maggots give up and we start episode 6.

There is a random flashforward. I don't understand what is happening, but then again, I never do.

Back at the airfield. Crowley walks in, recognises their hubby instantly, and takes charge sexily. Then the Bentley bursts into flames.

Crowley is heartbroken. No one comforts them. When I point this out (read, YELL IT AT THE CHAT IN DEVASTATION) someone tells me that this is how it always is.

APPARENTLY DAVID WAS TOLD TO THINK ABOUT THE TARDIS EXPLODING IN THAT MOMENT. I HATE THAT I KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS.

Crowley needs all the therapy. Someone says kinder fanfic authors give it to him. LIES, I point out, FIRST THEY GIVE HIM EVEN MORE REASON FOR THERAPY. THEN GIVE HIM THERAPY.

Everyone is yelling about a fanfic called demonology while Adam the Antichrist feels so weird at Aziraphale being inside someone that's not Crowley that he separates them in the First Bigeneration style. Doctor Who is inspired.

Aziraphale like the babygirl he is, tries to girlboss his way through the situation by making Crowley murder the kid.

Pepper FUCKING STABS WAR IN THE NAME OF FEMINISM WITH THE SWORD OF EDEN AND THEN OTHER TWO KIDS END THE OTHER HORSEPERSONS IN THE NAME OF HOMECOOKED MEALS AND ECOFRIENDLINESS AND WHAT THE FUCK THESE KIDS ARE TWELVE WHAT PERCY JACKSON LEVEL OF BADASSERY-

Crowley and Aziraphale give a half-assed attempt at a father-son (gn) talk with the Antichrist as the world is ending. It is a terrible contribution to saving the world. The Antichrist thankfully has inherent common sense, because he wasn't raised by them.

Aziraphale tries to overshare his and Crowley's meetcute and has to be shushed by an embarrassed Crowley who is trying to keep them alive.

Satan is supposed to arrive. I mistakenly assume Gabriel is actually Satan. Which pleases a lot of people.

Gabriel and Beezlebub talk and blame Crowley and Aziraphale (who contributed exactly JACK SHIT to averting the apocalypse).

I kind of ship Gabriel and Beezlebub after seeing them interact for 30 seconds, which for some fucking reason leads to a lot of reactions and yelling. I want them to be together. Which leads to more yelling. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY CANON?

Satan arrives. Antichrist disowns him. Through the power of Manifestation, Law of Attraction and Positive Thinking, Adam is now no longer the Antichrist, Satan leaves, none of this happened and the BENTLEY AND BOOKSHOP ARE SAVED.

NO ONE IS FUCKING HUGGING CROWLEY. I'M GOING TO STAB A BITCH.

There is the bus stop scene Crowley asks Aziraphale to move in with him and they hold hands I DON'T FUCKING KNOW BY NOW THE CHAT HAS DESCENDED INTO CHAOS I'VE LOST MY BRAINCELLS.

ICE CREAM DATE AND SUDDEN INVASION AND I'M WATCHING THE ACTING AND I'M LIKE HANG ON A SECOND SOMETHING IS OFF AND I ASK SUDDENLY IF THEY SWITCHED.

THAT'S RIGHT, I ASK IF THEY SWITCHED. I KNEW THERE WAS A SWITCH AND I THOUGHT IT WAS MIDWAY THROUGH SEASON 2. BUT THE SIGNS ARE TOO MANY HERE. EVERYONE IS NOW YELLING AND PEOPLE KEEP IGNORING ME.

ALL THE ACTING IS FLIPPED I'M NOT BLIND YOU FUCKERS. AZIRAPHALE'S FACE IS DOING CROWLEY'S COULDNT-CARE-LESS EXPRESSION AND HE'S QUESTIONING HEAVEN AND CROWLEY'S TALKING HAS LESS CONSONANTS THAN USUAL AND NO CROWLEY SASS MORE AZIRAPHALE SASS IT'S THE SAME BACKGROUND AS THE NOSE-SCRUNCH SCENE AND SURELY THAT WAS AZIRAPHALE RIGHT.

EVERYONE KEEPS TELLING ME TO WAIT AND SEE. I KEEP YELLING THAT THEY MUST HAVE SWITCHED.

SOMEONE SAYS I'M EITHER A MADMAN OR A GENIUS. I TELL THEM I'M BOTH BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT DID THEY FUCKING SWITCH.

I'M NOW QUESTIONING MYSELF BECAUSE EVERYONE ISN'T LYING BUT THEY'RE MAKING ME QUESTION MY REALITY SO THE CLASSIC GASLIGHT GATEKEEP GIRLBOSSING.

I'M YELLING ABOUT HOW ONLY AZIRAPHALE WOULD BE POLITE ABOUT JACKETS AND SURVIVE HOLY WATER. EVERYONE IS LAUGHING AT ME. I'M NOW 60% SURE I'M WRONG.

PEOPLE KEEP YELLING WAIT AND SEE AND TALKING ABOUT SADIE AND DOTTIE I HATE IT HERE.

CROWLEY IS IN HEAVEN THAT WAS HIS DISMISSIVE LOOK I'M NOW 90% SURE I'M RIGHT. I'M YELLING ABOUT IT.

ADAM LEAVES THE GARDEN IN A METAPHOR AND THEN AZIRAPHALE AND CROWLEY SWITCHED BACK. THEY SWITCHED BACK. I WAS FUCKING RIGHT. I AM LIVID. I AM YELLING.

IT'S VERY EMOTIONAL AND NIGHTINGALES AND THEY TOAST THE WORLD AND I'M VERY EMOTIONAL BUT I'M COPING BY THREATENING MURDER BECAUSE I WAS FUCKING RIGHT.

THE END.

SEE YOU GUYS TODAY AT SEASON 2 I GUESS GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

[myboipracticallyimagines]

No Remorse - Joel Miller x Reader

Joel would never apologize for the lengths he went to to protect his girls. That didn't stop his nightmares.

Every night before he went to sleep, he ensured his rifle was just to the right of the bed, well within his reach. He slept facing the doorway, with himself closest to it. The bedroom the two of you inhabited was on the first floor, closest to the entrance of the house. Ellie's was on the second floor - it was safer that way. Even though he made sure each firefly who wanted her brain were dead, he could never be too sure. She was his daughter, and he would tear the world apart to protect her.

He would tear it apart once more to save you. Joel's world shattered when he saw you under those two men. Ellie was able to free herself from David, but you weren't so lucky. The two captors easily overpowered you, caring not about the screams that filled the smoky air. They didn't relent until Joel put a bullet in their brains. He should have tortured them, he often confessed. Made them suffer just a fraction of the way they'd made you. But in the moment, all he cared about was getting you to safety.

Joel could never do more damage to this world than it had already done to his girls.

That might've been what made his decision so easy. You were nowhere to be found and Ellie was about to be killed. The decision to save her was the same as the decision to inhale. That was his Ellie on the table, his Ellie. That was the girl who told stupid puns and was far too inquisitive for her own good. That was the girl who never had someone to fight for her. Until now.

They had left you on the street, unconscious and alone. Joel had already loaded Ellie into the back of the sedan, so he took a moment to scan you for injuries. Other than the mark on your head from the butt of their gun, you were fine. Joel swore nothing like that would ever happen to his girls again. You were going to Tommy's, and nothing would stand in his way of getting you there.

You and Ellie woke at around the same time. It took everything in the man not to stop the car and sob. Somehow, you had all made it. Scarred and bloodied and bruised, but alive. Joel didn't tell either of you the truth about that day until much later. It was heartbreaking, but one look into Ellie's eyes and you knew you would have done the same thing. She was a child, and her life was more valuable than the world.

It took longer to convince Ellie of that fact. She locked herself away for weeks. You did your best to comfort her, but she needed time. One day she finally emerged, eyes still blotchy. She entered into your bedroom and crawled in between the two of you, as she did on particularly dreadful nights. "I wouldn't let them kill you either," she had sniffled, before getting wrapped in the tightest hug she'd ever received.

So on the nights when Joel was riddled with nightmares and plagued with the faces that were no more, he simply held on tighter to you and remembered that no one would hurt his girls ever again.

[taste-your-silhouette]

Pairings: Damiano David x fem!reader Contents: Fluff Summary: You’re at a party and you’re squabbling over a sofa with Damiano when he unintentionally reveals something while unaware that you’re eavesdropping  Words: ~1129 A/N: A touch of enemies to lovers for you all, because I love it!I should warm you that it contains some explicit language.Please, forgive me again if you come across any errors while reading. I hope you enjoy it 💙

I just wanna hold you close tonight

You're at your bestie's party, at her crib. Parties aren't really your thing, but there's no way to dodge one when your friend is the mastermind behind it.

The house is jam-packed, the music is blasting, and Vic, one of your pals, is rocking the DJ booth. Vic and Thomas, your childhood buddies, are also here, along with Ethan. You became friends with Ethan after he joined the band. As for Damiano... well, let's just say you and him are like acquaintances. You wouldn't exactly call him a friend because you both don't exactly hit it off. He tends to make you feel uneasy, so you try to avoid being in the same place as him whenever possible. Whenever his gaze meets yours, it's like all your defenses crumble, and you can't stand that feeling.

You've had a few sips, but not enough to get wasted, just enough to feel a little extra lively and adventurous. Everyone is having a blast, but all you crave is the comfort of your bed. As you navigate through the crowd, trying to escape small talk, you stumble upon a vacant couch in the living room. It's like a dream come true — all you want is to plop down and catch some Z's!

As you were about to reach the sofa, Damiano flings himself onto it, stretching his legs out and occupying the entire space.

"You've got to be kidding me!" you exclaim, giving him a stern look.

He gazes back at you, confused.

"What did I do?"

"I was going to sit there, you goofball."

"Oh, my bad, Y/N. Didn't realize you had plans."

You grumble angrily and retort:

"Move or I'll plop down and squish your head!"

"You know, that wouldn't be a half-bad idea. You sitting on my head, right over my mouth, to be precise," he smirks.

"You're repulsive. Get off the couch, Damiano."

"I've already told you no. Looks like you'll have to sit here by force."

You roll your eyes and throw yourself on top of him, engaging in a playful struggle to push each other off the couch. Suddenly, both of you freeze as you end up on his lap.

Damiano continues to stare at you, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, well."

You roll your eyes and simply say:

"Shut up, and you know what? You can stay right there, no need to move. You're surprisingly comfortable."

You push him, pressing his back against the couch, and then rest your head on his chest.

"Keep quiet, I'm tired," you practically command, closing your eyes.

Incredibly, he simply obeys your request.

//

You don't know exactly how long you've dozed off, but the party is still in full swing, and you're still sprawled on top of Damiano. Amidst all the noise, you can't hear his heart pounding, but you can feel the rhythmic beats.

"Is it the end of the world? You two getting along without exchanging insults," you hear Ethan remark.

"You say that because you didn't witness the battle it took to reach this point," Damiano retorts.

"Damiano, leave her be. Let's enjoy the party," a female voice you don't recognize calls out to Damiano.

You don't pay attention to what Damiano says, or perhaps he simply ignores the girl. With one hand resting on your head, you can faintly feel a gentle stroke through your hair.

He doesn't want to disturb your peaceful slumber. Seeing you so calm and serene lying on his lap is a sight he's never witnessed before. It's a far cry from the usual furrowed and stressed Y/N when you're together.

"Are you planning on staying there until the party is over?" the girl asks once more.

Damiano takes a deep breath and responds:

"Whether or not I stay here all night is none of your business."

Ethan lets out a faint chuckle and waits a few minutes before speaking up:

"Hey, Damiano. Deep down, you have feelings for her, don't you?"

You sense Damiano's heartbeat quicken. Could he be nervous about the question?

Damiano hesitates for a moment before finally admitting: 

"Yeah, I like her, all right? It's just that... she's complicated."

Ethan bursts into laughter.

"I knew it! It's as clear as day if you ask me. And I do not doubt that she likes you too."

Damiano's face lights up with a smile at the thought of his feelings being reciprocated by you. He has liked you since the day you first met, but he never quite knew how to express it. The playful banter and dynamic between you two became his way of catching your attention.

"I really hope so..." he murmurs as he rests his cheek against your head, inhaling the sweet fragrance of your hair. "Please, let her like me," Damiano whispers, almost inaudibly.

You let out a sleepy sigh, lazily opening and closing your eyes, but stay still, relishing the sensation of Damiano's heartbeat.

He likes you, and you heard him confess it. If you hadn't heard it directly from him, if Ethan or anyone else had told you, you would never have believed it.

One of your hands rests on Damiano's shoulder, and you glide it gently across his skin until you reach his neck, where you begin a tender caress.

With his other hand, free to move, Damiano strokes your arm and whispers in your ear,

"How long have you been awake?"

"I'm taking off," Ethan announces.

With your eyes still shut, you respond:

"It's not a big deal, but I heard you confess that you like me and want me to feel the same way."

"Look at me," Damiano requests.

You disregard his plea, not wanting to lose the sensation of his racing heartbeat.

"No, I want to keep feeling your heartbeat."

Damiano chuckles and gently holds your chin, directing your gaze toward him.

"You'll be able to feel it pounding over and over," he says.

You raise an eyebrow and inquire:

"Really?"

"Yes, ever since the day you entered my life, it's been racing at the mere thought of you. It's been yours all along, and you can hear or feel its rhythm whenever you want."

You smile widely and guide one of Damiano's hands to your chest, allowing him to feel your heartbeat as well.

It's just as fast as his.

"My heart dances the same tune. I suppose that's why I'm always on guard whenever I'm around you because my heart belongs to you too."

"Y/N..." Damiano begins, but you cut him off.

"Shh, if I recall correctly, I told you to hush, but it seems that proved challenging for you..."

Before you can finish your sentence, Damiano pulls you into a kiss.

It's a kiss filled with unbridled passion. A kiss that should have taken place ages ago.

[romanticizingmurder]

One of the things that comes up a lot in meta on the vampire chronicles is trying to delineate between "this is being treated as a kink fantasy", "this is fictional trauma beinf sexualized", and "this is being treated like real trauma would be" and I think the interesting and almost unique to itself aspect of TVC is that...it's almost always all of the above.

I've been thinking about David and Lestat's respective turnings lately and what strikes me about both is how they don't really neatly line up into "portrayal of horrific trauma", "rape fantasy", or even "cnc fantasy" (hear me out, we'll get there), but are an uneasy mixture of all of them at the same time.

Disclaimer: I am going to be talking about rape in a fictional story both as a traumatic violence and as a fantasy. I am coming at this from the point of view of someone who enjoys kinks, including nonconsent in fiction, and who is a real life survivor.

Using David's turning because most of the discussion around it is neatly in the same one or two places, we see it treated as all of these things in turn.

Lestat undeniably rapes David. That is not only the implication from blood drinking as a metaphor for sexual desire, but explicitly the language used:

There are scenes of genuine anguish after the assault:

At the same time, the scene is, at least in my opinion, pretty sexualized! We linger in descriptions of David's body, of Lestat's pleasure in this monstrous deed.

And if this was all there was to it, I'd feel pretty comfortable putting this (and the many situations which mirror it in TVC) as a dead dove sort of situation. It's erotic horror, and this is both erotic and horrifying. What else did you expect?

And yet.

Let me make a relevant digression:

Up until 2012, when new research started coming out, the most popular theory for why rape fantasies are so prevalent among women was something called sexual blame avoidance. The idea being that women's sexuality and desires are so shamed by society as a whole that fantasies wherein they are forced allow them a guiltless way of experiencing desire.

This actually appears to not be the case for most people with these fantasies, but it certainly still is for many, and, possibly more relevantly: when these books were written, this would have been The theory on rape fantasies. That rape fantasies are a manifestation of desires that one feels ashamed of, so the fantasy of being forced removes one's agency and thus blame.

And here is David, having been raped by Lestat, saying he really did want it, he just couldn't allow himself to want it.

David had a desire he felt shame for desiring, and Lestat took away that shame by forcibly acting upon it.

It's easy to read this as simply rape apologism, and I can't stop anyone from reading it that way. And I don't and can't really know what Anne was thinking in this or in any number of other scenes that encompass erotica and horror and the comfort of fantasy all at once.

All I can do is say that the first thing I thought of when reading David's speech was how it felt directly lifted from any number of conversations I've had with other survivors on the appeal of cnc scenes. All I know is how I felt reading this and any number of other scenes in this series, which was: oh, finally someone understands what the fantasy is about.

But I think what trips people with that is that these stories aren't "just" short or erotica without weight. These are long stories with character development and emotional weight and real explorations of trauma. And I don't think that's inaccurate! I think they are that. I think these are, at least to me, also long explorations of kink fantasies and how the dynamics of those fantasies, removed from the need for consent and risk awareness of the real world.

Lestat can rape David and it can be something traumatic, something erotic, and something he ended up believing he wanted, because it's not one or the other in this universe. It can be an exporation of cycles of trauma, erotic horror, and long form kink fantasies written with real emotion, all at once. We don't have to choose just one - and I don't think Anne did, either.

[actual-changeling]

I know that Ellie eventually going to school is a pretty much universally accepted part of the world building, but I am itching to explore her trying to do so and simply being unable to do it.

The child abuse she went through at the hands of FEDRA was probably prolific and cruel, and her life was basically nothing but different kinds of "education" strung together, whether that's whatever they cobbled together for general education or the military training. Joel might know it was bad (cause it's fucking FEDRA), but the extend of her trauma is hard to gauge when you are not in a situation that triggers it.

Her academic trauma does not disappear outside of school, but unless Ellie is in a similar situation it simply won't be immediately obvious (speaking from experience). On top of that, David being a teacher does not help whatsoever.

-

Joel and Ellie agree on a first day of school, but they want to check out the building beforehand, just so they're both a bit more at peace. Ellie is somewhat excited but also scared, and the closer they get to the building, the quieter she becomes, just hanging onto Joel's hand and squeezing it until her knuckles turn white. He pulls her close, notices she is nervous, but he doesn't press and gets them inside. One of the handful of teachers, a woman about Joel's age (they're aware enough to not have it be a man, Silver Lake is a known topic), meets them at the door and shows them around.

Small classrooms with surprisingly comfortable looking wooden chairs (Ellie sees the pillows on them and her mind short-circuits), some old sofas and couches, armchairs, spacious desks and all kinds of posters and materials. There's an art room and it is the only time Ellie's grip on Joel loosens a tiny bit, the array of brushes, paints, and instruments fascinates her, but that moment passes as quickly as it came.

With every step they take, the teacher's voice blurs with Joel's and turns into white noise, her vision grows fuzzy and grey, and she has to keep blinking with fluttering lashes to not sway on her feet when the dissociation gets worse. Absently, her mind keeps cataloguing the floor plan, windows, doors, all exists she can make our and imagine, but by the end of the tour, she cannot remember anything past leaving their house this morning. Something tugs on her hand, and she blinks up at Joel, his gaze loaded with a question she didn't hear, and maybe ten weeks ago she would have pretended she had; she doesn't know.

Ellie doesn't even know why she is reacting like this, there are no specific memories popping up, nothing to fight back, just her mind and body slipping into a protective armor of static like they're pulling her into the fizzling TV in their living room.

"Ellie?"

The teacher's voice snaps her back to a pounding heart and a breath stuck in her lungs, and when she looks down at their clasped hands her nails have left marks in Joel's skin. She lets go at once, holding onto her wrists with her arms behind her back, and she still didn't hear the question. Every cell in her body is telling her to leave, pulling her toward the nearest exit, but she doesn't. There are memories flickering across her vision now, a decade of unjust, painful punishments and her body being pushed to its breaking point, and she decides the answer to that question is more important than whatever they had asked her.

"What do you do? For, like, punishment?"

Her voice is steadier than she is on her feet, so she rocks gently back and force to stop herself from swaying. Joel's gaze burns hot on her cheeks, but she keeps her eyes on the teacher, whose eyebrows are raised so high they disappear beneath her fringe.

"Punishment? We don't- there's not reason to punish forgotten homework or the like here, Ellie, it's supposed to be both fun and educational."

Something about the tone in her voice unsettles her, but the answer isn't satisfying, and she needs to know, needs to know the rules so she can follow them, because the art room looks like it might actually be fun to be in and she is so tired of dark lonely spaces and marks on her back; imagining the disappointed look on Joel's face when her teachers tell him about it is the worst of it all, though.

"What are the rules? When are the drills and what's the consequences for breaking the rules? Is there-" is there a hole, she wants to ask, but her breathing is fast and shallow, periphery dotted with dancing black spots, and she doesn't want to give them any ideas they didn't already have. Joel's hand lands on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and the warm weight his comforting without being oppressive, her breaths slowing just a smidge.

The woman with a name Ellie forgot is taller than Joel with the shoes she is wearing, and she she squats down, the look on her foreign face looks like a a finished puzzle, the final piece having snapped into place. Her features are rounded, soft, a stark contrast to the borderline malnourished and hardened look of pretty much every person around the QZ including her teachers, a few light-brown and grey strands escaping from her ponytail, and Ellie can't help but think that she looks - nice, non-threatening. School isn't supposed to be non-threatening, but this whole building is dripping with it, and it scares her to death; getting this ripped away from her as punishment will hurt even more than escaping packed, concrete classrooms.

"You grew up in a FEDRA school, right?" she asks, voice almost tender, and Ellie can only stare and nod while Joel rubs circles into her back.

"I heard stories about what it was like before I came here, horrible experiences no one should have to go through, especially not a child."

She sounds so much like Joel the comfort laced into her words manages to penetrate the static and soothe some of the panic, her eyes a bright hazel shade, not blue, and she keeps her distance even though she could easily get into Ellie's personal space

"Even before the outbreak, school wasn't like that, and it is definitely not like that here. There is no punishments, Ellie, no real rules or structure outside of general lesson plans, no consequences for not turning in work or being late. This is meant to provide some stability and education, give you a places to hang out with people your age, have some more people to connect with. If you don't want to be here, no one will force you."

Ellie doesn't cry. She doesn't. A deep breath and some determined blinking pull back the tears from her waterline and her chest aches with a vengeance when she thinks about how different it would have been here for her and Riley, how much better. Riley would still be alive. For a few minutes, they're all silent, allowing her to gather the scattered pieces of herself and glue them back together, and when she does, a tiny bit of the fear in her bones has made space for tentative excitement.

"I like the art room," she says quietly, feeling younger than she ever has, and a wave of something washes over all of them. "Do I- can I-"

"You can use it whenever you like, even outside of school hours, as long as you don't leave too much of a mess and use it responsibly."

Liliya, her brain finally provides, straightens her back again, and the lack of a last name during her introduction is probably part of what through her off. Ellie looks up at Joel, a muscle in his jaw ticking with suppressed anger, not at her, at FEDRA, she knows him well enough to realize that, and decides her question about The Hole is both best saved for another time and hopefully not relevant at all.

"Okay," Ellie responds, pressing herself back against Joel and melting when his arm protectively wraps around her shoulders, "I'll give it a try."

Over the relief rushing through her hairs, she barely hears the details the adults next to her discuss, happy to bury her face in Joel's shirt without shame, and she manages to shake off the last wisps of static clinging to her. Maybe this will work out for her, maybe it won't, maybe all she will use are the art supplies, but when they are lead back to the entrance, more than ready to go home, Liliya gives her a smile, eyes crinkling. For the first time in her life, Ellie smiles back at a teacher simply because she wants to, and the hopeful excitement sprouting in her chest is enough to tell her that she will be right on time for her first class on Monday.

[dog-park-dissidents]

I’m a queer anarchist, and your music has really helped me accept myself, so here goes…what advice do you have on loving my radical self? I find myself trying to look respectable and chill to avoid being a stereotype, opting out of actions to please my family, and just internalizing a lot of BS about what it means to be an anarchist in the world. Thank you so much!!

David Graeber, RIP, guy at Occupy Wall Street who coined the slogan "we are the 99%," often said he was a "small-a anarchist" and that anarchism was a thing he did, not an identity. That is probably the healthiest way to engage with anarchism in a modern world where political identities and political language have been turned into sports teams and brands, completely divorced from anything that the words behind them actually mean. US politics at least have turned into "are you a LIBERAL or a CONSERVATIVE" which sort of means something but also means nothing, and its meanings contradict each other to the point of uselessness. They're not real ideological frameworks, after all. Nobody can give you a coherent manifesto of US American "Liberalism" but it's the thing you're supposed to agree with if you don't think gay people should die?? Maybe??? It doesn't even have any connection with the philosophy of classical liberalism, which is closer to stereotypically Republican fiscal politics, EXCEPT for when the ostensible "left wing" liberals actually agree with that shit? Anyway yeah it's a mess and it's no wonder why the younger generation is desperately trying to find an alternative way of labeling themselves so as to signal that we're outside of all that bullshit.

So don't do that. Actually be outside of all that bullshit instead of coming up with an edgier sports team to root for. Not that you're necessarily doing that, but just, remember not to do that.

Focus on the material circumstances you live in: the state and money and laws and all that shit are just things somebody made up one day before you were born. You exist in a world you had no say in constructing. Your goal is to figure out how to survive, and then to thrive, and then to be happy, under these circumstances. And ideally make them better for everyone else.

Now as for opting out of actions to please your family. Sounds like you're stuck in a family situation where you're not free to go where you want and be yourself without scrutiny, and that sucks. From the perspective of an effective anarchist, remember that it's from each according to their ability, and you don't have to feel any guilt about not doing your part to change the world.

But from a queer perspective? That queerness sounds a lot more like what's causing your tension about making yourself look more respectable. And that plays into this feeling you have of being trapped by family, or by capitalism, or whatever forces are making you feel the need to put yourself in a box. Obviously you've woven your queer identity pretty deep with your anarchism, which is good, but that definitely makes the desire to express your anarchist identity a whole lot stronger. It can feel like the same thing as your sexual orientation or gender when it's such a deep part of your worldview.

And that makes for a big contradiction in a world where political labels have turned into deep personal identities at the expense of any coherent intellectualism. Whoops. Everybody else has been forced to pick a vapid red or blue choice and here you are with an extremely deep sense of pink and black. Uh oh.

But that's the great thing about queerness, is to be comfortable existing as a contradiction, as category-defying, as someone that doesn't need to be intellectually consistent because you simply ARE. So be you. Don't feel like you have to debate the chuds in your head to explain your existence.

[redamancy-writes]

Ride of a Lifetime - David x Female!Reader

Word Count- 932

Fandom- The Lost Boys 1987

Pairing- David (The Lost Boys 1987) x Female! Reader

Title - Ride of a Lifetime

"I haven't seen you in some time now." Your words felt wrong as they came out of your mouth as you approached David. Too abrupt, too formal, too…Not how you usually were with him. Greetings between the two of you were soft smiles and chaste kisses before Paul and Marko demanded you join the four of them in whatever shenanigans they were planning. 

The rest of the boys got the hint that you likely wanted to talk alone, Paul making an ‘ok’ motion with his hand as Dwayne took the lead in their exit, heading towards the rides. You hadn’t seen them in what felt like weeks but only a few short days had passed since you had seen the group, or even the blond man in front of you. 

He finally got the nerve to tell you, to ignore his urge to keep playing in a fantasy land that you two were human lovers, to tell you all about him and his friends and what they were. His eyes were lit up with an emotion you had never seen before, the way his lips stretched into a grin as in the same breath he told you he loved you and wanted to be with you for eternity, he wanted you to become one of them. 

But you ran. You were so overwhelmed and confused, you ran from him. Ever since that night you had come to the boardwalk, seeking him out to try and make amends, to explain you were scared and needed to process things, but well, that didn’t seem to matter now. The rampage that went through the cave was still visible no matter how much Star and Laddie attempted to tidy up the mess of shredded cushions and torn blankets. 

"Well, I was avoiding you if that wasn’t easy enough to figure out,”  David replied with a flick of his cigarette, looking relatively unimpressed. “But my luck obviously ran out, since you found me.”  

Masking the hurt he felt with a face of annoyance as you awkwardly stood in front of him while he leaned against the wooden railings of the boardwalk. 

“Oh,” All the hope that had built in your chest deflated. “I see, well,” You looked to the side to see the boys hopping onto the carousel, not a care in the world to pay for a ticket as they took their seats. 

“I won’t be a bother anymore then,” You said simply, the back of your eyes stinging with tears but you didn’t dare let them spill. Nodding to yourself you turned on your heel, already getting ready to fish your car keys out of your bag. 

“Why did you come back?” David’s eyes were trained on the back of your head, narrowed as he analyzed your body language. 

“For you,” You said, pausing your search for your keys but still facing away from him. Your words were no louder than a mumble, but he heard you all thanks to his supernatural hearing. 

Neither of you two said anything, but as you turned around you noticed he was suddenly much closer to you now  than before you even began walking away. 

“I care for you, David,” You got the guts to say it, wanting to at least tell him for one last time just how much he meant to you, “You know I love you,” You felt shy as his face never changed, your nerves made you doubt your ability to read him as he analyzed your every move. 

“I was scared and confused and I didn’t know what to think so I just…” You blew air out of your mouth with a bitter laugh. “Just forget it, forget I ever came back. I..” You wanted to say ‘I’ll see you around,’ but the ache of knowing that if you did, he’d ignore your existence stopped you from saying it. 

“I hope you have a great night, have fun with the boys,” You chose to say instead, giving a smile to try and play off the facade that you were okay with walking away from him. 

Before you could turn to walk away from him again, you were pulled into a tight embrace as David’s cigarette fell to the ground. David’s smell always brought you comfort, leather and cigarettes with a hint of iron. As his familiar smell invaded your senses, you relaxed into his embrace, gripping the back of his leather trench coat.

He didn’t say anything, but his tight grip on you while he buried his face in your neck told you all you needed to know. He was hurt, he was angry, he was afraid you’d never come back to him. But you were here now, and that’s all that mattered to him as he inhaled your scent, as if to confirm his mind wasn’t paying tricks on him like he was able to do to others. 

For a moment, he just held you, but after a while he pulled away. “Come on,” He murmured, gloved hand reaching out to you. 

“Where are we going?” You grinned at him as you placed your hand into his. 

“Take a ride with me, (Y/n),” He didn’t pull you, but kept your hand in his as he waited for you to make a decision. “A ride of a lifetime,” David grinned and you felt your heart do summersaults as you closed the distance. 

David brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles before releasing his grip on you, allowing you to maneuver yourself behind him on the bike. 

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Unbound | Chapter 8, "Áine's Favorite Princess"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Astarion assumes that Áine and Shadowheart are an item after their outing the night before. Astarion’s angry (jealous) behavior triggers Áine and bears unforeseen consequences. Astarion goes hunting and finds time to clear his head and worry about Áine out scouting with the others. Karlach is brought to camp and confronts Wyll. Áine and Astarion make amends and get cozy.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic fantasy violence (more mention of it than description); angst; fluff; suggestive dialogue & content; Astarion being a shit; primarily from Astarion’s perspective; lightly proofread and a little struggled through writing-wise tbh

Word Count: 8.9k

Listening to: Daylight - David Kushner

Astarion was disturbed to realize the next morning that he’d underestimated the Sharran cleric. At least it certainly seemed as though he had, seeing as she and his intended target for a manipulative seduction all but had flower crowns after their little date the night before.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. They weren’t doing the sorts of romantic things that he’d be doing in their positions and weren’t exactly showing public affection toward one another in his learned sense of what that should look like. But they were affectionate—there was an obvious shift in their comfort in one another’s proximity and something unspoken that it was killing him not to be privy to. 

Why? he wondered about his own volatile feelings. This changes nothing. If anything, I now get to steal her away from that smug little cleric. 

It was a pleasant thought, but he still felt a bit poorly. It was a small wrench in a still-turning wheel, but something about seeing Shadowheart so comfortably settle right next to Áine at the campfire that morning set him on edge. Her cheek was all but resting on the bard’s shoulder. 

His nerves started to knot in his chest. He did not doubt his abilities and proficiency in the carnal arts—he couldn’t afford to—but what he did doubt was Áine’s willingness to stray from Shadowheart if they were, in fact, together now. And they had to be! Friends didn’t act like that. Not that he’d experienced anything remotely close to a friendship for the better part of two centuries. Not only would a friend have both been a liability for him while in Cazador’s clutches—the sick bastard would’ve likely forced Astarion to kill said friend himself upon finding out that he’d developed a new attachment to exploit—but friends also took much longer and more work to secure, and you could do so much less with them. There wasn’t much point in them at all, he told himself.

Something akin to anger roiled in his stomach when he heard Áine giggle at something Shadowheart said near her ear. He was not jealous. This didn’t change a damn thing. He just needed to understand what he was dealing with before he proceeded. It was possible they’d simply had a fun tryst in the woods last night—Áine didn’t seem the type, but perhaps she’d given it a try and realized the fun in it—and if that was the case he didn’t have much to alter in his approach. If they were emotionally attached, then this would be more difficult to influence and he may have to resort to trickery to separate them.

The perturbed vampire saw his opportunity to get some answers when Áine finished her breakfast and returned to her tent to organize things for their jaunt today. 

The decision had been made earlier that morning to leave their camp set up in its current spot while they explored the branching roads past and near where they’d fought the gnolls. Given the breadth of the area and the likelihood that they would retreat to the same clearing that night, it just made more sense than setting everything back up again later. 

Wyll and Gale had volunteered to stay behind and watch over their tents and supplies while the rest of them went scouting. Astarion didn’t know for sure, but he suspected that they were both still recovering from the gnoll attacks—they were both the only humans in the group and while humans were hardy, recovery time seemed to be extended when they truly overexerted themselves. Another confirmation that friends were often more trouble than they were worth.

He tried not to linger overlong on the fact that he’d just thought of his traveling party, his unpaid bodyguards, even his companions, now as his friends while approaching their also-unofficial leader at her tent. “You look refreshed,” he commented as he stopped, leaning against one of her tent posts. She didn’t startle, so she’d either heard him coming or had anticipated his arrival.

Áine looked up at him and gave a friendly smile before looking back down at her bag. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “But thank you? I think.”

Astarion’s eyes settled on Áine’s hair, neatly braided again by Shadowheart’s doing similarly to one of their first nights as a smaller group. It felt so long ago somehow. His jaw set a little as the image of Shadowheart’s hands running through Áine’s hair flashed through his mind, artificial scenarios that may or may not have happened or may be yet to happen. Burying her fingers in those shiny tresses as she stole a kiss. Pulling it to force the bard’s head back and expose her neck. Better yet, pulling it to force eye contact while he—

“Did you want something?” Áine asked, snapping him out of his lewd thoughts. 

They were welcome little notions, there was just one problem—where he should’ve been in his own godsdamned fantasies, he could only see that cleric getting everything he wanted. Everything that could come as some sort of unintended bonus to securing her loyalty and, in turn, his security. Yes, he wanted something.

Aloud, he said, “Of course I want something. Many things actually. Blood, revenge, gold, sex, a nice vintage… Not even necessarily in that order.”

Áine gave him a peculiar look as if she were trying to parse what he’d said in more than the only way he’d intended. It wasn’t an uncommon expression for her whenever they spoke, but it ticked something off in him this time. Perhaps because he was tired of her trying to find something deeper in their dynamic. He wasn’t a fool, he knew she’d looked for it more than once and had likely come up empty because he had nothing he was willing to give her. He was willing to bet that Shadowheart hadn’t needed to pass such scrutiny.

Based on the way her lips pursed, she’d come up empty again. No surprise to him. “That’s quite a list. But I meant is there something you want from me? You seem upset.”

Astarion’s hackles went up as she presumed that he would deign to be “upset” over her. They’d had some cute moments, sure, many of them orchestrated by him, but she thought herself too highly in his estimations. She thought she could hurt him? Upset him? Laughable, he thought as he crushed any feelings that rose to the surface and contrasted his mind’s claims. She was a means to an end and he’d gotten too swept into his narrative. She was strong enough to aid him and yet easy prey enough to require minimal effort. The ones that just wanted to be loved were always the easiest to lure in, break, and then build up again.

He lowered his voice. “You think you have the power to upset me?” 

Áine’s brow furrowed and she looked at him like he was mad. “Clearly,” she said flatly, “but I didn’t ask if I’d upset you, I asked if you were upset in general. But sure, my question’s since changed. Have I upset you?”

Her challenge just stirred his ire. Ire that he was sure had to be directed at Áine, or even at Shadowheart because otherwise that just left the possibility that it was anger he had toward himself. “I would have to care what you do for you to have the capacity to upset me,” Astarion snapped, his words biting.

To his dismay, Áine snorted. “Astarion, come on. Drop the mask and just talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you,” he scoffed, a cruel smile splitting his face as he shifted away from the tent pole to step closer. He saw her demeanor respond in kind with hesitation and it felt gratifying. He was the one in control of their little dance, not her. 

Áine didn’t move, her feet planted against his attempts to cow her with his stature. This felt a little too familiar and her mind began to fill with unwelcome faces from her past, all above hers as their bodies stood looming to intimidate and dominate. She tightened her grip on the straps of her bag when she felt her hands begin to tremble. “You’re too close,” she warned him, dropping her voice to a murmur. 

The memory of Shadowheart sitting almost pressed against Áine’s side flashed through his mind and he sneered. “I’m too close… Of course,” Astarion gritted, giving a mock bow as he placed space back between them. “My apologies.”

“What has gotten into you?” Áine asked, trying to understand where his attitude stemmed from. It wasn’t for show, he was clearly upset, but she didn’t know why. And if he wouldn’t tell her, then she couldn’t help, if she even wanted to after the way his body language had just triggered her. “You know what, no. This isn’t productive.” Before he could ask what she was on about, Áine had turned her attention toward the other side of camp. “Gale?”

“Yes?” the wizard answered, just finishing scrubbing their cooking pot clean from breakfast.

“Feel like scouting today instead? Astarion’s going to hang back,” she said. 

Astarion’s temper flared dangerously, the shock and hurt that lanced through him like oil dumped on an already crackling fire. Somehow over the roar in his ears, he heard Gale’s surprise mixed with an affirmation, and then receding footsteps as he went to get his things. 

Áine returned her gaze to Astarion after she braced herself for the anger she knew she’d meet. Lowering her voice again, she said, “Whatever you need to do—rest, hunt, stir up Wyll and take verbal jabs at each other, I don’t care—focus on that today. You’re hereby relieved from dealing with me for several hours.” 

With a flourish akin to the sarcastic bow he’d given her, she turned her back on him as one last show of confidence and left her tent to meet Shadowheart and Lae’zel lingering in silent proximity near the road. Astarion felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and snatch her the moment she dismissed him and their little spat, but he resisted. His teeth ground together as he tore his eyes off her and stormed back to his tent.   

Astarion spent the better part of an hour brooding in there before he slunk back out to regard the empty camp, save for Wyll who’d given himself the job of cleaning up some assorted armor and sharpening his rapier. Scratch sat near Wyll’s side, panting contently and looking over at Astarion when he emerged from his abode. The dog’s wagging tail increased its tempo. 

Wyll followed Scratch’s gaze and met Astarion’s eyes, offering him a nod and a hesitant smile. “Have anything you want sharpened?” he cautiously offered. Astarion couldn’t decide if Wyll seemed nervous because he was picking up on his mood or because he’d been unexpectedly left alone in the camp with the local vampire.

Astarion started to dismiss his offer when he caught himself and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sure. Thank you,” he gritted, removing his shortsword and dagger from his hips, where he’d left them even after being replaced for scouting duty. He approached Wyll and set the blades were directed, one now-empty hand patting Scratch’s head when the dog whined for his attention.

“Going hunting today?” Wyll asked, trying to sound as casual as if Astarion was a ranger instead of a vampire. Astarion gave him a curious look, wondering how he knew he was thirsty until Wyll motioned toward his own eyes and added, “Your shadows have returned.”

Astarion’s hand rose to brush the underside of his right eye. “That happens regularly when I’ve not fed?”

Wyll was confused until he remembered Astarion wouldn’t know this about himself without a reflection. “It seems to,” he said. “They don’t look bad, but it is the only thing I’ve noticed personally that tells me you’re wanting for blood. I’m not offering, just to be clear.”

The vampire smirked and dropped his hand from his face, pocketing the small revelation. The featureless plane of his own forgotten face in his mind had occasional dark shadows beneath where its eyes should be now. It was something at least. “Didn’t even cross my mind, darling,” Astarion said honestly, glancing toward the woods. “But I should see what I can find. I will be back.”

��Happy hunting,” Wyll said, his attention returning to his sword.

Astarion took his thirst and his irritation out on the first handful of forest creatures he came across, likely being a little too violent in his hunt or at least more feral than he needed to be to take down a couple of rabbits and another boar. He’d hoped for something a little more substantial after having his first few swallows of fresh blood and realizing just how thirsty he’d become. His agitation did lose its jagged edges once he felt more sated, but there remained some pieces of his earlier mood that no amount of blood was going to shake.

The first and most present of those pieces was lingering irritation. At Áine for dismissing him so easily. At Shadowheart for intercepting his advances. At Gale for being his unwitting replacement in the scouting party. Which wasn’t exactly Gale’s fault, but why was it always fucking Gale?! The majority of his irritation was directed inwardly though, now that he’d had time to think it all over. Not only had his reactions been over the top due to his thirst and, fine, jealousy as well, but it also hadn’t solved anything regarding getting Áine away from Shadowheart. He’d probably just made things harder for himself.

Sitting atop a sunbathed rock beneath a break in the canopy and letting the light warm his skin, Astarion ran his tongue over a lingering trace of blood on his index finger, crimson eyes pensive and faraway. Irritation was a familiar sensation, but the lurking variables under that layer weren’t as easy to parse at first blush. Whether the feelings were new or simply boxed up for so long while he’d existed in environs where feeling anything was a hazard to his survival, that just meant that it took longer to comprehend his reactions to things and usually only after he’d already reacted. 

Luring targets to the Szarr family castle had been different—they were calculated efforts, his successes necessary to avoid punishment. Forced feedings of rancid, decaying rats and roaches. A year of uninterrupted entombment in a moldering casket. Commands to torture himself with special, specific directions on how he should do it and with what implements but never harshly enough to scar save for the poem Cazador had decided to compose on his back. His old master had always said that his body was his only source of usefulness, and find use for it he did. Disfiguring Astarion, he’d said, would only give him a reprieve from his work that he didn’t deserve.    

Astarion’s mouth twisted downward at the knots he felt prevailing in his stomach. They’d had nothing to do with his thirst, which led him to his only other theory and one that troubled him more deeply than he cared to admit. He was worried. About her.

There was no denying it—they’d spent the majority of their time together fighting as a unit and through that, he’d learned a lot about the way she fought. Áine often took on a supportive role in the offensive if Lae’zel was present to take the frontline, but if the githyanki for whatever reason wasn’t in the mix, Áine was that frontline fighter. When they were at an advantage, she almost looked like she was dancing, gracefully weaving amongst blades and arrows to deliver her blows with equal precision and style. What could he say, she was fun to watch when she knew she was winning because she was having fun in battle—they were alike in that way. 

When they were losing though, like yesterday with the gnolls, it was as if a switch flipped inside her. Áine became grounded and heavy-hitting, she became a powerhouse that wasn’t just fun but fascinating to watch. And that was where she made all her mistakes. Scared for her friends, Áine was quick to bite off more than she could chew and draw the enemy’s attention to herself to give the rest of them time to reset. Her attention divided as well, narrowing into what was in front of her and the status of her allies, which meant he’d taken to picking off enemies coming up on her flank before she even saw them. Sometimes he’d take out a threat without her noticing even after the fact, which he tended to prefer. It was something he would feel sheepish about if she realized how often he looked for her on the battlefield, how much he instinctively prioritized her over the others, even their healer.

Their hellion of a bard was, in those times especially, a force to be reckoned with, but she became reckless in that and missed minor things. When he was in the fray with them all, this didn’t worry him. Now that she was out of sight though and he knew there was a high probability that they’d find something to scrap with on the roads around them, he felt the dread creeping in. Shadowheart would be too focused on healing—which she should be instead of moving in on his damn territory—and Lae’zel was a frontlines gal like Áine who would operate in much the same way but somehow even more singlemindedly. 

And then there was Gale. Gale would be left to watch Áine’s back and Astarion simply didn’t trust him to do it properly. It was a strange feeling, at least from the hellish landscape of his vivid memories that seemed to rot away any earlier than his rebirth as a vampire spawn, to be angry with someone and still worry for them. Because he was still upset with her, namely for making him stay behind after his temper had waned with his thirst finally quenched. His closest line of comparison was the vague sense of pity he felt for his siblings still under Cazador’s thumb back in the city, as he had to assume they bore the brunt of whatever punishments Cazador could no longer reach him with. But he didn’t truly care what happened to them. They were simply all similarly wretched victims of the same monster of a man. 

Perhaps because he still had a use for her or because to some degree he depended on her, he was worried about Áine’s safety. That was the line he tried to feed himself. The truth of it was that when he visualized the potential disasters they could find in their patrol, when he imagined Lae’zel struggling and needing Shadowheart’s clerical attention while Áine plunged to take on the enemies’ pressure and leaving her flank wide open…

His stomach turned. 

The sun slipping past the canopy and canting toward the horizon line wasn’t the only thing that sent a ripple of cold through his already icy bones. What if she died out there? Shadowheart surely wouldn’t let that happen, and even Gale had some healing ability in a pinch. But if they all fell and no one was left to heal her…

Astarion didn’t quite register when he got to his feet and started loping toward camp. It was nearing twilight, surely they’d be back by now. If they weren’t, he could safely assume something was wrong and go track them down himself with little to no suspicion or pushback from Wyll. He could swing it in the direction of curiosity instead of concern. He could—

—bleeding Hells, he could smell her blood.

He picked up his pace to a run, only slowing back down when he reached the trees that lined their camp. At first, he thought that he could’ve imagined the scent for all his fretting, but he was proven wrong as it only grew stronger the closer he got to camp and those earlier imagined scenarios started to claw their way back into his head. There was no question that it was hers either—he knew her particular bouquet anywhere.

Astarion walked out from between his tent and Lae’zel’s and into what appeared to be an argument with a brand new, bizarre person in the mix. It was only after his eyes devoured every face in the camp and confirmed one of them as Áine’s that he let his attention deviate to what appeared to be Wyll squaring off with a fiery tiefling who looked like she could easily snap him in two. He was grateful for something else to focus on, especially a potential fight, while he shelved everything he’d uncovered about his foolish little attachment that day. 

She was there and she was alive, upright even. She was bleeding or had bled at some point that day, but whatever it was must’ve been minimal. Astarion allowed himself to shift his gaze from Wyll and the tiefling over to Áine, who looked focused on but fatigued by whatever confrontation was taking place. 

“—you don’t know what you’re asking me to do!” Wyll was saying to both the tiefling and Áine. Something shook in his voice. What in the Hells was going on? As Astarion scoped out the newest, towering face in the clearing, his gaze fastened on her broken horn. Was this the “devil” Wyll had talked about being tasked with killing back in the Grove?

“I’m asking you to live, Wyll,” the tiefling said. “I don’t want to hurt you. And to be frank I’d rather not find out how the Blade got his name.” Eyes as fiery gold as a dragon’s turned pleading. “I swear to you, on all that I am, that I’m not what you think.”

Wyll looked at the tiefling and then at Áine’s steely gaze. Then at others, all standing nearby and wearing similar expressions of muted hope that he’d back down. “Shit… Shit!” he finally gritted and there was something cathartic to Astarion about hearing the usually quite poised and smoothly operating Wyll just swear up a storm. “You really are no devil, are you? I’ve… I’ve been deceived.”

The red-hot tiefling sighed her relief. “Thank the gods… Thought I was going to have to take your head.”

Astarion was disappointed in not at least seeing the onset of such a fight, even if he’d rather it didn’t finish. Aggravating as he could find Wyll, he was growing on him and the tiefling seemed too good a potential ally to lose. 

Wyll smirked. “You would’ve died in the attempt, but…there have been enough threats today.”

The tiefling smiled. “Truce then, hey?”

“Aye. Truce,” Wyll agreed with a firm nod. In a heartfelt tone, he added, “I see the good in you, Karlach. I promise not to lose sight of it, even when the Hells burn hottest.” It was his form of an apology that well surpassed the superficiality of the average apology. 

Ah, Karlach. That had been the name Wyll had mentioned at the Grove. It had been on the tip of his tongue for the past few minutes Astarion had been spectating and bothering him all the while. 

His eyes once more found Áine, who finally seemed to feel as though she could let her guard down with Wyll and Karlach, her frame relaxing now that there was no longer a need for her to run interference. She started toward her tent and their eyes met. For a split-second, he feared what he’d come to learn he deserved, what he’d anticipated in their first spat that had also taken place back at the Grove. Dismissal, rejection, hatred… A roulette wheel of equally devastating outcomes. This was why it was better to remain indifferent. He wished he knew what had gotten into him with her so he could amend it and have the situation on lock again.

The rate at which his mind raced made that instant feel like an eternity, but it truly was only an instant. He realized that when Áine’s expression finally adjusted to acknowledge him, which was already an improvement on the possibility that she could just ignore him. Her eyes darted meaningfully toward the cluster of companions behind her before they returned to his and widened with cartoonish exasperation. Astarion couldn’t help the smirk that curled his lips, dropping his head to hide his amusement, but not before she saw. He could hear her quiet giggle from where she crouched by her tent, sliding her bag off her shoulders and then slipping into her canvas curtain abode to change clothes. Astarion still wondered why he’d smelled her blood on returning to camp, but at least she seemed fine. More than that, she didn’t seem mad at him anymore.

He only cared about how it affected his plans for her. He would lie to himself until he believed that.

Astarion settled into his usual spot on the pillows outside his tent, idly listening to the bustle of the camp while he parsed through one of his books. Even the most basic tomes they’d found so far in their travels intrigued him, doing well to stir his mind back to life after being deprived of anything but the few faded, crumbling volumes he’d scrounged up in the Szarr dungeons. His occasional run-ins with anything of interest during his outings to find prey for his master had either fallen into the realm of crusty copies of A is for Azuth, and Other Gods, specifically the first volume, stuffed in the inn room nightstands where he sealed the deal with his targets, or a fleeting glance of something genuinely new and interesting that he’d spot and covet in a bookshop window or the arm of a passing student. Bringing something like that back to his little rathole with him would only result in the intriguing new material being snatched up, mocked, and then burned by Cazador or Godey before they began burning him too. 

The first book he’d picked up in the crypt where they’d found Withers had felt like a precious little sin, like something he still needed to hide. But the longer he was away from Cazador’s influence, the more that reflex had slowly waned and he’d made a habit of reading his findings outside where he could be seen. It was preferable, comfortable even, and it was a sort of middle finger toward his old master and the gods who’d turned their backs on him in his cell. Astarion would sit comfortably and absorb as much as he could, and maybe discover something to prolong his freedom and increase his power in the process while learning anew about the world he lived in.

Still, when he heard footsteps heading toward him, his fingertips gripped the binding just a little tighter, as if tensing for the little reprieve to be ripped from his hands. His reaction lasted only a second as the trauma response slipped and also as he recognized the footsteps drawing nearer.

“Can I disturb you for a few minutes?” Áine asked, seemingly trying to be mindful of interrupting him. Always a new experience with this one.

“Seeing as you already have, my dear,” Astarion playfully pointed out, “I would be most disappointed if you didn’t proceed.”

“I don’t know why I ask,” Áine murmured, but she was clearly amused. The bard sat down across from him on the rug, looking more comfortable now that she was in the soft leather pants and ruffled shirt that she frequently wore and fell asleep in on at least one occasion when they made camp. 

With a curious expression on her face, she leaned forward and reached toward the book he held, pausing when she noticed his grip tighten this time. Her eyes met his and she dropped her hand, instead tilting her head to see the cover without encroaching on his activity. “Fables of Faerûn… Volume five?” she read, guessing at the volume number when she couldn’t crane her neck enough to see it.   

Astarion felt silly for being so on edge about anyone touching his things. But he’d never really owned anything since before he could remember, he’d never had anything to call his own. And it felt nice, but also too easily lost. He tilted the book so she could see the cover without straining herself, showing her that she’d guessed correctly about the volume number. “It was in that apothecary cellar we looted,” he admitted, “and my options were limited.”

Áine smiled. “You don’t have to justify what you’re indulging in,” she said. “Fables are nice. Wyll brought one up in conversation just the other day.”

“Of course he did,” Astarion said, dogearing the page and closing the book. He knew he needn’t be sheepish about what he chose to read, especially when pickings were slim, but he did still feel a bit hyperaware of how he came off. “My guess is that you didn’t want to discuss children’s tales in coming here though?”

“I could be swayed, but you’re right,” Áine said, subconsciously picking at the braid that fell over her shoulder. It was messier than it had been this morning before they’d set out and its loose starlight-colored tendrils did make the style more her own. He still felt a pang in his chest at the thought of Shadowheart with her hands in Áine’s hair again, this time under new intentions. He could only assume that this feeling would go away after he managed to bed her—after he’d worked his way a bit further into her feelings, into her needs, she could do the same with anyone else she wanted. The threat of her entering an exclusive relationship with someone and feeling bound to them before he could get there would make his scheming moot before it even had time to execute. “Wyll mentioned that you went hunting today?”

Astarion’s brow furrowed. “Yes… And?”

“And do you feel any better?” Áine asked, a tiny frown on her lips. He’d already started to form a retort that he was fine in the first place when she disarmed him. “I’ve been worried.”

His jaw set, her words making him both falter and further withdraw from what he felt. She was worried about him? In the same sense that he was worried about her? Or was she worried that he was thirsty for her own and everyone else’s sake? Did she think him a monster? 

Astarion frowned. “I’ve already said that I would not try to drink from you without asking again, and I meant it,” he said, going with the latter of his assumptions that she was just anxious about a hungry vampire in her camp.

Áine immediately looked distressed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. He remembered how those hands had felt in his when he’d been holding them the other night while trying to convince her to take their discussion about his vampirism back inside her tent following their tumble out through the door flap. “I’m worried about you, not the fact that you’re thirsty. Wait, that didn’t come out correctly either. I’m worried about you being thirsty because I don’t want you to be thirsty, not because I feel threatened by—”

“I get it, I get it,” he mumbled, waving her off and swatting away the sensation her words gave him as well. “I’m fine. I did hunt and I did drink and I’m just peachy now.”

Áine sighed. He wished he could read her mind to understand what it meant. Technically he supposed he could with the parasite, but not without her knowing. Distantly he remembered both occasions that their minds had connected, and still felt violated by it as he was sure she did as well. Now that he thought about it, he was surprised she hadn’t pressed about anything she’d seen in his memories that second time it had happened in her tent. She was either keeping her cards close to her chest in that regard or she didn’t think it was her place to ask. Or perhaps she didn’t care. Just looking at her though—her compassionate nature, her round sweet amber eyes—he knew that the last possibility he considered wasn’t the case at all. Poor thing cared too much for her own good, in his opinion.

Her features twisted and she seemed to be conflicted about his answer or perhaps what she wanted to say in response. Whatever it was, she pushed it down and decided not to say it. His curiosity became increasingly difficult to ignore. Unnerved by the silence, Astarion asked, “So, it seems that the scouting trip today was…eventful at least?”

“Eventful is a word for it,” she agreed, seeming grateful for his intervention. “We found Karlach down by the riverbend and helped her get rid of some fake paladins that were tailing her for Zariel.”

Astarion’s brows rose. “Zariel? Why?”

“She was apparently one of Zariel’s best, as she said it, ‘attack dogs’,” Áine explained, quickly adding, “not by choice though. Karlach was on the Nautiloid too and that got her out of Avernus and the Blood War frontlines for good…we hope.”

“And Wyll was hunting her when they both were taken?” Astarion clarified. When Áine nodded, he asked, “For whom?”

Áine shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me then and he’s not told me now. He seems to think he’ll have a reckoning for not killing her though.”

“Great,” Astarion sighed. “Well, I suppose as long as the reckoning doesn’t have a blast radius, we should be fine.”

Áine snorted. “That would be the last thing we’d need, a godsdamned bomb dropping on camp.” 

Around them, their companions had started to retire to their tents, tossing goodnights their way in passing and leaving them in a more private setting for their conversation. Astarion’s gaze flitted over the last two of their travel party still up and chatting across the clearing while Scratch kept them company, Karlach and Wyll. They were too wrapped up in their own conversation to be paying any attention to theirs. 

He returned his gaze to Áine, the tickle of her blood’s scent still teasing his senses. “Did you get hurt out there today?”

Áine was equally zoned out, it seemed, his question causing surprise to blossom on her face. “Hm?” she wondered bemusedly. “Why do you ask?”

Astarion gave her a scolding look. “Because I smell your blood,” he said as if it were obvious. 

It occurred to him after he pointed it out that she could also very well be having her monthly bleed, but she seemed to remember something then and adjusted her hair off her shoulder to show him a scratch that was already on its way to healing. “Karlach had a bit of a rampage through the tollhouse the ‘paladins’ had taken over, and I took a bit of shrapnel to the shoulder,” she explained. “It’s fine, it just caught somewhere my armor didn’t cover because of course it did…”     

Satisfied that it was minor, Astarion nodded. Áine surprised him yet again by asking, “Is it bothering you?”

“Is what bothering me, darling?” Astarion asked.

“The smell. Or the sight, too, I guess,” she asked, giving a polite smile and wave to Wyll as he bid them goodnight and walked past them into his tent. Karlach had retired to the tent they’d set up for her as well and Scratch was curled up by the campfire, his head rested contently atop his paws. “I can—”

“Sweetheart, you always smell enticing,” Astarion informed her, smirking when that drew a blush to her cheeks. “I can control myself just fine though. I’d hardly be a useful ally if I started salivating every time you or someone else here got hurt.” Áine went quiet, staring at him as she warred within herself. He tried to read her expression, disgruntled when he couldn’t. “What is it?” he asked at last.

Áine drew in a deep breath and swept a fleeting glance around camp before her eyes returned to his and she said, “You…can, you know. If you want. If the animals today weren’t enough.”

Astarion’s brows rose, his throat prickling with want. He swallowed against it, wondering about a motive. Was this some sort of trick? Even if it was… “Are you sure?” he asked, expressing interest to see what she did next.

“I think so,” she said, almost seeming a bit shy about her offer. Gods, if she afforded the same demeanor to when he managed to get in her bed, the experience would be even more delicious than expected. He might even enjoy their sex, a first for him in the better part of two centuries. Better to not get his hopes up, he decided. Astarion’s eyes followed her hand as she reached up to tug an amulet from beneath her shirt, the golden one that the tiefling child had tossed her after they’d saved him from the harpies. “Gale told me that this has a lesser restoration spell inside it. Which might make these situations easier to recover from. For me, I mean.”

“I see,” Astarion said, still not completely understanding where this was coming from. “Worth a try, of course. Although I do wonder where this generosity is coming from.”

Áine blinked. “You asked about the blood because you’re still thirsty, no?”

No, I was worried about you, little fool. “Well, of course, but that doesn’t quite answer my question, dearest,” Astarion said.

The bard looked down at the amulet she still toyed with between her fingertips as she said, “I just want you to be okay, alright? I told you, I was worried. I still am. And if this is what helps…” She lifted her gaze back to meet his and presented her wrist. “Then I’ll do it.”

Astarion eyed the pulse point of her wrist. He could hear its little flutter from where he still reclined against his cushions. He really did have her wrapped around his finger, didn’t he—the realization eased his nerves around ensuring he stayed protected, but that came with the slightest sliver of guilt that he snuffed out as soon as it surfaced. 

His crimson eyes dragged from her wrist to her eyes, which watched him anxiously. Astarion set his book aside and reached forward with this other hand, his fingers wrapping around her offered wrist. The warmth that leeched from her skin into his palm was intoxicating. Gently, he pulled her toward him, his hooded red eyes moving lazily back to meet hers when he felt her resist. 

Astarion nodded toward the scratch on her shoulder. “No need to make a fresh wound, darling,” he said. A playful smile curved his lips, all the guile of a wolf luring in a lamb. “Come here, my little treat.”

Áine groaned and rolled her eyes, but let him tug her in closer until she sat on her knees between the frame of his long legs, their faces just inches apart. “Please don’t make this weird,” she mumbled, but her face was burning hot and he could hear her heart picking up its pace under his attention. He chuckled and she gave him a withering look, seeming to know he could sense, in full, her body’s reactions to him.

Her blush deepened as he traced his thumb over the inside of the wrist he still held, his free hand adjusting her hair away from the minor injury she’d shown him before. He let his hand linger against her braid, his eyes devouring the sight of her sitting in front of him offering him her blood. 

Astarion traced his fingers from her hair down to her collar, adjusting it so he didn’t get blood on her shirt, and drew her in even closer until her warm, tense frame was pressed against him and the sealed wound on her shoulder was perfectly at his lips. Her hands were planted against his chest, her spine rigid as she tried to maintain some distance between their bodies. He inhaled deeply, the lingering scent of her blood and sweat on her skin mixed with the faint spice of mint leaves created a heady concoction that made him subconsciously tighten his hold on her. 

He heard Áine’s breath hitch and he smiled before dropping his head down to her shoulder, her muscles tensing when his lips grazed her wound. “I will be gentle,” he murmured against her skin and used the razor-sharp edges of his fangs to quickly slice the scratch back open. Áine jolted faintly but stilled when Astarion’s lips closed around the wound and he began to suck the blood into his mouth in long, languorous pulls. His lashes fluttered—like the first time, she was pure ambrosia on his tongue.

As he drank from her, he felt her slowly relaxing against him and he welcomed her in. His hands rested against her waist and the small of her back, his senses comfortably cocooned in her scent and warmth. Astarion eventually licked her wound closed when he decided he’d had a sufficient taste, but grew a little concerned when she didn’t move from his chest. There was no way he’d drained her, he wasn’t even sure he’d had as much as he’d taken the first time. 

He wasn’t able to get a look at her face, which was nestled against his shoulder, so he murmured into her ear instead. “Have you perished?” he asked her teasingly, knowing she was fine as he could feel her heartbeat reverberating through his own chest.

“Quite tragically, I’m afraid,” she mumbled. Her warm breath permeated the fabric of his shirt and met his cold skin, sending a delicious little chill through him. 

Astarion chuckled and glanced down as she fumbled for the amulet around her neck, a faint flash of green pulsing from the gem on the pendant when she used it. “Well? Was the wizard correct?” he asked.

“It seems like it,” she said. “I do feel better, but I also didn’t feel as lightheaded as the first time. Certainly can’t hurt to keep.”

Amused, the vampire noted that despite her claims that she felt more or less fine, she still hadn’t moved off of him. “Are you sure, you seem a bit faint, dearest,” he teased her.

“Oh, quiet,” she mumbled, finally moving her hands off his chest and sliding her arms to rest around his shoulders instead. Some of her blood rose to flush his cheeks, much to his dismay. “It’s a rare opportunity I have right now, I intend to savor it.”

Astarion’s expression became bewildered. “Trust me, darling, being bitten by me isn’t a rare opportunity at all if you enjoyed it that much this time around…”

“I’m not talking about that and you know it.”

He did know it, but instead of admitting that, he sighed against her hair and gathered her closer as he eased further back into the pillows until he was lying down with Áine curled on top of him. “I thought I said I would find us another moment,” Astarion murmured, one arm wrapped around her waist while the other toyed with her braid.

“You did, technically,” she murmured, settling in with a contented sigh. The sound made him smile. “Although if I get the credit for this, then I’ll say you were taking too long.”

Astarion snorted. “My apologies, my sweet,” he mumbled and he felt her quiet laugh shake her body. He hesitated but then allowed himself to broach the topic that had been burning in him from sun-up. “I must admit I was surprised to find you injured after your adventure today… I would’ve thought your lover would’ve fixed it right up for you.”

That got her attention. Áine lifted her head just to turn herself to look at him while they snuggled. Her cheeks remained flushed as she looked up at him, her expression confused. “What do you mean, my ‘lover’?” she asked and her mystified question planted something disgustingly like hope in his dead heart.

His expression smooth, Astarion met her eyes and said, “The cleric, of course. Didn’t you have a nice rendezvous last night? You both seemed awfully cozy this morning.”

Áine’s face went red anew and it told Astarion what he needed to know. She still seemed to have interest in him though as well, so this was still feasible. Then why did his chest ache? It was surely just the weight of her creating a sore spot. He almost rolled his eyes at his own thoughts—he’d never before fed himself such a stupid lie.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Áine said, interrupting his thoughts, “but I didn’t realize it was a date until it was almost over. We came to an understanding that we were strong in our friendship and that was as far as it needed to go.”

“Poor dear,” he tsked, although inside he was preening to know that there was nothing between them. “Then is it simply out of pity that you were letting her hang all over you this morning?” Is it out of pity that you’re hanging onto me now?

Áine frowned. “Of course not. Last night simply made us more comfortable with each other. You needn’t be romantic with someone to show affection,” she reasoned.

This was unheard of by Astarion’s knowledge of the world and all the scummy ways in which it worked. The only kind touches he’d received in as long as he could remember were tainted by hidden agendas and greedy, careless lust. They were given as if he were an object, not kind in their treatment of him, but kind so he wouldn’t break before he could be used. Frowning back at her, Astarion ventured to ask, “Is this also something you would seek from a friend?”

She nervously bit her lower lip, holding it between her teeth. He wanted to incline his head and steal it from her with his own. “Do you want that to be why?”

Astarion scoffed. “Since when does it matter what I want?” he asked rhetorically, a question meant to dismiss hers and encourage her to answer with a statement instead. 

Áine just, as ever, surprised him with what she said. “Since always,” she grumbled, causing that sting to return to his chest. Bless her, she had no idea.

Outwardly, he just smiled and shook his head at her. “Answer my question, darling.”

Áine hung onto her silence for a long agonizing moment before she exhaled the breath she was holding and muttering, “No, I don’t only have friend-based feelings for you, you absolute shit.” That caught him off guard enough to make him laugh out loud. She was massaging her temples when he looked back down at her. “But those friend-based feelings are there if that’s preferable. We don’t need to discuss it now, I just want to make sure you know that. Okay?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Astarion admitted.

Áine thought about her next words before she said them. “I mean that this doesn’t only mean something to me if it goes a certain way,” she said. “It means something to me regardless of whether it becomes a friendship or something more than that…or even less, too. I’m just grateful I’ve gotten to meet you. Even if you’ve threatened my life…is it twice now?”

Astarion chuckled. “Technically only once as I didn’t intend to kill you the second time, but sure.”

Áine smiled, her dark honey eyes drinking him in. “Hmph. Well, my apologies, my sweet,” she said, mirroring his earlier tone and making him chuckle again. Her eyes became speculative by the time he looked at her again. “...Wait, were you jealous? Was that what this morning was about?”

Shit. “Hush,” he grumbled as she read his reaction, and a bemused but entertained expression brightened her face. He was still reeling a little from the agency she’d just handed him in deciding where their “perhaps” of a connection would go as if it were simple for her to do so. She didn’t realize what it meant, what it felt like, to have that offered autonomy for the first time. He focused on what he did know how to handle instead for the time being. “Seeing you frolic about with Shar’s favorite little princess was a bit disconcerting. That’s all.”

Áine was the epitome of smug and he noticed it gave her usual smirk an even slyer, feline edge. It was unbearably sexy. “Astarion, look at me please,” she chided him after he’d rolled his eyes away from her. 

He sighed and leveled his most exasperated gaze at her, one eyebrow arched high. “What is it?” Astarion asked, practically daring her to tease him.

“This is important, so I need you to listen carefully,” Áine said, her features becoming quite serious as she spoke. He didn’t trust it, but he paid attention. “Shadowheart may be Shar’s favorite princess, it’s true… But you’re mine, okay?”

“Fuck off.”

Áine fell apart with giggles while Astarion stared at the sky, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath. Through her laughter, she managed an apology that was the opposite of sincere and he noticed that small beads of tears had sprung to her eyes. He swallowed the smile that threatened his own features to save face.

Her smile lingered as Áine started to pick herself up from her spot against his chest. She stood up and the night felt suddenly chilly without her. “I’ll let you rest now, thank you for indulging me,” she chuckled, straightening her shirt and pulling her sleeve back up over her shoulder. 

When she was smoothing out her pants, her hand suddenly paused against her hip. “Oh, I almost forgot again,” Áine said, reaching into her pocket and extracting something small that she offered down to him. 

Hesitantly, he reached up to take whatever it was, thinking perhaps it was another joke until he saw what she’d handed him—a little spool of golden thread. 

He froze. 

“I found it in one of the chests we looted the other day and kept forgetting to give it to you. I don’t know if it’ll exactly match the embroidery on your doublet, but hopefully it’s close,” Áine was saying. “Anyway, goodnight, Astarion.”

Astarion was still staring at the thread in his hand, something in the walls he’d built up starting to disintegrate no matter how much he tried to stamp it back down. It was something so small, so simple, it was thread, but it was also much more than that. She’d noticed. She’d looked at him and seen him, even just for a second. She thought of him as more than a body, more than a means to an end. Her words had told him that, her demeanor told him that, but now this act of thoughtfulness told him that, too. Every time he found ways around believing it, around leaning into it, she gave him something else to dodge. Something else he didn’t want to dodge.

The vampire surged to his feet stuffing the spool into his pocket as he pivoted and followed after the bard—his bard—who hadn’t yet made it to her tent. He hated the desperate edge he heard in his own voice as he spoke her name to get her attention. She stopped and turned around, straight into his arms as he pulled her against him and branded her mouth with his.

Her surprise didn’t last long. It melted under their heat and his entire body responded when she kissed him back, her arms returning to wrap around his neck and one of her hands running through his hair and eliciting a soft groan from the back of Astarion’s throat that was lost between their lips. He only drew back when he felt her grow breathless in his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. 

Astarion inclined his head, skimming his nose gently against Áine’s. “Your ‘friend-based feelings’ would be better reserved for someone else,” he murmured, his eyelids heavy with lust as he looked at her. He needed to come to grips with himself before he took her. It couldn’t happen tonight, as much as his body disagreed with that sentiment. In fact, his body and its response to her was his primary concern. 

This was new and felt very much like a lack of control. The feelings he’d had that morning—the contempt, the thoughts of dominating her and manipulating her with his sexual prowess born of innumerable encounters’ worth of practice—were what he was used to when it came to bedroom activities. What he felt now, what he’d felt building ever since he’d noticed his fascination with her, was explosive. He still felt the urge to dominate, but for the sake of both their pleasure, to bring her to her knees because her knees were shaking with ecstasy. His base instinct was to be gentle with her, to lo—

He needed to reset before this went any further.

Astarion smirked at the dazed expression on her face, placing a hand on the back of her head to draw her against the kiss he pressed to her forehead. Out of her line of sight, he looked down at the top of her head with mixed adoration and fear. By the time he stepped back, the expression was smoothed away. “Sweet dreams, lover,” he purred and sauntered back to his tent, leaving Áine bewildered and wanting in his wake.

Next chapter: Chapter 9, "Bear With Me"

lil update notes: My fiancé is visiting for the next two-ish weeks, so updates either will wait until after then or be sporadic in the meantime.

Thank you for reading! I hope Unbound has been enjoyable so far. It's been very enjoyable for me to write. :) BG3 has been a godsend to my brain in general, so I hope I'm doing it some measure of justice here.

I hope everyone had, is having, or will have a safe, comfortable winter holiday season and that 2024 greets you kindly. x

[hullomoon]

hullomoon's 2023 works: part two

it’s the end of the year, which means it’s time for a work round-up! i had a pretty busy year so i didn't post as much, but i also know i did more longer works. so it probably balances out in the end. if you haven’t yet, check out my 2019 roundup, 2020 roundup, 2021 roundup, and 2022 roundup! all works are ordered in chronological posting order.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

it might not be okay (but a hug can help) | Stranger Things | The Byers & Eleven | 1.3k

The first day of school is rough for the Byers

[podfic] you're the reason i'm hanging on | Stranger Things | Robin/Nancy, Robin & Steve | 01:55:25

Max picks at the hem of her sleeve. “Did you see the clock?” It occurs to her, distantly, that Max is seeking comfort as much as she’s offering it. Robin feels something stir in her chest, and she thinks she should say something. Do something. She thinks she would normally know what. Now, she just doesn’t. or, the obligatory Robin gets Vecna'd fic

[podfic] Erre Con Erre | Pokemon | Emmet & Ingo | 01:31

Los gemelos están cansados y recuerdan una rima de su infancia.

[podfic] and they'll never tear us apart | Check, Please! | Jack/Bitty | 0:43:56

Bitty's got a secret long distance boyfriend. It affects the Haus-mates, frogs, and said long-distance-(Canadian-hockey-robot)-boyfriend in different ways.

we're a team | Stranger Things | Steve & Robin | 463

The Fourth of July is right around the corner and trauma has a way of rearing its ugly head

[podfic] come lie with me and let silence treat us kindly | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 0:24:00

Eddie learns that sometimes Steve will just lie down on the floor and simply exist while the world around him continues. The Party know that, call it "floor time", and generally leave him be until Steve is ready to be back. Eddie doesn't mind, because it offers him even more opportunities to just look at him. To watch him. That is, until Eddie himself is in dire need of just lying down and letting the floor work its apparent magic. It's a good thing, he finds, that Steve understands him without as many words and is very ready to just take care of him. Eddie might be a little bit in love, actually. Or: In which they lie on the floor and take care of each other, falling in love somewhere along the way between music and silence.

you've got a friend | Stranger Things | Steve & Robin | 1.1k

It takes a while for Robin and Steve to realize they've developed a fear of needles

[podfic] pinkie swear | Stranger Things | Steve & Robin | 09:48

Traffic is miserable. Robin passes out during the first traffic jam. Steve puts on Tears for Fears last album and hopes she doesn’t wake up and give him shit. Doesn’t think about the “Break for Emergency” Spotify playlist they all share. Or his yearly plans to get the hell out of Chicago for the Fourth of July. Completely ignores the mess that is late October through November. He weaves through traffic —Robin doesn’t even move when he’s cut off and he lays on his horn. or, forty years of steve & robin’s friendship

[podfic] coming home to you | Schitt's Creek | Stevie & David | 0:11:49

There’s a room in the cottage that’s always ready for her, whenever she needs it. It’s not a guest room. David and Patrick were very clear on that. The third bedroom is the guest room. But this, this is her room. There’s Rose Apothecary products in the bathroom, even though she’d still use the drugstore brand if left to her own devices. There’s the old, battered quilt on the foot of the bed that David said didn’t go with the decor, but left it there for her anyway because he knew how much she loved it. There’s even a Sarah McLachan poster on the wall. There’s a room in the cottage that’s always ready for her, and that’s why she’s definitely not crying on this airplane.

it's hot when you're going through hell | Stranger Things | Chrissy/Nancy | Explicit | 2.2k

Every college-aged woman in Hawkins knows: if you have a problem with an ex, you went to Nancy Wheeler

[maleeni]

Kiley Coltrane for @hauntedtrait's Chestnut Bachelor Challenge.

Born in a Henford-On-Bagley, Kiley (27) grew up exploring the outdoors, building treehouses, and tending to injured birds and stray animals. Raised by her kind-hearted foster father who nurtured her love for wildlife, Kiley developed a connection with the natural world. With no known biological family, Kiley's foster father was her rock. Despite the lack of blood ties, they shared an unbreakable bond until he passed away, leaving Kiley with a profound appreciation for found families.

Kiley's heart comes alive when she is outdoors. Whether it's hiking, camping under the stars, or simply breathing in the fresh mountain air, the natural world is her sanctuary. Kiley's life philosophy revolves around the interconnectedness of all living beings. She believes that by nurturing the environment and caring for animals, she can contribute to a more harmonious world. Her experiences have taught her that family is not solely defined by blood but by the bonds we create and the love we share.

Despite her ability to heal and nurture, Kiley sometimes struggles with feelings of solitude stemming from her lack of a conventional family. She channels these emotions into her work as a large animal vet, finding solace in her efforts to mend the lives of animals in need.

Kiley applied to this Bachelor Challenge to push herself out of her comfort zone and hopefully get to know some interesting people - whether this leads to a deeper connection or not, she is excited about the experience!

Traits: adventurous, animal enthusiast, slob.

Likes: Physical activity (especially rock climbing - she also enjoys hiking and boxing), thai food, dancing at nightclubs, cuddles with her Border Collie (Angus), open log fires, comfy socks, thunderstorms and the smell of rain, David Attenborough documentaries.

Dislikes: Super hero movies, fake people who gossip, rudeness, raw celery, spiders (she would never kill one, but they make her skin crawl), going to the dentist (she refuses to get her chipped front tooth capped), sitting still and waiting (she is only patient when it comes to animals).

[lewis-winters]

Wrt dæmon body horror it's so good because dæmons change by their nature. When they're young they're elastic, shrinking and growing and shedding fur for feathers and back again. But then they settle and that's meant to be it. Trauma and circumstance might change them a little, sure, but only by degrees. A change of coat, like Malarkey's hare keeping her winter fur all year, or a step sideways in species, like Buck's eagle becoming a snowy owl. To change so entirely? To lose what had become comfortable, what had become a sense of self in its shape? For Sledge's dæmon to go from a loyal dog at his heels to a bird that seems to show his wounds to the world? For Thomas Foster's to become a silent, nameless, wolfhound? It's quite literally like being torn apart and rebuilt as something unrecognisable. - Nathan

EXAAAACCCTTTLLLYYYYY LIKE SCREAMS i spent the whole night staring at the ceiling thinking about this because like.

we, by virtue of being human, tend to lean more toward the POV of the human in a human-dæmon relationship, that we totally forget that it is the dæmon that is changing. the horror, for the human, is that they FEEL different, and they can see physical evidence that they ARE different, but when they look in the mirror, they look relatively the same. the horror for the dæmon, though, is that their very SHAPE is now different. the way they navigate space is now different! the way they hear things smell things do things!! it's all different!!

though that interpretation is rooted very much in the feeling of individualism that maybe we need to shake off. in our world, the dæmon is a part of us, in our own bodies, so we're the only ones who can feel this change. maybe sometimes we don't even notice it, because we're living it. but in the world of his dark materials, the dæmon is outside and physical to some extent. we can feel it. we can talk to it. we can hold it. so of course we'd be HORRIFIED when you realize that its changed so much that they're nonlonger in a form you recognize. or a form you may want or expect.

and i also do think... is it painful? changing when you're older? is it painful, for your dæmon's bones to break and grow or shrink, resettling into a different shape? is it tender? is it excruciating? does the pain go away or are do you simply get used to the pain? is it QUICK????

deacon changing for eugene sledge was not quick. he sprouted feathers, his bones crunched, his paws shrunk into claws... all in a span of WEEKS. is that wound on deacon's chest just coloring... or is it an actual wound?

buck compton's dæmon didn't even change in front of him. he was robbed of the intimacy of it that, before, was so easily shared between them. she just flew off one day, then flew back, a ghost of who she was! but did he feel it? did he feel it and was numb to it?

don malarkey didn't even NOTICE. the change was small but it was still change. and he carries that with him his whole LIFE.

david webster's dæmon didn't even change physically, but psychologically and mentally she was different. he never even knew the savageness and vindictiveness of the raven until he and annabel went to war.

all his life, all thomas foster had was his dæmon. what happens when he doesn't anymore? when she won't even talk to him, much less look at him?

UGH, being unable to recognize yourself in the mirror is one thing. but being unable to recognize your soul????? that's fucked up.

[aggressivelyaverage21]

Chapter 15

Bea gets some time alone, though, not for long. Lilith gets put on her ass. Shannon wrecks some donuts. Bea takes a nap in the sun. Shannon shares what brought her to the order and plays some football. Mother Superion gets a gift.

The streets were buzzing, people out and about, waving to each other as they exchanged pleasantries and confections. Flower stands were set up on every block with a line forming at each one. 

Shannon glanced over. Beatrice was in awe, her jaw was unhinged. Beatrice hadn’t thought so many colors could fill these streets when she’d first arrived, so nervous she hardly noticed anything about the town. “Beautiful, right?”

It was all Beatrice could do to nod as she continued to take it in. It felt like something off of a calendar page or a postcard, or maybe even a movie. Like Beatrice was here to experience it by observing, but here she was, inside it all—the smell of roasted chestnuts swirling around her with the breeze. The colors danced to life around her in the morning sun.

Beatrice simply nodded, still taking it all in as she followed Shannon around the corner, the smell of fresh pastries nearly smacking her in the face in the best way. It smelled wonderful, a little bit like comfort. Not only that, Beatrice was thrilled, but it meant her sinuses were clearing. 

She hadn’t been out of Cat’s Cradle since she’d arrived, but she did recognize this bakery. The one with the nice man, the first person to call her ‘Sister.’ The one who sent her in the direction of these women Beatrice so painfully hoped were her family now, with the lingering taste of the sweet dough on her tongue.

Shannon had been so excited to take Beatrice to the bakery. Juan David was one of the nicest men with the best pastries. He often would bring them to mass to sell, always bringing extras for several sisters. It always made Shannon smile to see him, plus he would always give her a little treat, often one for Mary and Lilith as well. 

The bell clangs off the door when Shannon holds it open for Beatrice, a fresh wave of the smell wafting through the air as she does. The warmth wrapped around them and soothed the sting of the cool morning air against Beatrice’s cheeks and the tip of her nose. “Ah, Hermana Shannon, me preguntaba cuándo vendrías. ¡Feliz día de todos los santos! ” 

“¡Hola, Juan David! ¡Feliz día de todos los santos! He traído una amiga.” Shannon squeezed Beatrice’s shoulder as she ushered her further into the bakery. It was almost like Shannon was presenting Beatrice to the man. She held the young sister in front of her so he could see her, like someone would introduce a child. “ Ella es la Hermana Beatrice.” 

Beatrice blinked up at Shannon, surprised. It shouldn’t have come as one, but hearing the Spanish roll so effortlessly off Shannon’s tongue for the first time was unexpected. Her American accent was hardly what Beatrice would call thick, but between her and Mary at a convent full of other sisters from all corners of the world, the abrupt vowels and rounded consonants seemed to stand out. 

“¡La Nueva Hermana! Me alegra que pudiera encontrar el convento.” The man's smile was fonder than it had any right to be as he shot her a wink like they shared some sort of secret. Beatrice hadn’t interacted with him but the once, months ago. He had been kind then, but she hadn’t thought much about him since. 

“ Hola ,” Beatrice greeted quietly as she ducked her head to hide the blush like she’d somehow been caught with a secret, especially when Shannon leaned over her with a questioning quirk to her eyebrow, requesting an explanation. It wouldn’t be coming from Beatrice, though. She stood shyly at Shannon’s side, her hands buried in her pockets so she didn’t need to fight the fidgeting so hard under Shannon’s inquisitive gaze. 

Beatrice’s shyness didn’t delay Shannon’s silent request long. Juan David jumped on the opportunity almost immediately with a deep chuckle. He swung that same towel over his shoulder, momentarily planting his hands on the glass when he started explaining. It was a much more lively story than their brief interaction deserved, but as the story shifted into conversation, Beatrice was content just to listen, warm in the little bakery as her eyes tracked the variety of pastries and breads in the glass. The artistry of them all. 

Beatrice wasn’t sure; it could have been anywhere between five and twenty minutes of listening to Shannon and Juan David's chatter as he filled box after box of pastries. Buñuelos de viento. Huesos de Santo. Panellets. He even told Shannon he would be out after his son took over the bakery to fry fresh pestiños and roast chestnuts. 

With a smile, Shannon told him she called the first pestiños when he finally made it out. One of the little traditions they had developed over the years. Shannon’s first year, she’d been so sad. So reflective as she sat at the edge of the football field adjacent to the church, just watching. Juan David had come bearing a plate stacked with some pastries, claiming the first of the day was always the best. Slightly more gooey. He had been right, and every year since she’d received the first one and a hug, “de un padre.”

Juan David was closing the last box of pastries when Shannon turned back to Beatrice, that warm glint in her eye to match the bakery. “Ready, Trouble?” 

Beatrice nodded as she stood leaning heavily on the counter, waiting for Shannon to tell her it was time to move on. Shannon passed her a pox of the pastries as a silent request for her to carry it. 

Beatrice knew what it was. She knew what Shannon was doing. She wasn’t stupid.

It was only one out of 6 boxes. Shannon wasn’t letting her do much but clearly didn’t want Beatrice to feel like she wasn’t helping at all. It was nice of her; Beatrice understood that much, but it also took some wind out of her sails. Even when Juan David handed her a smaller pastry box with his toothy grin, “ Para Madre Superion .” 

“ Gracias ,” Beatrice nodded with a smile as she held the door open for Shannon. 

“ Hasta luego, Hermana Beatrice .” His grin was cheeky in a way Beatrice couldn’t make sense of. Like she was missing the joke's punch line, though she did have the vague inclination that it was some sort of strange  “I told you so.” 

KEEP READING

[martianbugsbunny]

Is This Love Persevering? (It Feels More Like The End of the World)—A CaptainCroc Fic

So this is a fic in which Rumple actually gets to attend Bae’s funeral (bc Zelena can just get fricking lost for making it so Rumple didn’t get to do that) (actually she killed Bae, too, so….) (she can just get lost either way). Also it’s CaptainCroc; like most of my fics for this pairing, I’m operating on the base assumption that they were together for some length of time before the curse, and for either heart-sharey reasons or bc Killian still ended up in Neverland or some other ✨magical BS✨ like that, Killian has the canon-typical extended lifespan. (Not quite sure why I explained that part, it seems pretty obvious, but whatever.)

I felt sentimental and I had a couple of sads lying around, so...this is the result. Enjoy seems a bit odd of a word to use, considering the plot? but read on!

There weren’t many people at the gravesite. Emma and Henry were there; Henry at least had as much right to be there as Rumple did, given that Bae was his father, and Emma…Rumple had considered her an irritating obstacle from time to time, but she had loved his son, and for that he liked her. Her parents stood beside her, David’s arm around her shoulders, and Mary Margaret holding one of Emma’s hands and one of Henry’s.

Only one person stood by Rumple. He felt alone, if he was being honest, and despite the warmth of Killian’s hand in his, there was a chill that cut through his bones.

They might all say they were there for Bae, but it was only partially true. The Charmings were there for their daughter and grandson; Emma was there for Henry and he was there for her…Killian was there for Rumple. It hurt that, even after he had tried to die for them (although that in itself was also mostly for Bae), and although it was his child whose body was being lowered into the ground, the Charming clan didn’t seem to consider Rumple in need or deserving of their comfort.

Rumple felt the weariness of his accumulated centuries in every fiber of his body as the coffin finally reached the bottom of the grave. His son was in that damn box, but at the same time he wasn’t, and it was simply too much.

He felt some small twinge of comfort in the fact that Mayor Mills, a queen in their home realm and one of the most important people in Storybrooke, was the one to speak the funeral rites. Bae deserved at least that much.

“Neal Cassidy—Baelfire—regardless of which name we knew him by, he was a good man,” Regina said. Her voice had a note of genuine sorrow in it. “He was the father of my son, for which I will always be grateful to him.” She glanced over at Henry, and Rumple could see the pain that came from imagining that it was her child to be buried. “He died a hero, like his father.”

She paused for a moment of silence. Henry’s sniffles and the rustling of the leaves of a nearby tree were the only sounds in the air.

Regina spoke again before anyone else. “The family is invited to throw in a handful of dirt before the coffin is fully interred.”

Rumple approached the grave first. The coffin had been decorated with flowers; roses from Emma, something small and white from the Charmings, and a single yellow lily from Rumple. (Bae had always loved yellow.) Now, Rumple poured a handful of dark, stony dirt onto the coffin, trickling over the bright petals.

Most of the people in the cemetery weren’t actually Bae’s relatives, but Henry, Killian, and Emma also took their turns at the grave.

Then, just like that, it was over. Mayor Mills left the cemetery first, followed closely by Mary Margaret and David. Emma and Henry stayed until the last of the dirt was heaped into the grave by city workers, and then they were gone too.

Rumple allowed himself to lean against Killian more heavily. He didn’t bother to hold back the tears that had been accumulating throughout the whole ghastly afternoon. “He didn’t deserve that, Killian. He still could’ve had a good life,” Rumple sobbed.

“I believe in an afterlife, love,” Killian said softly. “And I know Bae is having a good one of those.”

“How can he? He died for me. Dying for an evil man isn’t how you get into heaven.”

“His death was a supreme act of love and forgiveness, Rumple. I know he shouldn’t have died so young. I know it’s killing you because it’s killing me and whatever I feel, you’re feeling it times fifty. But I also know that you raised him right, when you had him, and he didn’t step off the good path even though he had a lot of anger. There’s no way our son is going to hell.”

Rumple stared at the patch of fresh earth in front of him, so newly-filled there was no grass. He should plant lilies there, when things warmed up, so Bae would never be without something beautiful. He had earned at least that.

“We should go home now, Rumple. We can come back tomorrow, and every day after that if you like, but you need to rest.”

He didn’t feel tired, just worn, but for once Rumple didn’t argue. He couldn’t bear to leave Bae’s grave, to leave Bae alone, but he also couldn’t stand to be there for another second.

They had only been home for five minutes when someone knocked on the front door. Killian went to answer it, while Rumple poured hot water into two mugs.

Killian re-entered the kitchen with Mary Margaret in tow. “Rumple, Mrs. Charming wanted to talk to you,” Killian said. His attempt at humor, light as it was, didn’t mean a thing to either him or Rumple. It was automatic, but it would be a while before he could really joke or laugh again.

“Some of our friends left food outside our apartment,” Mary Margaret said. “And we were about to start our dinner, when we realized…we had everyone gathered except the person who cared about Neal the most. And we also realized that you could probably use a few friends in your corner right now. Would you like to have dinner with us?”

Part of Rumple wanted to say no, to isolate himself in his bedroom and live alone with his grief. They hadn’t cared before, but Killian had, so he should stay at home with Killian and ignore the Charmings’ collective existence.

That wasn’t what Bae would want. He would want Rumple to be open, because openness was a step away from the dark. How much better would both of their lives have been if Rumple had been the man his son wanted—needed—him to be?

“We have time,” Rumple said, glancing at Killian. There was pride in his eyes, shining out past the heavy surface sorrow. “We’ll come.”

Not too long later, Rumple was seated, only semi-comfortably, on the Charmings’ couch with a mug of chicken soup in his hands. It felt strange to be seated among the heroes, and it felt stranger to know they were sharing a common emotional state.

Henry was upstairs in his room; Mary Margaret mentioned that he had been asleep for a while. Emma sat on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, her head leaned on her hand as she ate her way steadily through a dish of lasagna. Killian and Mary Margaret were at the table, both eating from a dish of ice cream that sat between them.

Which left Rumple sitting next to David.

They weren’t exactly enemies, but David always viewed Rumple as a threat to his family and as a result their interactions were generally tense. Rumple respected that, even if he actually found Mary Margaret to be the more intimidating of them.

Most of the evening passed in silence. Rumple preferred that; he knew what each person would have to say, and it wouldn’t help. Emma, something about how Bae was Henry’s father, and she wasn’t sure what to do for Henry. (After all, that, rather than the way she had loved him, was what would be on her mind.) Mary Margaret would try to say something comforting, but of course it wouldn’t work and then everyone would be *more* down. Killian would tell some story about meeting Bae in Neverland when he was younger that would be funny, or sentimental (maybe both, knowing him) and everyone except Killian and Rumple would feel better. David would probably try to distract them from the subject of Bae entirely, and that would fail, too.

The silence was much better.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was morning. Rumple found himself curled up against Killian’s side, Killian resting his head on the arm of the couch. And David was on the other end of the couch, Rumple’s feet crossed over his lap and resting on the other arm. Mary Margaret was slumped over the table, a pillow under her face—Rumple suspected Killian had put it there—and Emma was sprawled out across her parents’ bed.

It was far from the perfect life, especially for Rumple. In the perfect life, his son would still be alive.

But having a family, even a makeshift, undefinable family to help get him through his grief…he supposed that might be considered a good life. And maybe in a month or two, he might be well enough to enjoy it.

Knowing he was safe for the time being, he curled closer to Killian and began to sob.