#lets fight corona

[katakaluptastrophy]

I want to continue pushing my 'Magnus Quinn wasn't actually a terrible swordfighter' agenda.

Obviously, he wasn't on the same level as professional duelists Babs or Pro, or soldiers Marta or Jean. He was a guy who did some kind of fencing in high school and then picked it up again in his 30s, presumably with some degree of seriousness.

When Gideon joins the other cavaliers in the training room, Magnus and Jean are sparring. He jokes about how badly Jean is beating him, but he must have some degree of competence for aspiring soldier Jean to find him worth training with. Babs then mocks him for getting beaten by a teenager and Magnus jokes, describes himself as "absolutely no good", and praises Jean's abilities...before giving Babs such a death glare he gets obviously embarrassed.

It's worth bearing in mind that there's some degree of tension between the Third and the Fifth. Babs will have know Magnus since he was small and has almost certainly seen him fight before. But the Fifth, their relationship, and the relative freedom that Magnus has to not be a perfect fighter (because his necromancer values him as a human being) is clearly something that rankles the Third. In TUG, when Ianthe talks about Babs, she explicitly references Abigail and Magnus. And what's interesting is that she makes a comparison not just between Abigail's husband-with-a-sword and her perfect tool to be moulded and used, but also to Corona's aspirations to swordcraft:

IANTHE (Playing a card) She’s not here, so let me be fully honest, Sextus: my sister is not a swordswoman. She loves to wear big boots and wave a sword around, and she looks wonderful doing it, but her actual competence … well, put it this way: she’d lose to Magnus Quinn.

PALAMEDES Magnus Quinn was a cavalier primary.

IANTHE No, I mean Magnus Quinn now.

There's...a lot...to unpack here: the comparison of Corona to the husband-cavalier is intriguing in and of itself on a psychosexual level, as is the contradiction between Ianthe and Corona's own versions of Corona's competence. But Palamedes' response is also interesting, suggesting that Magnus was up to an acceptable standard for a cavalier, which Ianthe's joking response seems to back up.

So Babs' rudeness towards Magnus and Jean may have a lot to do with the internal dynamics of his own necromancer-cavalier relationship and not necessarily be an accurate reflection of Magnus' abilities.

Likewise, Judith's comment in the Cohort Intelligence Files that the Fifth is 'undoubtedly chagrined" to have "schoolboy fighter" Magnus representing them had to be read against the fact that we know from the Sermon on Necromancers and Cavaliers by Second House stooge M. Bias that the Cohort has a very low opinion of unranked "social cavaliers". And Judith Deuteros may have her own reasons for being disdainful of a cavalier who is so...cavalier...about his intimate relationship with his adept.

Magnus' own self-deprecating comment on his ability is:

"I didn’t get to be cavalier primary due to being the best with a rapier. I’m cavalier primary only because my adept is also my wife. I suppose you could say that I—ha, ha—cavalier primarried!”

But again, there's a difference between becoming cavalier primary because you're the best sword fighter and getting up to a vaguely competent level once you've become cavalier primary (guys in their 30s with high powered jobs tend to be scarily into their hobbies...) He is definitely the worst cavalier there (or would be, if Pro were actually alive), but on a general standard he probably isn't as terrible as people like to joke.

Another important bit of context here is that all of his comments about his own ability occur in the context of Corona trying to get him to fight Gideon. The shy, silent 18 year old from the cult planet whose practice of cavaliership is generally acknowledged to mostly consist of carrying buckets of bones.

She gets paired with Magnus because they assume she's not going to be much of a fighter and Magnus - neither a professional duelist nor a soldier - would therefore be the fairest opponent. Magnus is clearly uncomfortable. And Gideon is certainly Intimidating. But when you consider that most of his previous interactions with her have been trying to coax her out of her shell and clearly feeling rather sorry for her, his comments take on a bit of a different tone.

Does Magnus worry Corona has dragged along this poor kid out of interest or curiosity, and that she's going to be humiliated and never want to interact with them again? As Corona says “Come—Gideon the Ninth, right?—why don’t you try Sir Magnus instead? Don’t believe him when he says he’s rubbish. The Fifth House is meant to turn out very fine cavaliers," Magnus is politely dissembling, telling exactly the sort of jokes that would appeal to a teenager.

As everyone else mocks or is intrigued by Gideon's knuckle-knives, Magnus is trying to look her in the eye through her sunglasses, bewildered that she doesn't know to take off her robes or glasses to fight and then...suddenly realising that she is dead serious and perhaps he has dramatically underestimated her.

After his defeat, we hear him saying to Jean "I'm not quite that out of form, am I?". Gideon's abilities were totally unexpected: she severely tests a top duelist like Babs, and Magnus is surprised to be beaten in three moves. That suggests he's been holding his own rather more comprehensively in previous sparring.

And while he certainly wasn't up to Gideon's standard, he may have managed to draw his sword before Cytherea took him out...

[bloodiedrogue]

WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)

SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,912

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. 

Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day. 

By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too. 

Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready. 

Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care. 

As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.

“Whiskey, please.”

“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.” 

You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth. 

If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another. 

“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.” 

Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?” 

It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head. 

At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—

He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”

Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.” 

“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.” 

“Yeah, like what?”

When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side. 

When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation. 

It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely. 

Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye. 

Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought. 

It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.” 

You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of. 

Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears. 

“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.

It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?” 

As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“

“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”

For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break. 

Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want. 

After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow. 

But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right. 

As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations. 

It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.

Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with. 

“Can we talk now? Maybe?”

His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”

Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.

“The deity?”

You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”

As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.

“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.  

Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”

You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so. 

“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”

“Willingly?”

You shrug your shoulders. “At first.” 

You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty. 

Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan. 

“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”

There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together. 

Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment. 

A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.

The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.

As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else. 

“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?” 

You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears. 

“Good. Then our destinations align.” 

His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?” 

At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over. 

“The person who sent the hunter—“

He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation. 

After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.

To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years. 

However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.  

“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.

You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head. 

Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need. 

Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”

“This?” You look at him confused.

“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”

There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”

“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”

It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him. 

“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.” 

You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s. 

But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.

“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”

“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”

“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”

“Fair point.”

He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin. 

Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine. 

You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes. 

“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind. 

As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed. 

If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership. 

“Do you know what it is?”

He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.” 

Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal. 

The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him. 

Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head. 

It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.

“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.

“She did this?”

After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you remember how it felt?”

You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in. 

Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want. 

When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is. 

You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible. 

It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin. 

Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him. 

In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.

“Do you want this?”

His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”

“So it’s okay if I—“

There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away. 

Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.  

While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward. 

Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor. 

“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh. 

“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.

“Cheeky pup.” 

“The cheekiest.” 

After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries. 

The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step. 

You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.

At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.

After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.

It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him. 

It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan. 

“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”

“No, I suppose not.” 

Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay. 

When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs. 

You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.

“You seem nervous, darling.” 

Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind. 

In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this. 

You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh. 

“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”

With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.” 

As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”

When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves. 

This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.

For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it. 

Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke. 

“You think you’re clever, do you?”

You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”

Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh. 

“Oh really?” 

Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.

Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away. 

Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss. 

Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit. 

It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him. 

“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?” 

Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance. 

It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind. 

Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it’s okay. 

As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.

“Feel alright?”

Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”

Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again. 

As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut. 

“Remember patience?”

You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it. 

“I recall you saying—"

“Astarion, please.” 

You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you. 

It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter. 

You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.

Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—

When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips. 

Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub. 

-

TAGLIST: @poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi

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[sainamoonshine]

So I know the entire narrative in The Locked Tomb is like « oh ahaha Babs, what a loser » but I genuinely think that there might be something really interesting about him. Babs was the only person in the whole galaxy to know about Ianthe and Corona’s secret. And I’m starting to think that as much of a natural asshole he is, at least 50% of what we see of him in GtN is acting.

Let me explain: he is obviously in puppy love with Corona, and dismissive of Ianthe when Corona is looking. But privately, he is terrified of her. He knows she’s his necromancer and NOT Corona; this is proven when the Second challenges the Sixth, and Corona wants to intervene but Ianthe says no. Ianthe is 100% certain that Babs will do as she says, but Corona is actually surprised. And when he finds Corona duelling Gideon, he is scared and tells her that he will not tell Ianthe. I think Ianthe probably threatened him behind Corona’s back one time or a dozen. And I think Babs isn’t just protecting their secret, he might be trying to protect Corona from Ianthe’s anger too. Being the annoying go-between, the butt of the joke, the meat shield. On purpose.

Pay close attention to when he’s being a contrary asshole for no reason. A lot of it seems to come naturally to him, sure. But also: when Jeannemary finds the human ash and asks for Corona of all people to help her identify the deceased: he immediately redirects attention by being a mega-asshole. Corona ends up not having to do any necromancy; her secret is still safe. Similarly, later on in Dulcinea’s sick room, when everyone is having a discussion about necromancy: he makes a tetchy comment, prompting Corona to whisk him away like ‘oh ahah he’s getting hangry’. How familiar is this routine for them?

I think deep down, while he’s an arrogant dickhead, Babs isn’t evil. He’s shocked and appalled that Silas went and took Dulcinea’s keys, and I don’t think it’s because he wishes he thought of it first, as Jeannemary accuses. I think he genuinely thinks that’s dishonourable. And when Corona tries to stand up for the Sixth and Ianthe says no, Babs follows her order, but is pissed about it.

But hold on, you might say to me, five minutes later HE is the one to issue a challenge to the Sixth!! Yeah, after a tense stare-off with his necromancer. After, perhaps, coming to some conclusions of his own about the Third house’s chances regarding the key situation. Ianthe herself says to Corona: you need a facility key. This is your only chance. Might be that Babs figured something similar!

When Harrow answers the call, his face is frozen in a look that’s both cautious but trying to look though. When Jeannemary jumps on the table, he immediately backs out. Without waiting for Ianthe to call him off. He tries to play it off, but Babs is pretty consistent on NOT wanting to fight the teenager.

In conclusion: the dude is a dick but I think he’s got honour and he is stuck between a rock and a very hard place. AND he fights Ianthe after the lyctoral process for a surprising and impressive long time!

Also: lmao when he jumps off the table he mutters ‘should have just stayed home and gotten married’. Okay??? Babs what’s that about? 👀

[henrywintersslut]

after being dead since july, let me supply yall with some imagines for my newest obsession; tate langdon

i <3 my boyfriend🤭

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this post contains sexual contents, don’t read it if you’re uncomfortable wirh sexual scenes

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imagine tate coming back from a therapy sesh with ur father, and being crazy mad cause your father just told him that he has a strong fear of rejection, so he bends you over your desks and fucks you from behind while whispering in your ear, “you’d never reject me, huh sweetheart? you’ll always be my littlw slut, and never say no to me, isn’t that right?”

imagine tate observing you quietly before yall ever talked, and getting hard from seeing you walk around in your pretty, short skirts with your sexy little butt on display for him, so he just can’t help jerking off to you every night in the shower

imagine tate sneaking into your room while you’re in online class (i never attended those while corona time lmaoo) and snuggling in under your desk, resting his head on your plush thighs cause he’s upset about a fight he had with his mother, but he cannot stop himself from prying your thighs apart and eating you out, making you yelp in surprise and having to mute yourself in the chat

imagine tate falling asleep while sucking on your tits after having a bad fight with his mom, and he keeps on suckling in his sleep, completely overstimulating your poor nipple and making them all sore, but you couldn’t care less, as long as you could comforf your boy :(

imagine tate bucking his hips upwards and pushing himself further down your throat while u’re giving him head, just to see you look up at him with tearstained eyes, feeling your throat convulse around him in a gag

imagine you pulling tate’s hair while making out and he whimpers into your mouth and bucks his hips into your thigh, making you smirk and shake your head at how much of a needy slut he is

[abigail-pent]

Thoughts on HTN Act Five on ??th reread:

- the joke about the Ninth knowing a thousand shades of off-white is absolutely a 50 Shades of Grey reference

- Ianthe wonders what Harrow's face "could have done to it" - ohhhhh yeah she is doing hella cosmetic "surgery" on Corona. this still isn't explicitly canon as far as I'm aware, but that line makes it pretty damn close

- Harrow Nonagesimus breaks into the Tomb and Harrow Nova breaks into the Anastasian. Baby girl is the same in every universe

- Harrow Nova is "the unfulfilled vow" and "the bloody teeth of the unkissed skull" AND THEN ALECTO KISSES HARROW NONAGESIMUS IN FULFILLMENT OF THE VOW AND SHE BLEEDS. I've connected these things, I've connected them

- ok if Harrow is pulling everyone who's dead into her River bubble, then doesn't that mean that in the BARI Star AU she is actually interacting with the actual spirit of Gideon Nav?

- I don't know if we talk enough about how Harrow actually becomes a full Lyctor after she's stabbed and remembers Gideon. It feels kind of weird that her body only gets Lyctoral healing once her soul is gone from it. The construct in her skull is still there, it stays there until Gideon talks to Mercy and hears her name.

I mean, the weirdest thing about it is it implies that John and Gideon the First were right that they could fix Harrow by killing her. And given that the sort of cav Gideon becomes is explicitly and canonically analogous to the sort of cav Pyrrha is - still conscious and able to pilot the body in the absence of the necromancer's soul - that makes me wonder if maybe this happened to Gideon the First too. Like maybe that's why he's described as such a zombie, and maybe that's why John seems to know that killing Harrow would "fix" her, and Gideon agrees.

- Abigail talks about the place over the River the way John talks about the place beyond the stoma - it's an undiscovered country he knows nothing of, where his power is meaningless.

- Mercy says if Gideon Nav were Alecto, she would have "gone for me already" - so yeah, Alecto wasn't just incredibly weird and creepy, she was directing violence at Mercymorn. Pyrrha later says Alecto wasn't so bad (but that absolutely doesn't preclude Alecto being super violent to Lyctors, Pyrrha would respect the shit out of that), and of course it seems like she and Anastasia loved each other. But: John says that anger was Alecto's sin; The Unwanted Guest implies that that anger may have been John's, but in a different body; and it seems like this anger got expressed at Mercymorn and probably other Lyctors too. When Gideon meets Augustine she says he looks at her eyes in Harrow's face like they were the last thing he'd ever see; which suggests she took her anger out on Augustine too. But why was she angry at them? Was it because they ascended?

- "I gave you one damn job, and instead you rolled a rock over me and turned your back!" Harrow IS the Ninth House for real... (this is exactly the problem Silas has with the Ninth)

- in GTN, in the Cytherea fight, when Gideon looks back at Harrow right after she says "Then we're all dead, Nav, but let's bring hell first" 🤝 in HTN, in the Sleeper fight, when Ortus looks back at Harrow who has just followed his lead to recite the Noniad ... the way both of her cavaliers are a little surprised, but very impressed and comforted, by her loyalty to them and trust in them ... I am very fine and normal about this

- when Abigail summons Nonius: blazing like a flare from an alien blue sun! appearing to hold a book made of blue radiation in her hands! soaking wet! everything smells like water and brine and blood! she screams as though there are a multitude of voices in hers! time seems to slow way down! her eyes become dark and liquid and feral! this is both extremely fucking cool and probably meaningful. the smell and wetness are for the River, the many-voiced quality recalls Alecto and her many voices, the time slowing recalls John's ability to stop time, the eyes recall John's (so, Alecto's) as well. SHE IS ABIGAIL FOR HER MOTHERS AND PENT FOR HER PEOPLE AND I LOVE HER

- I love that Nonius canonically fought Gideon the First, and calls him "a rival and ally". I'm not much of a fic reader myself (heresy, I know) but I absolutely want to read a fic about "we met long ago, and I fought him."

- "Genuinely sad, bordering on very funny" legitimately could have been the tagline for this book

- Augustine says that if it's really Wake, then Gideon has proved "yet again" that he's unfit for any job besides making simple gruels and stews. Yet again??

- it's probably Augustine that Mercy tried to kill tbh

- I think Wake recognizes Pyrrha in Gideon's face when no one else does. That's why she looks at her like that.

- the way Gideon Nav has always yearned for her parents vs the way her bio-parents treat her... oof ohh oww... Pyrrha Dve is the only parent I will diplomatically recognize for Gideon Nav

- Alecto's eyes end up in John's genetic code - Lyctorhood doesn't only meld souls, it melds bodies as well.

- John says Mercy and Augustine killed Alecto because he told them the truth about her; and Augustine says he told them that because Alecto also knew the truth. But ... which truth was it? When we hear from Alecto, she seems to have a fuzzy memory.

Also, worth mentioning that this is a different account than what Teacher offers. Teacher says that the Lyctors asked John to kill Alecto after they ascended and "found out the price." If this account is correct - and why wouldn't it be, it comes from Augustine, who was a key player - then the "price" wasn't the death of the eight cavs, the "price" was something to do with the truth about Alecto. And whatever this truth is, it isn't that Alecto was John's cavalier, because Mercy and Augustine are only finding out about this now. I suspect the "price" is the price of creating necromancy - murdering the 10 billion - and then when Mercy and Augustine know that Alecto is the Resurrection Beast of Earth they ask John to kill her. So I was wrong, and he must have basically told them "lol we've been hanging out with an RB this whole time."

- when John reconstitutes himself, the light he emanates leaches all the color from the room and turns everyone into shades of gray. LIKE WHEN SILAS SIPHONS COLUM. It makes sense that he's taking thalergy from somewhere to build himself back up, but where exactly is it coming from? Alecto?

[marleyybluu]

Thinkin’ Bout You

Spooky Diaz x fem!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Content warning: 18+, gets a little hot at the end, overall fluff and mush, everyone’s in love and high, reader smokes weed, reader described to have thick thighs (of course tf), pretty sure I'm missing some sorry

A/N: I took a break from my break to post this lol I was gonna leave this as a stand-alone(it can still be read as such) but honestly? it’s giving two and counting lore… so I’ll put it as a part of that series.

(not mine, got it off pinterest but awooogaa!)

Friday. What a glorious day to be off work. You slept in, hell you'd say you deserved putting up all those work hours at the hospital, and after finally crawling out of bed you rolled a small joint for the morning, and smoked it on the balcony outside your bedroom. The neighbourhood was quiet, the air was crisp and a bit cold but it's nothing one of Spooky's sweaters couldn't fix. You wrap your arms around you, the sweater is warm and it smelt like his cologne, you close your eyes and smile at just the mere thought of him. You always think about him it was crazy how one man consumed your entire being but you were so glad it was him.

You wished he was home, wished he was here to smoke with you but he got called into work earlier than usual, you didn't even get a goodbye kiss which you were missing right now, the vacancy of those lips— soft as a cloud and always on top of yours so delicately— depending on the context of course.

Without him here the day seemed to pass on slower, you checked the time what seemed like every ten minutes which also didn't help. To distract yourself you clean and cook, call your mom until she is ready to, quote, "Go and do her own thing." And hung up on you.

You lay upside down on the couch, feet crossed as they hang over the back of the couch and your head hangs off the seat cushions, Living Single reruns consumed your screen. You were well distracted until you heard a car door slam and various keys jingling together, you sat up and gripped the back of the couch for dear life.

The lock turns. The door opens. And there he is. You scream with excitement. "Hi, babyyyyy."

He chuckles, not even ten seconds inside and you already had him smiling. "Hola mi corazón."

You roll off the sofa and run over to your man, leaping and wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He squeezes you so tightly you swear he'd crack a few bones but in the name of love, you wouldn't care. You pepper his face with kisses before you finally land on his lips and you mould into him, his hands firmly grasping your ass that barely fits in your shorts.

He smiles in the middle of your kiss and it's an instant chain reaction. "Missed me that much?"

"You have no idea."

He gives you another small kiss before he puts you down and you fight the urge to pout and demand to be picked back up, you just want to live in his skin 24/7, but you let him catch his breath. Let him put away his things, grab a Corona while you ogle him and the way his enormous arms flexed when he twisted the cap off and the foaming bubbles sliding their way to the top... almost spilling over... but then he saves it with tongue. You lick your bottom lip and zoom in on the involuntarily sexual act, oh, and the way his Adam's apple bobbed with every sip... fuck.

"Bebita," He calls. You slowly nod, still in your love-stricken daze. "You're droolin' a little bit ma."

You rub your chin and frown at him, there is no drool. He winks at you and you turn your face to the side to avoid any more butterflies in your stomach. "You smoke already?"

You nod. "Wanna smoke again or you good?" He sat his blunt, which magically appeared from his jeans, between his lips and nodded to the back door. "Nah, I'll smoke with you."

"Good, vamos."

••••• Your head lays in his lap, his hand cupped your cheek and his thumb caressed your skin. After you two smoked, you ate and had a blissfully shared shower, now you were sprawled out on the sofa still high as fuck watching Bridget Jones's Diary, he remembered you uttered something about wanting to watch a rom-com for once. You were in the mood to watch a love story, "or something."

But you were hardly paying attention to the screen, so lost in your own world of love, you pinch his chin aiming his at an angle so he'd look down at you. Make eye contact.

"Do you think about me?" A question asked so innocently. "Course I do, baby."

You run your finger down the column of his neck, over the lump of his Adam's apple. "What do you think about?"

He pauses the movie and focuses on you. "What's this about?"

"Nothing."

"You pregnant?"

You hit him. "Spooky! No!" He was obsessed with the idea of a baby. "Just answer my question."

He sighs, nostrils flair, he hated telling his deepest feelings but, "I think about you... and me, and what our life could be like. We could get married, could have a couple of kids. I always thought about gettin' like a summer house or something. Hit it every summer with them."

You smiled. "You think about all that?"

"Fuck yeah. I see us dropping them off on their tío, he watches them... we still get to have some us time, dates, trips...whatever you want."

You swear he makes you fall in love with him all over again at least once a week. "You think I haven't pictured the wedding? I know what I'll say in my vows already."

"Liar," You teased.

"Mi amor, the day I saw you-"

You quickly cover his mouth it'd be like spoiling a movie you hadn't seen yet. He licked your palm but you were quick to wipe it on his face. "Puta." He muttered. "Bastardo." You retaliated. "So how many kids do we have?" You sit up and adjust yourself so that you are now sitting with your back against the support of the couch and drape your legs over his thighs, the cold metal of his rings hits your hot skin when his hand contacts your leg. "Five."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" You exclaim. "I've seen childbirth live and I think we can have one and a dog." He rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever."

He leans over to kiss your forehead. "You think about me?"

"Once in a while." You joke, his jaw drops. "Once in a while!? That's how you feel? Ay, cariño, you're breaking mi corazón."

You place your hand over his and offer him a side smile before you kiss his cheek. "The way I jumped on you when you came home isn't proof enough."

He pulls you on top of him, your legs now sitting on each side of him with his hands gleefully squeezing every pound of flesh that makes up your thunder thighs that spread every time you sit and it makes him call them pancakes sometimes. "I might need a refresher."

"Oh, getting short-term memory already, Diaz?" You hum pressing your lips to his. "Just a little bit." He answers. Your hands fumble with the bottom of his shirt, he raises his arms and you break the kiss for just a second before you're back with tongues in each others throats and you're making out as if you're life depended on it, as if he's being shipped off to war and you don't know if he's coming back. Now it was your turn to pull back in need of some air. His smile is shaky, almost like a shy expression.

"Still kinda hazy."

You rid yourself of your top, with nothing under it.

"Oh don't worry," You lean in. "I'm about to make it real clear."

Not tagging anyone in this, I'm just testing something. if you liked this fic, feel free to like this fic, reblogs and comments are appreciated. peace and love, see you in the next one🤙🏾

[colins-bridgerton]

penelope & colin playlist

a year ago by james arthur

i wish it was a year ago i wish that i could hold you close now i'm driving past your house, i know the lights are on, you're not alone i wonder if you're making eyes i wonder if he loves you like the way you said that only i could do i wish that i could tell you that I miss you

ghost of you by seconds of summer

too young, too dumb to know things like love too young, too dumb to I drown it out like I always do dancing through our house with the ghost of you and i chase it down with a shot of truth that my feet don't dance like they did with you

far away by nickleback

i wanted you to stay 'cause i needed i need to hear you say that i love you i loved you all along and I forgive you for being away for far too long so keep breathing 'cause i'm not leaving you anymore believe it hold on to me, and never let me go

oceans by seafret

it feels like there's oceans between you and me once again we hide our emotions Under the surface and try to pretend but it feels like there's oceans between you and me i want you i want you and i always will it feels like there's oceans between you and me

give me a minute by the coronas

and i can't remember how we got so wrapped up in it hold on i'm not finished just give me a minute i'm not finished and if you don't mind i can live with it just a minute i'm not finished would you be so kind just to forgive it

can i be him by james arthur

i heard there was someone but i know he don't deserve you if you were mine i'd never let anyone hurt you no no I wanna dry those tears, kiss those lips It's all that I've been thinking about 'cause a light came on when i heard that song and i want you to sing it again i swear that every word you sing you wrote them for me like it was a private show

before by ulrik munther

before we burn each other up before we lose our minds before i'm not enough for you baby I need some time before you break my heart oh before we need to talk before it even starts i mean i'm sorry i didn't call

you're loosing me by taylor swift

how long could we be a sad song 'til we were too far gone to bring back to life? i gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy and all i did was bleed as i tried to be the bravest soldier fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me i'm the best thing at this party (you're losin' me) andi wouldn't marry me either a pathological people pleaser who only wanted you to see her and i'm fadin', thinkin' "do something, babe, say something" (say something) "lose something, babe, risk something" (you're losin' me) "choose something, babe, i got nothing" (i got nothing) "to believe, unless you're choosin' me"

deep end by birdy

i don't know if you mean everything to me and I wonder, can i give you what you need? don't want to find i've lost it all too scared to have no one to call so can we just pretend that we're not falling into the deep end?

love me or leave me by little mix

and love me baby please cause i could still be the only one you need the only one close enough to feel you breathe yeah I could still be that place where you run Instead of the one that you're running from, ooh you, can take this heart heal it or break it all apart no, this isn't fair love me or leave me here

cross your mind by calum scott

tell me, do i ever cross your mind? do i ever keep you up at night? thinking 'bout what coulda been if we did it all again i've been trying to keep an open door even though you've got the locks on yours tell me even after all of this time do i ever cross your mind like you cross mine? do i?

wrong direction by hailee steinfeld

loved me with your worst intentions didn't even stop to question every time you burned me down don't know how; for a moment it felt like heaven loved me with your worst intentions painted us a happy ending every time you burned me down don't know how; for a moment it felt like heaven and it's so gut-wrenchin' fallin' in the wrong direction

loves you like i coudn't do by dunacan laurence

i hope you find that someone who'll love you and it feels like all that you wanted thought it would last if we just kept running we played our hand, now we're left with nothing hope you find that someone who'll hold you In a way that i always wanted to a hundred shots, but we kept on missing there's no regrets, 'cause we tried, my love I hope you find that someone who loves you like i couldn't do

a little bit yours by jp saxe

you found someone new, before me and you didn't try nearly as hard and maybe that's the problem i don't know how to take it away from you without giving someone else my heart all I do Is get over you and i'm still so bad at it i let myself want you i let myself try i let myself fall back into your eyes i let myself want you i let myself hope i let myself feel things i know that you don't you're not mine anymore but I'm still a little bit yours

[kedreeva]

Aris made a nest in the corner of the barn and set it with 6 eggs.

Corona decided that this was Her nest, NOT Aris' nest, and has been bullying Aris off of it about the same time I am out filling quail waters and doing health checks. I have been trying to get a recording of the sound Aris makes, because she won't fight her daughter, and finally got it today.

I also removed Corona from the corner, and Wendy who was also bullying Aris, and let Aris set again. Then I closed off that portion of the coop for her so she can brood in peace. The others will have to pick different locations. It's not like there's nowhere to nest!!

This is where Aris chose:

These are the other nesting sites in the coop:

Bonus video of Corona being a jerk before I ousted her.

Anyway I said I wouldn't be hatching this year because I'll have babies coming up from NC in the fall, but I had more people asking for babies than I'll be able to bring up with me, so I'm letting Aris have a nest.

[hugogetspowerbottomed]

VARIGO CANON COMPLIANT ROUNDUP

A collection of all the Canonverse Varigo that I've enjoyed over the past three years. It is likely that there are a few missing due to them being deleted or my memory being poor. Nonetheless, pls enjoy.

Mature: +++ Explicit: *** Not Rated: 0

Teen/Gen: Not Marked

hello to my old heart by izabellwit

“Why do you trust me so much?”

Or: the beginning of the end for the betrayer. In which Hugo asks a long-overdue question, and gets the answer he never wanted to hear.

Say You Won't Let Go (I Won't) by DragonTalyn

Hugo needs some reassurance that Varian isn't going to leave

The Simple Act of Scraps Unraveling by @hybrix-hidings

There is a moment, on the trail to the library, where Varian realizes that he will love this man.

-

Or: Hugo and Varian enjoy a show, barefaced.

(Prompt #2 - Fireworks)

Snippets in Time by @sonicgetsrawed

Snippets of Varian’s adventures through the seven kingdoms to save his mother.

Darling you look perfect tonight by @the-reverse-mermaid

Hugo, Varian and Yong are invited to a winter holiday event in Nuru's kingdom, but one of them is having significantly less fun than the others… Hugo is already feeling insecure when a snobby noble decides to turn her nose up at him and make everything worse. Good thing his friends are there for him.

Small Chocolate Confections by @glitter-lisp +++

Sending Varian in to distract their target isn’t ideal, but someone has to keep him occupied while Hugo searches his room, and the duke made his interest pretty clear at dinner last night.

Hugo’s fine with that. Hugo’s very good at what he does, and so focused on the task at hand, and completely unbothered by the thought of Varian hanging out with a handsome guy who's probably feeding him fancy little desserts and talking about how rich he is while Hugo crawls around upstairs looking for loose floorboards and secret drawers.

Save Your Convictions (They Never Will Do) by @littlemisslol-fic

Varian and Hugo return to Corona after the events of the Varian and the Seven Kingdoms AU, with mixed reception. Turns out Rapunzel won't hold a grudge against people who slight her, but if they hurt her friends? And then show up still dating said friend?

Let's just say Hugo's got a storm coming.

The Dating Game by @littlemisslol-fic

In which Rapunzel, bless her heart, didn't know Varian and Hugo are dating, and thus takes it upon herself to find her darling baby brother a man of proper pedigree if it kills her. However, bloodlines aren't everything, and her choices are... less than stellar.

Darling, so It Goes (Some Things Are Meant to Be) by @littlemisslol-fic

My submissions for Effin' Varigo week! Big thanks to battybatzgirl for setting it up!

Hugo and Varian have been dating for three years, and are finally ready to take their relationship to somewhere a lot more serious. However, the world has other plans. With Hugo's proposal in shambles, and Varian focused on saving their friends, they think things can't really get any worse.

They would be wrong.

Prompts are Family ‧ Firework ‧ Fever ‧ Flirt ‧ Fight/Forgive ‧ Future ‧ and Free Day!

as long as it leaves a mark by @aziraphalesbookkeeper

For a guy who never takes off his gloves, Varian sure does lose them a lot. It’s not really the gloves Hugo notices though—it’s the scars underneath them.

Or: 5 times Hugo tries to take off Varian's gloves + 1 time he doesn't have to.

Whumptober Day 27: Scars AILESS Whumptober Day 9: Scar Reveal

We Carry Through by @aziraphalesbookkeeper

Adjusting to living in the castle with Varian is hard. Going from having nothing to having everything makes Hugo feel...twitchy. Luckily, there's one person who knows exactly what he's going through. Unfortunately, it's Fitzherbert.

Prompt: Family

The Touch of Sunlight by TheArtistsMuse ***

Varian was used to being kidnapped- as sad as that sounds- but he can always trust his friends to save him. Only this time was different, and now something is deeply bothering Hugo. Will Varian be able to get his secretive boyfriend to open up? Will they be able to figure out why he was taken?

... Will Varian be able to hide his very inconveniently timed sexual awakening?

meteor shower by @oshunalchemy 0

varian has a nightmare.

Wither and Decay by @eggmuffinwaffles

The Moonstone and the Sundrop were gone, the trials were completed, the Eternal Library was opened. Everything in Corona had returned to as close to normal as it could possibly get- but Corona seems to have a habit of attracting trouble. When old enemies arise, bent on her downfall, it will take more than just quick wit and luck to ensure that they fail.

My Head's Above The Rain and Roses by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 5: Every Whumpee Needs

Varian, Hugo, Nuru and Yong decide to go camping for the first time in a while after the trials. What could go wrong?

The answer is everything. Everything can go wrong.

Aka Part 1/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Maybe if You Fixed the Whole World by Yourself by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 7: The Way You Shake and Shiver

Hugo had a really unfortunate habit of ruining his own life. It wasn’t intentional- if you asked him, he’d swear up and down that he played absolutely no part in causing his entire life to go up in flames, and yet time after time he would keep doing it. Funny how consequences work.

Maybe he was being a little bit dramatic.

OR:

Hugo finds himself being blackmailed by a noble at a ball, and gets help from an unexpected source

Part 2/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Keeping Me Up At Night by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 29: What Doesn't Kill Me

Even a year after moving to Corona, sometimes Hugo's guilt finds itself creeping into his dreams. In the middle of an episode, he realizes he has more in common with Rapunzel than he thought.

Part 3/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Turning Saints Into A Sea by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 25/Day 30: Silence is Golden/Note to Self Don't Get Kidnapped

Varian has to confront his jealousy head on when Hugo's ex finds herself back in Corona. Unfortunately her return might not be as innocent as she wants them to believe.

I Won't Let You Pull Me Down by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober 2022 Day 16: No Way Out

Hugo and Varian get into a fight. Instead of handling it like an emotionally healthy adult, Hugo manages to go and get himself possessed.

Possession 2 electric boogaloo baby

Lessons in Luxury by @varibean

All his life, Hugo wanted nothing more than to live a live of riches and luxury. He had always failed to imagine what a change like that would entail. Real life was becoming too much like a fantasy and it was always the same questioned that brought him hurdling back to reality.

"Have you eaten today?"

Amalgam by @varibean 0

After relying on Ulla’s notebook to help them through their journey, the gang find that the next kingdom has little to no notes on where the next trial takes place. Their only clue is a location that might have a lead on where to go next. However, after a royal mess up on Hugo’s part, they’re left up the creek without a paddle. Not only are tensions high, but emotions as well. One thing was certain though: Hugo and Varian did not mix well.

[raayllum]

this isn't how i'm writing it in fanon s6 bc i can pace things however i want with zero time constraints but this is something i could see s6 doing + i like being self indulgent so

They'd been stupid to trust the Celestial Elves.

It was the only thought running through Callum's brain as he stared in horror, the corona sealed back glass, the Nova Blade a weapon no mortal could wield, and Rayla—

On her knees, the leader holding an ordinary but no less terrifying blade to her throat, his face still a bit scraped up from his and Rayla's earlier scuffle. She'd been the one to catch the elf reaching for Callum's bag when they slept that night; she'd be the one to draw her sword first and engage him, quickly overwhelmed by the time Callum and her parents had arrived.

They were all talented warriors, but rusty after two years in a coin—Runaan unable to draw his bow with only one arm, and something long range was needed here. Some way to kill the leader and give Rayla time, even if he held her in a vice grip, pressing down hard enough on her throat there was thin, scarlet line growing.

"You have something we need, boy," the leader hissed, breathing heavily through a broken nose. "You know what it is."

Runaan's voice broke through, sharp and demanding—"What is he talking about?"—but Callum couldn't tear his eyes away from Rayla. She was struggling to breathe, let alone speak, but gave her head the barest shake. No.

"What are you going to do with it?" Callum says as neutrally as he can, stalling (there has to be a spell or a way out of this) even if he already knows the answer.

What else could they hope to do with something called the Key of Aaravos?

"I'll tell you what we're going to do your elf girl unless you give it so us," the Celestial elf snarls. "On the count of three, I'll slit her throat. One—"

"Stop!"

Two hadn't even left his lips, Callum having an excuse to look away from Rayla's glaring, tearshot eyes now as he digs the cube out of his bag. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as he holds it up.

On Finnegrin's ship, at least he'd been able to hide what he was doing—what he was willing to do—in the shadowy depths of the ship. Here, in the light, there's nowhere to hide.

Callum holds it out, taking a few steps closer. "Lower the sword first," he says.

"And have her wriggle free? I don't think so."

"Callum," she wheezes. "Don't—"

"Fine then," Callum snaps. "At the same time—an exchange. On my count of three. One—" He looses his grip on the cube, the ring of celestial elves watching eagerly. "Two—" It's not ideal, him and Rayla in front of where any of her parents could join the fray; there will have to be distance before anyone can fight either way. But then, he's not doing this out of the certainty he'll get the Key back, that it won't end in disaster.

Just for her safety. Just for himself, because he can't live without her.

This was his destiny, what Aaravos was banking on. And he was right.

"Three!"

The Celestial elf takes his blade away and shoves her forward at the same time Callum tosses the cube over. It's caught in one shiny blue hand, the elf towering over him as Callum slides to his knees, catching Rayla as she careens forward before she can hit the floor. She coughs weakly in his arms, bleeding at the throat, but it seems shallow.

The celestial elves make it maybe five five away with their prize before her parents leap into action, swords clashing, but Callum grabs his staff and constructs a funnel of wind around him and Rayla, a thick enough wall of air to keep anyone else out momentarily, as he helps her sit up.

"Callum." She's crying, but alive.

"Let me look at you," he murmurs, lifting up her chin. He uses his scarf to wipe away the blood, relieved when more doesn't follow. A shallow cut just to scare him, but it'd worked. He pulls her into his arms next, just needing a moment to feel her heart beating against his.

She takes a second to hold him back and then does so, tightly, and his heart settles as they sit there shaking. She hasn't forgiven him for it yet, maybe—but she will.

[blueteller]

I have a TCF CHALLENGE!

I dare anyone to write a TCF fic which does NOT fit any of these categories!

Time? Unlimited!

Rules:

At least 10K words in total, not including author's notes (it's not about a drabble or a concept; we want a solid, finished story!)

Cannot be a one-shot (doesn't need to be super long tho; 2-3 chapters are fine, as long as they're at least more than 10K words in total)

Cannot be a shipping fic (cause I don't read shipping fics lol. Sorry)

Cannot be merely "slightly AU" - in the sense it can't be canon content with minor details changed. For example, my fic "On My Mark" would not count becase I literally draw canon scenes one by one and make them Platonic Soulmark AU. That can't cut it. Either make completely new scenes, or make it VERY AU. Preferably the first one.

Type of fics encouraged:

Unexplored backstories of various characters (examples: Soos trio content, young Eruhaben)

"Off screen" scenes from canon (example: people fighting the White Star while Cale was orbed in the Sealed God's Test)

Canon divergence ideas (example: Cale transmigrated days before Harris Village massacre happens, but we know that the White Star shows up there and therefore It's A Big Problem)

Interesting AUs which do not show up in our fandom often (example: Mango_To_Sleep's Pirate AU)

Crack fics (must still be more than single chapter tho! And not a collection of one-shots; storyline needed! Example: Cale has ADHD and instead of Not Sharing Enough with people he Talks All The Time except it explains nothing and it leaves people confused and concerned for his sanity 😂)

Unique fusion crossovers, which take place entirely in TCF verse (example: put Corona kingdom from Tangled in the Eastern Continent and have Cale meet Disney's Rapunzel)

Good luck! Let's enrich this fandom guys!!

I myself already have an idea in mind, which is both a crossover fusion (in a sense, but only loosely), an AU and canon divergence, all while being slightly crack. Should be fun~! 💖

[sisitrip]

"The End is Nai"

Gallavich A.U.gust

Sigh. I missed the Gallavich A.U.gust 2024 @gallavichthings week for supernatural themed works. So, I'm just flinging this out there because it's my first demon related work and it is mess-ay.

That said, I had fun. Hope you enjoy "The End is Nai."

________________________

“Father, please take these feelings from me or end my life as your servant,” Mickey whispered, slipping inside the cool building. A blasphemous plea coming from someone who does not pray. But, it was critical. 

His desire could end his life in this church today. 

The familiar pew creaked softly under his weight as if in greeting. It wouldn’t be far off to say he and this church knew each other well. They should. Together, they’d killed enough demons in its walls to make them old friends.

Basilica de Guadalupe’s beautiful stone structure swam with the cloying scent of incense. But, the few parishioners in attendance couldn’t smell it like he could. The simple chemical warning told his senses that a malevolent presence was near. He could practically feel the target. It was close.

A sudden press of cold smoked air painfully tightened the skin all over his body.

“Why do the churches in Mexico keep using the Three Kings Pontifical Blend? That incense smells like poor choices dipped in potpourri. I prefer Will & Baumer. The French variety, mind you.”

Nai’s lofty comment startled him more than his materialization next to him. Caught unaware for the first time in years, he cursed softly and turned to the demon, telling himself not to be impressed by what he saw. Instead of a vicious battle face, he was met with a soft smile and curious green eyes. It rattled him that Nai didn’t seem ready to fight, especially since it was their job to kill each other.

“Prefer the Gloria F8 blend myself,” he finally mumbled, heart speeding. He allowed himself to gaze at Nai’s straight, fiery red hair. It was lightly waved at the root, as if fighting to curl. He wondered if curls would suit Nai and if they would feel as soft as he imagined. 

“Oh my, a non-traditionalist.” Nai tilted his head in a disarming way and continued with a purring that had him rooted to the spot. “I wonder what your bosses in Citta del Vaticano would do if they knew. Flagellation, hopefully? The rope enthusiast in me is practically rigid at the thought.” A slow smile spread across Nai’s perfect features.

He stiffened. Flirting? In a church? Nai shifted toward him, bringing the full power of that face to bear down on his indifference. In response, his tattoos grew heavy on his skin, warming the air in anticipation of an attack. 

“My bosses ain’t none of your business,” he said, making the mistake of looking Nai in the eyes. 

He was immediately lost.  

The taste of chocolate entered his mouth, rich and thick. It was mixed with the slight savory taste of peanuts, caramel and something else. Something even sweeter than chocolate. 

“Nougat,” Nai whispered knowingly, the cold smoke scent radiating off him as he inched closer. “Creamy nougat. A main ingredient in your favorite candy bar.”

He gritted his teeth. The flagrant invasion of his senses triggered a small tremor, showering dust from the ceiling. While he got a coating, Nai was spared. The dust floated in a corona-like crown around the demon’s head, as if unwilling to settle on something so unholy.

“Sensory infusement of a candy bar is entry level at best,” he said disdainfully, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Are we dehydrated? There’s a bowl of water in the back. Help yourself.”

Nai’s verdant eyes danced with amusement. “I’ll be saying ‘no thank you’ to the offer of lethally blessed water. And to prove I’m less violently inclined than you, you should know I’m utterly wounded by how unimpressed you are. We can’t have that. Let me try again.”

The taste of sour cherry, silkily warm, filled his mouth. Not just the sour cherry, but also the sweet dough surrounding it and the butter it was tossed in. He could even taste the dollop of sour cream. Vareniki. A dish his mother made for him when he was a sick child. Before she abandoned him. He blinked, stunned. 

“Ah, a direct hit,” Nai whispered, delighted. “Maybe I’ll make vareniki for you one day. Just like your incubator used to mak-”

He grabbed the front of Nai’s white linen shirt, fisting it hard. 

“She was my mother. Not a fucking incubator,” he said through his teeth. “Watch yourself, dyavol.”

Nai merely smiled at him, unbothered. “I should give you the same advice. Your tattoos are about to set this place on fire.” 

The air around them grew hotter and the wood varnish on the pews began to bubble and smoke in reaction to the energy his tattoos were emitting. He had to calm down, but Nai was making that impossible with his proximity and his smile. Incredibly, Nai inched closer still and their thighs ghosted against each other. He forced himself to let Nai’s shirt go and instead simply stared at him while he was sized up as well. He fought the urge to smooth his hair.

“You have a black ring around your irises,” Nai murmured, leaning in a little and stunning his senses. “Which one of us gave you that?”

He let Nai sweep a bit of dust from his temple and resisted leaning into the touch. 

“Vorter.”

Nai sighed while running his eyes greedily over his face. 

“Oh, he is particularly nasty, that one. You might not believe this, but I severed my bond with him after what he did to your Ignatius. Tell me, has he recovered the use of his sight?”

Another tremor. This one was strong enough to rattle the stained glass windows. 

“No thanks to Vorter. And what do you mean bond? Bond like what, like a … boyfriend bond?” He was sweating.

Nai chuckled and dragged his gaze up and down his body, pale lashes sweeping his cheeks prettily.

“We're no different than the bleating cattle you protect. We prefer companionship too.”

He stiffened. “Fuck you. People aren’t cattle and neither am I.” 

Nai sniffed the air between them, putting an arm around the back of his seat. The sensitive skin between his shoulders sang from the whisper of Nai’s tracing thumb. A simple touch and he's lost again. God, help him.

“Oh, I agree. You're like a spring lamb and smell just as sweet. Even your anger is intoxicating to my senses. The things you make me imagine, Mikhailo.”

Nai offered up his name delicately for the first time, like a hot house flower opening for the briefest moment. They stared at each other as the church started to violently shake around them. 

“Looks like your time is up,” he whispered as Nai grimaced in pain. The church’s air intensified its invisible defense system, pulling small grains of black sand from Nai’s freckled cheeks where he brushed them off like so many flies. 

“So it seems.” Nai stood, all six feet of him. “No matter though. I think this little experiment was a success.” 

With a soft, inward flex of air, Nai apparated midwalk into the aisle, startling a veiled parishioner. She stared in horror from behind her black lace veil and crossed herself. If only it was that easy to kill Nai’s kind.

“What experiment?” he called after Nai, tattoos no longer heavy, but sliding around his skin ready to be weaponized. He didn’t want this to be over yet.  

“Proximity test. I wanted to see how long we could be face to face before it became … unpleasant,” Nai called back, still walking. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“You know what happens when you get near one of us. It’s been established since the beginning of time.”

Nai turned and walked backwards with a smile that slowed the pace of his heart. Even though Nai should be repugnant for simply being what he was, he couldn’t see anything but his beauty. He was certain of nothing anymore.

“Oh, I’m aware of what happens to your ancient markings in our presence. I didn’t mean that type of proximity.” 

He stepped into the aisle too, shaking dust out of his hair. The church growled from its rafters to its foundation, pulling screams from the few parishioners. He barely heard it.

“Then what kind of proximity test?” he asked, desperate to keep Nai a few more moments. 

Nai stopped and the church thumped hard on its foundation, sending the congregants running for the back exits.

“My proximity to the man and not the Vatican weapon.” Nai’s jovial smile slipped and his confusion was plain. “It’s just that, really it's a bit, you probably wouldn’t understa-” 

“Today, dyavol,” he interrupted, tattoos singing to be let loose.

The confusion fled Nai’s face completely and all that was left was soft, vulnerable wonder.

“I …,” Nai smiled ruefully. “I didn’t expect to like you.”

The church rumbled hard around them, sending small pieces of painted stone ceiling to the floor. A crack signaled a larger piece coming loose above him, opening the roof to send a beam of sunlight directly onto Nai, bathing him in a beatific glow. Mesmerized, he forgot to duck, not that he would have cleared the space in time. But, the impact he expected never came. He looked up and the stone slab, about thirty feet wide and possibly weighing a ton, hovered in the air, held there by two of Nai’s relaxed, raised fingers. With a gentle flick, the slab shot into the confession box, shattering it. He almost felt sorry for the priest who’d been watching from the lectern with wide eyes. The poor man screamed and fled the pulpit. 

“I hope you’re not waiting for a thank you,” he said, brushing dust off his shoulders, heart hammering.

“I’d be disappointed if you did,” Nai replied, Its dark hilarity back in place. “I’ll settle for a drink the next time we cross paths though. Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru. 1945 is my preference if you can find it.”

With that, Nai stepped out into the sunshine. The quaking church stilled, leaving him in dazed silence. 

He sighed as his tattoos resumed their place on his knuckles. The Sede was going to lose its shit over this. The story of how a demon got close enough to kill, yet walked away alive was going to be required at his Rome debriefing. Malene was going to kill him for the headache coming her way.

But, all he could think about was where he was going to find a Romanee-Conti burgundy, circa 1945.

[twotangledsisters]

Chains of Regret

Terribly unoriginal title but hey, this one-shot isn't about originality, it's about angst and practicing first person writing.

Warnings for the story: mentions of major character death (not majorly graphic but continue at your own risk)

The cold, damp air of the dungeon clings to my skin. The iron chains weigh on my wrists, but I barely feel them. All I can see, all I can think about, is her. Rapunzel. She was gone in an instant. The light of the Sundrop extinguished as Zhan Tiri’s cruel laughter echoed in the room. As I watched, a sense of helplessness washed over me, witnessing the combined power of the Sundrop and Moonstone fueling a demon’s strength as it seized her. The demon’s grip on Rapunzel was unyielding, constricting her so tightly that her screams of agony pierced the silence, each one more desperate than the last. And that last one… it was the last breath to leave her lips, alongside the light in her eyes. I wanted to scream, to run to her, to fight for her, but my feet wouldn’t move. The black rock armour that had previously given me strength now weight me down, kept me on the ground, helplessly watching. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I’ve replayed that moment a thousand times in my mind, wishing it could be different. I try to imagine a world where I wasn’t the one who betrayed her. But every time, the ending is the same. The light disappears, the darkness wins, and I’m left alone. Zhan Tiri didn’t even acknowledge me when Rapunzel fell. She was too focused on the power she’d finally claimed, on tearing down the walls of Corona and destroying it’s people. The kingdom fell in hours. The guards, the people—they all tried to fight back, but it was hopeless. What’s a sword or a shield against a force that can tear the sun and moon from the sky? And me? I just stood there. A puppet with its strings cut, wondering why my heart was still beating when Rapunzel’s had stopped. I don’t know why Zhan Tiri spared me. She didn’t gloat or taunt when she tossed me into this dungeon. She didn’t look me in the eye as the chains were locked around my wrists and ankles. It’s like I didn’t even matter to her anymore so why let me live when everybody I loved had to die? Maybe that’s it. Maybe this is my punishment. To be forgotten. To be nothing. But to still be alive. This is what I deserve. To live with the weight of what I’ve done. To be haunted by the memory of the friend I betrayed, the parent I left behind, the kingdom I doomed. Every breath I take is a reminder that I’m still here and they’re not. That I was the one who opened the door for Zhan Tiri, who let the darkness in. If Rapunzel were here, she’d tell me to be strong, to find hope, to keep fighting. But she’s not here. I’m alone with my thoughts, and they’re louder than any encouragement she could have offered. Maybe Zhan Tiri kept me alive as a trophy. Proof that even the fiercest loyalty can be corrupted, that even the strongest bonds can be broken. Or maybe I’m just a loose end she hasn’t bothered to tie up yet. Something to deal with later. Or most likely, I return to my first thought; she left me alive because she knew that death would be a mercy. That living with the knowledge of what I did would be far worse than any pain she could inflict. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days, weeks—it all blurs together. I don’t know if there’s anyone left to care, if there’s anyone still fighting. But I do know one thing: I’ll never stop asking myself why. Why did she let me live? Why didn’t I die alongside the rest? Why couldn’t I see the truth until it was too late? But the worst question, the one that gnaws at me in the darkest moments of the night, is this: Was I ever worth saving at all? The chains rattle as I shift, the sound echoing in the silence. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I can almost hear Rapunzel’s voice, my father’s orders, Eugene’s bickering and my people’s screams. But when I open them again, all that’s left is the darkness, and the crushing weight of what could have been.

[annwrites]

—nine ball

only twelve-years-old, but I got a hold of a pole stick i was gifted from him. my father is a betting man, but i got myself a steady hand. he's sitting in the corner with a six pack of corona betting that his son'll win again. — dad!billyhargrove x brokenhearted!reader ; .·:·.*

When you step through the door, you’re enveloped in dim, comfortable, ambient lighting. Country music plays quietly overhead on the radio, and the smell of beer and fried foods wafts through the air.

You walk over to a barstool, slide atop it, and you wait patiently for the bartender to come to you so you can order.

You’re wholly oblivious to the pair of blue eyes that now rest upon you, or the matching pair of smirking lips that are eager to flirt and make passes at you all night long in hopes of luring you back to his single-wide that’s not too far from here.

Once you’ve ordered something for yourself, you wrap your hands around the bottle, staring it down, fighting back the tears that sting your eyes.

“You are far too pretty to be drinkin’ alone, sweetheart,” comes a deep, attractive voice from the side of you.

You slowly turn your head, and drink in something that’s certainly not alcohol, but you have a feeling might be just as intoxicating by the look of him.

He’s tall—even while seated—with golden curls that the overhead bulbs cast in a soft glow atop his head, muscled arms, and a muscled chest that he’s clearly trying to advertise with the way his red button-up is most certainly buttoned down. All the way to his navel.

He flashes you a set of straight white teeth—a shock to see a complete set in a small, podunk town like this—then slides his arm along the bartop, staring at you all the while with eyes you can’t yet make out the color of in the provided lighting.

You swallow nervously.

You thought coming here had been what you wanted. That it would make you feel better. That being flirted with would.

You’d not expected for it to happen right away, though. And the fact that this one already seems ready to pounce like a wildcat only serves to unnerve you.

You had hoped to settle a few sips into your drink first.

“I’m Billy,” he says, taking a sip of his Corona.

“Y/N,” you reply quietly, glancing down to the bottle that now rests in your lap.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” he states, letting his eyes trail along you, not even attempting to hide that he’s interested.

You glance to him from under your lashes and his lip twitches from how sweet and shy you seem.

You have no idea what the hell to do with yourself, clearly.

But oh, he most certainly does.

“Do you come here a lot, then?” You ask.

He smirks, shrugging. As if he doesn’t know the shameful answer of ‘almost every night’.

“Every now and again.”

He leans in toward you, planting his booted feet between each of yours on the bottom of your stool’s footrest. “Sure as hell would remember you if you’d ever been in here before, though.”

You smile slightly, deciding to finally take a small drink of your beer.

And you immediately grimace at the taste, causing your new suitor to chuckle.

“How about we get you something sweet,” he says, turning to the bar.

“Oh, no, that’s okay—”

He cuts you short by getting the attention of the middle-aged gentleman behind the bar, and he promptly orders you a wine cooler.

You take a moment to glance around and are taken aback by the sight of a young boy playing pool.

“Is…is that…”

Billy turns his head, grinning from ear-to-ear when he spots who you’ve focused on.

“That’s my boy,” Billy says, turning back to you. “Taught him everything I know about playin’. Now he whoops grown-ass men here at it almost every night, winnin’ his old man some extra cash.”

Your brows furrow. “How old is he?”

“Twelve,” he states, taking a drink. “He’s best at nine ball, but he can play anything, so long as it’s on a pool table.”

“Is that even legal?” You ask in disbelief.

This man is how old and he’s spending all his nights in a bar with his little boy? Why the hell hasn’t the bartender kicked them both out yet?

Billy shrugs, glancing back to the smaller spitting image of himself with a smile. “Can’t exactly fit a billiards table in my trailer. How else is he s’posed to keep his skills with a pool stick sharp?”

You continue staring at him like he’s suddenly grown a third head.

“Haven’t touched your drink,” he remarks.

You glance to it, then back to him.

“I’m not…” You trail off, thinking of how to best approach this—the most polite way you can word it.

“I didn’t come here to go home with anyone.”

He raises a brow.

“At least buy me a drink first, honey. Gettin’ a little ahead of yourself,” he says with a chuckle.

You look back to his son who stares at the two of you from under a mop of soft blond curls before focusing on the game before him and sinking a nine ball.

“It’s a school night,” you remark. “Shouldn’t he be at home, getting ready for bed?”

Billy’s smile disappears.

“You have any kids?” He asks, taking a long swig, staring at you all the while.

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me how to look after mine,” he says in a flat tone.

You frown slightly. “I’m not.”

He snorts. “You think you have some sort of read on me?”

Your eyes flit between his own before focusing on your bottle again, nervously tearing at the label.

“Go on,” he encourages. “Hit me with your best shot. Tell me who you think I am.”

You shake your head softly. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He glances to his son, then back to you. “I doubt that.”

You look at him once more.

“Let me tell you what I think, then.”

You continue tearing at the label, an uncomfortable feeling settling over you.

One thing you can take a guess at is that he’s probably a mean drunk.

“I think you’re a cock-tease on a barstool looking for some male attention. You want to sit here and have drinks bought for you and get paid compliments. Just not by the likes of me. Because…what? You have a stick up your ass?”

Tears brim in your eyes and your chin wobbles.

He rolls his eyes, turning around, resting his forearms back against the bar, watching his boy sink an eight ball before racking again.

You let that simmering anger bubble to the surface then, and allow him the brunt of it.

He’s silent for awhile—thinking—his chest steadily rising and falling.

“Maybe I did come for a modicum of attention. Would you like to know why? The man I have given myself to in every way I could for two years—praying he’d finally love me the way I wanted and would want the same as I do—has been sleeping with another woman. Which I found out about less than an hour ago, by the way. And instead of apologizing for it, he looks me in the eye and says that he never intended to stay with me.

“So I came here to feel less lonely. Maybe to be flirted with and called pretty once or twice like you said—something he never did. So I guess you’re right. Maybe we both are.”

He’s quiet for so long, in fact, that you think he either didn’t hear you—drowned you out entirely—or his continued silence is his way of telling you, without actually saying it, to get lost. That he doesn’t care.

You turn around and grab the drink you initially ordered for yourself, ready to head to a booth, or maybe you’ll just toss the bottle on your way out the door, and then he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

You look at him.

“I get it,” he says, nodding to his son. “Zach’s mom…”

He shakes his head, taking another drink. “Same damn fuckin’ thing.”

You take a very small sip from your bottle. “I’m sorry, too.”

He nods.

You study him for a moment.

He doesn’t look very old. He must’ve had his son when he was still a teenager.

“May I ask when…when you had him?”

He shrugs, not much caring if you do. “When I was eighteen.”

You take another small sip, nodding. “Oh.”

So he’s thirty, then.

In truth, he looks—at oldest—maybe twenty-seven. You don’t tell him that, though. You don’t want him to think you’re trying to flirt back.

He may be physically attractive, but that seems about the sum of it.

You chew your lip, wondering if you should try to break the tense, now-awkward silence.

“I got full custody,” he remarks.

He grinds his jaw, trying to cool his fire-hot temper.

“Bitch only ever cared about herself. I busted my ass to take care of the two of us after we had some bullshit shotgun wedding—my attempt at doing things ‘the right way’—only for her to turn around while I was at work and bring other lowlifes into my goddamn bed.

“So, we divorced and she tells me that ‘I can have him’. That she ‘didn’t sign up for this’. So, she took half of what little I already fucking had—that I worked to earn while she sat on her ass all day—and split. And I’m left with a seven-year-old that keeps asking me when his mom is coming home, and I have no idea how to answer.”

He drains the last dregs from his bottle, settling it on the stained wooden bartop. “He understands now. Not that it makes it any easier. She could do whatever to me. I don’t give a shit. But breaking my kid’s heart?”

His hands ball into fists. “I just hope she gets what she deserves for it. For all of it.”

“I can’t imagine,” you whisper.

He glances to you.

“I thought… I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with him. Even if I wasn’t entirely happy with things now. Even if he never wanted to have talks about commitment. Or he acted immature, or disrespectful toward me, or…”

You trail off, tears pooling in your eyes again and you sniffle. “I was willing to settle because I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to get married and have a family. And when I told him that I wanted to start having kids before thirty he acted so…shocked by it. Like it was such a ridiculous thing to want.”

You stare down at your bottle. “He did that a lot: treated me like I was stupid. Acted like he was better than people and…”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“Stupid,” you whisper. “I’m so stupid. Two years I wasted on someone who never deserved even two days.”

You look at Billy again. “I’m just trying to say that I don’t understand how she could throw it away: a marriage to a man who was willing to take care of her and a child. Some people have everything and just don’t care. They throw it away because they know they’ll continue being handed whatever they want on a silver platter while those who pray to have even a fraction of what they do never get to have it.”

Your mouth settles into a scowl while your chin wobbles again, the tears in your eyes turning the lights around you blurry and unfocused.

“Maybe we should get him and my ex-wife together,” he says, looking at you.

You grin, lightly laughing. “Maybe.”

“Dad, I’m hungry.”

The two of you turn, looking at Zach, who has his hands tucked into the pockets of his blue jeans while he stares up at the two of you.

Billy sighs, reaching behind you and grabbing a menu.

Zach shakes his head. “I already know what I want. A burger, with extra pickles and onion.”

Billy turns around, placing his order for him while his son stares at you.

“You one of my dad’s new girlfriends?”

Your brows shoot into your hairline. “N-no. We’re just talking, that’s all. I’m not…”

You trail off. How to tell a twelve-year-old, in an ‘age-appropriate’ way that you’re not a floozy?

“I’m not here for anything like that. Just here for one drink, then I plan to go home.”

He studies you, pursing his lips.

You shift slightly.

“You’re pretty. Dad likes pretty girls.”

Your eyes widen and it’s just then that Billy turns back around.

“Save some women for the rest of us, bud,” he says, reaching forward and tousling his hair.

Zach swats his hand away, narrowing his eyes at him.

“She’s too old for me anyway,” he states, returning to the pool table.

Billy smirks, looking at you. “Real charmer, ain’t he?”

You smirk as well. “You did say you taught him everything you know.”

Billy throws his head back and laughs.

The night you leave one man behind is the same night you meet another: Billy Hargrove.

Some consider him a bit of a drunkard. What, with the fact he’s at the local bar nearly every night—twelve-year-old son in-tow to win him games of pool he’s bet on with money he doesn’t have—trying to drink merely drink away the pain of being let down and left behind by each person he’s ever cared for with countless bottles of Corona. Until one comes to return to him time and again to chat and laugh over beer and pizza.

And then comes the night you’re instead the one to be betrayed. And in an instant, your entire world shifts in the worst possible way yet again, leaving you with nothing.

But it’s another chance meeting on the side of the road that allows Billy to right a terrible, terrible wrong, but only with much convincing over dinner at a diner, and with his son’s blessing.

And those same things that each of you have lost: Billy a wife, Zach a mother, and you a man to love you, you each come to find yet again, even if you each tell yourselves that you’re not looking.

But that’s the phrase, isn’t it? It’s only once you’ve stopped searching that you finally find it—whatever it may be.

headcanons:

fic is heavily inspired by/based on the song ‘nine ball’ by zach bryan.

zach & reader come to bond. he likes who his dad is when he’s around her & likes how nice she is to him. that she’s maternal toward him in a way his own mom never truly was.

plotting:

reader comes into the bar one night & finds billy with another woman—laying it on pretty thick.

he looks up, sees the absolutely shattered look on reader’s face & she turns to leave.

he catches her in the parking lot, but she pushes him away. she’s bawling, telling him to get away from her.

she pulls out without looking & she gets hit by a truck.

billy comes to see her everyday in the hospital because he is absolutely riddled with guilt, but due to swelling on her brain they have her in an induce coma.

when she finally wakes, he shows up & she loses it, screaming for him to get out, so he does.

when she’s released from the hospital, she has no one to call & no car, so she chooses to walk back home.

billy finds her on the side of the road.

asks what the hell she’s doing, so she tells him. she breaks down & screams at him how she’s lost everything because of him. she has no car. she’s going to be drowning in medical debt now. her arm is broken & her opposite wrist is sprained. she can’t work. so then she won’t be able to pay rent, so she’s going to end up homeless. she just begins to spiral.

he begs her to get in the car. he wants to take her to dinner & they can discuss things.

she relents reluctantly.

billy makes her an offer: marry him. he’ll put her on his insurance & provide for her & put a roof over her head until she can get back on her feet. & he will replace her car. once she’s settled, they can get a divorce.

she tells him he’s being ridiculous, but he means it.

she demands they speak to zach first. she needs to know he would be okay with things before they just get hitched to commit insurance fraud.

zach already likes her & kind of lost it on his dad already for “almost killing her” (they had a number of fights after her accident), so he says yes without too much convincing.

she basically becomes a housewife to billy & a step-mom to zach.

when the time eventually comes for her to leave, zach hears them talking in the kitchen after he’s gone to bed that the next night they’ll break the news to him that she’s going to be leaving soon.

zach panics, so he makes a plan.

the next night after dinner, before they can tell him anything, he says “mom, can you grab me a coke from the fridge?”

“of course, sweetie.”

everyone freezes.

she starts crying because he thinks of her as his mom.

he begs her to stay.

& billy breaks then, too, telling her it’s what he wants: she’s his wife. she’s zach’s mother now. this is her home.

so they all stay together. <3

[bri-cheeses]

| Sprace microfic | Word count: 960 | Shoutout to Hotshot (my queen) |

-

Spot Conlon was sitting on a fire escape, and he had a secret.

Technically speaking, he had many secrets, a good deal of which were much more sinister than this one. But this, he thought, was one that couldn’t get out. Ever.

“Hey, boss,” Hotshot said from behind him, lowering herself onto the step next to Spot. The sudden break in the serene atmosphere caused Spot’s pulse to jump, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he simply flicked the ash from the cigar he was holding and shifted over to make room for his friend. He wasn’t sure why his second in command felt the need to interrupt his alone time, but he wouldn’t mind so long as she didn’t say anything.

“So,” Hotshot started, and Spot mentally cursed at his luck, “I thought I’d let you know that the guys have been talking.”

The guys.

Have been talking.

A glower overtook his face. He had a feeling he already knew what this was about, but he had to be sure before saying anything.

“Talking about what?” he asked.

A beat of silence, then a hesitant: “They say you’ve been spending a lot of time at Sheepshead lately.”

“And what’s it to them?” Spot knew his tone was becoming more and more threatening, an undercurrent of danger lurking beneath his words, but he couldn’t bring himself to care very much. This was something good that he had. Something actually, truly good. He wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

“They say,” Hotshot said, continuing on even though Spot refused to look at her, “that you’ve been spending more and more time there since a couple a’ months ago.”

He let out a frustrated huff of breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone was biting, and his grip on the cigar in his hand tightened. Hotshot said nothing.

When Spot finally dared a glance at her, he found that she was already looking at him, her expression assessing. He felt his mask harden in response to the scrutiny. If Hotshot wanted to play this game, he could show her that he knew how to play, too—and knew how to play it well.

“Spot,” Hotshot finally said, and her voice was slow and measured as she asked, “Where’d you get that cigar?”

Apparently, she could play it well, too.

“It ain’t your business.” His tone was hard, no room for discussion or argument. Because Hotshot wasn’t supposed to know. No one was, except for himself and, well, the reason he’d been spending so much time at the tracks recently. But Hotshot had guessed anyways.

He looked down at the cigar. He should’ve been more careful—this wasn’t something that he wanted to get out. Not because he was ashamed of it, but because this was his thing. It was something he had that was special, and so what if he wanted to keep it to himself for just a bit longer? He did everything for the Brooklyn newsies. Everything. He deserved to have this one thing, right?

Hotshot sighed. “You know I won’t judge you, even if— even if he is Manhattan.”

“Who said anything about anyone?” Spot said flatly. His hands itched to push himself up off the stair, to stand and leave and avoid this conversation.

“I ain’t blind, Spot. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you tense whenever someone says his name, or the guarded expression you have when you say you’re going to the tracks, or the brand of the cigar in your hand. There’s only one newsie you interact with who would blow his money on a box of Coronas. So like I said, I ain’t blind, and I sure ain’t stupid, either.”

Spot had to huff a mirthful laugh at that, because maybe she wasn’t, but he certainly felt like he was. At least, he felt stupid in some capacity, to have thought that no one would put the pieces together, that no one would pay attention and figure it out and approach him to ask about it.

And so Spot didn’t utter a word. He could flat out lie to Hotshot, but he doubted she would believe him. He could leave, but she’d just ask him again and again until he had no choice but to tell her. And he could tell her to forget all about it, but Hotshot was his friend and he couldn’t bring himself to do that to her.

A muscle clenched in his jaw. He didn’t look at her.

“Fine. You want me to say it? I like him. I like Race. That’s the reason I’ve been spending time at the tracks, that’s while I have a cigar in my hand, that’s why I’m wary when people say his name or mention Manhattan.” He took a deep breath. “And now you’ve gotten what you wanted, so I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone now. And don’t even think of mentioning this to anyone else. You’ll regret it if you do.”

Usually when Spot threatened people, they didn’t laugh. But that’s what Hotshot did, loudly and heartily before saying, “And that’s the classic Spot I know, always making things more difficult than they have to be. Seriously, was that so hard?”

He didn’t respond.

“But really,” she said quietly, the metal of the fire escape creaking as she stood, “I’m happy for you.”

Then the moment was broken as she laughed again, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Now I’m going inside before you throw me off the fire escape.”

When he didn’t answer, she turned and made her way up the rickety stairs. The sound of a window shutting alerted him to her departure, and he closed his eyes.

What had he gotten himself into?

-

[leoleolovesdc]

Okay, dont get me wrong, i do love Cass and Raps ending the show as best friends and it hurt me like a bitch when Cass betrayed her in season two, but I also need them to be a little toxic and weird about each other.

Yeah, Cass is good now, she’s traveled a lot, healed, took a break and came back to Corona and everything is fine, but when something ticks her off, especially if it relates to Rapunzel in any sort of way, she’s suddenly stiffen, cold, quiet, awkward to a level that feels almost threatening. She grabs Rapunzel by the wrist and drags her away from Eugene, from anyone really, she takes her face in between her hands brashly in a way that is just painfully familiar. She loves Rapunzel more than anything in the world, but she loves her violently.

The same is true for Rapunzel, of course in her own way, but when Cassandra stiffens so does she. If Cass reaches for her sword, Raps’ automatically on fight or flight. When she grabs her by the arm, Rapunzel’s instinct kicks in before anything else, pushing Cass against the nearest wall and immobilizing her. When Cass cups her face, she grabs her by the collar, ready to strangle her if it comes to it. She loves Cass back, more than anything in the world, but she loves her paranoically.

If anyone in Corona saw those two together they’d think the possessive one would obviously be Cassandra, I mean, look at her! She’s all serious and protective, but Raps has already lost Cass before and she won’t take chances again. No one approaches Cassandra. No one is allowed to without authorization from the princess. If anyone is foolish enough to get near her without consent, be ready to get knocked out, because when it comes to Cassandra the first thing that speaks inside of Rapunzel is instinct. A contradictory instinct that tells her to proctect as much as it tells her to fight.

Fight for your life, don’t let her killl you.

Protect her with your life, don’t let them take her away from you.