#or the iron or the stove or whatever

[imaginaryberries]

Recently I saw someone on the Glasgow subreddit post about an experience they'd had in primary school of being taken to a 'safety centre' as a class where they were put through various simulations of dangerous situations - like loads of wee rooms, one for example being set up to be a train platform with a track that had a fiver on it, to show the dangers of jumping on to the tracks, that sort of thing. Reading the post was like a jumpscare because I remember this too, and the one that always haunted me was the one that was set up like a kids' bedroom and they showed you all the potential fire hazards - plug sockets by beds, charger cables getting hot etc.

Something I'd forgotten though, but then vaguely remembered once I'd read it, is that they also then simulated a fire happening. Like, room filled with smoke, people banging on doors and acting like it was real etc and you had to escape without making the mistake of grabbing the door handle (as it would be hot and your skin would melt and stick to it) and whatever.

The thing is. Obviously unbeknownst to them but still something that could be predicted to have happened to at least some of the children going through this. I had already had a traumatic fire experience very similar to this a few years previously. When I was a kid my dad's neighbour set his flat on fire and we all had to be evacuated. It was a Defining Childhood Event for me.

Like. The OP of the Reddit post only wrote it in the first place because they'd been explaining it to Australian friends who were horrified. It just seems an insane thing to put children through when like I said, there's bound to be a portion of them who will be legitimately retraumatised by it. I'm a lot better than I was but I have previously been, like, OCD-level anxious about fire, and those two incidents - in fact the 'safety centre' one more than the actual fire - are absolutely the reason why. Obv teaching kids to be careful is important but I feel like there are better ways to do it lol

[toytulini]

i cant see posts cos my app is borked but i can still MAKE posts so you all can still see me complain!

it is so fucking impossible to search for fucking anything at all on the goddamn internet and if you want any amount of specificity at all you are well and truly fucked

[stararch4ngelqueen]

For the Jason drabbles, what about Jason conforting/taking care of reader while they are sick or even on their period?

We love a supportive man. What he receives he gives back tenfold.

“Show me where, baby.”

His hand roamed along your lower abdomen, imagining the soreness in your tense muscles. The spikes of pain that riddled you bedridden during your most heavy days.

“Here?” He applies pressure, fingers rubbing circles down just under your stomach, along the spot near your hip bone.

“Oww, yes,” you whine, wincing from the pain before being soothed by his massage.

Jason knew what periods were. He knew it’s a natural thing women dealt with. He’s worked with women for years, alongside doing his own research on it during one time you hadn’t left your bed for a while, thinking you were sick at first. It was an.. interesting conversation with Babs over what more he could do to help that the internet didn’t tell him about those relentlessly heavy cycles.

Pain like this took a lot longer to be rid of than a heating pad would allow. Especially the good quality ones with different settings.

Or, if you want something different, something fun that he wouldn’t mind shoving into the microwave for a minute, he’d get you a heatable, plush teddy bear. Or a duck. Or a menstruation crustacean.

He had no idea what the hell that was until you showed him on the site. You received whatever you chose in a box nearly three days later from Prime shipping.

Don’t freak out about blood. Accidents happen. If you got some on the sheets, along his lap when he held you, or on the couch, he could’ve cared less.

He wouldn’t even point it out, if you didn’t know. If you did notice it, he’d immediately shush you in an consolation attack, hiding your shameful expression in the crook of his shoulder.

“Shh, baby,” he’d murmur in your ear. “Easy. Nothin’ I haven’t seen before. S’alright, it’s okay.”

With advice from Babs, he cooks a lot more iron rich meals for you a lot more during this time. Usually, it’s been a team effort. You cook, he cleans up, you wash dishes together. Vice versa.

This week, regardless if you suffer from irregular periods, he does it all. He’ll do it even if he was a walking zombie, he doesn’t care.

Jason will not, no matter what you say, let you lift a finger if he knows you’re in pain. He’s an expert of masking his own, he can tell when you do it.

This even goes if you’re not used to being babied, get used to it. You tend to him for weeks at a time in a single month alone, this is his way of saying thank you for it all.

“Bed.” Jason demands, not even having to turn around from his attention on the stove to hear your shuffling to the kitchen.

“But I’m—“

“I brought you a drink,” he replies. A cup of warm raspberry leaf tea sitting on your bedside.

“No, I mean—“

“I know it hurts, but you can’t take anything until after you eat,” Jason peers over his shoulder, seeing his olive green shirt loosely draped over your body. “Go back to bed, Princess.”

“Can I stay here?” You plea, making his shoulders slump with a sigh. Try as he may, your weakened state makes him more pliable to your every request.

Might as well, since you’re already up. Stubborn girl.

“Go sit on the couch,” he sighs, knowing a few comforters were folded up on the cushions. “Get comfortable, an’ stay there. Dinner’s almost done.”

Jason has pills, plenty of them. From plain Tylenol, ibuprofen, to doctor prescribed muscle relaxers, morphine, etc. All thanks to Alfred.

Broken bones or severe, suture required injuries would be the only times Jason felt complied to take them. He knew addiction, watching it first hand and being involved in it at one point himself. He only took them when he absolutely, positively needed it.

For you, if you needed something stronger, he’d give you half of one pill, or a full, single pill at most. No way would you ever fall victim to such a cruel, toxic routine. He’d keep them locked up, for both your safety and his.

After your said hearty, iron rich meal, you remained on the couch snuggled up together like true lovers.

His guilty pleasure during your period of vulnerability was how much you relied on him for comfort. Positions varied, but his most favorite would be your body laying in his lap as he lounged on his reading recliner.

A gray comforter over your shoulders, some fuzzy socks on your feet. The furnace you called your boyfriend leaving you nice and toasty, his hands settling along your hair and back, preparing to soothe and massage when needed.

He adored when you needed him, he loved catering to you. You were his woman, his little nurse turned patient.

This also sort of gave him an excuse to skip out on patrols, but he never voiced the reasons why he’s gotten calls about it. He just didn’t feel like it, refusing the idea of abandoning you late at night, leaving him tense and unfocused on his routine on if you needed something, and he wasn’t there.

The others, with their detective mindsets could figure it out for themselves as to why Jason didn’t show up on a Saturday night. Or a Sunday, and definitely not a Monday.

He had important priorities, after all.

Just him, you; snuggly comfortable and content, and your herbal scented, menstruation crustacean.

[hollowdeath]

Thank god, another Harry Potter lover! 👓⚡️He really deserves more love! ❤️ That’s why I imagine him and the reader settling in a cottage by the sea or lake (you decide) to heal from the Wizarding War. They find comfort and solace in each other, and yes that includes countless lovemaking. 🥰 It’s just the two of them, so they’re free to express their love whenever and wherever they want. They especially enjoy making love on the shore under the stars after a swim, by the fireplace on a soft blanket, and in the bathtub surrounded by candles. They just need to feel and hold each other to remind themselves that everything’s okay now. You can do whatever you want with this, I just wanted to put it out there. Take care!

thank you so much for this request, i fell in love with it as soon as you sent it! i hope you enjoy!

pairing: harry james potter x fem!reader (18+)

summary: you & harry have moved away from everything & everyone to a remote cottage where the forest meets the sea. all harry wants after everything he's been through is to find peace, & he finds it in you.

c/w: smut!!! oral sex, penetration, rough sex

word count: 7.3k

harry was up early. he was watching the kettle boil on the gas stove in front of him, enjoying the warmth coming off of it, letting himself relax for just a moment. the steam from the water enveloped his face and felt nice. it was so chilly this morning. the windows were fogged over from the fire raving inside the stove, the wind whistling through the walls of the cottage.

the cottage was beautiful, harry couldn't deny it, though he could do with a bit more insulation. the raw, exposed stone walls were charming, and the moss and vines growing on the outside were something out of a fairy tale, but the fire needed to be fed every hour or so most of the day for at least half of the year or else it dropped below freezing inside. however, luckily, harry came to find wood chopping and trimming to be extremely therapeutic. just him, a sharp ax, and acres of woodlands to explore.

that was another thing harry could never deny about this property: the land was worth every penny. it's not often you find such a stunning cottage sitting on the border between a local forest and, what was essentially, a private beach on the north sea. the beach stretched at least a mile, but was obscured by the trees just behind the cottage. the land wasn't cheap, but harry was ready and extremely eager to spend whatever it took to finally get away from everything, live a simple life, and be alone.

alone with you, that is.

you and harry had gone to school together until the war, but eventually ended up reconnecting and began casually dating just over 2 years ago. since then you and harry had found complete solace in each other, both suffering from the negative side effects of witnessing and experiencing the war firsthand and supporting each other through difficult times. you were mostly struggling with paranoia and anxiety, and were actually the first to suggest getting a place together away from everyone else. you thought it would help if you were out of reach, isolated from the world, practically invisible from all danger.

harry, of course, was utterly haunted by the events of the war, and everything leading up to it. he gets angry at the world, has bouts of depression, deals with monumental grief and guilt, and has chronic, clinical sleep issues caused by nightmares. which is, ironically, the exact reason he's awake so early right now.

as he's pouring the boiling water out of the kettle and over a tea bag, harry can feel his eyelids fighting to stay open. he's barely slept this week, and he's starting to feel the effects of it. he's lightheaded, detached, and just wants to rest.

as he's walking to the front porch, mug in hand, harry takes a moment to pause in the doorway of your master bedroom and admire you. sleeping, surrounded by white cotton comforters, drowning in pillows, your hair wildly framing your peaceful face. he just stays there for a while, leaning against the doorframe, watching. he often watches you sleep when he can't himself. it brings him relief knowing you can get the rest you need.

before he heads outside harry slips on his favorite quarter zip. as he's sitting on the stairs outside, he admires the sound of the waves crashing just a few hundred or so yards away from him. he finishes his hot cup of tea, closes his eyes and lets himself sit in the cold waves of the wind. it's nice. like sleeping without the nightmares.

the moment is short lived as he hears the door creak open behind him. he looks back, and is in disbelief at how beautiful you look just waking up. a nightdress that barely covers anything at all draping around your shoulders, messy bed hair, sleepy eyes and a smile as you stand with the door cracked open, admiring harry in return.

"morning," you say simply, your voice still soft and hoarse from sleeping. harry smiles at you with soft and loving eyes. you walk towards him and let the door close behind you as you cuddle up next to harry on the stairs.

you don't seem to mind the chill in the air. your exposed skin is still hot from the fire burning inside. you lean your head on harry's shoulder, reaching for his mug, seeing there's nothing left, and leaving the mug in his hands. harry's chest hums as he chuckles. "would you like some? kettle's still warm," he asks.

you shake your head. you want to stay right here with harry in this moment.

the sea is so beautiful at this time of the morning. the sun was up, but only just barely above the horizon. no clouds, no birds, just the waves and the wind carrying their breeze.

speaking of breeze, you begin to shiver the longer you're out there in only a sleep dress. you still want to stay with harry, enjoying the view with him, but he notices you shaking.

"darling, let's get you inside,"

harry sits you in front of the stove and opens the small latch, letting the door stay open as you attempt to warm your hands. harry feeds the fire and rearranges the coals to make it burn hotter for you. after a minute or so, he also slips off his quarter zip and pulls it over your torso, smiling to himself at just how big it looks on you.

you find yourself finally starting to warm up, your toes burying themselves into the fur rug you're sitting on. after harry pours you a cup of tea, he joins you next to the fire. "thank you," you tell him with a smile, eagerly taking a sip of the warm drink.

harry's arm wraps around you and he watches the fire as you continue to sip your tea, enjoying the feeling of it warming you up from the inside.

you relish this moment with harry. since moving here barely a month ago, you've grown so fond of these smaller moments throughout the day with him. watching the scenery, watching the fire, sitting in comfortable silence, sharing a kettle of tea in the morning and afternoon, simply enjoying each other's company and the peace you've created for yourselves. it was one of your favorite parts about settling into this little slice of life.

and, of course, there was all the alone time.

while living with harry at grimmauld place was lovely, there was never truly a moment alone with him there. you had your own room with locked doors, but could hear someone walking, talking, cooking, always something in the background.

here, you were completely alone. a lot of people might find this situation to be even more terrifying, being so far away from everything, but you both agreed the isolation made you feel safer. safe from death eaters, safe from drama, safe from other people.

the safety from being so alone out here also meant that you and harry could be vulnerable with each other 24/7. you never had to put on a face or pretend things were okay if they weren't. if harry had nightmares, he could make some tea and enjoy a moment outside alone without anyone trying to psychoanalyze him. if you wanted to lay in bed until it was dark out again, harry wasn't going to judge you for it.

that vulnerability spread into other parts of your life as well.

you set your mug down next to the fire and turned towards harry who's already watching you as you admire his blue eyes, bloodshot from barely sleeping last night, or the night before. you take his face in your hands and just hold him for a moment, feeling him lean into your touch as his eyes flutter close. "i love you, harry," you say just above a whisper, breaking the comfortable silence.

harry looks up at you, but his eyes are now full of lust. you barely have a moment to process what's going on before harry leans in for a gentle, wanting kiss.

harry's always so soft with you despite his clearly strong desire. you've never been with someone who wanted you so bad no matter how many times you've been with them. everything with harry was like the first time all over again; the same desperation and desire to please that just never left.

the kiss quickly gets heated as harry pulls his quarter zip off of you, making you both giggle at the fact that he just put it on you only a few minutes prior. your lips reconnect in a haste, not wanting even a single second away from each other.

harry lays you down on the rug beneath you as his hands make their way to your exposed legs, feeling the heat from the fire on your thighs. his shirt quickly comes off as well from you tugging at it. a moan escapes your lips just watching his body as he pulls the shirt over his head.

harry's suffered from many injuries in these last few years that have left him littered in scars. and while you obviously hate to think about harry in pain, something about his scars drove you crazy with lust. a brave boy who faced death and came back, now healing far away from the cruel world with you as his lover. it was just another reminder that you were safe, that he was finally safe.

harry smiles as he goes in to kiss you again, his hands going right back to your thighs as he pushes your nightdress above your panties. you're holding his face lovingly but harry pulls away from the kiss to look at you. he watches your expression intently as he starts sliding his fingers over your panties, earning a sigh of relief from you. harry's eyes grow darker the longer he teases you. he sits up to use his other hand to hold down your bucking hips, causing you to whine in frustration.

"patience," harry commands from you in a stern voice. you look up at him, jaw lax, breathing uneven, and simply give him a nod.

you love this side of harry. of course you fell in love with the soft, gentle, careful parts of him first, but over time you saw more and more of his angry, controlling, dominant side during sex that you were completely weak for.

living at hogwarts and then grimmauld place right after, most of your intimate moments with harry were kept quiet to avoid being heard. soft whispering, quiet moans, slow movements, and breathless orgasms under a heavy blanket with the lights dimmed. once you moved here, away from everything and everyone, things were different.

of course, you were both still a bit quiet and shy at first, not used to having a place all to your own where no one can hear you for miles. but, slowly, you and harry learned to break old habits and started experimenting together. a lot.

it seemed like neither of you could ever get enough of each other since coming here. you'd always been really attracted to each other, maybe more than the average couple, but something about being alone together in this corner of the world where the forest meets the ocean made you feel so connected, so in tune, and completely and utterly obsessed with each other.

it started with long, drawn-out, foreplay-heavy love making in your new bed to "break it in", sometimes spending hours each day just entangled together on top of the sheets, admiring the other's body and exploring every part. then it would slowly move over to the bath, naturally, after spending so much time sweating together in bed. after a while the sessions would get shorter as you would both be completely exhausted afterwards. instead, they increased in frequency.

either you or harry would find little opportunities to sneak in a quick fuck throughout the day between chores, or would give the other person head as they made dinner in the kitchen. it was thrilling. neither of you had ever been sexual outside of the bedroom/bathroom before, but you found it completely erotic.

you had yet to have sex in front of the fire, oddly enough, but you had thought about it quite a few times before. the warmth of the stove, the soft rug beneath you, the light on harry's skin, the sweat dripping off of him…

"[y/n]," harry said, snapping you out of your daze. "are you even listening to me?" he asks with a smirk.

you blush immediately, so lost in your thoughts about the sex you were just about to have that you couldn't even focus on what was currently happening…

"s-sorry…" you mumble. "you just drive me crazy," you admit shyly.

harry's hand pushes further into your hips, a groan crawling out of his throat as he glares at you. "don't make me cum already, darling," he growls, his voice deep and rumbling in his chest.

you whimper under his pressure, your back arching as your body attempts to find some kind of release from the growing tension inside of you.

"so fucking desperate already," harry says, clearly enjoying watching you struggle under his control. "if i could resist you even a little bit i would sit here and watch you struggle all day," he tells you as he leans into your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin. you wince and squeal, your heart racing from the pain.

harry smirks at your reaction. he sits up and releases the pressure on your hips, causing them to buck upwards instinctively. a pathetic "please," is all you're able to muster as you attempt to catch your breath.

normally harry wants to hear you do a lot more begging than that, but he's just as desperate as you are at this point and he can't resist you much longer.

harry props your legs up for him after helping you take off your panties, throwing them to the side as he lays between your thighs. you prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at harry who's hungrily looking between your eyes and your pussy. your breathing is rapid and shallow as your heart continues to thump in your chest. even after all these years and all the times you've seen harry between your legs you just never get used to the sight. he still gives you butterflies like a nervous girl with a crush.

your head rolls in pleasure as harry starts kissing your thighs; even in both of your desperate states, even when he's at his most dominant, he's still the gentle, loving harry you're so in love with.

harry's hands find your own and intertwine your fingers together as his tongue begins exploring your pussy. you can feel yourself getting even more wet as harry's mouth attaches itself to you, enjoying how you taste. moaning, whining, hips bucking onto harry's tongue, you start to feel yourself sweat from both the fire and harry's intense gaze up at you.

"f-fuck," you cry, your thighs instinctively squeezing around harry's head. he can't help but moan as he sucks on your clit, practically letting you ride his face.

you reach for your silky nightdress and lift it above your chest, exposing your nipples to the warmth of the fire as you continue watching harry make your legs tremble.

harry's eyes droop in pleasure. one of his hands grabs for your tits and the other applies the same pressure to your hips as before. you let out your first real moan above a whimper, your hips still trying to grind against harry's mouth as he continues pushing you further into the rug.

his tongue's now inside of you, teasing you as you clench around him, your thighs still quivering.

"harry, harry, please," you say breathlessly, begging for more. harry ignores you, instead only going slower to drive you mad. you groan in frustration. he looks back up at you for only a second, but you can see the smirk in his eyes.

his hand lets go of your tits before making its way to your thighs, pushing them away from his head as harry takes a moment to breathe. you're blushing, completely flustered, eyes half-open. "sorry," you apologize.

"don't be. give me more." harry demands.

his hand pushes further into your pelvis, his elbow holding down your thigh as you wince at the pressure.

harry's mouth returns to your clit as his fingers feel how wet you are for him. your body jolts at the sensation, but harry just holds you down tighter. starting with one finger, harry pushes inside you slowly as you writhe under his grasp. your hands get tangled in his hair again, desperately pulling his face further into your pussy.

harry just chuckles, looking up at you as he slowly pushes another finger inside you. you gasp, your grip in his hair tightening as your other hand plays with your tits. just the look in harry's eyes watching you chase your high is enough to bring you close to the edge.

harry's fingers were pumping in and out of your pussy, his lips and tongue still teasing your clit. your thighs threatened to close again, but harry kept them spread open for himself. "enough," he states, planting his elbows into your thighs and his hand against your pelvis. he glares up at you as he repositions himself. "stay."

you can feel your body react to the aggression in his voice. this is the hungriest, and hottest, side of harry you've ever seen. you're already brought back to the brink of orgasm as soon as you can see harry's fingers pumping inside you again, his wrist and forearm veins pronounced against the light of the fire as he picks up his speed.

the moans coming out of your mouth are filthy and involuntary, your mind going blank at the sudden rush of pleasure through your body. once harry's tongue begins circling your clit again, you don't have a chance at lasting much longer.

"i-i, harry, stop, i'm–" is all you're able to get out before your legs begin shaking, your head thrown back, crying out in overwhelming pleasure. it feels so good not having to hold back your moans anymore.

harry's lips detach from you, swollen, covered in your wetness. his fingers continue thrusting into you, gently now as you ride out your high. he slowly removes them after a moment, his hand and elbows relieving the pressure that kept you pinned to the ground.

you're still whining, your legs aching from struggling against harry's weight. they feel impossibly heavy as you try to bend your knees up. harry just watches you, enjoying the aftermath of his work.

you're still seeing stars by the time harry's pants have come off, his cock barely peeking through the front of his boxers. he starts rubbing himself through the fabric, his breathing becoming labored as you watched him in a daze.

you look up at him innocently through your eyelashes, your mouth slightly ajar as you lean your weight to one elbow, using the other hand to take his place. he lets you take over, slowly stroking his erection through his boxers, enjoying his gaze down at you from above. his hand goes to your cheek, softly tracing the curve of your smile.

his fingers delicately open your lips before roughly shoving them into your mouth. you make a surprised noise, but quickly begin sucking and licking his fingers. he pulls his boxers down with the other hand, and uses your spit to lube himself up. you lick your own fingers and do the same, helping guide his cock into you with a groan of both pleasure and discomfort.

harry gradually thrusts into you, letting you adjust to him, taking his time with you. he watches your aching pussy welcome his cock eagerly, your legs already starting to tremble from the pressure building inside you again. "oh, fuck," harry's voice cracks, his hands gripping your thighs as they continue to involuntarily shake.

a hand flies to your mouth, barely able to contain yourself already. seeing harry's face of relief as his cock slides all the way inside you only makes you clench around him tighter. he lets out a struggled breath, his grip on your thighs only tightening as he spread them open for himself again.

harry's eyes are closed in bliss, his thrusts slow but deep, forcing a whine from your throat each time he's completely inside you. he's starting to sweat, his hair hanging loosely around his forehead, arms flexed to keep his grip on you, his body leaning down into yours as he starts picking up his pace.

harry looks down at you. one of his hands grabs the hand covering your mouth. "let me hear you, angel," he speaks gently but his voice is hungry, immediately earning a soft moan from your lips. he smiles, leaning down to kiss you sloppily.

harry takes this time to really pick up his speed, adjusting his position to roughly thrust himself into your throbbing pussy. his hands grab for the back of your knees, forcing your legs to bend back as he only pushes himself into you more.

"oh my god," you gasp into harry's kiss, your hands wrapping around his shoulders to steady yourself. harry's forehead rests against yours, looking down, glasses fogged up from the heavy breathing and heat from the fire. he's watching himself from your angle, slowing down his thrusting to a torturous pace. you both groan at the feeling and sight of harry pushing his cock completely inside you and slowly pulling back out before thrusting into you again.

"fuck, baby, you take my cock so well, feel so fucking good," harry says breathlessly into your ear.  your nails dig into his shoulders as you try not to cum again already just from harry's voice. you're both sweating, faces pressed together, the fire slightly dying beside you but still creating a warm glow.

"y-you're, mmph, i'm so close, again," you cry, letting yourself rest back on the soft rug. you feel so at peace despite the growing tension in your stomach – watching harry prop himself up with one hand on the ground beside you and the other still holding your leg back, his chest heaving as he continues thrusting inside you with a growing pace.

harry looks at your twisted expression, eyes glossed over and cheeks flushed, your tits bouncing as he roughly uses your body for his pleasure.

"yeah?" harry looks at you, his grip on your leg tightening as he fucks you roughy into the rug. "fucking cum for me," he commands from you.

you barely need his permission before you're already over the edge, legs uncontrollably shaking, eyes rolling back, incoherent words getting lost in your broken moans and cries of pain.

it's all harry needs before he feels himself release inside you, still thrusting into you slowly as his cum spills out of your pussy.

your body is shaking from the sensation, your legs still vibrating as you clench around harry's cock. he struggled to finally pull out of you.

still trying to catch his breath, harry lovingly rubs your thighs as he watches your swollen pussy ache for the feeling of his cock again.

"so fucking beautiful, my love," harry sighs, relaxing his body on top of yours, his head in your neck. "my beautiful, beautiful girl," he repeats, covering you in kisses as he showers you with compliments.

you just giggle at him, exhausted, trying to come back down to earth.

"i can't…move," you mumble between breaths, your eyes drooping closed as your feet touch back down on the rug. you feel even more weak than before.

harry hums, kissing your forehead. "it's okay, i've got you, darling," he says with a warm smile.

he stands up, slowly, but isn't in as much pain as he expected. his knees are sore for sure, but otherwise, he couldn't feel better.

he leans down to help you sit up, guiding your body into his arms as he picks you up bridal style, your head resting in his chest. you giggle again but you're too weak to reject the gesture. he carefully carries you to the bathroom just down the hall from the living room.

harry runs you both a warm bath as you watch from the counter. he's still naked, as are you, but it's not awkward or sexual – it's just natural.

he shuts the water off and reaches for you once again. "i'm okay now," you insist, standing from the counter and steadying yourself with his hands. he still helps you walk to the tub before helping you climb inside. the water's extremely hot, but it feels so nice on your sweaty, aching skin.

"i'll be right back, gotta feed the fire, just wait for me, yeah?" harry says before he dips out of the bathroom.

looking around you as you warm the rest of your body with the water, you notice the candles sitting around the tub from the last time you both took a bath together. just the flash of the memory through your brain is enough to make your stomach twist into knots again. harry had you bent over the side of the tub as water splashed everywhere, the feeling of freedom and carelessness intoxicating you both as you cared about nothing but each other's highs.

with a flick of your wet hand, you light all the candles again, and the room is lit with a warm glow. it's not often you use magic anymore, harry prefers to do things manually now that you're both caring for a piece of land, but the convenience of certain spells are too useful to forget completely.

walking back in, harry smirks at all the candles being lit. he admires you for a moment, naked, sweaty, half submerged in the huge clawfoot bathtub surrounded by the glow of the candles. "trying to insinuate something, love?" harry asks, closing the bathroom door behind him.

you blush, curling your knees into your chest. "just thought it'd be nice to have some light," you say softly.

harry grabs you both towels and sets them next to the tub before climbing in himself. he positions himself behind you, holding your body as he guides you to relax into his chest. once you laid your head back, you and harry sat in comfortable, warm silence for a long while.

it takes a few minutes before harry's hands begin rubbing at your stomach, slowly, making ripples throughout the water as you lower your knees, letting harry comfort you. he's humming softly, your head rumbling in his chest. he rests his head next to your own and watches his hands from your perspective.

his rubbing gets further and further down your stomach, running his hands along your waist and hips before finally grabbing at your inner thighs roughly. you let out a pathetic whimper, watching his hands from above the water.

"is it bad that i already need you again?" harry chuckles, half joking but half already turned on. you shake your head quickly, your hips thrusting up for relief, moaning at his words. "no, need you, please," you respond desperately, looking over at him.

harry's eyes are darker once more, watching as his hands gradually move to your sensitive pussy. you groan in response, but harry quickly kisses you to cover it. "i know, baby, just let me take care of it," he says into your lips.

slowly circling your clit with soft fingers, harry watches as your eyes droop more and more from the building pleasure. eventually his fingers are back inside of you, gently pumping in and out. his head turns back to your body as he watches you react to him. his other hand goes for your tits, grabbing one roughly from just above the surface of the water.

while it feels good being teased you're insanely desperate for harry once again. your hand reaches behind you, feeling harry's growing erection against your back. harry's grip on you tightens as your hand starts stroking his cock slowly under the water.

"fucking dirty girl," he groans under his breath, taking his fingers out of your pussy to continue rubbing your clit. you cry out at the loss of feeling, your hand squeezing around harry as he just enjoys the feeling.

soon, harry's moved your hips to align with his, your arms holding your body up on either side of the tub as you slowly insert harry back inside your pussy once again. the familiar feeling is only enhanced by being underwater, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease as you adjust to the feeling.

"oh my god," you sigh, your stomach already tightening, thighs still a bit shaky. harry's guiding your hips expertly, groaning in pleasure watching your ass dip in and out of the water onto his lap. his head is resting against the edge of the tub, mind blank, solely focused on your pleasure and his.

"fuck, harry," you whimper again, rolling your hips around on his cock before thrusting it inside you again. harry wishes you could see just how sexy you look from this angle, your hair flowing down your back, your skin glistening in the candlelight, the water droplets running down your hips, it's enough to make him resist the urge to finish already.

"you're so perfect," harry groans. he smacks your ass, slapping the water with it, causing you to squeal and quicken your pace. the same filthy moans are still spilling from your mouth, hardly able to contain yourself in this situation. something about using the time meant to help each other clean up to only continue fucking makes you feel so dirty, so used, and it's driving you crazy.

harry suddenly stops you, much to your disappointment, and tells you to trust him. "just get out and stand up," he says.

you do as he says, and eventually harry has you bent over the bathroom counter, barely lit by the candles behind you. he slowly returns his cock inside of you, your bodies dripping water everywhere.

as harry's thrusts become more consistent, one hand grabs for your shoulder and the other for your damp hair. he forces your face to look in the mirror, your eyes barely open from the pleasure. "watch," he commands. your eyes shot open at his voice, tracing the shape of your shadows in the mirror in front of your face.

harry loses himself in you, his head rolling back in pleasure hearing you struggle to take his cock for a second time. you're trying to moan, say anything at all, but your voice is incomprehensible as harry only becomes rougher with you.

"god damn it, [y/n]," harry spits out, his voice clearly exhausted. his hands travel back to your tits, pulling you back up into him as he continues pounding into you from behind. you're a mess in his hands as they roughly grope your tits.

"look at you," harry growls into your neck, looking into the mirror just in front of you as his gaze meets yours. "so fucking sexy,"

your hands desperately grip the edge of the counter for balance, your legs getting more and more weak by the second. harry pushes you further over the counter, his moans becoming urgent.

"i'm gonna fill you up because you're fucking mine, yeah? look at this perfect body of yours," harry's voice strains, his sweaty chest against your back as he forces you to continue watching yourself get pounded in the mirror, one arm over your chest and the other holding your hips. the light of the candles is just enough to let you see harry's dark expression. "fucking perfect, just for me,"

you haven't been able to get a single word out, your mind spinning as harry only gets more and more desperate, his pace getting sloppy.

"fuck, baby, just be good for me and let me cum inside your tight little pussy, hm? let me show you what's mine,"

you're already starting to cum just from harry's words. the overwhelming pleasure racks your body harshly as harry continues to use you for himself. shaking, barely able to stand without his help, your voice is breaking as you cry out in ecstasy for the third time just this morning.

harry's barely able to last much longer. his thrusts have slowed to uneven, jerky motion as he feels his cum spilling deep inside you. breathy moans and aching bodies, harry rests against you with your body limp against the counter. he lifts his head from your neck to kiss your skin softly, everywhere, slowly helping guide you back to the tub for a second time. your legs are weaker than before and you're barely able to contribute as harry leans you into the water, still kissing your damp skin.

"i love you, i love you," he's mumbling between kisses.

you're too weak and dizzy to respond in any way, still trying to catch your breath as harry begins cleaning your skin. he rubs a soft rag along your chest, neck, back, shoulders, and arms. the whole time he's complimenting you lovingly, a gentle touch and warm gaze upon your tired face.

after washing himself, harry also dries you off, carrying you back to bed before getting you both dressed in comfortable, warm pajamas. "just rest for today, my love," he told you as he laid you down. you reach for his hands. "stay?"

harry smiles. you didn't have to ask, it was literally his bed too, but he admires how soft and innocent you are in this moment. though he loves to be rough with you like he just was, there's nothing more special in the world to him than the gentleness between you two. his whole life has been nothing but challenges, setbacks, problems, and you're everything but. he just wants to be soft and gentle with you.

harry climbs under the sheets, his body also succumbing to the ache and exhaustion. he wraps himself around you, already falling asleep against his chest. harry joins not long after, finally getting his much needed sleep without the threat of his nightmares.

a few weeks later it's just a bit warmer out than it has been, so you and harry immediately started the day doing outdoor chores while you could. harry was chopping wood as you cleaned up around the cottage garden. it was too cold most of the year to grow much of anything out of it, but you still liked to keep it manageable for the smaller animals that stopped by to look around.

you also took the time to admire harry, shirtless, sweaty, groaning each time he drops the ax into another cut of firewood. his body had become well built from all the manual labor he's been doing lately, carrying entire trunks or stumps of trees out of the forest, lifting heavy bags of mulch and dirt for you, digging out the flower bed around the cottage, he was more muscular and toned than you'd ever seen him. it never mattered what harry's body looked like to you, you always found him attractive no matter what, but you couldn't deny that his toned back and broad shoulders got you more worked up than usual lately.

it was nice getting to work on the home with each other, a comfortable silence filling the day broken by the occasional question, favor, kiss, or compliment. it was peaceful, this routine you both had, and it felt so natural to work with each other. you hardly had to communicate your ideas because you were often thinking the same things.

tea in the morning, chores once the sun is out, taking a dip in the ocean at sunset, and having a warm home cooked dinner in the dark, the cottage lit from within from candles and the fireplace. it was perfect. for both of you.

and, of course, the sex had never slowed down as well.

you had both joked at the beginning of your move that you didn't think you could ever stop yourselves now that you were isolated from the world, but that's exactly what ended up happening. neither of your desires could be relieved no matter how many times you tried. not that you wanted them to go away by any means, it was just overwhelming, the feral need to spend hours each day pleasuring each other in every way possible. it was always passionate and desperate for more, never becoming repetitive or any less exciting. it was exactly what you both needed and wanted all the time.

as the sun was setting for the day, you and harry sat together and shared an orange you had gotten at the market just a few miles away earlier that week. you were lucky to be close enough to something that offered fresh produce, even in the colder parts of the year. harry watched the waves crashing against the sand, his knees to his chest as you both steady yourself on a large rock between the cottage and the water.

"thank you," harry says softly. you look over at him, his hands now empty as he's swallowing the last of his orange slices. you finish yours as well. "of course," you respond.

harry shakes his head. "no. really. thank you, [y/n], for everything." he says, still watching the sea. you blush, giving him a soft smile before turning to watch it as well. "i'm finally, really, truly happy. for the first time in my life, i feel at peace." harry explains, still speaking softly just over the crashing waves.

you could cry just from harry's words. all you've ever wanted was for him to feel safe. he's had such a difficult start in life and didn't deserve what happened to him, or what he was forced to do. he deserved simplicity. a normal life in a normal home doing normal chores. he deserved to be happy.

overcome with love, you stand from the rock and grab harry's hand, pulling him with you. he silently follows you down the beach. once you're a few yards away from the shore, you pull down the straps of the dress you had been working in off your shoulders, letting the material slide right off your body and onto the sand as you continue heading towards the water.

you turn to look at harry, and he's stunned at how beautiful you are. the shape of your body against the warm sunset over the water, nothing but a pair of panties covering your sweaty skin. your hair was flowing in the salty breeze of the ocean, hands reaching for his as your feet began to touch the water.

harry's ripped and dirty blue jeans come off as well as his glasses, leaving them behind on the sand as he grabs for your hand. you walk into the water together, slightly shivering from the lingering chill beneath the warm surface, but quickly adjusting to the temperature. harry's only admiring you, like he always does, as you dip your head under the water and come up, pushing the hair out of your face.

harry does the same, wiping his face of the sweat and dirt that's collected over the work day with the salty water. this has become one of his favorite parts of your routine together, cooling off in the ocean after a long day. not just to wash off the sweat and stress of the day, but also to admire you in all your glory under the shining sun.

harry wastes no time reaching for you, pulling you into him as you float in his grasp. he holds you for a moment, mesmerized by the light in your eyes, a smile permanently fixed on his face. "my beautiful girl," he reminds you, his forehead leaning against yours. you hum, reaching your hands to his neck as you pull him in for a heated kiss.

you've had sex in the ocean a few times now, and it's quickly become one of your favorites. it's the ultimate form of freedom being naked together making love in the gentle waves, harry holding you around his waist as he hugs your body into his.

most nights you're both too tired from working to go further than sloppy making out and feeling each other up; but other nights, like tonight, you're both too desperate to care if it hurts.

as harry continues kissing you he carries you back to the shore, your legs still around his waist as he lays you down onto the sand. the water just barely washes over harry's legs as it meets the shoreline. you relax into the warm sand beneath you, harry already pulling your panties off. you giggle at his eagerness. he smirks, his hands gripping your waist hungrily.

you can see harry's erection through his soaking wet boxers barely hanging off his hips. just as eagerly, you pull them down for him as he kicks them to the side.

harry easily slides his cock inside of you, letting out a struggled sigh of relief at the feeling. no matter what's going on around him, harry will always feel perfectly in place when he's inside of you.

your hands are tangled in his wet hair, gripping tighter as he bottoms out. he moans desperately, leaning in for another kiss. his pace evens out to a familiar rhythm, your body wrapping around him as he fucks you into the wet sand. the warm sunset is perfectly met with the chilly breeze of the water that's still waving over both of you gently. each time it gives you shivers, your body arching into harry's from the shocking feeling.

harry's not sure if he's ever wanted to finish this quickly before. it was so perfect, this moment, the sun, the waves, you. he just couldn't believe this was his life. making love to the most beautiful girl in the world where the land meets the sea. he never thought life could be this simple and beautiful, but with you it was effortless.

he pulled away from the kiss to simply look at you, eyes drooping, cheeks blushing, eyebrows pinched together in desperation. he smiled. "i love you," he says so simply, his thrusts beginning to stutter against you. you smile back, eyes still half open. "love you, harry, so much," you manage to say between heavy breaths.

you pull him back in for a kiss, and feel his body weaken on top of you, leaning on his elbows for support in the uneven sand. "baby, baby," he tries to warn you, but you just continue kissing him and wrap your legs back around his waist, pulling him deeper into your pussy.

he completely unravels, pumping his cum inside you as he cries against your lips. "fuck," he keeps groaning in a broken voice. you can feel yourself letting go as well, your thighs squeezing around harry's waist as the water crashes into your body again, making you shake even more.

you both enjoy the moments after your climaxes together, letting the water continue to run over you as the sun's light falls below the horizon. harry, still inside you, his body resting on top of yours, tells you he loves you in the softest, sleepiest voice he can manage.

you kiss his head, reminding him how much you love him.

you both eventually sit up, covered in sand, and chuckle to each other about it. harry invites you back into the water where he washes you off, giving you a loving kiss under the dim sky.

he continues holding you there in the gentle waves, the emerging stars lighting the sky above you. he's a bit cold now, but he couldn't be more warm inside. harry just loves you and the little life you've built with him here on the sea. he feels happy, loved, and completely at peace in the ocean with you in his arms.

[justporo]

A Night of Staying In

After all the doom and gloom in other writing I really needed some cutesy fluff to feel myself again - and also to give Astarion and Tav a break.

Summary: So have Tav and Astarion just enjoying a cozy night in - also Astarion gets a carrot hurled at his face.

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav Warnings: Mention of sex, a carrot gets thrown and then murdered Wordcount: 2,2k

Delicious smells of slowly cooking meats and vegetables, spices and a forgotten mint tea were wafting through the kitchen of your cozy little townhouse.

You were bustling around the well-equipped kitchen. The apron you were wearing was full of stains and its pockets full of cooking utensils – even a half-full spoon absent-mindedly tugged away in one of them. It was slowly leaking through the linen with something on it that looked like blood – but was simply a tomatoey sauce. Your hair was messily put up in a bun, but several strands of hair had fallen out of it and you looked only so far from a mental breakdown.

At the kitchen table Astarion was sitting with a lantern, bowing over an embroidery project. He had the very bright lantern you’d gifted him specifically for this purpose directly next to him, but he was still squinting at his work and holding it so close his nose was almost touching the fabric. He looked a lot less demented than you but still very absent-minded.

Fabrics and threads were strewn all about the wooden table. Different needles were glinting everywhere on it too. One could only hope that those would be remembered at some point – preferably before someone stuck them in their fingers.

Next to him were also laying some loose papers, a feather and an ink pot with lots of writing that was then crossed out again and also some small little doodles on the corners – one for whatever reason happened to be a goose with a knife in its beak.

You had several pots on the iron stove and something about to go in the oven as well. Critically you were moving around between all of these things, clattering with copper pot lids, jars of ingredients and spoons to try the food (always in the same pattern: grabbing a new spoon, trying something, putting the spoon in the dish bowl full of dirty water – then having to grab a new spoon). You had some potatoes boiling and in another pot you had been cooking a mixture of vegetables and beef for quite some time. You wanted to recreate a recipe of cottage pie that you had once tried many years ago in a tavern and had kept reappearing in your dreams. And now you finally had the kitchen and the tools to try and cook it yourself!

But it seemed impossible to get it right, this already being your fourth attempt this week. The vampire had already been moaning that you had basically force-fed him the meal because you had no way of eating that much pie on your own. It was not, that the finished pies hadn’t tasted well, but they just weren’t like you remembered. But you started to think that it might be your memory that was tricking you and not your cooking skills.

You went to try the pie filling again after adding some more spices and dash more red wine (directly from your goblet because you didn’t seem to remember where you put the bottle).

As soon as the spoonful hit your tongue you knew you had done it – finally.

You shrieked and immediately heard another shriek behind you in reply. You turned around to Astarion with glee and saw how the vampire was staring at you angrily and shaking his hand. It didn’t take a genius to figure out your sudden excitement had caused him to stab himself with his needle.

“Darling, can you maybe not scream like a dying goblin, I was concentrating!”, he hissed at you. Your joy evaporated at his flare of anger – so you turned around again, grabbed a left over half of carrot and threw it at Astarion – and maybe a bit more forceful than would have been necessary.

But he was still a rogue and dodged the vegetable easily. It flew against one of the cabinets and then to the ground. There it stayed until Scratch came into the kitchen, drawn there by the sudden noises. The dog sniffed at the piece of vegetable, then grabbed it and went off again.

“Oh really, are we at the ‘I throw stuff at my lover’ point of our relationship now, love?”, Astarion replied to your responsive outburst of anger with a raised eyebrow. “Am I going to have to sleep on the sofa next?”, he continued sassily.

Your hand itched to grab more produce – there were some potatoes still laying around and they made for excellent improvised throwing weapons. But you saw the smirk that played around the vampire’s lips. So you settled for a verbal rebuttal.

“Don’t be such a prick and you can keep sleeping inside”, you said and flipped him off. Then you turned around again to your cooking and grabbed – yet another – spoon and scooped up some of the filling. The vampire mumbled something under his breath about he wouldn’t have to be a prick if you didn’t make him prick himself.

“Oh, that would be so gracious of you, my dear lady, if I was still allowed in your shining presence”, Astarion then said loudly as you were busy with the pots. The tone still very sassy but you heard the playfulness in it now and knew he was now only teasing.

You went over to him, with one hand under the spoon full of hot goodness that immediately started dripping and burning your hand. You winced but kept going.

“Here, try this – I think I got it now”, you said as you stood in front of Astarion who had put down his needlework for the time being. He threw you a pained look: “Love, if you keep feeding me this I think I might actually start to get a pot belly.”

You snorted at him and eyed what you could see of his upper body. “Pretty sure, you will never have to worry about this kind of thing. Now. Try. It”, you answered and insistingly came closer with the spoon.

Astarion sighed, gave you another suffering look and then let himself be fed. His doubtful expression quickly changed to what you interpreted as pleasantly surprised.

“Alright, I take everything back, that was well worth the scream of enlightenment, my sweet. That tastes wonderful”, the vampire said and grinned at you.

“See, wasn’t so hard, was it”, you said and gave him a quick peck on the lips as you could see his face changing to annoyance once more at your petty remark.

You threw the spoon in the dish bowl and rubbed your hands on your apron and started to get everything ready for the final step of the recipe. Meanwhile you said to Astarion: “So, darling, could you write down the following: one and a half cups of red wine and three instead of two sprigs of thyme and just loads of black pepper.”

“Of course, my darling chef”, Astarion replied cheerfully and grabbed the feather and papers laying next to him to write it down. “Any other changes?”

“No, this will be it”, you responded and happily clapped your hands before you put your filling in a cast iron pan, mashed and seasoned the potatoes and then put them down as the topping of your pie. The final touch was some hearty cheese sprinkled on top. Then you put it all in the oven.

In the meantime, you heard the feather scratching over the paper.

“What are you doing, Astarion?”, you asked as you took off the oven mitts from pushing the pan in to cook.

“Just putting the recipe in clean writing for you, my heart”, the vampire replied as he kept looking through older versions and notes on the papers. Brows furrowed as he was concentrating on it.

“That’s sweet, love, thank you”, you said to him but he didn’t reply and probably hadn’t even noticed. Of course – if you said something actually nice you fell on deaf ears.

So you decided to thank him with another gesture. You grabbed another goblet to pour your vampire a cup of wine but as you looked around to find the opened bottle you saw that it had been next to Astarion with an already filled cup all along.

You gave up and sat down across the table with your own cup of wine as Astarion finished up writing. You put one leg up on the bench and hugged it to your chest, head on top of the knee and watched the pale elf.

“Here you go, my sweet”, the vampire exclaimed cheerfully after a few more moments and handed you the finished recipe that was now written cleanly in his neat and beautiful handwriting. ‘Tav’s specialty cottage pie’ stood atop the page and next to it was a little doodle of some steaming hot pie.

You smiled broadly at Astarion: “Thank you, darling.” Then you shortly leaned on the table, almost climbing over it to give him a kiss while carefully trying to avoid the needles.

“Do you sometimes wonder how we ended up like this?”, you softly asked him after you had read through the finished recipe.

“Like what?”

“Well, like this – all domestic. I’m cooking, you’re embroidering, we’re bickering like an old married couple, drinking wine and just enjoying a cozy night in instead of wreaking havoc somewhere out there”, you said and waved vaguely in the direction of the city beyond the walls of your home. Then you took another sip of wine.

“Let’s be honest with ourselves, we’ve been bickering like that from the moment we met”, Astarion answered and looked at you sternly. You shrugged in agreement.

“As for the rest – well, are you enjoying the way we spend our nights like this sometimes? Because if you’re bored-“

“No no, I’m enjoying this an awful lot. It’s just – this is somehow the most unlike turn of events don’t you think? Like, I sometimes can’t believe we actually ended up in the version where we’ll live happily ever after”, you said and cradled your face in your hand not currently holding a cup of wine.

At your words a warm and adoring smile crept onto Astarion’s face.

“Are you though?”, you asked then.

“Hm?”

“Are you enjoying these kinds of nights?”, you asked Astarion again and lifted your head up to look straight at him.

The vampire looked at you, smile still playing around his lips: “Well, my love, after two hundred years full of godsdamned shit I am enjoying this sort of mundanity quite a lot. And I enjoy it even more because I get to spend it with you. I might even enjoy doing the dishes with you later on – unless you don’t splash me like last time.”

You smiled at him too now, broadly – feeling incredibly lucky that you had indeed taken all the right turns that had led you here, to this: sitting at this kitchen table with the love of your life, talking about doing the dishes.

“But if we ever get bored, my sweet, I have quite a lot of ideas on how to spice things up”, Astarion continued afterwards. The smile morphed into a lewd smirk and his red eyes sparkled mischievously: “For example, I could dramatically throw everything on this table to the ground, rip all your clothes off and have my way with you on this table until you forget your own name.”

His voice had suddenly become deep and smooth like dark molten chocolate. You bit your bottom lip as the mental image of his words set in and you just stared into his eyes point blank. Astarion still looked at you, not breaking eye contact, and his teasing smirk only growing.

“Nah”, you made after some more moments, “not tonight. My cottage pie would burn.” Your tone was matter-of-fact and you drank some more of your wine while still looking into the vampire’s eyes.

Then you both broke down laughing. So much so that you had to wipe tears from your eyes by the end and Astarion had his face buried in one of his hands while silent fits of laughter still shook through him.

“Alright”, he said and bit his lip, one of his fangs showing adorably as if he was a cat, “I’ll write it down for another date night then.” You broke out laughing again.

Until you could actually smell your food burning. With an “oh shit” you jumped up and pulled the pan out of the oven – you had saved it just in time.

You got out some plates and forks, and put some generous servings onto them. As you turned around your gaze fell onto the table full of Astarion’s embroidery supplies. Astarion saw your look, then waved it off, dismissing it.

He grabbed one of the filled plates from you and grabbed your then free hand to lead you to the living room. Scratch was there laying on his designated blanket, chewing on his favourite ball. Some telltale orange spots telling the tale of the fallen carrot.

You settled down on your sofa with your food – you swinging your legs over Astarion’s and getting cozy.

And this is where you stayed: eating until you felt like your belly might burst, joking until you were crying again, talking until you got so tired you almost drifted off into dreaming right then and there. And when you had went to bed: holding each other until you woke up in the other’s arms again.

[hellenhighwater]

Hey!!! Quick Q for you on your most recent Orpheus and Eurydice video, what was the glaze you added to the rock section? Was that an underglaze or a wash or something else?? I also do ceramics and was interested!!

I love all your work!!!

Virtually everything in the mythology series so far has been black iron oxide and weathered bronze glaze.

Black iron oxide is just a stain--you mix the powder with water and apply it in whatever thickness you prefer. It does a fantastic job of picking up texture, especially if you coat thickly and then brush water over top, so that it flows and gathers in the low points. It's also inexpensive! It doesn't fire to a true black, it's a sort of violet charcoal color that looks really natural (it is very natural, tbh) and it winds up being pretty durable.

The white is the Weathered Bronze glaze, which we make in-studio; I think it's a pretty easy to find recipe if you make your own glazes. Weathered bronze is a kind of dark brown color in normal applications, but it goes yellow when it's thin and verdigris when it's thick; I'm getting a good handle on how thickly to apply it. Because of the color range it has just by density, it's also really great for adding natural texture and variation. The yellow on the stove is just weathered bronze.

I'm using Prometheus as an example, because it's the same glazes and techniques, and he's already fired so you can see the "after" as well as the 'before."

Edited to add the last two pictures: the ceiling is black iron oxide at full opacity.

[oftenwantedafton]

A New Afton - Stepfather Steve Raglan/William Afton x Stepdaughter Reader

Chapter 3

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content, daddy kink, praise kink, food kink

Also available on AO3

taglist @yellowbunnydreams

You glance at the digital display on the alarm clock beside your bed and groan internally. You haven’t slept a wink and it’s time to get up for school.

A quick shower. You’d forgotten to iron your uniform. The pleats of the skirt don’t lie flat. Your blouse is rumpled. You frown at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your sclera are bloodshot, the fragile skin beneath your eyes smudged. You can hear your stepfather making coffee in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Princess.”

Steve has transformed back into the geeky social worker version of himself. Striped shirt, matching tie with a small diamond pattern. Gold framed aviators dominating much of his face.

“Hi,” you greet him. You don’t really feel like eating. You start to sit across from him but he clucks his tongue.

“Too far away. Why don’t you sit here,” he begins to drag out the chair your mother usually occupies, then stops. “Or better yet right here.” He pats one long stretch of thigh invitingly.

You stand uncertainly. The chair legs scrape across the floor. Last night, there had been a kind of aura around you. A moment when you’d just surrendered and enjoyed it. The sunlight spilling through the kitchen window this morning feels too bright, too cheerful. It contradicts the dark secret you’d shared with your stepfather last night.

You approach the seated man and sit gingerly on the offered perch. His arm slides around your waist, holding you against him. How neatly he’d just shoved your mother’s place aside to make room for you.

“How are you feeling? You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Did you?”

“Like a rock.” He grins wolfishly at you and you wonder how his conscience is so clear and carefree. Did he feel any remorse at all for cheating on his wife with her daughter? “Stay home today, if you want. I’ll call the school office and write you a note for tomorrow.”

“I…I think I’d like to stay home, yes.” You can’t process sitting through classes today. Trying to concentrate on schoolwork. The image of Steve looking up at you as you’d climaxed in his mouth won’t leave your mind, playing on an endless loop. You’d halfway been expecting him to come to your room in the middle of the night. Hoping for another taste of that mouth. Wishing he’d put some part of his body on yours. Inside yours. Your eyes stray to your mother’s reading glasses tucked into the basket on the table and guilt wrenches your stomach.

“Alright then. Consider it done. I’ll make us dinner when I get home tonight, okay? Whatever you want.”

You nod. You stare at his lips. You wish he’d kiss you. You’re not brave enough to make a move yourself.

The older man glances at the clock on the stove and sighs. “I have to leave now. Let me get that note written before I forget and I’ll give the school a call.” He pats your knee and you leave the warmth of his lap. One last sip of coffee and then he withdraws one of the notebooks out of your backpack resting on the counter, tearing out a blank page near the back. He has a pen in his shirt pocket: silver, slender, heavy looking. His handwriting is precise cursive. He folds the note and tucks it into the folder on the inside of the front cover, then slips it back into your bag. He retrieves the number for your school from the fridge. It’s there among a list of emergency contact numbers, important sequences like your physician and the office your parents work at.

You pick up Steve’s coffee cup and rinse it, setting it on the sink mat. His voice on the phone is warm, concerned, convincing. He folds his jacket over his arm and lifts his briefcase, reserving one hand to lift your chin. His thumb presses on the shallow divot below your bottom lip. You will him to kiss you, pleased when your desire is fulfilled. He tastes like hazelnut coffee.

“Have a good day, sweet girl.”

The front door closes behind him.

***

The phone rings around noon. Your stepfather is on his lunch break.

“How are you feeling? Did you get any rest?”

“Yes.” You had. You’d undressed and closed the blinds and gone right back to bed. You have an appetite again. For food. For him.

“That’s great. Have you given any thought to what you want for supper?”

You want something sweet. The breakfast meal you’d missed this morning. “Pancakes.”

He hums in amusement. You love his voice in your ear. “Pancakes, huh? I can manage that.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” You can hear him grinning from here. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can. Maybe wrap things up a little early. My afternoon client load looks a little sparse today.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He huffs into the receiver, a pleased sound. “That’s my good girl. See you soon.”

The lustful ache within you flares to life once more.

***

William Afton returns home three hours later to find you on the living room couch. You’re wearing seersucker pajamas with a small strawberry print and lettuce edge ruffles. He likes these dainty, feminine things you wear. Better than something overtly adult like lace or satin. They still retain a sense of innocence and youth that arouses him.

He enjoys how your gaze is always heavy on him, as if you’re mesmerized, captivated. You can’t seem to look away. You can’t conceal the want.

He bends to kiss your mouth, threads his fingers through your hair. A weaker man would surrender right then and ravage you. But he’s not a weak man. He takes his time removing his work clothes and steps into the shower. A few quick lazy strokes of his erection, just a little tease of the pleasure he’ll be receiving from you later. Loose pajamas that don’t entirely conceal his firm cock, this material thinner than what he’d worn last night.

He returns to the kitchen and begins preparing the meal. You hover in the doorway, watching him gather ingredients and utensils.

“You really can cook,” you say.

He glances at you mid leveling off a measuring cup and smiles. “They’re only pancakes.”

“But you know what you’re doing. Like, you’ve got practice. The way you’re handling things. I don’t know how to phrase it.” You frown at him. “You owned a restaurant once, right?”

William nods. “I did.” The flour spills into the batter bowl. “Actually, I’ll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to tell anyone. I mean anyone,” he emphasizes.

“Okay, I promise.”

“I still own it. It’s been closed for years, but I just couldn’t bring myself to let it go.”

He dusts his hands off and walks over to you. “You should visit with me some time. It’s not an ordinary restaurant. There’s an arcade. Animatronics. A lot of very interesting things I could show you.” He plants a kiss on your jaw and nibbles your ear lobe. He feels you shiver.

***

You stare at the array of toppings available before you. Steve had stopped at the store on the way home and had gotten some groceries. Whipped cream, strawberries, blueberries. There’s also powdered sugar and butter and chocolate and maple syrup.

“Wow. You really went all out.”

“If you’re going to do something, you should commit one hundred percent to the task at hand.”

He picks up one of the strawberries freshly rinsed in the colander and walks over to you. “Open your mouth,” he instructs gently. The texture from the external seeds is rough against your bottom lip as he sits the fruit there. Your lips part and he pushes it forward, your teeth sinking into it. A burst of sweetness and tartness sparks along your taste buds as the offering moves over your tongue.

Your stepfather makes a little satisfied humming sound, his eyes transfixed by the movement of your mouth as he consumes the remainder. There’s a slight red stain from the juice you notice tucked into the nail bed of his index finger and your mouth waters.

You sit at the kitchen table, in your mother’s usual seat, this time without any prompting. Your bare foot touches Steve’s as he settles into the chair beside you, setting plates with a stack of the griddlecakes before each of you. It’s just a gentle brush of skin against skin but you feel it strike you like a matchstick scraping red phosphorus, igniting your core.

The pancakes are delicious—light, fluffy. You chew around a forkful smothered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream and strawberries and your eyes stray to the older man’s bare scarred forearms, the sleeves he’d shoved up to his elbows when he’d started preparing the meal still gathered around the crease of his arms. Your stepfather has opted for the more traditional butter and maple syrup—the real kind, not that synthetic chemical laden variety—and you watch fascinated as he swallows in large bites, making short work of what’s in front of him. You wonder if he’s starving, or if it’s simply the way a man consumes things, because everything with a man is larger, stronger, more aggressive…

“Is it good?” His eyes haven’t moved from your face.

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you.”

His lips twitch. “You’re welcome, baby girl. Do you want more?”

“I’m full.”

“Are you?” A full on smirk and your stomach flutters. “I’m not.” He stands, offering a hand to you. You let him pull you to your feet. He slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging your head back gently. “Did you miss me today, Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you say softly. Your pussy is absolutely throbbing. Just like flicking a light switch, he’s got you instantly worked up.

“Good girl. I missed you, too.” He releases his hold of you, arm sweeping across the island still dotted with ingredients and cookware and utensils to clear a space for you, some of the items falling to the linoleum. “Let’s get you up here, hmmm? Take everything off.”

Your heart thuds in your chest. You pull your pajama top off, hearing the whistle of air sucked into Steve’s lungs. The bottoms and your panties follow. You leave everything in a pile on the floor. Calloused hands wrap around your waist and he lifts you easily, sitting you on the end of the counter. The surface is cool against your heated skin.

“Lie back, sweet girl.” You obey, gasping slightly when the granite touches your bare shoulder blades as you recline supine along the length of the island, your legs dangling off the end of the counter.

Steve’s warm hand drags over your naked body admiringly, caressing you from knee to hip, kneading the curve of one breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers and tugging slightly.

“Where to even begin…” The bearded man sighs heavily, as if the dilemma is a weighty one. You hear him lift something from the counter above your head.

It’s the maple syrup.

He unscrews the cap then tips the glass bottle at an angle. The amber liquid within begins to spill out and he drizzles it over your torso, the first drops pattering against your collarbone, then across one breast, trailing a stripe down your abdomen, letting it pool in your umbilicus.

His eyes are lidded. He looks drunk off the sight of you, completely intoxicated by your naked body lying there sticky sweet beside him. When his face descends for that first kiss along the stretch of bone near your throat you think you’ve rocketed straight to heaven; try to mentally prepare yourself for the torment of hell your sin warrants.

You feel the rasp of that muscular organ stroke along the liquid nectar he’s just poured there, a slow, incessant drag. He lingers over your breast, sucking on your nipple and your back arches, your hand reaching to thread through his hair. You’re whimpering already and he’s barely begun.

Your stepfather moves from the side of the island to the end, dipping down once again to lav at the sweetness gathered in the divot above your mound, one hand caressing the back of your knee. You’re torn between craning your neck to watch what he’s doing and letting your head flop back against the hard surface, staring at the ceiling sightlessly while the man continues to lick you.

He kisses your abdomen and then he hooks his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer to him. You hear the scrape of one of the kitchen chairs as it’s pulled from its place beneath the table nearby and the older man settles into it, his fingers stroking your hips.

Then his mouth is finally there, where you need him most. You both moan together at that first taste. His tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves. Strokes between your lips and thrusts against your entrance, meeting resistance as the interior of that sacred place is still shielded with the skin that protects your virginity.

“Please…Daddy…I need…”

“What do you need, baby girl?” His breath is warm against the crook of your leg.

“I want…I want your fingers inside…”

Another gentle kiss. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” you say softly. You’re afraid, but your desire for that forbidden destruction into your hollow is too strong.

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He’s right. It does hurt.

It burns when that index finger—maybe the same strawberry juice stained one from earlier—thrusts forward. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion. His mouth covers your clit and it distracts you from the discomfort a little. He advances a bit further, and then abandons the gentle motion abruptly to finish stretching, tearing, driving his finger forward until it’s completely sheathed inside you. Like ripping a bandaid off, just getting it over with. You cry out. All of that supply of moisture from arousal seems to have been depleted, replaced now with hot, sticky blood. Steve extracts that digit and then shoves it right back in. Repeats the process. His tongue strokes along your lips. You feel saliva dripping down and it makes the passage of his finger easier. It burns and aches but beneath it, there’s something. An ease of tension. It feels better when you relax, when you let him fuck into you. You weave your fingers between the ones resting on your abdomen and he squeezes your hand.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You want to be a good girl. His good girl.

***

You never cease to surprise him.

William had thought he’d merely be eating you out on the kitchen counter but here you are, asking him to violate you. You’re so tight. It’s going to take a lot to work you open and grant him better access for more fingers and his fat prick in the future. That knowledge excites him.

He withdraws his finger and sucks the blood off of it. Metallic, musky, bitter. Eases the wet phalange back inside your canal. Sucks your clit and feels your body responding, relaxing. Curls the finger when he violates you again, seeking that sensitive spongy tissue. Your thighs tremor violently against his cheeks. A series of moans, whimpers, cries, as if you cannot decide on which sound to make. He loves pulling them out of you.

“Daddy…”

God, does that turn him on. His cock lurches at the title and he redoubles his efforts, letting his mouth grow more slack, letting saliva ooze over your cunt. He can tell you’re enjoying it again, the pain fading beneath the waves of pleasure. His tongue strokes outside and his finger plucks along your g spot and you cum, the hand holding his squeezing painfully but he enjoys it, tasting and feeling you come apart, lost in the haze of the feeling he creates deep within you.

William allows you time to recover, rising from his seat and walking to the side of the counter, bending to kiss you. Your mouth is slack, open, ready for him. He steals the breaths you gasp. Assists you down from the slab of granite and hugs you against him, his erection pressing along your lower spine. Your hands brace against the edge of the counter. He shoves the waistband of his pajama pants and briefs down, stroking that impatient rosy flesh. Wipes a smear of precum against the curve of your buttocks.

“You’re such a good girl for Daddy. Such a good daughter…” The words seem to come from a distant place, as if he is lost in the echos of a past memory.

He tugs until the pressure building within finally releases, a thick spray of hot seed painting your ass cheek. You turn in his arms and he kisses your mouth and that is how the meal concludes.

[mediocreanomaly]

Vashwood X Reader Soulmate Au Pt. 2

Authors Note: Hello hello! I’m so glad everyone liked pt.1 so much! On my hands and knees thanking you guys fr. This part is focusing on reader and what your life has been like, because you yes you are the real star of the show 

 Other Parts Here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 3 (Alt. End)

•You were cursed.

•At least, that’s what every one always said and to be honest sometimes it was hard not to agree

•You aren’t sure you could put your finger on when exactly you had first learned about soulmates. It was one of those things people just knew about. In fact by the time people could first speak it seemed like their words were already filled with fantasies of meeting their “destined other half”, the one person who could understand your pain in both a metaphorical and literal sense

•Not that you weren’t guilty of the same daydreams once upon a time. In fact if you thought real hard about it you could remember on first day of school you had joined in on a popular children's game where you’d sit in a circle while taking turns poking and pinching each other to see if anyone else in the room felt it.

•Almost 98% of the time nothing happened but when you’re that young you don’t really stop to consider how vast the world is, and you certainly don’t stop to think about the fact that your cosmically destined other is most likely not at the same preschool as you

•Your parents were one of the lucky ones, they had grown up in the same town and found out they were soulmates when, on your dads seventh birthday, he burned his lips blowing out the candles. When your mother had realized he had burnt both of them she had scolded him only interrupted when he ask her to marry him (when they were older of course) and the rest was history

•So it was ironic then, that your seventh birthday party was the day your soulmate had begun to drag your life down hill

•You could remember it as vividly as the day it happened. Your class had been invited to a small party at your house and your mother had spent a good portion of the day slaving over the stove to make your favorite cake. When the adults had called the kids in for gifts and cake you had eagerly come to sit down while your father lit the candles

•The birthday song had just come to and end and your mother has happily whispered “Make a wish y/n!” when you felt a sharp pain pierce through your abdomen 

•You were shot. Despite being young you were sure of it. Someone had shot you in the side and your small hands had desperately clung to your side as you sobbed scared that you were dying

•The party had ended early as your parents tried to console you after giving you a once over to make sure it wasn’t a medical condition they realized it must be your soulmate. There was nothing they could do but hold you until you cried yourself to sleep. In fact...you never did get to make that wish

•After that you were sure your soulmate was trying to kill you. It never seemed to go away. Day in and day out, cuts, gashes, and burns phantom pained their way through your body. Your parents had to pull you out of school since you disrupted class too much due to your random yelps, whimpers and sobs as your weakly cradled whatever part of your body your soulmate had managed to injure for the day

•It was around then the gossip on who your soulmate could possibly be began to spread. Rumors ranging from “a kid bounty hunter” all the way down to unmentionable ideas were whispered as you walked through town.

•There were days you didn’t leave the house, laying curled up as you tried to breath through whatever pain was currently wracking through your body. It was then you started to hate your soulmate

•How could they be so careless? The most you had ever done to hurt them was when you stubbed your toe when you were six. Why you? Why did you get the soulmate who seemed hell bent on destroying themselves?

•Then a couple years later the rest of the pain began. Blinding, gut wrecking, agonizing pain. 

•You couldn’t even get out of your bed most the time, half delirious with the feelings of being ripped apart piece by piece and then put back together again. Your parents had to take care of you most the time, trying to get you to eat in between screaming fits, and helping you out of bed when your body was too weak to walk

•Your parents hated your soulmate, whoever they were. They hated them for taking away their child, for dragging you into their pain. It began to be the cause of tension in the family, they didn’t know what to do, seeing your body writhe in pain every day, having to listen to you scream yourself horse every night, it became to much for your father. So he left.

•No one knows where he went, all he left was a note apologizing, but he couldn’t keep facing you in this state. So your care fell onto your mother. Your mother who had began praying that your soulmate would die. Begging god to let you have relief and to strike your soulmate out of the world so long as you would have peace

 •When that didn’t work...she began to pray that you would die so that’d you’d finally be put out of your misery.

•Surprisingly the pain eventually lessens...after awhile it goes back to the occasional feeling of being stabbed or shot, but at this point you’ll take anything that isn’t your entire body feeling like it’s on fire.  

•After going through that your perspective actually changes a little bit. Now don’t get it twisted you aren’t thrilled about the continued pain your life is littered with but you’d be surprised how much time you have to think when your immobilized in bed. There's no way your soulmate wants to be shot, just as much as you don’t want to feel being shot

•Whatever's happening, whatever awful life they have that causes them this pain...the two of you are in it together, like it or not. So you have a new philosophy. Your soulmate is experiencing enough pain for the two of you, why add more? 

•It’s with this mindset you actually begin to train as a medical professional. You take care of yourself, not wanting your soulmate to be in anymore pain than they already are and you want to help others do the same. Maybe you can’t stop your soul mate from hurting but you can stop others from hurting, and for every one person helped there’s a thankful soulmate somewhere out there too right?

•You’re a pretty well respected person around the town. Not many people would do what you do after what you’ve been through, you’re some what of a local legend. Although you are known for giving people a good scolding when they end up in front of you due to negligence 

“Are you stupid? You broke your leg because you were dared to jump off the roof? Was your soulmate dared to jump off the roof? No? Didn’t think so, and yet they payed for your idiocy too-” “Can I please leave now?” “no I’m not done yet, and another thing-”

•You’ve made a good life for yourself despite everything and you honestly don’t expect to ever meet your soulmate, it’s actually pretty rare to ever find them anyways. Pain isn’t the best way to track people and you aren’t sure how’d you even react to finding the person who’s made your life a living nightmare so you’re content with running a small clinic out of your house. In fact you aren’t even curious about them any more...and then you feel a pinch on your arm

•and then another...and another and another and- you get the picture. you’re honestly a bit baffled. Were they trying to get your attention? If so why now? Also this pinching was really getting on your nerves. So exasperated you reach up and pinch your shoulder back, hoping that will get them to quit whatever their doing and luckily it does

•...For five minutes. The pinching comes back but in a more concentrated area now and at this point you’re almost sure they must be doing it to get on your nerves. They drag you through the gutter for your entire life then have the audacity to get a kick out of annoying you? You reach up and harshly pinch your shoulder and to your relief...everything stops

•It’s a bit weird. After that day your life is fairly painless. It’s almost like they hadn’t realized someone else was feeling their pain until you pinched them back but for whatever reason they seem to be a lot more carful with your shared feelings. In fact you were finally able to pretty much forget you even had a soulmate! 

•Or you almost did until...

You sigh as you clean up for the night. It’s been a long day, one of the towns children had gotten a toy stuck up their nose and two of the local boys had ridden makeshift sleds down the largest sand hill in town which had resulted in a couple broken bones and bruised egos. You shake your head, laughing a bit to yourself as you remember their guilty bowed heads as you scolded them for doing something stupid. You softly hum as you sweep, ready to finish and turn in for the night when you hear the door open. 

You mentally curse yourself for forgetting to lock the door and look up to see the two oddest men you’ve ever seen in your life. The first one is tall, his spiked blonde hair reminding you vaguely of the hay you’d seen farmers feed Thomas’s. He was staring at you all wide eyed behind a pair of tinted yellow glasses and you commended him for his interesting choice of fashion, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone wear such a brightly colored red coat in the heat of Gunsmoke. You begrudging shift your eyes to the man standing next to him, he’s a bit shorter than his friend but much less expressive, resting bitchface that's only amplified by big dark shades that hide his eyes. His dark clothing would make you say he blended in better than the blonde if it weren’t for the large gaudy cross he was currently carrying on his back. Great. They were freaks.  

“Uh...I’m sorry we’re actually closed unless it’s a medical emergency, and also you can’t smoke in here” You try, grimacing as you look at the dark haired man who lets smoke curl into the air of your precious clinic.

 “Are you y/n?” the blondie ask quickly ignoring your statement all together, “Yes? I’m sorry do I know you?” he shakes his head but continues “The bartender told us all about you, how you used to get choric pains because of your soulmate and-” You mentally groan listening to the man, who vaguely reminded you of a golden retriever, babble on about you. You weren’t 100% sure where he was going with this but you did have the occasional person interested in your story, although usually not to this extent. You make a note to chew out Gary for running his mouth to strangers about you again.

 “-now we’ve been to a lot of towns and never heard of anything like that so when we heard about you we thought-” “Look, it’s been a pleasure meeting you but I’m unfortunately very busy but I’m sure Gary can tell you all the stories you want to know!” you interrupt pushing the two lightly towards to door while the blonde protest “H-hey wait! I’m trying to tell you-” “I’m really not interested! thank you anyways though!” you say still trying to shoo them out and you’re almost successful when the man who’s yet to say anything drops the large cross onto his partners toe. 

Both of you yelp and then you freeze, head snapping up to look at the man currently clutching his foot, the same foot that you can feel pulsing with pain. There’s no way in hell. Your worries are only amplified when the dark haired man holds up his hands like his about to do a magic trick, then he reaches in his pocket for a lighter and holds it up to his finger only for you to hiss and pull your own hand to your chest when you feel it burn. There’s no way in hell.

 “Nick you could’ve done it nicer!” the blonde pouts still rubbing his foot, Nick shrugs and finally stubs out his cigarette against the door frame. “They weren’t listening to you” he turns his head to peer at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes finally on display, “but you’re listening now aren’t you sweetheart? So-” he says as he claps his hands together “Let’s try this again.”

[xbruised-peachx]

could i get some soft gromsko hcs 🥺 sorry i keep seeing ones where hes a misogynist (untagged so it triggers me from a past relationship) and i much prefer your interpretation where he's caring but still confident

Aww 🫂🫂🫂 I'm sorry Anon, I'm actually in the same boat as you, my bad relationship ended exactly a year ago so yeah.

Everyone's allowed to have their own interpretation and all that fun stuff but I absolutely agree, I can't see him like that. Talking to my Polish friends about it, it's just not his generation and it's a very tired trope of "misogynistic, loud slavic man" they are not too happy seeing. For me, it's almost a bit of an American trope that is "loud and boisterous=asshole", which I dislike as he has multiple lines IN GAME that shows him as caring and you know... nice (ex. Czasami trzeba się poświęcić dla innych (sometimes you must sacrifice yourself for others), You're not dying yet!, Trzymać się (hold on) the surgeon is coming, I was proud to fight with you!, I am your wingman, etc). Not to mention you know... HE'S A MEDIC or at the very least "extensive medical training" as stated in his bio.

So yeah, I'll happily give you some nice, loud and proudly in love Gromsko headcanons, Anon💚

Tags: fem!reader, pure tooth rotting fluff, alcohol mention for the last point

Gromsko always has his arm around you in public. He wants the world to know how lucky he is to have you. He still has some slight guilt in his head about showing PDA from getting glares from various babcias back home, but he can't help it when he sees you, beautiful eyes looking back at him with such adoration. He has to show it back somehow.

Often, he'll just settle for hand holding (before marriage? Scandalous) as you guys walk around. He'll watch you as you interact with employees, you asking for help as his thumb runs over your knuckles, running along the back of your hand. Even if you get nervous talking to employees, his touch reminds you he's right there if you need him, and that he's more than willing to help if needed.

You getting disrespected sets him off in a whole new way. Instantly, he'll step in front, asserting his height advantage he often has, looking down at them with contempt that they would even dare speak to you like that. "Want to repeat that?" His voice coming out as low and threatening, booming around the room. When they inevitably leave you both alone, his attention goes right back to you, gently cupping your face as you look up to him as he asks if you're okay. You smile and nod, telling him a soft thank you. You can practically see his heart melt as he looks back, eyes softening and a gentle smile on his face, taking your hand and continuing like nothing happened.

Though he learned some cooking from his grandma, he has fond memories of watching Robert Makłowicz with his mom during weekends, making the recipes for dinner. When he found out Makłowicz has a YouTube channel, the two of you went on a deep dive for hours, cuddling on the couch and him translating for you when he started laughing or just said something nice, and thought it'd be nice to share. He also showed a few older clips, particularly this one of him and a dog and now the two of you have the little inside joke going "EHEHEHEHE" at small, cute things.

He often cooks for you, even wanting to take care of you like that as well. He doesn't mind the help but he takes quite a bit of pride in his cooking. He loves when you come up behind and just hug him while he's at the stove. For him, that plus you smiling as you eat a meal from him is the greatest reward.

Every injury is an emergency to him, often taking huge precautions even for little things. The house is never out of band-aids or antibiotic ointment. Even stubbing your toe will have him running out of whatever room he's in, stopping what he's doing to make sure you're okay.

He is the best to have around during the time of the month. He'll make some good iron rich foods, but still get you whatever snacks you want. He may want to take care of you physically but he knows part of health is mental too, and that he can't force something on you when you are craving something else. He makes sure heating pads are ready along with a nice comfortable spot in bed. He isn't overbearing though, as he knows sometimes you just need space. He knows that when you need him, you'll let him know. Often you have fallen asleep, head in his lap with a heated stuffed animal hugged to your chest. He'll carry you to the much more comfortable bed with ease, watching you at peace with a smile on his own face as he'd go back, cleaning up any snack wrappers in the living room, turning off any electric heating pads that might have been left on. He may join you for a nap eventually, but he'll leave you at peace for now.

Being used to waking up for the military, he wakes up before you, and he really doesn't mind. The warm glow of the sun rising as your lips are parted, gently breathing. His arm around you, he can feel the gentle rise and fall, your heart beat calm against him. He could look at you like this for hours, going back in forth in his head questioning how he got so lucky but also not wanting to question it, instead to just enjoy this quiet morning. Birds chirping, he wants to get up and make some coffee for you but he doesn't want to leave you in this moment... not now or ever.

He loves animals... all of them. Often, if he sees a random animal in the street, he'll call out to it instinctively in Polish, often leaving a poor hedgehog stunned in the streets, unsure what to do about this giant heading towards them. He loves going to the shelter with you, seeing big dogs go from barking to wagging their tail, wanting to get out to play, and going to cat rooms to sit for a while, playing with all the cats, young and old. Old cats flock to him like no other and he always imitates their crispy meows. Seeing him hold a kitten that easy fits in his hands, curling up into a ball as he holds it against his broad chest, gently petting its head with two of his fingers... it warms your soul.

He is a very affectionate drunk. He'll be stumbling down the streets, goofy grin on his face as he hugged on you for balance. If any even breathes in your direction, positive or negative, he'll be calling out to them, "HEJ! To moja dziewczyna... GO!" (Hey, that's my girlfriend) You often end up apologizing to whoever it is, his slurred speech being the answer for why. When you get home he'll often just keep repeating how beautiful you are while snuggled in your chest for once. Looking up at you, you see that look of disbelief in his eyes, but quickly returning to just bliss as he remembers you belong to each other. Snoring like a bear buried deep, he knows absolute comfort knowing you'll be there for each other for the inevitable hangover the next morning.

[undead-supernova]

HIGH TOLERANCE

Masterlist

important note: this is a one-off of my High Tolerance series! I suggest reading everything else to understand what the hell is happening and why this is important to the story hehehe!

warnings: fluff to the nines with a hint of desire, smoking weed (obviously), body image mention, death mention

pairings: modern!bestfriend!Eddie x bisexual!fem!reader

plot: this is the one where you and Eddie smoke weed together for the first time--well, amongst other silly little firsts (about five months after they first met)

this was already something I'd been thinking of but I heard the song Close One by FIZZ and it is so Eddie and Weirdo coded it's crazy

wc: 4.8k

Eddie watched as you took a few steps past the door, walking slowly as if you were in some art gallery. Tentative steps that echoed off his empty walls and unsettled wooden floors. Noticing the hum of the air conditioning and birds chirping near the windowsill.

This was the first time you’d been in his new apartment.

There were boxes everywhere, some half-opened, others not at all. You’d insisted that you could help him with the move, but he’d shaken his head. Told you that Steve, Jeff, Gareth, and Grant could do it. Told you that you’d be his first house guest once he got everything figured out.

But, uh. Well.

There were boxes in every corner. No table. Only a plank of wood on top of two extra-large boxes in front of a TV being held up by yet another box. But he loved it. This was the first place he could call his home, no matter how shitty or overpriced the place was. He had a view of the street and a place to put his amp. A fridge with next to no food. A mattress with no frame. 

It wasn’t exactly a palace and Eddie knew that. But it was his.

“This is a fucking palace if I’ve ever seen one,” you said, turning to see Eddie leaning up against the door. His eyebrows raised. “I’m surprised you don’t have any guards standing outside. What if a dragon gets in?”

The smile you gave him was playful, without a hint of judgment. 

“Guess I’ll have to slay it with my bare hands,” Eddie replied, finally pushing himself off the door to flex his nonexistent muscles.

“Wow,” you said, placing your hands over your heart. “I’m shaking in my little boots.”

“What can I say?”

Eddie gave you a grand tour of his studio apartment, which consisted of walking about twenty steps to the bedroom before turning to the bathroom and coming right back to the surprisingly spacious kitchen but tiny living room. 

The two of you mainly stood at the small island separating the kitchen and living room, leaning over with your chins propped up by your hands. Discussing where to put his Dio and Iron Maiden posters. Contemplated going to the thrift store for a couch. Wondered if you could change the upholstery yourselves if you didn’t like the fabric but loved the feel. Decided you were too stupid to even try to figure that out. 

By the time you checked your phone, it was nearing evening.

“Should we cook dinner?” you asked. “I’m hungry as fuck.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cook?”

Eddie didn’t know much about cooking. Robin and Steve had been the ones to stock the fridge and take turns at the stove. Eddie was merely there to watch or be called to meals, savoring every last bite like he could wake up the next morning without the access again.

A part of him was still reeling from Spaghettios and whatever low-priced high fructose corn syrup meal Wayne left in the pantry. There was nothing like spending nights by the shitty TV eating saltine crackers and peanut butter. Sometimes blocks of cheese when Wayne wanted to try making sandwiches before work—but those attempts never lasted very long.

“Yeah, like we could make chicken Alfredo and some garlic bread.”

He shrugged. “I was thinking like, you know, takeout or something. There’s a Thai place across the street.”

You gave him a weird look. “Do you not cook?”

“Uh, no. I don’t really know how.”

“Chicken?” He shook his head. “Pasta?” Another shake.

You nodded, walking over to pick up your purse. “If you’re going to be living alone, I think I should at least teach you how to cook pasta, chicken, and bread.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“We,” you started, fiddling with your keys. “are going to the grocery store.”

Eddie groaned, dramatically falling to the floor. “I fucking haaaaate going to the grocery store. It takes fucking forever out here.”

You smiled with an eye roll. “Get up, you dramatic queen.”

He sighed, letting you help him to his feet before grabbing his wallet and keys. 

“The one and only.”

“Mm. Yeah, well you haven’t gone to the grocery store with me. I’ll show you the way.”

You truly were a wizard when it came to navigating the grocery store in fifteen minutes or less. Kroger was your bitch and he respected the hell out of that. On top of it all, you explained how to shop cheap as you whisked him around. You never grabbed his hand, settling for his wrist. 

Was it weird that he felt a sting of disappointment?

Despite this, he loved watching you move, watching you move him.

Bakery.

You hummed, fingers ghosting over the different breads. “See, you get the bread that’s a dollar or two, the ones that are on sale because they’re a few days out from going bad,” you explained, plucking a French baguette out of one of the top shelves. “That way,” you turned to him. “you’re saving money and have enough for a few days.”

Aisle 14.

“So, you get that cheap fettuccine,” you said, crouching down to grab the generic brand before immediately popping back up. “It really doesn’t matter anyways. Well, as long as you cook it all the way through.”

Produce.

“You have garlic?” you asked. 

Eddie only shook his head, almost embarrassed at the idea that he was supposed to have it.

But you just smiled. 

“No problemo. I didn’t either before someone showed me.” Grabbing a giant jar of minced garlic, you chucked it in the basket. “This will last you a long, long time. I haven’t gotten another bottle in months and I use it in just about everything.”

Meat.

“Always grab the ones that are on sale since they’re going bad sooner. It’s still good and you can just cook it up to use for a few more meals if you’d like. Should we get you tortillas? I feel like you could get good at making a mean quesadilla.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, watching the ingredient list stack up, wondering how much everything was about to cost. 

“Next time.”

“Next time,” you promised.

And after grabbing heavy whipping cream, mozzarella, parmesan, and basic spices for the alfredo sauce, claiming that you were able to make more than what a jar could provide him, you headed to the self-checkout. You insisted on buying everything despite his protests. Even cooking pans and spatulas. 

“You really don’t have to.”

“I have a Kroger card. You’re saving me, like, fifty cents on gas.” As you scanned, you added, “Consider it a housewarming gift.” 

Eddie didn’t know what to think about your kindness, the way you were able to just give to him without a second thought. It was a friendship that seemed beyond the realm of tough boundaries. You were able to help and provide your support without asking anything in return. Without thought, without any demand of him. Offering aid, leading with an open mind and heart. 

It occurred to Eddie that he still didn’t know what to think of you.

“Always use butter,” you stated, giving him a serious stare. “You will fuck up your nice new pans and your chicken if you use oil.”

As he watched you cook, with a little furrow between your eyebrows as you focused, Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have this be a regular occurrence. If he could always have you here, cooking and laughing with him. Dancing around the small space to Nova Twins and Black Sabbath all the time, using his spatula as a multi-purpose tool—a cooking utensil, a microphone and a guitar.

“Are you even paying attention?”

“Ah, yeah, sorry.”

“Yes, what?”

Eddie snorted. “Yes, chef.”

But there was a little something he couldn’t shake, noticing for the first time how your black babydoll dress fit you, with lace dripping down below the hemline. His eyes traced down your body as you preoccupied yourself, a new sort of heat reaching his cheeks. It was starting to move further through him, finding its way down, down, down…

Without thinking, Eddie shook his head and opened the cabinet next to you, placing a wooden box on the counter. It was littered with stickers, chipped and nicked from being used and moved so often. As he lifted the top, the aroma of cannabis hit the two of you like a particularly brutal wave.

“Woah, there!” you said, looking down with wide eyes. “What do you have there, Mr. Munson?”

Your reaction was nearly unreadable. He couldn’t blame you. There was a stockpile, with cones and papers and a few edibles and rolled joints. Little jars full of bud. An extra pack of cigarettes.

He hadn’t really thought about what you’d think about it or if you smoked at all. As he combed through his memory, he found no recollection of you mentioning it at all since you’d met.

“Oh, uh,” he mumbled, continuing to pull out a particularly pretty joint. “You smoke?”

Something in his stomach twisted when he saw a wide grin reach your lips. Because, Jesus, you were cute. Had he really not noticed just how cute you were until then? He did everything he could to prevent the heat from returning, but the steam omitting from the stove was making it worse.

“Do I smoke?” you teased. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

Relief ran through him at your banter, knowing he picked you well when he asked to be your best friend. “I didn’t know!”

“I clearly didn’t show you my bong collection. That’s my bad.”

That pulled a laugh out of Eddie. 

Being around you was just as easy as being around Wayne. It was something resembling familial, but for some reason today was beginning to show him that it extended far beyond that. It was like with each passing moment spent in each other’s company, the definitions and adjectives were shifting and stretching into something he couldn’t quite articulate. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“What the fuck are they even saying?” As Eddie looked at the name of the album on your phone, Этажи, he added, “How do you even pronounce that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t fucking know. But it’s cool, right? Like, this is goth music from Belarus. Belarus. Isn’t that cool? The guitars, the fuzzy feeling. The baur-dunnunununun,” you sang along, imitating playing the drums. You were actually quite rhythmic, able to follow along to the beat perfectly. “I listen to this on repeat all the time. It’s so addictive.”

Since the two of you finished dinner and split a joint, you had gone on a full on mission to induct Eddie into the world of goth rock. The Eighties classics, the recents. Bauhaus, Joy Division, Siouxsie and the Banshees, London After Midnight, She Wants Revenge, Alien Sex Fiend, etc etc. 

At first, Eddie was opposed to the whole thing, extremely disinterested. But you were adamant to keep going, to delve into the subculture and expose him to the magic. The dancing began to make sense to him, watching as you gave a demonstration. Your face angled towards the floor, your arms high. Wrists twisting and turning as you swayed back and forth. The lace moved and twirled wherever you went, your outfit fitting the music perfectly.

He was starting to understand, with each string of poetic lyricism and atmospheric stroke of the guitar—the same thing he’d always seen in Black Sabbath. The outfits, the makeup. The defiance against modern society and culture. The romanticism, the guttural heartbreak. The yearning. Pining. The desperation for something pure and lovely to hold onto. It was something else, something special all on its own and his judgment had been extremely unwarranted. 

“I didn’t get what you meant before about it having its own sound, but that’s on me,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for being a little bitch.”

Your smile grew as you continued dancing around him, eyes never leaving his. Eddie turned to hold your eye contact as you swayed, nearly mesmerized by your movement. He wanted to blame it on the haze of the weed, but something scratching at his brain told him it was just you.

“That’s the last time you doubt me, alright?” you said, seemingly closer than before. This time, you were dancing even slower as you circled him. It was starting to make his mouth dryer than it was already.

“The last time, indeed,” he responded.

Your playlist started over, the haunting beginning to “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” filling Eddie with an odd sense of ease. It was kind of like metal, but stripped down. The beat never stopped moving, always pushing forward in a soothing way. What the hell did they pump into these songs?

“Look at us, unplugged from the outside world,” he said with a little laugh as the two of you sat down on the floor. Your backs against the wall, cross-legged. “We’re so cool and different.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a smile never leaving your lips. “I’m usually unplugged when I’m not at work.”

This was news to him. You were always quick to answer his texts whenever you were off, always at a rapid fire pace. In fact, it was unusual if you weren’t texting him back. 

But Eddie decided to keep that to himself, letting you continue.

“Everyone is so loud these days.” You began to gesture with your hands, nearly hitting his arm. “‘This is the right opinion. No, this is. Who said what. This stranger is too judgmental, this one isn’t critical enough. Oh, look, this celebrity is wearing something. Wanna hear about a YouTuber you don’t give a shit about having beef with another YouTuber you don’t give a shit about?

“‘Want to make money dancing to sped up classics? Well, how about we do it so much that artists are rearranging their already awesome music to appease an audience. Let’s bully kids. Let’s doxx people. Did you see this? What about that? Well, why aren’t you online? Do you not care? Here’s the news. Oh, wait, that’s the wrong news. Someone famous is having a baby. A Kardashian just broke up with someone, can you believe it? Let’s make body sizes a trend and follow every celebrity who has changed their appearance to fit a fad. Skinny’s in, skinny is still in but you’re allowed to have a few curves. Fuck it, it’s cool to look sick. Here’s an Eighties trend, here’s Y2k.’”

You paused, taking a deep breath. “And then suddenly you’ve spent your whole day spiraling from an existential crisis about the lack of control you have. Feeling fucked up because we were not designed to go this fast. And then suddenly you’re wondering if you’ll ever be able to just frolic in a field like we were built to. If we have a future at all.” 

With a final sigh, you shook your head. “Sorry, I get a little intense sometimes when I smoke. But, yeah, I think I’m gonna try to block out the noise before the whole internet explodes and there’s nothing left but scraps and archives.”

Eddie nodded, understanding your thoughts completely. He’d never been one to care about social media or the internet in general. Hell, he hadn’t gotten a smartphone until he got his first real paycheck here. The most he did was read the newspaper, no shit, and get help from his friends whenever he was in rotation to do promo for the band on their socials. His brain was usually filled to the brim with racing thoughts anyways, never needing the outside world coming in.

Well, until he walked into a bar and met you.

“What do you do then?” he asked.

Shrugging, you said, “I like to get high and cook while listening to music. Read books and listen to music. Journal. Go to some local shows to find new bands. Drink coffee at local places and listen to music. A lot of it has to do with listening to music.” Eddie couldn’t help but smile. “It’s the only thing that really seems to make sense anymore. Spotify tells me I listen to music more than, like, ninety percent of people, but I think they’re lying to make me feel cool.”

Eddie laughed. “Don’t go all conspiratorial on me this early in the smoke session.”

As you wiggled your fingers in his face, your voice went low. “Listen to my words, Eddie Boy! These are no longer theories, but facts! Tinfoil hats are sexy! Oooooh, spooky! Creeeeepy!”

Eddie rolled his eyes, shooing your hands away. “Okay, okay. Enough with whatever any of that was.”

Laughter died out before you asked the one question he’d hoped you’d never ask.

“I was really surprised when you said you didn’t know how to cook. Has your mom really never taught you how?”

Despite wanting to look away from your curious eyes, Eddie held your stare. “Uh, no. My mom died when I was a kid.”

Eyes widening, you sat up. “Oh, Eddie. Shit. I’m sorry for assuming—”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “It’s all good. You didn’t know.” 

“Okay.”

The two of you were quiet again before Eddie asked, “Do you wanna know about it?”

You nodded silently.

Eddie embarked on what he called his backstory, like he was a fictional character in a novel. Maybe it was the only way he would make it through his shitty past, a tale of a boy with a dream for a good future but always coming up short.

You didn’t say anything the entire time, only watching him, eyes trained on his hands whenever he gestured. But as he spoke, he realized that his descriptions of everyone just weren’t right. 

He led you to a box that he swore he’d keep closed forever, already hidden on the top shelf of his closet. The two of you sat on the carpet by his mattress, music faint in the background. 

He began showing you a picture or two of his mom before he couldn’t help but keep going through the photographs. There was Wayne. The Hellfire Club. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, and Erica. Ronnie, before she left for college. Bev, scowling at the camera from The Hideout. The band after their last show there. The solitary picture he had of his father from when he was barely a year old. 

All of these pieces of himself that he kept close to his heart, kept close to his soul if those existed. The life he swore to keep hidden now that he was gone, with only Steve and Robin connecting him to his past. Gareth, Grant, and Jeff once they were able to graduate and move. Even then, it felt like they were a part of something new, not old. 

Hawkins made him feel isolated, hollow. It was a constant reminder of everything he lost, from his mother to his father to watching Wayne slowly killing himself from working so hard all the fucking time. With his last name preceding him in reputation, there was no way to get through a singular day without a hiss or an insult. Even when people cared about him.

When he got out, he didn’t realize that there was a possibility he could meet people who were willing to give him a chance.

And he was noticing how engaged you were, studying all the photos intently, taking your time to scan them for seemingly every detail. You were focused on one in particular, of his mom in a blue sundress and Eddie resting on her hip. She was smiling, the kind of smile that comes once in a lifetime. The kind of smile that gave him an ache in his bones from missing so fucking much.

“My mom’s from Memphis, actually,” he whispered.

Your eyes lit up as you met his gaze. “We could’ve grown up so close to one another. Could you imagine?”

Eddie could. Transporting Ronnie and Granny Ecker to Tennessee. The three of you running around causing trouble. His mom calling them in for dinner, watching you fall asleep before your parents picked you up. Blasting metal around the suburbs, carpooling to school. Climbing trees and making it a shared hiding spot when things got tough.

Making sure he never lost contact with Ronnie. 

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “I really can.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” you asked, looking at him. 

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t want you to judge me or something.”

“We all come from somewhere. Just because I grew up in a suburb doesn’t mean I’d judge you for living in a trailer. It’s not like you chose that or like that’s a bad thing. You didn’t choose to have your mom pass away and you didn’t choose to have your dad fuck up and get arrested. Those are the cards you were dealt, sure, but you came here. You got out with people who love and care about you. That’s no small feat.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, feeling heat flood his cheeks at your nice words. “I just haven’t ever seen it that way, I guess. Just a metalhead finding his way through the throws of life.”

“You’re more than just a metalhead, you know,” you said. His eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not the most interesting thing about you.”

“What is?”

“Well, I, uh…” You hesitated and Eddie began to wonder why you were tongue-tied all of a sudden. “I mean, you’re talented and you clearly enjoy quality time with people. You care and that’s a big deal. Not a lot of people care the way you do, even if you’re a little shy about it.” You opened and closed your mouth a few times like you were fighting something before adding, “There’s more but I’m pretty high. Ask me again tomorrow.”

Eddie smiled, trying not to let your words affect him the way they were starting to. “Will do, captain.”

It was infectious, being around you. You never failed to surprise him, to twist him into something more than he already was. No matter what, you were always changing the way he saw the world. His world. And Eddie knew that if he wasn’t careful, there would be a day when he would fall desperately in love with you.

Before either of you knew it, you were another joint deep, going in and out of full on talking and watching TV. He tried to show you Alien but then you kept pausing the movie to engage in a discussion that led into conversations that led into sheer nonsense. Laughter and banter and eventually a little bit of beer.

When Eddie finally checked his phone, the realization that it was midnight washed over him. “Oh, uh, hey, when do you need to leave?” he asked, looking up. “I don’t wanna keep you here if you need to go. It’s late.”

Your expression turned sheepish as you played with the fabric of his blanket. You didn’t even bother to check your phone. “To be honest, I don’t know if I’m sober enough to drive. I didn’t really think about it.”

“You could just sleep here if you’d like?” Eddie offered without thought before realizing exactly what he was suggesting. You, here. In his apartment. Alone. For the whole night.

“On the floor?” you asked with a laugh.

“I could take the floor,” he suggested. “You can have my bed.” “Why don’t we both take the bed?” you asked, finally making eye contact with him. He noticed your eyes widen, something washing over you. 

But there was no time to wonder as Eddie froze at the realization at what exactly you were suggesting. You, here. In his apartment. In his bed. Together. For the night.

“You’re, uh, cool with that?” he asked, starting to fiddle with the damp label on his second beer. It was starting to shed from his picking, the adhesive sticking to his fingernails.

“Um, yeah. I am.” Your nonchalance seemed to fall as you shrugged. “But if you don’t feel comfortable with that, like, I totally understand—”

“Let’s do it,” Eddie said.

After your final attempt to finish the movie, you two were beat. Three in the morning, the world outside clouded in slumber while Eddie fumbled through the dark. Did he forget to mention that he didn’t even have a lamp yet?

When you were finally settled in bed, with you wearing a spare set of his pajamas, there was a silence between you. Eddie was unable to discern whether it was awkward or natural, his thoughts kicking into overdrive. This was a close one, maybe a little too close. Here you were, in his bed. In his apartment. In a sick turn of events, he didn’t have to stop being around you and he didn’t want to. You didn’t drain his energy. Not even once. It was goddamn twisted.

Eddie felt a shift in weight in the bed and before he knew it, your foot had come to rest on top of his calf. His heart hammered in his chest, wondering what this was. And he was…nervous? Why was he nervous? You were just friends. This was fine, right? Just some normal human contact between friends.

But you started…running your foot up and down his leg?

And then you wiggled your toes.

“Helllooooo, Edward,” you said with a high-pitched voice, verging on absolute creep territory. 

He immediately flinched from your touch, scooting away from you to the edge of the bed. You howled with laughter, getting closer.

“Fuck off with that!” he nearly shouted. “That’s so fucking weird.”

“I’m cooooming for you, Edward,” you said in the voice again. “My preeeecious!”

You tried to start tickling him but Eddie fought back, pushing you away from him. Howls of laughter poured out of you, clutching your chest with pure glee. You were an absolute menace of a person. 

“You’re such a weirdo!” he exclaimed, laughing his ass off.

“At least I own up to it.”

He finally turned over, watching you with your head tilted on the pillow, your hands wrapped up underneath. Mirroring your position, he let out one last chuckle before his smile softened.

“That’s your name now,” he concluded. “Weirdo.”

You nodded. “It has a nice ring to it.”

Eddie couldn’t believe that people like you existed, silly and real and beautiful and fun. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only goofy person in the room, always starting bits or talking in weird voices. Usually it was just him being up for a laugh with only some reciprocation. You, on the other hand, were just like him. It was unique in its own way, but you still fed off of his energy as much as he fed off of yours. 

You two just looked in each other’s eyes illuminated by the light cascading down from the blinds. His eyes couldn’t help but flicker back and forth, trying to read you. Because you had this doe-eyed expression, with an extra sparkle of light starting to shine in your eyes. And your smile was tied up with a slight bite to your lip, like you were holding something back, like there was a sentence forming on your tongue. 

It was new, this side of you.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asked, nearly desperate to know what you were thinking.

Some of your smile dropped…but not all the way.

There was a glaze over your eyes, the playfulness gone. It was something more serious than what was normal for you. He couldn't discern what this was and he knew it was going to kill him. “What? Nothing. I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” he teased.

And then there were moments like these, where the silence felt comfortable and the stillness in the air didn’t feel suffocating, he was beginning to realize that he still wanted you there. Actually, if anything, it made spending time with you even better. He didn’t have to always be on all the time. He could just be himself, be human. With someone else. 

He hadn’t even felt the need to smoke a cigarette tonight.

You two stayed like that until you lost whatever game you were playing and you closed your eyes for the night. Lightly snored, with your face squished against the pillow. It made him smile to see you at such a raw level and still the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and— 

Eddie’s eyes widened as realization overcame him.

He grabbed his phone and pulled up his texts with Robin.

ik it’s 4am but she stayed over

rob i think

well i think i know

Robin’s three dots popped up.

Spit it out, Eddie! 

Eddie sighed quietly, glancing over at you one more time.

i’m falling in love with her

extra special thanks to @jo-harrington for always being so so supportive and encouraging of this series :')

[andreafmn]

Speak - Chapter 5

Word Count: 3.2K

Story Description: Bella Swan was a disaster when Edward had left. Deciding she needed a little help, Charlie Swan receives with open arms his younger daughter (Y/N) Swan. She helps Bella during her depression and becomes inseparable from her long-lost friend Jacob. What she didn’t expect was falling for a hotheaded short-tempered silver wolf.

Chapter: 5/?

A/N: The long-awaited update is here!!!!!

This chapter is dedicated to @madcatlady for the hilarious ask. It honestly made me laugh 😂😂 I really wanted to make this more of an enemies to lovers (I still can) but soft Paul makes me too happy. Also, the ending for this was gonna be different but I made it into the next chapter If you enjoy my writing I’ll also be posting them in AO3 and Wattpad along with other stories. You can request at any time any story or one-shot you desire. Hope you enjoy, and all constructive criticism is encouraged.

TikTok • Instagram • Business | MASTERLIST

If you’d like to be tagged in this or any other story: click here

<- Previous | Next ->

Chapter 5

(Y/N) had gone to bed with anger flowing through her veins. It made her burn up with rage, slowly bubbling up to the surface.

Bella had always been unconsciously selfish in her sister’s opinion. At least, she hoped it was unconscious. To (Y/N), her sister always found a way to make every situation about herself, and everyone allowed it. Her heartbreak had taken over her father’s life, threatened to take over their mother’s, and was slowly snaking its hands around hers. But Bella would not become the center of her life, she could not.

But the next morning, (Y/N)’s anger had seemingly dissipated. Even if Bella believed the world revolved around her, (Y/N) would not let hers do so. At the end of the day, it was Christmas – a day of happiness and forgiveness. She would enjoy it with or without her sister.

The smell of slightly burnt coffee filled her nostrils before she had opened her eyes and she knew her father was already up. Her excitement for the day was again replenished and she readied herself for a long afternoon. It was her first holiday back in the city of Forks, and the first Christmas she’d have in the town. Nothing would stand in the way of a good day.

“Morning, dad,” (Y/N) smiled at the flustered man. He had taken a sip of the scalding coffee. Not only did he burn his tongue, but he had to taste the awful batch. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, merry Christmas, honey. I really am a menace in the kitchen.”

“Thankfully not on the grill,” she chuckled. “Why don’t you sit while I make a new batch and a light breakfast?”

“I guess I’m still not used to having you girls here,” he sighed. “Normally I’d just go down to the diner and get some food there. And now that Bella’s like… like that, I’ve had to take care of the food again.” 

“Well, I’m here now. So don’t worry about that,” (Y/N) smiled. “We’ll just take it one day at a time and hope for the best. It’s the only thing we can do.” 

“Then we should get ready soon to go over to Billy’s house,” Charlie responded, resigned. “Were you able to at least convince Bella to come?”

“No. She’s as stubborn as ever.” 

“I really hoped she’d want to come. You both always enjoyed Christmas time.” 

(Y/N) shrugged from the stove, the pan she shook scraping slightly the iron grates. She had hoped that, at least for this holiday, Bella would put her family first. Alas, her teenage angst took over and she was once more glued onto the swivel desk chair, overlooking the backyard. All she wanted was for her family to be together during such a special holiday – especially one that promoted togetherness. But all Bella could do or think of was the idiotic boy that had broken her heart.

"Whatever," (Y/N) spoke abruptly. “She’s the one that’s missing out. If she wants to stay at home and wallow in self-pity, so be it. We cannot let her consume every part of our lives.”

“(Y/N), she’s your sister,” Charlie said. “She’s sad and we can’t just leave her behind.”

“It’s not even for a whole day, dad. She’ll survive a couple of hours of staring out of that window,” she whined. “It’s your day off. It’s Christmas. We’re not gonna spend today trapped in the house because Bella has a bad case of the blues.”

“(Y/N)…”

“Dad,” (Y/N) said sternly. “We are gonna go to Uncle Billy’s house. We are going to celebrate Christmas. Then, we will come back home and find Bella in the same spot. But we deserve — you deserve — to put her in the back of our minds for a couple of hours and enjoy ourselves. And that’s an order, sheriff.”

“Alright, you win, (Y/N),” Charlie chuckled slightly. “And thanks again for breakfast. I promise one day I’ll get the hang of it.”

“There won’t be any need whilst I’m here, dad.”

After a small round of chitchat and the background noise of cutlery hitting the ceramic plates, the two of them left for their respective rooms to get ready for the day. Before going back downstairs, (Y/N) popped into Bella’s room where she was not surprised to see her sister sat staring out her window.

Her sister looked pitiful. Chair bound and frail. Heartbreak in the simplest definition. There was not a single trace of the girl she had grown up with. There was a Bella before Edward and the one that was left barely counted as a person.

(Y/N) entered the room, a wrapped present in her hands. She sauntered towed her sister, unsure of what Bella’s reaction — or lack thereof— would be.

“Hey, Bells,” she spoke softly, unsure of where they stood after the conversation they had the night before. “I got you this cause, after all, it is Christmas. I know you don’t want to come with us, but I still wanted to get you something. You can open it, or not. It’s really up to you. But, merry Christmas, sis.”

Silence seemed to be the prevailing answer.

“So, is she finally gonna come?” Charlie asked as (Y/N) exited Bella’s room. “Did she have a change of heart?”

“Nope,” she answered – she wasn’t a miracle worker. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not gonna have a good time. Now, let’s go.”

As they drove down the streets to the reservation, Charlie and (Y/N) sang along badly to Christmas tunes. A white scenery blurred past them as they headed through the snow-covered streets of Forks, putting the older Swan daughter to the back of their mind. The air felt lighter, a weight lifted off their shoulders. They both felt like they could breathe, even if just for a little bit.

The red barn-like house came into view before they had realized that Forks was far behind them. As the truck rolled to a stop, Billy and Jake exited the house to greet their guests. A playful smile played on Jacob’s face when he saw his new girlfriend. A smile that Charlie Swan did not like.

“Now, (Y/N), I know that you two are now sort of together. But I don’t wanna see all that lovey-dovey stuff between you.”

“Dad,” she chuckled.

“No, seriously, (Y/N). I don’t wanna see it.”

“So, it’s okay as long as you don’t see it? Got it.”

“Don’t push it, kid.”

“Alright, dad. I’ll keep it low-key for you.”

With another giggle, (Y/N) stepped out of the cruiser, her hands packed with a bag filled with presents and a six-pack of beer. And from the back of the car, Charlie pulled the trays of food they had prepared.

“Here, let me help,” Jake told Charlie, grabbing hold of two of the four trays he was carrying.

Charlie tried his best to hide his feelings of slight anger toward the boy. He’d known him since he was a baby but seeing him get so close to his daughter unnerved him. Still, he answered, “Yeah, thanks, Jake.”

“Hey, Jake,” (Y/N) smiled, kissing Jake’s cheek.

“Hey, (Y/N).”

“Alright you two, keep it moving,” Charlie grumbled. “And, again, I don’t wanna see any funny stuff between you.”

He walked in front of them, saying hi to Billy as he walked into the house to put the trays down. Everyone could notice the annoyance on his face. As much as he loved Jake, it was one thing for him to be his best friend’s son; it was another for him to date his youngest daughter.

“How’ve you been, Billy?” (Y/N) asked as she made her way into the house and the man rolled inside.

“Very good, (Y/N),” he smiled. “So, Jake and you, when did that happen?”

She chuckled in response. “It started at the bonfire, but it’s been a long time coming. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, between you and me, you’ve always been my favorite of Charlie’s youngest daughters.”

“It’d be weird if I wasn’t.”

“I truly hope this union is of benefit to the both of you,” Billy said, placing a comforting hand on her forearm. “If it is meant to be, I’m sure your father will come around sooner or later.”

“Waiting for sooner rather than later,” she sighed. “It’s kind of hard to see where this is going when dad is breathing down our necks every time we’re in the same room.”

“He means well,” he chuckled. “Charlie’s very new to this whole parenting teenagers thing. It’s hard to see your kids grow up so quickly. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep him by the barbecue as much as I can so you two can have some alone time.”

“Thanks, uncle Billy.” 

In her happiness, (Y/N) missed Billy’s knowing gaze. He knew something neither of them did. Deep down, he knew the pair would not last long – there were other forces in play. But if this is what they wanted, for now, he would never interfere. Young love was hard to come by if that’s what this was.

They entered the kitchen and laughed as they witnessed Jacob’s pleading face. Charlie had not let down his menacing stare as he prepped the meat they would cook. Though his hands worked on the food, his eyes glared at the boy relentlessly.

“Hey, Charlie, got the grill up and running already,” Billy announced. “Why don’t we put this thing to cook already?” 

“But I’m not done yet.” 

“I think you are,” he chuckled. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Charlie grumbled as he left through the backdoor with Billy and back into the snow, leaving the two teenagers on their own. With a smile of mischief, Jake and (Y/N) crossed the small kitchen and were finally able to engage in a hello kiss.

“Hey,” she whispered as they parted from each other.

“Hey, back,” Jacob chuckled. “Your dad was close to shooting me there.” 

“Well, you did kiss his youngest daughter in front of him,” (Y/N) teased, wrapping her arms around his neck. “And you’re the first boyfriend I’ve introduced to him. Look how well that turned out for Bella.” 

“But you’re not Bella,” he said. “And I’m not Edward.”

“That is very correct,” she laughed before pecking his lips. “You’re way better.”

“You could say that again,” Jake grinned. “Also, how many boyfriends didn’t make the cut?” 

“Why? Are you jealous, Jake?” 

“Just want to know what I’m up against.” 

“Believe me, none of them match up to you.” 

Suddenly, the sound of a screen door startled them apart. Charlie walked in, the angry scowl still on his face. He muttered under his breath as he opened the drawers in the kitchen, finally finding tongs. And as he left once more, he shot them another glare.

The pair couldn’t help but burst out in laughter as they watched Charlie’s figure disappear through the door. They understood where the father was coming from. Opening himself to having another daughter get her heart broken was too much for a technically “new” father.

But as much as they understood him, it didn’t mean they would try too hard to make him comfortable. They were young, a little reckless, and very excited to be in a relationship – at least (Y/N) was.

As the adults chatted outside, cooking the meat and drinking beers, Jake and (Y/N) gravitated toward the couch, cuddling on the seat. The fireplace was on and the radio was set on a jazz station, playing a song neither of them knew.

“So,” (Y/N) spoke up, looking at Jacob from his chest. “I know we said we wouldn’t do gifts, but I got you something.”

“(Y/N), you promised,” he chuckled. “Although, I will admit I also got you a little something as well. You go first.”

(Y/N) stood up and went to get the wrapped gift she had placed behind the tree. She was excited. It was their first Christmas together ever, and more importantly, their first as a couple. She had dreamed of this moment since they were kids.

Jake followed behind, grabbing the bag he had packed his gift into. He was sure they had both gotten each other small things. They hadn’t been together for that long and there wasn’t anything riding in the presents.

“So, I know you’ve been saying for a while that you needed these for a while, and they were very hard to get.”

Jacob’s eyes were wide in surprise as he unwrapped the box in his hands. (Y/N) had gotten him a pair of Timberland boots with a steel toe. He had dropped one too many tools onto his foot whilst working on cars and he was in desperate need of these shoes.

“Wow, (Y/N)! This must have put a dent in your wallet.”

“It’s worth it,” she smiled into the hug he gave her.

“Well, here’s yours,” he tried to pull a smile, but he knew it wouldn’t even compare. “It’s not as good, but I didn’t have much time.” 

“That’s okay,” (Y/N) responded. She knew whatever he had gotten her would be meaningful and caring, a testament to who he was. And she was very confident in it until she finally saw it. “A… candle.” 

“It’s got a nice smell,” Jacob chuckled awkwardly. “I thought you’d like the smell… I know. It sucks.” 

“No. It’s, um, it’s nice.” (Y/N) was trying to hide her disappointment. She’d seen this type of candle. They sold them at the gas stations in the area as passersby souvenirs. “I’ll put it by my bed and I’ll think about you every time I light it. I love it. Thanks.” 

“And I will basically live in these boots,” he boasted. “I love them.” 

“I’m glad.” 

It was hard for (Y/N) to keep her dismay at bay. She smiled, talked, and laughed through dinner, but it was hard. Jacob could have gotten the candle that morning – zero thought and preparation had gone into the gift. She would have preferred he stuck to nothing. Even that would have been better since he would have kept the promise.

Instead, she was left with a gas station candle that smelled like apples that had been stuffed into a red bag. She was allergic to apples. They made her throat itch and her eyes swell, it had been years since she had even smelled one. Though thankfully, this one was laced with a fake fruit smell, she couldn’t wait to store it in the deepest corners of her closet.

Whilst they were enjoying the pumpkin pie she had made, a knock resounded through the door. The four people in attendance stared at each other.

“Are you expecting anyone else?” Charlie asked, wiping off the whipped cream that had accumulated on his mustache. “Though it’d be just us tonight.” 

“We aren’t,” Billy responded. “It’s a bit late for that.” 

“I’ll check who it is,” (Y/N) offered, quickly standing. “It’s probably a tourist that got lost. You guys carry on.” 

As the men went on with their conversation, (Y/N) went to see who was at the door. It was Christmas night, whilst it was snowing. If it was a tourist, they were crazy to be out at that time.

But when she opened the door, she was surprised that not only was it not a tourist, but it was Paul Lahote standing there in shorts and a tank top. His hair was dusted with white snowflake specs, the ones on his skin melting away right after contact.

(Y/N) was quick to close the door behind her. If there was anything she didn’t want it was for Jake and Paul to get into an altercation with her father and Billy around.

“Paul,” she chuckled as she pulled her jacket closer to her body. “What’re you doing here?” 

“I was actually hoping to run into you here,” he responded. “This may sound weird, but I, uh I got you something.” 

He handed her a rectangular box beautifully wrapped in red metallic paper with a white bow for decoration. She could tell he had taken his time to wrap the present – or had asked someone skilled to do it for him. By the cover alone she knew he had put care into the present.

“Can I open it now?”

“Please,” he smiled. “Go ahead.” 

Carefully, she undid the paper, not wanting to even rip it, and she pulled a long box from inside. When she lifted the lid, she gasped. Inside a gorgeously crafted dreamcatcher, with cream feathers and colorful beads rested. Attached to the rim, a wooden wolf totem was attached. It was simple, it was thoughtful, it was beautiful.

“Oh, Paul, it’s stunning,” she said. “But you didn’t have to. I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay,” he chuckled. “I just saw it at a local shop, and it reminded me of you. The wolf totem, it’s for protection. The wolf is supposed to help you manifestmore protection, better instincts, and stronger relationships in your life.” 

“Seriously, Paul, it’s beautiful.”

 Without knowing it, she was beaming. The surge of happiness that grew inside her was unfathomable, and she found herself wrapping him in a hug. This stranger had gotten her a more thoughtful gift than her boyfriend and friend.

Paul stiffened at first, surprised at the sudden show of affection. But instantly melted into her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he smiled to himself. But the moment was cut short. From far inside the woods, a wolf called out to his pack, saying it was time to change shifts. “Uh, that was all. I just wanted to give you this. I should be heading back home now.”

“Oh.” Was she disappointed? “Then, I promise one day I’ll repay the favor.” 

“There’s really no need.” 

“I insist,” she said with a bright smile. “Seriously, Paul. This actually means a lot. Thank you.” 

“Sure thing,” Paul smiled, running his hand through the back of his neck. “I’ll see you around. And, Merry Christmas, (Y/N).” 

Before she could answer him, Paul seemed to vanish. (Y/N) couldn’t see his body anywhere close. So, she spoke to the air, “Merry Christmas, Paul.” 

(Y/N) was quick to hide the gift in the car, under her seat. If she went back into the house with it, she was sure it would only cause discord with Jacob and her father. It was better if neither of them knew about one of the best gifts anyone had ever gotten her.

“Who was it?” Charlie called out when he saw his daughter walking back into the house. “You were out there for some time.” 

“Oh, just a couple of tourists that got lost leaving the rez.” 

“Tourists?” Jacob questioned. “Today of all days?”

“It was a newlywed couple, on a honeymoon road trip.” 

“Mmm, young love,” Billy smiled toward (Y/N). It made her question if he had seen who she was actually speaking to. “What a great gift it is.” 

Taglist: @winter-soldier-101@zheezs14 @a-sifu-hotman @sunflowerleii @DyslexicCatterpillar @Blackbluerose666 @slutforsainz @kortniec696 @xcastawayherosx@minhaimaginacao @bluebirbnamedJay @sirenheadenby @andreiaafaria @bluetreecloud20 @valejewel @nogitsune-the  @user0ur0mom  @skyesthebomb @swidkid @avis15 @honeylovemoon @wonieeee @edwardssugarmommy @nyenye @sugajar @lovel-blog @witchofhawkins @Six-Call @then-worship-at-my-altar@ems-alexandra @blueshoelacess @Nyctophilia710 @rosalie-whitlock @nocturnalherb16 @this-is-a-bad-idea @esposadomd @locokoca @volturiwolf @spookyqueen @gh0stgirl33 @catgirlpwr @nolaxox @klf1999 @krazyk99 @ilikepunsbeth @adaydreamaway08 @cinffy23 @paodemorangol1l1 @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @toomanythoughts33 @jrosefangirl @queereddie @Missvicious @sugasthreedollarkookie @laylaskywalker @fandomonetwo @fruitylilfuck @a-slut-for-Loki-Bucky @honeywxter @haroldpotterson

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt 4 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Honey wakes up to a new life.

words: 5.8 k

warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. drugging. threats of violence. coersion. kidnapping. traumatic flashbacks. violence. blood. shameless forced proximity trope. imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions.

you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if your parents aren't harboring a several hundred dollars-worth stash of beanie babies that are worth maybe $1 today, then this is not your jam.

Back to Part 3

Part 4

When her eyes cracked open, she was staring at a chandelier made from antlers. She blinked several times, noticing that the ceiling was different from any of Peter’s other rooms. She was gazing up at a vaulted A-frame ceiling with exposed redwood beams. The peak of the frame opened to a glass wall where sunkissed blue-green needles of giant Eastern white pine trees billowed.

She groggily sat upright, realizing she was nowhere near the familiar Boroughs of the city. Her limbs felt heavy. Once again, she was alone and buried in another heavenly-soft bed. She was in a bedroom, but it featured no personal touches. It could’ve been a hotel room, or a vacation rental. 

She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and her bare feet touched the floor. She shuddered at how warm it was. Heated floors. A very, very expensive vacation rental.

Rubbing her dry eyes, she made her way to a closed door. It opened to a loft balcony, which overlooked the living room of a massive, two-story modern cabin. She gawked at the floor-to-ceiling windows, her breath catching in her throat at the splash of greens, yellows, and oranges from the trees lining the house. Beyond the thick treeline, she could see the smoky blue haze of a mountain range in the distance.

She stood dumbstruck, like Dorothy emerging from her tornado-tossed house. 

Not in Queens anymore, was all she could think.

“You’re awake,” his voice echoed from the lower level. 

She glanced down at Peter, hands in his jean pockets, wearing a thick cable-knit sweater. He looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye, one that made her fret over the state of her bedhead. She felt ridiculous up on the balcony, like someone would start the monologue from Romeo and Juliet.

She bit her lip, pulling her eyes away. No good could come from seeing him as a Romeo. Even if he easily looked the part.

“So...” she began awkwardly, her cheeks flushed by his gaze. “Are we at Disney World or something? Did we check into the Wilderness Lodge?” She studied the rustic-meets-mid-century modern furnishings, idly rubbing the lace sleeves of her blouse. Her leather jacket had been removed and she honestly didn’t know how she felt about that.

“Sorry, Honey,” he said with a soft laugh that made her stomach weak. “No Mouse here. No gators either.”

Her cheeks pinched into a smile, before she remembered how she got there. The previous day’s events— Had it only been a day? How long was she out?— hit her like a truck. Her grin faded as she recalled her kidnapping. Her abduction. Her shameful, subservient soak in a stranger’s bathtub, followed by a dreary, restless slumber in his sheets. She’d been fed and given a good wash, like a stray dog. Dressed in clothes she could never afford. And had been drugged and taken to—

“Where are we?” she sharply questioned, anxiety chilling her tone.

Whatever smile Peter wore faded. “Not in Orlando,” he bit off.

He turned his back to her and crossed the enormous but cozy living room. Returning to his previous task, he crouched down in front of a soapstone, wood-burning stove in the corner of the room. He pulled the logs loose from a small bundle of firewood, and began loading it into the stove’s iron frame.

Frustrated, she huffed, glaring at the back of his head. Wondering what she was supposed to do.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Wherever here is?”

“Well, I’m building a fire,” he gave a haughty reply. “I’ve already tested the fuses, turned everything on, unpacked, changed clothes, and made coffee in the kitchen.”

“So you do know how to make it,” she muttered under her breath, sarcasm dripping from her mouth. It was quiet enough that there was no way he could’ve heard it.

“Lemme know if you want a taste,” he coyly replied, and it made her question whether or not he had. 

He hadn’t looked at her when he said it, and she was grateful because the innuendo was making her stomach flip. “I’m good.” She cursed the fact that her voice sounded more like a squeak.

“Well, since you’re wide awake,” he countered, in a teasing way that sounded too much like flirting. “Lemme show you ‘round the house.” He came to a stand, brushing the dirt and wood fibers from his hands. She found herself staring at the way his large palms glided across one another. 

It triggered the memory of those hands on her waist as he helped her into the bathtub. As he dressed her wounds. As he cradled her in his arms as he carried her away from her captors. As he cupped her face, wiping away tears, shielding her from the sight of a bloodied man who likely was dead because of her.

A chill went down her spine, her arms hugging herself tighter. “Maybe later,” she frowned, tucking her chin to her chest.

Silence settled for several seconds before she peeked at him from beneath her downturned brows. 

He considered her with pursed lips, silently observing. He shoved his hands back in his pockets. She bit her lip, and for a moment, she expected to hear another thinly-veiled insistence. 

“Okay,” was his calm reply. It surprised her. “But do me a favor instead. Go put on some hiking boots.”

“Hiking boots? I don’t have any—”

“They’re in the closet of the room you were in,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Grab a coat too. Meet me in the kitchen in five.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he strolled away. Once again, she had no room to protest.

When she opened the closet door in the room she assumed was ‘hers,’ she found a decent, walk-in space with rows of clothes hung up. She found a pair of leather hiking boots that looked brand new, in a cubby space next to 18 pairs of other shoes for a variety of occasions and seasons. 

Curiously, she checked the size. She was surprised to find that whoever she was borrowing these from had similarly small feet. Looking up, she spotted a lightweight puff jacket— Patagonia, of course— hanging up among the other articles of clothing. With a sigh, she pulled down the coat and checked the size. Another lucky match. She felt odd putting on someone else’s clothes. An uncomfortable thought crossed her mind— how many women had Peter brought to this cabin?

It was a thought she didn’t like.

When she traveled downstairs, fully dressed, she found the kitchen. She could tell he had a particular style, not too far removed from the one in the penthouse she’d observed earlier. A Scandinavian take on rustic. Immaculately organized open shelving. Spotless stainless steel. 

Curiously, she opened the fridge. There were a few groceries. Eggs, milk, sliced cheese, lunchmeat, orange and apple juice. It was a lot of empty space save for a few basic condiments in the door. Mustard that had exceeded its “best by” date by several months. 

The more she studied the kitchen and its contents, the more information she gathered about the man currently occupying it. 

An extravagant house in the mountains with breathtaking views. A kitchen worthy of Thanksgiving Dinner and every holiday celebration of the year. 

Barren. Untouched. Lonely.

A few minutes later, Peter approached with the handle of a small cooler in his grip. A backpack thrown over his shoulder. She curled a brow at him. 

“Sure you don’t want any coffee before we go?” he asked. “I’ve got a tumbler if you wanna take it to go.”

“Where are we going?” she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile on his face. To her astonishment, he seemed...excited? Like a teenager going on a camping trip.

“Hiking,” he shrugged, like he was keeping a surprise. 

She stared at him like he had grown an extra arm.

“You’ll get a chance to break those in,” Peter added, pointing at her shoes. “‘Sides, it’ll be fun.” He reached into his backpack, inspecting the contents, mentally going through a silent checklist. She hadn’t moved a muscle when he looked back up at her.

“We outta get goin,’” he explained, disagreeing with her lack of hustle. “Sun’ll set in a few hours.”

She stared. Unnerved. Swallowed hard. She picked up her boot slowly, as if it was lined with concrete.

He started shuffling towards the door, before pausing and turning back to her. “Oh, one more thing,” he added. He locked eyes with her, smile never fading. “Lose the knife.”

She blinked. Her heart skipped. He watched her, eyes piercing like a hawk.

“Y’know,” he nodded nonchalantly, “the one you took from the butcher’s block?”

Her pulse started racing as she gazed blankly at him, rendered motionless. He jerked his head towards the butcher’s block on the counter, acknowledging that he noticed one of the knives was missing.

With wide guilty eyes, she glanced at the block, then back at him.

“Go on. Put it back.”

She felt like he was staring at her forever. Every second that passed, his eyes got darker. More challenging. More dangerous.

Eyes on the ground, she crept slowly back to the block on the counter. Pulling up her shirt, she retrieved the 8-inch steel butcher’s knife tucked in the waist of her jeans. She slid it back in its proper place, then turned towards him. Trepidatiously, she lifted her eyes off the ground. Peeking up at him, afraid of his wrath.

What she found was his eyes locked on her, a satisfied little smirk on his lips. He gazed at her with an expression that was either affectionate or amused. Either way, he made it clear that she was practically powerless in this situation. She posed no threat.

“Good girl,” he appraised, before turning and heading out of the kitchen door. “Follow me.”

The hike through the woods was quiet, but not tense. At least not on his part. Peter led her on a path through a thick grove of trees. She was still shaken by being confronted about the knife. It was obviously a shock to her, but not to him. She couldn’t know that his observation skills were sharpened by years of people trying to stab him in the back, and not just metaphorically.

The trail was solid with only a few patches of mud. Luckily, the weather had been ideal for his plans. It wasn’t wet, or too terribly cold, especially with the sun positioned where it was. The increased blood circulation from the gradual upward climb helped. There was snow in the forecast but it wouldn’t start until tomorrow morning. They were lucky enough to enjoy one of the last days of fall before the winter would sink its teeth in.

Luck was not something he was used to, but he always seemed to find it with her. 

Peter felt his own heart begin to beat faster, but not due to physical exertion. He dragged his hand through his hair. His palms were sweaty. They were getting close. 

“Almost there,” he announced, trying to maintain his cool. Or whatever it was he was pretending to be. Many awkward years as a teen and even more awkward conversations with women proved that he was anything but cool. He’d always been a nervous wreck. It was pure luck that he’d undergone the changes in life to be able to talk to a girl, let alone have the confidence to ask them on a date.

And here he was again, feeling like he did in high school. He didn’t really know what he was saying, probably didn’t make any sense, and had no idea how to ask such a pretty girl whatever it was he was asking. 

His lack of practice was showing. It had been a long time since he felt this way about anyone. 

Not since—

“Are you taking me out to the woods to kill me?” his Honey blurted out.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to her with an incredulous stare. 

She stood several feet from him, ramrod straight, shoulders tense. 

“Really?” he breathed. More confused than offended. “That’s what you got outta this?”

She shrugged her shoulders, with that adorable anxious look on her face—the one she’d make when the wheels in her brain were spinning, and her mouth was moving a mile a minute, and all he could do was be hypnotized by the way her lips moved. “I mean... you’re you,” she softly replied, in her defense. “What else am I supposed to think?” 

He pursed his lips. The sting of her words seized his throat.

'You’re you.' He considered her meaning, heart sinking. A monster, she intended to say. He couldn’t keep the sorrow from filling his eyes and her expression changed. She looked apologetic.

It made him feel even worse. She was apologizing to him. He swallowed hard.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said sincerely. He held his chin a bit higher, and she considered his truthfulness. He turned back towards the path. “C’mon.”

Quietly, she followed.

A couple of minutes later, they arrived at a clearing next to a huge flat rock. It was from an elevated vantage point that offered a beautiful view of the valley through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the vista. With ease, he scaled the rock, setting down his backpack and the cooler. 

She watched him curiously as he pulled a blanket from the backpack and began laying it out on the solid surface. Once it was flat, he began pulling items out of the cooler. She heard the rustling of plastic, staring up at him curiously. He came to a stand and leapt down to her level with surprising agility. He extended his hand to her.

“C’mon,” he beckoned. “I’ll help you up.”

His Honey hesitated, as she always did, looking up at the rock, then back at him. His smile began to falter, worrying that she would refuse. She had no reason to trust him, after all. But slowly, she took his hand. He smiled, feeling his heart soar. 

He clenched her body to his, wrapping one arm around her waist. He used the hand to quickly scale up the rock again, in a move so quick and effortless it made her think he was a professional rock climber. Or a mountain goat.

He held onto her tightly when they were at the top of the rock. Like the night before in his bathroom, he found himself not wanting to let go. He stared down at her bright, beautiful eyes—soft, gentle, timid— and breathed in her air. The scent of his body wash on her skin. Mingling together in an aroma that made his heart flutter.

Sheepishly, she glanced away, not able to withstand the heat of his gaze. As if remembering what planet he was on, Peter released his grip and let her stand on her own. She looked down curiously, her eyes widening to the sight at her feet. 

Peter had laid out a picnic blanket and a delicious-looking spread complete with sandwiches, fresh fruit, cookies, charcuterie, and empty champagne flutes. The small gasp she let out as she observed the meal made his stomach flip. He was excited and terrified—not sure himself how she would react to his attempted olive branch.

She blinked up at him, astonished. 

He felt his tongue go dry as he stammered anxiously. “I, uh... thought we could have a late lunch?” She stared, stunned and silent. “Um,” Peter felt his fingers begin to twitch. He glanced around the space, swallowing hard. “Um, p-please... Sit.” He lowered himself onto the picnic blanket, crossing his legs like a kid. Slowly and hesitantly, she followed, mirroring his position.

He beamed at the gesture. He turned his attention back to the spread. “So, yeah—um, we got sandwiches. Uh, I did turkey, cheese, with tomato, I... I-I sorta forgot the lettuce. We can still get some though. Tomorrow, not now. Because... yeah.”

She gazed at him, her expression softening as he stumbled his way through the menu.

“Some other stuff here—crackers, salami, this sliced cheese I got at a Middle Eastern grocery. I don’t think there’s anything regionally specific about the cheese, though. I think it’s just cheddar and gouda...”

He worked to hide his flustered blush. She looked up at him with a soft gaze. He hoped she found it endearing, maybe even charming—and not like he was a dork. Which is how he felt.

He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Um, cookies—The good kind with the chocolate chip chunks that are really big. There’s also some raisin cookies because I accidentally grabbed them from a place thinkin’ they were chocolate chip, and then I got the chocolate chip cookies, but I had these oatmeal raisin ones, and nobody likes those when you think you’re getting chocolate chip, but maybe if... you had them... in addition to chocolate—”

He cleared his throat. Pictured the way his last serious girlfriend would grin at him when he was babbling. He relished the memory, and glanced up. She looked different. Not just in the obvious way, but not in a bad way. Her expression wasn’t judgmental, or annoyed, and she didn’t make him feel like a dork. She stared at him in silent astonishment, almost like she was marveling at him. Almost like he was worthy of her.

It made his heart flutter. “Anyway... uh... you can have whatever you want, um... I...” He swallowed hard. “Um, there’re also grapes. And, uh—” He glanced down into the cooler, his smile falling. “Shit,” he quietly muttered. “Damn it.”

“What is it?”

“The champagne,” he huffed in defeat, frustrated with himself. “I forgot the goddamn champagne.”

“Oh,” Honey said, gently. “It’s okay.”

He ran his palms down his face. “Nah, s’not okay—”

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine,” he groaned. “I didn’t bring anything else to drink. I-I didn’t think—” 

“This is—this is great,” she emphatically replied, trying to ease the pain of his embarrassment. It was another one of her kindnesses toward him.

“No, no, no, it’s—look, I got it.” He hopped to his feet and it made her nervously stretch her arms, as if she could somehow catch him if he slipped off the rock. “Don’t worry, I-I-I got it. It’s... it’s right back at the house, I can run back real quick—”

“Seriously?” she replied. “It’s... it’s way back there? I mean, you don’t have to! I promise, I'm not even thirsty. Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“No, no, no, I already laid everything out. The food’s out. It’ll just take me 2 minutes. You should dig in.”

“Wha-what? Are you sure? I can wait for you.”

“Have a cookie,” he pleaded, filled with a nervous energy that had him scurrying down the rockface. “Don’t worry, just 2 minutes. Less than! I’m gone. Already gone. Be right back!” 

He took off in a frenetic jog, disappearing from her sight. She watched him, curious and confused at how he’d be able to cut down a 10-minute hike into just two. 

Honey glanced back down at the appetizing spread and the thought and care that went into each detail. When did he even have time to do this? She picked at a sandwich that was cut into an elegant triangle and wrapped with cellophane. Examined it.

Then, it hit her. She glanced back at the trail, eyes wide. Peter was nowhere in sight.

He was surprised at how fast he could move through the woods, almost as quickly as he could navigate through skyscrapers. His mind was still churning over the picnic, scolding himself for forgetting something so pivotal. He grumbled about his forgetfulness, and about the awkward dissertation he decided to give about the cookies. He also neglected to bring anything else to drink. He should’ve remembered the moment she turned down coffee back at the kitchen—

He froze, dropping to the ground from the canopy. Both feet hit the dirt with a soft thud. His stomach plummeted even further. 

He glanced back at the trail behind him. Where he had left his Honey. 

Where minutes ago she’d questioned whether he was plotting to murder her, a thought so obscene it made him sick to his stomach. 

And just a few hours before that, he’d drugged her and brought her to a location so secluded she wouldn’t even know what state she was in, not having seen a license plate.

He’d left her. Alone. 

“Mother Hubbard!” he growled.

What a fucking idiot. A lovesick, bumbling dork.

At once his senses shifted into overdrive. Panic rising within him. An urgency overtook him, like a scream crawling up his throat. He was hurtling back through the air, cursing himself as he broke his body on every branch along the way. 

By the time he approached the rock, he landed hard enough to crack the surface. His fears were confirmed. The picnic blanket was abandoned. The young woman was nowhere in sight.

“No, no, no, no, no…” he babbled to himself, pulling at his hair as he scanned the clearing desperately. “Honey!” His voice boomed, a crack of thunder wrapped in frustration and fury.

No reply. Not that he should expect one.

He shouldn’t expect anything.

He shouldn't expect to see her ever again—not alive, anyway. 

His stomach lurched. The next time he would see her face, she’d be beaten beyond recognition. Her skull and body broken on the fists of Wilson Fisk, her blood staining the cuffs of one of his dress shirts.

“Honey!” 

His second shout came out with more desperation. Breaths exploding in short bursts. The trees were spinning. His heart threatened to break out of his chest. It felt like it already had. 

He dashed down the trail, eyes scouring the landscape. Senses were hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig. It was too much information to take in at once. 

She was gone, and he wouldn’t find her again until it was too late. Why would he think she’d stay put? Why would he think she’d stay with him a moment longer than she had to? He had her, and he lost her. 

She was gone.

—stay with me, Gwen, please—

“Honey!” he screamed with a flayed voice—shrill, broken, terrified. 

She had been terrified. Shaking like a leaf when he’d found her on the freezing concrete of the auto body shop. Scared of what had happened and what could happen. Scared of what Fisk’s men would do to her. Scared of what Peter would do to her.

Peter Parker, the monster.

He was trembling. He was about to cry—when had he started to cry what a fuckin’ loser— as he stared at the soft dirt and crushed leaves of the path he was on— Gwen’s broken body, spine smashed to pieces, blood spilling from her nose and eye sockets, about to be interred in the soil—searching desperately for footprints...

Katzenberg had been terrified, sputtering petty excuses through bloody lips. Half-dead, incoherent pleas. Desperate in a futile attempt to save his own life.

“It was nothin’ personal, I swear it.. I-I... It was all Kingpin’s idea—takin’ pictures... I-I-I’m not even into that sick stuff... It’s disgusting, what he wan’ed... Can’t even watch it on the internet, I gotta kid sista, y’know...”

Peter dug his nails into his palms. 

Honey had been terrified. 

Gwen had been terrified. 

Ben had been terrified. 

May had been terrified.

He was terrified. He knew Wilson Fisk and what he was capable of. Peter had seen with his own eyes the victims of Kingpin’s wrath. The gender made no difference. He left bodies destroyed.

He was going to be sick. In a fit of panic, terror and rage, he started stalking down the path, roaring out her given name.

“Your hands, Nicky,” Peter sneered as he approached his terrified captive. He was sobbing over his gag, fat tears, snot and blood streaking his face. “You put hands on a woman for the last time...” 

Peter gripped the hammer tight, brought it down onto Katzenberg’s knuckles. Then he did it again. And again. And again. One for each knuckle. One for the gash on his Honey’s forehead. Eventually, he quit counting.

Peter was cupping his face, nearly dropping to his knees in the dirt. The sun would set soon. It would be dark, how would he find her in the dark? He could barely breathe. Deep breaths.

“People are so lame sometimes,” Honey gave Peter this weird little face, like she was saying ‘bleh’ and gagging simultaneously. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

They had been in one of those rare, magical moments where it was an odd hour of day and the shop was empty save for the two of them. It felt selfish, having her all to himself. Indulgent. It was an indulgence that made his mouth water.

Bright-eyed, body poised like a ballerina, she craftfully poured foam into his cup. He fell under her spell. The aroma of coffee and lavender flowed through his senses, and he felt himself relaxing as he sank deeper. Taken by the current. Longing to dive into her magic.

“Ugh, it’s the worst,” she said. Even her complaints were done with a smile. “Things get a little crazy in here—like that one time during the marathon when the street was closed down so the crowd could watch so we were just friggin’ blitzed, like DEFCON 1, and it was the Rock’n’Roll one, and y’know we’ve got that drag queen revue across the street, too—super fun by the way if you haven’t gone yet—but they constructed a stage on the street with like 100 giant speakers so that one of the queens could perform as the runners went by, and they turned the volume way up and everyone kept piling in here wanting coffee. Meanwhile I can’t hear any orders because Cher is belting it out.”

She giggled and the sound alone could break his heart. “S’anyway, that’s not the point—When it gets all crazy train in here, I just hafta close my eyes and think to myself ‘deep breaths.’ In and out.”

He took a deep breath, pulling his hands from his face. Inhaled the chilly air. Breathed in the scent of wet leaves and pine and the memory of coffee and lavender.

In and out.

In his mind, she was staring at him. Giving him that look that hurt to look at. Like staring at the sun. Burned his eyes and his soul. 

He’d take that image home with him, wired from the excessive amount of caffeine, and think about it when things were too overwhelming. Whenever he felt his anger building. Or when he was showering off his sins for the day and he’d let his hand wander to the part of him that burned the most for her.

In and out. Breathe. Listen.

He felt the tingle crawl up his spine. Then he heard it: a twig snap.

Before he could see it with his eyes, the picture was in his head. He bolted in its direction just as a crack rang out overhead. 

Honey was falling. She let out a squeaky shriek that Peter never wanted to hear. She was plummeting, her eyes staring up at the tree canopy. She was falling to earth from her hiding place in the tree above their picnic spot.

The solid rock beneath her rushed up. 

Impact. And another.

Peter gripped her body close to his chest, his arms wrapped around her like serpents. He’d snatched her from her free fall, catching her in midair and landing with a heavy thud. Chest heaving, his eyes shot to her face, searching for blood. 

Her eyes fluttered wildly, disoriented from her near-fatal fight with gravity. She sucked in breath, heaving in a gasp. Gently, he lowered her to the ground, dropping to his knees. It’s like his brain lagged behind his eyesight. The fierce sound of her pounding heart released him from his terror-striken state. 

When she made eye contact with him, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, tears welling with relief. They stayed like that for a moment—he kneeled while he cradled her, fingers trembling against her skin. He searched her eyes—you stay with me—listening to the song of her pulse.

Her hand lay limply in the dirt beneath her. Fingers brushed the sharp rough face of a softball-sized sandstone. She gazed up at him, blind instinct taking over, and slammed the rock into the side of his head. 

He tumbled to the side, releasing his grip immediately. She hesitated, glancing back at her devastating hit—both shocked and horrified at her own actions. Then the panic set in. She flipped around and scrambled to her feet. She pumped her legs, running as fast as she could down the dirt trail away from her captor.

Suddenly, her feet were pulled out from underneath her. She came flying down, chest slamming into the dirt. She coughed as the air expelled from her lungs, tears filling her eyes from the shock. Reflexively, her legs were still moving, almost like a cartoon character. 

No! No! No, please, no! She was unsure if her screams were in her head or if she actually recognized the sound of her own disembodied voice. Kicking her legs, confused and frustrated  as it seemed they were bound in some sort of stringy—what the heck is this stuff?—material that wrapped around her legs like snakes. She kicked wildly to no avail, like her legs were tangled in blankets made of glue. She reached down, trying to free herself, snatching her hand back when she felt how sticky her binds were.

A shadow fell over her. Peter’s silhouette stood tall, back against the setting sun, as he glared down. Blood trickled from the temple near his ear. Eyes blackened with rage.

The sound she made was barely human, a pathetic yelp, as he snatched up her body and yanked her into his grip. Her legs were useless, so she used fingers, fists, palms, nails—anything to get him to release her. His hold was iron around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll. 

He marched down the path with her writhing desperately on his shoulder. A mix of blubbering sobs—please, nonono, please, somebody help me, please help!— and savage scratching. When she was able to angle her arm and drive her elbow in the back of his head, he whipped her body around to his front. The ease at which he tossed her made her feel infantile in comparison. A muzzled, declawed feral kitten, whom he could easily toss off a bridge into a river.

He was going to kill her. She knew it. She had screwed up badly, and now he was going to kill her. Her fight wore down, the overwhelming exhausting sorrow bearing down on her, and soon she was a weeping mess of desperate pleas. He said nothing, paused for nothing, and gave her no inclination of what was next. The way he gripped her prevented her from being able to see how infuriated he was, but she felt it in his muscles. Like osmosis his fury seemed into her and it made her shudder. 

There would be pain, she thought. She was certain. Her mind flashed back to his victim in the chair and her imagination pictured what he must look like right now. She imagined a torso floating in the East River, picked apart by fish. Head and arms buried somewhere nearby in concrete. 

She screamed, terrified. Begging desperately that someone could hear her. Praying for salvation. 

Sooner than she thought, he had kicked open the kitchen door and was carrying her through the living room. 

She could barely breathe through her sobs. “Please, please, don’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry s-so sorry, please, don’t do this—”

He marched up the staircase and turned down the balcony to the bedroom she had woken up in. As he passed the threshold her fight came roaring back. 

“No, stop! Please, please stop! No don’—I won’t run away, I promise—!” 

He threw her, and her body was flying backwards. Landing hard against the mattress. The force of it silenced her for a moment as she struggled to catch her breath. Like a lion, he was on her. On top of her. His hands caught hers as she came up defensively to hit him. Wordless and possessed, he dragged her up to the headboard, his weight smothering her.

She wailed incoherently—Please don’t do this, I'm sorry, please— and was silenced by a sharp thwip. Her wrists flew to either side of her head, covered in the sticky gunk that restrained her legs. The sensation stunned her. Her body went rigid as he straddled her hips, pinning her hips down with his weight while her hands were unmovable at the sides of her head.

His eyes were the color of ink. The darkness in them threatened to swallow her. She went still, save for the uncontrollable heaving of her chest, as she peered up at his nightmare-stare with horror.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he glowered and hissed through his teeth. Her fear beckoned her to look away, but he gripped her jaw tight. Forcing her gaze into his. Pupils blown, blood trailing down his cheek like motor oil, he glared at her. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

It was more than a threat. It was a promise. She knew it. Her heart seized in her throat. She cowered beneath him, trembling and pliant. Silent as a mouse.

“And I swear to god—on my mother’s soul,” he breathed through his mouth, speaking so quietly it was nearly a whisper. “If you ever pull that shit again... I will.”

It was a horrible look he gave her after that. Chilling, to say the least. Something so intimately livid. It bordered on obscene. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching his body leer over hers threateningly. It wouldn’t surprise her if he reached up and snapped her neck. She was expecting it.

But he released her chin, withdrawing himself. His footsteps pounded like a hammer as he marched across the hardwood floor. The heavy door slammed, shaking the top story of the house.

With a trembling chin, she gazed up through wet eyes at the ceiling. At dust-covered antlers suspended by chains, swaying in the gentle draft. 

The sound she heard outside of her room was almost inhuman. A bellowing roar. It frightened her—of every fuckin’ little thing, always so frightened, scared of your own shadow, when would  she going to be done being so scared all the time?—and she squeezed her eyes shut. 

She wept as quietly as she could until sleep overtook her.

Continue to Part 5

Reblog to be tagged!

Thank you so much for all the feedback so far! What did you think of this chapter? Let me know in a reblog, reply or ask! If you weren't tagged it's possible that I couldn't tag you, so check your preference settings on being tagged.

[cheetahing]

fic meme fill for @orchisailsa for the prompt: Post-canon DFS being uncharacteristically sweet and trying to kiss LLH in the kitchen to distract him while FDB sneaks behind them to try to salvage whatever he's attempting to cook

*

di feisheng waves smoke out of his face, frowning into lotus tower's kitchen. he doesn't know what exactly li lianhua is cooking up, but he doubts it's anything good. while his regular fare has improved, regaining his sense of taste has, if anything, made him more enthusiastic about his culinary experiments. di feisheng has even deigned to subject himself to some of them, mostly due to li lianhua's increasingly outrageous flirtations. while his indifferent mask and iron stomach are basically invincible, di feisheng can't say he's enjoyed the experience.

fang duobing, on the other hand, in the event of his visits, has neither of di feisheng's advantages and therefore is reduced to begging him for help. more often than not he plays along, simply because he enjoys having something to hold over fang duobing's head. today, fang duobing looks at him with pleading eyes and a series of hand gestures that make di feisheng scoff. still, he wades into the smoking kitchen and draws li lianhua away from the stove by the hips.

"xiangyi," he says, pulling li lianhua far enough away from whatever he's cooking to give fang duobing space to doctor it as he sees fit, "do you really have to go through so much trouble just because the brat is here?" fang duobing makes a face at him over li lianhua's shoulder, but di feisheng ignores him in favor of the bright smile beaming up at him from li lianhua's face.

"a'fei," he says, practically glowing, "i've told you before you don't need to be jealous of xiaobao. this is simply what a teacher should do for his student."

di feisheng purses his lips, mainly to keep from smiling. while he can't deny occasionally being possessive of li lianhua's time and attention, these little shows of jealousy are, more often than not, simply because they make li lianhua happy. "you've been cooking more every night he's been here," he says, because that's probably why fang duobing has reached the end of his endurance.

"his wife keeps him on a tight leash, he doesn't get to come that often," li lianhua says in his most reasonable tone, "i should spoil him when i can."

"are you sure that's what you're doing," di feisheng can't help asking, cognizant of the offended pause in fang duobing's frantic flailing at the stove even without looking at him directly.

"of course," li lianhua says, entirely sincere, "my shifu cooked for me every time i visited after i left yunyin mountain."

"ah," di feisheng says, because there's not much he can say to that.

"now stop distracting me," li lianhua says, starting to turn back toward the stove, "dinner will burn." well, that won't do.

"xiangyi," di feisheng repeats, and reels him back in to kiss. li lianhua relaxes into it after almost immediately, arms coming up to wrap around di feisheng's neck. he lets di feisheng's tongue nudge past his lips, sighing and tilting his head cooperatively, and for a moment they both indulge in the contact.

"what's gotten into you," li lianhua says, looking quite thoroughly kissed when di feisheng finally pulls back. behind him, fang duobing gives di feisheng a thumbs up as he scuttles out of the kitchen.

"nothing," di feisheng, letting his hands skim up and then down li liannhua's side before he reluctantly lets go. "can't i be affectionate?"

li lianhua laughs, presses another quick kiss to the corner of di feisheng's mouth, and turns back to the stove. he picks up the wooden spoon, tasting the contents of a steaming pot. "oh," he says, smiling, "not bad at all."

[iamthecomet]

Did I really just write 1000+ words of random slice of life ghoul bullshit that I thought was going to be smutty but really just ended up as "Dew helps Mountain with something super mundane"? yes. Apparently, I did. No warnings here. Very much SFW. Just ghouls living their lives. There's a peak into Dew's somewhat angsty thoughts, elemental magic, a kiss, and a suggestive joke or two, but nothing worse than that.

Dew tramps across the Abbey grounds. The sky is snow gray. The world washed out to hues of purple and blue. His breath trails after him in tight puffs of white. His fingers are tucked under his armpits. He’s wearing a flannel that is too thin for the weather and torn jeans. His boots are unlaced, feet bare inside of them as he hurries across the already frosty ground and tries not to slip and fall and die. 

The greenhouse is a short walk in the summer–but a long one with a blizzard on the horizon. The sharp windowed peak of the roof is just visible over the crest of the hill. It sits at the base. Vegetable gardens long since put to bed stretch out in front of it. Beyond that, the livestock barn, the pens, the lake. Frozen over. Gray like the sky. 

Dew descends the hill, and leaves the Abbey behind him. Sinking slowly into the horizon as he goes. Treading carefully now. Imagining slipping out of his boots, tumbling ass over teakettle (or whatever it is Copia says) all the way down to the greenhouse door. Busting an ankle, a rib or two, well and truly ruining his planned winter of relaxation. 

The greenhouse is enormous. A sprawling gabled structure, made of dark metal bones and thick glass walls. A thin metal chimney rises from the far end. Dew drags his eyes up the length of it. No smoke. Mountain really must need him. The greenhouse is pretty. Dew admires the it from afar often. Looking at the scrolled metal edges of the frame, ivy leaves pressed into the metal on the corners of the glass panes. An intricately carved wrought iron and glass door. It’s a lot of work for something so functional. 

Dew doesn’t often think about the Abbey before him. That line of thought typically leads to ones about the Abbey after him. And those are unwanted. He can get lost in the realization that he’ll go back to the pit someday. That this strange and wonderful life he’s somehow stumbled into, is temporary, he cannot keep it forever. No matter how hard he tries. 

But he does think about these structures. Who built them. Who cared so much that the greenhouse was pretty when all it was meant to do was grow food and flowers. It’s starting to snow by the time Dew gets to the door. Big fat flakes that stick in his eyelashes. The glass is covered in foggy condensation. The plants and earth ghoul inside reduced to blurry silhouettes. 

Dew extracts his stiff fingers from under his arms and blows on them a little before he reaches for the metal door handle. It’s cold, but warm pours out of the door when he pulls it open. The greenhouse smells perpetually like summer. Warm and green and humid. Dew slips into the building. Dirt soft under his feet. He shuts the door behind him. 

“Quick,” Mountain hisses from the other side of the room. Crouched in front of the woodstove. It’s practically sweltering in here, so it can’t actually be that urgent but Dew hurries over anyway. Careful not to trip on his bootlaces. 

Despite the impending apocalyptic weather outside, the greenhouse is cozy, warm, teaming with life. Dew cuts between rows of plants and touches his finger to a young tomato plant, thriving under Mountain’s watchful eye. 

“Thought you were just trying to get me down here for something fun,” Dew teases as he reaches Mountain. The earth ghoul is kneeling in the soft dirt in front of the stove. It’s a modern addition to the greenhouse, and therefore temperamental. Dew doesn’t know shit about mechanics or machinery. But he knows a thing or two about fire–and that usually is enough to solve the problem. 

The stove is designed to run constantly as long as it’s fed. If Mountain feeds it well enough tonight it will run for the next day or two with a touch of Dew’s magic to help it out. Long enough for the storm to pass without Mountain having to trek out here in the middle of it. He’ll do it anyway if someone doesn’t keep an eye on him. 

But that’s a problem for another time–because right now the stove is out, and Mountain can’t get it to light. Dew can smell the frustration on him, wafting off of him in thick waves. Bitter, burnt earth. 

“No. This is serious.” 

Dew nudges Mountain out of the way and eyes the stove. Crouching in front of the open door. Clean and piled with kindling to get it started. 

“Did you really run out of matches.” 

Mountain doesn’t answer, but when Dew looks up the bigger ghoul is glaring down at him. Too stressed for this, Dew knows. Especially considering the thorny vines sprouting from around his horns. Dew sighs. 

He sparks the fire to life. Easy. Then, as it grows, he feeds it with logs and little bits of his magic. Ties himself to it. He’ll know it goes out, if it gutters. He’ll know long before Mountain even thinks to climb out of his warm bed to check on it. 

But it won’t go out. Not as long as Dew is watching it. 

Dew stands, closes the door. Heat pours out of the stove and into the room. Dew steps away from it–too much for him. But Mountain slides closer to feel it. Dew stands on his toes and starts plucking the thorny veins from Mountain’s hair. Careful not to prick himself or the earth ghoul as he does it. 

“Better?” 

Mountain nods. When he glances at Dew now it’s apologetic. Dew waves it off. 

“You ready to go before we get stuck in here for a week?” 

“I just need to do one more–”

“Mountain,” Dew says, firmly. He grabs Mountain’s hand, laces their fingers together. “I love you, I do. But if we get snowed in because you needed to just check one more thing I will eat you.” 

“Fine. Just don’t hurt the plans,” Mountain jokes, pulling on Dew’s grip just a little, enough to get over to his potting bench to start cleaning up. “I’ll eat them first,” Dew promises. “I’ll make you watch.” 

Mountain gasps–false offense. He turns back to grin at Dew, bending down to kiss him softly. Bumping their horns together as he pulls away. 

“Bullshit,” Mountain nips at Dew’s bottom lip. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Minor Magic Items, 8: Also known as not-quite-wondrous items, common magic items, utility and niche magical equipment, underpowered relics or depowered artifacts, these objects are essentially cantrips and weak magic spells in physical form. Useful for more than just combat, these items create light, entertain, clean, play music, flavor food, heat, cool, warn, inform and generally raise the quality of life for their bearers. They can act as unique world building items, magic shop filler objects, barter and trade goods as well as ingredients to create or upgrade stronger magic items or enchantments.

Negatron Cloak: A rich purple cloak with gold trim, woven from a strange anti-magic fabric that does its best to absorb weak arcane effects. The wielder adds 1d4 to the result of any saving throws he makes against level 1 spells and cantrips.

Second-Light Lantern: A curious lantern with numerous panels and covers that can be shifted as an action equivalent to attacking, to function as a bullseye or hooded lantern. Objects such as these are often carried by scholars and spies who often need the finest possible detail without revealing themselves to others. When filled with oil and lit, the lantern sheds a spectrum of illumination known as Second-Light, which is only visible to creatures with darkvision, causing them to see the full range of colors in things illuminated by it. Normally creatures with darkvision can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray. Alternatively, the panels can be shifted to shed a still more specialized Second-light, visible only to those who are touching the lantern’s handle.

Portraiture Gremlin: A small cold iron box trimmed in silver containing a tiny ethereal goblinoid looking fey sitting on a miniature chair surrounded by dabs of pigments. The box has a switch that when pressed strikes the gremlin on the head with a tiny hammer. Whenever the gremlin is struck like this it rapidly paints whatever it sees out of the small porthole at the front of the box. It takes an action equivalent to attacking for the bearer to aim the box and trigger the switch after which the gremlin takes 1 minute to finish the picture (The bearer does not need to continue pointing the box at the subject) and the result is a perfectly accurate painting, albeit miniature (About a 3 inch square). When found, the gremlin comes with enough pigments for 2d4+2 paintings. Each subsequent painting requires fine quality pigments worth at least 2 gold pieces each. The box can hold 10 paintings worth of pigments and it takes one minute to carefully funnel more paints to the gremlin.

Quenching Acid: A large, curved brass oil lamp detailed with fine glyph of restoration and power. The vessel contains a rare substance known as Quenching Acid, which can only be scavenged from the crumbling, remnants of the fledgling kingdom known once called Fallgrim. If applied to a lethal weapon of any variety or construction, regardless of how chipped, warped or rusted it is, by some miracle the Quenching Acid restores it and imbues it with power. The contents of the lamp can be slowly poured over one magical or mundane, melee or ranged weapon or up to 10 pieces of ammunition over a one-minute period. The weapon sizzles and smokes with an acrid stench as the caustic solution scours away all traces of rust, rot and ruin. If the weapon was damaged or broken, it is now considered perfectly made and is far more lethal than it was before. The quenched weapon now permanently scores a critical hit on a roll of 19 or 20.

Hearthstone. A rustic, red brick that feels pleasantly warm and smell like good stew and fresh bread. The bearer always knows the direction to a firepit, hearth, stove or fireplace where a fire has been lit at least in some way every day for the past 30 days.

Goblin Claw: A detached decrepit goblin hand that has three fingers extended. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can hold the claw and speak aloud one wish. In response, one finger of the goblin claw contracts and one goblin appears within 60 feet of the bearer. This goblin is completely loyal to the being who made the wish and will attempt to fulfill the wish to the best of its ability until the task is complete, the goblin drops to zero hit points or until 1 year passes, at which point the goblin will disappear leaving nothing behind. Once all fingers have contracted the Goblin Claw disintegrates and the item is destroyed. ---Note: If your game doesn’t have statistics for a goblin, use a Commoner or a Civilian instead.

Truly Portable Ram: A marvel of gnomish artifice, this battering ram functions just as well as a mundane portable ram but has been enchanted to only weigh half a pound. Furthermore, as an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can fold the ram in on itself several times until it becomes a 6-inch cube. Another action of the same type is required to unfold the ram for use.

Dryad’s Key: A lush, green leaf with a bug-bitten, key-like tooth at the bottom of its stem. While holding the leaf, the bearer can speak its command word and place it into or against a tree, turning it like a key and creating a magical link between the tree and another one at any distance, on the same plane of existence. The bearer must have seen or touched the destination tree at least once before and both plants must be at least as tall as the bearer. Until the end of the bearer's next turn any creature can step into the key-touched tree and exit from the destination plant by using five feet of movement. Once the leaf has been used in this way, it withers and becomes a nonmagical leaf.

Letter-Lift Paper: A pad of light tissue paper contains 4d6 sheets all enchanted with a subtle magic. When a sheet of paper is pressed to a written page, such as a book or letter, and left there for six seconds, it transfers a perfect copy of the text onto the thin paper. The copy would never pass for the original, but preserves details such as handwriting, which allows a forger to study the writing at length later on.

Antagonistic Alchemist’s Accoutrement: A heavy lead wand shot with veins of gold as if a natural philosopher had partially succeeded at transmuting the dull, worthless metal into its pure lustrous, treasured counterpart. The implement retains a portion of the transformation magic used upon it and can be used as a spellcasting focus with the added bonus of occasional repeating the transmutation effect on an unsuspecting victim. Whenever the wielder lands a critical hit with a spell attack roll that deals damage, small portions of the target’s body are transmuted into droplets of pure gold. The equivalent of one gold coin per point of hit point damage dealt by the critical hit (In total, to a maximum limit of the amount of hit points the target has remaining), tumbles out of the target’s body and falls to the ground in small nuggets to be collected after the fight. ---Note: DM’s can change the effect to function on the first time per day the wielder lands a critical hit if they feel their players will get distracted trying to abuse the effect to get rich rather than treating it as a fun, novel wand.

-Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

Negatron Cloak: A rich purple cloak with gold trim, woven from a strange anti-magic fabric that does its best to absorb weak arcane effects. The wielder adds 1d4 to the result of any saving throws he makes against level 1 spells and cantrips.

Second-Light Lantern: A curious lantern with numerous panels and covers that can be shifted as an action equivalent to attacking, to function as a bullseye or hooded lantern. Objects such as these are often carried by scholars and spies who often need the finest possible detail without revealing themselves to others. When filled with oil and lit, the lantern sheds a spectrum of illumination known as Second-Light, which is only visible to creatures with darkvision, causing them to see the full range of colors in things illuminated by it. Normally creatures with darkvision can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray. Alternatively, the panels can be shifted to shed a still more specialized Second-light, visible only to those who are touching the lantern’s handle.

Portraiture Gremlin: A small cold iron box trimmed in silver containing a tiny ethereal goblinoid looking fey sitting on a miniature chair surrounded by dabs of pigments. The box has a switch that when pressed strikes the gremlin on the head with a tiny hammer. Whenever the gremlin is struck like this it rapidly paints whatever it sees out of the small porthole at the front of the box. It takes an action equivalent to attacking for the bearer to aim the box and trigger the switch after which the gremlin takes 1 minute to finish the picture (The bearer does not need to continue pointing the box at the subject) and the result is a perfectly accurate painting, albeit miniature (About a 3 inch square). When found, the gremlin comes with enough pigments for 2d4+2 paintings. Each subsequent painting requires fine quality pigments worth at least 2 gold pieces each. The box can hold 10 paintings worth of pigments and it takes one minute to carefully funnel more paints to the gremlin.

Quenching Acid: A large, curved brass oil lamp detailed with fine glyph of restoration and power. The vessel contains a rare substance known as Quenching Acid, which can only be scavenged from the crumbling, remnants of the fledgling kingdom known once called Fallgrim. If applied to a lethal weapon of any variety or construction, regardless of how chipped, warped or rusted it is, by some miracle the Quenching Acid restores it and imbues it with power. The contents of the lamp can be slowly poured over one magical or mundane, melee or ranged weapon or up to 10 pieces of ammunition over a one-minute period. The weapon sizzles and smokes with an acrid stench as the caustic solution scours away all traces of rust, rot and ruin. If the weapon was damaged or broken, it is now considered perfectly made and is far more lethal than it was before. The quenched weapon now permanently scores a critical hit on a roll of 19 or 20.

Hearthstone. A rustic, red brick that feels pleasantly warm and smell like good stew and fresh bread. The bearer always knows the direction to a firepit, hearth, stove or fireplace where a fire has been lit at least in some way every day for the past 30 days.

Goblin Claw: A detached decrepit goblin hand that has three fingers extended. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can hold the claw and speak aloud one wish. In response, one finger of the goblin claw contracts and one goblin appears within 60 feet of the bearer. This goblin is completely loyal to the being who made the wish and will attempt to fulfill the wish to the best of its ability until the task is complete, the goblin drops to zero hit points or until 1 year passes, at which point the goblin will disappear leaving nothing behind. Once all fingers have contracted the Goblin Claw disintegrates and the item is destroyed. ---Note: If your game doesn’t have statistics for a goblin, use a Commoner or a Civilian instead.

Truly Portable Ram: A marvel of gnomish artifice, this battering ram functions just as well as a mundane portable ram but has been enchanted to only weigh half a pound. Furthermore, as an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can fold the ram in on itself several times until it becomes a 6-inch cube. Another action of the same type is required to unfold the ram for use.

Dryad’s Key: A lush, green leaf with a bug-bitten, key-like tooth at the bottom of its stem. While holding the leaf, the bearer can speak its command word and place it into or against a tree, turning it like a key and creating a magical link between the tree and another one at any distance, on the same plane of existence. The bearer must have seen or touched the destination tree at least once before and both plants must be at least as tall as the bearer. Until the end of the bearer's next turn any creature can step into the key-touched tree and exit from the destination plant by using five feet of movement. Once the leaf has been used in this way, it withers and becomes a nonmagical leaf.

Letter-Lift Paper: A pad of light tissue paper contains 4d6 sheets all enchanted with a subtle magic. When a sheet of paper is pressed to a written page, such as a book or letter, and left there for six seconds, it transfers a perfect copy of the text onto the thin paper. The copy would never pass for the original, but preserves details such as handwriting, which allows a forger to study the writing at length later on.

Antagonistic Alchemist’s Accoutrement: A heavy lead wand shot with veins of gold as if a natural philosopher had partially succeeded at transmuting the dull, worthless metal into its pure lustrous, treasured counterpart. The implement retains a portion of the transformation magic used upon it and can be used as a spellcasting focus with the added bonus of occasional repeating the transmutation effect on an unsuspecting victim. Whenever the wielder lands a critical hit with a spell attack roll that deals damage, small portions of the target’s body are transmuted into droplets of pure gold. The equivalent of one gold coin per point of hit point damage dealt by the critical hit (In total, to a maximum limit of the amount of hit points the target has remaining), tumbles out of the target’s body and falls to the ground in small nuggets to be collected after the fight. ---Note: DM’s can change the effect to function on the first time per day the wielder lands a critical hit if they feel their players will get distracted trying to abuse the effect to get rich rather than treating it as a fun, novel wand.

Transmuter’s Ring: A lead band, the work of a talented-but-lazy alchemist. In attempting to create a philosopher's stone, she got this far and called it a day. Once per day, the bearer can activate the ring as an action equivalent to an attack of opportunity, to turn himself into solid gold for one hour. From the bearer’s perspective, no time will pass and the effect cannot be ended early short of using dispelling or curse breaking magic on the statue. As the statue, the bearer is considered a magical object and indestructible by non-magical means but spells, magical effects and magic weapons treat the statue as pure gold, a weak metal. If the creature does become damaged while turned into a statue, he suffers from similar deformities when he reverts to his original state.

Zombie Drops: A squat, rectangular tin box containing 2d6+2 hard green pills the shape of raisins or (More accurately) shriveled nuggets of dead flesh. They emit a faint sulfurous stench but the outer surface tastes of nothing. If swallowed, the creature’s skin turns grey, rots and peels and their eyes sink and darken over the course of one minute. Afterwards they physically appear as a zombie for 3d4 hours and whenever they are targeted by a magical effect of any kind they are considered a living creature or an undead, whichever is most beneficial at the time. Unintelligent undead will not attack them and the consumer gains advantage on any check made to pass themselves off as an undead. Intelligent undead are not immediately aware that the consumer is actually alive. While under the effects of the drops, a creature’s speed is reduced by half and whenever they are injured by radiant damage, they suffer additional radiant damage equivalent to a shortsword (1d6)

Mending Stones: A leather tool pouch containing a collection of (3d4+1) smooth, round stones emblazoned with the sigil of Moradin glowing softly with the inner light of a forge. The bearer can activate one of the stones by touching it to a broken object and speaking the word “Mend” in Dwarvish. The stone then flares as bright as a hot forge and will repair any breaks or tears in a single object smaller than a five foot cube, such as a cracked anvil, broken door, rent armor or torn cloak. As long as the breaks or tears are no longer than five feet in any dimension, it is mended, leaving no trace of the former damage. If the area is larger, such as a large crumbling wall of crumbling masonry the stone only repairs a single five-foot cubed area. The stones can physically repair a magic item or construct, but the can’t restore magic to such an object. The stones can be used to repair animated constructs which restores the equivalent of three daggers worth of hit points (3d4). Each Mending Stone can only be used once, after activation the warmth and light within it permanently fades away.

Paladin's Placebo: A sealed glass vial containing a thick Randomly Colored oil-like potion. A single drop taken orally of this medicine will satisfy any craving for any drug or substance the user is addicted to and perfectly suppress any withdrawal symptoms from said narcotics. If consumed, the elixir also helps to clear the drinker’s body of the drug’s lingering effects and one dose counts as a full 24 hour period of detoxing for the purposes of overcoming an addiction. Paladin's Placebo enforces this sobriety without fail and for 24 hours after consuming a dose the drinker cannot become intoxicated by any means and feels no physical or mental effects from consuming drugs or alcohol (See note). When first found the vial contains 5d20+5 doses worth of the potion. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that Paladin's Placebo was invented by a former herbalist drug dealer that was coached by a paladin to quit their habit and change their life around. Ironically, the supply of the drug is tightly controlled by the Paladin order. ---Note: The wielder is still suffers from poison damage and can gain the poisoned condition. The wielder can still die as a result of consuming too much of a drug or alcohol and may in fact be more prone to it as they are unable to properly judge how much they have already taken.

SkullCap: A strange object that seems to be half hat and half funnel. The shape of the lower rim clearly shows where the hat may rest over the ears, but the top spreads open into a copper funnel. If this cap is placed on the head of a dead humanoid and a keg of wine or ale is poured down the funnel, the spirit of the deceased will return and answer one question (The spirit will answer truthfully though unclearly, as if inebriated). The corpse must still have a skull and mouth and can’t be undead. There is a 1 in 20 chance upon each use that the cap will split asunder and so be destroyed.

Chest of Preserving: A sturdy travel chest with multiple handholds designed to be easily carried or strapped into a wagon. The chest is 2½ feet long, 1½ feet wide, and 1 foot tall with a half-barrel lid. Food and other perishable items do not age or decay while inside the Chest of Preserving. The chest has a strong but nonmagical lock, which can be picked with thieves' tools. Smashing the lock or any other part of the chest renders it nonmagical.

The Devil’s Dice: A pair of six sided dice made from the knucklebones of sinners and pipped with the ichor of fiends. Once per day when the bearer makes an attack roll, ability check or saving throw, he can utter a request for profane support at a cost of a lien on his being and adds 2d6 to the roll. Once this is done an infernal mark appears somewhere noticeable on the bearer’s body (Typically the hands and face) symbolizing the deal with the devil. The lien is equal to the result of the 2d6 in days and the mark disappears at the end of the bargain. If the bearer is already marked, the deal is extended by that many days. While the wilder is marked, he suffers disadvantage on death saving throws and if he dies, his body and equipment is consumed in black flame leaving a greasy char and his soul becomes owned by the devil and cannot be raised from the dead or resurrected by any means. While marked, the bearer has disadvantage on attack rolls against fiends and on saving throws against their spells and special abilities.

Daimonori: An occult pendant that is hot to the touch, a heat that seeps into your core and fills you with a new confidence. You're unsure if this power is entirely your own, but its intoxicating lure is seemingly beyond your power to resist. Whenever the bearer casts a spell that does damage, he increases the result of one of the spell’s damage rolls by 1.

Potion of Animal Friendship: A sealed glass vial containing a sludgy solution that when shaken, reveals various chunks and bits from different animals. Sniffing at the contents, you are alarmed to find that its odor is even less appetizing than the off-putting presentation. If consumed, the drinker gains advantage on any ability checks to interact socially with beasts and they understand the drinker’s words empathically, though they cannot speak back. These effects last for one hour and there are 2d4+2 doses of the potion when found

Ring of Minor Telekinesis: A brass ring set with a clear piece of quartz crudely chipped into the shape of a human hand. When not worn and someone attempts to pick it up, the band seems to leap into the creature’s hand at the last moment and if flinging itself into their grasp. The bearer can use an action equivalent to attacking to call on the ring’s power to create an invisible hand of telekinetic force that can manipulate objects, open an unlocked door or container, stow or retrieve an item from an open container, or pour the contents out of a vial. The hand cannot be created or move farther than 30 feet from the bearer and it cannot attack, activate magical items or carry more than 10 pounds. The hand lasts for 1 minute, until dismissed by the bearer or if it is ever more than 30 feet away from the bearer.

Wand of Binding: A heavy wand of black iron. Observer’s eyes are immediately drawn to the end of the instrument, which has been meticulously fashioned into the shape of a manacle. On the wielder’s turn if he has not moved yet, he can activate the wand as part of casting a spell, which causes his speed to become 0 until the end of his turn. When the wand is activated as part of casting a spell that reduces the target’s movement speed or imposes the grapple, restrained or paralyzed condition, all creatures targeted by the spell subtract 1d4 from the spell’s first saving throw.

Liandry's Torment: A mask seemingly made of porcelain but does not shatter when impacted, its origins unknown. The covering is extremely cold to the touch, and as it’s pulled over the bearer’s face, the pupils of his eyes slowly expand until nothing but blackness remains. The object empowers the bearer’s targeted magic and whenever the bearer hits a creature with a spell attack, the victim burns briefly with a dark flame, suffering a dagger’s worth of necrotic damage (1d4) in addition to the spell’s effects. If the spell target’s multiple creatures, each creature hit with a spell attack suffers this damage and if the bearer lands multiple spell attacks upon a single target, the necrotic damage is compounded.

Righteous Glory: A beautiful winged helm of burnished gold with a light and open design, allowing it to be used by martial mages. Whenever the bearer casts a spell of 1st-level or higher, he regains hit points equal to the level of the spell slot expended. The bearer must be proficient in light armor in order to attune to the helm and benefit from its power. The bearer must wear the helm for at least one hour in order to attune to it.

Tear of the Goddess: A deep blue sapphire pendant, encased within blue glass, shaped like a teardrop. The object is overflowing with emotional energy and should the bearer hold it against his bear skin and concentrate on it he alternates wildly between wanting to shed tears of joy and grief, as if the jewel is the pinnacle of both. The Tear contains 1 charge that replenishes each day at dawn. Whenever the bearer scores a natural 1 or 20 on a spell attack roll, he may choose to activate the pendant, expending the charge and regaining the spell slot used to cast the spell. Furthermore whenever a creature is forced to make a saving throw against one of the bearer’s spells and scores a natural 1 or 20, he may choose to activate the pendant, expending the charge and regaining the spell slot used to cast the spell.

Eldritch Elixir: A leaded glass vial filled the ichor of an elder being whose eldritch form is maddening to behold. When sipped, aberrant corruption floods the drinker's body, spawning an unnatural mutation. The drinker feels a momentary flare of agonizing pain somewhere on his person as a ten-foot-long tentacle bursts forth from the site, bypassing armor and clothing. The sinuous tentacle is heavily muscled like a long dry tongue covered in irregular blemishes, unnatural mottled coloring, small patches of hair and misshapen areas of perfectly smooth or heavily calloused skin. The abnormal limb is prehensile and can stretch out to ten feet allowing the drinker to grab and hold (But not wield) objects, initiate grapples, shoves or other combat maneuvers and deliver touch attacks or spells that have a range of touch, all with the increased reach. The limb can even be swung with force as an unarmed attack the drinker is considered proficient with that deals as much damage as a club with a reach of ten feet. The tentacle last for one hour before retracting back into the drinker's body. When found the vial contains 1d3+1 sips of the ichor.

Guardwell’s Alarming Caltrops: A thick, reinforced leather bag of otherwise unassuming caltrops that would be indistinguishable from their more common counterparts were it not for the tiny flecks of sapphire dust embedded in the metal and a whisper-soft hum identify their nature. These twisted spiked were developed to not only slow intruders but to announce their presence as well. Whenever a creature steps on them, the caltrops let out a loud bang that can be heard up to 100 feet away. The sound of the noise is diminished by solid barriers such as walls or doors. A creature within ten feet of the caltrops can utter the command word found on their leather bag to cause them to all fling themselves back into the sack so they can be used elsewhere. Retrieving the caltrops this way takes an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell.

Hush Money: A small coin pouch containing 2d4+2 gold coins that appear to be ordinary bit of currency on the surface, but feature a pair of lips with a finger held up to them as if shushing the viewer. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can take out a coin and toss or flip it upwards and catch it to mute the area. For the next minute, no sound can be created within or pass through a 20-foot-radius sphere centered on where the bearer flipped the coin. Any creature or object entirely inside the sphere is immune to thunder damage, and creatures are deafened while entirely inside it. Casting a spell that includes a verbal component is impossible there. Once used, the coin’s golden sheen fades to a dull silver color and it cannot be used again.

Belt of the Monkey: A metal belt made of silver monkeys locked arm in arm with tiny pieces of jade in the primate’s eyes. The bearer feels the tickling urge to treat the world as a playground by swinging on objects, climbing trees, and scaling buildings. As an action equivalent to drawing a weapon, the bearer can command the belt to animate, transforming it into a prehensile tail under the bearer's control. While it cannot be used to wield weapons or shields, the tail can retrieve small, stowed objects carried on his person then hold and manipulate them about as well as the bearer's normal limbs (Though any activity requiring fingers is beyond the tail’s capabilities). The bearer can command the tail to return to its belt form as an action equivalent to drawing a weapon.

Gauntlets of Titangrip: A pair of hefty mitts made of a secretive dwarven iron alloy and are carved with runes on the backhand and palms. The knuckles are embellished with stout talons. The gauntlets greatly enhance the bearer’s grip, allowing him to wrestle with creatures twice his size and win. When worn, the bearer counts as one size larger than he is for the purposes of grappling, including initiating, maintaining or resisting a grapple check. Whenever the bearer makes a grapple check, he can roll 1d4 and add the number rolled to the grapple check.

Rod of the Grave Titan: A leaden rod wrapped in the leathery skin of an undead giant. At each end of the implement is an inverted pyramid with skull motifs carved into it. Twice per day as an action equivalent to attacking, the wielder can choose an undead creature within 60 feet and cause them to grow to titanic proportions. The undead and everything it is wearing and carrying doubles in all dimensions, and its weight is multiplied by eight. This growth increases its size by one category (From medium to large for example) and while enlarged it has advantage on skill checks and saving throws that rely on strength. The undead’s weapons also grow to match its new size and while enlarged, the creature’s melee attacks deal a dagger’s worth of additional damage (1d4). These effects last for one minute before the undead and its equipment shrink back to normal size. The bearer can end this effect early at any time and the effect also ends if the bearer is no longer holding the rod.

Honeyed Mourning Cloth: A thin black scarf made of silk, embroidered in gold thread with a hexagon pattern that lines one edge. It smells strongly of flowers and fresh honey, and leaves a sweet residue when handled. When draped over an object, the Honeyed Mourning Cloth renders it completely silent. The silenced object must be completely covered to be affected, but the cloth can muffle everything from a blaring warhorn to a small animal’s heartbeat. The scarf is 3 feet long and 1 foot wide.

Empty Dance Card: An antique paper dance card in excellent condition, printed with twelve dances and spaces for a lady to record the men she has promised each one to. Linework flowers and the silhouettes of a dancing couple decorate the margins. A short length of ribbon is tied through a hole at one corner, then knotted at the end to form a bracelet loop. Looking through the hole of the dance card reveals thin silver chains connecting people who have made physical contact with each other in the past fortnight. The mess of chains this creates in populated areas can make distinguishing individual links difficult, but possible if two people are standing close together.

Figurine of Wondrous Power (Polar Bear): A carved bone statuette of an artic bear small enough to fit in a pocket. When the item is available to be activated, the figuring is cloaked in a detailed illusion causing it to look and feel stunningly realistic. During this time the miniature bear ripples with muscle under its soft white fur. Its black nose is like a small lump of pure coal, the eyes obsidian beads. One paw after another (Each the size of a serving dish in its active form) lift lazily and thumps unto the illusionary ice it stands on. When the white bear stands and opens its dark mouth, you feel the terrifying presence of a pure savage wearing the coat of an angel. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can speak the command word and throw the figurine to a point on the ground within 30 feet and the object grows into a full-sized polar bear if there is room for it to do so. The beast is friendly to the bearer and his companions. It understands the bearer`s languages and obeys his spoken commands. Should the bearer issue no commands, the creature defends itself but takes no other actions. The bear reverts back to its statuette form after ten minutes and changes back early if it drops to 0 hit points or if the bearer uses an action equivalent to attacking to speak the command word while touching it. Once the figurine has been activated in this way, it cannot be used again until a number have days have passed equal to the amount of hit points the polar bear was missing from its hit point total plus 1. ---Note: If the bear was missing 10 hit points it can’t be used again until 11 days had passed. If the polar bear was reduced to 0 hit points, it cannot be used again until a number of days equal to its full hit point total plus one.

Deathoscope: A collapsible brass spyglass with no lenses. Looking at a corpse through this implement will show a color indicating how long the creature has been dead. White = Not dead. Purple = Less than one hour. Blue = 1-24 hours dead. Green = 1-365 days dead. Yellow = 1-10 years dead. Orange = 10-100 years dead. Red = More than 100 years.

Phamea's Pocket Steed: A small brass whistle, shaped like the head of a horse and stained with age. When the whistle is blown an extremely high-pitched note is emitted, summoning a magical steed that serves just like a trained warhorse. It will stay until the whistle is blown again which unsummons it. However, if the horse is slain, its body disappears, and the whistle will never emit a sound again.

Dragon’s Tear: An enormous green emerald gemstone that hangs from a silver chain. Knowledgeable PC's are aware that legends says the emerald was formed from the tears of the Mother of Dragons as she mourned the death of the Great Serpent. While worn, whenever the bearer makes a saving throw against poison or being poisoned, he can roll 1d4 and add the number rolled to the saving throw. Furthermore, whenever the bearer suffers poison damage, he can roll 1d4 and reduce the total poison damage taken by the number rolled to a minimum of zero. The pendant provides neither of these protections if the poison originates from a dragon or draconic creature.

Crosswind Medallion: A weathered medallion bearing a carving of an arc of leaves blowing in a strong wind. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as the iconic adornment of Silent Joff, a long-dead archer who never spoke and never missed. Wearing this item against the skin creates a strong breeze that constantly surrounds the bearer, redirecting enemy arrows away. Whenever the bearer is hit by a ranged weapon such as an arrow, bolt or bullet, he can roll 1d8 and reduce the total damage taken by the number rolled to a minimum of 0.

Everfull Begging Bowl: A Large worn wooden bowl whose outside is humbly decorated with motifs of the God of Sacrifice, the archangel of charity and the patron saints of beggars. Once per day at noon, if the bearer has no silver or gold on his person he can choose to gain a level of exhaustion as if going a night without sleep and cause the bowl to fill with 1d100 copper pieces.

Slate of Memory: A cracked writing slate that attracts the eye and projects an unpleasant aura. Anything written or drawn upon the slate will be remembered perfectly by the author as long as the marks remain upon the slate. The memory is purged completely and utterly the moment its marks are removed from the slate.

Cantrips and You; A Beginner's Guide: A thick, leather-bound book emblazoned with arcane symbols. The work is a primer on simple magical theory and contains instructions of the basic mechanics of spellcasting. A creature who has read the volume for at least an hour a day for the past week obtains a rudimentary understanding of the esoteric arts and gains the ability to cast one wizard cantrip of their choice that does not deal damage. The nature of spellcasting is demanding and precise and should the creature not keep up with studying the book for an hour per day they fall out of practice and must spend another week pouring over the tome’s pages. A creature who has gained a cantrip from reading the book can switch it to a different cantrip that doesn’t deal damage after reading the book for one hour. If the reader has spent 365 cumulative hours reading the book over the course of one year, he becomes proficient with one wizard cantrip of his choice that does not deal damage and no longer needs to consult the book each day to cast it.

Broadsheet’s Booklet: A wooden clipboard-like pad containing a hundred blank sheets of cheap pulp paper. Anything written on the first page is duplicated through the entire stack of 100. Once per day, when all the pages have been removed, it refills itself. 24 hours after being removed from the pad, the papers disintegrates.

Death Seeking Lantern: A bullseye lantern made from polished brass and bears the image of the sun engraved over the lens. It burns with a pure white light when lit, which reacts to undead creatures, causing them to give off a faint orange glow when exposed to it. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that traveling undead hunters will make use of these lanterns when meeting strangers in unfamiliar territory. If an undead creature is disguising themselves with magical or mundane means, any creatures observing the undead within the lantern’s bright light gains advantage on checks made to pierce the disguise and recognize them as an undead creature. While the lantern is filled with oil and lit, the bearer can focus the bullseye shutter into a fine point and utter a command word, causing the oil to burn with holy fire, casting tight beam of searing light forward. The wielder can target on creature he can see within 60 feet and activate the lantern as an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell. The lantern is perfectly accurate at close range and if the target is undead and is within 5-30 feet, it suffers radiant damage equivalent to a halberd plus the wielder’s character level (1d10+level) and half that damage if the target is 35-60 feet from the wielder. Targets who are not undead, suffer no damage. Once activated in this way the lantern becomes empty and the light goes out. It takes two hands and one full round to refill the lantern with another pint of oil.

Dread Pirate’s Hat: A black felt bicorne hat with gold trim along its edges and it prominently features white skull-and-crossbones symbol across its front. The hat subtly alters the bearer’s appearance to make them seem more fearsome. They appear taller, with sharper features and have a number of scars crisscrossing their face. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that not every pirate who sails the seas is as bloodthirsty as the legends claim. Some find that the threat of violence rather than violence itself is a very good motivator. Whenever the bearer makes an intimidate check he can roll 1d4 and add the result to the total skill check. Furthermore, the bearer can cause his voice to boom up to three times as loud as normal allowing him to threaten passing ships from farther away.

Word Bomb: A one-inch long clear crystal cone that is small enough to fit in the palm of one's hand. To activate a Word Bomb simply hold the cone up to your mouth, squeeze it and speak a trigger word. Activating a Word Bomb causes its color to shift from clear to a smoky grey. A Word Bomb stays in its activated state until the trigger word is spoken again within a 20-foot radius of it. Once the trigger word is spoken again the Word Bomb explodes dealing five shortswords of thunder damage (5d6) to all creatures and objects within a 20-foot radius of it. Any creature within the blast that suffers more than 15 damage (After accounting for damage resistances or immunities) also becomes deafened for one minute. This consumes the Word Bomb entirely. A Word Bomb cannot be activated or triggered in an area under the effect of a magical silence spell.

The Yeetering: A simple silver ring precisely etched with the image of a catapult on it. The ring is bound by fey trickery and its wielder is doomed to cause unintended mischief when he least expects it but almost always at the most inopportune times. Whenever the wielder touches a new object (See Note) that is no more than three feet across on one side and weights no more than 50 pounds, the DM rolls 1D100. If the result is a 100, the item launches itself at inhuman speed in a random direction in an apparent effort to get as far away from the wielder as possible. The item only stops moving when it hits something at which time it falls to the ground unharmed, dealing no injuries and suffering no damage. The ring is considered cursed and cannot be removed short or lopping off the finger its on or by the use of curse breaking magics. ---A “new object” should be something the wielder has never physically interacted with before, but as the ring is fey cursed, it would not be surprising for it to launch objects whenever its funny to do so.

The Skull of Scouting: An obsidian skull whose lower jaw yawns open. A candle with a blue flame that provides no light sits in the open mouth. This skull acts as a hooded lantern to the attuned wielder, providing bright bluish light for 30 feet and dim light for an additional 30ft. Creatures not attuned to the object are not able to perceive this light whatsoever. To attune to the Skull, the bearer must spend one hour alone with it staring into the candle’s flame in a dark area.

Lute of Draconic Presence: A wooden lute inlaid with carvings of red and blue dragons in flight. The strings are made from the intestines of an adult dragon and have a metallic sheen that sparkle in the light. Plucking a single string to produce a pure, low resonating note that can be felt in one's bones. By strumming the instrument, the player can produce a deep reverberating note that causes every non-dragon to become shaken as though a primal evolutionary fear of dragons drove a spike of fear into the core of their being. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, a wielder proficient with lutes can play the instrument with a perform skill check causing all non-draconic creatures within 50 feet (Excluding the wielder but including his allies) to make a wisdom saving throw. Any creature whose saving throw is lower than the wielder's perform check, becomes frightened of the wielder until the end of the wielder's next turn. A creature who succeeds in the saving throw gains advantage on all saving throws made to resist the fear effect for the next minute. This mind-affecting fear effect and creature must be able to hear the lute to be affected by it.

Eldritch Obelisk: A foot-long twisted onyx pyramidion carved with countless staring eyes. Each creature that stares directly at the warped artifact for more than a few moments suffers an intense migraine as fragmented visions of the future assail them. The omen is only ever of the viewer’s own life and always sooner than later. The viewer must roll 1d20 and record the result. At any point in the future, that creature may change the result of any attack roll, saving throw or skill check of a creature they can see (Including themselves) to that result. Once they do so they lose this ability, and they cannot receive a new vision from the obelisk for a year and a day.

Oil of the Martyr: A sealed black iron flask filled with oil made from the rendered fat of burned martyrs and mixed with sacred herbs grown on holy ground. If a person's head is anointed with the aromatic substance from the vessel, death will spare the creature. The next time the anointed creature would drop to 0 hit points as a result of taking damage, he instead drops to 1 hit point, and the effect ends. If the spell is still in effect when the creature is subjected to an effect that would kill it instantaneously without dealing damage, that hostile effect is instead negated against the target, and the oil wears off. When found the flask contains 1d4+2 uses of the oil.

Palegray Blood: A small vial, containing a milky, dreg-filled, grey liquid known as “Palegray blood”, said to have been taken from a race of gelatinous creatures from beyond the stars. When a creature ingests or injects this liquid, their body becomes gelatinous for a short period of time - roughly 1 hour per dosage of Palegray blood. While gelatinous, a creature has advantage on checks made to escape grapples, may climb vertical surfaces and surfaces parallel to the ground, and may squeeze through gaps as small as one inch wide. However, clothes and equipment being worn are not affected by the Palegray blood, and may need to be left behind in order to enter spaces that are too small for them to pass through.

Palegray Blood: A small vial, containing a milky, dreg-filled, grey liquid known as “Palegray blood”, said to have been taken from a race of gelatinous creatures from beyond the stars. When a creature ingests or injects this liquid, their body becomes gelatinous for one hour which confers many advantages at the cost of their well-being, as they suffer two daggers wroth of poison damage (2d4). While gelatinous, a creature has advantage on checks made to escape grapples or restraints and can climb vertical surfaces and surfaces parallel to the ground and may squeeze through gaps as small as one inch wide. However, clothes and equipment being worn are not affected by the Palegray blood, and may need to be left behind in order to enter spaces that are too small for them to pass through.

Transmogrification Tonic: A ruby vial filled with a mixture of organs and viscera from several types of eldritch aberrations whose mutable forms were in constant flux while they lived. When consumed, the drinker gains control over total control over his physical form and can mold his own flesh as if it was wet clay. The process is painful for a few moments before the drinker is able to disassociate from his nervous system and then it’s just unsettlingly. For the next hour the drinker can change his appearance at will and can decide what he looks like, including his height, weight, sex, facial features, sound of his own voice, hair length, coloration, and distinguishing characteristics, if any. He can make himself appear as a member of another race, though none of his statistics change. He can appear taller or shorter but not enough that he moves into a different size category. His general shape stays the same and retains the same number and arrangement of limbs. For one hour after consuming the tonic, the drinker is considered an aberration in addition to his creature type and as an action equivalent to attacking the he can change his appearance in this way again. These are true physical changes that hold up to a touch or medical inspection and after the hour is up the traces of eldritch power fades, rendering magic detecting spells useless to discerning that the drinker was supernaturally altered. At the end of the hour the tonic’s transmutative effects fade but any final changes remain, leaving the drinker’s appearance permanently altered to whatever his last form was. The drinker is instinctively perfectly aware of his own “natural” form and while under the effect of the tonic can change back to his original shape without difficulty.

Primordial Calabash: A bottle shaped gourd with smooth, light green skin and white flesh. The lush fruit is ripe and looks recently plucked despite not having been on a vine for months at least. It thrums with primal power and feels warm and wonderful, like bright sunlight on your skin after being trapped inside all winter. The sealed gourd was grown in a sacred druid grove, its roots reaching deep into ley lines of power soaking up supernatural energy like water. The calabash is filled with a raw juice that is infused with this power and sipping of the nectar will allow a creature to briefly gain a measure of the primal magic as it disperses through the body and may solidify that power as part of his being. Success will grant a preternatural benefit but failure will degrade the drinker’s mind and body. A creature can sip from the gourd as an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell and choose one of his ability scores (Such as Strength or Wisdom) and roll 1d10. On a result of 3-10, the drinker increases that ability score by +1 (To a maximum of the limit for PC ability scores) but on a 1 or 2, that ability score is decreased by -1. This change is a permanent effect and the calabash’s contents cannot affect the same ability score more than once. When found the Calabash contains 1d3+1 sips of its primordial essence.

Potions of Arms: A sealed glass vial in the shape of a clenched fist, filled with a clear liquid that changes to match the skin tone of whoever is holding it. When held, the bearer’s arms and sides tingle warmly, feeling strong and tough. If sipped, a primordial deluge of raw magic coursing through the drinker’s body forcing an evolutionary surge. The drinker experiences a strange tingling sensation under his shoulders and a secondary pair of arms burst out of his sides, bypassing armor and clothing. The extra arms lack the refined muscle memory of the drinker’s normal limbs and are considered non-dominate or off-hands which are capable of holding objects (But not wielding them) and performing basic tasks but nothing that requires finesse or skill. The additional limbs are as well muscled their counterparts, allowing the caster to excel at tasks that simply require overwhelming strength or sheer brute force. The caster is able to give himself a couple of helping hands and gains advantage on all strength checks and any rolls made to grapple, climb or wrestle. The extra arms last for 8 hours before retracting back into the caster’s body. When found the vial contains 1d3+1 sips of the potion.

The Wand of Fireworks: A wand consisting of a thin shaft of wood that holds a glass sphere at its tip. The sphere contains a dazzling display of sparks and flashes that crackle when held. The wand has 7 charges. While holding it, the bearer can use an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell to expend 1 of its charges and create a harmless burst of multicolored light at a point he can see up to 60 feet away. The burst of light is accompanied by a crackling noise that can be heard up to 300 feet away. The light is as bright as a torch flame but lasts only a few seconds. The wand regains 1d6 + 1 expended charges daily at dawn. If the bearer expends the wand's last charge, roll a d20. On a 1, the wand erupts in a harmless pyrotechnic display and is destroyed.

The Box of Princely Comeliness: A comprehensive, magical make-up box filled with make-ups and powders, blushes and rouges, small bottles of scented oils and perfumes. When used correctly The box makes the ugly comely, the tongue tied more dashing, and the social butterfly into an alluring magnet of attention. It can be used as a disguise kit and when used in this way, the user to adds 1d4 to the result of any skill checks made to disguise themselves with it as well as any Deception or Perform checks made to pass themselves off as the person of character they have disguised themselves as. To benefit from this, the bearer must spend ten minutes applying the makeup and the benefits last for 2d4 hours. The box replenishes its stock of powders, oils, lotions, and accessories every day at dawn.

Doom Siren: A tiny clockwork box lets out an ominous dirge audible up to 100 feet when an intelligent creature dies within 100 feet of it.

Devil Salts: A sealed leaded vial filled with course red salts. Distilled from the molten sweat of demons, a whiff of these crystals fills a creature with fiendish resilience at the cost of a few seconds of sanity. It is best saved from emergencies... As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, he bearer can open the vial and hold it to the face of an unconscious or dying creature. The downed creature regains a dagger’s worth of hit points per character level (1d4 X their level) and becomes violently conscious as they screaming and flail in terror for a few moments. The creature immediately jumps to their feet and takes the dodge action. The revived creature is considered frightened and cannot take actions or movement until the end of his next turn other than to stand up, dodge defensively and scream as loudly as possible. When first found the vial contains 6d6 uses of the Devil Salts.

Mages Manacles: A pair of bulky brass manacles held together by a sturdy brass bar inscribed with abjuration runes. The bindings prevent the creature from casting spells that require hand movements or somatic components. A creature who is bound by both manacles cannot regain spell slots by any means, including through rest, class or racial abilities or by use of potions or wondrous items.

Compass of the Homesick: A compass with a small compartment under the dial which can be filled with earth, sand, dirt or small pebbles. The compass dial features two needles. The small needle always points towards the magnetic north. However, the large needle always points towards the location the material in the compartment was taken from, allowing the bearer to always find their way to their home ground. If the compartment is empty, filled with any other type of material, or material taken from another plane of existence, the needle slowly spins around aimlessly.

Martyr’s Vow: A steel amulet painted with a palm marred by a crimson swirl. The amulet can be used as holy symbol for the purposes of casting spells or channeling divine might. When a creature you can see within 30 feet of you takes damage, as a reaction equivalent to an attack of opportunity the bearer can reduce the damage the target takes by the equivalent of a longsword (1d8) to a minimum of 0. Each time the bearer does this, he suffers the amount of damage that he spared the target from and this damage cannot be reduced in any way.

Moss Quiver: A soft leather quiver sporting an inner lining fashioned from moss. It is said that any arrow placed within will make no noise on impact. Although hard to believe, this species of moss certainly has a reputation from the marshes it is found within. The strange plant quickly covers projectiles placed within it with a layer of soft, sound absorbing moss but the material quickly dries out and dies when away from the quiver. When the bearer is hidden from a creature and misses it with a ranged weapon attack with a projectile or thrown weapon drawn from the quiver (arrow, bullet, javelin, etc.) that round, making the attack doesn't reveal the wielder's position.

Scroll of Shielding: A venerable spell scroll decorated with a crude drawing of a warrior's shield displaying an unknown crest of a kingdom long lost. A bearer capable of casting spells can read out the written incantation (As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell) to grant themselves or a creature they can see within 30 feet a spectral shield that floats around them creating a protective barrier. This consumes the scroll but for the next hour, the target’s armor class or physical defenses are increased as if he was properly wielding a shield. The wielder may benefit from the armor class bonus (Typically a +2) even if he is already wielding a shield.

Potion of Witchy Healing: A hag-brewed healing draught that does the job but at a terrible price to one’s taste buds and stomach. The fetid potion knits bones, seals flesh and stanches the flow of blood from mortal wounds. As an action equivalent to attacking, the bearer can drink it himself or administer it to another conscious or unconscious creature. The drinker immediate regains three dagger’s worth of hit points (3d4+3). For one hour after consuming the potion, the drinker's digestive system is so upset that he gains no benefits of any kind from consuming a potion, elixir or helpful alchemical substance.

Death's Head: A grossly mutated Random Humanoid skull filled with the most virulent poxes of Nurgle the Plaguelord and sealed with blood-laced wax. It explodes when thrown at the enemy, showering them in filthy pus and rot. As an action equivalent to attacking, the wielder can throw Death's Head as a weapon they're considered proficient with at an enemy within 30 feet. On a successful attack, Death's Head deals five daggers worth of poison damage (5d4) and if the target suffers 10 points of damage or more, it is also poisoned for one minute. The damage that Death's Head deals ignores resistances to poison damage but not immunity.

Instrument of Illusions: A Random Musical Instrument that is an exquisite example of its kind, and is superior to an ordinary instrument in every way. While playing this musical instrument, the bearer can create harmless and obviously illusory effects within a 30 foot radius. These effects can include images, shapes, colors, sound, movement, and slight changes in temperature. Anyone experiencing these illusions is aware that the illusions are emanating from the instrument.

Murderer’s Gloves: A pair of gloves made of thin black leather and have a silver dagger embroidered on the dorsal side of the hand. While worn, the wielder's Sneak Attack damage dice are increased from d6's to d8's.

Moonstone: A warm blond stone the size and shape of a chestnut that feels smooth and oily. It glows with soft light like a brave candle when in areas of darkness.

Whispers of the Forgotten Tome: A small, weathered leather-bound book is filled with cryptic symbols and ancient text. Its pages emanate a faint glow, hinting at the secrets it holds. When opened, the pages softly rustle as if whispering forgotten knowledge and consulting the tome can grant limited insight into hidden truths. Once per day, the bearer can ask a single question about their immediate surroundings, and the book will provide a brief and enigmatic but truthful answer. The answer may come in the form of a riddle, a cryptic phrase, or a symbolic image. The interpretation of the answer is left to the bearer's discretion. Additionally, the presence of the book may occasionally attract the attention of scholars, sages, or those intrigued by ancient lore. This can lead to unexpected encounters, opportunities for knowledge exchange, or even quests related to forgotten mysteries.

Whispering Coin of Serendipity: A small, silver coin with intricate engravings on both sides. The object appears slightly worn, hinting at its mysterious history and when held, it emits a faint, soothing aura. The coin is fickle and grant its possessor a run of unexpected luck for good or ill when called upon when the bearer flips it and tries his fortune. Once per day as an action equivalent to attacking, the bearer can flip the coin and must roll 1d20. On an even numbered result, the bearer adds +1d4 to the result of any attack roll, saving throw or skill check he makes for the next 24 hours. On an odd numbered result, the bearer must subtract 1d4 from the result of any attack roll, saving throw and skill checks he makes for the next 24 hours.

Battlemage's Wristguard: An exquisite accessory crafted from dark brown leather and adorned with intricate brass metalwork. Wisps of blue and white arcane energy streak across the leather wristguard, forming mesmerizing cracks and patterns. Created as a basic defense for battlemages, it collects excess arcane power that’s emitted while the caster is channeling a spell and uses it to power a shield to guard the wearer from attacks and distractions. Whenever the bearer is actively concentrating on a spell, his Armor Class is increased as if he was properly wielding a shield (Typically a +2) and the wielder adds +1d4 to the result of any checks made to maintain concentration on the spell.

Urchin’s Reminder: A kelp bracelet beaded with irregularly round and dimpled carvings of ironoak; it is always damp against the skin. The band holds a simple dweomer crafted by a mercenary captain who was seeking enlightenment and wanted to stop his emotions getting the best of him. Whenever the bearer gains the Charmed or Frightened condition, spines erupt from the dimpled beads, focusing his mind and drawing a trickle of blood and dealing 1 point of piercing damage to the bearer. If the damage allows the bearer to reroll a saving throw against the effect causing him to be Charmed or Frightened, he adds +1d4 to the result of the reroll.

Castaway's Compass: A small, well-worn brass compass with a rich patina. When the compass is submerged in seawater, the needle changes from red to green and spins to point towards the nearest dry land.

Diem: A ring with cerulean strands intertwining themselves with similar white strands. Engraved upon the blue strands are symbols denoting the grace of water, and upon the white, symbols denoting the swift, fierceness of air. Once per day the bearer may activate the ring, allowing the bearer to activate a class ability, racial feature or other magic item that is only usable once short or long rest (Or once per day) that the bearer has already used for day. Activating the ring takes the same action as the power or ability that the bearer is trying to reactivate. When Diem is first found it has 1d4 charges on it. When Diem is activated, roll 1d20 and if the rolled number is the same or less than the number of charges on the ring, it crumbles into ashes and is destroyed. If the rolled number is greater than the amount of charges, it remains intact but gains 1 charge. There is no way to remove charges from the ring. ---Note: This item is vaguely worded and in theory could be activated to recast a wizard's highest level spell or to use Arcane Recovery again, it could be used for a fighter's Action Surge or Second Wind or grant a cleric another Channel Divinity. If the item is too strong, the DM is free to add more charges to it when the PC's find it or to make it gain 1 charge on an ability that the PC would regain on a short rest and 2 charges for something regained on a long rest.

Primal Bracers: A pair of matching silver bracers decorated with intricate leaf patterns made of emeralds. Their beauty alone is enough for it to be worth something but the minor power it possesses over the natural world adds considerably to its value. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that wondrous items like these were created by the Druid Dyonis and used to train and help new druids to the order. As an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell, the bearer can instantly make a flower bloom, a seed pod open, or a leaf bud bloom. Alternatively he can create an instantaneous, harmless sensory effect, such as falling leaves, a puff of wind, the sound of a small animal, or the faint order of skunk. The effect must fit in a 5-foot cube. Lastly the bearer can create a tiny, harmless sensory effect that predicts what the weather will be at his location for the next 24 hours. The effect might manifest as a golden orb for clear skies, a cloud for rain, falling snowflakes for snow, and so on. This effect persists until the start of the bearer’s next turn.

Cursed Cloak of Curses: A cursed cloak riddled with sewn on hexes, signs of ill omens and unlucky patterns, that would cause any superstitious viewer to want to throw it into the nearest fire. Closer inspect reveals even more invitations of calamity woven into the cloth itself; A small shard from a broken mirror, a hair from a black cat, skin of a toad, the feather of a dead raven, a vial of spilled salt, a deformed opal, and so on. The intense mixture of dozens of different minor misfortunes all clashing together actually seems to protect its bearer rather than causing him hardship. No single source of bad luck wins out, each fighting with the other and banding together to ward off any additional curses. The wearer adds 1d4 to the result of any saving throws he makes to resist curse type spells or effects. This includes any additional saving throws the curse might impose or if the bearer is suffering from an ongoing curse, any regular saving throws to resist or break free. Unsurprising, the cloak emits a strong malignant aura and easily registers as a cursed item for anyone capable of detecting cursed objects.

Scales of Accounting: A brass merchant scale that includes a small balance, pans, and a suitable assortment of weights up to 2 pounds. With it, you can measure the exact weight of small objects, such as raw precious metals or trade goods, to help determine their worth. Furthermore, a bearer can place one hand on the scale and another hand on a pile of gold, silver, copper or platinum coins within a 5-foot cube, the bearer can will the pile to be converted to their exact equivalent value in gold, silver copper or platinum coins.

Goblin Birthing Knife: An old rusty dagger with a wide and forbidding blade, shaped like a serrated leaf to cause greatest bloodletting. Despite its decrepit appearance, the blade projects the most fell sense of dark sorcery. Within one minute of using the Goblin Birthing Knife to kill a humanoid creature of medium sized or larger, the wielder can spend an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell to slit open that corpse's belly to reveal a newly birthed (But fully grown) Goblin. This goblin will have a favorable disposition to its creator but is wicked in its stupidity. Each time it is used in this way roll 1d20 and on a result of a 1, the blade will break off, nullifying the enchantment.

Serpent Lens: A monocle that appears to have a vertical pupil and is rimmed with snake skin in a configuration allowing it to fit over a wearer's right eye, like an eyepatch, though it does not have a strap. It radiates vivimantic energy and registers as a cursed item to spells and abilities that can detect it. If pressed over an eye, the lens will burrow into the wearer's face, consuming the wearer's natural eye in the process. This replacement is quite painful, taking an entire minute to complete while the wearer writhes in agony and is completely incapacitated. Afterwards, the bearer’s normal vision is unaffected but he can detect and identify poison and poisonous creatures by sight as they’re surrounded by a faint aura. Strength and danger of specific poisons may be detected, but the amount of detail available will vary based on knowledge and experience. The wearer is considered attuned to the Serpent Lens which consumes an attunement slot. If the wearer is targeted by a Remove Curse effect, the Lens falls out harmlessly and the bearer’s eye reappears. Should the Lens be removed by force, the process is incredibly painful and the bearer’s eye socket remains empty. Either method of removes breaks the attunment to the Serpent Lens.

Tablet of Opening: A thin sheet of stone carved with runes of opening and destruction. If pressed against a door, chest or 5-foot section of wall no more than 3 feet thick and shattered with a hammer, the door so pressed will similarly shatter. Shattering the tablet requires an action equivalent to attacking or casting a spell but any creature capable of swinging a hammer is capable of it.

Worklight: A leather headband with a small circular geode attached. The sparkling rock is marked with harsh rudimentary runes. The bearer can tap the crude markings to activate it which causes the crystals within the stone to cast a bright purple-amethyst light in a 60-foot cone and dim light for an additional 60 feet. Tapping the geode again turns the light off.

Potion of Resting: A sealed glass vial containing a green bubbling potion which tastes like lime. If consumed, the drinker’s body immediately attempts falls into a lethargic half-sleep while his body attempts to repair itself. For the next minute the drinker suffers disadvantage on all attack rolls, skill checks and saving throws and his speed is reduced by half. At the end of the minute, the drinker gains all the benefits of a short rest, as if had been able to lie down comfortably for a full hour.

Diluted Oil of Sharpness: A sealed glass vial filled with clear, gelatinous oil that sparkles with tiny, ultrathin silver shards. The oil can coat one melee weapon or up to 5 pieces of ammunition. Applying the oil takes 1 minute. For 1 hour, the coated item is considered a +1 magical and silvered weapon.

Fishmoss Spores: A small flask of brackish water mixed with spores of Fishmoss. The flask of water must be inhaled, not drunk, a highly unpleasant experience akin to physically drowning. Upon imbibing the liquid, the spores cling and rapidly grow on the inside of the persons lungs, allowing them to breathe water instead of air. For the next twelve hours, the drinker becomes able to breathe water as if it were air, but cannot breathe air during this time. It does not give a swimming speed, only prevents drowning.

Quill of the Nighthawk: A writing quill is made from an ethereal nighthawk's flight feather that has been enchanted to enhance its connection to the Ethereal Plane. Once per week, the bearer can use the quill to write a message up to one-hundred words long with the quill on a piece of parchment and send it to a creature with which he is personally familiar with. The parchment instantly folds itself into a miniature nighthawk and travels through the Border Ethereal to deliver itself to the recipient on their plane of existence. The parchment nighthawk takes 12 hours to reach its recipient and is intangible while in transit: immune to all damage and conditions. The recipient can respond by writing on the parchment, which will re-fold and return itself to the bearer (Taking another 12 hours), so long as they do so within 1 hour of receiving the message. The sender can choose to have the parchment nighthawk recite the message it contains aloud upon delivery, doing so in the sender’s voice. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that, once a year, the ethereal nighthawk molts and leaves feathers behind. These feathers are prized for their connection to the Border Ethereal and are excellent reagents in magical items or concoctions.

Alliance Rings: A pair of identical glass rings that shimmer from a stitch of eldritch energy that runs through their center. When two different creatures have each worn one of the rings for at least one hour, they both gain the ability to sense the direction and approximate distance from the other. They also revive a slight jolt (Which will wake them up) when the other ring wearer drops to 0 hit points.

Archaic Pact: A crumpled vellum scroll scrawled with an Infernal statement outlining the beliefs of a specific yet unnamed fiend. Whether or not you can read the language, any creature who studies the statement feels as though they can pronounce each word correctly, though they wouldn't understand the meaning. By repeatedly reciting the creed aloud as an action each round for one minute, the speaks cast Find Familiar, except the familiar takes the form of either an imp or a quasit (A speaker who can read and speak Infernal can choose, for others its a 50% chance of either). The creed is irrevocably absorbed into the familiar’s body and is completely destroyed when the familiar drops to 0 hit points. The familiar summoned by the creed is cursed. The archfiend who wrote the creed can observe the speaker through the summoned familiar, and if the speaker should ever die, familiar is not dismissed and rather becomes loose on the material plane to further the hellish causes of the Abyss.

Assassin’s Ring: An unassuming-looking signet ring hiding sinister features. The first is a single-chambered extradimensional space which can hold one dose of poison which remains potent and lethal as long as it stays within the chamber. The wielder can use an action equivalent to drawing a weapon to press part of its filigree to deploy the poison and apply it to a weapon or piece of ammunition that he is holding. Alternatively, the ring can be activated while holding a piece of food or a cup of liquid to mix the poison throughout the food or drink. The wielder gains advantage on checks made to conceal this action from observers. The ring can be filled with ten minutes of careful effort to funnel poison into the extradimensional space. The ring is protected by minor shielding wards and when worn by a living creature it does not give off a magical aura and is not detectable as a magical object.

Birdsong Whistle: A carving of reddish soapstone resembles a miniature cardinal. When air is blown through the lower back high-pitched sounds are emitted through the bird’s open beak. When the whistle is blown the sounds of songbirds are heard by all creatures in a 100-foot radius. These calls are indistinguishable from actual birds singing.

Cunning Tools: An exquisitely designed set of thieves’ tools made from silver worked only by the light of the full moon. They are enchanted to guide even the clumsiest felons to success. A bearer is considered proficient in these thieves’ tools even if they normally aren't and a creature who is already proficient in thieves tools adds 1d4+1 to the result of any skill checks made with them. In addition, the Cunning Tools fold down into a single, small smooth rosewood handle that appears to be a finely polished piece of wood. In this state the bearer gains advantage on checks made to conceal it and when carried by a living creature does not give off a magical aura and is not detectable as a magical object.

Fan of Whispering: A hand-fan painted with the image of a woman’s face breathing a gust of wind across a countryside. A bearer who holds the fan in front of his lips can communicate at a whisper to someone within 100 feet that he can see, without being detected by anyone else around. The fan does not grant the ability to reply to the messages.

Focusing Eye: A thumb-sized opal carved to resemble an open eye. As an action, a bearer can affix it to his forehead where it remains in place until he uses another action to remove it. While worn, the gem focuses, the wielder's mental facilities, clearing the psychic static and allowing him to better send and receive mental communications. While worn, the bearer can add 1d4 to the result of any insight, deception, intimidation and persuasion checks he makes while speaking telepathically with another creature. The opal does not grant its wearer the ability to communicate telepathically.

Gossip Earring: A brass earring sculpted into the shape of whispering maidens. While worn, whenever a creature says the bearer's name while within 100 feet the earring activates, transmitting the creature’s words as a hushed whisper into the bearer's ears until it has gone at least 1 minute without saying the bearer’s name.

Heaven's Roof Ring: A silver ring set with a flat gray stone etched with a wing. Whenever the creature falls from a serious height, his rate of descent slows to 60 feet per round and when he lands, he takes no falling damage and can land on his feet. While attuned, the bearer is also fully acclimated to great heights and automatically succeed on checks against the effects of the high altitude. The bearer must attune to the ring by sitting on the edge of a ledge, wall, cliff or other structure that is at least 10 feet tall and looking towards the ground for at least one hour.

Lucky Halfling Foot: A small hairy Halfling foot that has been shrunken, alchemically preserved and attached to a simple chain necklace as a pendant. Whenever the bearer rolls a natural 1 for an ability check, attack roll, or saving throw while wearing this necklace, he may choose to reroll and must use the new result. Once he makes a reroll in this way, he cannot do so again for the next 24 hours. In addition, halflings get an unnerving sense of this macabre trophy even when it is hidden, and while wearing this necklace the bearer has disadvantage on all charisma checks to interact with halflings. Alternatively, these mortal remains can be buried or burned properly through halfling funerary rites taking 1 hour. If these rites are completed, up to 8 creatures who took part in the proceedings can roll a Religion skill check with advantage and record the result as a mote of spiritual thanks from the halfling’s soul enters their body. Whenever a creature who has a mote within them rolls a natural 1 on an attack roll, skill check or saving throw, they can choose to expend the mote and replace the natural 1 with the result of the Religion skill check they recorded. Doing this consumes the mote.

Magic Mirror: A pocket mirror cast of silver from a sphinx's lair, housing glass made from the bones of a long dead seer, ground to dust. When viewed indirectly, its surface shows an insubstantial otherworldly face looking back. The mirror can be used as a spellcasting focus and twice per day can be used to cast Augury (See Note) as you ask a question and gaze into it. When you do so, your reflection whispers the answers to your questions. ---Note: Augury as a spell: https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Augury#content

Midnight Pearls: A damp silk pouch containing 1d4+2 lustrous black pearl earrings would look at home on a socialite but are rumored to have originated with a treacherous pirate captain. They always appear wet and give the air nearby the slightest taste of saltwater. A bearer does not require pierced ears to wear the earrings and when placed against the lobe they naturally stick to the skin. In addition to being highly fashionable, they can also help escape dangerous situations. A bearer can use an action equivalent to attacking, to drop and stomp on one of the pearls, destroying it to release a cloud of inky, magical darkness erupts in a sphere 15 feet in diameter centered on the bearer. The effect is impenetrable by darkvision and lasts until the end of the bearer's next turn.

Preserved Imp’s Head: A desiccated head of an imp that mumbles occasionally as if trying to speak but cannot, as its eyes and mouth sewn shut with a rough black cord. The fiend still lives in a twisted sense of the word and longs to escape this prison and return to Hell. The head shakes violently and curses whenever it is within 100 feet of an magical portal. If that portal leads to the abyss or a hellish plane the imp becomes enwreathed in harmless black flames as the fiend can taste the Sulphur of its homeland.

Steelsilk Mantle: An ornate purple dire-spider silk cloak, interwoven with enchanted steel threads. Whenever the wielder is attacked by a creature he can see, he can spin the cloak in its path in a defensive flourish to deflect the blow. Using an action equivalent to an attack of opportunity (See Note) the wielder can use the close to increase his armor class or physical defensiveness as if he was properly wielding a shield. The wielder may benefit from the armor class bonus (Typically a +2) even if he is already wielding a shield. —Note: If your system doesn’t use attacks of opportunity use the following rule: Once the wielder parries an attack he is no longer able to do so until the start of his next turn.

Practical Theology; A Beginner's Guide: A deceptively heavy, cloth-bound book adorned with divine symbols. It contains descriptions the basic concepts of prayer along with the symbiotic nature of Gods and mortals and how to properly request minor miracles. A creature who has read the volume for at least an hour a day for the past week obtains a rudimentary understanding of the power of prayer and gains the ability to cast one cleric cantrip of their choice that does not deal damage. The nature of spellcasting is demanding and precise and should the creature not keep up with studying the book for an hour per day they fall out of practice and must spend another week pouring over the tome’s pages. A creature who has gained a cantrip from reading the book can switch it to a different cantrip that doesn’t deal damage after reading the book for one hour. If the reader has spent 365 cumulative hours reading the book over the course of one year, he becomes proficient with one cleric cantrip of his choice that does not deal damage and no longer needs to consult the book each day to cast it.

[kaeyx]

waiting patiently at y!chuuyas door to greet him with home made dinner and his favorite cake cause you think you’ve been a little too difficult lately (you finally developed Stockholm Syndrom)

reader who fully turns into a needy puppy waiting for y!Chuuya to come home and sob in his arms if he’s late

Nah bc this would be me I wouldn't even put up a fight

Cooking for him or cleaning up around the house even though Chuuya is a tidy man, even though he didn't ask you to do it. It's partly out of boredom and partly because you want to make yourself useful, feeling a little guilty for sitting around all day and not contributing. You decide to make him dinner, since you've noticed he frequently comes home late with takeout or microwave meals, or goes to bed with nothing but a glass of wine in his stomach. You decide to bake him something too since you're already there, just managing to pull the cookies out of the oven as his keys turn in the door.

Chuuya would be so surprised, expecting to find you in bed since it's so late, maybe asleep or sulking. But no, you've got a pair of oven mitts on and are greeting him nervously at the door, and something smells delicious. He feels so happy, so surprised and flattered that you went out of your way to make something for him, hugging you and giving you a kiss to reassure you that whatever it is you made, he'll like it. He eats with you by his side, feeding you a few bites, nearly glowing with love and pride. You made this, for him, of your own accord. It's the best food he's had in a long time, made better by how you're clinging to him like an anxious puppy and looking away whenever he praises you.

And the surprise never wears off! Every time he comes home to warm food waiting for him his love for you grows, and he always makes sure to tell you how much he loves it. Any ingredients you need he'll buy for you immediately, as well as any kitchen items you might want. Heart shaped crockpots? A cast iron skillet? A sous vide machine? You just have to say the word and Chuuya will have it in your hands by the next day. In return he only asks for a kiss, and to be able to taste what you make when you decide to use it.

Of course, Chuuya's appreciation often shows in... different ways. Sometimes he'll walk in and see you cooking, and be so overwhelmed with affection he'll take you right then and there. Only letting you pause to turn off the stove before his hands are all over you, tongue buried in your cunt as he spreads you out on the counter. A few times he's caught you slightly bent over, decorating cookies or a cake, and you've both ended up a mess of flour and icing afterwards. He's always sweet, kissing the mess off you and carrying you to the shower, but his apologies are insincere. He always jokes about you being his little house pet, his spouse, but the way he wraps an arm around your waist and rubs your knuckles makes you very aware that he's not joking.