#please accept my meager offerings

[haehaehaehae]

You have no idea who’s listening, do you?

[meshumo]

rejuv girls doodles

[vrieseasees]

Finished a lunchbreak draws from Friday

[perrenial-peonies]

not pictured, many more pages of this guy's dumb face (lovingly)

[doubleminor]

gfx: our boy vrana :(

if i slip this to u at prime time when no one is on we will get the tank stats we want on this gfx do you see my vision

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[lesbienneanarchiste]

My mother (vintage Tolkien fan since the 70s) verbally described this meme to me last night so I (her legacy Tolkien fan child) had to recreate it with my meager skills, please accept our offering

[howlsofbloodhounds]

sorry i don't have any headcanon for killer and/or color, so please accept my meager offer...

insomniac murder and reaper. reaper is too busy with his work so he doesn't have enough time to rest or sleep (does he even need to sleep - he's a god). murder doesn't sleep because he has nightmares or upsetting dreams (because good dreams confuse and make him even more depressed - canon!). under the employment of nightmare, murder feels even less appetite for sleep, because he fears how nightmare can infiltrate and influence his dreams. so he tries to stay awake as long as humanly possible (which is a cruel and unusual punishment under war crimes by the way). if he can dope to not fall asleep, he would totally do that. his internal clock is all fucked up too, from not having a consistent eating/sleeping schedule and traveling to too many universes out of time.

i think it would be cute if reaper tries to help murder to sleep somewhat, like being next to him sometimes so murder can relax and rest, because nightmare doesn't want to be near death. if reaper cannot be there physically, then grim or the crows/rats they send to guard over murder. though, it would be difficult to track down nightmare and by extension murder, what with them constantly hopping universes and all.

~ crowshipping anon, wishing you happy birthday (´,,•ω•,,)♡

Hello crow!! Thank you for the birthday wishes, and don’t worry! I was asking for headcanons about anything and everything, not just killer and/or color.

And I love that sm! A way this could potentially work if Reaper can’t keep consistent track of Murder could potentially be that the crows and rats know and remember him or otherwise feel death around him (either because of Reaper/Grimm or because of all the murders), and so they of course sleep near him.

And Nightmare, afraid of death and like a child born during the 1500s or something (I don’t know when Dreamtale was actually set), perhaps he’s still very superstitious. And crows and rats are associated with death, so perhaps Nightmare stays FAR away from crows and rats, and by extension, Murder. Allowing Murder to get some well needed sleep—even if he may not ultimately sleep.

And if I remember correctly, Grimm was supposed to be the God of like, gentle death right? And sleep is said to sometimes be like a death, so perhaps Grimm’s presence is felt by Murder in sleep—which maybe Murder mistakes for being Phantom Papyrus, since both Phantom and Grimm are Papyri and perhaps both feel comforting in the same way??

[mariamakeslemons]

I'm playing in @ghouljams sandbox, with a tiny, hurt child. She's a combination "normal" person and unable to see her own hurt.

I don't own Witch, that's Ghoul's OC/Reader insert. I do own Racheal/Lilac.

Racheal shakes as she hesitates to knock on the door. Granny told her that the witch living here may be her only hope of actually understanding the magic she has. But the witch here also has ancestral magic instead of having to rely solely on the magic her own body creates. Which Racheal has to do. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, the girl knocks on the door and flinches at the sound she’s made, clinging to her barely made grimoire tightly.

The door opens and the prettiest woman blinks down at her, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Are you lost, sweetie?” she asks Racheal. Squeaking, the girl shakes her head and hands the woman her Granny’s letter. The woman blinks before accepting the letter, frowning at the writing before turning back to Racheal with a smile.

“You might as well come in, okay?” the woman offers with a smile. Racheal nods and scurries in, glancing over her shoulder nervously. The woman hums and moves through her house with ease, leaving Racheal to scurry after her.

“So, how old are you, sweetheart?” the woman asks, as she opens the letter.

“…E-eleven, ma’am,” Racheal answers, flinching at the woman suddenly stopping in the hall. Slowly, the woman turns to look at Racheal, her hand moving to toy with the hagstone necklace she has.

“…Eleven,” she repeats, and Racheal can’t do anything but nod. Granny always said she was too stupid to start learning when everyone else started, because she couldn’t even tell what the difference between using lavender or using sage would do to certain spells as a five year old. The woman closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before a smile crosses her face.

“Well, let me finish reading this and we’ll start outlining what to do to help you,” the woman offers with a nice smile. Racheal perks up at that, eager to learn what she can and hopefully please at least one of her teachers.

“Y-yeah! That s-sounds like a plan!” Racheal agrees, flinching at her stutter. Granny told her proper witches don’t do that, but she can’t really help it. It just comes out. But, she thinks while looking up at the woman who only smiles at her excitement, maybe it’s just a coven thing.

“Okay,” the woman says after Racheal dropped off her meager belongings in the spare room she had pointed out (Racheal wasn’t really allowed too much, she was too stupid to own things according to Granny), “Let’s lay out some rules. One, I’m to be called Witch, okay? That is what the majority of people know me as, and it’s easier to remember than knowing my actual name.”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Racheal agrees easily enough. That’s easy to remember. Miss Witch smiles at her, her eyes softening nicely.

“Now, I need to know your fae name,” she instructs, “Because that’s what I’ll refer to you in public with.”

“It’s S-Stupid,” Racheal answers. Miss Witch sighs and smiles, almost looking amused.

“I’m sure it’s not, sweetie,” she says, “You don’t have to be shy.”

“Oh, uh,” Racheal starts, realizing that Miss Witch didn’t understand, “N-no. I m-mean, my n-name. It’s Stupid.” Miss Witch freezes, her smile in place, but something brewing under her pretty eyes. Slowly, her face changes to something thunderous and Racheal shrinks on herself, waiting for the strike that’s sure to come. She’d deserve it, after all. She upset Miss Witch.

“No,” the woman says, startling Racheal, “I’m not calling you that. We’ll think of something else.” Racheal blinks at her, confused by her reaction as Miss Witch hems and haws over a thought.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asks suddenly. Racheal jumps, blinking at her in shock.

“…I can h-have one of th-those?” Racheal replies, stunned. She’d heard about that sort of thing, favorite things. Granny told her that only smart people could have them, that she’s too stupid to have any kind of preference. Miss Witch hums and nods, although something in her face tells Racheal that she’s angry. But, she wants to know what color is her favorite. And she really likes purples, especially light purples like…

“Lilac,” Racheal decides.

“Then, that’s what I’ll call you,” Miss Witch tells her. Racheal, Lilac, smiles and nods eagerly, only to jump at a knocking noise from what looks like Miss Witch’s backyard. The woman huffs, almost fondly, before patting Lilac’s head.

“Stay here, okay, sweetie? I need to speak with someone,” she tells Lilac with a smile. Lilac nods eagerly and stays right there, although she wonders if Miss Witch would be upset if she sat on the floor. She’s really tired from having to stay up to catch the train, then the plane, then the bus, then the other train. Maybe she can sit for a minute, then stand back up.

“I’m going to kill a fellow witch,” you chirp to Price, holding back every piece of rage you feel. He raises a brow at your declaration, surprised that you decided to greet him with that.

“Is it the little one in your house?” he asks, curious.

“No, she’s the reason why I’m ready to commit murder,” you tell him. The poor girl is too thin and small, obviously malnourished. Then there’s the stutter and that name. Oh, that name. And to top everything off, the witch who sent her wrote the letter like complaining about a stray animal that needs to be put down, not a child that needs to be guided.

“Deep breaths, love,” Price soothes, reaching across the bricks to grasp your hand within his. You comply, taking a deep breath before slowly letting it out.

“She’s eleven and, according to the letter, she barely knows what the herbs do, let alone any spells,” you tell him. Price freezes at that, obviously understanding what you’re implying. After all, witchcraft is a craft, one that must be started young to be able to use the magic safely and confidently. Most witches start by reading to their children from their own grimoire, teaching what a symbol or plant means and is used for.

“…A child,” Price sighs, smoke pouring out of his mouth like a waterfall.

“An abused child,” you correct, watching as he breathes out of his nose, hard. Smoke bursts out of his nostrils like a bull or a dragon, an anger burning in his eyes and you find yourself at ease.

The relationship between children and fae is always tricky. A child could be coveted or prey, depending on the fae in question. However, with Price’s reaction, you can tell he would rather burn down the world than harm a child. Perhaps it has to do with how children are easy prey, something that Price has told you was boring. Perhaps it has to do with what little you’ve found out about Ghost, the fae following L- no, she needs a different name… Pink? Sunny? Ugh, well, the fae that follows the Shop Keeper’s friend around.

“I’ll tell my boys to behave around her,” Price said, pulling you from your musing. He smiles, “That’ll spread the word that she’s under my protection.”

“You don’t even know her,” you argue without any heat. Price chuckles, leaning against the wall with that sly grin of his.

“You like her, pretty witch,” he purrs, sending a shiver down your spine, “That’s more than enough for me.” You huff, but the smile that fights its way on your face probably tells him how amused you are by his declaration.

“I should finish getting her settled in,” you tell him, brushing your hand against his own. Price catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’ll see you around then,” he promises, giving your hand a soft squeeze before pulling away. You turn back to your home and go inside, only to stop and sigh. Lilac is curled up on the floor, asleep, with her grimoire clutched in her arms. The dark circles under her eyes tell you how little sleep the girl gets and you feel another wave of anger threaten to drown you. How could anyone do this to a child, let alone one who so obviously wants to please? When you get the chance, you’re going to burn down the witch’s house and adopt the girl. Or, maybe help her find a family if you can’t.

[ezras--moon]

Red Smoke

finally!!! My favorite boy. Thank you for these @wannab-urs & @dreamsofmandalore ♥

named after yet another KGLW song (I was listening to this on and off while writing this so I had to put it in there somewhere, have fun spotting it), this is probably the filthiest thing I've written so far??? so, of course, as always,

18+ Minors do not interact

word count: 3265

this takes place right before the events of the movie, so Ezra still has both arms.

Warnings: bondage, dom/sub dynamic, Ezra is kind of maybe a little bit slightly controlling but in a hot way, king of sadistic sexual torture, slapping of ass and pussy, oral(f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, minimally edited so excuse repeat words or small errors.

  From the first day you knew him, that first job on The Green you’d been hired for together, you’d been infatuated with the way Ezra talked. His warm voice and the slight twang he hung onto his words; words which he chose so deliberately, it seemed, to make himself sound like he was perhaps writing a formal letter or a report to an employer.

  Sometimes it wasn’t easy to follow him when he went off on a tangent. Sometimes you had to interrupt him to define a word he used. But he never made you feel stupid about it, he never laughed, he never teased, he was patient and earnestly trying his best to communicate sufficiently - because he liked you, a lot.

There was another thing about him you could never get enough of. When he was joking with you, trying to make you laugh, he always laughed a little bit with you, but then let his smile fall just for a moment, as if to focus on watching your face twist and listening to the sound of your chuckle, before letting the smile take back over. His eyes would get all big as he studied your face, and sometimes he’d even grab your wrist to draw his thumb over your skin in a pattern.

But when he came sauntering up to you that morning, holding up another harvesting offer after months of staying home on The Pug with you? You didn’t feel like letting him hear your laugh at all. He’d promised he was done. You’d both promised you were done. He made you promise, just like you made him promise, that the dangers of the toxic atmosphere, other prospectors or harvesters and the religious fanatics were behind you.

You weren’t interested in hearing him out, and he wouldn’t let you win; didn’t even want to argue, just for you to accept the facts of the matter. To him, it was already decided when he read the price. He wanted to buy a house, he wanted to settle down, he wanted to live in the comfort of knowing that you were taken care of - and that meant he had to do it, in his mind.

“I can’t believe you, Ezra.” you said, furiously scrubbing away at the already polished plate in your hand just so you had your hands full. God, you wanted to smack him across the face. You wanted to scream, yell, kick and protest. But you also wanted to cry and beg for him not to do it. He couldn’t see your face from where he stood, leaning against the door frame with the paper listing the details of the job in one hand and the other fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.

“Baby, we can’t keep sustaining ourselves on meager scraps tossed at us down here. I have the intention of providing you with a better alternative than… this” he gestured vaguely at the perfectly fine apartment you were living in. You dropped the plate into the dishwater and swiveled around, furious. “You promised you wouldn’t do this to me” you snapped, furrowed brow and feeling the heat shoot into your face.

“Oh, please.” he pouted, letting his head roll back against the door frame. But you only stare at him, unrelenting and expectant. “Birdie, I-” “Don’t call me that when we’re fighting.” “We’re fighting?” “Yes. We obviously are.”

Finally he pushed himself off and crossed the threshold, gently placing his hands on your shoulders and smoothing them down your sleeves with an apologetic look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. I have to do this.” “Oh, but you don’t!” you refuted, swatting his arms away and taking a step back, but he cornered you against the sink like a wolf might corner a lamb.

He tutted, planting his palms against the edge of the countertops. “Little bird-” “Don’t.” “How can I make you understand, hm?” he asked, voice low and nose brushing against yours, “How can I make it up to you? Because you won’t talk me out of this endeavor. But I would prefer it if I could still come home to you when I’m finished with it.” 

It took him more tries to wind you down and make you accept that this was what he wanted, what he was going to do, but in the end he was always going to call the shots on where your money came from. He wanted to provide, you let him. He wanted to take care of you, you let him. All you wanted was for him to come home safe, back to you unharmed.

Two days before he was scheduled to enter his pod and leave for The Green, you’d finally come to terms with it fully, and the anxiety you felt at the thought of him being up there subsided - he could handle himself after all, you’d seen that play out plenty of times. He knew what he was doing. He was confidently competent, his reflexes were no worse than a teenager’s, he knew how to defend himself, and most of all you knew he’d come back making both of you richer than you could ever imagine.

But for now, he had you on your stomach in the bed, hips lifted and angled by two pillows underneath you, limbs tied to the posts. He’d been edging you for what felt like at least an hour already when he swatted his hand down on your right ass cheek in a harsh slap, appreciating your aroused cry with a hum. 

“That’s for making me wait for this pussy” he hissed as he kneeled between your legs, two fingers pumping in and out of you at a punishing pace, “for not talking to me for an entire cycle” he delivered another smack to the same spot, “for gallivanting around the premise in those awfully short shorts” another even harsher slap, “and one to remember me by in three days time.”

It wasn’t always like this with him, but when it was? You couldn’t get enough of his relentless teasing and the punishments his beautiful sadistic mind came up with. Sometimes he’d edge you like this, never let you cum until you’d beg and plead for release, and sometimes he’d give you so many orgasms you’d start to tremble and cry and damn near pass out.

Ezra was not afraid to call for back-up either; he had multiple drawers filled to the brim with all different types of gear and toys - he was depraved, and you were his willing subject.

“You know what happens when you make me wait, birdie, don’t ya?” he drawled, pacing around the foot end of the bed, knowing you were close to giving up and about to start begging him to finish you already, “You know I always get my revenge eventually.” “Ezra, please” you whined, cunt throbbing and leaking your arousal onto the sheets.

You thrashed in your restraints, tugging at the cuffs and attempting to press your thighs together for some friction. Ezra tutted, landing another surprise smack on your ass, making you mewl. “Don’t be so rapacious, dove. Or must I move on to another part of yours with my flagellation?” “No, please, pl- no, Ezra, please just fuck me” you whined, muffled by your face in the pillows.

Ezra couldn’t be domesticated, you knew that - you appreciated that about him a lot more than it frustrated you from time to time - but he sure was doing a damn fine job at doing it to you. He’d done it before, when you were on that moon together for harvest. He’d charmed his way into your space, into your heart, into your pants, and it came so easy to him too. It was natural and effortless, intoxicating in the way he had you wrapped around his finger so quickly.

Hook, line and sinker you were flopping around helplessly again and again for him like a particularly meaty fish that’d prevent him from starving in a hostile world. Someone else like him might have lost interest quickly for your lack of resistance to his advances and all his little games, but Ezra became addicted to how much you liked it. The way you were begging for him every time, salty tears rolling down your cheeks with overstimulation and need.

“I wonder how many more times you will say please for me in that tone before I can’t stand to hear any more of it and have mercy on that needy little cunt of yours” he mused, crossing his arms off to your side. You snapped your head to look up at him, already beginning to stain the sheets with your tears, and you couldn’t believe the curious head tilt and dark, hungry look he was giving back.

You could tell he wanted to give in then, his ruthless exterior beginning to crumble in front of your eyes. “I know you wanna fuck me, Ez, just fucking do it already, please” you begged again and regretted it the second the words left your mouth - the plead at the end not doing anything to soften the blow to his ego. Making his threat a reality, he shook his head and pushed his own weakness down, going to kneel on the mattress, to your left.

“Noooo” you whined, knowing what was coming. “How dare you speak to me like that, little bird.” he said, tone ripe with fake-offended ridicule. Without another word, he smoothed his left hand over your abused ass cheek; squeezing your tingling meat there to spread you apart further, easy access to deliver a stinging slap to your weeping folds.

The wet sound the action produced was so sinfully loud and the blood under your skin that pooled there already made it hurt quite badly - just how you liked to be tortured. A guttural moan following the gasp that fell from your lips made him hum appreciatively. “How many more of these beats can you endure, dove? Two? Five? Ten?” You protested with a pained whine, shaking your head as well as you could with your pulse thrumming in your ears, and your thighs began to tremble harder.

“Three?” he offered, holding two fingertips close to your clit, barely touching and unmoving. You took a moment to think, trying to decide what to do so he wouldn’t go higher; though you knew the mind shattering orgasm he was about to grant you would only increase in intensity if he did. Before you could respond, however, he took your silence as affirmation, “Four, baby? Can you take four more for me, darling?”

Always the terms of endearment when he was playing his most unhinged of games.

Figuring four was about as much as you could possibly withstand, you nodded with a soft whimper, really making an effort not to roll your hips against his fingers. “Alright, sweet girl, you got yourself a deal.”

The next slap made you jolt forward, your eyes rolled back in your head and you bit down on the pillow under your head to muffle the pain escaping your lungs in the shape of a sob. More tears. Ezra’s warm hand gently rubbing your reddening cheek, soothing the ache somewhat to help you swallow what he was doing to your pussy just below.

“Count with me now” he ordered, “one. Say it.” “One” you whined, a pathetic sound that made him chuckle. Another smack. “Two- ahhh” “Good girl, look at you” he praised, “you always take my chastisements so well!” Smack. The burn, your heartbeat throbbing everywhere he’d touched you so harshly, the noise of his palm hitting your sopping folds - it was so much, it was everything.

“Oh my god, please, Ezra- I can’t do it, I can’t take any more” “You haven’t told the number, darling, that means it didn’t count!” he said with mock disappointment, “You know the rules, and you still break them.” Your grip on the sheets at the corners of the mattress tightened as you protested with a mewl, a desperate, sweet sound that had Ezra growing impossibly hard in his boxers.

Debating if you should say the safeword but deciding against it - you’d let him do worse to you - you took a deep breath to steady and brace yourself for two more. Smack. “Three! O-oh, god! You’re gonna make me cum” you whimpered. Ezra laughed. “That’s adorable. I have to say I’m rather pleased with how fucking famished you are to be filled by this fat cock.”

You were losing your mind as he was palming himself through the thin fabric of his underwear, the last remaining item of clothing on his lean body. Anticipation for the final blow caused an exhilarating rush of adrenaline to course through your veins, increasing your heart rate some more. He could sense it, he could sense everything, so he hesitated. He took great pride in his ability to wind you up like this, only to let you release and let go of it all in a grand finale.

Smack. “F-four, fuck!” “Theeeere you go, little dove. There you go. You made it through that one without a hitch!” he praised, you could hear the proud grin on his devastatingly handsome face. “You gonna be alright when I hump the ever living hell out of this sweet cunt of yours now?” “Pleeeease-” “I take that as a yes.”

The weight of his body lifted off the mattress long enough for him to drop his boxers and come up between your thighs, but instead of lining up with you, he couldn’t resist pressing his open mouth to your clit to lap up the slick that he’d coaxed out of you there. His tongue swirling around your clit, his big hands spreading you apart by the ass cheeks, the lingering burn of his toying with you - all of these sensations brought you to the edge, but he moved off before you tumbled over it.

Your pained cry was cut off by the gasp in your throat when you felt him line up with your center and feeding his cock inside you, holding himself up with his palms splayed over your hips. The angle was just right - it hit you like a freight train. “Oh, fuck, mmfff” you whimpered into the pillow, biting down on it. The sinful groan growing in his chest and tumbling over his tongue when he bottomed out went straight to your pussy, past his girth stretching you deliciously and nipping at your cervix.

“Fuck, yes, that’s my good little dove, fitting my manhood inside each and every one of your tight little holes like that” he huffed, hot breath fanning over your bare back. He held himself there, buried so deep you could almost taste him, helping you adjust. His fingers were digging into the flesh of your hips so harshly they were certain to leave marks as he held you in place, prime position for him to have his way with you at this punishing angle.

One of his legs hooked over yours and his right arm snaked around your hip to pull your ass further up into the air, allowing him to fuck you deep and hard once he began to move - and so he did. Immediately, with the first rolling thrust, you couldn’t hold on any longer. You cried out, back arching and walls clenching around him as he settled on a fast pace. 

He huffed a laugh as you fell apart beneath him, legs shaking and breath hitching in your throat, stifling all noise before the string of sacrilegious, wanton moans escaping your raw throat rewarded Ezra’s hard work. “Yesss-” he hissed, “give it to me, birdie- let me hear your heavenly hymn, whore of all whores”

Damn near blacking out, you were shaken and ravaged and completely ruined by the supernaturally drawn out waves of your climax. Red smoke clouded your mind, numbed all of your senses besides those necessary to sustain the ecstasy. A devastating wildfire burning within your groin that Ezra was fueling with the snap of his hips, his gorgeous cock fucking into the cavern of your tortured cunt.

“God damn, little bird, you make me fucking lose my reprobate mind- ahh, fuck-” he mumbled, hissing at every pulling out of you before he slammed himself back inside the inviting warmth of your core, “you feel categorically stellar wrapped so securely around my cock, I- ahh, fuck!” 

Even as the orgasm was subsiding, you never wanted him to stop ever again, and so you spurred him on with more wanton moans, eyes shut tight and focusing on the feeling of fullness and the warmth of his hands all over your ass, hips and back before they planted into the mattress to hold him up. 

“Fuck me harder, Ezra, please-” you begged, “give it to me; fucking give it to me!” There was a pain, a delectable burning sensation as he pounded into you - he’d tortured your cunt so uncompromisingly that the reward was felt tenfold. Teetering on the edge of another orgasm already, listening to Ezra’s labored breaths and pleased grunts you could tell he’d wound himself up too with all the teasing and torment.

“You want it that bad, huh? Want me to pour my white hot absolution deep inside this pretty pink little pussy, don’t you?” he huffed, delivering a particularly harsh thrust against your hips, “Don’t you adore it when I treat you like this? You love it, don’t you?” “Y-yes, Ezra, yes, I love it so much, so much, oh my god-”

Blinding grayscale pulsing through your vision like white noise on a TV screen as he slammed into you even harder, the sound of skin hitting skin, wet slapping making you spiral and sob tearfully. “You’re being such a good little slut for me- ah, absolutely drenched for my cock; you’re-” his impressive vocabulary was faltering as he came apart at the seams with a handful more snaps of his hips that hit so deep and so tight - his cock so hard inside you, pulsing, twitching as he emptied himself. “Fuck” he cursed, punctuating his final roll of his tight hips, one hand on the mattress and the other squeezing your ass before he collapsed on top of you completely spent and out of breath.

You hummed; he was just as sweaty as you were and so warm, the weight of him a comforting blanket. His arms were caging you in as he looped them around your waist and pulled out of you, leaving you leaking onto the bed. Both catching your breaths, this was the only time you’d catch Ezra lost for words, on a different plane of existence entirely in his mind.

He pressed soft kisses to your shoulder blades, caressing his velvety palms over your skin. “I love you so much” he whispered, stroking your hair aside to allow him to kiss along the curve of your ear, nibbling playfully at the lobe before he went to untie you. You loved it when he was like this, taking care of you after he’d just positively wrecked your entire body - loving and sweet he could be.

You were going to miss him so much when he’d leave for this one last job.

Little did you know he’d be missing more than just you, the love of his life, when he came back - it was going to be significantly more difficult to treat you like this with only one arm to his body and a young girl trying to sleep in the next room.

[liminal--headspace]

I wanted to draw my tma sona since I saw alot of cool art of other ppls, but I'm not very good at drawing human figures (or anything that isn't an abstract shape tbh) so please accept my meager offering

Specifically I wanted to draw my oc with @wolfythewitch oc Cain, but I couldn't figure out how to do that so this is all I've got

[archoniluthradanar]

The test of a vampire : A Beauty and the Beast re-telling Part Five

The test of a vampire : A Beauty and the Beast re-telling

Marcus dei Volturi x female OC

Caterina had tried to escape her servitude to Marcus of the Volturi, but failed. Marcus explains why he was so angry with her intrusion, but tries to make amends.

Chapter Five

The Compromise

oooooooooooooooooooo

Marcus walked over to the table and smiled down at his meager but heart-felt tribute to his lost mate. Indicating with his free hand at the bust, he said, "Caterina, this is Didyme, my wife. She was killed...many years ago. The garden, I've dedicated to her. I bring in one pink rose, her favourite colour, until it wilts, then I replace it." He looked at the human. "I was not expecting to see you here. No one comes in without my permission, and it upset me seeing you here. I never should have shouted like that at you. Accept my apology, please."

"I understand, Marcus," she responded. "She was very beautiful. How long were you together?"

"She was beautiful, inside and out. Didyme had the gift of making everyone around her happy. We were together for what felt like...hundreds of years." Marcus could not tell the human it was literally that long and longer.

Caterina looked up at Marcus, saying, "Please accept my apology for running away. I was frightened, but it was stupid of me, and you did save me, so I owe you that."

"Speak no more about any of it." Marcus smiled. "At least we have worked through our misunderstandings."

"You know, my father is a farmer, so I know how to cultivate the earth and make things grow. Would it be alright if I helped you in the garden some time? After I've done my other chores, of course. And I would not mind cleaning this room for you. At least I could sweep the floor and dust the furniture. For Didyme."

He thought a moment, deciding it would give them a chance to get to know one another. And he found her offer of caring for Didyme's room touching. "I thank you for that, and I would enjoy having you help me in the garden." He led her from the room, never having let go of her hand.

Later that afternoon, Marcus asked Felix to get Caterina and bring her to the garden. He had all the supplies needed already lying on the grass.

When Caterina arrived, she smiled her thanks to Felix and walked over to Marcus. "I'm here and ready to work. What can I do?"

"Well, my dear, let me show you the varieties of roses I have here. Some, I developed myself."

Caterina perused the rose bushes, marveling at their beauty and the fragrance of the blooms. And all of this was dedicated to a woman long dead. He must have loved her very much, she thought. It explained a lot. Some people never let go their grieving. Her father had mourned her mother for a long time too.

Together they worked the beds, turning over the dirt and trimming away the dead buds from the bushes. Once, when Marcus removed a caterpiller off a branch and showed it to Caterina, she shrieked, jumping back.

Marcus laughed, and asked her if she was afraid of the small creature.

"I don't like insects of any kind." When Marcus held it out to her to show her how harmless it was, she huffed and walked back several feet. "Please keep it away."

The tall man laughed with pleasure, since he rarely laughed prior to her arrival at the castle. He tossed it to the other aside of the yard, showing her his empty hands. "It's gone, Caterina. You have nothing to fear now."

"It's silly, I know. I just hate bugs," she shivered while saying it.

The pair enjoyed talking while working. Caterina actually laughed aloud at some of the stories he related to her, finding the tall man humorous. She leaned on her rake, watching him while he worked. Was he really so bad? He had saved her from those ruffians, and who knows how far they would have gone, had he not appeared. But how had he found her?

Once they were done with the gardening, Caterina helped Marcus return the tools to the supply room in an area of the castle she'd evert been before. She washed up at a sink there, then Marcus led her to the kitchen for supper.

"Won't you stay?" she asked him.

Marcus looked down at the young woman. He felt a warmth suffuse his body when he heard her question. Did she really want him to stay with her? "I never eat with the staff, but I will talk with you later. And Caterina, thank you for helping me today. I...enjoyed myself."

Caterina smiled at Marcus, watching him as he left. Then she joined the others for their evening meal.

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"I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise, for me?"

"Yes, Now I'm going to blindfold you, so do you trust me?"

"Yes, I trust you, Marcus." Caterina waited with anticipation when Marcus tied the length of black fabric around her eyes.

"Can you see anything, Caterina?"

"No, it's dark as night," she replied, reaching up to check the blindfold. She felt Marcus' cool hand take hold of hers, leading her to wherever he was taking her.

"Good. Don't try to walk too fast. Don't worry. I won't let you fall," he said reassuringly.

Caterina held Marcus' hand tightly. She had no desire to trip and embarrass herself. She heard the sound of an opening door. The air was slightly musty, causing her to wonder where he had brought her.

"This is for you," Marcus whispered in her ear. He removed the blindfold and let her see his surprise.

Caterina gasped. "Books! So many books! Marcus, where did you get all these books?" She moved among the shelves, her eyes perusing the vast collection. She would carefully remove one to slowly turn the pages, then seeing they were in a foreign language. She recognized if they were in French, Spanish, or Greek, but could not read the words.

"A lifetime of collecting," he said. "Some are in foreign languages you may not understand, but if there is something you'd like me to read to you, I would be happy to do that for you."

Caterina searched the shelves, looking for titles in Italian. Running her fingertips over the spines, she noticed some seemed very old volumes. Others looked like actual manuscripts. In one area, she saw a locked glass case enclosing what looked like actual scrolls, written on parchment. She marveled at the written word in all its forms she had come to love since she was a child.

"Well?" Marcus asked, a small smile on his face.

"I love it," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitment. They drew Marcus in, and he felt satisfaction knowing he'd done something that pleased Caterina. He left her while she ran from shelf to shelf, looking for something to read. She found several books in Italian and another in French she would ask Marcus to read for her.

Back in his rooms, Marcus had lit the fireplace in the ante-room. He never used it, and found the warmth of the flames strangely comforting. Caterina had asked him to read an older book to her that was about the English queen Elizabeth the First, written by a French courtier only a few years after she had died. She could read only the simple title. It wasn't very large, and she felt able they could finish it in two days.

Marcus wondered how she had come to have an interest in the woman who ruled England for nearly 45 years. Farmer's daughters didn't generally have such interests beyond their homes, and then the families they would later raise with their husbands. Marcus decided he would ask Caterina if she had any suitors for her hand. He had to know.

Hearing a knock on his door, Marcus answered it to see Demetri with Caterina. "Come in, dear."

She gave Demetri a smile, then entered the room, thanking Marcus for inviting her. "I am very interested in the book I indicated. To write about eye-witness events during that time, it just seems so exciting." She went over to the fireplace and sat in front of it, holding the book almost reverently. She handed it to Marcus, saying, "Here is the one I hoped you would read. It's in French. I kept three books I found that were written in Italian. They're in my room, if that's all right. I thought to read them before bed."

"Of course. Keep them as long as you wish." Marcus sat on the sofa, Caterina next to him. He began to read, sneaking a peek at her now and then. Her eyes betrayed her interest as she listened to the days at the English court told through the eyes of a French nobleman.

Marcus stopped reading when he noticed Caterina nodding off. "I believe it's your bedtime, young woman. We can contimue tomorrow evening." He set the book down, and helped her back to her room. By the time they reached it, Caterina was awake and able to ready for bed.

While Caterina was getting to know the man who held her life in his hands, Guiseppe had visited her home to find her absent. Her father told him she was working at the Palazzo dei Priori, a place rife with rumours of strange happenings.

The strapping man became angry. "How can you, her own father, allow her to go there, knowing the stories about missing tourists? Has anyone spoken with the people who live there? It's said they see no one. I will gather some of the townsfolk and retrieve her myself."

"No! Please do not interfere. I do not believe those stories, or I would not have allowed her to go. She will finish her time working there and be sent home soon. If you interfere..."

"Have you spoken with Caterina?" Guiseppe demanded.

Mario looked down at the floor. "Not since I dropped her off at the palazzo."

"There you are! I will go there and demand to see her."

"Please, Guiseppe, leave it alone. You may cause more harm than good."

The man who wanted Caterina for his wife reluctantly nodded. "Very well. For now, I'll wait. But if you hear anything from her, I want to know."

Guiseppe left, Mario closing the door behind him. The older man wondered himself, why had his daughter not called him.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

One day, Caterina was cleaning in Marcus's rooms, when he entered to pick up some documents Aro needed.

On seeing him, Caterina smiled and nodded. "Good day, Marcus. I hope you are well."

The Volturi master glanced at the woman, giving her a smile in return. "Thank you, Caterina. I won't be here long. I just needed to retrieve something." He went to his desk and found what he came for, and was about to leave, when Caterina blocked his way.

"Marcus, I have been here quite awhile, and I...I haven't talked to my father in so long, and I was wondering...please may I call him?"

Marcus thought for a moment. She had not asked this of him, so she must be worried. She had done her job well, and he found he enjoyed her company more and more. He had to wonder if Caterina was enjoying his company. "Very well. This afternoon, I will allow you to use the phone here, and...with me listening. Just to be sure."

Caterina smiled broadly. "Oh, thank you, Marcus. Of course I don't mind you listening. I have nothing to hide. I just need to know he's fine and eating, and doing well at market."

"I'll send Felix for you when I'm finished." Marcus saw the pure pleasure on her face. When she threw herself at him in an impulsive hug, he was taken aback, but the sudden warmth in his chest would not allow him to chastise her.

Once she had released him, Marcus quickly left the room, but the warmth stayed with him even after he had reached the throne room.

"Are you alright, brother?" Aro asked, seeing Marcus with a strange expression on his face.

"Yes, I'm fine. Here are the papers you needed," he said, walking to his chair. Sitting down, the vampire still felt her arms around him.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Caterina had finished her work, and returned to her room to clean up and add some makeup. Not that she was trying to appear attractive to her employer...or was she? It didn't matter, she told herself. She was going to get to speak with her father today.

Felix brought her to Marcus' rooms and then winked at her before walking down the corridor. "Enjoy your conversation, Caterina."

Marcus smiled on seeing her, thinking there was something different about her. He handed Caterina his cell phone, showing her how to make a call. It wasn't something he used often. Unlike Aro, he had no one to call, but he was glad he had it now, if only to make Caterina happy and see her glowing smile.

Caterina thanked Marcus and dialed home. When she heard her father's voice, she cried excitedly. "Papa, it's me, Caterina!"

Marcus could hear what the older man was saying.

"Caterina, my daughter, how are you?" The old man was excited to finally hear his daughter.

I'm well, papa, do not worry. Marcus, the man I'm working for, has been very kind. You have no need to worry. I am eating well, and the work is not too hard. I've made a few friend among the staff. I wouldn't even mid being here if I were free to go home every night."

Hearing that was good news for Marcus, since it let him know she didn't hate being here.

"How are you, papa? Are you eating? And how is the market? Have you making enough money? I miss helping you."

"Child, I'm doing well, and I've sold all the produce I've been able to take. It's amazing! We will be doing well for some time."

Marcus smiled. He had made sure the old man's produce was bought for the staff's meals here at the castle and paying above market price.

"When will you be returning home, Caterina? If your work has been excellent, I would think it would be soon."

She looked over at Marcus who had his back to her, as if he were not listening. "I don't know, papa. It cannot be much longer. I should go now. Please take care of yourself. Good bye, papa. I love you very much."

"I love you, my dear Caterina. Thank your master for letting you call."

Caterina hit the 'end' button and disconnected the call. She handed the phone to Marcus. "Thank you, Marcus. Papa thanks you as well." Tears slid down her cheeks. "I had better go. Thank you again, Marcus." With that, she fled his rooms, and headed for her bedroom to have a good cry. It felt wonderful to hear his voice. At least her father was well and earning some money. She lay on her bed, wiping her face with her hands. Hopefully she would be able to use the phone again.

Marcus was pleased at the call. Caterina had spoken well of him, and her father was not pushing, demanding she be released. Unknown to him, Guiseppe was at his favourite birrerie, or the local pub, fomenting hatred among the pub's patrons. He worked hard to get men to agree to join him, invading the castle and retrieving Caterina, by force if necessary.

A/N : there will be one more chapter for this story. Hope you're enjoying it. And thanks to anyone reading it.

[elysiangroundsforall]

Love & War

"Everything is fair in love and war"

Ch-3

Today marked the long-awaited moment when Y/N would finally taste freedom, though she remained unaware of her saviors maneuvering behind the scenes. Huddled in a ball in the corner of her room, she silently beseeched the heavens to end her wretched existence. Abruptly, the door creaked open, admitting a maid bearing meager rations of food and water. "I apologize, princess, but this is all I could procure for you today. I managed to sneak a bit of kimchi to add flavor to your bread and onion. Please, consume it swiftly before the queen arrives," the sympathetic maid urged. Grateful for even this scant sustenance, Y/N hastily consumed her meal, knowing it might be her last for days to come. She devoured half of the bread, secreting the remainder beneath her bed. "Princess, please eat the rest to avoid it becoming soiled," the maid implored. "Better to consume stale food than none at all, unnie," Y/N replied stoically. With a nod, the maid offered her water before departing. Yet, mere hours later, the door flung open once more, signaling the onset of Y/N's daily ordeal. "Hello, princess. Feeling comfortable?" the crown prince, Taehyun, sneered. Y/N merely whimpered, retreating further into her corner. "Come now, don't be afraid. I won't harm you. Step forward," Taehyun coaxed. Reluctantly, Y/N obeyed, only to have her hand seized by Taehyun, who callously shoved her to the ground. "Fool," he spat, delivering a brutal slap that elicited blood from her mouth. "Prince, the king urgently requests your presence," interjected the king's assistant. With a final contemptuous remark, Taehyun departed, leaving Y/N to gather herself and retreat once more into her desolate corner, where she wept herself into fitful sleep. Abruptly, she felt herself being shaken vigorously. She blinked her eyes open and discerned a dark figure looming over her. "Noona, it's Jisung. I'm deeply sorry for failing to rescue you earlier," he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. "I was only three years old when our parents passed away, and those heathens never mentioned your existence in front of me. I completely forgot about you. But now that I'm aware, I promise to free you. Come, we must leave tonight to escape from Hanseong." Jisung's words left Y/N bewildered, struggling to comprehend the sudden turn of events. "Come on, we're running out of time," Jisung urged, pulling Y/N to her feet. He left a note on the bed declaring, "I've had enough of your torment, so I'm escaping." Leading Y/N away, Jisung glanced at the unconscious guards before they made their descent. He assisted Y/N in climbing down the rope attached to a window in the lobby and followed suit. Once they reached the ground, Jisung grasped Y/N's hand tightly, and they darted along the walls to avoid detection.

They soon reached the stable where all the guards were unconscious. "Minho, Bangchan, it's up to you now," Jisung addressed them. "Noona, I trust these two with my life, and so can you. They will explain the plan to you on the way. It's not the most conventional plan, but it's the only way to ensure your safety," he assured her.

"It's okay. You're my little brother, I trust that you have my best interest at heart," Y/N said, accepting Jisung's reassurance. With Minho's help, she mounted the horse.

Meanwhile, Jisung headed to his room, where a slave trader and his messenger were waiting. "Did my message reach Yeosang?" Jisung inquired.

"Yes, sir," the messenger confirmed.

"You may go now," Jisung dismissed the messenger.

"You. When the royal guards come and ask you about the runaway girl, what will you say?" Jisung interrogated the slave trader.

"I sold her to a slave trader in Goguryeo. I don't know where she is now," the trader promptly replied.

"And if they ask which trader?" Jisung pressed further.

"It was a one-time deal; I don't know his name or where he lives in Goguryeo," the slave trader maintained.

"Where did you meet him?" Jisung probed.

"Somewhere in the forest," the trader responded nervously.

"Slaves' condition in Goguryeo?" Jisung inquired, his tone growing sterner.

"Bad," the trader admitted reluctantly.

"Good. You know what will happen if you tell the truth, right?" Jisung threatened, his authority palpable.

"Yes, Majesty," the trader trembled, fully aware of the consequences his honesty might bring upon him and his family.

"Leave," Jisung ordered, dismissing the trader, who hurriedly scurried off.

"I just hope Noona will be fine," Jisung thought to himself as he retired to bed.

Minho, Bangchan, and Y/N arrived at a small hut nestled within the forest after two hours of riding. They decided to take a moment's respite there. "Princess, please follow us," Minho gently urged as they stepped into the hut. Bangchan handed Y/N a clean hanbok and undergarments. "Princess, the washroom is through that door. Minho has lit the candles inside so you can see better. Kindly freshen up and don these clothes. By the time you're ready, we'll have some food prepared," Bangchan instructed, and Y/N nodded, disappearing into the washroom. "I truly hope these two won't falter," Y/N thought, pouring water over herself. After cleansing herself and changing into the new attire, she emerged, holding her soiled garments. "Where shall I dispose of these?" she inquired. Minho accepted them and cast them into the fire. "Why destroy them?" Y/N questioned, taken aback. "They were soiled and bloodied, unfit for further wear," he explained. As they settled for dinner, Y/N, for the first time in fifteen years, savored a warm bowl of ramyeon. "Take care not to scald your tongue, princess. There's more if you desire seconds," Minho cautioned. Y/N slowed her pace upon hearing this. "May I ask about our plan?" she timidly inquired. "As you know, the King of Goguryeo is your uncle. Jisung has contacted his ally in the palace, a minister. Together, they've arranged a suitable match for you, ensuring a prosperous future. Meanwhile, back in Baekje, the royal family believes you've been traded as a slave, fostering sympathy for your plight," Bangchan elucidated. "Marriage?" Y/N exclaimed. "It's the safest recourse. Forceful repatriation would incite conflict within the kingdom, with Goguryeo holding a significant advantage due to their formidable general," Bangchan explained. "Will I be secure?" Y/N queried. "Absolutely, Your Highness," Minho assured her. After supper, they rested and resumed their journey in the dawn.

As the day wore on, the trio found themselves only a quarter of the way to Goguryeo by the time evening approached. With the sun dipping low on the horizon, they made the decision to halt their journey for the night and set up camp to rest.

Meanwhile, Minho and Bangchan successfully executed their plan to help the princess escape, manipulating the slave trader into corroborating their story. For now, the royal family accepted the fabricated tale, harboring ill wishes for the princess's future.

As dawn broke, Minho, Bangchan, and Y/N resumed their journey with renewed determination. By mid-morning, they arrived in Goguryeo, reaching the capital by nightfall. Seeking refuge, they secured lodging at a nearby hotel, preparing for the events that lay ahead.

The following morning, after freshening up and enjoying a hearty breakfast, the trio donned their finest attire, courtesy of Minho and Bangchan, and proceeded towards the palace. Upon arrival, they were promptly halted by vigilant guards.

"We're here to meet Military Strategist Kang Yeosang, bearing a letter from Prince Jisung," Minho explained, presenting the letter as evidence of their purpose.

Allowed entry, they were escorted to Yeosang's office, where doubts lingered in Y/N's mind regarding the strategist's intentions.

"You're certain about him?" Y/N questioned, her skepticism palpable.

Bangchan offered reassurance, "Princess, he's your brother's childhood friend. You can trust him."

Inside, Yeosang outlined their future plans, including Y/N's impending introduction to her prospective husband, General Park Seonghwa. Though apprehensive, Yeosang's words alleviated some of their concerns.

With their mission complete, Bangchan bid farewell, offering a reassuring smile to the princess.

Turning to Yeosang, Y/N expressed a small request, to which he kindly obliged.

"Yeosang, when you inform Jisung, please convey my gratitude for all he's done," Y/N requested, touched by her brother's efforts.

With Yeosang's guidance, Y/N was ushered into the presence of the king. As she entered, she bowed deeply, showing respect to her sovereign.

The king, impressed by her beauty, welcomed her warmly, engaging her in conversation for hours. Sharing stories of her mother and recounting her own experiences, Y/N found solace in the king's company.

As the evening drew near, the king bid her farewell, arranging for her comfort and rest for the night. Overwhelmed by the day's events, Y/N soon found herself drifting into a peaceful slumber, awaiting the uncertainties of the morrow.

Ch4>>

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

The Taste of Chocolate - A "Kissing You" Drabble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Warnings: None! Fluff city!!!! Word Count: 2.8k Prompt #60: Mistletoe Kisses (Stick with me here) a/n: Happy Valentine's Day! I genuinely prefer to make this day all about loving myself so I treated myself to writing this little Frankie drabble that sort of definitely got out of hand.

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Anyone who says they don’t go to the grocery store the day after Valentine’s Day just to buy the discounted chocolate is lying. Or perhaps in a happy relationship. You wouldn’t know. The only boyfriend you’d ever had over Valentine’s Day had ignored your texts and gone to bed early. No dinner. No roses. No chocolates. Not even a fucking teddy bear. 

So now it was tradition for you to buy your own god damn chocolate. 

The grocery store is quiet, but you’ve been doing this long enough to know that the real time to go is actually on Valentine’s Day, late in the evening so they’re already putting out the discounts for the next day’s sale but early enough that nothing’s been picked over. You’re dressed casually - yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt to combat the chill in the air - your customary uniform for this evening’s activities. 

Turning down the familiar candy aisle, you’re pleased to find it empty, bright yellow signs plastered across the shelves of perfectly delicious chocolate just waiting for you to purchase. Jackpot. After grabbing a bag of Reece’s shaped like hearts and a collection of Ghirardelli squares filled with everything from raspberry cream to caramel, your hand reaches for the last remaining bag of Kit-Kats, only to run into something else instead. 

Or, rather, someone, because of course your meet-cute would happen in the candy aisle on Valentine’s Day. How very Hallmark Channel of you. 

The man next to you is tall. That’s the first thing you notice. Well, not tall, but certainly average height, and in comparison to you that means tall. You notice unruly curls peeking out from underneath a well-loved baseball hat and a black t-shirt covered by a tan jacket that stretches over his shoulders. Almost too-tight jeans cover his legs, and in his hand is a basket identical to yours, filled with miscellaneous candy. 

“I’m sorry, you can have it,” he says quickly, pulling his hand back from the box in-between you. Your hand, however, is still frozen on the bag, eyes locked on him. “What?” he asks when he realizes you’re unabashedly staring at him instead of responding. 

“Nothing, I just…usually I’m the only one who’s here shopping for discounted chocolate at 10pm on Valentine’s Day. Shocked to see another human.” It’s a lame excuse, but you run with it. Just because it’s some holiday about love doesn’t mean you should be fawning over a random stranger in the middle of the grocery store. 

He looks amused, and extends his hand. “Frankie,” he offers, and you accept, shaking it lightly as you relish in the feeling of his rough skin against yours. You almost forget to give your name in return as you pull your hand back, eyes glancing at the bag of Kit-Kats that neither of you grabbed. 

“Do you mind?” you ask, and he follows your gaze to the chocolate.

“Be my guest. I’ve got way too much as it is.” He holds up his basket, showcasing what appears to be everything from Peanut Butter M&Ms to York Peppermint Patties, also shaped like hearts. You continue to stare at him as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting for you to move. Internally, your mind is screaming at you to grab the chocolate and run in the other direction. After all, Valentine’s Day was your day, and a random stranger, even a handsome one, was not about to interrupt your plans. 

Which is why the words that come out of your mouth next are entirely unexpected, even to you. 

“We could…share them?” 

You sound hesitant and unsure, but your meager attempt at flirting must’ve worked on Frankie, because suddenly he’s grinning from ear to ear. “And how do you suggest we do that?” 

“Half and half,” you answer, trying not to read into the tone of his voice. You grab the bag in question from the shelf to place in your basket, along with a few other additions, all chocolate, while Frankie trails after you. 

He hums, obviously considering your suggestion as you walk. “I have one condition,” he finally says. You pause your shopping to turn back toward him, and he stops just short of running into you. You’re taken aback for a second, but he’s quick to move, digging into your basket and pulling the bag of Kit-Kats in question from you. “I pay for them.” 

You want to frown at him, to keep up with the charade, but a small smile turns the edges of your lips upward instead. After all, you can’t help but be a little bit charmed by the reality that it’s Valentine’s Day and there’s a handsome man offering to buy you discounted chocolates.

Nodding in agreement, you turn toward the register, Frankie falling in step beside you. His stride is longer than yours, but you keep up with him easily. That or he’s moving slower to accommodate you. Either way, you can feel the occasional brush of his arm against yours as you walk. 

“So, what brings you to the discounted candy aisle on Valentine’s Day?” you ask him, genuinely curious about your unexpected company. 

“Well, I’m not one for romance, but I am one for half-priced chocolates, so here I am.” 

“I find that hard to believe,” you scoff, sneaking a look at him. 

Frankie’s eyebrows raise, but his voice is teasing. “I don’t think it’s that weird to enjoy half-priced chocolates.” He draws a laugh out of you before asking the same question in return. 

“Tradition, mostly,” you admit honestly. “I’ve been hitting up grocery stores for discounted candy like this for years since I never have much of anything else to do.” You wince at how pitiful that sounds. 

“I find that hard to believe,” he returns, echoing your earlier statement. But where your jab had an air of jest, there’s something warmer and more serious about the way he says it, and it causes a chill to run up your spine. 

You don’t have time to respond though, because Frankie is already making his way to the nearest self-checkout register, and you choose the console next to him. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Frankie scan the Kit-Kats, and when he glances in your direction, you’re quick to resume scanning your own picks. The two of you manage to finish at roughly the same time, his receipt printing as you walk over toward him. 

“So, how are we going to split them?” you ask as you walk out of the store together. As luck would have it, his beat-up pickup sits next to your clean little Toyota, and you come to a stop at your trunk. “Just open the bag and each of us take half?” 

“What if there’s an odd number? I wouldn’t want to duel over a final Kit-Kat.” You’re laughing again as he moves to set his bag in his trunk, pulling out the candy in question to set on the back of your car. He rips open the end of the bag and begins to separate them out. 

You shrug, watching him count. “You can have it. After all, you did pay for them, so it’s only fair that you get the majority.” 

Frankie does ultimately get one extra, and you’re quick to take your portion of the haul before thanking him and heading for your driver’s side door. You only stop at the sound of his voice, meeting his gaze over the roof of your car. 

“You said you don’t have much of anything to do tonight?” He looks nervous, mirroring the way you’ve felt since you both reached for the chocolates in the store.

For a moment you debate lying to him, saying that you do have plans after all, but apparently not even the prospect of a hot bath surrounded by candles and soft music can lure you away from the warmth of his eyes. “Why? You have an idea?” 

“I was just thinking that, if you wanted to, we could actually share our chocolate?” 

“Were you lying about not being a romantic?” you tease, putting one foot up on your car to steady yourself, an arm draping over the open door. 

“No,” he fumbles out, raising his hands in surrender, “still firmly anti-romantic. But,” he continues, drawing out the word, “I also think that no one should have to spend Valentine’s Day alone.” 

“Are you talking about me or are you talking about you now?” 

He’s smiling again. “Both.” 

~ ~ ~

It’s a short drive to Frankie’s house, and you send a text to your best friend before you leave the parking lot to let her know where you are and what you’re doing. Despite the fact that you’re not getting serial killer vibes from Frankie, you’d still hoped that she might express some kind of concern, but her only response is a GIF that can only be described as pornographic. That was not in the plans for tonight. No, you’re just spending time with Frankie, the co-parent of your shared Kit-Kat bars. 

When you put it that way though, the pornographic GIF sounds less insane. 

Frankie pulls into his driveway, and you park on the street near his mailbox, the two of you exiting your cars with bags of candy in hand. He ushers you up the driveway and through the garage, which is filled with tools and a much older truck than the one outside. “I’m fixing her up,” he explains, noting that he’s a mechanic. Well, now he’s a mechanic. He’s quick to inform you that he used to be a pilot, and you hold your tongue from asking why he isn’t one now. 

The interior of the house is dim, but he’s quick to illuminate your path, switching on lights as he leads you further into the home. It’s a meager abode, sparsely decorated, but somehow it feels just like the man in front of you - warm and inviting. 

“Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Water?” he asks as he opens the fridge, already pulling out a beer for himself. 

“Beer sounds good,” you reply, setting your bag of candy next to where he left his own on the counter. You reach in to grab one of your Kit-Kats as he opens both bottles, handing one to you before you descend into awkward silence. You look everywhere but at him, taking in the pristine while walls and obviously old appliances as you eat your chocolate, but eventually you have no choice but to meet his gaze. 

Frankie looks more nervous now than he did earlier, and you wonder if he’s regretting his decisions. A part of you asked yourself the same question, the same part of you that wants to bolt for the door and hurry home even if you forget your bag of candy on the counter. Back to the safety of your home and the predictability of what Valentine’s Day always is. 

He lets out a breath, running his thumb over his lips as he laughs lightly. “I don’t usually…” he starts, and then pauses, gaze meeting yours, “...we could…watch a movie?” 

You nod before you can really think about it, although you admit that a movie does sound nice. He grabs both of your bags off the counter and you follow as he leads the way into the living room. There’s more character here, a dozen or so photographs in frames scattered throughout the room and shelves along one wall that are filled with books and old records. There’s one decoration in particular, however, that catches your eye immediately.

“Is that a Christmas tree?” 

Frankie is standing on the opposite side of the couch, placing your candy haul on the coffee table. When he turns back, there’s a faint brush of red along his cheekbones. “I uh…haven’t had time to take it down.”

“It’s February,” you point out as though you didn’t take down your own tree a couple of days ago. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him, and you stifle a laugh as you collapse onto the sofa next to him, careful to leave plenty of space between you. 

He attempts to change the topic by queueing up the TV and asking what you'd like to watch, but you don't let him stray far, insisting that a Christmas movie is only obvious choice. He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but you catch the grin he gives you when he agrees.

It doesn’t matter what’s happening on screen though, because you  spend most of the film less focused on Will Ferrell eating candy covered spaghetti and more on trying to figure out just what’s happening right now. Your sweets are scattered all over the coffee table, a mixture of Frankie’s options next to yours in a half-hazard cornucopia of sugar. Early in the film, Frankie left for a moment and returned with a trash can, which is now filled with discarded wrappers. Conversation flowed easily as you made comments on the film and shared bits and pieces of your lives. 

You learn that he’s ex-military, which explains several of the pictures within your view. He tells you about his friends, a whole group of them that are more than eager to set him up on dates that never go anywhere. You tell him about your best friend too, and her habit of creating you profiles on dating apps that you refuse to use. 

When midnight rolls around and he asks if you’d want to watch another, you don’t say no, and he hits play on another Christmas film. You’re both quieter during this one, and neither of you move much, your bodies glued to your respective ends of the sofa. He looks comfortable though, whenever you sneak a glance over at him, and you wonder what it would be like to curl up against his body. How it would feel to tuck yourself into his side. 

The credits rolling again are what pulls you out of your thoughts. Frankie stretches his arms above him and you hear his back pop and crack in the process. “You heard that, huh?” he asks when you notice the grimace on his face, and when he stands his knees make a similar sound. 

“Hear what?” you play along, and then he’s got that smile on his face again, the one you didn’t know before tonight but are quickly becoming addicted to. You follow suit, your own knee popping as you stand too, causing both of you to fall into a fit of giggles. 

You know you should leave, that you should sift through the candy on the table and take what’s yours to your car and go home, but the soft light of the Christmas tree is giving a glow to Frankie’s skin, and you’re distracted. His hat was discarded ages ago, and he ran his hand through his hair enough in the past four hours that it’s now sticking up in nearly every direction. You itch to run your fingers through it too, but quickly stamp down that thought in your head. 

“I should get this cleaned up,” he suggests, starting to grab the candy he knows is yours to put into one of the bags that has long since fallen on the floor next to the table. You’re quick to help, and when you catch him putting a few extra Kit-Kats into your bag, you say nothing. 

You let him finish as you carry your empty beer bottles back into his kitchen, setting them next to the sink before you turn back and lean in the archway. He’s handing you the bag a moment later, standing just a breath from you, the same nervous habit of shifting from foot to foot taking over his movement. 

“You know,” you start, glancing up at him, energy sparking between you, “I’m starting to think you were lying about being an anti-romantic.” 

Frankie looks perplexed. “Is that so? It’s because we watched Love Actually, isn’t it?" 

A simple shake of your head and a glance above you tells him that it had nothing to do with Love Actually. “Mistletoe?” you question, “really?” 

It’s all the permission he needs to lean closer to you. “Maybe I just really like Christmas,” he suggests, his breath hot against your lips. 

“It’s February,” you state again, but he doesn’t give you a chance to elaborate further because then he’s kissing you. It’s light at first, just a graze of his lips against yours, and then he pulls back, waiting for you to make the next move. You do, pressing against him the way you’ve wanted to all night long, your hands finding their way to curl in the hair at the back of his neck. 

There’s a bag of discounted candy dropped at your feet, but neither of you seems to care. His hands are on you, warm against the flat of your back, and as he pulls you closer, you start to believe for the first time that, perhaps, there’s more to Valentine’s Day than discounted chocolate. 

But then again, you can still taste it on his lips.

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[he-ate-with-the-wrong-people]

Forgive, and You Will Be Forgiven (PROLOGUE)

Andrew x Reader; Atticus x Daughter!Reader

Series Masterlist

You hurry through the streets, veil half-covering your face and fully covering your hair. After everything your mother faced, it fell to you to be double the devout Jewess to atone for your tainted blood. It is not your fault that your mother chose to marry a Roman, and yet you are treated as a leper for her choice. An outcast. Rejected by Gentiles for your Jewishness and labeled unclean and immoral by Jewish society despite having committed no crime to earn such a reputation.

Your mother swore, even to her deathbed, that the two loved each other. You bit back a scathing response each time. After all, the second he had been promoted to the rank of Cohortes Urbanae, he had abandoned your disgraced pregnant mother in Jerusalem to move back to Rome. She was sent to live with a widowed aunt in Capernaum, where you were born and raised, distinctly lacking contact with your grandparents. Even the other neighborhood children were made to shun you growing up, leaving you lonely and resentful toward the man who ruined your life by giving you life.

Now, it is just you. No man would marry you and no home accept you. After your great aunt's death, her son kicked you out onto the streets. You manage to make a respectable living running a booth of traded fabrics and by sewing dresses and tunics, scraping by in a small room you rent out on the meager sum you get by on earning.

You are so intent on your journey home, bundle of what little you could by for Shabbat in your arms, that you almost don't notice the woman in front of you. You skid to a stop at the last second, some of the herbs you carry falling into the dirt. “Oh, no,” you mutter, bending down to pick them up and accidentally splashing water on her in the process. “Oh, goodness, I am so, so sorry-”

“It is fine.” She gives you a gentle smile, kneeling in the dust beside you to assist. “Are you all right?”

“Why are you asking me? I just spilled water on you-”

“And it is merely water on my hem. It will dry. Are you alright?”

You glance down, discouraged, at the now-filthy herbs in your hand. You had saved up to get them, and now…

“Come to my house for dinner,” the woman offers.

You meet her eyes, confused. “I’m… sorry?”

She maintains that warm smile. “I am Mary of Magdala. Please, I would be honored if you would join me for dinner tonight. We have too much food for the number of mouths.”

“Are you… sure?” You ask, wary, but never quite having grown out of your deep desire for acceptance.

“Of course. If you would give me your name?”

You blush, embarrassed, but comply as you accept her help standing up. She leads you down the road—ostensibly in the direction of her house—as you thank her. “Why invite me, though?” You add after.

An expression you don’t quite understand comes into her eyes. “Let’s just say I had a feeling about you.”

[itsclydebitches]

You’re so mean. I’m crying after reading that poor Zevlor specifically about Orin’s gift. Omg that part make me cry. That’s so tragic. Even if I don’t get who is Orin (I’m still at act 1) so mean yet it was so well portrayed my poor heart can’t take it! I must don’t miss him! 😭

It makes me feral, anon! I definitely won’t spoil any more about Orin because she’s a treat in Act 3 but yeah, missing out on Zevlor the second time doesn’t, uh... end well for him...

I might do a followup meta after my 2nd play-through because all joking aside, it is kinda fascinating to me how much Zevlor functions as the narrative’s punching bag. Certainly we have no lack of characters going through The Horrors—which includes all the Origin peeps—yet there’s something about the combination of Zevlor’s past, his place in the conflict, and other characters’ feelings towards him that makes my brain go, “Goddamn what did the man do to deserve this??”

Anyway, until then please accept a happier Zevlor ficlet to make up for the very upsetting meta :D

***

The Feast Pairing: None Word Count: 1,122 AO3

“How are we on rations?”

Zevlor knew, of course. There was very little going on in camp that he wasn’t already aware of. Still, it was either make the rounds and ask rhetorical questions, or pace within the chamber until Tilly threatened to knock him out with the pommel of her sword. Zevlor wasn’t willing to test her resolve in that matter and the others, frankly, were more indulgent—more than he deserved.

Okta smiled, clearly trying to take the sting out of her words. “Well, we’ve got enough for a bowl each, not that a bowl’ll get ‘em very far.”

Zevlor looked down at the gruel, though that seemed such an unkind word for what had been sourced with determination and slow-simmered with love. The concoction was more liquid than oats and Zevlor knew they hadn’t nearly enough milk for that to be the base. Okta was right. His people were subsiding mostly on water and with an inevitable battle on the horizon...

A soft curse suddenly took flight and Okta’s expression hardened—foreign emotions marring her face. “Wouldn’t be so bad if those tree huggers would grow a pair 'a fuckin’ horns and share a bit of what’s theirs.” Her eyes lingered on the storage shed. “Pandirma’s done such a good job guardin’ it for ‘em.”

Translation: She could slip a thing or two into her pockets.

“The druids have given more than enough,” Zevlor murmured.

Okta met his gaze squarely. “No. They haven’t.”

There was no accusation in her words but Zevlor still felt them keenly. Perhaps if he’d had the fortitude to get through to Kagha. Perhaps if he’d found a better place for them to shelter from the goblins. Perhaps if he’d gotten them out of Elturel faster, or done more to lift the city from Avernus. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Zevlor’s old blade was locked tight in a chest he had every intention of leaving behind, the mark of his God meticulously filed away. Being a Hellrider had gotten him little but despair, so Zevlor reached into his pockets as only a man and retrieved a single, meager offering.

A simple pear, bruised and missing its stem.

“It’s not much,” he said, holding it out, “but perhaps... for the children...?”

Okta’s smile was as soft as any mother’s but before she could take the fruit a shout sounded from above them. Honed instincts and overwrought nerves had Zevlor reaching for his crossbow. It took him too long to register that the sound was one of happiness.

The adventurers. Zevlor watched, stunned, as Tav and two of their companions came down the slope—carefully so as not to disturb the riches they carried. Wyll lead with a basket of apples that put his small pear to shame. The pale man—Astarion—followed with a pack twice the basket’s size overflowing with all manner of foodstuffs: mushrooms, grapes, bread, fish wrapped carefully in paper, and—Gods, was that alcohol? It was Tav that caught everyone’s eye though, the one drawing appreciative hands to their lower back and arms as they passed. No one could pat their shoulder because they had a massive buck slung across them, the beast sluggishly bleeding into their armor.

“Hungry?” they asked, just this side of cheeky.

“How...?” It was all Zevlor could manage. The amount they carried would feed all the tieflings tonight. Tomorrow too. For days if they were careful.

Wyll shrugged. “It's nothing extravagant, I'm sorry to say. Turns out that goblins don’t just eat dwarf and this food would have gone to waste had we left it behind.”

“Because we killed them,” Astarion took up, a manic satisfaction in the words. “Not all of them. Not yet, darling, but given how generous we’ve been of late, I’d be happy to discuss our payment—”

Tav smacked him with the buck’s hoof as they slipped past. “Ignore him,” they said, letting out a sigh as they finally set their prize down. “You don’t owe us a thing, Zevlor.”

“I beg to differ.”

“What are we getting paid for, Astarion? The strenuous act of picking apples beneath an idyllic tree? The good fortune of spotting a lame buck that fell to a single arrow? Oh wait, maybe it’s your stressful day of... what was it? Right, slipping a single vile of poison into the goblin’s beer tub.”

Zevlor suddenly had the sense that Tav was teasing Astarion—and that this was a rare honor few others were afforded.

Astarion sniffed. “I expect to be accommodated for my supplies at the very least. That poison was of high quality and very expensive.”

From just beyond his shoulder Wyll mouthed, ‘It wasn’t’ with a crooked smile.

All the while Okta had been doing a strange little dance, clapping her hands with glee as she surveyed the feast before her. Suddenly she swooped down and planted a kiss on Tav’s cheek, blood and all. They flushed a deep scarlet and hastily stumbled to their feet.

“Thank you,” Zevlor breathed. There were still goblins, and Kagha, and the long, arduous road to Baldur’s Gate, but this? This was a gift that would carry them through.

Feeling foolish, he pressed the pear into Tav’s hand, daring to go so far as to squeeze as he pressed their fingers around the fruit. “Here. You should have something for yourself too.”

Tav blinked, staring down at the offering. For one horrible moment Zevlor considered all the ways his words could be misconstrued. That the adventurers weren’t allowed to partake of their own food. That their efforts—immense by anyone’s standards, let alone his—were worth only a sad piece of fruit. That impulsive act had been worse than foolish; it was insulting.

“What about you?”

That’s all they said though. Honest consideration. Zevlor had to swallow hard before he could answer. He wasn’t even sure what he said. Something about the skin getting stuck in a tiefling’s teeth. Okta shot him a look that was part amusement, mostly resignation. Then she shooed everyone away so she could begin preparations.

They did, in fact, feast that night. Well, perhaps ‘feast’ was a comparative term, but Zevlor would have taken their meal over a king’s any day. He was conservative with his own plate and most of what he did take mysteriously wound up on Mol’s. The child had a knack for slight of hand but it would be several years before she could catch him in the act.

It was when Zevlor finally returned to his bedroll that he found it. Another gift, another offering of friendship, this one warming him right down to his core.

A cut pear rested beautifully on a plate, each slice meticulously peeled of its skin.