#props to whoever finds the secret

[elizabeths-dumbassery]

Some color and lighting practice! Haven't been at my desk in a while so it isn't my best work :/

[the-monstermash]

UNBROKEN BETROTHALS pt. 3

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Synopsis: After running away from an unwanted proposal, you find yourself working in a brothel as a cook. When a certain guest takes an odd liking to you, secrets are revealed and betrothals unbroken

Warnings: Angst, Brothels, Mature, 18+, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language

Word Count: 2, 031

> A/N: Catch the corny tie-in at the end of the chapter. I think maybe one more chapter will wrap up this story.

You were in a bout of disbelief. You'd not left your room in days, taking your meals and guests in the rooms. Sylvi was obviously angry with you, because she’d said nothing about you not cooking. She likely had already hired a new cook to replace you, no doubt planning to kick you out the moment you stepped outside again. Where would you go? Back to the Riverlands was always an option, but you were afraid of what you might find if you returned.

How could you not be? Your entire life you had thought of your parents as betrayers. You'd thought they'd wished to sell you off to some disgusting man, to rid themselves of the burden of you. In reality, what choice had they truly had? To reject the king would be dishonorable, not to mention impossible. They would’ve had to respond immediately, to agree in your stead.

How could you ever think so lowly of them? They'd given you so much love in your youth, how would they ever do something so cruel if they'd had the choice not to? Were they heartbroken at the loss of a daughter? Did they think you dead? Or did they accept that you just didn't want to be with them anymore, and you'd left for a better life. Were they still looking for you? You didn't know which was worse.

And then there was Aemond.

Why had he cared so much? You were of no great house, and your marriage would be of no benefit to him. Your running away should've been to his relief, not his anger. Then, for him to track you down, and push his intentions on you. What was the purpose?

The knock on the door did not make you rise from the bed as it would've a week ago, and you did not call to the visitor like you would've a week ago. Instead, you waited for whoever it was to either let themselves in, or go away. You'd be happy with either one.

The creak of the solid door told you they'd chosen the former.

"Are you awake?" Lauryn's voice pulled a sigh from you. 

She'd come with more questions, or to gossip about what was happening outside of your room.

"If I was not before, your presence has brought me a sense of invigoration." You smiled sadly, patting the bed for her to enter.

She stepped inside the room, but did not cross the distance. Her absence in the door frame was filled with another. A much taller, blonder, guest, that put much more dread in you than she had.

"Lauryn, what is this?" You sat up, crossing your arms and pulling the blankets up to cover your nightclothes. He stepped into the center of the room, hands behind his back, looking around to take in the sight.

"He's demanded to see you." We can not deny him, is what she said with her eyes. You nodded at her and she quickly fled the room, closing the door behind her.

The silence was not comfortable, nor was it unwelcome. You knew if he spoke, it would be about the betrothal, and that would make you think of your family, and you would be back to worrying for your dear family and how they were fairing. You felt so vulnerable, wrapped up in your blankets and nightclothes before him, all alone.

"My prince, you wanted to see me?" You propped your knees to your chest, sure you looked like a big pile of sheets with a head on top to him.

"I wanted to see you were well." He finally took his eyes off your meager decorations, and looked at you. "Have you had any more spells?" You shook your head.

"I'm quite well."

"And have you thought any more of my words?" You sighed, exasperated, but relenting to the fact that he simply would not let this go.

"Of course I have. It's all I've thought about, holed up in this room. That, and where I'll go once Sylvi casts me from my home. Because of you." You wanted to yell, but you just did not have the energy.

"Me?"

"If you'd just accepted my answer, she would have gotten past it. But you pursued, and chased, and you would not relent."

"I'd relented the first time you rejected me, how many rejections did you expect I would take?"

"Relenting would've been leaving me be, not seeking me out here when you knew I was content."

"I did not come here for you, you happened to be here." You rolled your eyes.

"I *happened* to be in a kitchen, hidden away from everyone where *you* found me in search of 'wine’? There was wine everywhere up front, it is a whore house! You knew I was here, and you found me, because you could not accept the rejection. You sought me out, you said so yourself." He blanched at you repeating his words to him. Perhaps he thought you did not remember your last conversation.

"So I sought you out. What is the crime in it? You were my betrothed, and I would not have you running about the world any longer. I demand to know why you rejected me so long ago, and why you reject me now. I am more than suitable for you, and you should have been proud to serv-"

"I did not know it was you!" You silenced him with your yell. "I did not run away from marrying you, I ran away...because I thought my parents were to send me off to some gray man I did not know, and force me to wed him, and I would spend my whole life with some old Lord who did not love me, and I would never live! I was a child, and I was afraid, Aemond."

He was silent for a moment, before sighing and coming to sit at the edge of your bed.

"And why do you refuse me now?"

"I guess I thought if I married you, then I might as well have married the first man. It would've saved me a lot of trouble, and made my family proud, at the very least." He nodded at that and looked away. "Why do you want me so badly?"

He tilted his head, thinking for a second before shrugging his shoulders. You scoffed at that and stretched your legs to leave room for your crossed arms, not believing that he was just pointlessly pursuing you.

"I've had enough rejection for one lifetime. I'll not have any more." It was a simple answer, and given the past you knew of him, you supposed it made sense. He'd been refused a dragon, friends, a father, a crown. You could see how when you, a simple girl from nowhere, rejected him, it might have confounded him, and tipped him over the edge. He seemed deep in thought, or perhaps deep in memory, and before your eyes you saw him regress into the young boy he'd been, when all he knew was hurt and rejection.

In a way, you pitied Aemond. He had led a sad life, but he'd also led a privileged life. and that privileged life often made people overlook the hurt he'd faced as a child. He was a prince, and that made him revered and respected in many aspects, but he was also a scared, hurt little boy, with no respect from his peers and no one to truly turn to.

"I suppose I can understand that." He turned to you, his lips turning up in acknowledgement before he gently laid his head in your lap.

It surprised you, though it shouldn't have. He was desperate for appreciation and affection. That was why he was here, after all, begging you to reconsider marriage to him.

You had reconsidered it over these past few days. You'd thought it over in a hundred different ways, and truthfully, without the added angst of your parental situation, you really had no reason to say no to his proposal. He was a perfectly respectable husband, and with his doting nature, you'd thought he'd treat you quite well. You could see yourself content with him, if not happy.

"I suppose marriage wouldn't be so bad if my husband were agreeable." You gently found yourself petting his hair, making him close his eye.

"Hm." Was his simple answer, a hum of content, yet it prompted you to elaborate.

"He would have to be kind, of course. And perhaps handsome, though not superficial. I would like him to be strong, and brave. Though, not to the point of recklessness. Perhaps a Stark." You looked down at him with a playful smile, and he responded with a chortle. "You're right, I do hate the cold." You scratched at his scalp.

"You'll make an exceptional wife, and I'll make you happy." He turned onto his back so he was looking up at you, his soft eyes gazing up at you.

He truly was beautiful. His features were in total opposition, his long, soft hair, sharp jaw, and sweet eyes all combined to make a statuesque deity laid before you. His hair was almost pearlescent in the way the fire flickered across him, changing the hues in a second, and blending in oranges and reds and magnificent  yellows.

You could not think of a way to tell him you were conceding, and he'd finally won. You just smiled down at him and nodded.

"I need to see my parents." Your voice broke at the mere idea, and he nodded immediately, sitting up and turning to hold your face.

"I'll see it's done. We'll call them to King's Landing."

"Thank you, Aemond.”

He tilted himself just slightly, enough for you to understand what he was asking for. You leaned in enough to meet your lips to his in a soft and gentle kiss. You rest your hand on his jaw, and the other on his chest. He pushed himself against you more to deepen the kiss, pushing you back onto your hands.

His kiss was desperate, and held an air of pure satisfaction. It was not overly rushed, but deep and passionate. You could feel him pour his soul into it, like a beautiful piece of poetry. Every suckle was a sonnet, every sigh a sestina. He pulled your body to his, and it was a haiku, consisting of syllables only spoken in physical language. And you hung onto every single word.

You pulled away for air, but he didn't let you get far, holding his hand to the back of your head, your forehead pressed against his. Your bodies still moved in sync, rising and falling with breath, slowly calming yourselves back down.

"We'll marry as soon as your parents arrive. The very same day."

"Shouldn't you ask the king? I’m sure your family won’t relish  the thought of a prince marrying a common cook. You could marry at a much higher advantage for the war."

"There is nothing common about you. And besides, my father already approved the marriage all those years ago. My brother won't deny me." You nodded.

"I'll see you again? Before the wedding? Promise you'll come see me." He raised his eyebrow at that, clearly confused about something you'd said.

"You're coming to the castle with me, are you not, my Lady?" The title made you chew your lip, you had not heard it in a very long time. “I’ll not have my wife sleep in a brothel any longer, I’ve suffered it long enough.”

“This brothel is my home, and you’ve had no trouble turning in a night or two if I remember correctly. Besides, I wouldn’t want to offend your family by assuming I was welcome. You should confirm the betrothal first with the king.” He sighed and turned away, but came up with no argument.

“I’ll be back for you, in a week’s time-at most. Say your goodbyes, pack your things. Prepare to be a princess of the seven kingdoms.” He stood and leaned for one last kiss.

“I’ll be waiting, my prince.”

And with one more lasting stroke of your cheek, he left to unbreak the betrothal you’d abandoned so long ago.

@mamawiggers1980 @dahlias-and-marigolds @starrflowerr @aemondwhoresworld

[myeuphoricmindset]

Ghostface - Eddie Munson

Summary | You've just bumped into a masked stranger at a Hawkins Halloween party. You don't know if it's the mystery man or the alcohol, but you're breaking all the rules tonight. Because tonight you're not you —you're someone completely different. On Halloween, you can be whoever you want. Whoever 𝒉𝒆 wants. And Eddie Munson wants 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

Pairing | Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

Warnings/tags | 18+ (MINORS DNI), smut (that’s basically it), one-night stand, rough, dirty talk, spanking, dom!Eddie, hair pulling, hands around neck & oral both receiving.

I posted this on wattpad last Halloween, so hopefully it still holds up. It’s more smutty and vulgar than my usual work, so there is your heads up.

🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷

The tequila is starting to hit you. The music is rattling your soul. Your blood is running hot. And your body is levitating. It feels so good to free this fucking free.

It's fun to play pretend, even for just one night. You're not you tonight, you're someone else. The red cape, tight corset and short skirt have you feeling more confident than ever.

The music is loud, just like you like it. The house is filled with almost everyone in Hawkins. But most of their faces are masked and there is a little thrill because of that. It's the fact that the familiar faces are unfamiliar for a night. You can be anyone. Be with anyone. And when the clock strikes midnight the mask falls, taking its secrets with it.

You look around for more alcohol, but you can't see shit with how many people are in here. Your eyes do notice someone watching you. He has a Ghostface mask on and he's leaning against the wall. Well, you think he's looking at you. The mask doesn't give him away, but for some reason, you have a feeling he is.

You ignore the stranger and find your way through the crowd. You need more alcohol, especially if you are going to follow through with your plan to have a one-night stand.

A countertop nearby has a bottle of vodka. This will do. You grab a cup and pour yourself a drink. It burns going down, but you swallow.

The music is already calling you back to the dance floor. You finish your drink and push your way back through the crowd. It's a song you've never heard of, but the beat is good. Good enough to lose yourself in. Once the alcohol gives you enough courage then you will go search for the masked stranger that will end your night right.

"Lil' Red Riding Hood?" A deep voice says behind you on the dance floor.

You turn to face them. They are completely masked and hidden, like a little secret. Whoever they are —they are Ghostface tonight. The one that's been watching you. He has the mask on but wears a black shirt and black jeans.

"Yes." Your answer. You tug on your hood over your head and bat your lashes. Playing your part. "I didn't know Ghostface spoke unless on the phone." You tease him.

He pulls out a large prop phone and holds it up to his ear. "Do you like scary movies?"

You smile, but try to contain your interest in this stranger. "I do."

He walks closer to you. "What's your favorite one?"

People are dancing around you, completely in their own world that they don't pay attention to you and Ghostface.

You bite your lip softly and look at his face, hoping you're staring at his eyes behind that mask. "Scream."

He slowly tilts his head. "Mmm, really?"

Damn. His voice is hot.

"Really." You confirm.

"Do you go to Hawkins?"

"Maybe." You smile.

"You're really playing into the mystery of it all, aren't you?"

You laugh. "Isn't that the point of tonight? I think you've been the real mystery tonight. I know you've been watching me."

"You're difficult to look away from."

Someone dancing beside you knocks into you, pushing you against the masked stranger. His hands grip your waist, holding you up. You look down at his hands on your waist and notice rings on his fingers. A clue to who's behind the mask, but you can't place it.

You look up at him. "Dance with me, Ghostface."

You don't wait for an answer. You grab the phone in his hand and toss it on the table nearby. You twist in his arms, sliding her hands on top of his to keep his hands on your waist. You start swaying with the music, moving against him.

His fingers dig into your hips. You haven't been touched in so long and even just his fingertips against you send you pushing back against him harder.

You lift your hands above your head and around his neck. Tonight you feel like breaking the rules. You want to wake up tomorrow with secrets. You came here tonight to taste freedom, to indulge in your wild side. Whoever he is, he's yours tonight. Who fucking cares what's right or wrong. One-night stands are meant to be so wrong that it's right.

His hand moves across your abdomen and over your rib cage. You drop your head back against his chest. His hand moves up your arm and to your hand.

"You're so hot." He groans in your ear. His voice is laced with the desire that he can't hide.

You are two strangers. At least you both are with masks on. You don't know if it's because of that or the alcohol, but you're turned on. His voice and his touch are fueled by the desire for you. Wanting you. Needing you.

He twists you around to face him. One hand on your lower back and the other on your face. You stare at his masked face. Your breath caught in your throat.

His thumb brushes your bottom lip. You can tell he's admiring you. Drinking you in. It's so hot. Your body is on fire for him. The tension is high. It's all so fucking thrilling. The mystery and the possibilities.

"Make me your next victim." You whisper to him.

He laughs. God, that laugh. You almost drop to your knees right there.

"As you wish." He says.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you through the crowd.

🕷

You don't have time to look around the bedroom. He throws you onto the bed. It's not like you'd know whose room this is anyway, you don't even know whose house this is. You were just told where the party was and showed up. And god, you're so damn glad you showed up.

The mystery man, Ghostface, closes the bedroom door and turns to face you. You hear the door lock. You should be scared, but you're not. He moves near the end of the bed, standing over you.

"Look at you." He chuckles and tilt's his head. "So desperate for me."

He's not wrong. You are. Whoever he is, you are down bad. It's his voice, his hands, his laugh, and how he carries himself. Like a fucking God. And you're not worthy.

"So desperate." You whisper.

"Are you a good girl?" He asks.

"I can be."

"Mmm." The sound that escapes his lips is so low that it almost sounds like a growl.

It sends heat in between your legs.

"Get up." He's demanding, but you like it. He knows what he wants. And tonight it's you.

You stand up and he walks up to you. His hand lifts to your face, tracing a finger down your cheek. "I don't always play nice. I need you to know that before we move forward."

"Okay." The only word you can form.

His fingers trail down your skin and wrap about your neck. It's gentle but firm. "Can you handle that? I need to hear you say that you want this."

Your breathing increases and you swallow. He must have felt that because he tightens his grip around your neck. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"Yes, I want this." You say.

He chuckles. "As much as I want to fuck you with this mask on, I want to taste you first and I can't do that."

"Then take it off."

He tilts his head and pulls you closer to him by your throat. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine."

You smile and try to remain calm. He hasn't even done anything yet and you're more turned on than you ever have been. Fuck the masks. Whatever he is offering is worth your secret identity.

The red hood falls against your shoulders, revealing your beautiful hair. The mask on your face is secured by a ribbon tied behind your head. You look up at the masked stranger as you drop your hands.

He realizes what you silently asked. The hand around your throat releases as it moves to the back of your head. He pulls on the ribbon, releasing your mask and revealing your face. It falls to the ground.

He grabs your chin, lifting your eyes to him. "You're fucking beautiful." There is a flicker in his eyes that give you the impression that he knows you, but he doesn't say.

Your face burns, but you try to play it off. "Your turn."

"Mm, so eager."

He laughs lightly and then pulls off his mask. It's Eddie fucking Munson. He shakes his head, curls swaying with the movement. The mask drops to the floor. You have never spoken to Eddie, but you know exactly who he is. There is no denying that you're more down for this than before. He's so damn hot.

You both don't acknowledge that we know each other. It doesn't matter. Even with the masks off, you both are enjoying the night without any consequences. And that fact alone has you on your worst behavior.

"Fuck me, Eddie Munson." You say.

He doesn't react to his name on your lips. "Damn." He smirks and closes the distance between you both. He slides off your red cloak, dropping it to the floor. "Say it again."

"Fuck Me, Eddie Munson."

He laughs. "You're sexy when you beg."

Eddie presses his body against yours and tilts your head. He's kissing your neck and it feels so good. His lips are warm and soft against your skin. His hands are roaming your body until he finds the zipper on the corset costume. And thank god it's a zipper.

He bites your neck and you let out a whimper. He laughs softly against your skin. His tongue slides up your neck and to your jawline, coming to a stop just as he unzips your corset. The cold air in the room hits your bare chest as he pulls the corset off.

"Jesus Christ. Fucking perfect." He says as he looks at your breasts.

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps as his hand trails from your back, up your rib cage, and to your breasts. His thumb brushes over your nipple. His lips find yours and you are set on fire by his kiss. His hand cups your breasts before he pushes you onto the bed.

A single kiss, burning on your lips and leaving you wanting more. You watch him as he looks down at you, hunger in his eyes.

"I'm going to eat you alive." He says, crawling on top of you. "I'll take my time, savoring every piece of you."

You are speechless and he can tell. He laughs lightly and then brings his mouth back to yours, tasting your desire. His tongue brushed your lip, asking for entrance and you welcome it. Your tongues dance together, and it's the sweetest fucking dance.

He bites your lip, pulling away slowly. "You're quiet. I want to hear how good I make you feel."

"Okay." You breathe.

He stares down at you, his hair falling over his shoulders. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, daddy." You smile.

He tilts his head. "Mm, I like that."

Before you can say another word his mouth is around your breast. His tongue swirls around your nipple and you moan.

"That's it. Tell me that you like it." He says before returning his mouth to your body.

He bites your nipple and you arch your back. He slips one of his hands around your lower back, holding you up slightly as he kisses down your stomach. His curls trail down your bare skin as he moves down.

He removes his hands from your body and lifts himself onto his knees. "Look at this slutty little skirt you have on." He bites his lip. "Fuck."

"Do you want to take it off of me?" You ask.

Eddie gets off the bed and stands up. He looks at you, running his hand through his hair. The curls fall back on his face. His eyes are drunk on the sight of you. He smiles a devilish smile. "No, baby. I want to fuck you in it."

He grabs your hips and yanks you to the end of the bed. You let out a sound of surprise and he laughs. "Are you already screaming? I haven't even started."

You blush at his words. You've never been more turned on than you are right now. Eddie grabs something from his pocket and then pulls his hair back into a loose bun. A few curls fall loose before he drops to his knees before you. The whole room shifts at the sight of him between your legs.

He touches your tights, his fingertips soft on your skin. He opens your legs in a quick sudden movement. He can't help himself, he looks at what's beneath your skirt.

"Oh, sweetheart. I can see how wet you are for me. Your white panties give you away." His eyes flick up to yours. "I love how ready you are for me." His thumbs make small circles on the inside of your thighs as he tightens his grip.

"Don't tease me." You say. Desperate for his next move.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. "Where are your manners?"

"Please. Please don't tease me."

He sighs. "Good girl."

He plants a kiss on the inside of your thigh. You are aching for him, the heat between your legs is going to burn the whole damn room down. He moves up your thigh, leaving more kisses and then he bites you. It's not too hard, and the pain is more pleasurable than anything else. You can't stop the moan that escapes your lips.

His hands slide up and under your skirt, wrapping around your hips. His rings are cold against your skin. He flips your skirt up, revealing your panties. He looks up at you and you think you might climax at the sight of him.

"I know you begged me not to tease you, but daddy makes the rules here." He winks.

You almost jump at the sudden feeling of his thumb brushing down over your panties, right where you need him. Even with the thin fabric separating his touch from your skin it still has you melting in pleasure. "Oh god." You moan.

"Mm, so sensitive," Eddie says.

He rubs his thumb up and down, and you slide your hips down trying to add more friction. Eddie pulls his hand back.

"Naughty girl." He smirks.

"Eddie, please."

His finger slides up your hip and he slips one finger under the fabric of your panties. "How bad do you want it?"

"So bad." Your answer.

And before you can take your next breath Eddie rips your panties off. He's smiling, proud of how smooth that was. You're trying to catch your breath, but you can't because you're now completely naked beside the skirt around your waist. "I want to touch you before I taste you."

Eddie's finger brushes over your clit, so gently that you want to fucking scream. He's teasing you and you can't take it. But before you can say anything he surprises you by sliding his finger inside you. You throw your head back and let out a moan.

"Good girl. I want to hear you."

And you let him. He moves his finger in and out of you, slowly going faster. Just as you're getting used to the rhythm, he adds another finger. God, it feels good.

"Eddie." You breathe

"You like that?" He asks with a smile on his face, watching every move you make. He's turned on by how much you like it. His thumb works with him, rubbing your clit as he moves his fingers deeper inside of you.

It feels so fucking good and you need more. He might pull away like he did last time, but it's worth the risk. You start moving your hips with his fingers.

"Ride my fingers. Show me how bad you need it." He says.

And fuck. You need it so badly. Your whole body is vibrating with pleasure. And then he stops. You open your eyes and look down. He licks his fingers and smiles at you. "You taste so good." And then he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

He drags his tongue up your center and you think you might die right there. "Fuck. Oh my god!"

His tongue is following the road map of your desire and you are in a state of euphoria. You are making sounds that you have never made before and you feel out of control of your own body.

He sucks and moves his tongue in ways you didn't know were possible. He brings back his fingers, adding to the already intense pleasure rushing through your body in waves.

"Eddie!" The only word you can shout. The words that you're getting close to your climax fall short on your lips. But he knows you are because he slows and stops.

"Wait, no!" You sit up on your elbows, a little dizzy and desperate for more.

"Relax baby. I don't want you to just ride my fingers." He laughs standing up and pulling off his shirt.

His tattooed chest and bare waist have you falling back on the bed. His black jeans hug his hips in all the right places, illuminating the deep v-cut and drawing your attention to the line of hair below his navel.

"The way you're looking at me has me so fucking hard." He groans.

"Good. The way I want you." You say smiling.

You sit up and grab the waistband of his jeans, looking up at him through your lashes. You slowly unbutton his jeans. You can feel how hard he is through the fabric. Hard for you. His jeans slip off easily and then you grab his boxers.

"Atta girl." He's looking down at you with dark lustful eyes.

You pull his boxers down and almost gasp. He's so big and so ready for you. You want him buried in you, but first, you need to taste him. Wrapping your hand around his cock feels powerful and the sound that comes out of his mouth, at just your touch, sends a wave of confidence you've never had. You bring your mouth to him and look up. You want to see what pleasure looks like on him.

"Fuck! That feels good." He drops his head back and wraps his hand in your hair.

You swirl your tongue around him and he moans. It's the sexiest thing you've ever heard. His hand grips your hair tighter as you move him in and out of your mouth.

"Let me fuck your mouth, baby." He says looking down at you. His curls fall around his face.

You relax your jaw and allow it. He moves his hips and pulls your hair, slightly moving your head back to open your throat. He works with your mouth, thrusting deeper and sending him closer to the edge. He's moaning and cursing, and you've never heard anything hotter than that.

"Your mouth feels so good around my cock." He groans. "But I need more." He pulls out of your mouth and grabs your chin, looking down at you. "Get on your hands and knees."

"Yes, daddy." You crawl onto the bed and look back at him.

He smiles as he admires you from behind, slipping on a condom. He comes up behind you slowly. His hand touches your lower back and moves to your ass, flipping your skirt up."You are so damn perfect." He slaps your ass and you jump lightly. He rubs the spot he slapped and he laughs. "You like that, don't you?" And before you can answer he slaps you again. You bite your lip to conceal a moan.

He presses down on your back, making you arch your ass higher. You feel his cock pressed against your ass and your breathing increases. "Don't worry, baby. I'll take your ass another night." He glides his cock down, past your ass, and right to the spot where you're aching for him.

He teases you. Moving his head down, pressing it against the bundle of nerves. You arch further and move back against his cock. He lets you and you grind against him.

"Let me hear you." He says while using the hand on your hip to move you harder against him.

You let out a moan that you were holding back. And he likes that so he repays you for your good behavior by giving you exactly what you want.

Eddie brings his cock to your pussy and thrusts, deep and hard into you. You both cry out. You grip the bed and he grabs your hips, the cold rings pressing hard against your hot skin.

"Holy shit, you're so wet and tight." He moans.

He's moving in and out, deeper and faster. You're lost in the feeling. You press your face against the mattress, moaning. Eddie grabs a fist full of your hair and pulls. It's hard, but not painful. You're overwhelmed with pleasure, he feels so good. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Look how well you're taking me."

You start to tremble as he reaches around and rubs your clit. He pushes deeper inside you from behind. The sounds he is making are sending you closer to the edge.

"Eddie, oh my god!" You say breathlessly.

You push back against him. You both move so well together, making it harder and deeper than before.

"Come with me, baby," he asks out of breath.

And you do. You both reach climax, shaking and trembling. It's intense and so fucking good. You drop to the mattress and he falls beside you. You're both trying to catch your breath, still riding the high.

Eddie looks over at you, laughing as he tries to catch his breath. "Damn, sweetheart."

You laugh too and brush back the hair from your face. "Well, this was unexpected."

It wasn't unexpected that you were going to have a one-night stand tonight. That was your plan coming to this party, but it was unexpected that it was with Eddie Munson. And it was unexpected that you'd enjoy it this much.

"That was too good to only happen once." He smirks.

Fuck. He's right. Now that you've had a taste of him, you need more. Eddie might have become your newest addiction.

[separatist-apologist]

Buried Alive Inside My Dreams

Summary: An evil enchantress has locked Princess Feyre Archeron in a tower, secluding her from her family and removing her entirely from the outside world. Trapped and alone, Feyre turns her gaze to the stars, dreaming of returning home to her sisters- of finding peace. She's determined to escape before her birthday and the annual starfall that marks the occasion just as soon as she can figure out a way down.

When a thief breaks into her tower, Feyre takes her chances and leaves with him, unaware of who this man is and the price freedom will try and extract from her

Happy @officialfeysandweek2023

Read on AO3

PROLOGUE: 

And at last, I see the light. 

Feyre Archeron was ten years old when she was locked up in that tower. Ten, because she was already a threat with her bow and arrow, and too clever for her own good. She’d been caught hiding in alcove, spying on her wicked step-mother. She’d seen the spell cast over her father, but when Feyre tried to intervene, two blackguards tossed her in the dungeon while Amarantha decided what to do with her.

Perhaps killing felt too messy. Or maybe she didn’t trust the servants not to spill her secret. Some lie was made up about Feyre needing a governess because she was so miserably behind her sisters. Her father, enchanted to do nothing but agree, signed off on the entire thing. Feyre was whisked away without so much as a goodbye from her sisters.

There had been a time when Feyre was sure Nesta and Elain would figure it out. Feyre was content to wait…and then she wasn’t. Days became weeks, became months….became years. Feyre began to forget the faces of her sister. She forgot her father, her home, the palace. 

She might have gone insane in that tower too tall to leap from had a little basket of supplies not been sent up, complete with a paint set. It was practically nothing—twelve tiny tins of paint, three brushes, and no paper. What she did have was the empty stone walls of the tower and her imagination.

And so Feyre Archeron, still just a child, began to paint. All the while, dreaming of the day she might finally get back home.

- - -

Combing out Feyre Archeron’s hair was a task that took the entirety of the morning. Every night, before she fell asleep, she’d braid it loosely hoping to avoid tangles and knots and every morning she woke half trapped in the floor length hair she was desperate to cut. It left her to the chore of washing her hair with the scant bucket one of the black guards occasionally sent up—their once imposing, constant presence had lessened over the years to the point that Feyre was lucky to see them once every two weeks. 

Today was lucky. There, at the bottom of the large window she often sat in, was a bucket and a basket of provisions. And more paint—she’d left a note for more and whoever oversaw her imprisonment letting them know she needed water more frequently, which didn’t come, and that she was running low on paint.

At this point, Feyre barely had space left on the walls. Nearly every inch, from the pointed ceiling to the floor beneath her feet, was covered in her drawings. Sighing, Feyre turned her attention toward a piece from years before, back when she’d still been struggling to find a style that worked for her, and too angry to paint anything truly productive. She could cover it in white and start again. It would take a day to dry, but that meant tomorrow would be filled with nothing but menial chores and painting—the only thing that made her still feel sane. 

But, first—her hair. Feyre dragged out the little, porcelain tub she typically kept propped against a wall. It was built for the child she’d once been, forced to fold her body uncomfortably in order to get clean.

Feyre scrubbed her body with a cake of violet scented soap before quickly rushing from the cold water and dunking her thick, long hair into the water. It took an hour to carefully wash through it, carefully combing out little tangles and burs that accumulated thanks to the length. Getting it out and wrapped in a threadbare towel was another challenge, and by the time Feyre had managed to brush it with a comb made of bones, her arms and neck ached. 

Water sloshed over the edge of the tower, spilling to the vibrant grass made newly green in the open spring air. Feyre sighed, even as a lilac scented breeze caressed her cheek. Oh, but what she wouldn’t give to be out there. She’d thought of jumping more times than she could count and knew if she didn’t immediately die, she was likely to break both of her legs which would make escape useless. The black guards would find her eventually and were just as likely to cut off her legs as they were to help her. 

Sighing, Feyre turned back to the tower and the mural she was working on.  Inky night, with flashes of purple and green and blue—starfall. In Feyre’s mind, it was so vivid, so real. Every year on her birthday, showers of light fell from the sky, illuminating the world just for her.

Well—not really. But when she’d been a child, it certainly felt that way. Feyre had been isolated for so long that she’d take anything, and to comfort herself, she’d spun a story that someone was looking for her. Someone so powerful they could pull the stars from the sky.

At nineteen, she knew that wasn’t true. No one was looking for her, no one was pulling the stars from the sky and no one was coming to rescue her. Feyre was on her own with no idea how she might get herself out. Sighing, Feyre turned to her paints, wet her brush, and began working. It was the only thing that made her feel human anymore.

The loneliness was starting to wear on her. Feyre often found herself talking to the lizards that ran the length of the tower, peering in with jewel bright eyes. They didn’t stay long, but when they did, Feyre unloaded her every thought.

She would have given anything for conversation that didn’t exist in her head, though.

Feyre got her wish three days later. Sitting on the edge of the tower, one leg swinging over the side while her purple dress caught in the breeze, she was carefully braiding her thick hair as three black guards approached. That was unusual in and of itself. The fact that they were armed, and headed right for her?

She supposed it was going to happen eventually. Feyre had no weapons of her own—only a heavy, cast iron skillet she was allowed to cook in. How many could she take out with it, she wondered? Maybe one, before they stabbed her in the back? 

“Princess!” one of them called from the ground, his reedy voice grating on her senses. 

Examining her fingernails, Feyre replied, “Yes?”

“Are you alone?”

She paused. Why wouldn’t she be alone? Her reaction must have betrayed her, because all three guards slowed their steps, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Feyre turned to look in the tower where no one but an errant bird remained. “As always,” she replied with a heavy sigh. 

“A criminal is on the loose,” another informed her, his voice somehow more awful than the one before. “Your safety is of the utmost importance. Please go inside and close the shutters.”

“I won’t,” she replied with all the haughtiness she could muster. Truly, Feyre was channeling her elder sister as she remembered her. It was a perfect day—not too hot, with a nice breeze. Feyre wanted to feel the sun warm her skin, wanted to indulge in her daydreams of running across the hilly countryside and vanishing into the forest in the distance. 

“Princess—”

“Run along, now,” Feyre dismissed, waving a hand while turning her eyes back to the sky. They grumbled, but as long as they were forbidden from killing her, they were forced to obey. Her mind shifted to the criminal. If her step-mother was chasing this person down, Feyre very much doubted they were much of a criminal at all.

Feyre watched the black guards return to the forest they’d run from, intent on hunting down their missing criminal. “Good luck,” she whispered into the world. Foolish, to wish someone on the run any luck at all.

But Feyre knew better than most what Amarantha was like. 

It took three more days for Amarantha to show her ugly face. She merely appeared while Feyre was in the middle of painting, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Filthy as always, dear.”

Feyre’s heart immediately picked up. “Is it that time, again?”

“How compliant you’ve grown. What happened to the little girl who bit?” Amarantha crooned, tucking a piece of ruby hair behind her ear. Feyre indulged in a fantasy in which she bashed Amarantha’s face in with her skillet until her blood dripped through the cracks of stone floor of the tower and Feyre was left with nothing but a rotting, sneering corpse. 

“Just get it over with,” Feyre said, thrusting out her wrist. It was the same story. Something in Feyre’s blood slowed Amarantha’s aging, and something in her hair made her step-mother eternally young. It had to do with her mother, and how she’d become pregnant.

A prick of her finger, and three small drops of blood against the snow, promised three beautiful, magical daughters. Amarantha had told her this, once—as a child, sobbing in the tower and begging for her sisters. 

“This is where you belong, pretty Feyre. You were nothing but my magical little tool.”

Feyre sometimes wondered if Amarantha wasn’t responsible for her mothers death. If everything that happened to her hadn’t been planned before Feyre had ever been born. She did feel like a pawn in Amarantha’s game, with rules so complex it would take Feyre a thousand lifetimes to untangle. 

Reaching for her wrist, Amarantha dragged one long, blood red nail against the delicate, fair skin and the blue vein pulsing just beneath. Feyre hissed, turning her head while Amarantha lowered her mouth and drank her fill. She didn’t need much—a few drops at most—but Amarantha liked to torment Feyre by taking whatever she liked. 

“That’s enough!” Feyre hissed, yanking back her arm when it became too much. There was nothing pleasant about it. Just the feel of Amarantha’s teeth biting hard, leaving another crescent shaped scar on Feyre’s body.

“Someone is in a mood today. And here I thought you might like news of your sisters.”

Feyre’s head snapped up. “Are they well?”

“Hair, first,” Amarantha replied, tutting softly. Reaching for the end of her thick, long braid, Feyre raked her fingers through the ends until she had a few golden brown strands. Amarantha took them, pocketing them in her velvet, black dress. 

“Your sisters are well. In fact, Nesta intends to visit you soon. That’ll be nice, don’t you think?” 

The way her step-mother said those words, with that sharp, gleaming smile, made Feyre’s stomach sick.

“I don’t want to see her,” Feyre lied. She wanted nothing more than to see her sisters. And if Nesta came, it meant that Nesta would learn the truth of things—Feyre would tell her everything, would beg her to take her out. Had Nesta changed so much that she’d leave Feyre behind? It was her biggest fear, that her sisters had become poisoned the way their father had, and didn’t care if she was alive or not.

“Oh, don’t be so petulant,” Amarantha crooned, caressing Feyre’s face. Feyre jerked back furiously, her rage threatening to drown her. “All you ever want to talk about is your sisters and now you don’t want to see them?”

“Take me home, then,” Feyre pleaded.

Amarantha only laughed. “Feyre, you amuse me. Wild animals don’t belong in the palace.”

Her words were a kick to the gut. Feyre halted, eyes wide. Don’t cry, don’t cry—It didn’t matter. Amarantha’s loud, shrill laugh floated through the air as she vanished like smoke, leaving

Feyre standing in the middle of her tower with a bleeding wrist and a bruised heart. 

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Feyre made her way to the window. She was going to jump, she swore it. Jump and see what happened, see—

A twinkling star overhead caught her eye, settling her for just a moment. Head inclined, Feyre whispered, “Please, save me.”

But she suspected, as the wind carried away her wish, that the stars weren’t listening.

And they’d never answer her. 

Feyre woke to the sound of someone swearing. Without light in the tower, all she could hear was thudding coming from beneath her feet and a masculine voice—deep and rich like the night around her—cursing softly. Heart thudding, Feyre didn’t move, waiting to see if it was just another dream. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d hallucinated company only to realize it was her lonely mind playing tricks on her. 

“Fucking kill me,” that voice whispered again. The sound of grinding stone propelled Feyre up, racing for her skillet and then, realizing she was just standing there in a thin night dress, for the closet to hide. Just in case this was a blackguard come to kill her in her sleep—she’d have the upper hand. 

She left it open just enough to peek through a crack. Dust erupted from the floor as a large stone shifted. Feyre hadn’t known that even existed. Certain she was about to see a blackguard, Feyre gripped the handle of her frying pan with clammy fingers. Nerves were threatening to get the best of her, heart pounding so hard it was all she could hear.

The man who wedged his way through the tight hole was not a blackguard. Even in the dark, he was far too beautiful to work for Amarantha. She would have leached away his beauty before discarding the husk of whatever remained.

“The Mother fuck me,” the man whispered, shaking dust out of his midnight black hair. How he’d managed to get his broad shoulders through the opening was its own kind of magic. He seemed tall, muscular beneath the blue vest and white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A bag was slung over his chest, hand protectively touching it as thought to reassure himself it was still there.

“Hello?” he called, violet blue eyes finding her murals on the wall. “What the fuck is all this?”

Feyre waited until he was right against the mural, brushing his stupid fingers through her still-wet paint. She didn’t trust him, creeping through the dark unnoticed. 

“What the—”

Feyre swung hard, hitting him upside the head with her pan. The man crumpled to the floor with a woosh of air, eyes rolling up into his skull. She waited a moment before a hysterical laugh exploded out of her. 

“I did that,” she whispered, crouching beside the stranger's lifeless form. A quick touch of his neck revealed he was still alive—merely knocked out for the time being. He was far too heavy to move, though Feyre did manage to get him into a chair. She bound him in thin rope that wouldn’t hold him forever—just long enough to get some answers.

And then, waiting for him to wake, she decided to rifle through his bag. Inside she found some food, a couple gold marks, a folded up piece of paper, and a small, silver ring with a blue gem encircled by pretty white diamonds. Feyre pocketed the ring, intending to hold it hostage for the time being, before unfolding the piece of paper. 

Wanted! Dead or Alive For Crimes Against the Crown! 

There was no name, and the picture didn’t quite line up with the beautiful man in front of her. His nose was off—crooked and overly large for what was staring in front of her. But the image was close enough.

Feyre had found her stepmother's criminal.

And, perhaps, a way out of her tower once and for all.

RHYSAND:

It was not the worst week Rhys had ever had, all things considered. Being on the run was nothing new—he’d been running since he was a teenager and his father’s kingdom had toppled under the hands of a fucking witch, who had been looking for Rhys ever since. Ever the chameleon, he’d taken to crime like a fish took to water.

She’d come close a couple times, but Rhys was always one step ahead. At least, until he started circling back to Illyria, looking for the so-called bastard prince that supposedly commanded an army of dragons and monsters. They’d been allies once upon a time—Rhys hoped they might be, again. 

Her blackguards had been hunting him through the woods for a good two weeks, trying to corral him away from the valley, which only made Rhys curious. What was she hiding? What secrets did the witch have? Exploitable secrets, he hoped. Something that made her vulnerable. 

Killable. 

Which was how he’d found himself tied to a chair, head throbbing, while a pretty young woman held a skillet in front of his face.

“Where…” Rhys blinked, his mouth sour. “Who are you?”

The woman blinked starry blue eyes at him. Who was she? Young, no older than twenty two if he had to guess, and so beautiful it made his teeth ache. In a different world, he would have wanted her. 

In this world, he wanted her to untie him. 

“Who am I?” she asked, shoving that stupid fucking skillet further beneath his throat. She could absolutely kill him with it, given his hands were tied behind his back and no amount of working them against the rope was freeing him. “Who are you?”

Time to turn on the charm. “Hi,” she said, offering her his most dazzling smile. “I’m Rhysand.”

She blinked and then, the little shit, pulled out the folded wanted poster he’d had in his bag.

His bag. His mothers ring. “Where is my bag?!” he demanded, wrestling against his bindings while the woman looked at him smugly.

“I’ve hidden it! Somewhere you’ll never find.”

Rhys glanced around the room before returning to her lithe, curved frame. “It’s in your pocket, isn’t it?” he growled, holding her gaze. Her cheeks darkened and gods, was it her first day holding someone hostage? Sweeping his gaze over her, he thought she seemed just a little too thin judging from the way her collarbones jutted from beneath the pretty lavender dress she wore. Her hair, too, was braided and rebraided, likely hiding just how long that thick mass of golden brown strands truly was. 

No shoes on her feet, no jacket hanging on a hook. No fireplace for warmth. “How did you get here?”

She blinked. “Don’t try and change the subject. Why are you here? What do you want with me? Is it my hair? Do you want to cut it?”

“What?” he asked, genuinely stunned.

“Sell it? Sell me?!”

“I don’t—I don’t care about your or your hair!” he insisted, finally snapping the bindings holding his wrists. She skittered back when he stood, rubbing his raw skin. She was far shorter than he’d first realized, a fact he wished he didn’t care about. “Give me back what you stole from me, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Or what?” she challenged. 

“Or—” she’d removed his dagger. Reaching for it, Rhys only found an empty pocket against his chest. She grinned, so obviously pleased with herself. “Feeling me up while I’m sleeping, darling?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” she snapped, but Rhys was a little too intrigued by the idea of her hands on his body, even if he’d been unaware of it. “I’ll give you back your ring if you do something for me.”

“I’m not in the business of taking maiden heads anymore, so—”

“Shut up,” she hissed, fingers curling to fists at her side. “Stop talking. I don’t want you, and if you touch me, I’ll turn your face into pudding.”

Rhys thought he might be in love with her. Maybe that was just the concussion talking, but anyone else would have backed down. He was bigger than her, stronger than her, and had her trapped in a tower he didn’t think she could escape from. All she had was his dagger, which he suspected she’d hidden somewhere other than on her person, and a skillet he could have easily pulled out of her grasp.

And yet she wasn’t scared. She was mad. Crossing his arms over his chest, Rhys arched a brow. “Well. Go on, then. Tell me what it is you want from me.”

“I want you to take me to the Ellesmere palace—”

“No.”

Fuck no. There was no way in all the seven hells he was going anywhere near that cursed place. Amarantha would have him before he got halfway and would kill him for it.

“Then you’ll never get your ring back.”

Rhys took a threatening step toward her. “I could just take it from you.”

“I dare you,” she replied. Rhys took a breath, trying to calm himself down. His cock had responded to that bratty tone and the flash of defiance in her eyes. Who was she? What was so important about her that she needed to be locked away? 

Maybe she was dangerous. Hadn’t she immediately assumed he wanted to sell her? Perhaps she was another enchantress. That might explain his inexplicable attraction to her, despite not liking her. 

She took a healthy step back, still holding that skillet. Rhys sighed.

“What could you possibly need from the palace?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Revenge.”

Intriguing. “Care to share?”

Pressing her lips together, the woman shook her head back and forth. Rhys sighed. “Look. I’m not going within a hundred miles of that place. Pick anywhere else and I’ll do it—but not Ellesmere.”

The woman considered this for a moment. “Because you’re wanted?”

Because their queen is a witch and she’ll kill us both. “Sure. Let's go with that.”

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she asked, “Would you take me to Avalon?”

Right to the border, he thought darkly. He didn’t trust Beron Vanserra, either. Still, it was a week of walking to get her there which seemed a reasonable price to pay to get his mothers ring back. Besides, if this woman turned out to be working for Amarantha—and Rhys suspected she might be—he’d have some leverage.

Or he could kill her and wound the witch. 

“Fine. I’ll deliver you to Avalon and in return, you’ll give me back my ring.”

There was a question there, gazing back at him. Rhys had no intention of admitting the ring had any amount of sentimental value. Let her think it a stolen trinket he intended to sell. Anything but the truth. 

She extended one hand, the other still clutching her frying pan. Rhys grasped it, shaking those delicate, paint splattered fingers beneath his own rough, calloused palm. She smelled like violet and pear, and a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose were reminiscent of a constellation of stars. 

“After you, princess,” he said, trying to put emotional distance between them. That did little to settle his racing heart.

“I’m not a princess,” she snapped, tossing an errant strand of hair over her shoulder. “My name is Feyre.”

Feyre. Why did that name sound so familiar to him? It did little to calm him down. Feyre, Feyre, Feyre.

Her name felt like the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life. She wasn’t a princess she said, and Rhys believed her.

But as he moved that slab of rock to the side again, and watched her gingerly lower herself within it, he couldn’t help but wonder if she wanted to be.

What was wrong with him?

[adalwolfgang]

Could you make a little story for Castiel where he meets a young mute girl who communicates through ASL?

Castiel meeting and befriending a mute reader

warnings: Cursing, fluff, angsty (very little) A/n: I am not mute but I am familiar with people I know personally who are deaf and use sign language. Also, I have not watched supernatural in a good while so I don't remember what all powers angels have so some of these might be inaccurate from the show.

credit to @cafekitsune for the banner(s)

This was unexpected for the angel. One second, he's strolling around a town him, Sam, and Dean had stopped at to investigate a large number of murders that have been occurring to sitting on a swing set with a little girl sitting beside him in a park, making hand motions.

She was mute.

He didnt know what these hand motions meant but he was easily able to understand once he read her mind. It was as if she was saying what each meaning of the sign meant as she moved her hands and fingers without moving her lips. He could hear her voice but only in her own conscious.

"Where is your parents? Or guardian?" he asked as he tilted his head with curiosity and concern. The reminder of why he was there in the first place brought him out of his thoughts as worry soon became present on his face. It was safe for someone to be out here on their own, especially a young one at that.

A childish smile appears on your face as you quickly point over to a food truck a few feet away. Your guardian chatting with the owner, their back facing you. Castiel looks to where you were pointing before looking back over at you. The concern slowly leaving his features but not completely gone.

"You be careful when you are out of arms reach from your guardian. Understand?"

You bob your head up and down in response, giving him a thumbs up for more confirmation at his words. Castiel was still a little skeptical at the thought of whatever or whoever has been behind the killings find you and pick you off as a easy target. Many questions started appearing in his head. How would you scream for help? What if no one seen you get taken? What if you cant free yourself from their grasp?

You could see his brows furrow as his eyes drifting toward the dirt in thought. Whatever was on this strange man's mind must've been big as lines formed on his forehead and the corner of his eyes crinkled slightly. You place a hand on the trench coat he adored, even though it was summer time. You started rubbing the fabric between your fingertips, the action making Castiel look down at your hand and then at your face. You suddenly stop the action, staring into his deep colored eyes as well. You thought he had very beautiful eyes. This made a soft smile form on his lips which made your eyes widen. You didnt say that aloud did you? No, that's impossible. Unless?

'Are you a angel?' you signed, this time slower.

The smile on Castiel's face grows as he slowly nods his head, raising his index finger and putting in to his lips as if you both were sharing a secret. Before you could react, your name was shouted. You spun your head around to see your guardian walking over toward you, a hotdog wrapped in tinfoil in each hand. When they finally get close enough you sign,

'I made a friend'

"oh really?" they look around the park curiously before back down at you.

"Where is this friend of yours?"

You turn around expecting to see the man in the trench coat, but he wasn't there. The empty swing was slowly rocking back and forth but no one was there. A wave of confusion and sadness washed over you as your guardian just shrugged it off, taking a seat on the swing the stranger had been, handing you a hotdog.

Back at the bunker, Castiel was sitting in one of the many chairs in the library with his chin propped up on his hand. His back was slumped as he sat in thought. He wanted to protect you. He wanted to be there for you when you needed him. He wanted to be your friend. Dean and Sam finally came back, walking down the stairs and quickly spotting the angel they had been trying to contact.

"Hey man, where the hell did you go? You just wandered off and left us!" Dean was quick to jump on the angels case but he wasn't in the mood to hear any of it and quickly disappeared.

"The hell was that all about?" Castiel left the brothers both confused and concerned.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 1 / 31 * MOUNTAIN DEW HAT MAN 」

November 12, 1955

“No, I can’t stay. I told Ronnie I’d be home after work to give him the news about whether or not Marty really existed or this was the longest-running prank in history. He’s been just as interested as we were ever since I brought it up.” Walter chuckles, scrawling his signature on the day’s log. “He’ll be happy to know he was right. Kept trying to convince me that he’d be there—you’ll see, Dad. Even had a little bet of our own going—”

“And you lost that one too.” Kenneth barks out a deep, rumbling laugh that very nearly shakes the foundations of the building.

“I still can’t believe it. How the hell could a seventy-year-old letter know the exact time, date, and location that some kid named Marty McFly would be standing there?”

“Beats me.” Kenneth smirks, mischief glimmering in his deep blue eyes, and Walter rolls his eyes, knowing exactly the turn the conversation is about to take. “Maybe he’s an alien. Or a time-traveller on a secret mission and this kid’s his partner.”

Time-traveller. Those two words wind themselves around every nerve and muscle, rooting themselves so deeply into his mind Walter isn’t sure he’ll ever get them out of his head.

It’s crazy talk. Just like everything that Marty kid said.

Kenneth quirks a brow when the normally quick retort is nowhere to be found.

“—Yeah, right. And I’m a mind-reader.” Walter stands, retrieving his still-damp hat and coat from the coatrack by the door. “You’re watching too much Science Fiction Theatre.”

“I don’t see you offering any better explanations. And we know from that state of that old thing and the letterhead of the instruction letter that this wasn’t a joke. Or if it was, it’s a damn good forgery. Think about it. You said the kid started talking crazy after you gave him the letter, didn’t you?” Kenneth’s voice deepens, holding an air of secrecy and conspiracy meant for their ears only. He steeples his fingers, both elbows now propped up on the desk as his thick brows pull together in intense concentration.

“He’s a teenager. They’re all talking crazy. Even Ronnie, sometimes.”

There’s a look on Kenneth’s face that says he doesn’t agree, but if he has any further thoughts on the matter, he keeps them to himself, offering little more than a shrug and a drawn-out sigh. “Suit yourself. Go on, get out of here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. The whole office is going to be waiting to hear about this, you know. Tell Ronnie I said hi.”

“I will. By the way, you think you can try and find the name of whoever it was that left that letter here? The box said it came all the way from corporate; someone’s name is attached to it. There must be a record somewhere.”

 “You want me to dig through seventy years’ worth of records to find something that might not even exist?”

“If anyone can—”

Kenneth rolls his eyes, resignation flickering across his face and sagging his shoulders. “God damn—fine. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Thanks.” Kenneth mumbles something that Walter doesn’t catch as he puts his hat on and steps outside to his car, letting the night’s strange meeting play out on repeat in his mind for the twenty-minute drive home.

The living room lights are still switched on and the moment Walter opens the front door, Ronnie all but leaps up off the couch, nearly losing his glasses in the process. “So? Was he really there?” Walter chuckles at his son’s enthusiasm, having expected exactly this moment he stepped through those doors. Ronnie had been almost more excited about it than the boys in the office, eagerly anticipating the night of 12 November with the same fervour as he would his birthday.

“C’mon, Dad,” Ronnie demands to his father’s back as he removes and hangs up his coat for what, hopefully, is the final time tonight. “Did that Marty guy show up?” Did I win the bet?

“He did,” Walter finally answers, dropping down into the armchair with a groan. Ronnie’s eyes widen and before he can get even a single one of the multitude of questions untangled from the knot they’ve twisted themselves into on his tongue out, his father continues, seemingly having plucked the questions right out of his mind.

“Exactly like the instruction letter said he would. Right time, right description, right place—everything.” Kenneth’s words rattle around Walter’s mind again as Ronnie beams, shouting triumphantly to the tune of I told you! I knew it!

“What’d it say? You saw it, right? You gotta tell me everything.”

 —

May 21, 1986

That's him again, Ronald muses at the increasingly familiar sound of the thud of what three prior incidents already have taught him is hands grabbing onto the back of his Jeep.

Ronald glances over his shoulder and just like the last several times, the kid nods his acknowledgement and appreciation for the ride yet never says a word. This is becoming a pattern now, always on weekdays if his memory serves him correctly, and if nothing else, he should at least know the name of the kid he’s been ferrying around throughout the town.

“You ever think about getting a car of your own? They’ve got some cheap ones I’m sure even a student can afford.” Young kid, backpack slung over his shoulders—must be a high school student. He blinks, pulling the headphones off his ears. “You keep this up I’m going to start charging you for the ride.”

The kid throws him a winning smile. “Nah, I’ve got a car.” Ronald scrunches his brows together, wondering just what the hell the kid is doing grabbing onto the backs of cars and doing something so dangerous when he’s got a car of his own to get him around. If it were broken, maybe in the shop—

But this isn’t the first time.

“Did you ever—?” He eases into a left turn and behind him, the kid leans into it, unfazed. Ronald quirks a brow, waiting for him to finish whatever question he’d started, but he never does, continuing on as if the question had never been a thought in his mind. “Driving’s great, but sometimes I just—it’s not the same as putting on headphones and feeling the wind on my face as I’m skateboarding, you know? Helps me think.”

The kid almost looks surprised when he answers, “Yeah, I think I do,” and Ronald smiles at that.

“Oh—we’re almost at my stop. Hey, thanks. For, uh, not trying to shake me off or call the cops or something.”

He slows the car down as the driver ahead of him attempts to turn off onto a side street. “Before you go—what’s your name, kid?”

He hits the car twice with his hand before kicking off, shouting “It’s Marty! Marty McFly!”

[thenightling]

Oh, Tim Burton, what have you done? You've... you've conjured Beetlejuice-Mania!

"And who can forget Beetlemania!" - That is a line from the Beetlejuice animated series episode Critter Sitters when Beetlejuice was on trial in The Neither World. The "i" is in there on purpose. In the cartoon it's Neither, not Nether. And it's the "knee" pronunciation. Some of you Youtubers give yourselves away as having not really watched the show when you pronounce it as "Ny-ther." When this line was said in the episode one imagines the Beatlemania (60s Beatles craze) pun was in regard to Beetlejuice unleashing a swarm of beetles. But now... Beetlejuice is ridiculously trendy. It probably won't last since it's a pre-Halloween trend and burning pretty bright. Very intense fads tend to die out quickly. But I'll ride it while it's here. Sure, there was a borage of marketing tie-ins like Carmax and Secret woman's full-body deodorant (Strange to make that Beetlejuice related but okay...) Or Fanta's "Haunted Apple" soda. But now... Now I'm seeing Beetlejuice content everywhere. Those just discovering the Beetlejuice animated series because it went to Tubi (for free) last week are now writing Beetlejuice / Lydia fan fics and shipping the healthy friendship version of the characters. At least five different companies are making dolls of "Baby Beetlejuice" (sometimes called "Baby Juice" to be extra gross about it). NECA has the life-sized prop replica version. Living Dead Dolls has the distinction of selling their chibi Beetlejuice first. There are several plushies for sale on Amazon, Walmart, and other sites.

I even spotted an officially licensed action figure of the Beetlejuice depiction from the Beetlejuice animated series. Nine-year-old me would have killed for that. Whoever decided to release baby dolls of Beetlejuice around the same time as the movie wisely paid attention to Disney's fumble with baby Grogu (Baby Yoda) when the Mandalorian was first released and the doll was nearly impossible to find at first. I never thought the hot toy (or at least in the top ten) this holiday season might be a baby doll of Beetlejuice.

Honestly, I don't think Beetlejuice was this popular IN 1988. Beetlejuice and The Sandman (Now a Netflix series and also originally from 1988 source material) are (with Wednesday, the Addams Family spin-off) accidentally rousing a new generation of Baby Bats (Young Goths) and it's adorable. I, for one, welcome our 80s / early 90s Goth Over-Lords. :-P

[transitranger327]

Chapter 3: Settling In.

Sabine and Shin start to figure out married life. Later, Sabine properly meets the Dins.

Notes: The adult Omega prologue to this chapter will make sense after next chapter. Also it takes place shortly after the Battle of Yavin. Props to whoever gets the in-joke about the N-1. Mando’a glossary can be found in the end notes.

Nine Years before the Ignition

A small shuttle flew low over the tallgrass prairies of Lothal. As it neared the Ghost, it turned around and rapidly slowed for a landing. Hera smiled, remembering back to her childhood when a group of rogue clones saved her family. The landing ramp lowered, and a signature Kaminoan accent shouted “Rex! I got your message!” A tall woman with blonde hair and a red headband dashed across the gap between the two ships and embraced an old man. Her brother returned the hug, “It’s good to see you Omega.” He then began to introduce the two women, “Omega, this is the head of our starfighter corps, H—” Omega cut him off, “Hera Syndulla, long time no see!” As Hera embraced her old acquaintance, Rex asked, “You two…know each other?” Hera always kept her past secret, “Oh, I didn’t tell you? Omega and her older brothers helped my family out years ago, back when we were both young girls.” Omega laughed, “Hera, I hate to break it to you, but all my brothers are younger than me.” “Right, right, clone aging. So Rex tells me you’re a pilot?” “Mostly shuttles these days, but I can fly anything.” She gestured to the craft she arrived in, “Oh-Too here is a Sigma-class. Modified, of course.” She looked exceptionally proud of it. Hera was just glad to find a pilot with Koensayr experience, “Good, we just received an anonymous donation of Y-wings. You up for flying with Gold Squadron?”

One Year after the Ignition

Sabine slowly emerged from sleep as her bedroom lights gently brightened. “Good morning love,” cooed her girlfriend—no, wife. Shin had always been more of a morning person than her. A slurred “morning baby” was all she could muster while attempting to sit up. But she was too tired from the previous night, and gave up halfway, electing instead to rest her head on Shin’s bare stomach. She could feel her beloved wolf tucking her yellow hair behind her ear and leaning in for a kiss. “So you managed to survive last night?” Shin asked, barely above a whisper. A quick nod. “Would you like more?” Sabine thought for a moment then answered, “In a bit, I wanna snuggle a bit more first.” And so the two Mandalorian Jedi lingered a bit longer in the space between wakefulness and sleep.

—

Sabine sat on the bed, currently without sheets. They had been thoroughly soaked, and Shin had helpfully stashed them in a corner while Sabine was using the refresher. She should probably message Bo-Katan and ask where the laundry facilities were. She opened up her datapad and saw a calendar populated with a variety of meetings. She scowled, then opened an inbox full of answered messaged. She shouted towards the refresher

“Shin?” “Yes darling?” “Why is there a full calendar on my datapad?” “That’s the Clan Wren calendar, Bo-Katan gave me the key to it during the party. She gave you one too.” “Why is it full tho?” “I filled it out this morning while you were asleep.” “Without telling me? You know I can handle all this myself, right?”

Shin could hear the hurt in Sabine’s voice. She turned off the water and emerged from the refresher. After grabbing a towel, she walked up to a Sabine on the brink of tears. “I just wanted to make your job easier, love. You don’t have to carry all this responsibility.”

After hearing her wife’s words, Sabine started to break down. She grabbed Shin’s still-wet body and managed to eke out, “I’m just tired of not being in control of my own life.” Even tho she loved being married to Shin, living together on Mandalore, the fact that she was forced onto this path still hurt. Shin’s arms wrapped around her, holding her tight. “I’m sorry, Sabine,” she said, ignoring the tears and snot running down her shoulder, “I won’t do any more Clan Wren business without talking to you first.” Sabine’s cries slowed. Never before had someone apologized so quickly for taking away her agency. “Thank you, I think that would be good. I’m sorry for overreacting and getting my snot all over you.” 

“No darling, I’ve seen you overreact and this isn’t it. A little snot is nothing compared to the explosives you usually use. Some more time in the refresher is better than a bacta tank.” Shin broke the hug and grabbed the box of tissues Shysa Mereel had given them as part of his housewarming gift. Wiping away some of Sabine’s tears, she said, “I’ll be right back. I love you, Sabine.” After a few kisses on Sabine’s forehead and cheeks, she returned to the refresher.

—

Bo-Katan was still wearing her helmet. She tended to not wear her helmet most days, a habit from an earlier era, when simply wearing armor was the political statement. But today, she was hungover, and the helmet could both dim and quiet the world around her. And thankfully, nobody expected her to be the “proper” ruler her sister was, so her odd posture (well, more odd than usual) wasn’t unexpected. As the third meeting of the day wrapped up, she left the throne room to join her beloved armorer in their apartment.

As the door slid open, Bo-Katan was greeted by a hug. “Stars, these arms are wonderful,” she thought. “Cyar, are you burdened?��� Her beloved Armorer had always known the right questions to ask. “Arms, you know I always am.” Together they took a seat on the couch, Bo-Katan resting her head on the Armorer’s chest, beskar on beskar. They breathed for a bit. Bo-Katan was the first to break the comfortable silence. “Do you think we were right to push the Wrens into marriage?” The Armorer thought for a moment. “Why do you worry? They obviously love each other.” “Yes but…it feels like we arranged their marriage. And I never liked when my father tried arranging relationships.” Bo-Katan thought back to the various men and women that had been “selected” for her, most of them boring, high-ranking clan members. “Bo, that was a necessary decision as Manda’lor. If they found it too harsh, there are other neutral systems to seek sanctuary in.” 

“Do you think we should be married?” Bo-Katan’s silence-breaking question was not unexpected given their previous conversation. “I have considered it. But we have no rush. Perhaps, in time, we will.” The Armorer could feel her lover’s smile from inside her helmet. “I think I’d like that.”

—

Sabine watched the Naboo fighter touch down next to the Wolf. As the canopy opened, she called out to its pilot. 

“Din Djarin, right? Sweet ride.”  “Yes, thanks. It’s what I first explored Mandalore with.” “Really? Not much of a bounty hunting ship.” “Oh, I’ve been out of the bounty hunting business for a while. I do security on Nevarro these days.” “Nevarro? That’s on the other end of the Galaxy. The Hydian way is fast, but how did you extend the N-1’s range?” “I guess my mechanic on Tatooine extended the range when we rebuilt it.”

By this point Sabine had begun a thorough inspection. While starfighters weren’t exactly her hobby, she could appreciate a vintage craft when she saw one.

“‘Rebuilding’ is definitely the right word. Replacing the vapor manifold with a turbonic venturi power assimilator must give the sunlight engines a huge kick.” “Yeah, on my test flight I was accosted by some X-wings, and when I flipped the Kineso-switch, I think they thought I jumped to lightspeed.” “Spooky. Good job removing the tail. Heard they were a nightmare to store with them. But what the kriff did you do to the paint job?” “I like the bare metal look.” “Yeah but the raw durasteel completely clashes with the hand-polished chrome! These pathetic stripes aren’t doing you any favors either.” “Right, like you could do better?”

Djarin realized how stupid that question was about one second after he asked it. Sabine’s armor was clearly a testament to her skill as an artist, being able to make it look completely normal and completely outlandish at the same time. “Come on, At least let me paint your clan signet.” He thought for a moment, the responded, “let me think about it.” Sabine’s look was somewhere in between complacency and resignation. She gestured at the bubble in the droid socket, “I assume that’s for the little guy?” “Yes. Want to properly meet him? I think his lessons are almost done.” 

—

“Hi there little buddy.” Sabine was trying to understand how this small person was 51 years old. He looked like what Ezra and Ahsoka had described Master Yoda as. But like, as a child. And then she felt his presence in the Force. “I see, Din Grogu. I’m Sabine Wren. I’ve been waiting to actually meet you for a while.” Grogu turned his head, slightly confused. “Well not a while a while, but ever since I first heard of you.”

“So you can understand him?” Djarin still could not hear his son. “It’s…complicated. He has thoughts and feelings, but processes the world in a way that is somewhat different to us. Ori’aale, Kih’miite.” Sabine certainly talked in ways that sounded like a Jedi, but somehow her Mando’a was better than his. “When he’s ready to speak, he will. But until then, just keep teaching him, he wants to learn.” Djarin thought for a moment. “Are you interested in teaching him? Every Jedi I’ve met has a strong opinion about that.” 

Sabine sensed more hesitation from Djarin. “That’s not the only reason you ask.” Her matter-of-fact tone seemed to catch him off-guard. “Well, ever since he chose to leave his Jedi training to be with me, I’ve been feeling a little guilty. I’ve always comforted myself by saying ‘you can’t walk both ways.’ But then…” “But then you met me.” Sabine felt the hidden maelstrom of emotions inside him, a father trying to do right by his son. “I don’t know if I can take him on as an apprentice. Certainly not as a traditional Jedi would, I started my training as an Adult. But I think you two aren’t interested in what a traditional Jedi would do.” She knelt down next to Grogu. “So, what do you think? How about some Jedi lessons with Ba’jur Wren?” She hoped her emphasis on lessons rather than training would soothe Grogu’s misgivings about his past Jedi experiences. His smile was worth a thousand words.

—

As Sabine returned from her visit with the Dins, Jacen opened the door to Clan Wren’s new home. “Ezra! Aunt Sabine is back!” She took in the aromas of the apartment. “What’s that wonderful smell?” Ezra smiled from the kitchen, “I’m making Leftover Chop, Lothal-style.” Sabine made her way over to her wife, wrapping her arms around Shin’s chest from behind, and exchanging some small kisses. A lightsaber sat partially disassembled on the table. “Shin was showing me how her lightsaber works,” Jacen explained with enthusiasm. “Ezra said I can make one too, once I connect to the Force enough.” Ezra brought over a skillet filled with the remnants of the wedding afterparty, fried with some steamed grain. “Yeah, it’s definitely because I philosophically believe you should have experience with the Force first, and not because my saber skills are extremely rusty.” Sabine sat down in between her brother and her lover. “Well Jacen, did Ezra tell you that I learned how to use a lightsaber before I became a Jedi?” “What? No. That’s so cool!” “It’s because I’m Mandalorian.” Sabine was grinning as she filled her plate. “Mmmm yeah that’s why,” Shin added to the conversation with some light ribbing, “It’s not because it took a long time for you to connect to the Force.” Ezra came to her sister’s defence, “No actually, that is why. Kanan and I had to teach her how to use the Darksaber so she could lead Mandalore.” Shin raised an eyebrow, “Is this the story you promised telling me about shortly being Manda’lor?” Sabine rolled her eyes, “Fine, I’ll tell you now. It all started when Ezra…” 

—

Notes: Yes I named the ship after Tech (Nine-Nine-Oh-Too). Since it’s not a recognizable ship class in the last scene, I’m declaring it to be the Legends Koensayr Sigma-class shuttle, the same company as the Y-Wing

Mando’a Glossary:

Cyar: love, pronounced “shar” (or the first syllable of “Charlene”)

Manda’lor: the ruler of Mandalore

Ori’aale: lit. “big thoughts”

Kih’miite: lit. “small words”

Ba’jur: teacher

[ineffably-human]

[cracks knuckles]

Okay, the bones of a decent episode were there inside Hybrid Creatures. They were. I saw them and I believe in them. Let's fix this shit.

(Hearts to @abc-mulan @yougoadedme @drowningparty @de-ciphered and anyone else I forgot who helped make this even better when I was rambling about it.)

First off: Nadja!

Nadja is not teaching the class, because she disappeared from the teaching plot into a completely different plot and that's a first draft problem. She should just meet Helen and start from there.

Here's a problem with Nadja this whole season: does this hex even exist? It's the motivation for everything she does, but we've never seen it do anything to impact her. Everything she cited as evidence of the hex were things she brought on herself last year, and nothing bad has happened to her specifically this year. I'd think it was something she made up/the Guide encouraged, but the Guide had infinitely regenerating props when they found that portrait, and she doesn't know anything about Antipaxos, so it'd be a lot for her to fake. The show should have made clear from episode 1 this season: either the hex is fake and being set up by the Guide/the doll/whoever else to teach Nadja a lesson, OR the hex is real and is visibly impacting Nadja the whole time.

So: Nadja meets Helen in Little Antipaxos. No one wants to talk about her and Nadja assumes it's because she's a super-powerful witch. Whatever stupid errands Helen has her do are a lot more fake-mystical and actually raise the question of whether she has powers.

Also, the Guide is actually there at some point! And either the Nadja-Helen parallels are clear from Nadja ignoring the Guide/taking her for granted, or the Guide is basically trying to tell Nadja that this lady is conning her because there is no curse, the Guide/the doll/whoever made the curse up, but Nadja isn't listening to her.

Helen is as difficult and demanding as Nadja can be on her worst days, and Helen also has a lot of Nadja's insecurities about being an outsider and not taken seriously. Let the twist be that Helen was previously banned/shunned at the diner, as the black sheep of that family or group of friends. Nadja ultimately gets Helen back into the diner and into everyone's good graces. Basically Nadja restores Helen in a way that actually matters and it's a much clearer parallel, from much earlier on, that she sees a lot of Helen in herself.

This will tie thematically into: Guillermo!

Guillermo's shitty little children are horrifying! I love-hate them! What the fuck is the point of them? Most people wanted them to die because they feel like gags, and if they talk then they should feel at least a little bit like characters, they come from Guillermo.

They should each represent a different piece of him. His loyalty, his determination, how he's a secret freak, it doesn't even all have to be appealing or a perfect Guillermo match - just let me see their personalities. Let Guillermo move from horror to getting attached to them by relating to them. The general theme should be something about surprising yourself/finding out new pieces of yourself.

Also the little rat thing should try and hump Nandor's leg.

When Guillermo gets rid of them by making them companion animals in a retirement home, there should be a gag about how now they're all emotional support creatures for cranky out-of-touch people, something something vampires. (Also, we do not need the fish. Let the animal that stays around be one of the frogs, you already made us all in love with the frogs last week, ffs.)

Finally: Colin and Nandor are actually pretty great a lot of the time, but it also needs a focus shift. Have Nandor puttering around the house aimlessly, missing Guillermo as usual. He trails Colin Robinson to his new job teaching night classes. He tries to take over the class to have someone to boss around, they do their at-odds things, maybe Nandor is trying to teach military history in general instead of just his home country because that seems a little on the nose?

Then you extend the museum scene, because goddamnit I want more Nandor lore, and maybe make it so Nadja and Laszlo's shit is in the museum too (since the three of them crossed together) but Nandor focuses on his own. Either way, Colin does what he does for Nandor, and the emotional payoff is that over the last two episodes, Nandor and Colin have started a legitimate friendship and Nandor doesn't have to feel as alone anymore.

(But it's not quite the same, of course, and at some point in the episode Nandor notices one of the Guillermo frogs with the hair or something - and comments that he must be losing it because he's seeing Guillermo all over the place.)

Also all the jokes needed a punch-up, some of them were amazing and some of them were just weak and whatever.

Tl;dr not every subplot in the shit and fart show needs to have meaning or progress the will-they-won't-they or whatever. But there should at least be a reason the characters are doing what they're doing, and a reason we the people watching should actually give a shit.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk, and I hope post-strike everyone can have writers' rooms again where they can actually get to draft 3 or 4, and not make everyone watching the episode confused about what they just watched. The end!

[the-sun-princess]

Emi Plays Revue Starlight: El Dorado Part 4

what's the point of having carmencita be a role that shows their face/has diff outfits if she shows up like once to do nothing and then dies

meanwhile the bit roles who show up quite a bit all look like this

i was hoping they'd at least put whoever's playin them eyes on there

wow alejandro sure caught up to salvatore fast for being at least a half day behind

iskjdfhks its very funny that salvatore first hires zulfikar to help kill alejandros dad and then alejandro goes n hires zulfikar like 12hours later to kill miguel

mm and the play ends. at least this isn't super long so going back thru it won't take too long

and it does promise different script depending on who is who so. yay gon have to find all the new songs on spotify i got star darling and one other one but there's more in the bg. oops i did not mean to close it. anyway. 2nd go around time

i know i dont NEED to start from the very beginning i did save at the choosing screen but i will anyway

mostly BC I WANTED TO GET THE AXOLOTL THIS TIME. WHATS ITS NAME

AND BC i didnt get the full list of what chief voted for whom last time

equipment karen, art futaba, lighting nana, props maya, music mahiru, stage setting kaoruko, production claudine, costume junna

I CAN PICK MAHIRU NOW-

tho now i kinda wanna save her for last...esp now that i know its not really terribly all that long. i'll save her for last yeah bc i will Not shut up during it

not quite as dramatic a reaction of frustration for kaoruko n maya as it was for junna and karen lmao

lesse....junna and karen as leads had nana miguel, mahiru isabel, futaba carmencita, kaoruko cavallero, maya columbuc, and claudine luigi

for kaoruko maya leads, we get futaba miguel, claudine isabel, junna carmencita (based off who's left) karen luigi, mahiru columbus, and nana cavallero

kaoruko WHY are u sighing so much that u got the leads kjfhkjshdf

oh ok they got asked to say a few words as leads and now kaoruko busts out the ojou-sama laugh. there she is

snort

i don't believe you

maya: i refuse to be as cringe as you

i am curious, what on earth does kaoruko have to revenge against maya

and claudine v futaba idk that either. mahiru v nana i do lol.

well i guess that's right

yeah ok

KJSHFDKJHSDF THIS IS SUCH AN OLD REF.....ALSO WASNT IT ONE WHOLE LOLLIPOP MAYA THAT WAS LEFT IN THERE

oh she's pissed BC there was only ONE LOLLIPOP AKJHKFJSHDF WHEEZING

I dont even remember exactly WHY kaoruko gave her candy like i know it was the episode futaba n kaoruko were fighting but i cant remember what maya did in that ep

maya is so serious about the funniest things

so DRAMATIC and it IS funny maya. also girl just don't eat baumkuchen everyday you'll be fine

kaoruko + maya: u bitches gay. good for you

oh a SPECIFIC beach for kaoruko

it's actually a different beach background color me surprised. tho it might just be the same beach but flipped later on i'm not positive

girl ur the onee who wanted to come out here

kaoruko we all know u nap on futaba's bike what are u talking about

lmaoooo maya knew futaba was gon leave the bike with kaoruko that's hilarious. national troupe trio secrets ftw

maya: get a bike license get a license kaoruko: i think NOT maya it's very funny u are trying so hard to get kaoruko to ride the bike but she MAY wreck it

sjkfh the last one is funny bc im just remembering her being put in the 'knock them down a peg' class in whatever stageplay for the new national

maya's alejandro sounds like a 12yo shounen protag lol

skjdfh eroge ok masai id u say so

skjfhkjshkjfhskjdfh innocuous. u are Very Wrong judy

karen thats not the point-

tru kaoruko and hikari have that in common

tho at least kaoruko's easier to get back

sfkjhsdf at least karen n junna bother to let ppl know they're off somewhere. kaoruko n maya just disappear

fair nuff kaoruko

fkjsdhKJHKFJH

SNORT NOW SHES THE ONE COMPLAINING ABOUT THE DISTANCEkjshdfjh demanding kaoruko get a bike license

'and if you don't, i will!'

kaoruko just going WHY skjfhiuhsdf i mean. it is a silly demand just bc kaoruko poofed. i mean u DID find her maya

honestly actual logic from kaoruko

jdkfhksjfdh maya: u aint SHIT compared to judy knightly

i wish there were actual lil stabby arrow animations like the sounds imply it'd be funnier

oh i hit the image limit i guess that's it for this one. off to the next post then

<<part 3 part 5>>

[littlemourningstarr]

In Darkness, Divided

More than a year after the Netherbrain, Sekh returns to the Szarr palace, in the hopes of finding answers to Astarion's budding questions on his vampirism and his desires to tame it for his own benefit. What he finds, instead, is a secret passage to a world he left behind over fifty years ago- the Underdark. Unfortunately for him and the family he has built, the Underdark is as vicious as ever, and fate is a cruel mistress, ready to attempt to rip apart everything he had knit together so tightly.

Part Three: Epilogue

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, referenced past Cazador/Astarion, background astarion/rolan/tav, budding omeluum/blurg, oral sex, vaginal sex, angst, kidnapping, torture, blood drinking, vaginal fingering, blood kink, violence, canon compliant sexism, canon compliant racism, multiple orgasms, grinding, frottage, misgendering, threatened sexual assault

Sekh rapped his knuckles against the wooden door in front of him, heard commotion and a strained voice behind telling him to hold on. It took a few moments before the door was pulled open-

And whoever Araj may have expected, it certainly wasn’t Sekh. “By my silks,” she said, before positively grinning, “What a pleasant surprise.” She glanced around, some of her excitement falling away. “No breath taking bloodsucker in tow?”

Sekh nearly lost his forced smile. “Astarion has no desire to see you- treat someone as subhuman and they really won’t find themselves wanting to be in your presence.”

Araj frowned, but didn’t argue the matter. She moved aside, and Sekh stepped into her home, as she shut the door tightly behind her.

It was in less… explosive shambles than it had been, the last time he’d seen it. Gods, it felt like lifetimes ago, when he still had a tadpole in his head.

He and Astarion had made a point to avoid her, after that visit. The vampire had no desire to be in her presence, and frankly, Sekh didn’t either-

He was only here out of desperation.

“You must want something,” she mused, leaning against the door- almost as if she could block the exit. As if she could contain Sekh. “I doubt this is a belated social call.”

Sekh reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, leather bound journal. He’d read it, cover to cover, in the week since he had returned from the Underdark. “I need your knowledge.”

Araj eyed the journal, obviously intrigued. “Everything has a cost,” she said, red eyes glancing up to Sekh.

“Astarion is not on the table,” Sekh said, a bit more forcefully than he meant, “in any way.”

“You wound me, Sekh. As if I only have interests in your darling vampire.” She pushed off the door, walking past him, motioning for him to follow with a curl of her fingers. He listened, following her down the stairs, into her small kitchen area, where she lifted the hatch door to her own workshop.

One ladder descent later, and Sekh realized maybe Astarion had a point when he referred to his workshop as a mad alchemist’s lab. Araj’s wasn’t much different than his own- except instead of various flora covering damn near every surface, she had racks and racks of bottles, various things quite obviously bubbling and heating on one of the larger tables.

Gods he didn’t want to be compared to her.

She gestured to a chair, and Sekh walked over, sitting down. “You can pay in blood.” He had anticipated as much. Wordlessly, Sekh rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow, baring his forearm, as Araj set out a small metal bowl and rigged together an armrest out of a few small books.

He propped his arm up on it, watched as Araj traced a vein along his arm with her nail. She hummed in amusement.

“Have you been carrying your little vampire to bed?” She teased, picking up a small knife, “I believe you’re a bit more…defined than when I last saw you.”

“If you’re trying to flirt, you’re wasting your time.”

She laughed, tipping her head back slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in you except for your blood.” She pressed the knife to his arm, drew a small cut, and then turned his arm slightly so he would bleed into the bowl. Once she was satisfied that he was bleeding enough, she pulled up a chair and sat on it herself, gesturing for the book Sekh held in his other hand.

He handed it to her, watched her flip through it for a moment. “I found this,” he said, “in a house belonging to the Duskryn family.”

Her fingers paused, and Araj glanced up at him. “What were you doing in the Underdark?”

“It’s irrelevant. Just know that I… came into this book, in a city called Lolth’s Cradle. I need to know what you know about the Duskryns, and what this information might mean to you. Then we can get to my real questions.”

She clicked her tongue. “Demanding, aren’t you? Fine- I guess you do keep me from being bored. The Duskryns were the ninth house, last I knew. I believe they tried a bid at eighth but were shut down.” She flipped a few pages, still scanning the information. “They are based in Menzoberranzan, so whoever from the House was in Lolth’s Cradle would not have been the ruling matron. I’d guess perhaps a cousin or a lower ranking daughter, if they have many. I can’t say I ever paid much attention to them.”

Sekh nodded, flexed his arm a bit, watched as his blood flow, which had been trickle, began to increase. He knew Araj caught the action. “Why would they have compiled all of this information- it looks like listings of entire houses, down to staff and slaves. Hell, there’s birth and death dates, even causes of death for some.”

“For sabotage- what else?” When Sekh didn’t respond, Araj frowned at him. “You cannot be so ignorant about our own culture.”

“Not every drow was interested in stabbing those they knew in the back at first opportunity.”

“Well, no.” Araj passed the journal back to Sekh when he motioned for it.”But those in power? Oh absolutely. Eat or be eaten, Sekh. And Lolth doesn’t smile on those who are prey.”

Sekh snorted. “I’m not interested in having Lolth smile upon me. I’d much prefer she gag.” Araj looked affronted at the statement, but Sekh didn’t give her a chance to respond, passing the journal back, now flipped further in. “Can you tell me anything about this?”

Araj took the journal, glancing at Sekh’s arm. Sekh flexed it again, encouraging more blood flow- he was giving her more than he wanted to, and he knew Astarion wouldn’t be pleased when he inevitably came back pale and dizzy.

Araj read down the page, her expression shifting exactly when Sekh expected it to. “This is your name, I assume?”

“Unless you’ve met another Sekh’met. But yes, it is. That’s my family name, Kor’zette.” He leaned forward, tapping above his name on the page. “Those are my parents- Sekh’lynne and Metias.”

“Well. you’re quite obviously not dead, as you’re bleeding right in front of me. And were you a spawn I would certainly know.” She leaned back in the chair, and when she next spoke, her voice was a bit softer, “So your family is dead?”

Sekh nodded. “Over fifty years now. I’d be dead with them if it weren’t for my patron.” Sekh lifted his arm off the rest. “Also if I bleed more I’m going to be stumbling around for the rest of the day.”

Araj set the journal on the table, stood up and moved the bowl to the other end of the table to ensure it didn’t spill. She wrapped Sekh’s wound in a bandage quickly, and Sekh rolled his sleeve down, before he took the journal back.

“We’re all listed under the Srune’Lett house. Do you know them?”

At this, Araj frowned. “That house was destroyed in the War of the Spider Queen. It’s been decimated for more than a hundred years.”

Sekh frowned. “That’s not possible- I wasn’t even alive during that time.” 

Araj began to pace, seeming to think. “It wouldn’t be unheard of to have some members survive- I mean, my house is considered destroyed, yet I live. There could have been a few surviving members- but they wouldn’t have had the means to exist on their own.” She paused. “The Duskryns were aligned with the Srune’Letts. Perhaps they set up the remaining members in a house and assimilated them in. It would be a smart move. Tactical.”

Sekh stood up slowly, noting that the dizziness that overcame him was brief, at least. “So if there were any surviving members, the Duskryns would know.”

“I imagine so.” Araj inclined her head, studying Sekh. “You look like a man on a warpath.”

Sekh tucked the journal away. “They killed my family, Araj,” he said, flatly. “They took my childhood, my life away from me. Someone should return the favor.”

*

By the time Sekh returned home, the sun was beginning to set. He found the house rather quiet, both Astarion and Yenna deep in reading.

Not normally how he found the two together. But he couldn’t complain- Yenna’s reading had been abysmal when they had first taken her in, and she was never very fond of it. He was always happy to see her doing it of her own volition. Even if Astarion might have pushed her towards it slightly.

“I almost thought we were going to leave without you,” Astarion said, closing his book as Sekh walked over, leaned down to kiss his cheek tenderly. Astarion turned, pursed his lips expectantly, and Sekh smiled at him, pecking his lips next.

The three left the moment the streets were dark, making the walk across the city to the ramparts and the Szarr palace. Yenna complained at first that Astarion refused to let go of her hand on the walk, and the girl only protested once, claiming she was old enough to not get lost or snatched up.

And indeed she was, she still roamed the city during the day on her own- but Sekh had noticed ever since returning from the Underdark, Astarion had been hovering over her more, trying to keep her closer. Any bluster she put up over it was quite obviously a lie.

The palace door was unlocked, and as soon as they stepped inside they were met with the chaos of deep gnomes bustling about, calling out instructions, moving materials from room to room. What was once a dower entrance foyer was now the hub of a construction project.

Sekh had assumed there was a high probability that Astarion would want to shutter the palace again, leave it to rot- that Blurg and Omeluum would find no desire to use its entrance to the Underdark.

But he had been surprised, on both fronts. Blurg had been adamant that it was still a good entrance point, with all the wild flora nearby. He seemed nearly unphased by his abduction.

And Astarion- well, he had done something Sekh hadn’t ever expected. He’d taken off the Szarr family ring, handed it to the hobgoblin, and simply told him to do with the palace as he wished.

They paused at what was once Cazador’s study. The gnomes were working on the lift- it was currently half descended, down to the bowels of the palace, the entrance blocked off with sturdy looking chains. Astarion’s only request had been that they seal off the lower level of the palace forever. He had no desire to ever see those cages again, the crypt where his dead master used to sleep. Sekh didn’t blame him.

The drow flagged down a familiar face, when he noticed Barcus walking out from the study, where Cazador’s old desk still sat. “Have you seen my colleagues anywhere?” Sekh asked, as the deep gnome didn’t look up, was quite obviously looking over a lengthy checklist on a worn piece of parchment.

Sekh hadn’t been able to think of anyone else that he trusted, to work on this place. Or anyone else worthy. But Barcus had proven himself , having taken over the Ironhand gnomes. The group seemed to be doing quite well, under him- far better than under Wulbren.

“They’re floating around,” he said, still not looking up, “check downstairs.” Sekh thanked him, knowing better than to bother him for small talk. He’d catch him eventually, before the eve was out.

He headed further into the study, where Astarion and Yenna had continued. Yenna was shifting through Cazador’s desk, seeming to have quite the fun plucking out little treasures and notes, leaving them on the top in case Astarion cared.

Sekh knew he didn’t. He’d gladly have it all burnt.

“You alright?” Sekh asked, hooking an arm around Astarion’s waist from behind, placing a soft kiss to the scars on his neck, from Cazador’s teeth. “You can always go back home.”

“Oh I’m fine,” Astarion said, eyes still locked on the desk where Cazador had sat, so many endless nights, plotting out his bid for godhood. “Just wishing I had the ability to piss all over everything he loved.”

Sekh barked a laugh, pressing his face down into Astarion’s shoulder. He could tell the vampire was smiling, even without seeing his face. He heard Yenna squeal in delight suddenly, asking very loudly, “Can I keep these?”

Sekh raised his head, saw she was holding a few small, slim knives in her hands, with ornate, gold encrusted handles. Gods they were flamboyant.

“Sure,” Astarion said, “they’re for throwing. I’ll teach you how.”

She grinned, setting them in a separate pile, continuing to rummage around, probably in the hopes of finding more. “Can she not throw them in the house?” Sekh asked.

This time he could see Astarion’s grin, from the side of his face. “No promises, my sweet.”

*

Eventually they pulled Yenna from her little exploration, heading down the stairs to the lower level. Astarion tried not to glance at the room at the base of the stairs, where he had entertained so many- but the door was wide open.

He paused, daring to look inside- and found the knots in his stomach easing. The bed had been removed, and in its place was a large dirt bed, sectioned off with thick wooden beams. Scattered all about were potted plants, various sacks of soil, boxes of seeds.

The room was being completely repurposed, for Omeluum’s enjoyment of zurkhwood. The thought somehow made it seem… okay. Astarion found he liked the idea of something good happening in that room- of something growing, instead of his soul slowly dying.

He turned his head when he heard speaking- found Sekh a few paces ahead, talking with Blurg in eager voices. Yenna was already bored with whatever their topic was, was looking at all of the old, closed off bookcases. He imagined she wouldn’t want to stay here long- yet if they had come without her, she would have pouted until morning.

“Curious, you seem deep in thought.”

Astarion jumped, turning his head, found Omeluum had seemed to materialize next to him. The mindflayer was one of the only he knew that could still sneak up on him. “Gods above you nearly stopped my heart.”

Omeluum inclined its head. “Your heart does not beat.”

Astarion sighed. “A figure of speech.” The mindflayer made a noise close to a hum.

“I am glad to see you and Sekh’met are both well. I admit I was… surprised, to see him so eagerly returning to the Society’s research, after the ordeal you both went through.”

“You can’t talk sense into him,” Astarion said, watching as Sekh grasped Blurg’s hand excitedly, his face beaming. Whatever the hobgoblin had just told him had sent him into an excited frenzy.

Astarion smiled to himself, his undead heart throbbing into his ribs. Gods he looked so beautiful when he was lost in his passions.

He felt Omeluum rest his large hand on his shoulder. “Your warmth towards him is… intriguing. I find myself feeling some sort of warmth as well, when I see the two of you.”

“You’re going soft on us, Omeluum.” Astarion grinned at him, and he swore if the mindflayer could smile, he would have. There was something about his eyes.

“This feeling,” Omeluum continued, “I believe I feel it around others, as well.” His attention turned, and Astarion could tell he was looking at Blurg. “I feel a sort of contentment around some.”

“This sounds like illithid for I have a crush on my colleague.” Astarion elbowed him, as Omeluum looked at him, confused. “Oh please, you’re rather obvious. Frankly, I just assumed you and Blurg were already… well, can a mindflayer be in a relationship? Would you even know what to do? Gods, how do you fuck?”

The last question came out without filter, and Astarion pinched his lips shut. He hadn’t actually meant to ask that.

To Omeluum’s credit, it seemed unphased- if anything, it simply seemed bemused. “We are quite capable of sexual intimacy.”

Astarion held his hand up at that. “No details please.” Omeluum chuckled- or, his version of a chuckle, a low clicking rumble from his chest. “I don’t want to know.”

Astarion was thankful when Sekh turned around, called out to him, as Yenna made her way over, excitedly taking up Blurg’s attention. She had such a fondness for him. “Blurg is going to show me how the lab set up is going- do you want to come?”

Astarion shook his head, watched as Sekh took Yenna’s hand, both following Blurg into what had once been the dormitories.

“Your child is a source of joy,” Omeluum mused, as the three disappeared.

“Thinking of hatching your own little brood?” Astarion teased, but Omeluum actually shook its head.

“My kind’s reproduction is not something I wish to invest in. I do not feel the… warmth I mentioned when I think of other Illithid.” Astarion was rather glad for that- while he liked Omeluum, something he never foresaw himself doing, he wasn’t interested in the idea of more mindflayers running around. Dealing with one megalomaniac Netherbrain had been enough- he would be quite content with never waging a war against the Illithid again. “Is this the appropriate time to ask you the same question?”

Astarion choked, turning to fully face Omeluum.

“Judging by your reaction, perhaps not.”

Astarion wasn’t even sure how to react. After all, it wasn’t something he had considered-

Except that was a lie, to himself. He knew it, down in his gut. Yenna had proven that children could be around spawn, safely. And maybe Astarion had entertained the fleeting thought, of a family of his own-

But fleeting, only. After all, he wasn’t sure it was possible. He was quite dead, after all. Was he even capable of siring children in the traditional way? And he knew Sekh had joked about all of the experiments he’d done, with substances in the Underdark, in his youth, to help his body look less feminine. He didn’t know the details, and he wouldn’t understand even if he did, he was sure- but Sekh seemed to think he’d broken himself. After all, Astarion had only seen him bleed twice, in all their time together.

And gods, would he want that? Astarion knew Sekh had a soft spot for orphaned children- hated to see anyone go through the loss of family that he experienced. But he knew, to the drow, Yenna was more like a sister, where Astarion viewed her more like his child. The disconnect never seemed to matter. They were happy in their disjointed family regardless.

“You appear lost in thought again.” Omeluum’s voice drew Astarion out of his thoughts.

“Was I?” he shifted, folding his arms, unsure what to do with himself suddenly. “Apologies. I’m just… tired.”

Omeluum didn’t look as if it believed him, but it didn’t push. Astarion was thankful for that- he wasn’t even sure how to organize these thoughts himself. It was simply something he had always assumed would never be his.

*

It was well into the early hours of morning, dawn only a few hours away, when they returned home. Astarion carried Yenna the entire way, the child having been begrudgingly exhausted by the time they left. She had been asleep within minutes.

Sekh stayed back in the doorway of her room as Astarion settled her into bed. He had this look about him, as he was smoothing her short hair back, looking at her like she was precious.

She was, Sekh knew. To both of them. But something about him seemed thoughtful, more so than usual.

As Astarion moved to close her door, Sekh asked, “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, of course.” He shut the door tightly, placing a hand on Sekh’s back, guiding him towards their own room. “Just in my own head, darling. I believe I’m quite tired.”

They stepped into their own bedroom, Sekh moving on instinct to begin undressing. He was tired as well, down to his bones. He still felt a bit weak, from all the blood he’d given Araj.

Once he’d pulled his shirt off, Astarion took up his bandaged arm, very carefully removing the wrapping, examining the healing cut Araj’s knife had left. Sekh hadn’t hid that he had visited her- hell, he’d told Astarion his plan before going. He had no other options- the only other drow he knew topside were Nym and Sorn, and they didn’t seem to have the extensive knowledge of noble houses that Araj did.

Silently, Astarion bent his head, placed a kiss over the healing cut. “You can reopen it,” Sekh offered, “if you want. You didn’t get to feed.”

Another gentle kiss, not even a hint of teeth. “No pet, you’ve bled enough today. I’ll survive a night.”

Sekh didn’t argue, even if he wanted to push a little. Astarion knew his body and his needs better than Sekh ever would. If he said he was alright, he had to believe him.

The two climbed into bed, Sekh gladly taking Astarion up into his arms, holding the vampire snuggly against his chest. Being back in their bed was heavenly- Sekh hadn’t gotten over it, since their return from the Underdark. It was simply good to be home.

“So,” Astarion whispered, even though Sekh could hear the exhaustion in his voice, “Are we going to talk about your visit?”

Sekh stroked his back, considering it. He’d given Astarion a bit of information as they had walked to the palace, but not all of the details. And not his thoughts on it.

Mostly, because he didn’t know what his thoughts were. He didn’t know what he wanted. For over fifty years, he had simply accepted that his family was dead, that the atrocity had occurred- but he never thought about finding the guilty parties.

And what he would do to them.

“Not tonight,” Sekh settled on, as he felt Astarion drag his lips along his throat in a lazy kiss. “Let’s not spoil a good evening.”

There was no argument to that. Sekh let his eyes close, idly tracing Astarion’s scars. He was content to simply let today lie, as it did. Let it end with the two of them, together, safe in the home they had built, with the family they had created.

If vengeance was needed, it could wait. Tomorrow was another day- and the day after that. For this moment, Sekh simply wanted to be here, with Astarion in his arms. With everything he loved so close at hand.

With his life, his family, his everything, safe.

*

Excerpt from the journal of Cazador Szarr, year unknown.

I held his face in my hands and I saw you. Those high cheekbones, that same porcelain skin. Even his lips, they remind me of you. I want to feel his bones crush within my hands, hear him scream to know what you might sound like.

There are days I forget you’re dead. There are days where I wake and expect to feel your nails in my skin, hear your laughter in my head. Nights where I expect to find you watching me, like prey.

But every cry from his pretty mouth, every tear from his eyes- they’re not enough. They’re not enough. For a moment I’m in a dream, and it’s you, you, you- and then I see Astarion, and the bastardization of your memory.

Did you poison my mind? Did you twist yourself into the fibers of my soul, break down every wall of sanity I had? How are you still here, still writhing inside my skull, so many years after I ripped out your glorious heart? Why can I not be rid of you?

May you burn, Vellioth. May you suffer in the Hells and never forget me. And know that there will never be a day that I join you- I’ve made sure of that. I will become divine, if only to deny you the joy of ever raking your nails along my back again. I will become something beyond even your greatest dreams.

Yours. No. Not yours.

Simply,

Cazador

[shanny-banany]

Thank you for the tag @29rynoah! This was so fun!!!

The game is to find the words given by the tagger in your wips and then tag whoever you want with new words to find.

tagging @tonguetiedraven and @marble-wolf (if you want)

your words: connection, burn, eyebrow, mood, lift

my words were: sky, tears, laugh, fingers, treasure

sky

Renzou slapped his hands onto his knees and leaned forward enthusiastically like he was being clued into a juicy secret, the prospect of a fresh romance lighting up his features. “And how long have ya had a crush on this mystery person?”

“Since I met ‘em, I think.”

“Whaddya mean you ‘think’?” Renzou’s face scrunched up in confusion, pulling back a little like Rin’s uncertainty had personally offended him.

“Uh...well,” Rin fumbled for a moment, unsure of how to explain. Scratching his chin, Rin tilted his head back to stare up at the sky, the drifting clouds overhead providing a welcome distraction from the way Renzou was studying him. Was there a right way to answer? “Have you ever thought you just thought a guy was really cool only to realize you definitely wanna make out with him?” Rin tentatively asked, looking back at his friend as he felt his cheeks start to heat up with the admission. Renzou immediately looked far too understanding and he didn’t like that one bit.

“Can’t say that I have. Have ya told this super cool guy you wanna make out with him?” Renzou asked with a small smile that was equal parts teasing and genuinely curious. Rin snorted humorlessly and rolled his eyes.

“As if. He’s so far out of my league it feels like a divine punishment.”

tears

A snippet from the small bit of my Atlantis AU I have written while I’m still tinkering with the idea. As of my current notes/outlines it’s more aoex if it was Atlantis influenced rather than a full AU.

His lips curled back over long, sharp, deadly teeth, snarling out a series of growls, deep rumbles that seemed to come directly from his chest rather than vocal cords, and raspy, rolling hisses.

A whimpered “Bon”  from Renzou drew a quick flick of his eyes, unwilling to fully pull his attention from the threat in front of him. Tears were streaking down his friend's face as he shakily held his khakkhara defensively, Konekomaru angling his body to shield the beads wrapped around Ryuuji’s hand from view. Warmth flooded his chest, the sight of their unceasing loyalty enough to stall Ryuuji’s panic stricken brain long enough to really hear the terrifying sounds being directed at them.

His gaze snapped back to the demon at the head of the group, taking in his passive stance and nearly bursting with excitement as Ryuuji identified the language of Gehenna.

He was trying to communicate.

laugh

Bon/Rin established relationship, the boys get assigned a mission together complete with shoddy disguises!

Rin flapped his hand dismissively. “Yeah yeah, whatever. I’m just sayin’, I don’t see why we can’t look good while doing it. ‘Sides, look at all this neat stuff Light has! Why waste the opportunity?”

“There are plenty of other opportunities. This is serious,” Ryuuji scolded, face still buried in the box of props and entirely missing the way that Rin’s mouth popped open at the implications of that statement. 

Tossing aside the cowboy hat he’d been holding, Rin reached out for Ryuuji, gripping onto his bicep to get his attention.

“Other…do you guys dress up often?!” Rin practically shrieked when their eyes met.

“It’s not dressin' up! We’re concealing our identities!” The bright blush that spread across his cheeks immediately contradicted the words. Lewin definitely got far too much enjoyment from the many absurd getups he’d forced Ryuuji into ‘for the good of the mission’.

Rin smirked, his lips twitching under the pressure of a barely contained laugh, and quirked one eyebrow up in a clear challenge. “Sounds like a fancy way to say dressin’ up to me.”

fingers

True Cross Academy gets its own romantic advice column entirely because I’m a sap and half the cram group are not so secretly also saps!

Dearest Readers,

Today's submission comes from someone feeling hopeless in their pursuit of love. Their admired is strong willed and intelligent, but perhaps a little too busy for romance? Not to worry, my kogitsune! All you have to do is show that you’re worth diverting some of their time and attention! Small acts of consideration that show you value their interests are the best way to capture their heart! If they’ve had a long day hard at work, try dropping by with a warm meal. Show that you respect where their priorities lie while proving you’re able to be a part of it! Best of luck, admirer, let us know of your successes!

Love, Otohime gitsune ♡

Rin nearly squealed with his excitement, fingers trailing reverently over the words on his screen. They’d answered his submission! And they made it all sound so easy. All he had to do was prove he was worth Ryuuji’s time.

Dropping his phone onto his desk, Rin turned to pace around his room while he worked out how to use this advice. He couldn’t do exactly what the post said, half the cram group followed the blog and it would be immediately obvious. Maybe something a little different but still the same type of act? A glance at the time showed that Ryuuji would surely be in the library right now for a frenzied study session before he had to meet Light. Maybe a caffeinated drink since his nights with his new master seemed to be getting longer and longer? Rin could grab him a snack too, something good for energy and sure to actually be helpful with all the responsibilities Ryuuji had taken on.

Grinning, Rin snatched up his phone and wallet and bolted for the door, mind racing with possible ideas to show Ryuuji how much he cared. He could prove that he wouldn’t hold Ryuuji back.

I don’t have any with treasure, but now I’m determined to work it in somewhere lol

[pandor-pandorkful]

Thinking about my stupid number of blogs lol

@pandor-pandorkful - u r here :B My primary blog, where EVERYTHING goes. But that can be overwhelming (I think), so I also have

@pandorkful - mainly announcements, creative ponderings and a place to collect both my artwork and doll making posts. But not everyone is into all that (I think), so I also have

@pandorkful-art - It's just my art!

@pandorkful-dolls - It's just my dolls!

@pandorinspo - where I reblog inspo for my various comic projects

@just-ghaleon - my Lunar fanblog, formerly doll photocomic ask-Ghaleon. But I do want to bring that back so I'm also sitting on

@ask-ghaleon - nothing here yet! (I need to redo Ghaleon's faceup still... I gave him a full makeover last summer! New faceup, new hair, new modded body! The works!! Now I just need to finish a roombox set and some props. :3c)

@punishableghaleon - mainly grabbed the username as a gag, as a mutual saw a bot with a similar name and we thought it was funny hahaha... probably just going to use it for shits and giggles.

@lunarweek - coordinating Lunar Week from this blog, which runs July 14 -20 this year! (2024)

@draw-your-babygirl - dumping ground for every babygirl pose i can find, properly sourced to whoever first cried "BABYGIRL!" ...to the best of my ability, at least

And I have 1 "secret" blog for my very very old art :B (It's @secretpandor and it's not that secret lol)

"Holy crap Pandor why so many sideblogs?!" You and I may ask ourselves.

The answer is of course: ADHD.

[underwhelmingalchemist]

Actually, I love being a cluttered person.

I love spending time in my room filled with pillows and shelves of knick-knacks where everything is decorated for Christmas and is lit by red LED lights

I love having a closet that can accommodate every aesthetic from jeans and a t-shirt to cottagecore scene kid to forest gremlin to full lolita coord and never sticking to any single aesthetic, even if I'm reusing the same core pieces over and over

I love teaching myself to sing, and to make edits, and bake things I've never made before, and sew, and craft with foam, and make props and costume pieces, and crochet, and fold paper stars, and write new genres, and learn about odd bits of culture and history, and cosplaying and making videos and dancing and anything else that might strike my interest all at once

I love listening to every genre of music and having my playlist skip from metal to bubblegum pop to country, without any particular devotion to any one artist or band, picking up bits and pieces from every tiktok I come across or album that was recommended to be years ago or music my mom used to listen to when I was a kid

I love consuming any media that catches my interest, from anime to indie films to marvel movies to media analysis to children's cartoons to documentaries to video essays to tiktoks to podcasts without any visuals at all

I love being in a hundred fandoms all at once, and creating content for as many as I can and cosplaying and writing meta posts and making video edits and memes and shitposts and writing fanfiction for dozens of pairings, plenty of which involving the same characters shipped with different people because I can't choose just one

I love my blog of random bits and bobs I've collected, with shitposts followed by fandom pieces and poetic phrases and a video that made me laugh

I love my gender and all its messy complexities, and how I want to go on T but still wear lolita and skirts and makeup but also do drag in both the king and queen categories and put on a performance both onstage and off that seems both feminine and masculine and some secret third option and it's all so chaotically off-putting but makes everyone around me gradually feel more at ease with themselves

I love my attraction and how I'm ace but also enthralled by the concepts of kink and romantically attracted to whoever my mind feels like that day, with preferences that swirl and shift in some nebulous cloud of identity that nobody could ever quite figure out, least of all me

I love dating two people and getting to text my boyfriend about my day and talk to my queerplatonic girlfriend about her plans to marry her boyfriend and tell both of my partners that I love them and kissing them and making plans for the future with both of them

I love my body with all of its squishy curves and rolls, and getting to decorate and customize it however I want, whether it's putting stickers on it or dressing it up in fun outfits or putting color around my eyes and painting on little designs

I love being talkative and knowing a little bit about everything because I remember reading about it a while ago, just like I remember when someone tells me about their favorite TV show or how they had a fight with their boyfriend a couple weeks ago or if they just started a new game, and crying with people in the same day I'll laugh with someone different

I love doing a hundred things at once, and putting on a podcast on while I play video games and monitoring my texts and discord servers I'm in, and finding the most overstimulating music to blast through my favorite pair of earbuds just because I like the bass and how it crunches

I love using language in ways that might seem a bit out of place, like trying to make things fit in a box together and saying I'm 'Tetris-ing it together" or calling certain sounds "crunchy" or telling my boss that I "had to go on a sidequest" when I had to deviate from what I was told to do, or just using the word "scrungly" at all

All of this makes up who I am, each piece making up a small part of a larger whole, no one bit able to exist without the other

I love all my clutter, no matter what form it takes

And I love being a cluttered person.

[lotusug]

i dont feel like finding a post title sorry everyone | trial 3-1 | zenji | re: ritsuki, hiori

Zenji looks a little out of sorts, but at least he’s back his short, white-haired, wild-eyed self. The few days of taller, poised, elegant Zenji were a little weird, but now things are back to normal. Except his kimono, anyway. He’s still wearing the purple, arrow-patterned one, hiked up around his legs now that he’s suddenly four inches shorter.

He scampers onto the subways and climbs up onto the benches, squatting with his feet flat against the seat. He props his elbows onto his knees and watches, almost birdlike, as the main event starts. Birdlike, almost like…

“Oh, yeah, the monsters!” he chimes in. “What did those books say? I know I read them, uhh… something about the rock guys leaving behind diamonds when they die, right? And how the birds sing a funny song! I tried singing it back to them but they, er, didn’t like it!” As a matter of fact, Zenji has a scrape on his cheek. Bird related incidents, perhaps.

“Anyway, we found a diamond in the cave, so, if the book is right, that means someone was in the cave killing rocks! So the books have got to be a clue, right? Maaaaybe they were getting diamonds to do something sinister, and when they come out of the secret tunnel into the library, oh no, there’s Raion-kun! And Raion-kun’s, you know…” He slouches forward, limply draping his arms and head over his knees. “So they-” he pushes out with his arms, hard, “And then he- aaaaahh!” Now his hinges backward, throwing his arms out to smack whoever’s beside him, and tilting his head back to thump against the wall of the subway. “And now we’re here!”

[clockworkowl]

I was searching through the mess of randomness that is the notes app on my work computer and came across the introductory backstory I'd written for the time when the 'culture club' thought it would be fun to have a conference call where everyone was dressed up like superheroes (which, of course, was going to overcome my natural cynicism of workplace 'fun' activities, because any day I can dress with the abandon of a 5-year old with free reign of a Children's Museum's costume shop knowing that I have a free-pass from ridicule, is a day I'm going to take advantage of.)

In hopes of luring in participation from people who didn't have a random collection of Batman and/or Marvel masks lying around their homes (which a surprising number of coworkers did actually happen to just have at the ready in case Disney or Commissioner Gordan needed them to step in.) or at least to have something to do their judging event on that wasn't throwing a dart at a board of a bunch of dudes in the same batman mask to decide on 'best costume', they created a category for 'create your own superhero or super-villain' which allowed you to dress up as your creation and wear whatever (including your normal clothes claiming you were in your Kentian mild-mannered disguise ) and be able to snag honours so long as you prepared a backstory and description of the character.

This is my true wheelhouse. I never seem to have the motivation or attention span to write actual prose anymore, but I can lose hours in spinning an elaborate backstory like nothing else because it's all ideas and fragments. In middle school and high school whenever I would get stuck cast in those 'impatient woman in elevator' roles so the department head could make sure the acting part wouldn't get in the way of making me do double duty as props and assistant director; I used to create enormous backstories for that character and how they invisibly wove through the plot of the show to reach those 30 seconds of overlap with the lead characters. (This is probably why Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead is one of my favourite plays; because firstly, it's fucking brilliant, and secondly it felt like it vindicated the maybe over-the-top thing I just always did on my own, that most of my drama club friends sort of rolled their eyes at.)

This is also all just a long-winded intro to where I just wanted to post the little character intro monologue I'd written to justify wanting to wear an eye patch, a ww2 nurse's cape, cyberpunkish mid-calf leather boots, and a random blonde wig for the day. (And I am kind of proud that I got that far lore-wise in maybe 2 hours tops, though I do admit that I completely leaned on a Tumblr post (which I should find so I can credit whoever is responsible for that writing prompt) about what if everyone has superpowers, but they had to be unique so yours is probably not very useful, as a total jumping off point.) It's also probably because it's been a while since I wrote it and seeing it again I found myself kind of like, 'oh that could actually be interesting to actually do something with.' and usually when I find old stuff like that I'm just like 'why did the me of whenever I coughed this out think this was good?'

So anyway the character (and of course, I chose not super-hero, not super-villain, but secret third thing, super-cynical-and-super-tired-of-everyone's-bullshit-mercenary+powers) monologue which can now only be disappointing because the lead in is too long.

___________________________________________________

They call me Hiniku Kijo.

This world is one where, sure everyone has a super power, but since only one person at a time can have any given power, most people have lame ones and society is stratified by the perceived value of the one you ‘inherit’.

I used to be one of the ‘good guys’, using my ability to read any enemy’s next planned move by merely looking at them to advise troops in the war on ‘evil’.

But then, someone tried to kill me with a cursed dagger for my powers. I lost an eye, and they got to ‘inherit’ my ability, which was obviously not that reliable in hindsight given the whole assassination thing I walked right into. But, I gained the ability to pass freely between the underworld and our world and to see with a glance the most efficient way to destroy a foe. 

As for the ‘good guys’? Well, my would-be assassin is their golden boy. And I’m not interested in swearing up with that bunch of overcompensating ego-maniacs in the villain league. So I guess that makes me… a free agent, out to put an end to them both.