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bony and bruised but not for you

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I keep falling for the future after tripping on the past

Just out of the shower🖤

Shoulder day is my favorite🥰

i was once told my bush hair pattern looks like a joshua tree and i’ve never been the same after

fortune ~ // treat me // // shirt shop //

I heard it was spooky season

this is just objectively a funny pose to me

🤭

“During the spookiest time of the year there are a few guidelines all ghosts and goblins should follow. Always stay on sidewalks. Never go to a strangers house, and never go out alone.”

My favorite stuffie Sam and I did a Halloween photo shoot.

i touch myself

and think of you,

i don't touch like me.

i touch as you've touched.

i caress as you would.

i don't feel my own hands

gliding over my skin,

i feel yours.

and when my fingers thrust

into my tight, aching cunt,

so slick with heat and need,

it is not my own desires

i seek to fulfill,

but the desire i picture

in your eyes

as mine begin to close.

Peering at the neighbours

You're all mine now

— desert fever

› cowboy astarion x f!reader

› wc: 8k+

› a/n: I FINISHED IT!! (dies) :3 also I made it more weird and unsettling than like sexy cowboy aesthetic sorry I can't help but make him a creature in a fucked up western ghost town (if there's mistakes pretend you do not see) ilysm @dhampling for being the only reason this got done <3

warnings : death themes, loneliness, physical injuries, blood drinking multiple times, sorta yandere?, cockwarming, orgasm denial, lil clit play

Midwinter - 200 Years Prior

Wind rips through the canyon a thousand feet overhead, nothing moving in the godsforsaken town and the mule packer knows something is wrong.

Two miles south stands the mine, the proverbial godsend, that sound which should be filling the canyon with the sound of machinery smashing ore is starkly missing.

He dismounts the tar black steed, the horses nose pinked by the icy chill and it’s nostrils flaring, its mane filthy with a dirty crust of ice. The single rig saddle is ice crusted as well, the leather components frozen stiff as board. He rubs the horses neck, speaking in soft, low tones about how he did good work today and a nice, warm stable awaits with plenty of feed.

The man wades through thigh deep snow towards the mercantile, baging his fist against the doorframe. Inside, the lamps are extinguished and the big iron stove squats dormant and forlorn in the corner, unattended by the usual smattering of miners jawing over burnt coffee and tobacco.

“Hello, anybody in the back?”

As he steps back out he notices theres not even the sound of animals braying or snorting in the cold.

“What in hells?” he whispers.

When he delivered supplies a few months ago the humble mining town had been teeming with its usual bustle, now Dreads Hand looms lifeless before him in the late evening gloom, its streets empty with unshoveled snow in high banks against the planked sidewalks. No tracks as far as the eye can see, save for his own coming in.

The cabins along the lower slopes bordering the tiny town are buried up to their chimneys, not a single one of them smoking.

He makes his way up the street to the sloon, expecting perhaps for a handful of locals to be sheltering from the storm inside, greeting him with some glorious profanity about being unprepared for the weather.

Not one’s inside.

Not a single customer, no one at the piano, and again every kerosene lamp is extinguished.

Only a forlorn half pint of beer sits on the pinewood bar, frozen through.

The path to the closest cabin is unplowed and takes roughly ten minutes to wade towards without webs on his shoes.

He pounds his fist against the door once more, counts to one hundred in his head. The latch hasn’t been hooked, but even so he feels like a trespasser as he swings the solid wood door open to step inside.

Food languishes untouched on a table, coffee long since gone frozen just like the beer in the bar. He removed his gloves to touch the roast in the middle of the table, cold and hard as the ore in the mines. Wine had at some point frozen and shattered the cups that held it.

Outside again, back with his steed for some small comfort he shouts, turning around and around in the hopes his voice will carry further.

“Is anyone here?”

It’s twenty seven miles back to the closest outpost, and the horse needs rest. Having ridden the last sixteen hours he needs it too, though the idea of spending the night in Dreads Hand has suddenly become much more sinister. The horrible silence is unnerving.

He decides to chance it, something tells him its safer on the trail back, even in the threatening dark and icy terrain with exhaustion creeping into his vision.

Something just ain’t right here.

—

30th of Eleasis - Present

From early childhood it was all you could remember, just you and your father acting in your childlike mind as fanciful explorers, wanderers. Always somewhere new to plant your feet, always some other sunrise to chase.

Once you had grown curious enough to ask, after many, many years of this endless chasing and his words echo inside your skull to this day.

“It’s just in our blood.”

What, exactly, was in the blood had yet to reveal itself. As you grew older and more alert to the realities of your life you believed he had been speaking about your occupation as monster hunters. Perhaps being the blade that sings in the night before ichor spills across the ground was what thrummed in your veins.

Although you believe differently now.

It was bad luck. Nothing but.

—

Dreads Hand was aptly named.

A husk frozen in time, the curiosity of every would be adventurer although it’s long been picked clean of anything of value. The wind whipped through the crags above your head, the trail leading towards the often whispered about ghost town like it was a reward after navigating treacherous and tight terrain.

Someones idea of a joke.

Even in it’s heyday the town had hardly been prosperous, only one twenty-stamp mill that had filled the canyon with the sound of rock crushers pulverizing ore was the only thing of note in the otherwise one horse stop off. That sound used to be the sound of money being made, and only two things ever stopped it: holidays and tragedy.

That sound hadn’t echoed through this place in two hundred years, and it was assumed when a mule packer had found the entire town deserted one fateful day in Nightal that tragedy had befallen them, though of what nature that tragedy was had yet to be accurately discovered.

Still, ever since then this place had long been whispered about. Perhaps those whispers gave it some sort of new life, perhaps not. It may very well be that some manner of beast had made its way into the derelict town, drawn in by the solitude of it, growing fat off the easy meals from snatching unsuspecting people from the town farther in the opposite direction on the trail but you were prepared to dispatch whatever run of the mill creature people in the neighboring town had complained was screaming its head off in the night.

Something nagged at the back of your mind as the hollowed out bones of the town came into view from the trail. There had never been a single body discovered in Dreads Hand or the surrounding area, which had been combed thoroughly on the off chance there had been some survivors that could explain what exactly had befallen them. Not even a hint of blood in the dirt.

It was as if one day everyone had gotten up from their tables and simply marched out into the setting sun, the wind erasing any evidence of footsteps in the sandy red soil and snow.

Another unique feature of the town was the perpetual night that fell once a year on the eve of the last day of Eleasis and lasted until the end of Nightal, it bewildered anyone well versed in magic and didn’t fit with the knowledge of environmental curses that even the best scholars had poured over. It was believed this had something to do with the long missing townspeople, but again at the time it was discovered there was no sign that anything was amiss. No blood, no bodies, no damage of any kind.

Just the wind whistling through homes and the small smattering of stores, and an inky darkness blanketing it all, like a babe tucked into bed.

As your feet kick up red dust you grimace, wishing for the first time that you hadn’t agreed to this.

The thought strikes you abrubtly, making you freeze.

You’d done all manner of hunts alone since your father had passed, why was this any different?

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, sweat sliding down the column of your spine in a suddenly icy trail as the feeling of eyes boring into your back mounted the closer you came to Dread.

—

31st of Eleasis

Being alone is worse than the loneliness you felt growing up. Alwasy bouncing from place to place, only ever the two of you. At least it was the two of you.

But it’s different now. Now, you have to figure everything out on your own and it’s exhausting coupled with the constant injury and death. Sometimes you’re afraid if you start thinking too hard about this way of life you may just collapse on the spot, slumped in the dirt to cry and cry and cry. Weep until you dissolve and mix with the earth.

It all has to be for something. It’s in the blood.

You can only tell yourself that so many times before you start tasting bile on you tongue.

—

Luckily setting up in town wasn’t difficult, what with your pick of any number of decrepit, modest prairie homes to choose from. You had expected the feeling from the previous day to cling to you like a second skin, unease brewing hot in the pit of your stomach. Whether fortunate or not it hadn’t, but you also felt an odd sense of regret to not feel even a hint of disquiet inside a home that was possibly haunted by the dead and lost.

All you felt while settling in to prepare for the hunt was a strange melancholy. Never had you stayed in an actual home, not once in your life. The longest you had ever been in one place was during a particularly difficult hunt for a hag close to Neverwinter. That had been three months of careful stalking and planning, but even then you hadn’t stayed anywhere but in the forests closeby your target.

Doomed to a life of transience, of always existing in a state of maybe. Maybe you live, maybe you die. Maybe you’re successful maybe you are not.

Sleep had been empirical and unsatisfying, but you did your best to chalk your restlessness up to the nerves that always accompany a hunt.

This one was unique in that you truly had no idea what you were tracking, if anything.

It’s just as likely people simply heard the wind tearing at the sheer rock faces around them and assigned a boogeyman to the sound.

You shake your head as you finish readying your supplies for the day. Nothing too intensive at the start, a brief exploration of the abandoned buildings to see if theres any obvious clues: tracks, nesting behaviors, perhaps even the remnants of meals. What those meals may be you didn’t care to know in detail.

The old, once solid wood creaked underfoot as you strapped shortswords to your back, feeling relieved at the familiar weight of them. It was reassuring, going through the motions of an age old routine. It was easy to put aside the little pangs of grief as you stepped out past the rotting wood of the threshold.

Back in Edgewater, some twenty seven miles to the south, you had met with a scholar by the name of Hallowleaf who was inarguably the most knowledgeable about the accursed settlement. The last ten years she’d devoted her life to researching the place, everything from its founding to its eerie end.

She'd had some… interesting information for you before you had set off and as you walk down the now mostly rotted through plank sidewalk you're reminded of the conversation.

“It is curious, apparently the church at the far side of the town had fallen into disrepair sometime before the mass disappearance.” She said, pointing on a well worn map.

You scrutinized the marker denoting the old church before speaking.

“Was it abandoned by that point?”

“That's contested, officially yes after the local priest of Lethander passed it went into decline. But, there were some odd writings recovered during the search.”

Hastily, as if too excited to show you the copies, her hands fumbled in the bag set against the legs of the chair she sat in.

“There were some fragments referencing one of the horse hands and the church but since it's all piecemeal it's hard to make sense of. It could be that this person rode off to try and secure a new priest, but that feels unlikely given no one has ever come forward as being from Dreads Hand.”

“Maybe they died trying to?” You mused, still staring at the map and trying to commit the landmarks to memory.

Main Street ran for two hundred yards down the middle of the canyon, and you walked between the false faced buildings. Many had long since collapsed, but you stopped at a structure with five little balconies.

This must've been the brothel, and as your eyes lingered on the crumbled, jagged toothed facade you could almost hear the whistles from long gone men and women drifting down from the windows.

It was funny that this place had originally been named Hope, back when it was all of a handful of buildings and the mine was being constructed. The people who moved here really had felt that way, apparently enough to stay. And then to stay even after it took on the moniker of Dreads Hand.

The place was no stranger to unfortunate occurrences, sickness had swept through many times. The loss of their priest and subsequently the loss of any religious presence. The decline of the mine as less and less ore could be found inside the red rock.

Maybe everyone just had gotten utterly sick of the place.

Maybe hope had died first, before any of her believers.

Midway through town you stopped again at what was once the saloon. Apparently the bartender was quite notorious, having been recognized during that summer as a fugitive who'd fled from Elturel and dodged execution.

She still would've, if not for the fact that the woman had been the sole proprietor of the only lively business in the whole town so instead she spent her days chained to the bartop. They'd been loath to part with her, but she disappeared with all the rest.

By midday you had yet to see any fruits of your labor, each broken down pile of wood and brick held precious little in general but resoundingly no signs of any activity. The only thing alive here seemed to be yourself, and with each passing moment the unease of your initial entry to Dread ebbed as the wild, harsh sun beat down. If anything it felt oddly relaxing to explore the place, and it was at least a tiny bit exciting to see all the places that had only been abstract map markers to you previously.

If nothing happened tonight you were considering starting the trip back to Edgewater tomorrow, although you’d be lying if you said the prospect of witnessing the permanent night set in over Dreads Hand didn’t make you a little nervous. The other reason you would stay at least until nightfall passed was to see if the darkness brought with it any kind of beast. You’d be remiss to not at least make sure that what the people to the south reported wasn’t tied to the curse, but it was looking more and more likely that this was a case of simple rumor running too freely with peoples tongues, crafting phantoms and terrifying themselves.

—

1st of Eleint

Its been known that people can create false memories, our minds are simply weak and suggestable. It looks more and more likely that the vast majority of reports of strange happenings here are similar in nature to false memories.

There is no evidence of anything, malignant or malicious, making a home here.

—

The darkness was bewildering in its unnatural presence. Although you knew it was morning there was no way to tell, it was black as pitch both inside and outside the half destroyed little cabin you’d taken shelter in. It was no wonder why this was referred to as some curse, only some sort of unnerving magic could create a bubble of false night that could last for four months.

That darkness provided good cover to make your way towards the old mercantile at the very least, that spot provided a decently unobstructed view of the surrounding area and would be your perch for most of the day, waiting as soundlessly as possible for any signs of fresh activity before heading off around midday.

As unique as this place was, you’d be glad to have it facing your back. Something about creeping around in a town that felt more like one giant mausoleum felt lecherous, even the presumed dead shouldn’t have their rest disturbed.

Before you could step towards the threshold your nerves lit up, freezing you in place as you became all too aware of your own breathing. The doorway seemed more akin to a yawning maw, the splintered wood like rotted teeth waiting with bated breath to see if it’s prey would walk willingly into its gullet.

You couldn’t be sure, given the dark and your own rising anxiety, but it seemed as though something were moving in the shadowy depths of the place.

You need to leave.

The thought brought with it panic that gripped you hot and tight, making your heart start hammering so hard inside your chest it was a wonder your ribs don’t crack from the force.

“Do you want a head start?”

A voice drawls from inside, nearly making you yelp but you remain rooted to the spot as you catch a brief flash of reflective red breaking through the haze.

“Who- who is that?” you ask shakily, hating how you feel more like a frightened child.

Some primal instinct recognized the danger as you remained frozen, and it didn’t help that when the voice next spoke it seemed to be bouncing all around you, omnipotent and completely disguising the speakers location.

“If you want to be caught just keep standing still."

The inappropriate singsong of it tore you out of the quicksand pit that held you fast and without conscious thought you tore off in the opposite direction, feet pounding against the hardened red dirt and nearly choking on your own spit as your breathing came in erratic, harsh bursts.

It didn’t really matter where you were going, it didn't matter if you were belong followed, all you could think was to get to the one building that was blessedly still intact: the church. The half collapsed spire was your only guidepost as your pulse thundered in your ears and the feeling of bile sliding up your throat became nearly too much to bear.

As you flung the solid oak door open, before you could give a ragged exhale of relief, the floor gave a hideous groan and suddenly the world was off kilter, sideways as you met the solid rock bottom of a basement with a sick thud.

Although you instinctively tried to fall in a somewhat upright position, the momentum instead dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling in a last ditch effort to protect your head. For a tiny eternity there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding internal radiance as the impact blazed white hot agony through your body and behind your eyelids. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with the detached thought that this was just a hideously cruel nightmare. It was unreal, and it was painful.

For a moment you wanted nothing more than to give into self pity, to despair, the thought of no way out quickly grew from a frantic whisper to a screeching cacophony in your head as you took in the sight before you. There were no doors down here, in what could only be assumed to have been a basement, and as a chill crept up your legs you looked down to realize the floor was covered in about five inches of stagnant, stinking water.

Standing, you held in a ferocious gag, holding your hand over your dust coated mouth.

Stealth was out the window now, the sloshing of the water would give away your every movement. You focused on your breathing as you try gathering your bearings, choke down the urge to give up and the urge to start sobbing as you debate how best to get out of the current predicament.

All you could do was hope you made the right choice, that walking forward blindly would lead to a set of stairs.

The fear never left you, growing tangible with every sloshing footfall, afraid to even blink on the off chance you would open your eyes to a face leering at you from the dark.

It was difficult to even consider theories about what has happening as you trudged through the water in the darkness.

The voice had been human enough, maybe the dark had simply messed with your head more than you thought initially and all you'd really done was made yourself look insane to another hunter or adventurer. Worse, maybe it was someone who thought playing jokes in this place was funny and in a moment someone would help you find your way out of here, laughing at your expense all the while.

—

After sloughing through the mildew thick air of the basement eventually you did manage to find stairs leading upwards, but the small victory was quickly soured by indecision. A fresh hallway of doors stretched before you, its length exaggerated by the psychological pressure and possibly from the effects of hitting solid stone like a sack of vegetables.

Your indecision acted as a paralytic, leaving you like a small prey animal hoping if it stays frozen the great beast close by wouldn’t catch it by the scruff.

After a moment you were able to push through the feeling, squeezing your eyes shut for just a moment before taking determined steps through the hall, ignoring the taunting doors as your momentum built.

If that person was present in the main chapel they would be lucky to find one of your shortswords buried in between their shoulder blades for all the trouble they’ve caused you.

Anger was better than fear, it was emboldening but it also made you sloppy, made you stop considering the environment or the present threat as a threat.

A mistake that would cost you.

Through the shattered stained glass windows weak light filtered through, what managed to not be stamped out by the unnatural darkness outside. The chapel was beautiful, somehow surviving against the weathering of time that ravaged every other building in Dreads Hand. As you scanned the isles your jaw clenched tight, hoping to spot the irresponsible lout.

“Most people just hide, you know. I have to commend you for making it back up here, that basement is truly nasty.”

Shaking hard you spun around in a circle, desperate to clap eyes on the speaker after all this time.

Framed by the faint illumination was a man that hadn’t been there only seconds before, and he didn’t shy away from your gaze. Slow, deliberate footsteps against the creaky planks filled the space, and he struck you as uncommonly graceful given he was dressed in the leathers of a ranch hand.

The closer he came the more the gaping pit inside your stomach grew.

His grin was easy, full of genuine joy seeing you covered in dust and half soaked in old, disgusting water. Those eyes you’d seen in the mercantile nearly took your breath away now seeing them in detail, a deep red the color or coagulated blood and you noticed the glint of slight points peeking from his smile.

“It’s a shame for you that you gave me a massive advantage. Being in that water meant I could hear you all the way up here, stomping around like an ox.” He said.

You couldn’t believe the truly, monumentally terrible luck you had.

The people in Edgewater were afraid of phantoms, but not the smoke and mirrors kind. The kind that beckoned from the dark, all waxy pale flesh and flashing teeth.

Hallowleafs words teased at your mind, the fragment about the horse hand. Was that the man standing in front of you now? If so he was significantly older than he appeared, though that was always common among vampires.

A vampire.

Is that what befell all the people who lived here? Had this man gone into a feeding frenzy? No, there would have been bodies.

A shiver quakes down your spine at a sobering realization: it's likely the people of Dreads Hand had never disappeared at all. This may have been a town solely occupied by vampires.

“Stay away from me.” You finally find your voice, and your nerve as you pull both shortswords from their holsters on your back.

He waves his hand flippantly. “Yes, yes, the hunter with her fearsome weapons. What a tease you are, filling the place up with the scent of you then denying the hungry wolf at the door.”

Your grip on the hilts tightened, your right foot sliding forward ever so slightly as you ready yourself to go on the offensive.

“Not going to run, hm? I think you’re the liveliest thing to pass through in ages.” His grin widened, and you were given a taste of just how outclassed you truly were.

V. Die he or justice must, unless for him some other able, and as willing, to pay the rigid satisfaction, death for death

You didn’t think of the mirthful smile he wore, the much too excited tenor of his voice. All you could think of was keeping his mouth away from your flesh as he knocked you off balance, movements much faster than your eyes could track and blood trickled into your mouth as your back hit the floor with a choked groan.

But there was no time for your pain. If you could not get out of this situation you would die, that was simple fact.

It was too bad the victor had already been decided the moment you set foot here, and as your weapons were knocked from your proximity to skitter across the floor you heard your fathers voice once more.

“It’s in the blood.”

Rotten, horrendous luck.

What shocked you the most was not the weight of him as he pinned you to the floor, not the icy chill of his skin on yours. It was the kiss he placed against the side of your sweaty neck, making your muscles go so rigid your back lifted from the floor ever so slightly.

A wholly pathetic sob bubbled in your chest but given your current position there was no room for pride. In an instant you were reduced to nothing but a crying child, a child crushed by overwhelming loneliness and naked fear.

“There’s no need for tears, come on now.” You could hear the sweetness in his voice and it was such a sharp contrast with the overall situation that it made dizziness swell and pound in your head.

You didn’t respond, not even as you felt his tongue slide over the skin covering your jugular. All you could do was remain locked in on the stained glass window. The visage of the morning lord totally indifferent to your suffering.

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cold, you wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs and the secure grip of his molars. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because jostling knife sharp fangs leads to wider rips in the skin. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And when his lips closed around the created wound to suck it was as if he also sucked all the air from your lungs.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a numbing wave.

You stilled, rational thought kicking in and forcing you to not slam your hands into his chest, dislodging him could potentially rip a much more fatal wound in your neck.

As lightheadedness crept in on you, you wondered if every victim of a bite felt the same euphoria that was seeping through the layers of your muscles and bones now. Maybe that was part of it, something like venom that could relax someone and keep a feeding mess free.

Or maybe it was a small act of mercy afforded to the victim, a few final moments not full of pain and insanity.

Fading took no effort at all, and you gave no resistance as the world slid away.

You woke to sickness clawing its way up your throat, churning violently in your stomach as your various aches returned to you full force. The pain in your limbs and the throbbing sharp pain in your neck was particularly horrific. Nothing made sense, coming back to you in bits and pieces.

You were sure he’d killed you, had felt it. Terror at the unfamiliar was worse than the terror of knowing your life would end. The confusion made for an even cloudier disposition as you tore the threadbare sheet from your body and made a clumsy attempt at getting up out of the rotting pew you had been placed in.

Very quickly it was obvious that your injuries were worse than you thought, adrenaline had blocked the worst of the awareness of them and you nearly went tumbling headfirst into the floor once again.

“Easy,” he said, moving to catch you before the wood could kiss your jaw.

His grip reignited a fresh round of fear as you thrashed against him, desperate to push him away.

“You- you’re,” the words were like thick paste in your mouth, as if someone stuffed cotton between your teeth. You decided perhaps you were concussed.

“I normally go by Astarion.” That smile was back, and it made something else ache inside you.

When has anyone looked at you in such a…happy way?

Quickly you bristled. “What are you doing to me?”

He raised his hands up before speaking. “Whatever happened to you during that fall had nothing to do with me, you know. Although I’d guess whatever blow to the head you took isn’t doing you any favors.”

“If someone hadn’t decided to play tricks on me maybe I wouldn’t have run head first into a collapsing church.” You spit back at him, Astarion, as your eyes roam his face.

He was handsome you realized, it had been obscured before by all the heightened emotion and pain. Even if he was a vampire, his eyes were like old rubies and his hair fell in beautiful short curls that framed his ears just enough to be called artful. It was particularly cruel, how he seemed perfectly crafted to put those thoughts in your head and then tear at your flesh in the same second.

“I have to be dead. This is some death hallucination.” You weren’t speaking to him specifically but he answered all the same.

“Would it make you feel better if I agreed?”

You shot him a petulant glare as you curled in on yourself a bit, on the part of the pew farthest from him.

“What are you playing at? You’re a vampire, you kill things. I should be dead.”

“I’ve never been in the presence of such a knowledgeable slayer, do you have any more snippets of wisdom?”

Your expression soured further, incredulous that he was poking fun at you in all this. Ignoring him your eyes drifted to the room around you two, and part of you sagged in relief to see your supply packs had been slung on the floor.

He followed your line of sight, spotting what had caught your attention.

“You’re welcome for lugging all that down here. I hope you don’t mind that I took a peek at your journal for the trouble. Plus I needed to occupy myself while you snored.”

Your first instinct was to vehemently deny snoring, which struck you as so absurd you could almost laugh if not for the cut of knowing a stranger, a monster, had been nosing through your innermost thoughts.

He stood then, grabbing the tattered book from its pocket before tossing it to you with mirth dancing in his eyes,

“Also, it’s slightly disappointing that no one has figured out the obvious out there yet. It’s a good thing you decided to come here, but a little stupid as well. What sort of monster hunter just walks right into the den?” he barked out a quick laugh, making you cringe as tears pricked in the corners of your eyes.

Bastard. It’s not enough to bite you, leave you a mass of tender bruises and torn flesh, but he has to insult you on top of it.

Not for the first time you cursed your woeful luck, wished you hadn’t had to do any of this alone. Nothing would’ve gone so wrong if your father were still around.

“Come on now, there’s no need to cry.” he sat back down along the edge of the pew as you eyed him warily. “I know you’re afraid but really, I’m not going to hurt you. Well, not anymore but that honestly was your own fault.”

“I want to leave.” You blurt out, feeling your hands start to shake from the effort of holding in your tears, holding on to the shred of pride you had left. The words made you feel like once more like a little child, demanding to go home.

“Well, that’s not going to happen, sorry.” He said, not as a threat but as casually as if you were chatting about the weather. He was just telling you what was, an irrefutable fact.

You decide to bluff. “Someone will come for me.”

“According to that journal you’re all alone out here, and I think it would be highly unusual for someone to lie to themselves in one of those.” He pointed at the book where it landed on the bed. “Besides, you’re far too interesting and delicious to just let go.”

Your breathing was starting to go from just unsteady to too fast and ragged as he kept speaking. Being called delicious, reducing you to a meal, it all was too much. You began spiraling about the possibility that you were doomed to be a vampires personal replenishing snack until the day he let you die.

“You’re insane.” You whisper, hand coming up to cover the now scabbed puncture wounds, wincing as even the slight pressure made them start throbbing with renewed vigor.

“Maybe a little, but look at it my way. Stuck here for over a century with nothing but my mysterious and tragic past, wandering and picking off unfortunate travelers. We’re... alike, you know.”

His words were far away as your mind clung to that last sentence. We’re alike.

“How could that be? What about the other people that were here?” Your brows furrowed, assuming already he was lying to you.

He sighed, looking away. “Well, you can only keep about two hundred vampires rooted in one place for so long before we all get a little strange. It didn’t help the Lord died, what were we to do? Most killed each other or tried to take off but charred after leaving.”

Thats why there’d never been a body, and it wasn’t a priest that died. Or maybe he’d been one once, but the picture was forming crystal clear in your mind.

Dreads Hand had been a haven of vampires possibly from its inception, and perhaps the semi permanent night had been a final gift of protection from their Lord.

“I am sorry about your father by the way.”

You stiffened. “Stop.”

The anger you could muster was a weak thing, fleeting as the last rays of sunlight before dark, eroded by the seed he’d planted of your similarity. Compassion and sameness through loss.

Silence hung so heavily in the air you figured you could slice in with one of your swords if you had them. Picking at the skin around your nails you tried coming to terms with all this new information crowding you.

Maybe he was right. What was waiting for you back out there, anywhere? A continuation of this life of solitude so crushing it felt like Tyrs own hand pressing down against your chest?

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. Really I just… may have been overeager in my effort to speak with you.” That made you snort, half in agreement.

The way you tossed your head to the side dismissively was a mistake, a hissing inhale sucked through your teeth feeling the delicate scabs from his teeth rip open. Clapping your hand over the wound once again you can't help the surprised noise that escapes you upon seeing your own blood smeared across your palm when you pull it back, and it's not lost on you the way his eyes zero in on the scarlet mess immediately.

Time seems to stand still as you watch him, every miniscule detail of how his pupils dilated so heavily there was only a thin ruby ring framing them, how his tongue ran across his teeth and his breathing pattern became ever so slightly erratic.

A part of you felt truly sad for him then, shackled to this base instinct to feed and from everything you know about their kind the hunger is ever present, it's own constant torture. How miserable it must have been being stuck in a place with precious little sustenance, and even fewer ways to anchor oneself to sanity.

Hesitantly you stretched out your hand, as one might with a handful of food for an apprehensive animal. All at once the attitude of the space shifted along with something inside your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat at the first touch of his tongue against your palm, an experimental stripe he licked across the center before sucking on your index in a way that made you avert your eyes. The action was lewd enough, but the sounds coming from deep within his throat were absolutely obscene, gravelly groans vibrating against your hand as he moved from one finger to the next.

It was mesmerizing, and embarrassingly it made you feel dampness growing between your legs.

His movements were animalistic as his lips moved from your hand up your wrist, lavishing your skin in a trail of sloppy kisses but the chill his spit left behind wasn't wholly unpleasant.

It shocked you even more when he pulled away to speak.

“It may not be wise to, but if you're able-”

“Yes.” The word came from your lips before you could stop it, feeling overwhelmed by the bizarre passion his movements displayed and the way his voice had become so small as he asked.

What was more shocking was that he asked, nobody had ever asked after your comfort a day in your life.

He pulled you closer against himself, supporting the back of your head with one hand as the other supported his weight behind your back, and you shook in his grasp feeling his spit mingling with the blood coagulated against the side of your neck and down your shirt collar.

He was inhumanly cold but the leather and fabric covering him compensated for it, all well worn softness as your hands used his frame to steady yourself in anticipation of a fresh wave of pain.

You yelped as he moved you to straddle his lap, nearly choking as you felt his erection through the leather and your hips moved on their own, lightly grinding down before he stopped you, hands gripping your hips firmly.

“I wouldn't blame you if that's not something you wanted, we did only just meet after all.” His voice was gentle, like a balm to the cracks that had been forming inside you for longer than you cared to admit.

“Is it something you want?” You ask breathlessly, lips moving against his cheek as he kept his face close to the weeping wound at your neck.

Your hand finds the hair at the base of his neck, fingers toying with the soft white curls and pulling a small shiver from up his spine.

“Adrenaline sours blood, but pleasure gives it a much better profile…” he spoke absentmindedly in between licking at your skin.

You could feel his hand spider crawling against the waistband of your pants, making you groan softly against the side of his head, fingers tightening ever so slightly into his hair. That only seemed to urge him on, one hand undoing the garment just enough to slip his hand in to press against your clit through the fabric of your underwear.

You whimper, thighs pressing close together around his hand and forcing it to grind against you with more force which made your hips jerk like you were struck with electricity.

It felt like you were on fire, boiling from the inside out as you rutted against his hand, whimpering in open mouthed exhales against his hair. Each of your movements were sloppy and frantic as you raised yourself up slightly, desperate to be rid of the restrictive garments and your hands pawed at the leathers around his hips.

In a fumbling blur you were back on his lap, naked from the waist down and soon pulling his straining erection from its confines. You run your tongue across your teeth as your hand pumps him up and down, smearing precum with your thumb and relishing in the cracked moans that fall from his lips. His tip was so flushed, a pretty throbbing pink that made you body ache to feel him inside of yourself.

And he was quick to catch the edge of your need, digging his fingers into your hips in encouragement for you to rise slightly, just enough to slide his head through the mess of arousal before lining up. The stretch around him was bliss, a feeling of fullness that made your mouth drop open as you let out a low keen.

As you sunk down fully, ass meeting the tops of his thighs his fingers were quick to make deft little circles against your clit and pulling more of those little sounds from you as a seamstress pulls spools of thread. Through your half open eyes you can see the grin crossing his features and it makes adoration fizz in your chest.

But as your hips began moving his grip became firm, halting you and holding you in place, full of throbbing desire as his lips caught yours in a searing kiss only parting from you with the slightest of bites to your bottom lip.

Before you could pout his lips were moving from your jaw down your throat, making you tip your head back slightly to give him better access.

"Is this a condition of release?" You rasp, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck again.

You could feel the vibration from his voice as he spoke against your flesh, "Every second you're squirming only makes you sweeter."

You bite your own lip at that, trying to hold in a groan feeling his fingers moving at a snails pace in circles around your clit anew, keeping your body on edge but providing no relief.

Cruel.

There is no opening for complaint though, not as his tongue swipes thick, wet stripes against your skin before you feel the pinprick that leads to a sharp bloom of pain. It takes your breath away, helpless in his grasp and filled to the brim with him. It's all you can do to control the wild urges to buck your hips as he sucks against the fresh wound, coaxing you towards lightheadedness with every mouthful of your lifeblood.

After an agonizing wait he guides your twitching hips into movement, it's jerky at first since your body is simply craving orgasm but soon enough you fall into a rhythm and the soft sounds of leather creasing mingle with the wet squelches of your cunt clamping around him with every rise and fall of your hips.

Every sensation goes to your head in a rush, like a tirade of bubbles furiously rising to disturb a placid surface of water but before you can come undone he stops you, slows the frantic motion of your hips until you're a teary eyed mess, a puddle held precariously in his hands.

Reflected in his eyes you can just barely make yourself out: your own eyes blown wide and glossy, twin puncture wounds you're sure are set against deep reds and purples.

Has anyone ever even desired to touch you before?

The answer is no, and there's no room for rational thought when the man whose lap you're sat on and whose cock sits heavy inside you has made you feel more seen than you've felt in a lifetime. It feels like rapture, ecstasy and the longer you linger in his gaze the deeper you fall.

Your eyes roll back as he latches onto the fresh wound once more, widening it ever so slightly with the points of his incisors to reignite the flow of blood. You flutter and pulse around him as he drinks from you yet again, the world taking on a dreamlike quality.

As you glance up you see the shattered, half shaped visage of the morning lord once more.

It doesn't matter if his eyes nor anyone elses can reach you here.

This man, Astarion, gives you something more that you feel a sudden zealous need to protect, curl yourself around it and give yourself over when it calls.

As you lose track of yourself, time, and the space around you with every pass of his fingers against your sticky clit you aren't sure why you had been so resistant to the idea of staying.

thulsun 18+, 3.7k

There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful of midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. - astarion appears at your parlour one evening in a cloud of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk, and it becomes oh-so difficult to watch him leave. a/n: this is the first bit of a new non-tav reader piece i'm writing, so bear with me! ao3 link here. cw: Non-Tav AFAB Reader, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Mentions of Prostitution, No use of y/n, Vampire Sex, Pre-Canon, Trauma, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Strangers to Lovers, Eventual Smut

After an evening under your contemplative - yet wholly unforgiving - glare, you come to the conclusion that he is, indeed, as ridiculously beautiful as you thought from the moment he walked in.

It’s not often you pay much attention to the patrons. A sea of flaxen blonde and brunette marred by a flash of white. Pillowy coiffed curls, a playful snarl; the young thing on his arm clinging to him as if a lifeline. Gregarious yet sly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him the entire night. 

You guess that they’ve only met for the first time this evening. There was a small stumble when they moved to sit at the booth by the window, overlooking the street. A nervous laugh on her part. The clockwork rhythm of a relationship not yet properly established in any sense. 

This wasn’t something she’d anticipated as she’d planned her day this morning, you’re pretty sure of that. Maybe waking somewhere in the Lower City - she looks fresh. Excited. Whipped something wild off her feet by this stranger but a few hours ago and now they have a room in your inn. She’s indulging in something salacious. A rendezvous.

Coffee with cream. Maybe one sugar, but her complexion suggests no more indulgences. 

In your head the picture starts to form of the market girl, not long trading. A few freckles are beginning to bloom across her nose and forehead where the sun has sat directly overhead but they’re wholly new. Nothing lingering from prior sun seasons. You imagine her little wooden perch to the side of her stall - not flowers, maybe neck scarves? Hankies? - embroidering with a little hoop as she waits for customers to approach her. Custom initials for an extra few gold. Gifts for lovers, for family. A smile so milky in its lax, it’d be at home among calves.

As he lies back on his elbows, head back, she whispers in his ear with heavy lids. 

He nods with a decadent low laugh, and she moves to sit on her haunches at his feet on the bed; legs spread under her.

Oh. 

She wants to watch him.

Maybe not embroidery, then. 

You’ve taken to the crack in your floorboards a few times before. Be it from sheer curiosity or late night lascivision, it’s rare but not unheard of. You’ve seen far, far worse in the chamber below you and tonight feels like a rare treat, a veritable feast of pretty faces and parts. 

A noble daughter, surely. She can’t have seen manual labour with hands so wholly unblemished. You remember them at the bar; how soapy smooth they seemed in contrast to the slightly battered chalice and pocket-worn gold chips. 

He is also something radiant as he rests atop the sheets. White as chalk even in candlelight and sculpted lean, a little on the lithe side but nothing to be too haughty over. As the laces of his shirt come undone, the look he gives is verging on coquettish in its little sexually frustrated furrow. A tilt of his head, eyes of red honey; the mewl of a moan as his nimble fingers toy with the loosened flaxen strings. 

The shirt comes over his head and his pale fingers splay down his chest with an achingly slow tug.

You hug the floor a little tighter. Pressure builds behind the crux of your pubic bone, the nerves warm underneath catching like a lit match, a light pulse, a tense blooming.

Fingertips dancing over collarbones blooming with bites in maroon, plum tones. Vicious little conjunctures where the teeth of unseen others have met flesh and suckled. She hasn’t seen this skin before. She’s just as entranced as you are.

A courtesan? She doesn’t seem the type you don’t think, but he certainly does. 

You don’t typically allow them on the premises, but for him you’ll turn a blind eye. There’s no way you’d know if you weren’t watching him on the verge of ecstasy yourself. 

His companion watches on with her mouth slightly agape, lifting a hand to her still-clothed tit and tweaking at her nipple in a fixated haze. You note the slight shuffle of her heel so it sits - presumably - under her cunt. The way she pushes down ever-so-slightly to gain some friction and he exhales a low groan. 

Moans airily. Shifts his hips in a wanton rut.

It’s like he’s performing. An actor with a captive audience. His hand snakes down to his breeches and works the lacing effortlessly, eyes rolling into his skull as he does so. You imagine the friction of his palm on his crotch. The relief. How he’d feel, hard to the point of spilling under your fingers and whining.

She takes off her blouse to roll her nipples. Perky, red and stiff in contrast to the pale velvet flesh, the desire palpable on her face as she watches him work himself free; your own hand working under your hips as you lie flat on your belly in order to get the best view. Lifting the waistband of your underclothes as if you’re a participant. In some ways you are - one they’re unaware of, but burning nonetheless. Glazed over. Watching as he performs for you, for her. 

As your fingers slip between the folds of your molten slit you take a moment to look over him properly. His cock now freed, pale and glazed in prespill as he jerks the shaft between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.  

Completely hairless. Elven. You’d noticed the ears earlier, of course; but the eyes were a little unusual in colour for even sun elves. 

You remember him in the low light of the booth, scintillating with a light and airy laughter befitting the season even in the wee hour. He had her completely and wholly enraptured with the way he held her in his gaze - even chiding her at one point for elbows resting on the table, as if she was trying to get even closer - pressing brief kisses to her forehead, speaking with animated gestures; recommending the finest wines and the best of the breads as if he were a regular.

He paid for nothing. With the assumption that she paid for his time you can overlook a lack of chivalry. 

As he begins to fuck his hand with a well-practised roll of his wrist, you shift to fuck yours with newly-wettened fingers sliding deep with ease.

His teeth grit in teetering lust. She’s borderline humping the heel of her foot with each jerk of her engorged nipples, and he whispers some form of salacious encouragement. You can’t discern it too clearly but it’s thoroughly naughty. She’s groaning, eyes rolling into her skull.

You don’t know if you’re pleased when she indicates she wants to ride him. 

With any other patron you’d be ready to sit back with a glass of wine and enjoy the ridiculous noises, write about it in your journal and call it a night. 

This time round it’s as if you ache to feel him too. 

He gives a low-flutter of his lashes as she spits on her hand and reaches for his shaft, wincing as if ice on a burn and keening into her touch. You watch her jerk him, peeling the skin back softly and running a painted thumb over his slit to which he makes the most angelic whimpering noise you’ve ever heard.

By the time she’s on her knees over him, sinking onto him inch-by-inch with his hand over her mouth to mask her giddy ecstasy; you’re nearing your peak. She rolls her hips once he’s buried to the hilt and his groan is sin incarnate in timbre. A quick wriggle back up the bed and she’s on his lap, him pistoning up into her with care to curl his hips as he moves. 

A part of you is taken a little aback from your peak by the realisation you’re going to have to make sure the sheets are thoroughly scrubbed tomorrow. He’s aiming to make her gush in the way he angles. 

It’s a chore you can pass off onto Miri. 

Right now you’re chasing the white heat, the fire poker; the wet lust below you absolutely lurid in sound, and in some hilarious twist of fate, you cum almost exactly as she does. You hear him calling her his pretty thing, his good girl ; begging to spill inside her as he pumps and pumps and pumps up into her sopping cunt, a sequence of leaking glub-glub-glubs, a laboured groan as he sinks deep into her. 

The noises keep you reeling for a good few seconds longer than usual. 

A sad part of yourself pictures him calling you that.

The rest of you immediately regains composure. You don’t allow yourself to regain your silent breaths, nor do you listen too closely to the string of filthy expletives tumbling from his lips as he spills into her waiting hole. 

Your footsteps above cause him to whisper at her to hush. She giggles in sheer bliss and you roll your eyes into the thick of your skull, reaching for your pail and opening the side door exclusive to your rooms to run for water.

-

You feel a sense of familiar post-orgasm clarity on returning, unwrapping the bar of soap from waxpaper stowed on a shelf above your desk; rinsing your hands, face, and cunt of all traces of lust in the lukewarm water. A fresh towel to wipe yourself dry. Soap returned to its proper place. 

You change into your bedclothes and tend the candles you’d neglected to light on finishing work for the evening, fishing for your journal amongst the tomes stacked by your bed and reaching for the half-empty bottle of Firewine on your dresser when it catches your eye.

Chalice plucked from your ramshackle bureau. You’re freshly flopped on your bed when you hear it.

A knock. 

Nobody knocks on your door. Ever.

It’s a pain in the arse to get to and there’s usually very little to be gained by doing so, except potentially a glass to the face if you’re in a particularly dour mood.

You tilt your head and listen, heartbeat thudding in your chest. Another knock. 

“I know you’re there! Hello?”

You pause for a moment. A surprised blink. You lift to your feet as if carried and unlock the door and it’s him.

He looks at you with little regard.

“We’re checking out, now.’

You tilt your head once more, puzzled.

‘Are you deaf? Hello?”

You don’t take kindly to incredulous patrons at the best of times, no matter how pretty they are. He snaps his lithe fingers in front of your face and your eyes narrow. 

Despite your own activities there’s a little part of your brain that wants to shun him like an old matron for bringing those hands anywhere near you, knowing where they’ve just been.

“Okay?” You speak slowly. He clicks his tongue.

“I’m here to return my key?” 

“Right. Did you miss the two key-boxes on your way up here, then? Too inconvenient?’

He’s stumped now. White hair glimmers in the moonlight, eyes reflecting yours.

‘Or had you simply gathered too much momentum, perchance? Didn’t want to stop in your stride?”

“I-’ You can hear the cogs in his brain turning as he pauses. 

Gods, he’s beautiful; but you can tell already from your brief exchange he’s one card short of a full deck.

“I simply wanted to thank you for your hospitality in person! Thank you.” He exaggerates the last two words of thanks in a mocking bow. 

You’re of a mind to shout for the Fist.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well - I’ll be gone by morning.’

His eyes meet yours for the first time, properly. Glowering carnelian. Dark, thick lashes. He smells of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk and yet it works on him in a way it would no other.  

‘I’ll be gone now, actually. So yes. Now. The middle of the night.”

Your glare doesn’t shift as he places the key delicately in your open palm and lingers a moment longer than necessary. 

You hope you convey effectively just how displeased you are at the extra scrubbing you - well, Miri - will have to do in the morning. Just how irritated you are that they’ve kept you awake. 

And with that, he turns on his heel. Skips down the iron-wrought stairs in a blur and disappears back inside. 

Strange creature.

As you settle back in with your chalice, the words in your journal are an attempt to capture him whilst he’s still fresh. There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. 

The rest of your evening passes uneventfully. No more knocks, no more banging. 

A cattish manner. That’s how you’d describe it. The speed with which his attitude toward you on the doorstep changed once you had the upper hand didn’t go unnoticed. You picture him lazing under a sunny window on some plush chaise lounge, being fed plump grapes by some wealthy patron; a thick-bristle brush on a silver platter for maintaining his whitish waves. Practically purring. 

Just under six foot. Smarmy yet charming with it. You imagine the way someone could feel special if he turned his affection to them solely, like a stray picking a favourite leg to rub on. 

The Firewine is particularly heady having had time to aerate, thick and rich as you swill it around your teeth in the stillness of the warm night. 

Beyond the rotting pane of your window lies the Chionthar. The vast horizon of little lights on the opposite bank, the occasional ship traversing calm water; a lull to sleep as you reach to close the shutters.

-

You wake with no real urgency.

Rolling your wrists in a lazy stretch, early afternoon - multiple trips down to the water pump and back up in the blazing heat to collect enough to fill your washtub. The street below is full of shouting kids skipping the hot cobble and playing with water no doubt syphoned from the inn’s own supply.

Bertrand isn’t about, which gives you precious time to bask in the glow atop your stairs without him running to replace a barrel and spotting you lazing. Your damp undergarments from last night dunked and scrubbed unceremoniously in used bathwater before being hung to dry till crisp on the railing. Toes splayed, eyes closed; the beating light and the scalding iron rods that support your back as you lie against them. A deep breath. Sun.

One of Bert’s boys is milling outside the front with a cigar no doubt stolen from his father’s bureau, a decent indication he won’t be in at all. A sigh of relief as you exhale, tipping your head in acknowledgement at his small wave before he stubs it and ambles inside.

Not that you’re not fond of the older man. 

He tends to leave you to get along with whatever you need to, charges minimal rent for your rooms and gives generous bonuses on days of cultural significance. You do reckon he’s plying you into marrying one of his many sons though, as they haven’t had much luck elsewhere.

You struggle to remember their names. B’s. Bertrand and Brenna, you think his wife is called. A gaggle of bumbling men filling their house still at their big old ages, mother dearest still making their lunches.

Whatever. 

A ‘treat’, as Miri called it the night of her trial shift. If cigars are being slighted from Bert you can maybe use it as leverage to pinch one for her.

The corrugated iron burns your ass, your bare feet. You wince into the light. It’s bliss. 

You think back to the man from last night. Bergamot and spunk. The most delicious face. The fact he was at your door. If you hadn’t just humped your own hand to completion you think you could’ve been tempted to steal him away from his patron. You probably could have paid more, despite the fact it’d have probably wiped you clean out of gold and you’re not one for hiring prostitutes regardless.

You might have, though.

You wonder if they spent the night together elsewhere. If this morning they’re rising to breakfast and fresh-squeezed apple juice; her with her coffee. If he dropped her back home after their rendezvous with a kiss to the back of her perfect hand and thanked her for her patronage. 

The quirk of your lip. A scrunch of your nose. You could do apple juice, if that’s what he wanted. 

You picture him lazing around the bar as you clean, nesting in one of the booth pews; maybe with a book. Sunlight catching all the angles of his pretty face. Throwing quips your way with a natural irreverence, catching them and tearing them to ribbons with a mouth you’ve been told is devastatingly quick under the right conditions. 

He could be the right conditions at another time. Another life perhaps. You allow yourself an overly pitiful sigh as you mourn the entirely fabricated love that will absolutely be gone by tomorrow, when he’s all but forgotten and more faces enter the fold.

Miri snaps her fingers, waving to you from the bottom of the steps with a holler ridiculously eager for this heat; and you head inside to dress for the afternoon ahead. 

Hopefully she’s not down there piddling about with the silverware again but you potentially may just be past the point of caring if she is. 

She’s nice. Homely, in a way. Sun-ruddied cheeks smattered with freckles, eyes a warm honey colour; doesn’t do your absolute head in talking about her home life. She’s from farm stock so she potentially could have been the most grating person you’ve ever met - land girls with their steady loves and fresh butter and heaving bosoms in linen dresses - but she isn’t. Her humour is nice. She’s dry. Sharp.

You’re definitely a little jealous of the farm girls too, but you won’t admit it. 

Your room feels remarkably cool now as you step through the door and from the heat. 

Shutters open, broken slat wobbling as you see the full expanse of the horizon in the new light and a knowledge in the fact it never fails to bring you joy. All those people living lives you could never comprehend. You wouldn’t want to. Little mystery people doing little mysterious things. 

By the time you head down to the bar Miri has set the floor up. You sidle up with your sweetest smile and ask her to thoroughly scrub the sheets in the room below yours - a sorry grimace conveying all she needs to know - and she slaps your arm playfully. 

She already has. Of course she has. 

Sheets hanging limp on the terrace. Not a stain to be seen and for some reason, you feel cleaner for it. 

The evening passes quickly. She and you move in sync at the bar like a well oiled machine, and by the time you’re able to take a break for some food the worst of it is over. No more rambunctious voices, no spills or impromptu ‘singing’ from anyone having imbibed too heavily. Just a quiet lull of regulars and newcomers alike enjoying the river view and relatively well priced accommodation. 

You sneak down and poke through the stores downstairs, settling on a plate of potato scones when a tap on the shoulder startles them almost straight from the dish.

One of Bert’s lot. 

You both laugh as he chides you weakly for picking at the wares. You shrug with a mouth full. Gesture as if you’re willing to spit it back onto the plate as he shakes his head with laughter.

You confer for a moment on the business between floors and sensing the moment feels jovial enough, you bring up the cigar you mean to take for Miri with an exaggerated bat of your lashes. He nods and tilts his head to the bureau.

Just as you take your leave he stops you, his own mouth full of pilfered food. You wait as he chews for a moment.

“Oh. Tell Miri we’ll take her home with the horses tonight, if she likes.’

Your brow lifts, arms folding over your chest in a mock scrutiny. He rushes to swallow. 

‘Nothing like that! Saw something in the Mouth is all. Better safe and that.”

You nod, though your scrutiny doesn’t relent. He gives you a thumbs up.

There’s surely a tactful way to learn this one’s name. It’s definitely too late to ask.

-

The evening ends and you wave Miri off with Bael - she knows him from her interview for the position here, as it turns out - as you take to wiping the tables and tapping off the kegs. From what you managed to catch of the visitor logs there’s nobody interesting in the room below yours, nor in any of the others. Business as usual.

Your elven paramour didn’t show. Of course he didn’t. 

It doesn’t stop the fact there’s a little snag in your chest where you’d hoped for a little excitement. It didn’t even have to be him, you think. Just someone new. Someone to watch with the interest of a hawk in a mouse. Someone to exchange words with that felt like a bit of a challenge.

You pluck a bottle of sweet barleywine from the stocks and write it off as smashed by some unseen patron having clambered over the bar, corking the red nectar and pouring a large glass before taking both onto the terrace. 

The same horizon view as that from your window. 

New boats, glimmering lights in different windows. Residual heat lingers in the iron of the chair and the air smells sweet. Warmth seeping from old stone.

You think of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Chest still so you can listen to the ripe sound of insects and bumbling voices from streets over. The moon is high; the stars are so very bright, and the sky is clearer than you’ve seen in a long, long while.

Ghost-adjacent & mildly interesting, but I finally found where this bit is from. It's Alyce Bryce performing the "Jungle Drums" burlesque routine in 1948. I have no idea whether this was widely known already, but it's been bugging me for a month, so at least now I can move onto the next brain rot.

(source)

I am curious what the viewership is like for The Silt Verses if that is something you are willing to share? It is so fucking good, and I tell all my friends to listen to it, but none of them have yet. :/

I know some get crazy popular like TMA or Night Vale, but unfortunately, most fiction podcasts don’t seem to have a huge audience. That or maybe I just don’t know where to look to see a super widespread and active listener community. I just hope to hear that The Silt Verses is bringing in the viewers and that you’ll be able to make another story after if that’s what you want to do. On that note, have you shared anything or do you know anything about what comes next for you as far as future stories? Totally fine as well if you’re just focusing on finishing this before even thinking about something new though :).

We're doing OK, thank you! About 2 million total downloads since we started, around 50-90,000 listens per month in S3.

That's not A-tier huge, but it's enough to pay our cast a decent rate and help support me working on the production, which as you say is unfortunately rare for the majority of indie audiodramas. We're a weird and in some ways a demanding show that sits between genres, so I'm realistic about how much bigger we could have got and really happy with the success we have (and I am quietly putting some money aside for cast and production costs on our next show, ideas for which we have discussed here).

Godfather collection coming along nicely. 🥹❤️ Including a mini Al Pacino collection in there too, of course. 🥰 My favourite thing in the world tbh! 😍😍😍 I don’t think it’s ever gonna be finished with all the goodies and collectables I keep discovering or that keep coming out, but here it is so far in all it’s glory. 😂🤗