#ruby eyes and words like knives

[lucifersincentivetosleep]

Tiny edit I did because his right pec bothered me and I actually had the spoons.

You can thank my bestie for this cause I was gonna let it rot in my art folder 👍🏻

(Original is under the cut)

I was going to add nipples but the chronic pain snuck up on me and the shading stole my spoons so the redraw gets nipples instead.

Eventually.

If I manage to finish it..

Original card art:

[a-bit-of-writing]

Cloak

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Words: 1,591

Summary: You only meant to survive your night watch, not end up draped in Astarion’s cloak and scent.

part. 01 | part. 02

The cliffs above the Chionthar were pretty things by daylight — ragged ridges powdered in wild heather, gulls wheeling overhead — but after dusk they sharpened into bone‑white fangs. Wind tore off the river and scraped your cheeks raw, tugging at your sleeves like a petulant child begging to be let in.

You flexed your fingers — nothing. Half‑numb. Brilliant idea, volunteering for the late watch in nothing but a travel shirt and bravado. Gale had offered his spare cloak; you’d waved him off. Shadowheart had raised an eyebrow; you’d grinned. Pride was a stubborn parasite and now it gnawed your bones with every icy gust.

A twig snapped behind you. Leather boots, light tread — predator’s footfall. Only one person walked that quietly and still managed to announce himself with the sheer audacity of his presence.

“Honestly, darling,” Astarion drawled, voice a silk ribbon sliding round your throat, “if you wished to turn blue you could have asked me for pointers. I have centuries of experience.”

You exhaled a foggy plume. “I’m fine.”

He came into view, draped in a cloak the color of spiced wine, clasp of polished garnet winking at his throat. Moon‑silver hair spilled over the collar like frost over velvet. He looked entirely too warm, too princely, too amused.

“Liar,” he murmured, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your temple. “Your teeth are rattling a charming concerto.”

“I said—”

“And I said you’re shivering.” One arched brow. “Would you like my cloak?”

The offer landed like flint on tinder. You opened your mouth — habit formed around refusal — but the night stole the word and left only a shudder. Fine tremors climbed your arms. Astarion watched, ruby eyes bright with mischief and something startlingly soft.

“Here,” he sighed — half resignation, half relish — and reached for the clasp. Gold links whispered apart. As the cloak swung free, heat rushed out like the exhale of a hearth. Cedar, smoke, faint mulled wine: his scent, rich and dizzying.

He didn’t simply hand it over. Oh no — Astarion performed the act like ritual. One step forward, boots crunching frost; cloak lifted high, then draped across your shoulders in a slow, enveloping fall. He gathered the fabric at your throat, cool fingertips grazing the hollow just above your pulse. You felt it leap; he felt it too — his smile said everything.

“There,” he purred, smoothing collars with absurd delicacy. “A lovely splash of red to set off those cheeks.”

You tugged the cloak tighter. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, studying the way it swallowed your frame. “Marvelous. It hangs on you like sin.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Be wary — wearing a vampire’s garment might constitute a blood pact in certain, decidedly salacious circles.”

“Oh dear,” you deadpanned, exhaling warmth back into your stiff fingers. “Am I doomed?”

He hummed approval. “Doomed to — let me think — moonlit poetry recitals, perhaps a scandalous duet or two.” His grin glinted fang. “Surely you can bear the torment.”

You mustered a scoff, but the cloak’s heat seeped beneath your defiance, loosening the tight curl of your shoulders. Even the wind seemed reluctant to intrude through velvet this thick. You inhaled — cedarheart and something sweet, like the echo of summer berries on the tongue.

Astarion’s gaze followed the rise of your chest, satisfied. Then, casual as smoke, he settled onto the flattest rock beside your post — close, but not crowding. The river’s dark ribbon murmured below. Fireflies stitched gold thread between brambles.

After a beat he said, softer, “I never cared for that cloak.”

You glanced sideways. “No?”

“Cazador chose it.” A small shrug. “He enjoyed dressing us like decorative knives — beautiful, useful, always his.” For a moment the campfire in his eyes dimmed, revealing an undertow of old hurt. But then the mask slipped back into place, polished and bright. “Yet here we are — re‑appropriating luxury. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you whispered. “And it does suit you. Or did.”

He laughed, rich and low. “Are you angling to keep it?”

“Maybe I’m claiming it. Finders, keepers.”

“Heresy.” He slung an arm along the rock’s rim, posture indolent royalty. “If you intend to steal my wardrobe, I’ll need compensation.”

You arched a brow. “More secrets? Another blush tally?”

“Oh, I have grander schemes tonight.” He leaned in until moonlight caught in his lashes. “How about a favor to be named later? Something deliciously open‑ended.”

Your pulse skipped. “Dangerous.”

“Exhilarating,” he corrected. Then, unexpectedly gentle: “But if bargaining unsettles you, we’ll stick to simpler trades. A story, perhaps.” He lifted his chin, invitation in every line. “Gift me a memory.”

Cold forgotten, you searched for something worthy. “All right,” you said at last, voice soft. “When I was small, my mother would brew cinnamon milk on winter nights. She’d hum — terribly off‑key — while I sat by the hearth pretending to read. I’d memorize the tune, wrong notes and all, because it meant warmth was coming. I loved that.”

Astarion’s expression flickered — surprise, then a longing so fierce it scared you. “Cinnamon,” he echoed. “I remember cinnamon.” He looked away, throat working. “I’d- I’d snatch sweet rolls from palace apprentices and hide on the roof. Eat them alone so no one could shame me for sticky fingers.” Soft laugh, brittle as spun sugar. “Feelings taste different when you savor them in secret.”

He fell quiet, the confession hanging between you like frost‑glittering glass. Your hand twitched beneath the cloak — impulse to reach for his. Instead you said gently, “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

His eyes cut back, bright and wary. “Don’t I?”

“You offered me warmth with no demand.”

“Oh, I’ll demand something eventually,” he teased but the line lacked bite.

“You could have let me freeze,” you pressed. “Mocked me, walked away. You didn’t.” You lifted a corner of the cloak. “That choice is yours now. Every time.”

Astarion stared long enough that riverwind filled the silence with its hush. Then he chuckled, a sound that trembled at the edges. “Careful, sweet thing. Keep talking like that and I might start believing I have choices.”

“Maybe you should,” you echoed your earlier words, softer still.

He inhaled — sharp, startled — like the idea itself was a sudden ache in his ribs. For an instant vulnerability bared its throat. Then his grin returned, dazzling and defensive.

“Let’s test this newfound autonomy, shall we?” He stood, offered a dramatic bow, and extended a hand. “Come. The wind’s unrelenting, and I know a niche halfway down the cliff face — sheltered, private, excellent acoustics should I burst into impromptu sonnet.”

You laughed, taking his hand. His fingers were cool but steady, closing around yours with teasing ceremony. As you followed him along the narrow path, the cloak swirled your ankles, trailing his scent.

At a ledge half hidden by thorny broom, he paused, gesturing you ahead. A natural alcove cupped a sliver of embers from some forgotten traveler’s fire; still warm. He dusted the stone, sat, then tugged you down beside him. The space forced proximity — knees brushing, cloak draping over both. Twin warmths: velvet outside, his body heat inside.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. In the dim, his eyes burned garnet, softer than any flame.

A playful silence stretched. Then he cleared his throat theatrically. “Right. About that sonnet…”

“Oh gods, no,” you groaned.

“Too late. Inspiration strikes.” He pressed the back of his hand to his brow, reciting in a tragic stage whisper: “O crimson cloak upon a trembling frame, / Envy of dawn, ye put bright day to shame—”

You dissolved into laughter. It echoed off stone, mingling with his self‑satisfied chuckle.

When your mirth subsided, you found him watching you — smile gentled, eyes steady. “I like that sound,” he admitted quietly.

“What sound?”

“That laugh. It…does something foolish to me.” He glanced away, almost shy. “Makes monsters feel less monstrous.”

Your breath caught. Without thinking, you slid your hand across the small gap, resting it atop his. He stiffened — a reflex born of centuries — then eased beneath your touch, exhale feathering the cold air.

“Monsters don’t share cloaks,” you whispered.

“They do,” he said, lips quirking. “They just expect payment in flesh.” A pause. “I’m trying something new.”

“And how does it feel?”

He considered, thumb grazing your knuckles. “Terrifying,” he said. Then, softer: “Nice.”

You smiled into the dark. “Borrow the feeling as long as you need.”

“Dangerous invitation.” He curled his fingers, lacing them with yours. “I may never give it back.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you, then.”

He laughed — a fragile, wondrous thing. “You drive a scandalously hard bargain, darling.” He squeezed your hand once, then let the silence rest — comfortable, living. Wind rattled faraway branches, but the alcove held only warmth.

Minutes — or hours — later, when your watch ended and you both rose to return to camp, Astarion reached to reclaim his cloak. His hands paused at your shoulders, clutching velvet as though reconsidering.

He released a hush of air, almost a sigh, and withdrew, leaving the cloak on you.

“Keep it till morning,” he said, eyes unreadable. “Consider it… interest on our deal.”

“What deal?”

“The one where I practice giving without taking.” He winked, stepping back into moonlight. “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late. You smiled, heart thudding. “Good night, Astarion.”

He hesitated, then with the softest smile you’d ever stolen from him, murmured, “Good night, warmth‑thief.”

He vanished into shadow, leaving you cloaked in crimson and something far rarer: the promise of choice.

[xreaderdumpster]

Heyo! Love your work! ❤️ Could you do a Remy LeBeau x reader where the reader has low self worth and Remy comforts them? Preferably fem!reader?

Hey, many thanks for the love and your patience! Took me ages to come up with an idea for this ask as self worth is such a broad spectrum. Hope you’re doing ok and hope this brings a smile :)

Content warning: Fem reader so she/her pronouns, reader is a mutant with Magneto esque abilities, mentions of anxiety and general struggling with self worth!

Word count: 975

You won’t become him- Gambit x Fem! Reader!

The morning sun's rays highlighted the dancing particles in the kitchen. Steam swirled from your coffee mug as the aroma surrounded you. Peaceful mornings like this in the mansion were rare. But getting up earlier than everyone else certainly helped. It felt like fate sometimes that you were at the mansion, a recruit of the X-Men. Years ago, Charles Xavier had heard whisperings of someone with metal manipulation powers in town. It was him, Storm and Gambit that arrived at the bar the night they heard an almost riotous commotion was taking place. He was prepared to stand against an old enemy. But instead they found you. A young woman, manipulating knives, forks and bar stools to protect yourself against a group of rowdy FOH members.

Naturally, Charles invited you to the mansion, to become a member of the X-Men. Even with intense training, your powers were not near the level of the self-proclaimed “Master of Magnetism”. But, unlike what you’d heard about him, you were able to almost liquidate the metal objects in your will. On top of it all, kind, patient and, more importantly, believed in the cause the X-Men fought for. Some jokes about your similarity to Magneto were sprinkled here and there but you didn’t take it to heart. But the more you honed your skills, their looks got more obvious. The worry lines on Scott’s brow. The pursed lips Rogue would give from time to time. Logan’s physical flinches away from you if you tried to touch him. They treated you with kindness, there was no doubt about that but…There was fear… A worrying thought that passed almost every team member at least once���

“What if (y/n) became the next Magneto?”

Only Gambit never saw that. Or at least, if he did, he never voiced it or showed it to you. He made you feel like a regular person, someone beyond their mutation. So it was no surprise to the others when you became lovers or moved into his dorm. You knew you wouldn’t become like Magneto. Not now, not ever. You were so much weaker than he was, you thought. To a point it was almost pointless being sent out on missions. But their gazes, their judging looks…

A gentle kiss to your bare shoulder snapped you out of your thoughts. Gambit smiled down at you, ruby eyes meeting yours.

“Mornin’, chere. Ya didn’ think of wakin’ ol’ Gambit up when you did?” He said in his usual groggy voice. A yawn escaped him as he stretched and walked to the coffee machine.

“You looked so cute, Remy, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.” You replied casually before sipping your coffee.

“Ya sure droolin’ is cute?” He teased back with his signature grin. You rolled your eyes, smiling back at him. His smile fell slightly.

“Sure you’re ok?” Gambit asked. He grabbed his mug, sitting beside you. Worry crossed his features as he looked into your eyes, searching for uncertainty, for doubt. You took a shaky inhale.

“Yeah. I’m… I’m alright Remy.” You lied. He frowned more, shaking his head.

“Nah, Gambit don’ buy it. Sometin’s goin on inside that pretty head o’ yours.” Gambit’s hand gently took yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles. A deep, heavy sigh escaped your lips.

“Why… Why don’t you look at me like the others do? That look of worry. Worry I’ll become just like Magneto with my magnetism. Or like I’m some burden because I’m still learning?” You blurted out. Gambit looked taken aback for a moment as if you’d spoken in an alien tongue. A silence settled between you as the gears in his brain worked, trying to come up with what to say. You felt the anxiety bubble from your stomach towards your chest.

“Gambit’s never seen that before… What do ya mean chere?” He asked sincerely. Your free hand twiddled with the drawstring of your pyjama bottoms.

“I mean… I notice, you know? Every now and then a look or an action from our teammates feels off. Like they either don’t want me around. While sometimes it’s a feared or anxious look like what if she turns on us, other times it’s a look of why the hell is she even here, she’s useless.” Gambit’s frown intensified at your explanation.

“Gambit don’ see it. Gambit don’ t’ink it either. (Y/N) is (Y/N). Smart, carin’, brave ‘n’ sweet. The opposite o’ Magneto. And if dere’s anyone who t’inks you’d become ‘im, they’s never known ya like Gambit does. Not only dat, ya not useless either, ya hear Gambit? Sure, ya don’ go on as many missions as da others but we need ya here. Lookin’ out for da lil’ ones, continuin’ ya trainin’ ta be stronger. And when you’s on a mission, chere, you’s just as important as any other member of da team. Who’s da one that saves Gambit’s butt when he need it? You. Who’s da one creatin’ shields o’ metal round Jubilee from fallin’ buildin’s? Certainly ain’t Wolvie. It’s all you, chere. And dats what Gambit loves ‘bout ya.”

You felt hot tears prick the corners of your eyes as his words melted the anxiety in your chest just a fraction. Gambit wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. With your face buried in his shoulder, the tears dripped onto his nightshirt. His familiar scent of spices, smoke from his explosions and French cologne helped ground you, pulling you from your own thoughts and back to the present. Without thinking, your lips pressed to where his neck and shoulder connected before your wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Love you, Remy.” You whispered before burying your face more into his neck. His arms wrapped more securely round you.

“Gambit loves you, chere.” He replied back in a whisper.

[punk-in-docs]

🥀 Prince Paul x Tsarevna teaser for Part III, anyone? 🥀 Dieu est une femme

this is specifically for @katetimes @songforeddiemunson @dracomaledicte @drallimylime @usedtobecooler ❤️🩸

You stand at a window shaded with wispy white drapes, and can’t hold back a grimace at the sight that waits you.

Reflection watery and distorted. Shaded in displeasure. An identical scowl meets you in the glass.

From up the pea-shingle ribbon of the drive, that leads and eats as far as you can see, out to the dour-hunter green of the horizon, comes through the palace gardens, tumbling and cracking along, a carriage whose inhabitants you - sadly - are here to welcome.

You’d rather go drink a cup of cold poison.

You eye down below with barely shaded derision as the coach slows and jerks to a jumpy stop. Lick your tongue over your front teeth. Irritation and annoyance combined.

You watch the huge wheels lurch. A liveried footman scurried to open the door most efficiently. The door that bore the very meagre family colours and crest of the house that once boasted of you as its eldest.

How it looks to you now… Flaky really. Insipid.

That crest looks so small and tired compared to the one you now bare. The one you hold, whose heir you’re carrying too. House of Catherine the Great. Living in a den of snakes and surviving on poison, sneered gossip, and vodka. Limned eternal in blood.

“Fucking hell.” You scoff. Watching the figures within tumble out onto the drive in varied degrees of very little elegance.

Your mother, simpering like a fool, as she takes the hand of the servant, teeters and wobbles in her Parisian heels. Satin lace gloves in a fierce eye watering shade of fuchsia covering her hands. Made her touch appear silken and angelic when she was anything but.

You can already imagine the drink sour on her breath. The port she drinks like water. The way she’ll hiccup and slur through her sentences and want to pick over your pretty dresses and ribbons and wealth, like fleas on a dog.

Ready to gorge herself on Court finery at Catherine’s expense. Sling herself into too bright rouge and decadence, French fancy cakes and sickly-sweet perfumes, and new sordid affairs with indecent men. Not a kind word about your father to ever cross her lips, of course. Ready to be as one with the noble idiots at court.

You stand with one hand slung across your bloated belly. Round and firm under your dress. And they’ve wrapped you up today in fine maroon silk trimmed with wispy silver lace at the neck. Stays let out for the belly that’s nurturing Paul’s heir.

Pearls draped on your neck with black-blood like fat rubies that drip to your collarbones. Your perfume bears the sweet wood musk of cashmere and white petals of tuberose. Clean and impressive.

You dined on melon and vanilla cream for your breakfast. Washed down with fine leaf tea, one your maid recommended you to drink. You dined on meringues draped in sweet berry fruits and fluffy cream. The taste lingers saccharine on your tongue - it’s just curdled at the sight of their arrival.

Steps slap and cut along the floors behind you. Coming to a stop with an echo that slaughters all other noise around it. As was her way. Her perfume is all lilies and red and death. Sneaking over your shoulder like a cursed omen.

“They’ve arrived…” She states, nearly asks, in that tone that knives would envy. Cold and frigid metal.

“Unfortunately.” You answer back with just as much bite. Maybe you’ve been at court too long. She’s sharpened your personality to be as brutal as hers. Though her son is absolutely still your soft bellied weakness. A spot that gives when pushed.

You watch as your mother stumbles around and says something flirty to the footman. Touched his arm. Lipstick smudged crimson on her mouth like a wound. She winks and flutters and lowers her lashes at him, voracious. Omnivorous. She’ll have anyone.

Your small and waify sister manages the exit from the coach with awe soaking her eyes. Wide as a baby cows at all this wealth prostrated before her. Steps slow and uncertain. Shivering nervous. Wringing her gloved hands and gasping at the palace walls and their enormity. Building so huge it’s at risk of cutting out the sky. The shade from it reaches far and unending. Exactly like the woman who governs it.

“Whatever your expectations…” you warn to Catherine. Who hangs at your shoulder like a sherry eyed hawk. Eyes glimmering at new prey and prospects.

“Lower them, and then lower them some more.” You command.

She scoffs. Chest bobbing on it. Cutting laugh.

“Why do I sense my strings being pulled, petal?” She teases. Words dragged through mirth. Even her laughter is shrill.

“Because my mother…” You bite the word with the sordid hatred she has rightfully earned off you.

“Is a spineless chortling sycophant who will flatter you, and Paul, all evening, and gorge herself on port and fripperies until she either passes out into a drunken stupor and pisses herself, or decides to fuck one of the guards.”

“And then there’s my sister…” you deduce. Nodding your chin at her where she admires the rose bush that’s sprouting thorns and blooms on the fountain nearby.

“A more brainless debutante never drew breath. So green and eager she’d marry a privet bush if it so much as swayed in her general direction.” You remark.

Catherine made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded like a hum.

“We’d best go and welcome them then. My dear.” She sneered. “After all, I am sponsoring them both this season, so as your sister may find herself a delectable candidate for a husband among the court.”

She guides you from the window with a hand on the middle of your back. When really, you’d rather anything but go to welcome your insipid wretched family. You roll your eyes as she manoeuvres you away.

~

[tosomeonessomeone]

Chamego or 포근함?

Brazil series.

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

포근함 (pogeunham) — Describes a cozy, warm feeling of comfort, often linked to physical closeness (e.g., hugging, cuddling).

Chamego — (primarily used in Brazil) that describes a warm, affectionate, and intimate form of physical or emotional closeness. It conveys a sense of cozy tenderness, often linked to actions like cuddling, snuggling, or sweet whispered exchanges. However, it’s more nuanced than just "cuddling"—it carries a romantic, playful, or deeply comforting vibe depending on the context.

The sun hung heavy over the secluded Brazilian coastline, its molten light gilding the waves that kissed the sugar-white sand. Salt-kissed air tangled with the smoky perfume of charcoal, wrapping around the beach house where laughter spilled like music. Stray Kids’ voices ricocheted off the infinity pool—Hyunjin cannonballing, Felix’s sunshine giggles harmonizing with Changbin’s bassy groan as he lost another volleyball rally. But you stood rooted at the heart of it all: the open-air kitchen, where skewers of *picanha* glistened like rubies over flames, and secrets simmered alongside the *feijoada*.  

“Sunday *churrasco* isn’t just food—it’s *alma*,” you said, soul slipping into the word as you threaded garlic-rubbed beef onto skewers. Soo-jin, Minho’s sharp-tongued girlfriend, smirked while dicing mangoes for *vinagrete*. “Alma, huh? Explains why you’re sweating like this is a holy ritual.” Minho, ever the provocateur, flicked a sausage on the grill with a chef’s flourish. “Hyunjin’s been eyeing the meat like it’s his ex’s Instagram. When do we eat?”  

The trio fell into sync—knives chopping, flames crackling, banter sharpening. Soo-jin nodded toward the pool, where Felix and Changbin clinked glasses of *caipirinha*, lime wedges clinging to the rims. “Ten-to-one odds Felix faceplants in the pool by sunset.” Minho’s gaze slid to you, sly as a cat. “But you’re the main event. Still pretending you *don’t* short-circuit when Jisung exists?” The tongs slipped in your grip. “I don’t—” “Liar,” he sing-songed. “You turned red when he called you ‘master of the grill.’” Soo-jin snorted. “And him? When you explained *farofa*? Bro was writing ballads in his head.”  

As if conjured by the tease, Jisung materialized beside the grill, sleeves shoved above his elbows, hair wind-wrecked and eyes bright as the horizon. “Need a hero?” His voice was honey and mischief, and your pulse stuttered. Minho thrust a bowl of onions into his chest. “You’re on peasant duty. Cry us a river.” Jisung mock-saluted, shoulder nudging yours as he settled beside you. The rhythm didn’t falter—your hands seasoning meat, his fingers peeling onions with comedic precision. “Seungmin tried surfing earlier,” he said, grin crooked. “Looked like a wet cat fighting a dishwasher.” You choked on a laugh, and his knee bumped yours beneath the table. *Lingered*.  

The ocean breeze carried Jeongin’s voice demanding more *brigadeiros*, Hyunjin’s splash-battle yelps, and the sizzle of fat hitting flames. But here, in the kitchen’s humid halo, time bent. Jisung’s jokes softened, his glances lingering on your profile like he was memorizing the slope of your laughter. When your fingers brushed passing a skewer, the world narrowed to the salt on his collarbone, the fleck of chili powder on his thumb, and the unspoken thing glowing brighter than the embers beneath the grill.  

Platters of *picanha*, glistening with garlic butter, sat beside bowls of *farofa* and jewel-like *vinagrete*. Chan, ever the doting leader, leaned back in his chair, his Australian girlfriend laughing as Felix’s boyfriend mimicked a kookaburra call. “Feels like home,” Felix sighed, fanning himself. “Just swap the eucalyptus for palm trees.”  

Minho and Soo-jin bickered over charred sausage links, their banter sharp but fond, while Changbin’s girlfriend—a makeup artist with a lethal eyeliner wing—snapped photos of Hyunjin posing dramatically with a skewer. “Single *and* starving,” Hyunjin lamented, flopping next to Jeongin, who was already halfway through his third *brigadeiro*. Seungmin’s girlfriend, a pro baseball player she was skinny but with biceps that could crush coconuts, arm-wrestled him for the last slice of grilled pineapple. “You’re *embarrassing* me,” Seungmin hissed, though his grin betrayed him.  

And then there was you and Jisung.  

Perched at the edge of the weathered teak table, knees almost touching under the checkered tablecloth. He’d claimed the seat casually—“Easier to steal your *feijoada*”—but now his leg bounced nervously, his jokes a half-beat too quick. You focused on the way the sun caught in his hair, turning it amber, while he drummed his fingers to the bossa nova drifting from the speakers. *Your* playlist.  

“Pass the *pão de alho*?” Jisung asked, leaning close enough that his whisper brushed your ear. You handed him the garlic bread, your fingertips grazing his. A spark. A pause. The table erupted as Jeongin accidentally knocked over Hyunjin’s *caipirinha*, the lime-soaked ice cascading onto the sand. “*Ai, meu Deus*,” you muttered, scrambling for napkins. Jisung laughed, low and warm, as he helped mop the mess. “Hyunjin’s gonna make this his villain origin story.”  

Conversation ebbed—stories of Australia’s beaches, debates over the best *churrasco* cuts, Seungmin’s girlfriend recounting her no-hitter game. Yet every lull pulled you and Jisung into orbit. His shoulder pressed to yours when reaching for the chimichurri. Your laugh harmonizing with his at Minho’s impression of a capybara. A shared glance when Chan mentioned “unfinished business,” his tone teasing but pointed.  

The afternoon sun melted into liquid gold, pooling over the infinity pool and glazing the beach where waves whispered promises of cool relief. Most of the group had migrated to the water—Jeongin cannonballing with a screech, Seungmin’s girlfriend hurling a beach ball hard enough to make Felix yelp—but Hyunjin had other plans. He cornered you by the tiki bar, still clutching an empty *caipirinha* glass like a prop. “Teach me samba,” he demanded, wrist flicking dramatically. “I *refuse* to let Brazilian Stays roast me again. I’ll be irresistible or die trying.”  

You laughed, but Hyunjin’s pout was weaponized. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you pull a muscle.”  

Minho, sprawled on a lounge chair with Soo-jin painting his nails neon green, perked up. “Oh, this’ll be good. Jisung! Bet you 50,000 won our *churrasco* expert can’t hip-swivel.”  

Jisung, mid-sip of guaraná, choked. “I’m not betting on—*hyung*.”  

Too late. Hyunjin had already commandeered the Bluetooth speaker, swapping bossa nova for a throbbing samba beat. You sighed, kicking off your sandals, the terracotta tiles warm under your feet. The sundress you’d thrown on after lunch—lightweight, breezy—suddenly felt too thin under Jisung’s gaze.  

Then the music took over.  

Hips swaying, arms arcing like palm fronds in a storm, you moved as if the rhythm lived in your bones. The dress clung, betrayed the curves you’d hidden under oversized shirts and chef aprons. Hyunjin gaped, forgetting to mimic your steps. “Wow,” Felix whistled from the pool, while Changbin’s girlfriend muttered, “How’s she even real?”  

But it was Jisung who unraveled.  

He’d frozen, guaraná can dented in his grip, eyes dark and wide. Every roll of your shoulders, every sharp snap of your hips, hit him like a wave. Minho leaned over, stage-whispering, “RIP Han Jisung. Cause of death: *a Brazilian goddess*.”  

“Shut. Up,” Jisung hissed, ears crimson.  

Hyunjin, ever the chaos magnet, grabbed your hand. “Teach me the *real* thing!” You guided him into a basic step, but his limbs moved like overcooked spaghetti. “No—*fluid*, like water,” you corrected, adjusting his stance. Out of the corner of your eye, Jisung stood abruptly, pacing toward the bar. *Running away.*  

Minho pounced. “Where you going, Sungie? Heat too much?”  

“To get water,” Jisung muttered, voice strangled.  

“Bring some for the rest of us!” Seungmin’s girlfriend called. “You look *dehydrated*.”  

The group howled. You spun Hyunjin into a turn, but your pulse raced for a different reason. Jisung’s reaction—the way he’d stared, like he’d been sucker-punched by longing—thrummed under your skin.  

Then Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, your phone’s buzzing! Is it your *crush*?”  

Jisung fumbled the glass bottle he’d just grabbed, water sloshing over his shirt. The fabric clung. You missed a step.  

Hyunjin seized the chance to dip you, nearly dropping you both. “Focus, teacher!” he laughed, oblivious. But you were too aware of Jisung’s silhouette in the fading light, shirt transparent, jaw tight as he watched Hyunjin’s hands grip your waist.  

When the song ended, the group erupted in applause. Cheeks flushed, you broke away, only to find Jisung in front of you, holding out a fresh guaraná. “For the… uh. For the sweat,” he mumbled.  

Minho snorted. “Smooth.”  

You took the drink, fingertips brushing his. His gaze dropped to your lips. The air hummed, louder than the cicadas.  

The sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in molten hues of tangerine and violet, as the first notes of *forró pé de serra* spilled from the speakers—a accordion’s sigh, a zabumba’s heartbeat. Hyunjin had long abandoned his samba quest, dragged into the pool by a vengeful Jeongin, while the others scattered like seabirds. Only Minho remained, a devil in neon-green nails, sprawled on the patio couch.  

“You can’t teach *forró* alone,” he drawled, twirling his phone like a baton. “Jisung’s two left feet need salvation. *Be his hero.*”  

Jisung, still pink from the samba spectacle, choked on his guaraná. “I’m good—”  

“You’re *terrible*,” Minho corrected. “Do it for Brazil’s honor.”  

The challenge hung in the balmy air. You swallowed, nerves fluttering. *Forró* wasn’t just a dance—it was whispered secrets in dim-lit bars, thighs brushing, hands clasped tight. But Minho’s grin was a dare.  

“Okay,” you said, voice steadier than your pulse. “But no laughing.”  

Jisung rose like a man heading to his execution.  

You positioned him under the swaying palm lights, your hand tentatively gripping his shoulder, his palm damp against your waist. “It’s… um, all about the *basicinho*,” you stammered, launching into a nervous monologue. “Three steps—side, together, side. Like a heartbeat. And the *giro*—the spin—comes after the *tippity-tap* of the feet. *Forró*’s about connection, you know? Like, your body talks. But not *talks* talks. Unless you’re, uh, into that—”  

“*Tippity-tap*?” Jisung echoed, lips twitching.  

“Shut up. Focus.”  

He tried. Oh, he *tried*. But his steps were stiff, his grip tentative, like you were made of glass. Until Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, if you hold her any looser, she’ll float to Rio!”  

Jisung’s jaw clenched. His hand slid lower, anchoring you against him.  

The music swelled—a faster *arrasta-pé*. Your bodies synced, knees bumping, hips swaying in time. You rambled to fill the silence. “This song? It’s by *Dominguinhos*—king of *forró*. He said the best dancers listen with their skin. Which sounds weird, but—”  

“You’re blabbering,” Jisung murmured, spinning you out before pulling you back, chest to chest.  

“You’re *staring*.”  

“Can’t help it.”  

The admission hung between you. His thumb brushed the dip of your waist, igniting a trail of fire. Around you, the group’s laughter dimmed—Seungmin’s girlfriend dragging him to bed, Chan and Felix debating Tim Tam flavors in the kitchen. Even Minho vanished, leaving his neon nail polish behind like a spectral wink.  

Night unfurled its velvet cloak, the beach house now a constellation of hanging lanterns. You didn’t notice when the music softened, or when the others slipped away. All that remained: the press of Jisung’s calloused palm, the hitch in his breath when your temple grazed his jaw.  

“Your *basicinho*’s improved,” you teased, voice barely audible.  

“Had a good teacher.” His nose skimmed your ear. “Also, I have no idea what I’m doing.”  

“Just… feel it.”  

He did.  

The dance dissolved into something slower, raw. No steps, no rules—just the creak of the wooden deck, the distant shush of waves, and Jisung’s voice, rough as sand. “I lied earlier. The *churrasco* wasn’t the best part of today.”  

Your heart hammered. “Yeah?”  

“Yeah.” His forehead touched yours. “This is.”  

The night air thick with salt and the distant murmur of the kitchen crew clattering plates. Jisung’s hands still rested on your waist, his grip loose but trembling, as if he feared you’d vanish if he held too tight.  

“The Korean way,” you pressed, voice feather-light, “or the Brazilian way?”  

His brow furrowed, thumb absently tracing the lace hem of your dress. “What?”  

You stepped back just enough to see his face, moonlight etching the panic in his eyes. “Korean style’s *ppalli-ppalli*—direct. A ‘Let’s date’ text. Flowers. Maybe a handshake if you’re feeling retro.” You grinned, but your pulse roared in your ears. “Brazilian’s… messier. You confess during Carnival, drunk on *cachaça*, or whisper it in a samba club where no one can hear.”  

Jisung’s laugh was shaky. “Sounds like a *telenovela*.”  

“It’s *passion*,” you countered, stepping closer again. His breath hitched. “But you—you’re all… *aegyo* and mixtapes. Poetic texts at 2 a.m.”  

“I’m not *that* corny,” he muttered, but his ears burned.  

The waves hissed, a rhythm older than languages. You tilted your head. “So? Which one wins?”  

For a heartbeat, he faltered. Then his hands slid up your arms, slow as a tide pulling sand, until his palms cradled your face. “*My* way,” he whispered, voice roughened by a day of laughter and longing. “The… the *Jisung* way.”  

Your lips parted, but he pressed on, words tumbling like pebbles. “I practiced a speech. In Korean. About… *neon naui bit*—you’re my light, or whatever. But then you danced, and I forgot all of it. Now I’m just… *here*. With salt in my hair and my heart doing *this*—” He guided your hand to his chest, where his heartbeat thrashed against his ribs. “—and I don’t care if it’s *jeong* or *saudade* or whatever. I just… I *like* you. A lot. *Too* much. And if I don’t kiss you right now, I’ll—”  

You kissed him first.  

It wasn’t Korean propriety or Brazilian fire—it was the shudder of his exhale, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he’d dreamed of it for years, the taste of guaraná and nervous hope. The world dissolved into the press of his lips, the sigh he muffled against your mouth, the distant crash of waves keeping time.  

When you broke apart, foreheads touching, he rasped, “Was that… enough?”  

You laughed, breathless. “*idiota*. That was perfect.”  

Somewhere in the shadows, Minho’s voice floated from an upstairs window: “ABOUT TIME!” followed by a chorus of giggles and a thud—likely Hyunjin falling off a chair.  

Jisung groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I’m moving to Antarctica.”  

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. “You’re stuck with me.”  

——

The night draped itself around you like silk, the rhythmic crash of waves a distant lullaby beyond the shuttered windows. Jisung’s back pressed against the carved wooden headboard, your legs bracketing his hips, his hands anchored to your waist like you were the only steady thing in a spinning world. His thumbs traced idle circles over the thin fabric of your sleepshirt, the heat of his palms searing through to your skin. 

“So,” he said, grinning as you stole another kiss, “is this the Brazilian way? Stealing a man’s bed *and* his dignity?”  

“You’re the one who said I could be a real Brazilian,” you teased, nipping his lower lip.  

He groaned, fingers threading into your hair. “Regretting that now.”  

“Liar.”  

When your palm slid under his shirt, tracing the taut plane of his stomach, he hissed, “*Jagiya*—you’re playing dirty.”  

You pulled back, heart jackhammering. “Last chance to back out.”  

The cultural differences between you fade away as passion takes over. His K-pop idol perfection meets your raw Brazilian sensuality, creating an intoxicating chemistry. Your caramel skin glows against his pale complexion as his hands explore the curves that drove him crazy during all those production meetings.

"I've wanted you since the first day you walked into that studio," Jisung confesses between kisses, his accent thicker with desire. His fingers trace the outline of your full lips, remembering how they'd curl into knowing smiles whenever you caught him staring.

The secrecy of your position at JYP makes this even more thrilling - the respected producer and the rising star, finally giving in to months of tension. His perfectly sculpted idol body presses against your lush curves as the ocean waves crash outside.

The moonlight filtering through the shutters casts ethereal patterns across your intertwined bodies. His touch burns through the thin fabric, leaving trails of fire wherever his fingers roam. The intimate position has your hearts racing, bodies pressed close as the ocean's song fills the night air.

You can feel every breath Jisung takes, his chest rising and falling against yours. The way he holds you - like you're precious yet dangerous - makes desire pool low in your belly. His thumbs continue their maddening circles on your waist, each touch building the tension between you.

Your fingers trace each button of his linen shirt as you undo them slowly, savoring the reveal of his smooth chest beneath. Jisung's hands mirror your movements as he slides your dress down, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The moonlight bathes your bodies in a soft glow as more skin is exposed. His breath catches when the dress pools at your feet, leaving you bare except for your delicate underwear. 

"You're stunning," he whispers, hands settling on your waist to pull you closer. The heat of his bare chest against yours makes your head spin as his lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses along your pulse point.

His lips trail down your neck as his hands slide up your sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The way Jisung touches you - reverent yet hungry - makes your breath catch. You arch into him as his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"You're driving me crazy," he murmurs against your collarbone, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. His hands move to unclasp your bra while yours explore the lean muscles of his back.

The sound of waves provides a rhythm as clothing continues to fall away, skin pressing against skin in the moonlit bedroom. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, you shiver in anticipation.

"Please," you whisper, rolling your hips against his growing hardness.

Jisung's hands explore every inch of your exposed skin. He manhandles you, laying you on your back and laying himself between your legs. His weight presses you deliciously into the mattress as his lips find your neck, leaving hot kisses and gentle bites that make you gasp.

His hands slide down to remove your panties, dragging them slowly down your legs while kissing a trail along your inner thighs. Once they're off, you reach for his boxers, pushing them down his hips to free his hard cock.

The moonlight illuminates your naked bodies as he settles back between your legs. His hands roam over your curves, squeezing your breasts and teasing your nipples until you're arching into his touch.

"Want you so bad," he groans against your neck, grinding his bare length against your wet pussy. The friction makes you both moan, bodies moving together in growing desperation.

With a mischievous grin, you push Jisung onto his back and straddle his hips, your wet pussy sliding against his hard cock. His hands immediately grip your thick thighs as you begin rolling your hips, teasing him with the friction.

"Fuck, you're so sexy," he groans, watching your breasts bounce as you move. You reach between your legs to guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly until he's fully sheathed inside you.

The angle has him hitting deeper, making you moan as you start to ride him. Your hands brace on his chest for leverage as you pick up the pace, your ass jiggling with each bounce.

"Let me show you how we like it in Brazil," you purr, climbing off his cock and getting on your hands and knees. You arch your back, presenting your dripping pussy and round ass to him.

Jisung groans at the sight, gripping your hips roughly as he positions himself behind you. Without warning, he slams his thick cock deep inside you, making you cry out in pleasure.

"Fuck me hard," you demand, pushing back against him. "Show me what that Korean dick can do."

He sets a brutal pace, his balls slapping against your clit with each thrust as he pounds into your tight hole. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wider.

Your moans fill the beach house bedroom as Jisung pounds into your dripping pussy from behind, his cock stretching you perfectly. His hands grip your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself disappear inside you over and over.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, speeding up his thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with the crashing waves.

You can feel your orgasm building as his thick cock hits your g-spot repeatedly. One of his hands slides around to rub your clit, making your thighs tremble.

"Cum for me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "Want to feel this tight Brazilian pussy squeeze my cock."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave as Jisung continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your arms give out, face pressing into the mattress as your walls squeeze his cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he chases his own release.

With a guttural groan, he slams deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside your sensitive pussy.

Jisung collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum drips down your thighs as he slowly pulls out, making you whimper at the loss.

"That was..." he trails off, rolling to pull you against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your sweaty skin as the ocean breeze cools your heated bodies.

You snuggle into him, feeling thoroughly satisfied as his hands continue their gentle exploration. The moonlight catches the marks he left on your skin - evidence of your passionate encounter.

"Think you can handle another round?" you tease, grinding your ass back against him. His cock twitches with interest against you.

——

Later, skin sticky and souls quiet, you lay curled into him, his heartbeat a drum under your cheek. He traced idle patterns on your back. “So… do I get a citizenship now?”  

You snorted. “You wish.”  

“Worth a try.” His arms tightened around you. “For the record? The ‘Korean way’ involves breakfast in bed tomorrow. *Kimchi* pancakes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  

You smiled into the dark. The ocean sighed. Somewhere down the hall, Minho’s voice echoed, “USE PROTECTION!” followed by a door slam.  

Jisung buried his face in a pillow. “I’m *actually* moving to Antarctica.”  

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the fluttering pulse at his throat. “You’re Brazilian now.”  

——

The first rays of sun seeped through the gauzy curtains, painting Jisung’s bare shoulders in gold. You woke to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck, breath warm and steady. For a moment, you lay still, savoring the quiet—the distant crash of waves, the rustle of palm fronds, the way his fingers twitched against your hip even in sleep.  

Then reality hit.  

A clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen below, followed by Chan’s booming laugh and Felix’s off-key rendition of *“De manhã”*. Jisung stirred, blinking groggily. “Are they… *frying bacon* to a samba beat?”  

You giggled, rolling to face him. His hair stuck up in chaotic tufts, pillow creases etched into his cheek. *Adorable*. “Welcome to a Brazilian morning. Chaos included.”  

He flopped onto his back, arm slung over his eyes. “I need five more years of sleep.”  

“Too bad.” You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, delighting in his shiver. “Chan’s probably making kimchi pancakes. *You* promised me breakfast.”  

“I was *delirious* last night,” he grumbled, but his hands slid down to your thighs, anchoring you against him.  

——

Descending the stairs hand-in-hand, you braced for impact. The group was clustered around the dining table—Hyunjin scrolling through dance videos, Minho flipping *pão de queijo* with a spatula, Seungmin’s girlfriend arm-wrestling Changbin.  

The room froze.  

Minho’s smirk was nuclear. “Well, well. Look who survived the *Brazilian initiation*.”  

Jisung’s grip tightened on yours. “Hyung, I will *end you*—”  

“*Aww*, they’re matching!” Felix cooed, pointing at the twin hickeys on your neck and Jisung’s.  

“*FELIX!*” Jisung lunged, but you tugged him toward the kitchen, where Chan stood flipping pancakes with one hand and sipping *cafézinho* with the other. “Ignore them,” he said, sliding a plate of *kimchi jeon* your way. “They’ve been placing bets since sunrise.”  

Jisung groaned. “Who won?”  

“Me,” Minho called. “I said you’d look like a disheveled puppy. *Pay up, Lee Know supremacy!*”  

The table was a collision of cultures: golden *pão de queijo* beside spicy kimchi, fresh *açaí* bowls next to steaming *doenjang jjigae*. You split a *brigadeiro* with Jisung, laughing as he pretended to hate the sweetness. “It’s *too much*,” he complained, yet stole another from your plate.  

Hyunjin, ever the menace, kicked Jisung under the table. “So. How *Brazilian* was it?”  

Jisung choked on his coffee. You kicked Hyunjin back. “How *single* are you?”  

The table erupted. Jeongin hurled a *pão de queijo* at Hyunjin’s head.  

After breakfast, you escaped to the beach, toes sinking into sun-warmed sand. Jisung walked beside you, quiet until you reached the tidepools. “Last night…” he started, uncharacteristically hesitant.  

You braced for regret.  

“...I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he admitted, staring at the horizon. “Like… *home*.”  

Your chest tightened. “Even with Minho’s commentary?”  

“*Especially* with Minho’s commentary.” He grinned, then sobered. “I’m… scared. Of fucking this up.”  

You interlaced your fingers, salt spray kissing your skin. “So don’t.”  

He huffed a laugh. “Simple as that?”  

“No.” You turned to him, heart in your throat. “But we’ll suck at it together.”  

He kissed you then—slow, sweet, flavored with coffee and *brigadeiro*. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “Deal.”  

[goooofy-goooober1121]

The Discomforts of A Gilded Cage

"And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy." Synopsis: Kalim's parties are more than just parties to him.

Characters: Kalim Al-Asim, Jamil Viper (slight mentions), Nondescript Partygoers

Tags: Kalim and his backstory, talks of trauma, mentions of kidnapping, poisonings, assassinations, loneliness; infantilization and yearning for independence.

WC: 1K

Ask Box is Open!

Narrative Version of This Post

Read below the cut!

One would know if they saw him. His voice would call out to them first, a recitation of their name that he had locked away deep in his heart; and if his voice did not reach their ears first, the tinkling and jingling of his golden trinkets would alert them to his impending arrival. He greets others the way he greets the world: with outstretched arms in a great big ‘hello’ and a gigawatt smile as blinding as sparkling diamonds beneath a shining sun. It would not matter how many times he had spoken to his selected subject-- if they had even spoken at all.

Kalim Al-Asim did not forget names, nor people, and much less the breathless invitation perfectly and excitedly delivered to his sudden new friend. His words flower at the edges, lifting in elation as if tied at the corners with helium balloons. I’m having a party, he says, and I’d love for you to come!

His message would be widespread amongst his peers in a matter of hours, either from his own mouth or through invitees inviting others. His parties were nothing short of magnificent and electric--- ragers, as described by some, so much so that even residents of the island that Night Raven College was situated upon would hurry to the school’s gates for the simple chance of infiltrating the campus and attending a Scarabian celebration. 

There was never a proper reason for Kalim’s parties, not really; whims were what created the evening revelries, for the most part. Tonight, though, he is especially proud to host his classmates. His dorm members had scored especially high on midterms this semester, and what sort of Housewarden would he be if he did not boast to the world how amazing Scarabia was? 

The music blares. The evening had come faster than he had expected. Kalim had busied himself with assisting Jamil with the preparations for the party; he was not, however, allowed in the kitchen. You can’t be trusted with knives, Jamil had reasoned. 

So Kalim had decided to decorate the venue. Vibrant streamers, balloons, confetti-- crimson, golden, verdant and cerulean, rainbow-- sprouted like flowers in a field along the moldings and tables. Tables were draped in the finest cloths, vibrant in Scarabian scarlet, and the drinks-- wine, juice, soda, champagne-- were extensive. Each partygoer could take a bottle and there would still be plenty to spare. 

And now, as laughter melds with the music, as bodies fall into improvised dances, as the scent of alcohol and spiced meals fills the air, Kalim’s chest swells with pride.

I did that.

There were not many moments where Kalim could say that. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he did something for himself. The heir to a wealthy family, servants had fussed over him since the moment he opened his ruby-red eyes. Jamil had been one of them; his closest friend, appointed to him by duty and tradition.

Kalim understood why. He was a boy born with a target on his back. By the time he could count to one-hundred, he had undergone countless kidnappings and attempted assassinations, sometimes by his own siblings; poison in his candied dates, coconut juice forced down his throat in the belief that it would counteract any toxicities in his body-- there was nothing that frightened Kalim anymore. There hadn’t been for a long time.

There is a fine line between innocence and incompetence. How could he not fall between either? He had never been allowed to do so much as learn to cook for himself. His closest friend, his brother in everything but blood, had not become his companion by Kalim’s social skills, but by obligation and tradition. 

Kalim understood more than what others thought he did. He was no idiot. But what good is skill when skill is not fostered? What good is intelligence in the face of infantilization? 

Someone stumbles by him. Kalim gives him a smile. Deep in his belly, he feels warm when the stranger smiles back. 

A moment of connection; he revels in it, internalizes it. Kalim knew he couldn’t trust just anyone. It was why so many of his nights were spent alone, locked in a gilded cage, why his parents were so strict about who he could and could not be alone with, and why, as a child, he became accustomed to the danger of being himself. 

It should have depressed him. It should have sucked the life out of his spirit, withered the laughter in his lungs--- but it didn’t. It wouldn’t, because if there was one thing the kidnappings and attempted homicides had taught him, it was how much Kalim adored being alive. To survive such horrible things at such a young age, over and over again until he’d lost count--- that had to count for something, didn’t it? 

The memories of it all were painful. They stuck to him like superglue. He would be lying if he said there weren't times where he would wake up in the dead of night from night terrors, or moments when he questioned why he had made it so far--- but what good was surviving if he allowed it all to weigh him like stones tied to his ankles, pulling him down into a deep, dark sea?

And so he smiles. He laughs. The beat of the drum through the speakers trembles all of Scarabia; for a moment, Kalim isn’t sure where it ends and where his heartbeat begins. His warm hands take those of another’s--- Jamil's, he realizes, past the fizzy haze of champagne in his system--- and drags him to the dance floor.

At home, those around him would act so dreadfully formal. Nobody would dance the way they do around him, fearing impropriety around an heir; never would he have shared the same food as his companions, and never would he have drank from the same bottle. 

At home, he would be Kalim Al-Asim, admired yet never loved. Revered yet never regarded. Never alone, yet forever lonely.

But this isn’t home. Tonight, he feels the warmth of camaraderie. Tonight, his heart is full. Tonight, he sings, he drinks, and he dances as if tomorrow he will meet his untimely end. 

Because tonight, Kalim is just Kalim. 

He is loved.

He is kindred. 

He is alive. 

[starsreminisce]

SJM Romance Week Day Seven Free Day

Across the Universe

wordcount: 5100 for @sjmromanceweek

Summary: Elain is finally forced to make a choice, and the Mother intervenes by revealing every possible outcome that awaits her.

Read on AO3 or continue below

Elain glared at the wall. She couldn’t seem to fathom how it had come to this—being preached about her own choices by not only her youngest sister but also her mate—yet here she was, suffocating under the weight of their opinions. Hurt and fury tangled together, bound by the familiar sting of having her life dictated.

The same story, playing out in yet another endless cycle.

It wasn’t until the silence had finally settled into Rhysand’s office that she realized she’d been dismissed, dismissed from her own life. The tightening of her jaw extended into her standing, mumbling out a perfunctory goodbye before slipping out the door.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

Lucien’s expression softened as though he’d heard the thought through the bond. Still, he said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head—a small, empty gesture—and walked out the door. No second glance. No words.

Elain exhaled shakily and turned toward the garden, the only place where her thoughts didn’t feel like they were spiraling out of control. She laid down in her nook, tilting her face to the sky. She enjoyed the quiet. It was comforting, and she fell asleep without noticing.

She had left her garden when her eyes opened again.

Rather, she was standing in a huge city with a smoky, chaotic atmosphere. Overhead, a massive glass palace with jagged spires that gleamed like knives.

A quiet but anxious voice called her name. She turned abruptly.

Lucien put out his hand and stood a few steps away. His face was tense with anxiety, and the wind was ruffling his ruby red hair. “The boat to Doranelle leaves soon,” he said, his golden eye glinting in the pale light.

She stared at him. “What…?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. His hand brushed hers, warm and steady, as though he could anchor her.

“My heart,” he said softly. “We don’t have much time.”

Her fingers trembled as she slipped her hand into his. He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms as a chill wind swept through the cobblestoned streets. His warmth pressed against her shivering frame, but it did little to quiet the fear she felt.

“Are you sure?” her voice barely more than a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “They’ll sack Terrasen. We need to go now.”

“Lucien, I’m—” Her voice cracked.

“Do not be afraid, my love,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She sniffled, and Lucien tugged her closer to wrap his arms around her as though to shield her from the world. The noise of the city seemed to dim, melting into a distant hum until it was just the two of them—just the bond and the steady, grounding weight of him. His breath brushed her ear as he whispered softly, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It was such a soft, intimate statement that her breathing hitched. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his voice settle over her. And when she opened them again, the world had shifted.

It was still Lucien. But not. His hair was woven into intricate braids, the ends tipped in beads of copper. Tattoos curled along the sides of his neck, trailing down to vanish beneath his shirt, and a small silver hoop glinted in his nose. He seemed both entirely foreign and completely familiar, the bond between them thrumming as if to remind her that no matter the form, this was him.

Elain blinked down at herself. Her dress was gone, replaced by a strange garment that clung to her body like a second skin: a pair of pants—stiff yet soft, hugging her legs down to her ankles. They were a stormy blue, faded in places, and patched with tiny frayed holes. Above them, a top bared her midsection, her skin catching the light of some unseen source. And there, nestled in the hollow of her navel, was a tiny jewel.

She touched it absently, still reeling, her voice taking on a coquettish edge to mask her confusion. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she said, her eyes meeting Lucien’s. “The drop is just … scary. It’s some Asteri bullshit to keep us in line.”

But Lucien just smiled—sharper, hungrier than she was used to—and closed the space between them, and his lips crashed on hers with a fervor that stole her breath. It wasn’t the soft, tentative affection she was used to. This was raw, consuming. And she met him with equal intensity, her hands tangling in his braids as though this version of him was a male she’d known forever.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, her head spinning. A laugh bubbled out of her, giddy and reckless, and she said, “Okay.” Her heart raced as if it were leaping ahead of her, knowing something she didn’t. “Okay. Whatever happens, as long as I’m with you forever.”

Lucien’s hands framed her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. His voice dropped to a low, steady vow. “I am your anchor,” he said. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Her laugh burst into a delighted squeal as if she’d shrugged off every burden that had ever weighed her down. But then—then the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her stomach plummeted, her breath caught in her throat, and the world began to unspool around her, spinning apart into fragments of color and light.

She was falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she landed with a soft thud. The fall ended not on hard ground, but on something worn and familiar. A couch. She blinked, disoriented, her breath catching as she realized she was curled up against Lucien. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from some sort of strange box directly in front of them, flickering with moving images. His hand had been laid lightly on her waist, and somehow she was draped over him, her body nestled comfortably against his.

“Did you fall asleep again?” His voice was a soft murmur, teasing but warm.

“No,” she replied defensively, even as her face heated. “You’re just really warm.”

A pause. Pregnant and heavy, though she couldn’t quite say why. She shifted to look up at him, catching the faintest curve of a smile on his now-human face. He reached for a small, smooth rectangle beside him, pressing a button that made the flickering images vanish into black.

He turned to her, his expression softer now, quieter. “You know that I’ll support you,” he said, the weight of his words pulling her from the haze of sleep.

“I know,” she replied unsurely. “It’s just... restaurants fail all the time. Even the good ones. What if it doesn’t work out?”

Lucien shook his head, brushing her hair back from her face with such tenderness that she stilled. “And what if it does work out? You’ve landed the job of your dreams, Elle. We’ve been saving for this. For you. You can take this chance.”

Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. “Loosh...” The gratitude, the fear, the love—it all swirled together.

“No matter what happens,” he said as though it were a vow, “I will always be by your side.”

Even as the dream threatened to fall apart once more, she was grounded by his familiar words. She leaned forward and kissed him, closing her eyes. For an instant, his warmth tethered her, steadied her.

Because when her eyes opened again, the world had shifted once more.

They were no longer on the couch. No longer in the quiet glow of that strange, cozy room. Now they stood on the deck of a massive ship, the scent of salt and sea spray in the air. Her hair wildly whipped around her face in the wind, and when she looked down, she realized she was in a swashbuckling corset, her belt adorned with a gleaming cutlass.

Lucien stood beside her, his ruby red hair tied back in a loose queue, a few strands escaping to frame the sharp angles of his jaw. His left eye was covered by a worn leather eyepatch, lending a rakish edge to the cocky grin curving his lips. His open collar let a glimpse of his chest show beneath the sun bleached skin. That sight alone was enough to curl her toes.

Her body reacted instinctively, the heat pooling low in her belly as a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had no idea what was feeding the hum of energy within her except that it needed to find release.

“Ah, well, love,” he drawled, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ready for our next adventure?”

“Not quite,” she said in a coy invitation.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she leaned back against the ship’s railing. She liked this aspect of herself even though she didn’t recognize it. Intentionally and purposefully, she reached out and let her fingers slide over the front of his trousers, her lips curling into a slow, playful smile.

His single visible eye darkened with interest, his grin sharpening into something wicked. “Oh?” he asked, his tone a mix of challenge and promise.

Her fingers gave him a firm squeeze, and the next moment his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. Her hands slid to the curve of his ass, pulling him closer as he pressed her back against the railing. His lips moved to her neck, suckling and grazing the sensitive skin there until he elicited a moan from her lips.

“Lucien,” she gasped. “I need you.”

“Not yet, love,” he murmured.

She barely had time to process his words before she heard his knees hit the wooden planks beneath them.

Her breath hitched as his hands slid up her thighs, steady and reverent. And then his tongue swept against her, deliberate and skilled, sending waves of pleasure through her that made her body tighten. Her fingers curled around the railing behind her, the rough wood grounding her as her head fell back.

“Lucien,” she gasped, her breaths coming fast and shallow, her body trembling as the pressure inside her coiled tighter and tighter—until it wasn’t.

Her gaze dropped to him, and he looked up at her, his russet eye burning with unwavering intensity—like she was the only thing in his universe.

“Show me what comes next,” she breathed, caught between the moment and the possibilities beyond it.

Lucien rose to his feet, and when his lips met hers, she tasted herself on him. Heat coiled low in her stomach at the intimacy of it, at the way his hands tightened at her waist, tracing slow, deliberate patterns only she could decipher.

When he pulled away, she didn’t understand the flicker of disappointment that followed. Didn’t understand why she had expected—anticipated—more. Why the absence of him inside her felt like something withheld rather than something simply not given.

She needed him.

Impatience flared, sharp and insistent.

“Wherever you want,” he murmured against her lips.

She hummed, her thoughts spinning between destinations and adventures, the endless possibilities stretching before them. Lucien grinned, as though he could read her indecision, as though it delighted him.

His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from her face before he whispered, “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Before she could reply, the ground beneath her shifted. It gave way like sand pulled out by the tide, and she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she found herself cradled in his arms. He carried her effortlessly, dressed in a sleek tuxedo, while she looked down at herself in a flowing white dress. She blinked as they walked through a crowd of laughing people tossing rice into the air. The grains danced like tiny stars, glittering in the golden light.

“You’re my husband?” she asked with disbelief as an unexpected thrill raced through her.

He smiled down at her, that familiar smile doing its work with her heart skipping a beat. “That way, no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She shut her eyes and leaned in for a chaste kiss, tears of happiness blinding her eyes. And in that moment, the world seemed complete and at peace.

But when she opened her eyes again, everything was different.

And now they faced a peaceful farm shrouded in mist. Beyond their small house, rolling hills stretched on and on, covered in fog that blurred the edges of the world

She glanced down at herself, taking in the simple woolen dress that clung gently to her pregnant belly. Her hands instinctively cradled the bump. She looked up again and nearly burst into laughter.

Lucien was standing by the door of the cottage, his arms crossed, his red hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a skirt—a plaid pattern of deep red and green that swayed lightly in the breeze. Somehow, it suited him perfectly, as though he belonged here more than anywhere else.

He turned to her and grinned, a flash of white teeth and easy confidence. “Ye shouldn’t be on ye feet,” he said, his tone playfully chiding.

She answered with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aye,” Lucien said, stepping toward her. His gaze softened with concern. “Ye ken I worry about you. And the bairn.”

She didn’t really comprehend the weight of the words that hung between them. Or perhaps she didn’t want to understand. She felt a quiet, irrational fear stirring in her chest, like if she looked too closely at the moment, it might break apart.

Lucien knelt slightly, his large hand brushing over her rounded stomach with the lightest of touches. The tenderness in the gesture was enough to make her throat tighten.

“I told you,” he murmured as she closed her eyes. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side, ken.”

When she opened them, he was light itself.

His red hair glinted like sun rays, his skin aglow with an otherworldly brilliance. The golden threads in his robe seemed to shimmer around him like beams of buttery sunshine. She looked down at herself and found she too was transformed. Her body felt timeless, eternal. Her dress was a gown of rich greens and browns, vines and flowers blossoming along its seams. The ground beneath her bare feet pulsed with life.

“Solas,” she whispered as she opened her arms to him. The taste of the name was as ancient as it felt like home, something that always resided in her mouth. “It has been a year, my love. I have missed you immensely.”

His mismatched eyes eased as he drew closer, softly entwined his fingers into her locks. “Cthona,” he murmured, his voice like sunlight warming her skin. “A year too long.”

Their kiss was the same as it had always been—an unbroken promise, a memory of all they had been and all they could be. It consumed her, grounding her and unmooring her all at once.

As they parted, his hands cradled her face, wiping away the tears that trickled down her cheeks with his thumbs. He added in a low voice, “No matter how many years pass. No matter how many lives we endure, I will always be by your side. You are the beginning and the end of me, Cthona. You always have been.”

His words were both heavy and light as they buried deeply into her chest. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his, relishing the instant, the assurance, and the eternity in his arms.

She opened them again, and the world flickered as her eyes met his. The golden glow fractured into shards of color and light, spinning faster and faster as though the universe itself were turning pages too quickly for her to keep up.

She watched as the flickering slowed, revealing hundreds—no, thousands—of versions of him. Lucien, over and over, in lives she hadn’t lived but somehow knew by heart. 

Lucien the knight in shining armor, with a billowing red cape as he knelt before her, sword in hand and devotion etched on every plane of his face.

Lucien the scholar: ink-stained fingers trailing across the pages of a worn leather-bound book, looking up at her in quiet wonder.

Lucien the musician, sat cross-legged with a lute balanced on his knee; deft hands coaxed a melody that seemed meant only for her.

Lucien, waiting for her at a café, his hand around a steaming cup, his eyes locking to hers with a tentative, heart-stopping smile.

Lucien, his calloused hands wiping the sweat from his brow, his golden eye glinting as he shared a small, secret grin just for her.

Lucien in finery fit for a king, his crown tilted slightly askew as though he’d just removed it for her.

Each version of him looked at her the same way—with devotion that burned through time itself. With longing that reached across lifetimes.

Her heart beat furiously at the kaleidoscope of him. She could feel it in every thread of her being: no matter where, no matter when, he was hers.

The images blurred together, their faces melting into one until there was only him. Only Lucien.

And in every life, every version, his voice rang out a promise she could never forget.

“I am glad that I am in a life where I am yours.”

Her breath hitched, and just as she reached for him, the world went pitch black.

Then, slowly, the light returned.

She was standing in a bustling market, surrounded by the scents of autumn—crisp leaves, spiced cider, and freshly baked bread. Fae farmers called out their wares, laughter and conversation filling the air in this market. The colors of the Autumn Court blazed around her, vivid and warm, but her heart froze as her gaze landed on him.

Lucien.

He stood by a stall, leaning close to a female with delicate butterfly wings that shimmered in the sunlight. Perched on his shoulders was a little girl with the same ruby red hair, her chubby hands gripping his hair for balance. A boy stood on the other side of the female, holding her hand as she pointed at something on the stall.

Lucien’s expression softened as he listened to her. His voice was low and full of care, full of love. Elain couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She wanted to blink, to squeeze her eyes shut and will herself into the next dream—but nothing happened.

This wasn’t a dream.

Her feet carried her toward him before she could decide whether it was the right thing to do. Every step felt like threading molasses. She stopped beside him, and time seemed to stretch unbearably as Lucien turned toward her.

His hands slackened at his sides, his face draining of color. “You’re my mate,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What did you say?” the female beside him asked, her delicate face wrinkling in confusion.

Elain blinked rapidly, trying to keep her tears at bay, but the words rang in her head like a bell she couldn’t unhear. She hadn’t thought—hadn’t considered—that there might be lives where he wasn’t… hers.

She turned to run, unable to face it. The market faded, turning into a forest and she collided with him. His arms closed around her, and her lips found his with desperate eagerness, as though she’d been starving for him.

“Elain,” his voice was strained, raw with anguish. “You and I can’t be—”

“But we are mates,” she sobbed, clawing at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though holding on could stop the world from tearing them apart.

“In another life, Elain,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of the words. His russet eye shimmered with unshed tears, his hands trembling where they cupped her face. “You are my mate. You are everything. But they’ll kill her if I leave… if I leave them.”

The words slammed into her, hollowing her out.

This was cruelty. This was torture. If Elain was shown worlds where she and Lucien lived and loved, then now, she was forced to endure those where Jesminda lived—and Lucien wasn’t… couldn’t… was forced not to be hers

Not if he didn’t want Jesminda to be killed. Not if he didn’t want them to be killed. Not if he didn’t want to break apart the family he had made, the home he had built—the home that shattered the moment his face paled and his voice, broken and haunted, whispered that he had been wrong about his mate.

Stolen moments that rarely saw the light of day.

And it always ended the same way before she was dragged into the next scene.

She shook her head violently, the word slipping from her lips like a plea. “No… no…”

As though anchoring himself to her one final time, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. His breath trembled as he whispered, barely more than a rasp, “No matter what, I will always be by your side, even when I cannot.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging in, desperate to keep him close. Desperate to change the ending.

But before she could reply—

The world yanked her away.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

No.

“So you made a decision,” Lucien said quietly.

This didn’t happen.

“I did,” Elain said, her voice tight as she avoided his gaze.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

Lucien looked down at the floor and nodded slowly.

THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN.

Time stretched unbearably, each second sinking heavier into her chest. Her stomach churned with dread, her body frozen as though trapped in amber. She wanted to stop it, to speak, to reach for him—but the words stuck in her throat, strangled by fear.

Lucien looked up at her one last time, his russet eye filled with something she couldn’t name—something that both softened and broke her. A bittersweet smile curved his lips, fragile and fleeting, like a memory already slipping away.

“Perhaps in another life, lady,” he murmured, his voice low and aching, “I would have loved to be yours.”

He turned and walked away.

The door closed behind him with an unbearable finality, the soft click echoing in her mind like a thunderclap. It shattered something deep inside her, something fragile and vital, leaving her hollow.

He didn’t… he didn’t say it.

The thought spiraled, tearing through her. He didn’t say the words. The words she needed. The words that had anchored her through lifetimes and dreams.

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as if the very air had turned heavy and toxic, pressing down on her chest. The ache swelled, unbearable, until it broke free.

The scream tore from her throat—raw, feral, endless.

She screamed.

She screamed.

She screamed until her lungs gave out, until the sound tore through her and left her shaking. Then, as if pulled from deep water, she jolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

Her breaths came wild and jagged, her chest heaving.

The room was dark, the edges blurred, her mind still clinging to the shattered fragments of unfinished dreams. The sheets beneath her were damp with sweat, tangled around her legs as if they, too, had tried to hold her in the nightmare.

“Lady?”

His voice cut through the haze, soft and hesitant, a lifeline pulling her back into the present.

Her head snapped toward him. Lucien was seated in a chair beside her bed, his posture rigid as his knuckles turned white from gripping his knees. His red hair was untied, a few unruly strands framing his face as lines of the worry etched into his features.

“Lucien,” she croaked. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” he said soothingly, his russet scarred gaze steady on hers. But there was something beneath the calm surface of his voice—something taut, uneasy, as if he were afraid of the answer.

She pressed her palm against her forehead, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the images that still swirled in her mind. The pirate ship. The chapel. The endless lives. His words. Perhaps in another life...

A sob broke free before she could stop it, raw and wrenching. The ache of the last dream lingered like a phantom, overshadowing the fleeting joy of the happier ones.

The idea he wasn’t hers. The idea he couldn’t be. The idea he … didn’t want to be.

Lucien moved quickly, pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She accepted it with shaking hands, chugging it down until her parched throat eased. When the glass was empty, she set it aside and sank back into the pillows, her chest still tight with grief she couldn’t fully name.

She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet weight of it. She turned her head toward him and saw it—etched in every line of his face, in the tension of his shoulders, in the shadows that darkened his expression. Worry.

“What happened?” she asked again, her voice stronger now but still unsteady.

Lucien shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I couldn’t feel you,” he admitted, his voice low, as though saying it aloud might make it worse. “It was like you were taken from me. I went to your alcove to check on you, and you were dreaming—restlessly, violently. There was something about it…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he struggled for words. “It didn’t feel right. So I carried you up here.”

Her throat tightened at the image of him finding her, of his concern pulling her from whatever darkness had held her captive. “Did Rhys…”

Lucien shook his head before she could finish. “I thought he’d be the last person you wanted to see.”

They sat in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths. Elain turned her gaze to the ceiling, her tears slipping down her temples as she reoriented herself. But the one constant, the only constant, was him. Lucien. His love had followed her through every version of existence.

“You came for me,” she said quietly. “Even when you knew…”

She didn’t know how to finish her sentence. Didn’t know how to properly express the enormity of what she felt, the gratitude tangled with sorrow. But Lucien didn’t hesitate.

“I would have,” he said softly, his voice steady, unwavering. “Because no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

This quiet conviction in his voice was the final pull of threads, and she came utterly undone. A sob tore from her chest as she sagged, burying her face in her shaking hands, her grief and the relief of being found when still so lost, breaking her completely raw and open.

And then… warmth. From their bond.

She turned toward him, and a shared understanding passed between them—silent, familiar. Like then. Like in a thousand lives before. Like now.

Wordlessly, he stood from the chair. It was the first time in this world, but hundreds of times before, that he kicked off his shoes and slipped beneath the covers. She shifted without thinking, making space for him. Always on the same side. Always with the same arm tucked beneath her.

But for the first time in this universe, she turned into him. Pressed her forehead to his chest as his hand found her back, tracing slow, steady circles.

She exhaled, feeling the tension leave her body, but when she looked up at him, she caught it—the flicker of confusion in his gaze. As if he had never done this before, yet somehow knew exactly how to.

“Was it a bad dream?” he asked softly.

“It could have been.”

His fingers stilled for just a breath. “Is there something I can do to make it better?”

She couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Maybe if you were to get a tricorne hat.”

Silence. Then a chuckle—low, warm. She looked up at him again, finding the amusement lingering in his mismatched eyes.

“Promise?” she whispered.

His smile softened. “Promise.”

A promise.

A promise that even in the darkest dreams, even when the world tried to tear them apart, he would always find her.

[n30ncr1ptid]

Ghost x transwoman user

First date meeting after chatting through a dating app scenario

Word count: 1131

Pure fluff with some (very mild) spice at the end

User's chosen name is Ruby but mostly reffered as "you"

Cw: mentions of: knives, animal bones, dick pics. Slight flirting at the end. User's genitals reffered to as dick.

It all started in a sleepover with your friends, you had decided to install a dating app and have some fun looking at dudes, to be fair you might have already had a drink or two but that just added to the fun you and the gals were having. You had spent the whole evening laughing, watching musicals, eating, chaitting , having fun, you even had taught your friends to dance to barbie's queen of the wave!

And so you had all started swiping showing profiles to each other and joking around like you best did

"this one looks like he'd be in a k-drama"

"why are half of them posing with a damm fish?"

"look at the pecs on this one"

"damm~, what size bra does he wear?"

"pfff hahaha!"

You had had a great time with your gals and , for some reason, didn't immediately decide to delete the app, you weren't using it and it didn't really matter if it was there anyways.

Then one day out of boredom you had decided to try and find someone to chat with, you opened the app and after clearing your inbox of the swarm of dick picks (you shook your head, so many years of evolution and this was their idea of romance? it was so ridiculous it almost made you laugh). You scrolled for a while, you were getting tired of seeing men showing you the result of their latest fishing trip.

Then your eyes caught on a simple profile, a tall man, muscular build, long eyelashes, blonde hair, wearing a facemask with a skull design. He looked like some type of goth, not that you minded, you didn't dislike alternative styles. You read his profile, military, british, from manchester, he liked paintball, dad jokes, airsoft, knifes... he seemed slightly intimidating but more interesting than any other dude you had seen on the app before, and his profile clearly wasn't a bot..

So you decided to send him a message asking if he wanted to chat and go from there, you were a bit nervous but it there wasn't any way he was able to tell from the pictures in your profile so you tried to keep the worry to a minimum . And you were pleasantly surprised, he wasn't a bad dude, maybe a bit intimidating but apart from that he was a solid guy.

His humor was refreshing, for once you weren't getting complains about being "too sarcastic" or "too dark", in fact you found yourself enjoying this little competition of who could pull the darkest jokes or the corniest lines.

After some time you decided to set up a date, he was stationed near you for some time, finally having some time off from his missions. And so you decided to meet at your favorite cafe cause at least if thing went south you knew the owner and she wouldn't hesitate to throw Simon out no matter how big he was.

And by god did you look pretty, your hair decorated with beautiful curls and a deep raspberry colored lipstick that gave you so much euphoria, you had decided to try and wear out a dark purple dress you had been itching to wear out but hadn't in fear of being "overdressed". You took one more look at yourself in the mirror before heading out, you looked so pretty! you looked like a very beautiful woman and that made you forget your doubts even if for just a short while.

So here you were, waiting, a cold drink in your hand as you looked through your phone, your nerves had unfortunately come back since you had arrive early giving your mind enough time to go over all the ways this could go south. You hadn't told him yet.. you still weren't confident enough to say it so soon, but why should you have to? it's not like you were forcing him to sleep with a "man", scratch that, you weren't a man, it was easy to belive in this dress.

Suddenly you got snapped out of your thoughts by a deep voice with a manchester accent.

"Sorry? I'm looking for someone.. are you Ruby?"

You nodded and placed your phone on the table looking up, he was handsome, but not to an extent that seemed artificial, if all he looked just slightly awkward , probably out of his element.

"Yeah, it's me, you're Simon, right?" He nodded sitting down opposite you, you could see some tension in his frame.

"Not used to going on dates?" You asked, he responded fairly quickly

"Not when 'm riskin' my life every bloody week, missions don't leave much time for romancing with chicks. I'm also not the type, prefer ta be alone to be honest"

"Yeah, i get that, going out can be really stressful"

You found yourself oddly comfortable as you chatted with simon, he showed you photos of part of his knife collection, you in turn showed him some of the animal bones you had collected, it was nice to chat about your interests without feeling like you were being judged for being gross.

After what must have been an hour but felt like a few minutes of chatting you found yourself laughing at his jokes, his deep voice was quite attractive. Then he crossed his arms over his chest as he laughed, and by god was the sight hot, especially since it accentuated his large pecs (no wonder why you were into guys with bigger tits than you).

You couldn't help but get a bit red at the sight trying to play it cool, but it was very apparent by the bulge in your dress that your dick didn't get the memo, you were thankful for your bag covering your lap but your expression must have changed enough for simon to notice

"all good luv? Ya look pretty bloody tense"

"wha-yeah yeah - you responded quickly, maybe a bit too quickly - i'm just fine"

"you sure 'bout that?"

You suddenly felt as his leg brushed against the tent in your dress, he was clearly just adjusting his leg, it was a purely innocent movement. Now you wanted the earth to swallow you, you were definitely red now, you were speechless, not knowing what to say or how he would react, still you tried to find in your brain something to say.

"i- sorry i didn't tell you- i should have warned you i-"

And then you were cut off by simon letting out a soft scoff.

"sorry? 'bout what? you ain't done nothin' wrong sweet'art. You're a woman, full stop, it doesn't matta' what's under your dress, besides it's not like i mind what a pretty lass like you's got, 'm not picky"

Maybe things weren't as bad as you had thought.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's all for now, might do a part two if this is well recived enough

[moonsglare]

listening to hold on tight by aespa and wow this is so kafka coded…. i’m having VISIONS like imagine being kafka’s stellaron hunter partner. before silver wolf, before sam and before blade it was just you and her, flitting from galaxy to galaxy to carry out elio’s enigmatic will. and you, frankly, can’t fucking stand her.

cocky, smug, arrogant, and worst of all—she had the damned skills to back all of it up. it also absolutely did not help that she was also one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever laid your eyes on. you really would kill elio for pairing both of you up, were it not for the fact that the schemer of a man had something you need. and, it seems, something that kafka needs too. not that you particularly care, of course.

just like how you totally don’t care as kafka cozies up to your target of the day, the strobe lights of the club casting tempting shadows across her elegant face, those cherry-red lips upturned in a coy, dangerous smile. you watch from across the bar over the rim of your glass—the strongest shit this fucking bar had to offer—and when she flashes you a look from beneath long, fluttering lashes you nearly crack the damn glass in your grip. kafka’s eyes glitter like rubies in the low light, and you grit your teeth so hard you distantly fear they may crack.

seconds, minutes or hours later she finally stands, leading the target away from the bar by the hand. her web has been spun—all that was left for to tangle this foolish, stupid, unwitting fly in her threads. you follow from a distance, hands shoved in your pockets, curling around knives you’re just itching to use at this point. in the background, you faintly register a new song being played; almost folklike in its melody were it not for the electro groove overlaid above it and the dark, fantastic vocals.

baby you and me are a twisted fantasy—

you find kafka and the target in a private room in the back. she’s sat across from him now, grinning from ear to ear. the hunt was over; now, it was time for the kill. he barely gets the chance to squeal before your knife teases the exposed flesh of his throat, and kafka laughs. at your impatience or the man’s crippling, immobilising fear of her, you don’t know. that relaxed, insufferable smirk remains on her lips even as you drag your knife through muscle and sinew and spill the target’s blood all over the lush cushions. it’s red, just like her lips. over the speakers, the music continues.

bodies running on a dream, up all night—

“you’re tense, partner,” she drawls, crossing her legs as she watches you wipe your knife clean. “the job was successful. relax.”

you grind your teeth together as you sheathe your knives back into their holsters. “you wasted my time with that pointless… game of yours.“

“it’s called having fun,” she hums in response, rising from her seat, and taking slow steps towards you, “you should try it.”

“we are not here to have fun,” you growl. “the script is clear—“

kafka cuts you off with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. “bo-ring.” distantly, you hear the music swell.

wired differently, a chaotic energy—

oh, you’ve had enough.

quick as a flash, you pin kafka to the wall, your arm against her throat while the other hand wraps tight around her wrists. her eyes widen by a mere fraction, before her cherry lips part wide in a grin that’s more a flash of teeth than anything else.

“one more fucking word out of you and i swear—“

“you’ll what?” kafka challenges. “punish me?”

“shut. up.”

she sneers. “make me.”

and you do, by crashing your lips against hers in a fervent, chaotic kiss. kafka twitches beneath you ever so slightly, but then she’s returning your fervor, her teeth worrying your lower lip. you growl and probe your tongue against the seam of her lips, forcing your way into her mouth and tasting the residuals of whatever drink she had with that man, his blood now trickling down onto the floor.

kafka groans as you slot your leg between hers, her muscled thighs immediately bearing down on your leg. you move the arm against her throat lower, your hand squeezing at the ample flesh of her breast through her shirt, and the pleased hum that reverberates out of her theoat sounds far, far better to you than her smug chirping. when you pull away, your shoulders tremble from the heavy breaths you draw in.

kafka, meanwhile, retains that damned smirk on her face, her eyes half-lidded and knowing. as if she planned all this right from the start.

“perhaps we should take this somewhere more private, hm?” she suggests, trailing a hand down your front as she rolls her hips against your leg. you stifle the full-body shudder that threatens to course through you, and step away from her.

“fine.”

the grip you have on her wrist is tight, but kafka doesn’t pull away. she only giggles airily, and you know without looking that her expression is definitely one of a cat that got the cream. as you leave the club, the song finally concludes.

buckle up and take a seat, hold on tight…

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt3

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Class is over and I am finally back home so I can post this chapter here now lmao

Warnings: trauma, blood, blood drinking, violence, fear, self-destructive coping mechanism, emotional abuse, physical abuse (grabbing, pulling)

I can add more just lemme know what I missed <3

Word Count: 1,050

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

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She haunts you again tonight. You could feel her hands running over your body, tugging your head to one side as she dug her teeth into the mark on your neck. You see her ruby red eyes, dark with desire for your blood, stare at you as she drinks, deeper and deeper until you can’t feel anything. Her smile, lips painted red with gore, as she coos you to unconsciousness.

You refuse another attempt at sleep. Your lids are heavy, your bones feel like jelly, but you can’t bear to go through this song and dance every night. You didn’t have her here to remove all rational thought and send you off into dreamlessness. And while it pleases you endlessly to be away, you wish for just one night where you don’t see her. The only time that’s happened so far was after Astarion came to you, begging for something more substantial to eat. His eyes, the same shade but somehow softer than hers, as he kissed your hand.

The moon and stars offered you no solace tonight. The moon was new - a shadow against the already-dark sky. The stars were covered by clouds. Laying still, on your back, made you restless. You could almost picture Kir Parthene crawling over you, straddling you between her legs.

Astarion finds you after his hunt, tending to the fire. It'd been close to cinders when he left, but now it burnt as though it'd never gone out. You threw dry twigs onto it and stoked it with a longer branch. He sat down next to you.

"If you keep staying up like this, dear, you won't be able to fight." His tone was teasing, but his eyes betrayed his concern. "Is it her again?"

You shudder and tighten yourself into a ball, protecting yourself from the dangers of the world. "I can't stop dreaming about her," you whisper. Your voice shakes; you're terrified of the hold she has over you. "She's always just... there. Lingering. Waiting."

The light flickers against you both. It's pleasantly warm. The shadows it throws only accentuate your exhaustion, deepening the circles forming under your eyes. Even Astarion doesn't look as tired as you.

The tadpole squirms behind your eye, swishing back and forth. You can feel Astarion's reaching out. "You don't want to see it."

"No," he agrees. "But I want to know." You look at him from the corner of your eye. His face is set. Serious. "Show me."

The tadpole doesn't stop wriggling as you think. You dig your fingers into your pants, searching for any way to ground yourself here, now, in this camp, surrounded by allies and friends. And you let him in.

He's immediately thrown into a memory - or perhaps something stitched together from your dreams. He sees through your eyes. He's terrified. His heart is racing against his ribcage, pounding so hard he's breathless.

The door slams open. A woman, tall and beautiful and vicious, marches in. "On the bed," she commands. It's almost a shout. He can't scramble fast enough. She grabs him by the hair and tosses him in the center.

But he doesn't make a sound. He knows, somehow, that screaming would only make it worse. Any sign of pain - she would tear you apart.

There is nothing erotic or sensual in the way she mounts you, grabbing your arm to pull your shoulder down as she rips your head to one side. He's suddenly aware of his nudity. He's on display, showing everyone just who he belongs to.

She digs her teeth into his throat, biting so hard and deep he fears she may rip out his jugular. She drinks deeply, messily. Blood drips steadily onto the bed. He can hear her gasping and sucking and- too much. It's too much.

His head spins, but he can't say anything. He can't feel his fingers, or his body. He can't feel anything. His eyes fight to stay open as he stares at the ceiling - an intricate painting of angels and devils lining the dome-shaped structure. And he's praying. He can feel it - thoughts just at the back of his mind, whispered a million times before, begging for anyone to save him. To spare his life. To live another day. Another hour.

Kir Parthene pulls away, drawing the blood on her chin to her lips with the swipe of a finger. She smiles. Wicked. Pleased. He wants to whimper and back away as she leans down, caressing his cheek and kissing his forehead, but he can't. He can't, because if he does, he'll be punished.

"My good pet," she purrs. "Sleep. Sleep, my precious little thing."

His head hurts as he's shot back to his own mind. He winces around the ache as he turns to you.

You're no longer shuddering. No longer gripping tightly to your pants. You stare into the fire with glazed over eyes. You're numb. Seeing it all again surpassed your fear and hollowed you out. Gutted you until you're nothing but a shell.

Regret and guilt sit uneasy in his chest. He reaches out slowly, delicately touching your arm.

And you gasp. Tears fall from your eyes in an instant, fear and the need to protect yourself turning to upset and sorrow. You shut your eyes tightly, hands rubbing roughly at the scar on your neck, like you'll remember you weren't bitten tonight. But you're going to scratch it open, and he's even more terrified of how you'll react if you do.

He grabs your wrists and hold your hands away. You fight against him, but not because you have to get away. You just need to feel that she's not there. "It's alright, love. You're alright. She's not here. She won't get you." He's not even worried about waking the others up - all he can focus on is you.

Slowly, your strength dies. You sob. It's ugly and broken, and more emotion than you'd ever let show around your master. He hushes you and lets go of your wrists to hold your shoulders. You cover your face. Your whole body shakes, wracked with each heaving breath.

"You're okay," he whispers again. He can hear shuffling as the others are awoken. He can't even begin to explain your pain to them. "You're safe. I promise."

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle

[lucifersincentivetosleep]

My Lucifer shaker charm came!

The colors on the charm are a lot more deep and vibrant than I managed to capture in the video(sorry for the hand reflection).

I guess Lucifer hates being in photos so much he cursed my camera.

[gothushi]

so……your recent luke and simon thing made me think of charlie and nikolai…….knifeplay maybe…..ropes……euhhgg

the lilac ropes pressing into your wrists is a harsh reminder that you simply cannot move right now. the lavish sheer curtains around your big bed are pulled back, allowing nikolai to stalk back up your body, having finished tying down your left ankle.

“nik..” you plea softly, hoping for some affection.

“what, my dove? can’t we have our fun without you crying?” the words may seem mean, but the grin on his pink lips shows he’s just teasing, especially as he drags a cold hand up your tummy to grope at the plush flesh he finds.

“she whining again?” charlie’s voice cuts through across the room, where he’s busy wiping down one of his favorite knives. it’s a smaller one, something he keeps in his boot, shiny silver blade with an engravment design, thick wood hilt tinted a ruby red. it hasn’t been recently used, but he’s just disinfecting for your upcoming.. fun.

“‘course she is.” nikolai tuts with a smile, chilled hand groping over one of your tits, fangs showing at the way you twist and whine.

“oh, c’mon..” the complaint rolls off your tongue in a huffy manner, whimpering when nikolai pinches meanly over your peaked nipple in response.

“ow!”

“oh, hush up.” nikolai and charlie have a synced way of being downright mean, though you know they’d do anything for you in an instant. charlie rises to his feet, boots firm on the carpet as he saunters his way over, thick fingers wrapped around the hilt of his knife.

nikolai slinks back some, silky robe brushing your bare leg as he drags a hand along your thigh, settling back by your knee. charlie appears on your other side, giving a hard smack on your hip when you start to squirm.

the yelp you let out has both of them throbbing, the bulge in charlie’s dark jeans mouth wateringly enticing when you remember just what’s underneath.

“doll,” he starts, tone firm, almost in a scolding manner. the non sharp side of his blade meets your thigh, ticklish, making you flinch. “you see this?” he twists it, lets the light of your bedside lamps glint on the shiny blade.

with hot cheeks, doe like eyes, you stare up at him, nodding jerkily.

“speak.”

god, your poor cunt is drooling.

“yeah- yeah.” the stammered response pleases him enough, his other hand flattening on your tummy.

“don’t look so scared, babydoll. if you get hurt, it’ll be your own fault.”

the blade shifts, pressing part of the side onto your knee. the smooth edge is drug up, nikolai’s bright eyes following as charlie takes his time. the shiver you give in involuntary as it reaches inner thigh, making your hips squirm.

“behave. don’t want to get yourself cut, now, do you?” the taunt is followed by a shockingly cold sensation over your clit. the hand on your tummy presses firmly, stilling your body despite the want to squirm. the want that quickly goes away when you realize it’s the flat of his blade.

“charlie-“

“hey,” he tsks, looking up at you. “don’t start. this is my cunt, i’m gonna do what i please with it, alright?”

nikolai has half a mind to chime in that it’s his too, but considering the way you whimper so pitifully at the dominant aura the other man exudes, he decides to not interrupt the moment. afterall, he likes the scared tears in your eyes.

“but-“

the blade shifts, pressing between your folds. a spark of anxiety shocks through you before it settles over that it’s just the smooth side, the sharp edge sticking upright and off of your skin. still, the whiny, shuddery cry you give is unavoidable.

“there she is. good..” there’s a gentle rub, just enough to make you want more friction, but the fear of a knife against your pussy offers plenty incentive to stay stone still.

“c’mon charlie, ‘m hungry.” luckily for you, nikolai doesn’t have a lot of patience when it’s been too long between feedings, mouth drooling, eyes sharply watching over your cunt.

your gaze darts back and forth between them, watching the look charlie gives, the tongue nikolai sticks out, and how the taller huffs.

“fine, you want her bleeding? clean this first.” it’s horrible to say you actually miss the pressure of the blade, the chill having subsided against your body heat. instead, it’s held out to the other, allowing his tongue to lap up the tacky slick it collected with a moan.

there’s no time to whine, to plea or beg, because then charlie is grabbing your knee, keeping your leg spread with a quick slice, just on the surface of your skin.

“ah!” your pained cry makes both of them groan, but nikolai’s diving down immediately to suckle at the cut. blood coats his tongue, eyes rolling back as he soothes the ache, a chilled like sensation spreading over your skin.

“insatiable boy. couldn’t even give us time to play.” charlie tsks, shaking his head as he checks the knife for any blood residue. finding none, he leans over you, not surprised to discover your eyes all teary and upset. just a little crybaby, right?

“pretty thing..” there’s knife is set aside so he can balance over you, can cradle your jaw and keep your head tilted up. “we’ll get him full, then have our fun, yeah? should save those tears– y’r gonna need them later.”

[p1nk-b1tes]

"tear you apart"

summary: the vampire ascendant is a selfish and greedy lover. cirice is his selfish and self-righteous mate. she is not his consort, nor his pet, and she makes sure that he knows that. (ascended astarion gets his freak matched) warnings: durge has murderous thoughts and gets off on them, references and mentions of blood and gore and durge-esque thoughts, toxic and manipulative relationship yet they’re perfect for each other, brief mention of knives, vaginal sex, blood drinking, biting word count: 3527

original header image from bhaal_babe_bg on x

update: now including art of cirice and astarion on ao3!

click here to read on ao3 or read below:

Cirice heard him long before she felt his hands upon her skin. Astarion’s usual grace, his poise, gone by the time he reached the threshold of their bedroom and laid his crimson eyes upon his lover’s silhouette. There she had stood at the vanity in only her nightclothes–a thin gown of ruby-red silk given to her as a gift the night after he’d turned her–and little else. The mirror had been empty when she had been alone in the dimly lit room, nothing but fabric and furniture, but now the tiefling can’t help but glower, casting a quick appraisal over the man as she eyes the image of her husband as he saunters over with that familiar look of hunger in his eyes. His devastatingly beautiful features are painted with obvious need and desire. It makes her want to bare her fangs, unsheath her claws. Yet when he places his hands on either side of her hips and pulls her body flush to his own, she does neither. 

“Relax,” he says into her ear and nips at the delicate point with his teeth, “it’s only me. You’ve left me alone all day and it has truly been a test of endurance to stay away…” He purrs all of those abhorrent pet names that Cirice loathes so much into the smooth skin just behind her ear and allows his hands to wander and grope at her waist, her hips, her thighs, and she hates how easily they roll off of his tongue. Perhaps in another life she’d gotten on her knees and willingly let them wash over her–thanked him with touches he doesn’t deserve. Astarion presses the half-hard length of himself into the soft meat of her ass and gives a subtle grind, making his intentions more than clear, and Cirice grinds her teeth together so terribly that her fangs audibly creak within her jaw. 

“The powerful Vampire Ascendant,” she mumbles and Astarion bunches up the silky fabric of her dress in his hands to press his palms into the softness of her tummy. His lips find her neck at the same time that her fingers wrap around his wrists and she cranes her neck upwards, silently offering him more room to kiss and suckle. Her words contrast starkly with her body language. “How did I ever get so unlucky to get stuck with you?” 

He’s heard it all before. Every jibe and jab aimed precisely at his ego that once made his blood run hot with rage. Now they float by his ears and fall flat like dead flies–empty words with sound but no real meaning. She calls him disgusting. Breathlessly. He tuts and rough-handedly cups one of her breasts. Rolls a nipple between his fingers until it aches. Pulls her ever closer into the clutch of his body and licks a long line from her shoulder up to her nape until she’s arching her back so beautifully against him.

When his deft hands drift up the alabaster skin of her arms to dip under the tiny straps of her nightdress she allows him to slip them from her shoulders. The pretty fabric falls around her thighs and gets stuck around where his hips are pinned to hers, then a little shifting is all it takes for the expensive article to fall in a heap around her feet… And it’s only a matter of time before those sickly sweet words begin to fall from between his lips again. 

She snarls with every breath he takes and tightens her grip on him when he holds her firmly and squarely against him by her hips, her blood simmering beneath her skin hotter and hotter with each grating syllable until she’s boiling and bubbling like a hag’s cauldron. She turns in his grasp a fraction of a moment before she bubbles over and shoves a clawed hand into the center of his chest, pushing him backwards with a sudden burst of strength that causes the Ascendant to trip over his feet until the backs of his knees hit the sturdy frame of an armchair and he falls less than gracefully into the cushions. 

“Strip,” she says. A single demand. And he obeys. 

He gets to work at once but his lithe fingers take a fraction of a second too long with the third pearl button down the center of his chest and Cirice reaches forward to dig her claws into pale chiffon and shred the fabric to ribbons. He gawks, then shrugs what remains from his chest until it’s bare, pale and gorgeous. Cirice crowds into his space, a thin knee planted between his muscular thighs, and rakes her ebon eyes over his broad ribcage as it expands and contracts rhythmically, his breathing picking up in intrigued anticipation. She traces the pad of a delicate finger across his collarbones and up the center of his neck, stopping just under his chin to tilt his head upwards until they’re only inches apart… and it’s then that she notices the lingering traces of blood dried between the lines in his lips. He breathes a single puff of air and that metallic scent, earthy and sharp, swirls into her senses. He’s treading in the blue and there’s blood in the water. Cirice’s mouth waters as her body activates to the scent and she flashes red with fury at the now-obvious flush of rouge on his cheeks, on his chest. The bastard fed recently. And he fed well.

Crimson eyes drown in the endless void that make up her own–unreadable and lethal. She presses the pad of her thumb to the center of his lower lip and pulls it down to expose his fangs which are still lengthened and sharp, readied for a bite. He looks alive. It makes her sick. 

“Didn’t care to share, Astarion?” 

He chuckles lowly in his throat and grips the gold-dipped edges of the chair, thighs flexing and knees widening. The bastard–he never intended to offer her even a drop of his meal. 

He lowers his gaze, “you should have come down earlier and perhaps I would have allowed you a taste.” 

A taste. 

Cirice sees red and hears the distant demands of her father, the Lord of Murder himself,  pounding at the back of her skull, begging to be let back in, just this once, and for a second she considers it. 

“I ought to gut you where you sit and drink it from your stomach while you writhe and beg for mercy.” 

“You will do no such thing, but if you’re truly desperate enough you may go lick what remains from between the tiles in the grand foyer. I’m sure the chamberlain would appreciate the gesture.” 

In an instant the tiefling has the Ascendant by his throat, claws unsheathed and razor-tipped points pressed harshly into the sides of his pale neck. His freshly-stolen blood pounds beneath her palm, a cruel reminder of his selfishness, and she finds a glimpse of apprehension hidden between the quivering, silver line of his brow. 

The room is cool. His skin is not. Cirice wants him cold and dead. 

“Speak again and you’ll lose that tongue,” she warns him and Astarion knows from experience that her threat is far from empty. He still has the jagged scar carved into his flesh from knee to hip to remind him. 

The Ascendant says nothing but his eyes speak loudly for themselves. His eyes, dangerous and unwavering, hold onto hers with unflinching resolve. That apprehension that had appeared earlier for only a flash is nowhere to be found. Swallowed down deep. 

He spreads his legs wider. He’s fully hard against his hip.  

“I want to fucking tear you apart,” Cirice spits at him in a violent rush of air and bares her fangs. Long and sharp. Hungry and begging to be sunken into immortal flesh. Astarion doesn’t so much as flinch. 

The hand on his neck slides downwards but never eases its cruel intent and she tears angry lines down the flanks of his throat and across the front of his chest. Blood bubbles from the wounds in ruby-red droplets as he hisses in sudden pain and she crawls into the chair, descending on him in a quick movement to lick him clean. Broad strokes of red paint him like a sinful canvas of creamy white, and what gathers on her tongue does not belong to him. It’s warm. It’s bitter. It’s thick. A thinking creature, no doubt–but one that nobody will ever notice is missing. 

At least he’d been cheap with his meal. 

Astarion makes uneven, staccatoed noises that are caught somewhere between stinging hisses and pleasured moans while her vindictive tongue laves carelessly over broken skin, fingers twitching, begging to grab, to push, to shove, and he sucks cool air sharply through his teeth the moment that her claws slide down further, threatening to shred through the hard muscle of his belly. “Don’t,” he growls. Her claws drag across his skin and leave angry lines in their wake, but not cruel enough to tear. He says it again, this time baring his teeth at the catch of her fangs on the soft flesh between his shoulder and neck. “Don’t.” 

Time pauses for an indefinite amount of time while Cirice pins her Lord to the backing of the chair and unhinges her maw, running the tip of her tongue across the bottom edge of her teeth right before she sinks them all into his shoulder. Warmth and vitality bloom on her taste buds as she takes what she’s owed. And despite his frugalty, it’s absolutely divine. 

This time it’s the Ascendant who lunges. He sits up and heaves the other from his lap, chest rising and falling wildly as he glares at her, eyes burning with a fierce intensity meant to send a shiver down her spine, and yet she barely flinches until she feels the impact. Her back slams into the antique vanity followed by a flailing of limbs, the sound booming throughout the bedroom and down the halls, and the force from the jar sends the solid piece slamming against the wall to ruin the grand mirror that looms upon the front of it. Shards of glass rain down over alabaster skin like heavy summer downpours and give her tiny, hair-thin wounds to match her mate. There's blood dripping down the front of Astarion’s chest from the near perfect outline of Cirice’s teeth–pooling shallowly in his collarbone and down the valley of his sternum. Cirice finds her footing on the floor and wipes the remaining evidence from her chin with a grin. Even when her spine aches and her skin leaks with dozens of tiny cuts and scrapes all she can feel is the twisted hands of satisfaction pulling her back to him. 

Astarion simmers with an unbridled fury as he watches the way that his lover rakes her eyes over him like he’s nothing but grime gathered between the floorboards. A look of disgust and vengeance unfit for his consort. A muscle in his jaw twitches. He readies to pounce, lean body moving forward in motion, when suddenly there’s the razor-sharp tip of a shard of glass pointed directly between his brows, stilled, mere centimeters away from his skull. He freezes, waiting second after second as the clock on the wall ticks endlessly on for her to lower the weapon from his head. Cirice never wavers. He settles back into the chair, inch by slow inch so as to not cause her to make any more foolish, rash decisions. 

The tiefling is bleeding. Her palm is injured but the only indicator of its severity is the slow drip drip drip of crimson as little droplets fall and splatter against elegant mahogany. Burrowing into the grain to stain. The rich metallic scent of her that permeates the air makes Astarion shudder down the entire length of his spine. 

Cirice thrusts the shard forward again. Close, but never striking. The flickering flame from the oil lamp glints in the red-streaked reflection that he sees between his eyes. “If you know what’s best for you you’ll relax, my lord.” She spits the ending at him like her words carry poison, and the all-powerful Vampire Ascendant sinks deeper into the cushions until he can feel the wooden frame against his back. That hideous scowl never dissipates from his elvish features. She makes him feel weak. Powerless. It’s mortifying. 

“Good boy,” she says and her breathing shallows, eyes flicking downwards to his lap. “You beautiful idiot…” There’s something that sounds like admiration there, and then, “take your pants off.” 

He’s smart to comply with her commands despite how everything inside of him begs him to do differently.

He’s bare beneath the fabric when it gets stripped from his legs and is as hard as the shiv in her clutch. Cirice holds the blade steady, threateningly, and then, without warning, blindly slings the shard across their bedroom. It hits the wall and explodes into a million tiny, glittering fragments that scatter into every corner. 

Silence follows and ruby red stares into an empty void. And then the corner of Astarion’s mouth twitches upwards, almost as if he’s impressed by her sudden show of rebellion, and Cirice is clambering fervently into his lap. 

Her clawed hands move to him with an almost desperate hunger, a furocity fueled by love and disgust that only the two of them can bear to endure. A burning heat budded and blossomed from tension and passion ignited between their immortal bodies, each touch electric and divine. She wraps her arms around him in a smothering embrace, cradles his head in her hands and swirls her fingers in liquid silver while he splays his palms against the harsh and angled ridges of her back, touching and groping with insistent need that is both forceful and urgent. Her right hand, still slick with blood, slips down the side of his face to press firmly against his undead heart and paint his skin in gorgeous shades of maroon and red. Branded by her own hand in the Ascendant’s color. They move together in a frenzy of unbridled passion as if trying to fuse together as one powerful entity, skin against skin, and Astarion holds his breath when her lips find his forehead and dare to linger for longer than a few seconds. They stay there, and he gasps softly. The exhale that follows is uneven and shaky. Through the wild fervor that consumes them, it’s the sudden, rare act of sweetness that he desperately, silently and constantly craves that makes him lightheaded. 

She kisses a tender trail over the bridge of his nose and over his flushed cheeks, kissing and kissing until her lips find the pointed tip of his ear and she whispers softly, breathlessly into it, “don’t forget who made you who you are.” Astarion’s nails print ten crescent moons into the sides of her hips as his blood turns to ice beneath his skin. Her breath hitches into a tiny gasp, and she continues, “you are mine, Astarion. Mine.” 

“Cirice–” he begins, and his voice gets caught in his throat when the tiefling drops her hand to his cock. It throbs, sticky in her palm. 

“Don’t speak,” she says, her voice as innocent as a white lamb for slaughter. It makes his head spin with a terrible confliction. She squeezes him just below his head and he makes a sudden, strangled noise. Something in her groin tingles at the sound. Her all-powerful Vampire Lord has gone compliant in her palms and it fills her with a terrible, greedy lust. “I should tear out your tongue. Perhaps remove the cords from your neck one by one for every time you’ve ever called me your pet, your consort, your spawn.” She spits the last word with a potent venom and tightens her other hand around his thick base until he’s choking on his breath behind his fangs. “And I should tear every finger of yours from your palm so you can never again demand me to kneel. I long to see you sleeping in a puddle of your own blood, and I dream of the day that you choke on your own prick and the filthy lies that you speak.”

She sings her twisted fantasies so sweetly into his ear and scratches gently at his scalp, works her hands over his length just the way that she knows that he likes, and he listens, sighing and moaning softly as she touches him, reduced to putty for her to mold. When he twitches and gasps softly she only lets more words slip from her tongue. Each syllable falls past her lips so easily and flows from her like the steady current of the Chionthar, each one setting her nerves on fire and slicking her core until she’s rising up on her knees to guide him to her hole and connect their bodies in a single, fluent drop of her hips as one. 

Together, they are the embodiment of sin. 

Evil incarnate–the sacred waltz of the damned. 

For a long while there is nothing but the sound of skin meeting skin as their pace establishes. A burst of energy and a rush of heat as Cirice bounces atop her partner’s glistening cock, her swollen breasts rising and falling in time with her hips. Astarion tosses his head back against the backing of the chair. His brows pinch themselves together and his lips part as if his jaw is made of heavy steel instead of bone. Mouth left ajar, he allows himself to get lost in the throes of pleasure. He grips her hips with bruising fingers, digs in until they bloom a subtle plum, and lifts her up to meet her hips with sharp thrusts upwards of his own. Her body runs warm—fueled by her hatred and her passion—but Astarion runs hotter with the blood of a fresh kill coursing through his veins. Thrumming with life and lust. He drinks in her essence, molds her flesh beneath his palms, and worships her. When she parts her lips to speak he swallows the sound before it can escape with his mouth and tongue. 

They fuck furiously and frenzied. Dark wood creaks and groans under the weight of their bodies and a guttural growl rips from the Ascendant’s throat that stirs the shards of the mirror strewn across the floor as he smothers the tiefling in his arms to ensure she’ll never escape the grasp of his red-stained hands.

She holds him equally as tight, but for entirely different reasons of her own. 

Beads of blood well from ten individual puncture wounds pierced across the backs of his shoulders and fill in the shallow valleys between his scars. It’ll stain the fabric it soaks into and never come out, but that is a problem for another time. Some palace servitor will get rid of it and have it replaced along with the vanity mirror before either of them ever remember it was once shattered to begin with. 

Astarion nearly shouts when he buries his cock inside of her so deep that she almost collapses atop of him. Cirice’s body is so impossibly tight. Molded perfectly and only for his dick and mouth. The chair creaks concerningly when she pulls him into her neck and he buries his face into the skin there like he wants to nestle inside. The chair creaks again, but Astarion cannot possibly focus on anything else but her–her scent, her presence–least of all a ruined piece of furniture. 

The air is cool when he begins to pant into the pulse point at the side of her neck, teasing the vein there and nosing at the countless scars that mar her skin, given to her both before and after she was turned. They slide together like they were created to always be one, fitting together perfectly in both flesh and spirit. Souls intertwined, spun together in furious love and delusory hate. The perfect balance in redemption and sin. 

The world disappears as the two unholy ones hold each other close, moaning wantonly and gasping into the other’s mouths as the pleasure builds and builds and builds until the tiefling ultimately seizes, teeters, shatters. It’s a glorious cry that leaves her lips as she orgasms, a noise that only leaves her in moments such as these, and the pulsing of her abused sex is what ultimately hurtles the powerful Ascendant over the edge to his own euphoric demise.  

Aeterna amantes. Lovers forever, until the world falls down. 

They plummet together, spinning and spiraling, suspended in freefall, as he gives her his last few thrusts and buries his seed deep inside of her. And even once it’s all over and the pleasure is all gone, replaced entirely by sensitivity and sore muscles, Cirice pulls her mate from her neck and cradles his flushed face so tenderly between both of her hands. He looks at her like she’s hung the moon for him, and in a way she has. 

“Astarion Ancunin,” she says and kisses him softly. A hint of fang and tongue, “I want to fucking devour you.”

inspired by the song "tear you apart" by she wants revenge

[goofygoldengirl]

Not A Vessel For Good Intent: A Sister Imperator Playlist

The Annotated Version

1.Tongues & Teeth by The Crane Wives

I will poison all your happy thoughts. I love you like the ashes in my cigarette box. And if you're fine with that. You can be mine

2. Going to Hell by The Pretty Reckless

You know I know, yes, I've been told I redefine a sin

3. Witch Image by Ghost

While you sleep in earthly delight. Still your soul will suffer this plight. But like a mother would save her own child from digging a grave.

4. Bones by MsMr

Broken dreams and silent screams. Empty churches with soulless curses

5. Godhead by Garbage

The center of heaven is you. And the truth keeps weighing me down (I'm such a bitch). No matter what you have done. You are the Godhead, the chosen one (I'm a terrorist)

6. Bloody Mary by Lady Gaga

We are not just art for Michelangelo to carve. He can't rewrite the aggro of my furied heart

7. Wicked Ways by Halestorm

You curse my name, but I believe. We all play the sinner and the saint and the in-between.

8. Demons by Sleigh Bells

Demons. Come on. You've got a vision. You're on a mission.

9. Mary on a Cross (Rite Here Rite Now) by Ghost

Your beauty never ever scared me

10. Swallow by Emilie Autumn

I don't want to be a legend. Oh, well that's a goddamned lie, I do

11. I Come With Knives by IAMX

I never promised you an open heart or charity

12. Eyes on Fire by Blue Foundation

And I'm not scared of your stolen power. I see right through you any hour.

13. The Lamb by Dessa

You've got a way with words. You got away with murder. But now our roles reverse. And your table's turning now

14. Bogeyman by Johnny Hollow

I am bigger now. I am stronger now. My fingers curl. They're talons now. My weeping eyes. Are burning now. My cloven feet. Are dancing now.

15. The Devil Within by Digital Daggers

You'll never know what hit you. Won't see me closing in. I'm gonna make you suffer. This hell you put me in. I'm underneath your skin. The devil within. You'll never know what hit you

16. Sheela Na Gig by PJ Harvey

Gonna wash that man right out of my hair. Just like the first time, said he didn't care.

17. Ruby Tuesday by The Rolling Stones

She just can't be chained. To a life where nothing's gained. And nothing's lost, at such a cost

18. Elephants by Rachel Yamagata

So for those of you falling in love keep it kind keep it good keep it right. Throw yourself in the midst of danger but keep one eye open at night.

19. Wild Horses by The Rolling Stones

I know I've dreamed you a sin and a lie. I have my freedom but I don't have much time. Faith has been broken tears must be cried. Let's do some living after we die.

20. Rabbit Heart by Florence + The Machine

This is a gift, it comes with a price. Who is the lamb and who is the knife? Midas is king and he holds me so tight. And turns me to gold in the sunlight.

[ikeromantic]

Hi, I didn’t know if your requests were open. If they are, I wanted to ask if you could do basically what you did with your Shingen x reader “more than life” but with Nokto Klein from Ikemen Prince.

If your requests aren’t open than please let me know.

❤️❤️😂

Nokto's hand strayed to his pocket again, tracing the edge of the circle, the small crown of a diamond. Around and around, like his thoughts, chasing each other and getting nowhere.

"Don't you agree, Prince Nokto?" The Benitoite merchant was smiling, though the expression did not reach his eyes.

An awkward silence stretched between the two of them. Finally, Nokto plastered a smile on his face, a bit of self-mockery. "My apologies. Let's speak more on this later." He hurried out of the meeting without another word, or even a glance.

He didn't need to see the merchant's face to know he'd offended him. Nokto couldn't bring himself to care. There were other things on his mind. The ring felt heavy in his pocket, as if it might pull him down. His cheek still stung where it hit. Nokto raised a hand to touch the spot, as if he might erase the memory of it from his skin.

Even if he could, it would not heal the wound in his chest. The ache that haunted every waking moment since he - since she -

Jin grabbed his arm as he passed by the domestic faction office. "Is it true?" His expression was cold, his usually merry eyes distant and full of weighty judgement.

"No. Yes? I - what part?"

"You were found with a Jadean noblewoman?" Jin's words could have been knives, they dug so deep into Nokto's chest.

"No! I - she - I was getting information. Nothing else happened. Nothing!" Nokto felt heat explode through him. An anger he hadn't known he possessed. His hands curled into fists at his side.

Jin shook his head. "It's not me you want to hit. I'm not the one that betrayed a good woman."

"I - I didn't! I love -"

"Prince Nokto!" One of the servants ran up to him. "The lady you asked after, she's at a bookshop. In town. The-"

"I know which one." He turned to hurry away, determined to get to the shop before Emma could disappear on him again. "Thank you," he called over his shoulder.

Jin said nothing in reply, and neither did the servant.

The bookshop was open when he arrived. He could see Emma through the window glass, smiling as she chatted with a customer. He didn't think she'd spotted him yet.

Nokto took a deep breath. He realized his hands were shaking. This was the most important moment of his life. He had to find the words that would convince her. It was, he thought, somewhat ironic that after a lifetime of lies - personal and professional - the biggest challenge for his silver tongue was telling the truth.

He reached for the handle, but didn't catch hold of it as he was pulled back. Nokto tried to turn, but whoever had him knew what they were doing. A moment later, he found himself in the alley beside the shop, his face pressed hard against the wall.

"You promised you wouldn't make her cry."

"Rio. Please. I need to talk to her." Nokto stopped struggling and went limp in the attendant's grasp.

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Rio's tone was flat and cold. Completely different from his usual sunny disposition.

Nokto sighed. "I know. But I need to tell her . . . I'm sorry. I - I am an idiot. I let things go too far. I thought . . . I thought it wouldn't matter. And now I hurt the o-" his throat closed over the words and his chest felt tight and hot. "The only person that matters. The one person I - I can't stand to lose."

Rio said nothing for a long time. It felt like ages to the prince, held as he was. Finally, the blond's grip loosened and Nokto staggered under his own weight again, his feet fully on the ground. "I don't want to let you say anything else," Rio told him. "Not one more word. But." The blond grasped his shoulder, sky blue eyes locked on the prince's ruby gaze. "She misses you."

"She - she does?" Relief washed over him, and for a moment, he thought he might fall flat.

"You can apologize. Once." Rio's soft voice was full of unspoken threat.

Nokto nodded. "That's all I need. Just a chance to - to make this right."

Rio sighed, something dark moving behind his gaze. "I hope -" He clenched his jaw. Swallowed. "I'll have her meet you at the tea shop after it closes. You'll have privacy, and it's neutral territory. "

Nokto almost didn't hear the details. He was already imagining how the conversation might go. How to direct it, ensure the result he wanted. Calculating. Planning.

"I probably should just keep my mouth shut. But I made a promise to. To her. So." Rio frowned, his lips twisting with distaste. "My advice is to just be honest. Speak to her heart." He let go then, and walked away before Nokto could respond.

It surprised the prince that Rio would help, but he wasn't about to question it. He hurried away to make his own arrangements. Perhaps Rio was right about just being honest, but apologies always sounded better with a gift.

"There you are." Licht's voice, came from behind. "Are you looking for Emma?"

Nokto turned, surprised to see his twin in town. "So you heard too."

"Everyone has." Licht tilted his head to the side, curious. "Yves is beside himself. Leon called you a fool."

"He's right. I am."

"Chevalier said he already knew you were a clown."

Nokto sighed. "Not surprising."

"Sariel says -"

"Does anyone believe me? Nothing happened! Nothing! I love Emma. I would never let some Jadean - or anyone else - come between us. Never! I know it - it looked bad but . . ."

Licht's brow quirked up. "I believe you."

Somehow, those three words meant so much. That one person could see past the carefully cultivated facade to the man beneath. The one that loved with his whole self, unreserved, and loyal. The man Emma had found beneath all the layers of self-denial and fear.

"I think she's probably at the bookstore," Licht went on. "I saw Rio hanging out nearby and he follows her everywhere."

"Yes," Nokto nodded, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. "I'm meeting her tonight. But first, I need to find the right gift."

Licht looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll help."

It took the better part of the afternoon. Nokto made arrangements for a flower delivery to the tea house, her favorite pastries, an autographed copy of her favorite book he'd planned to gift her on her next birthday, and one last precious thing that already belonged to her and always would.

"Do you think it will be enough?" Nokto turned to his brother as they made the last preparations at the tea house.

Licht's mouth curved up in the ghost of a smile. "You aren't buying her. I don't think any of this will matter. She just wants to know you love her. And she wants to hear you say you are sorry and mean it."

Nokto felt his heart clench. "No more excuses then."

His brother clasped his hand and their matched gazes met. "Luck." Then Licht left him all alone.

The sun set and the night lamps were lit. Evening stalls went up outside, and the taverns nearby got busy. Nokto waited, surrounded by the suffocating sweetness of the amassed roses and bakery delights.

"Nokto?" The door opened, and she took a step inside. Emma looked, if anything, like a deer alert to the hunter. Ready to run at the first sign of danger. Her eyes were wide and damp, and still red at the edges from crying. They landed on Nokto and flitted away, taking in the tray of goodies and the artful arrangements of flowers.

"Emma." He stood, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He ached to take her in his arms. To hold her. To kiss her.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Rio told me you wanted to talk?" Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I feel like I already said what I needed to. And you did as well. You're a prince. You have a job to do. Can't help it, right?"

There was a bitterness to the words. A sharpness so unlike her. Nokto felt a fresh prick of guilt. He'd gifted her that. Given her a poisonous wound. "Emma, I -"

"I already gave you back your ring. What do you want? Is there something else I need to do to break up with a prince?" Her breath came in shallow drafts. Her voice shook.

"N-no. Emma. Please." Nokto's voice broke and before he could think about it, he'd crossed the distance between them. He sank to his knees and bowed his head. "I am sorry. It was wrong. I was wrong." He felt the sting of a tear as it broke free of his lashes and burned a trail down his cheek.

"There was no excuse. No reason. I . . . I should never have let myself get into that position." Nokto felt himself choke on the words, terrified it wouldn't be enough. That this was the end. "I didn't touch her. That woman. I couldn't. But it looked . . . I know how it looked. And you deserve better."

There was no sound for several heartbeats, only his rasping breath as he struggled with himself. Then he felt her hand on his head. Her gentle fingers tangling in his hair. Smoothing it, mussing it.

"It hurt so much," she said finally. "Just seeing you so close to - to her. Smiling. Flirting. My heart -" She took a ragged breath. "I can't be with you if that's your work. I can't. I know you have a duty, and I won't stand in the way of that. Your network. Your contacts. But -"

"Emma. I won't do that again. I promise. I . . . I don't need to. I never did. It was just fun. A game. And then habit and I - I let myself fall into the person I used to be. I thought - I don't know. I guess, that it would be amusing. That it would be easy but -"

He paused, feeling ill at the memory. "It was awful. Faking interest. Leading her on. A horrible game. But the worst was seeing your face and knowing I'd hurt you." Nokto knew he was babbling, but the words poured from his mouth, unstoppable now.

"I knew I could never make it up to you. That you would never trust me again." His throat hurt as he brought the words up from his chest. "It hurt so much. Knowing I lost you. But I can't give you up. I can't stop loving you, even if I know I don't deserve to be loved by someone like you."

"Oh." A tiny, hurt gasp. "Nokto." She took his cheeks in her hands and turned his face toward her. "You deserve love. I love you. I haven't stopped loving you, even though it tears my heart to pieces."

He looked up at her tear-streaked face. "Please give me another chance, Emma."

She bit her lip, her expression conflicted. "I want to. But . . . I need you to be mine. I know it's selfish but . . . I just . . ."

"I am yours. Only yours." He stood, taking her hands. "These are the only hands I want to touch me."

"I -" She leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek. "I want these lips all to myself." Emma kissed him, her teeth grazing his lower lip, biting gently. Her hands pulled from his grasp as he was too stunned to do more than let out a soft groan.

"These arms are mine." She ran her fingertips up his forearm, all the way to this shoulders. "And this is for my head to rest on." Her hands stroked gently down his chest and belly. They settled at his hips, tugging lightly at his belt. "These are mine too. For . . . other things . . ." Her cheeks turned hot, but her gaze was fierce.

Nokto laughed softly, his heart brimming with love and desire. "Done. Negotiated. You can take everything. All of me. It's worthless without you." He pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out. "Would you be mine again? If you can't answer now, I'll just keep asking. Every day until you say yes."

She gave him a smile, the first since that dreadful scene. "You drive a hard bargain, Master diplomat."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." She laughed as he slipped the ring back onto her finger.

"Now you're even more beautiful." Nokto kissed her. It wasn't an artful kiss, nor skillfull. Instead it was a kiss of passion and longing and hurts still felt even as they were healing. It was hope and a promise, too.

When he broke the kiss, she cupped his cheek in her hand. "Are you going to take me home, now, my prince charming?"

"I don't think so," he grinned. "Your old house is closer and I'd rather not wait. I want to love you. And make love to you. Unless . . . there's always the carriage?"

She smacked his arm, trying to hide a laugh. "You are terrible."

"So are you. Or are you going to tell me you want to wait?"

Emma's gaze was warm and sweet and sensual as she curled an arm around his neck. "I have my house key in my left pocket."

[1eaf-me-alone]

𝕯𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘

Word count: 2.2k words

Genre: hurt/ comfort

Warnings: none

Summary: Cyno’s busy with work, and you think he’s falling out of love with you. Your thoughts begin to eat away at you as you spiral into sadness.

Other: gender neutral reader

a/n: woo I'm finally back and writing. I've got quite a few fics I'm writing atm and I am ploughing through them.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

His hand in yours, his lips on yours. So soft his lips as they brushed your own. So soft his hands as they caressed your own. His eyelashes tickled your face, his eyes glimmered like stars, glinting lights in a sea of darkness.

He made your stomach flutter. Butterflies trapped in the cage of your body. Your head on his chest, the warmth of his hug radiating against yours, flowing through your body, your blood, your lungs. His calloused hand holding your smooth one. His snow-white hair next to your darker one and his fiery red eyes. The length of his dark cape tickled your arms. Your head lay on top of the fabric of his clothes and you could hear his heartbeat pounding in your head, and yours in his.

The soft features of his face all beaming at you. Soft white hair, with the delicate but rich smell of saffron, ruby eyes, for they were a gem enough to make you never want to look away,  tanned skin, long eyelashes,  kisses reserved for you, and black. Black? Darkness? 

You opened your eyes. 

The rain outside drummed relentlessly along the pavement, harsh grey clouds covering the previously pearl-white sky. Plants were drenched in a shower of water, animals scampered off for shelter and roads had started to fill with water. 

Your blankets clung stickily onto your body, and your face felt wet. An uncomfortable heat enveloped you. 

It had all been a dream. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —  

Cyno lunged towards the enemies, striking, slashing, and attacking.  His feet moved swiftly along the sands, his polearm clanging against their swords, the glint of a jewel against the light. Sweat and blood ran down his forehead. Four against one. Knives and hammers pointed at him, but he was too fast. Flying paperwork strung to a stolen satchel. Fierce eyes ready to fight for the death. 

But Cyno was no amateur. He attacked again, his polearm scraping against theirs, his hair flying forwards with his movement, his fire-like eyes glaring in malice. 

Although Cyno was just one person he was trained well in the art of combat- as the general mahamtra, it was his job. He could tell the four were starting to tire, their movements slow and clumsy, their footwork slipping, their throats barely avoiding Cyno’s spear. And so Cyno continued- a game of cat and mouse, waiting for them to weaken as he fiercely plunged repeatedly towards them, each clash of his weapon against theirs faster than the one before. 

His feet skidded along the burning sand but he didn't seem to care. Cyno had a priority: he had to get the paperwork back.  His face now felt sticky, his tongue dry from dehydration and the grip on his polearm starting to loosen. 

He didn't give up, in fact, Cyno now went with a fiercer power. Another strike. A slash. A hit. And then they slipped with a scream. That was a mistake. Cyno pointed his spear at the one that fell and hooked it onto the satchel, he grabbed it. Turning towards them again, pointing the polearm at their necks. He glared.

“If you ever dare steal paperwork from the Akademiya again I'll let you off far less lightly.”

He glowered  at each of them individually 

“Consider this a warning.”

As soon as Cyno lifted his spear, the foursome stood up and scampered away like terrified deer.

He watched them leave, running off as quickly as they possibly can. Satisfied he turned around and began to walk back.

I hope they’re proud of me, he thought. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

What if Cyno no longer cared? What if he’d found another lover? What if his love for you had faded?

All these thoughts crowded your mind, inhabiting it like an infestation of loud wasps or blood-sucking leeches.

What if you had said something wrong? What if he never really cared for you in the first place? What if it was just an act? 

You hadn’t moved from the bed since you had woken up, and now it no longer felt like a comfortable place to rest but somewhere sticky and musty and hot. 

You had nothing to look forward to anymore. Not in the evenings when you and Cyno cooked dinners, not in the night when Cyno embraced you in bed and kissed your cheek and held your hand, not in the mornings in which the two of you used to sit together to chat about the upcoming day. You wished he were here.

A small tear rolled down your cheek. The rain began to pour down heavily. 

You missed him. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Cyno walked towards the Akademiya clutching the paperwork in his hand. He saluted both guards poised on either side of the steps and entered into the building. 

The Akademiya was deadly quiet at this hour, with the only human sound coming from the few footsteps and shuffling of people. No one spoke, apart from the occasional whisper which could only be heard if you were close enough to listen. The water from the fountain in the middle of the room trickled and splashed against the base of its structure. 

The only source of light came from the grandiose chandelier in the ceiling, which was painted blue and beige. Although, saying that, a few lamps were spotted on floors or staircases. The room was mostly stone grey, with occasional accents of gold, and green coming from the potted plants on the side of the space.

Cyno walked across the room and entered the lift on the other side. It moved upwards until it finally stopped in another room. 

Cyno knocked on  the door and heard the gruff voice of a familiar person telling him to come in. He pushed the door open and saw Alhaitham sitting on a chair next to a desk. He swiftly removed the paperwork from the satchel and handed it to him. 

“Some students had stolen this from the Akademiya.”

Alhaitham nodded. He reached out to hold the papers and as he took them he wrote a note on his desk.

“Thank you, Cyno.”

Cyno gave a curt nod and turned around, back on his way to you.

He couldn't wait to see you tonight. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

You stared out the window. The sun had begun to climb into  the sky. It was still raining. 

You eventually got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Wiping your tears away with water until your face was red and the taste of saltiness in your mouth had disappeared. 

You walked back to the bedroom and once again sat on your bed, looking up at the ceiling.

There’s no point in sulking over things you can’t even back up with facts, and there’s no point in sitting in bed and crying all day.

You stood up from the bed. You would ask Cyno about it later.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Cyno walked upon the usually bustling streets of the market. Due to the rain,  most people sought refuge in their homes.

Fabric roofs covered the materials from being wet.Pots of herbs and spices filled some of the stalls, and shops with books, medicine, gadgets and half-hearted vendors shouting an occasional invite to attempt to draw the few customers there.

Cyno stopped at the stall he was searching for: the flower shop.

An array of colourful flowers had been placed on tables, vases and shelves. Rich,  purple Sumeru roses, deep blue dream flowers, sun yellow stamina flowers, violet padisarah’s and crimson mourning flowers.

Cyno inspected each flower, taking a few to his nose to sniff. Finally, when he had decided on the flowers he wanted for you, he cleared his throat, “I’d like those, please.”

He pointed towards the flowers he wanted.

The vendor wrapped the flowers in light brown paper, along with a purple and gold accented ribbon to keep them in place. 

“That’ll be 500 mora, sir.”

Cyno reached for his pocket and handed the vendor the mora. He then picked up the wrapped flowers and held them carefully in his hand.

He hoped you would love them. 

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

You heard a knock on the door and immediately jumped out of your seat. Could it be? 

You rushed towards the door and opened it. Lo and behold it was Cyno, clutching flowers in his hand and a smile on his face. His cape was a little muddied, his hair displaced, and some new scratches had appeared on his face,  but it was still him.

He looked at you and smiled “I got you flowers, my feather.”

He handed them to you and as you quickly unwrapped it, finding an array of colours and shapes, you lifted the flowers to your nose and took a long, deep, breath. And then you sighed. 

Cyno furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Is everything ok, my scarab?”

Slowly you lifted your head, putting the flowers aside.

“There’s something I want to tell you…”

You took his hand and walked him towards the bedroom. 

As soon as he sat, with  his attention focused on you, you began to speak.

“Recently I feel like we’ve been spending less and less time with each other. I barely get to see you anymore, and when I’m awake you’re already gone. I’m scared you don’t care about me or that your interests lie somewhere else. I don’t have anything to back it up with, but I can't really tell if my thoughts are reality or not.

A few tears had started to roll down your cheek, you looked away, not wanting Cyno to see you in this messy and embarrassing state. 

Cyno waited. Letting your tears fall and giving you the space you needed. Then turning your head so his hand was under your chin, he looked at you affectionately, wiping away a tear that was now slowly trickling down your neck.

“I’m sorry. Work has been tougher than ever before and the Akademiya currently has a shortage of staff, so I’m doing double the work I usually do at the moment. My dear, of course, I love you. You are the gem that keeps me going, you are what I think of when I’m in battle. However, I have a lot to deal with at the moment too. Is there anything I could do to make you feel better?”

You paused for a second, Finally, you raised your head, subconsciously unaware you had shuffled closer to Cyno as his arm was now wrapped around your waist.

“I'm sorry work has been so hard for you. I’m sorry for adding to your pile of things to worry about. Maybe we could write each other letters when you’re gone? And tell me when you’re going to leave before you leave. I don't like waking up to not see you there and not knowing how long you’ll be gone for.”

Cyno nodded.

“In that case, before I’ll leave I’ll tell you, I’ll also make sure to write letters to you every other day.  I’ll ask Tighnari if I can use one of his birds to send the letter to you.” 

You bowed your head.

“ Don’t force yourself if you’re too busy, though. Is there a way I can help you prepare for your trips? Ease the tension from your work? I feel like you’re overworking yourself and you need to remember to take care of yourself. I wouldn't mind cooking our meals when you come home or packing supplies when you’re setting off for another mission? Just... try not to overwork yourself, ok? You need a break too.” 

“Thanks, I would... really appreciate that and ill try not to overwork myself.” 

You paused a second, a thought coming to mind

“Oh and thank you for the flowers, they're lovely”

“I'm glad you liked them.”

Your head now fell onto Cyno’s shoulder letting out a long, deep breath. The tension you had kept in your body had finally flown out and you were left with a smile on your face and a feeling of warmth in your stomach.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

(a few days later)

You heard the voice of Cyno in your ear.

“I need to go now my feather, I'll be back soon. Thank you for the candied ajilenakh nuts, I'll be sure to savour them.”

“Mphm.”

He planted a soft kiss on your forehead, and after hovering above your head for a couple of seconds, he left.

Although your eyes were closed, and you were still in the realms of sleep and dreams, you smiled.