#Merchants of Terror

[premimtimes]

PREMIUM TIMES uncovers new financing scheme by Nigerian terrorists

PREMIUM TIMES uncovers new financing scheme by Nigerian terrorists

PREMIUM TIMES will start publishing a three-part series entitled “Merchants of Terror” from Monday, 3 October 2022. The series is an on-the-ground investigation exposing a new financing scheme by Nigerian terrorists. “Merchants of Terror” is a two-month long investigative work by Ibrahim Adeyemi, PREMIUM TIMES chief investigative reporter. The report is the result of weeks of travelling across…

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

Oh god not clowns please. Please please please I cannot handle clowns why does he have to be a recurring character this is the bad place

[videogame-brainwyrms]

Slowly approaches you but as I approach the skull merchants terror radius gets louder and closer with me

[ofdarklands]

time to read those translations i guess (1)

*looks at english fray* jesus christ. look at how they slaughtered this man

come ooooonnnn

only english dark knights are sloppy as fuck. typical

on the other hand fray saying that last bit would have made me sideye him so hard. bro

CONFIRMATION HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE VISIBLE. fucking weird ass choice from the translation team, everything else aside

me @ the transaltion team:

[agentfascinateur]

No more exception for military weapons - tax them:

The federal government has taxed the sale of guns and ammunition by manufacturers, producers, and importers since 1919, a fact that remains true to this day. The proceeds from the tax — levied at 10% on handguns and 11% for long guns and ammunition — have supported state wildlife and restoration efforts since 1937.

[yandere-wishes]

⭒ㅤׂ ɪ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇㅤׂ ⭒

⭒ㅤ𓈒 Yandere!WuWa! Men x Reader 𓈒 ⭒

゜⌒ヽ❥ Dark Romance

°•❃•°

꒷꒦꒷Scar | 伤痕

Your fear tastes like nectar, thick and sweet, and sacrilegious. Scar gulps down your apprehension in starving strides. Cradling the burn between his teeth, savoring the sensation of the embers coiling and seething inside his veins. You're too perfect, thrashing underneath him, caged and defiant his little lost lamb. trying to flee, begging for freedom like a fever dream high. He licks your iridescent tears with zealous maniacal jubilation. Relishing in the soft warm flesh of your cheek marinated in your woe. He wants to taste them every day, force them from your pretty petrified eyes with scorching kisses and touches that shatter your very bones.

Scar's talons etch jagged filigrees across your body engraving terrors and torments all parodying "I love you". But he can't love, not really, love is too gentle too vain, he needs to consume, to feel the reverberations trapped between your bones. Scar's kisses burn wakes down your spine, slipping between the vertebras. Hollowing out your essence piece by piece, his hunger knows no bonds, refusing to dwindle until he's bled every delicious part of you dry. Until he feels your heart between his teeth.

˚✶˚Jiyan | 忌炎

You trace his markings, nails gliding gingerly through the jagged crystals of his tacet mark. He kisses the hollow of your palm, basking in the sweet giggle you gift him. You're his precious treasure, a sweet gem imported from the silk roads themselves. He'd do anything to keep you safe binding your soul to his tattered one. Jiyan is the Qingloong that everyone looks up to, the indestructible pillar of Jinzhou. And yet a simple smile from you is all it takes to shatter his illusion of strength.

Between patients, his mother would sometimes grace him with fables about Dragons, not Loong, not the creature their nation worshiped but Dragons monsters from the western nations. She'd tell him How they hoarded exotic treasures from all corners of the world. Growing powerful in the light of other's envy. They did anything to protect their gold coins and pearl necklaces, kill, and maim in the name of obsession. Back then he'd found such creatures disgusting, dubbed it blasphemy to even mention them in the same breath as the deific Loong. Now he thinks he's more dragon than Loong. Hoarding you away keeping you only to himself. Promising to maul any who try to rob him of your sweet kisses and angelic laughter.

𒆜Calcharo | 卡卡罗

You come prepackaged with a soft smile and a docile heart. Calcharo thinks it's all from the privilege of having lived a satisfactory life. Cherished, overfed, protected. All the things stripped of him so young. He shouldn't be jealous though, after all, he has the complacency to thank for turning his darling into such an ideal doll. Jejune and helpless, shivering under his cold touch. He harbors you between his thighs, enjoying the way your pearl-kissed dress pools on the floor. An ivory testament to the innocence he so craves. Calcharo's calloused fingers entrap the hollow of your hips pulling you harshly against him, he can't get enough of you. His lips kiss the dip of your neck nose bumping the back of your ear. Enraptured by the floral scent of your perfume.

You tried to run again today, flee when he'd been out escorting a merchant across the desert terrain. His men had caught you, binded you all pretty and left you in his chamber. He flashes you a crooked smile upon entry. Watching as you struggle and glare knowing damn well it won't change a thing. "Really little rabbit? I thought we had ceased playing such foolish games." He grasps your chin pulling you closer, your knees slide across the wooden floor scuffing from the friction. His cold lips trace your own as he whispers degradations laced with romance. Calcharo leans down for the kill, a lethal crushing kiss. Trapping your lips and engulfing your essence. Laughing when you're foolish enough to return the favor. You shiver and moan and it takes every bit of willpower not to devour you right then and there.

☄Mortefi | 莫特斐

The universe reverberates to a familiar tune when he first sees you. Singing a melody he swears he's heard each night when he lays his wry head to rest. What kind of creature are you? A cacophony of starsongs and golden echoes. He longs to touch you, to permit his flames to traverse your body searing you until you shine with the purity you all so deserve. He loses himself in the melody of your voice, the lost tune of a fading nova. Something too ethereal to be of this crude world.

Mortefi fancies himself a scientist and takes utmost pride in the way his mind curves around a problem. Floating through the riddles seeking answers in the dark. He can fix anything, create anything. And yet you stand before him defiant of his understanding. Mortefi grabs you by the collar, cradling a rogue sun within his palms, kissing its rays trying to grasp comprehension between his teeth and swallow it whole. It doesn't work by the end of the kiss you are still an anomaly and he is still a scientist wearing the heart as some hapless love-struck schoolboy. The need to understand you grows claws tearing at his mind, desperation pierces his throat whenever he catches a mere glimpse of you. He needs to understand, to tear you open and choke your secrets.

҉　Aalto | 秋水

Aalto's fingers weave through your hair, silk traversing through bone and flesh, flowing free in the aero he produces subconsciously. He cradles you delicately in his arms, trying his best to ignore the sour frown etched upon your face. He creates fables, spinning stories out of silk and air trying to win your interest with tales of stray sheep and fallen stars. Of lost treasures on the jade road and little girls with fire flowing through their veins. Your frown doesn't falter.

He kisses you again, and again and again. Trying to pry out adoration and devotion from between your bones. He struggles, whining about detesting and freedom. It sounds so trivial especially when he can give you everything your heart desires. He can't let you go, not when his very essence aches to feel you between his arms. Aalto wonders what stories he must make to erase that blood-curdling frown of yours. What information does he need to lay out your feet for you to grace his lips with your own? A lover's kiss, not whatever this is. I love you he whispers, he doubts you even care.

Let me know what you think. Should I do yandere Jiyan x reader x Yandere Calcharo next? ~💜

[surelynotshirley]

I'm gonna post some of my banger (lmao) IDV TikToks onto here. Most of them are pre-persona adjustments, if anyone is curious about that. This one was when I was playing high with a TikTok friend (I miss her 😭). I covered up the Twitch streamer's name because I couldn't remember if they were one of the weird or mean ones but I recall they're actually pretty chill so I wish I thought to watch this archive in case they said anything about this rescue.

It looks impressive because wow! A flawless rescue against Bonbon! But I think this Bonbon was just new at him because there is no way a Bonbon veteran would have let me get away from this

[bloodlust-1]

Are you still taking requests? I literally cannot control myself when it comes to angst so I was thinking of a fic where Tav gets kidnapped by Cazadors spawns and is getting tortured by him, so Astarion goes crazy with worry and anger trying to get them back

Like I said i am insatiable when it comes to angst

The dramaaaaa.... LET'S DO THISS SHITT. I do love me some angst too :')

Hope you enjoy @blades-are-for-skating-ya-dingus <3

. Shackles .

Astarion x fem Tav — angst

T/W: abuse, blood

Notes: I’m so proud of this one ahh. This makes me hate Cazador even more.

Tav's body trembled as the shackles dug into her wrists, her bare skin exposed to the cold, damp air of the dungeon. She had been captured by Cazador one night by his spawns. Tav never returned back to camp that night, and the only thing that was left for Astarion was a note he found on a spawn:

-------

"My Dear spawn, how dare you to run away from me. Know that there will be consequences for your actions, and your lover will not be spared from my wrath. You will regret ever crossing me, my child."

-------

Her wrists were bound by heavy shackles, chains attached to the wall, preventing her from moving more than a few inches. The sharp metal dug into her skin, causing her to wince in pain every time she struggled against them. Her body was covered in bruises, cuts, and burns, the result of Cazador's ruthless torture techniques.

Cazador stood in front of Tav, a wicked grin on his face. He held a whip in his hand, the same one he had used to lash Tav's back until it bled. She could barely lift her head to look at him, her body exhausted and broken.

"Pathetic," Cazador sneered, his eyes filled with malice. "You thought you could hide from me? A mere mortal challenging a vampire? How foolish."

Cazador stood in front of her, his face twisted into a sadistic grin. "You think your lover, Astarion, will save you from me? He will help me ascend and be nothing more than dirt on the floor. And soon, you will be too. Tell me where is the boy."

Tav's heart sank at the mention of Astarion's name. All Tav wanted was to trade with a merchant to gift Astarion a better dagger. But now, here she was, captured and tortured.

"Never," Tav spat, defiant even in the face of her tormentor.

Cazador's grin widened. "We'll see about that, my dear. We have ways of making you talk."

He signaled to his spawn, Petras, and he poked at Tav's skin with a hot metal rod. She cried out in pain, her body bruised and bloodied. But she refused to say any information.

"You will never have Astarion again," Tav gasped, her voice weak from the beatings.

Cazador's smile turned into a scowl, and he grabbed Tav's chin roughly, forcing her face to meet his. "You wretched thing."

Cazador motioned for Petras to stop as he approached Tav, snatching the hot iron rod from Petras’s hand. Tav's eyes widened in terror as she realized what he was about to do.

"Please, no," she begged, tears streaming down her face.

But Cazador didn't listen. He pressed the hot iron against Tav's skin, causing her to scream in agony. The smell of burning flesh filled the dungeon.

"I will make you suffer until you give me what I want," Cazador growled, enjoying every moment of Tav's pain.

Tav's body shook with sobs as the torture continued. She thought of Astarion, their love, and their plans for the future. She refused to let Cazador break her, even if it meant her death.

"I said no, you bastard!," Tav cried, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Cazador continued to torture her, and Tav's thoughts became consumed with memories of Astarion. The way he looked at her with love, the cold touch of his lips on hers.

"I love you, Astarion," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

But as the darkness of the dungeon consumed her, Tav feared she'd never see Astarion again.

~

Astarion's heart raced as he crept through the dark and musty corridors of the dungeon. His mind clashed between anger and guilt. Astarion feared that Tav was somewhere within these walls, shackled and tortured by Cazador.

When Astarion reached Tav's cell, he caught sight of her. Tav's face was pale and bruised. She was shirtless and barely conscious.

But even in this state, Tav was still the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

His hands trembled as he quickly picked the lock, and with a loud click, the chains that bound Tav fell to the ground, and Astarion's heart swelled with relief and anger. He scooped her up in his arms, ignoring Tav's cries of pain from the bruises and cuts covering her body.

"Shh, my love. It's me," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I've come to take you away from this place."

Tav's tear-stained face looked up at him, and her eyes widened in surprise. "Astarion? How did you find me?"

Astarion fixated his eyes on Tav's face, the sight of her hurt gaze ached his dead heart. "I will always find you, no matter where they try to hide you." He pulled the shirt off his back and covered Tav's bare chest.

Carefully, Astarion carried Tav out of the dungeon, making sure to avoid any spawns or traps along the way. It was especially hard when Tav winced to every movement.

Astarion stealth his way out of the palace and went back to camp. He felt anger gnawing at his chest. He should have been there to protect Tav, But he had failed, and now Tav had suffered because of his shortcomings.

When they got back to camp, their companions rushed to their side, relieved to see Tav alive. Shadowheart, Wyll, Gale, and Karlach swarmed around Astarion.

"Get out of the way! She needs to rest!" Astarion snapped in a fit of anger. His emotions were pouring out in the worst possible way, and whoever was in the way needed to move.

Astarion gently settled Tav onto his bed, frowning at the sight of her bruised and battered body. She winced in pain as he placed her down, but he quickly reassured her, "I'll take care of you."

He grabbed a small bucket of water and a cloth, carefully cleaning the dried blood and dirt from her skin. Tav winced again, tears streaming down her face as he touched her injuries.

Gods this is all my fault. Astarion gritted his teeth from the sting of remorse.

"It's going to be alright," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I promise, I won't let anyone hurt you like this again."

Cazador will pay for this.

Tav weakly reached out to wipe away the tears that had fallen from his eyes, a small smile tugged on her chipped lips. "Don't cry, Astarion. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

He couldn't help but chuckle at her stubbornness, even in her injured state. "Your wit amazes me, my dear."

Astarion continued to clean and tend to her wounds, his hands gentle and careful than anything he'd ever touched in the past 200 years. Tav winced and hissed in pain, but she never once pulled away. She simply gripped his hand tightly as he worked, her eyes shut tightly.

Tav winced as he tended to a particularly deep cut on her arm. "It hurts," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes.

"I know, my dear," Astarion's eyes narrowed at her pain. "But I promise, I'll make it better."

After what seemed like hours, Astarion finally finished and leaned back, a satisfied look on his face. "There, all done."

Tav slowly opened her eyes and looked down at her now clean and bandaged skin. "Thank you..." The burn marks would scar her skin forever. It was something Tav looked past for her own sake.

"You are strong," he continued, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "And I will do everything in my power to protect you and keep you safe from Cazador."

Tav reached up and cupped his cheek, she whispered. "I trust you.."

Astarion leaned down and pressed his lips against Tav's, pouring all of his emotions into the kiss. Tav pushed against his lips gently, while his hands held Tav's shoulders. When they pulled away Tav could see the desperation in his eyes and it was heartbreaking.

"Rest now, my dear. I'll be here when you wake up." And with that, Astarion stayed by Tav's side, watching over her as she drifted off to sleep.

Any thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

[pretzel-box]

hello! do you perhaps do smut things? If so! Perhaps sebastian and his husband with some smut? I know hes married to..zerum but her toxicity in the servers been enough for me!!

if you dont do smut or dont want to do this PLSS sebastian comforting an anxious (male plspls) reader? Tysm!! You rock and i love ur feed!!

The memories of the drowning

words: 1k

status: barely proof-read

tags: male!reader, slightly sequel to Suffocated , married established relationship, mention of anxiety and panic & comfort in the end

author note: I'm probably one of the people that currently hate on the devs for their behaviour, which makes me write x reader stories in first place. Zerum isn't included in the game, which means she can't be married in canon to Sebastian. She's a real person, not a pressure character. So congrats, y'all can marry our beloved merchant in your own headcanons! ♡

Every time you close your eyes, the events of the past replay in the depths of your mind, vivid and unrelenting, replacing your dreams with painfully realistic memories. The horrors you faced in the Hadal Blackside refuse to fade, instead etching themselves deeper into your consciousness with every passing night.

The different screams echo endlessly in your ears, a cacophony of terror that leaves an uncomfortable ringing, dulling your senses. Your body, conditioned by the countless encounters with unspeakable horrors, twitches involuntarily at the memory of how the floors and walls shook violently with every terrible angler attack. The sensation of those tremors, the sickening anticipation of what was to come, still lingers in your muscles, a reminder that survival was never guaranteed.

At this point, you can't lie to yourself anymore. The time spent in the depths of the Hadal Blackside has mentally scarred you, leaving wounds that may never fully heal. The darkness of the ocean wasn't just physical; it had seeped into your mind, haunting you in the night when your body relaxes from the survival modus only to switch back into pure panic.

Sometimes, the weight of it all comes crashing down on you in the dead of night, overwhelming you with the sudden, terrifying realization that you are trapped in a facility full of death traps, thousands of feet below the surface. The oppressive pressure of the ocean above feels like it's bearing down on you even now, crushing you under its immense, suffocating weight. The knowledge that you are surrounded by darkness and danger, with no escape, no reprieve, gnaws at the edges of your sanity with each passing second, making the experience worse.

Your eyes rip themselves open as your whole body starts to tremble uncontrollably. Cold sweat drenches your skin, making the sheets cling to you like the tentacles that once threatened to drag you to your doom. Your hand clings to your shirt, grabbing it tightly as if the fabric could anchor you to reality, grounding you in the present and warding off the terror of your memories.

The breath hitches, coming in shallow, rapid gasps that only feed the growing panic. The ringing in your ears intensifies, drowning out any attempt to calm yourself, until it feels like your head might split open from the noise. Desperate to silence it, you press both hands over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the memories, the sounds, the overwhelming fear that consumes you.

But even with your eyes closed, the darkness offers no comfort. Instead, it brings the images flooding back, the twisted, writhing forms of the creatures you barely escaped, the cold, uncaring walls of the underwater facility, the endless corridors that seemed to close in around you with each step.

The faint hint of fluorescent blue hovered in the corner of your eyes, casting a soft, eerie glow across the dimly lit room. It was a color that had once sent chills down your spine, a reminder of all the deaths you had experienced. But now, it had become a familiar presence, a sign that you were not alone.

Sebastian had stirred beside you, waking from his own troubled nap. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. The gesture was silent, but it spoke volumes. He knew the weight of the nightmares that plagued you, the way they clung to your mind. He couldn't lie, he was in a very similar spot, haunted by his own memories of the Hadal Blackside and all the things Urbanshade did to him.

As his arms encircled you, you felt the coldness of his body seep through your clothes, a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. Yet, instead of making you shiver, it grounded you, reminding you that you weren't lost in the darkness of your mind. He was here with you, sharing in the burden of those memories.

Sebastian held you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the monsters that have threatened to pull you under. His other free arm moved gently, fingers threading through your hair in a soothing motion. The rhythmic, repetitive strokes were comforting, helping to slow the rapid pace of your heartbeat and calm the storm raging within you.

He didn't need to say anything. His presence alone was enough, a quiet assurance that you didn't have to face this alone. He understood your fear, your pain, because he had lived it too. The horrors of the deep had scarred you both, but in this moment, you found solace in each others company.

Gradually, the tension in your body began to ease. The panic that had gripped you loosened its hold, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. You closed your eyes, not to shut out the memories, but to focus on the feeling of Sebastians arms around you, his fingers in your hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His tail moved, wrapping itself around you, and you couldn't help but melt into his touch.

In the silence, you could hear a faint sound. But it was Sebastian’s heartbeat, slow and steady beneath your ear, that anchored you. With him, the memories didn't seem as overwhelming, the darkness not as suffocating. He was your lifeline, pulling you back from the brink.

"You're safe," he finally whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with certainty. "I got you." He leaned down, placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, and nuzzled into your hair. "I keep you safe, didn't I promise you that in my wedding vow?"

You nodded against his chest, not trusting your voice to respond. His words were simple, but they carried a truth you desperately needed to hear, and you felt blessed to have such a protective husband. For now, it was enough. You were safe, wrapped in his arms, with the knowledge that whatever came next, you wouldn't have to face it alone.

Sebastian continued to hold you close, his touch gentle and reassuring, until the tremors in your body subsided completely. As you drifted off into a more peaceful sleep, the fluorescent blue light dimmed behind your eyelids, leaving you in a quiet, comforting darkness that was no longer filled with terror, but with the warmth of his presence beside you.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Last word (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond instructs you on the importance of protecting your virtue. Featuring bratty reader and the good old enemies to lovers.

Warnings: Smut. Titty sucking. Degradation. PWP.

A/N: I have the most dreadful cold because I can’t dress for the season. I did as I often do and reread one of my comfort books, Seducing Mr Bridgerton. Here you go. I needed to get this out of my head.

“What were you thinking?” Aemond drags you towards the carriage, barely allowing your feet to touch the ground. He gestures angrily at the coachman, but you are too furious to care.

“What was I thinking? You are the one sneaking around the Street of Silk when your father just died. I thought you…”

“What?” Aemond snarls, roughly pushing you inside the carriage. “You thought I needed your help? You thought I was as weak willed and pathetic as Aegon, coming to drown my sorrows?”

You gape at him. It’s exactly what you were thinking, although in much harsher words than you would have used. When you saw him and Cole leave the palace, you had a rented carriage to follow them, worried about Aemond.

He was not the easiest man to be around. But he was your betrothed, and you worried about him. And you guessed he cared about you, in his own twisted way. He was not the most affectionate of men, but he tolerated your incessant questioning and chatter, as he called it.

It is to be noted that Aemond didn’t make the task of caring for him easy. Yet, you worried either way. Not only because it was your duty to do so, but because you were friendless in the Red Keep and had nothing better to do.

To Queen Alicent, you were the perfect daughter-in-law. She often mistook your interest in Aemond’s whereabouts for devotion, when at best, you two tolerated each other.

Perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest choice, to follow him on a borrowed carriage. You had promised the merchant a few silver dragons for it, leaving him stranded on the Red Keep. Your curiosity had been picked when you saw Aemond and Ser Criston go out of the Red Keep’s walls dressed as commoners. Not wanting to lose them, you had not bothered to change, and showed up in Fleabottom in a gown much too pretty for it.

You were certain you were about to get mugged when Aemond showed up and dragged you back to safety. There had been a couple of men eyeing you in funny ways, and two women you were pretty sure were whores had offered you company.

“I don’t need your compassion, you fool.” Aemond sat down next to you, scowling. It was not the first time you angered him, but it was the first time you saw him this pent-up. He looked like he was about to strangle you. “You should not have ventured outside. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, too dangerous? What were you doing out without guards, then?” Thinking yourself so discrete, you sniffed at him. He smelt like usual. No traces of cheap perfume, nor alcohol. No whores, no ale houses.

“Cole and I split up to search for Aegon. I was not drinking, you silly woman.” Aemond leaned in, to let you smell his breath. He smelled strongly of tea. Nothing more. Still, you scowled back in principle. “Besides, it’s different. I am a man. You are a woman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You crossed your arms over your chest. Aemond politely averted his eye from you, looking flustered.

“I can defend myself. You can’t.” His eye was firmly on his boots. You were so not letting this go, not when you had the upper hand. Perhaps you were a petty person, but no one liked being told they were defenseless, even when it was technically true.

“I can!”

“Oh? What if instead of me, it was another man dragging you out of that alley? You don’t even carry a dagger, for the Seven’s sake!” Aemond looked at you. He might have a point about that. Not even a few minutes ago, you had shrieked in terror at what you thought was a stranger trying to drag you away. A dagger could have come in use, and in fact, you owned one. A small silver one, that Aemond had gifted you, and you had not thought to bring along.

“Not that I would know how to use it.” You mutter, weakly. You are starting to lose the argument and don’t like it.

“I told you I would teach you when we had time.” And it wasn’t like he truly wanted to teach you. The dagger had been gifted to you only after a pointed comment from his mother, reminding him loudly that young ladies expected gifts when courted. By the horrified look on Queen Alicent’s face when you had opened the carved box, this was not what she had had in mind.

It had been clear then, with Aemond making half serious promises to teach you how to use it, that the dagger was meant to annoy his mother and not as a gift. Weaponized incompetence, never more aptly named. Alicent had not asked him again to put any more effort in wooing you.

“But you never have time! You are always running after Aegon.” It came out more bratty than you intended, and it only served to rile him up further. Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose, before turning to face you once more.

“Because that’s my duty, you hare brained…” His tone was full of venom, and you wouldn’t let the slight pass. You hated when he made remarks about your intelligence, always thinking himself the smartest in the room. Perhaps you had not had the chance to receive the same education as him, but you thought yourself moderately clever. Aemond, instead, thought you were empty-headed and only concerned with pink ribbons and silks.

“Don’t! I am not…”

“Oh, but you are.” Aemond grunted, before roughly grabbing your face. The sudden motion surprised you, and so, you only gaped at him. He looked like he was about to murder you. Idly, you wondered if you had finally pushed him to his breaking point.

But instead of murdering you, Aemond leaned in and kissed you. It was not the first time it happened, really. He had kissed you before. Once, at Alicent’s prompting, on the forehead. Another time, your cheek, icy, during your name day. Never on the mouth before. And never in anger.

After a few more seconds of absolute and utter shock, just as Aemond was starting to pull away and apologize, you were kissing him. Furiously. You compensated your lack of experience with rage, pushing at his mouth, biting at his lips, until he budged.

As you parted, both of your chest heaving up and down in strangled breaths, Aemond still took the time to chastise you.

“No concerns for your honor… No concerns for your safety…” Aemond kissed your cheek, almost feverishly. His lips traced the contours of your jaw, and like a man starved, he buried himself in the crook of your neck.

It was hard to take him seriously, though. Whatever anger his face held, it could not be seen by you. He was too busy kissing imaginary paths down your neck for it.

Unexpectedly, it felt good. There was a pleasurable heat forming right on your stomach. You wanted so badly to melt against it, turn into butter in his arms, but you knew Aemond would never let you hear the end of it if you did.

With a mighty pull on his hair, that made him yelp like a kitten, you got him off you, and shifted to straddle his lap.

“I am concerned.” You grumbled, biting at his jaw. He was actually quite handsome, you realized. How had you not noticed sooner? “I would fight you, if it wasn’t you.”

You kissed him, a lot more brutal. Aemond hissed. Apparently, he took issue with his hair being pulled so roughly, or perhaps your lips on his felt good.

“You are not. I bet you would have let any man jump you in that alley.” His tone was angry, but his hands told another story. They were cupping greedily at your hips, squeezing your ass.

“By the Seven!” You groan, unable to be angry any longer. His hands feel warm and big against your hips, too good to complain. There is something hard poking at your stomach, and you try to bring a hand towards it, but Aemond rolls you over and pins you down before you have the chance.

With your wrists pinned down above your head, laying on the borrowed carriage’s seat, there is not much you can do. You look up at him, helplessly.

Aemond leans in, and presses a kiss right above your pulse point. He follows it with another, slightly lower this time. And another, and another. Until his lips are bumping against your collarbones, and he looks up at you with a desperate eye.

He looks wrecked. Hair in disarray, flushed cheeks, swollen mouth. He still wears the angry scowl.

“I don’t think I can control myself any longer.” Aemond whispers, as if telling you a secret. He rubs his thumb over one of your breasts, making you arch under him. It’s unlike anything else you have ever felt. You feel as if that simple touch has set you on fire. As if you are burning up in need.

“Aemond.” You plead, desperate for anything that he is willing to give you.

“I despise you. You are the most infuriating, nagging woman I know.” He tugs the bodice of your dress a little lower, kissing the start of the path between your breasts.

“And you are a pompous, terrible man.” You answer, almost in reflex. Then, because you are furious he is having such an effect on you, you go the extra mile and add. “I rue the day I have to marry you.”

“Sure.” Aemond mocks, sucking a bruise at the top of your breast. He pinches your buds, almost cruelly. You gasp, not knowing if you should pull away or closer.

Giving you a little respite, his hands come to undo the first buttons of your gown. That allows him to pull it a little lower, baring your breasts to him. But instead of going straight for the prize, Aemond takes his time exploring the curves of your shoulder and neck.

You are so desperate for him, you think you might beg him to kiss your breasts. Your poor, ignored nubs ache.

“I despise you.” You mutter, hoping it does the trick. To your surprise, Aemond laughs. Laughs. Him. Before, on the days you were most lucky, you have gotten him to smile.

“I know you don’t.” He says, as he finally, finally, starts sucking at your breast. You moan, tangling a hand in his hair.

Aemond is many things. Determined is one of them. He keeps at it, until you are moaning so unashamedly you think the coachman must be hearing you. You are building towards something, wetness gathering between your thighs, back sweaty, Aemond’s skillful mouth wrapped around you.

You risk a glance at his expression. The vision is almost obscene. His eye is closed in bliss, cheeks flushed, seemingly unaware of the effect his actions are causing on you. His hips are doing small aborted motions against your leg.

You feel as if you are on the edge of something. You scratch his scalp with your nails, needing just a little more. But at the exact moment he opens his eye to look at you, the carriage jerks to a stop.

Hurriedly, you nearly throw him off you. Any second now, the coachman will open the door, and he cannot see you partially naked under a man, no matter if it’s your betrothed.

Aemond, not even needing to be told what the issue is, quickly rightens himself. As the coachman opens the door and goes to help you out of the carriage, Aemond dismisses him with a wave of a hand.

He gets off the carriage in an agile little jump, and offers you a hand.

“I think, betrothed, you don’t rue the day you will have to marry me.” Aemond whispers, as he helps you down. He kisses your cheek, making you squirm. The memory of those same lips in other parts of you is too fresh not to. “I think you are awaiting the wedding night so impatiently, you must be gushing.”

Your cheeks heat up at the double entendre. It’s true, you are beyond wet. If Aemond was not so stuck to his own moral code, if he didn’t think himself superior to you, you would tell him. But you know if you do, he wouldn’t help, but deny you. So instead, you lean in, hand grasping at his thigh for support.

“I think, my Prince, you should look into a mirror. Because that…” You point between his legs. “Looks painful.” And with a kiss on his cheek, you leave him there, standing next to a borrowed carriage and having to endure the humiliation of paying for the ride.

You cackle all the way to your rooms. He will probably have his revenge later, embarrassing you in some way, but you are too high in your triumph to care.

[nateconnolly]

Two sisters lived in a fragrant house. The older sister Ahana worried that a drought might come, but the younger sister Leela was happy to spend all day in the house. 

“Stop looking for something to complain about!” Leela chided Ahana. “The rain will provide for us!” 

But Ahana began to dig a well. It was bitter work. Each morning, Ahana woke before the sunrise, and Leela slept peacefully until noon. 

After the first month, Ahana cried, “You lie here all morning like a lazy dog! Come dig the well with me!” And so Leela and Ahana both woke before the next sunrise. 

But the work was very bitter. 

“The rain will provide,” Leela said after digging for six hours.

“Then go home,” Ahana replied, so Leela returned to the fragrant house. She boiled rice and chicken; she mixed it with salt, turmeric, and parsley. Ahana returned after dark and saw a bowl of food waiting for her. Leela was already asleep: she had gone to bed before the sunset. 

Ahana took a blanket and draped it over her sleeping sister. 

After the second month, Ahana thought to herself, “Why should I continue to dig the well alone?” So she said to her sister, “Come dig the well with me tomorrow.” 

The next day, Ahana woke before sunrise, and Leela woke when the sky turned blue. Leela joined her sister, but the work was very bitter. 

“The rain will provide,” Leela said after digging for an hour, so she returned to the fragrant house. 

Ahana returned after dark. She found a bowl of rice waiting for her, but it had been left out since noon. The food was very cold. 

After the third month, Ahana said, “Come dig the well with me tomorrow,” but Leela stayed home.

After the fourth month, Ahana said, “Come dig the well with me,” but Leela did not look at her. So Leela went to bed long before the sun had set, and Ahana dug long after dark.

While Ahana was gone, Leela grew very hungry, so she ate both portions of the food. 

After the fifth month, Ahana completed the well. She went home and slept until sunset. 

After the sixth month, the rain stopped. Leela said, “Let me drink from your well, or I will surely die,” but Ahana said, “Why should I let you drink from a well that you did not dig? And what good is your rice now that you cannot boil it?” 

After the seventh month, Leela died, and Ahana inherited her rice. Ahana grew very rich. She sold rice and charged neighbors to drink from her well. Rice was so scarce that people would sell their houses just for a single bag. Ahana bought herself golden dishes rimmed with jewels; gems and diamonds from every continent; fine dresses of every color; cool, refreshing lakes, and wide open fields.

But her house was no longer fragrant. She realized Leela must have been burning incense to keep the house smelling nice. Ahana only noticed now that her sister was gone.

The waters of the well were still deep even when Ahana’s hair turned grey, and her joints creaked as she moved. Her memory was like a small cloud in a great storm: tossed about, torn up, and pushed away by the winds of her age. She lost things that she needed. She saw things that weren’t there. 

Ahana walked to the well in confusion. She saw a drowning woman in the well, and she thought to herself in terror, “My sister cannot swim!” 

Ahana jumped into the well to save her sister, but she could not find Leela.

There was only the waters of the deep.

And so, Ahana drowned trying to save her own reflection. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two sisters were married to the same merchant. 

They had grown up in another house beside another field. The older sister was Asha and the younger sister was Labuki. The drought had passed and there was plenty in the land. 

When they were children, Labuki asked, “Where has your well gone?”

But Asha dismissed it, thinking to herself, My sister is a infant. She does not know that what she says is nonsense. She doesn’t understand that I do not have a well. Their mother married both girls to a merchant to secure contracts. Their family would make a fortune selling rice through his trade caravans. 

Asha was his first wife, but he loved her younger sister more. He lavished Labuki with gifts and servants, jewels and perfumes, while Asha lived in a separate house on his property. Nevertheless, Asha was an ambitious woman.

“Surely, if I give my husband a son, he will look on me with favor,” Asha said to herself. But when Asha laid with him she produced a daughter, and she cursed her child for being a girl. Even as she fed the baby, she whispered, “I don’t want you, I don’t want you.” 

Labuki laid with the merchant and produced a son.

Asha laid with the merchant again and produced another daughter.

Labuki laid with the merchant again and produced another son. 

Asha laid with the merchant again and produced another daughter.

Labuki laid with the merchant again and died in childbirth. 

“You are my wife now,” said the merchant. “I give you power over your sister’s sons.”

Asha looked at the sleeping boys, who could not yet understand that their mother was dead. She could send them off into the woods alone. Her daughters would be the sole inheritor of the merchant’s wealth, and Asha would be the sole mother of his children.

“They are my sister’s babies,” said Asha. “They will live here with us.”

Her nephews grew up calling her ‘Mother,’ and she never corrected them. It felt like a lie. Her daughters grew up calling her ‘Mother,’ and that felt like a lie, too.

You can read the rest of this story for free on my AO3 for original fiction.

Here's the Reviews:

[vivalabunbun]

Overdue Books and Ghost Stories

Summary: If the scholars at the Akademiya are so smart, why can’t they remember a few due dates? 

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags: Alhaithamx GN! Reader, Shy! Reader (you hate eye contact), Librarian! Reader, Fluff, SFW, attempts at humor, pure fluff, written before 3.6 so Alhaitham is still acting grand sage, slowish burn?, Akademiya setting, slight mutual pining, Sumeru boys drive the librarian insane, especially a certain gray-haired bookworm. 

Authors note: I just wanted something light-hearted and fun to write as a reward for getting stuff done. Shy people who force themselves to be responsible and hate eye contact unite! Enjoy!

He’s being followed. 

Alhaitham can feel the fleeting presence lingering just a few seconds behind him.

The warm late afternoon breeze caressing through his grey locks, his cape trailing behind, and belt clattering with each fluid step. Teal-orange eyes faced forward towards the hectic stall-lined streets, but his attention was focused on the ghost that trails him from behind. 

Every merge into the crowded pathways lined with vendors, every sharp turn down hidden allies, every street he circles back on, the traces linger like a dream fleeting from the memories of deep sleep.

He can’t allow a ghost to accompany him home, lest it decides to haunt the house. 

Alhaitham had wasted enough time walking in aimless circles, if he can’t throw off the ghost, he concludes he must exorcise it. 

Long legs pivot into an alley confined by stone walls and empty of shouting merchants and haggling shoppers. One, two, three slow strides towards the pale dead end that faced him. 

“I know you’re there. Might as well stop with the games.” 

Ghosts don’t exist outside tales told to innocent children to keep them tucked tightly under the covers. However, the iniquitous villains that terrorize the plot do, and they’re known as humans. 

Were they going to fight or flee? 

The presence behind Alhaitham finally materialized into something more than a fleeting dream. He glanced over his shoulder, hand ready to summon his sword. Behind him stood an unassuming figure, with no sensible ill intentions, their hands up as a sign of surrender.

Eyes adverted elsewhere like a child caught trying to sneak one more piece of candied Ajilenakh Nut. 

The viridescent robe that enveloped your figure paired with the matching barrette, there’s no mistaking your identity. Another scholar from the Akademiya, great. 

With power comes prestige, two notions Alhaitham couldn’t care less for. He was more than satisfied as a simple Scribe filing away applications in the archives away from searching eyes.

Those days were a luxury stolen from him by the title of “Acting Grand Sage”. 

Now it wasn’t an uncommon sight for some researcher to come floundering through the crowded halls of the institution towards the ashen-haired man. From time to time there would be the bold student, agglutinating to his side with their wasted attempts at a conversation.

With great power comes great inconveniences. 

Inconveniences that unabashedly believed their polite smiles could divert his teal gaze away from the insincerity. That offering a cup of coffee along with a rehearsed elevator pitch could sow the seeds of a superficial bridge.

One where they’d walk across with forms awaiting a signature along dotted lines or a towards a potential high seat at the Akademiya.

Their desire for this absent bridge coerced them to shallow down their pride, spurring this fruitless endeavor despite the Acting Grand Sage’s indifference and unreturned interest in small talk.

First, he was pressured into taking a position he didn’t want, then he became the target of people’s irrelevant aspirations, and most damning of it all even his privacy’s being invaded. To put it frankly, Alhaitham’s tired of it all.

Surely, it couldn’t take this long for the great institution of wisdom to select another leader, when can he finally stop this sham act?

“I’m off the clock, come find me on the next working day.” He’d prefer it if you didn’t. 

The frigidness of his words with their thinly veiled politeness didn’t cause a single muscle of yours to budge. 

“The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium has been overdue for 6 weeks now, please return it to the House of Daena immediately.” A hand extended out in front of you, open and expecting. 

No introduction, no chivalrous greeting, no frivolous small talk. Alhaitham certainly wasn’t expecting this from the strange ghost that stalked him. 

Oh, so that’s where your eyes were. Honing in solely on the book currently clutched by his hip. One of the many books he signed out of the House Daena on a whim, simple academic works to stimulate his mind during the respite between busybodies and paperwork.

One he then promptly cast to the side by the beckoning of a journal from the restricted access collection. Only after a pile of files was removed from his desk that his eyes rediscovered the title. 

“I understand, I shall promptly return it by the end of the next work day.” 

“No, a student has requested this title for a week now, after they’re done with it, you may sign it out again.” Voice firm and steady as you gestured for the book to be returned to your hand. 

No. An unfamiliar word spoken in a tone now foreign to the towering man.

His keen eyes observed your homogeneous uniform of standard greens and gold, you must be a regular librarian employed by the Akademiya. The Akademiya currently under his jurisdiction.

How bold of you, or has this job already drained you of all sense of self-preservation? 

Regardless, your statement wasn’t without merit. The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium doesn’t belong to him, and who was he to inconvenience a standard employee this Wednesday afternoon?

It wouldn’t serve him any benefit to be in the ire of a librarian, Alhaitham concludes it would be wise to just surrender the book. So he relinquished it.

From your pocket, your other hand produced a slip of parchment. 

“Here is the late fee, please address the payment to the House of Daena by next Wednesday.” 

Instead of offering the Acting Grand Sage a cup of coffee, you offered him a fine in exchange for confiscating his book.

With a slight bow, the ghost was exorcised, ambling back into the busy streets of Sumeru City until your back disappears from his teal eyes. 

Alhaitham was left with no introduction, no coffee, and no book to spend the evening with. Even still, his mind has found something else to ponder about to pass the time.

Alhaitham slowly rejoins the buzzing city streets, the chattering voices carried by the cool breeze that rustled his cape and made his ash locks brush his cheeks. 

‘How refreshing,’ he thought. 

 When the current Acting Grand Sage of the Akademiya was announced most people never heard his name before. Have they ever shared a class together? Were they ever in a group research project together? How could someone so brilliant escape the eyes of eager upstarts?

They could’ve had a prominent headstart in their careers if they’d built those bridges all those years back. 

To be fair, you would’ve fallen into the clueless demographic as well. Were the two of you in the same graduating class? If your job didn’t require you to check the library ledgers every day, his name would’ve eluded you.

Even with a brisk thumbing through of the ledgers, it’s hard to miss the repetition printed on the pages. 

Alhaitham was a regular name to be found in the library ledgers, you’d even argue he’s the biggest patron of the House of Daena. 

However, it wasn’t the only pattern that would jump out to even the blindest man in Teyvat. What would be printed next to each book signed out by Alhaitham? Overdue.

Yes, you would think a man brilliant enough to plan the greatest insurrection in Sumeru’s history could remember a few due dates. But the ledgers refute that impression. 

Before, the Scribe turned Grand Sage would simply return the books 1 or 2 weeks overdue and pay the fee at the same time.

Was it due to the increased responsibilities that now befell him or the increased financial freedom granted by a bigger paycheck that caused this pattern of extended tardiness? 

Regardless, The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium has returned back to the House of Daena, much to the delight of a hysterical student who pushed off a paper for a bit too long.

That Wednesday afternoon was the first time you spoke to the mysterious man of infamy, in an alleyway tucked away from prying eyes. He gave you the book without much of a fight and accepted the punishment without complaint. 

If only it was always this easy. 

First impression overall? The whispers in the halls were an inaccurate depiction of Alhaitham. To you at least, he was a rather tolerable man with a good sense of regulations, handsome hands too.

Was your first impression bad? Impudent even? Script rushed by the pounding metronome of your heart, skipping over a few key sentences, like an introduction. 

Oh, you also forgot to call him Grand Sage… Surely he won’t hold such a petty grudge over that, he seems sensible.  

You flipped through the library ledgers one last time before your duties ended for the day, stopping on a page as you pursed your lip at the familiar name next to The Critique of Pure Reason boldly stamped overdue. 

If only the Grand Sage would fix this sloppy habit of his. 

Alhaitham is very much aware of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, the frequency illusion. The tendency to notice something more often after noticing it for the first time. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the exact inception of this phenomenon he was experiencing, a certain meeting in an alleyway. 

–

“General Mahamatra,” A distinct cadence enticed the Ashen-haired man’s focus away from the matra delivering his daily report. 

There’s a hush that befell the halls of the Akademiya today, no reason to speculate, it’d obvious to even the dimmest of fools. Cyno, the General Mahamatra, returned today from the sandy wastelands. 

In fact, Alhaitham had just concluded his brief discussion with the electro wielder a few moments prior. The General left the paperwork delivery to the woefully ignored matra currently in front of the dendro wielder. 

The faint reverberation of the dreaded title paralyzed the few scholars and researchers that dared roam the in presence of the General. Intense scarlet eyes centered on the viridescent clad librarian that called, your eyes seemed occupied with the object encased by tan fingers. 

“Law and Order of the Pursuit of Wisdom is overdue.” A steady cadence incited the General. 

“By how long?” Spoke an authoritarian tone. 

“8 weeks, General.” There wasn’t the slightest pause from you. 

The dense tension within the enclosed space was palpable, many pairs of eyes fixed on the scene happening under these fluorescent lights.

The seconds counting down to the decisive moment, what will become of the incautious librarian after this show-down? 

…

“My apologies, I should’ve returned the book before I embarked, may I pay the fee now?” The treacherous edge was absent from the general’s voice. 

With a swift nod, you turned on your heel, leading the General Mahamatra toward the judgment awaiting him in the House of Daena. A sight so flipped on its head, the witnesses of this event couldn’t seem to decide which direction was up anymore.

–

“Mr. Kaveh.” 

A librarian intercepted a certain famed architect’s search for a certain Grand Sage evading the responsibilities piling up on a polished desk.

A spectacle was certainly about to happen in the House of Daena, Alhaitham gathers from his position just covered by a towering bookshelf. 

“Oh, yes?” The furrow between blond eyebrows dissipates in an instant, his fury distracted for now by the polite use of his name. 

“Were you the one to sign out The Death and Life of Great Design, Mr. Kaveh?” You held out the title in question, holy text for every architecture, your impassive eyes trained on the cover. 

“That’s correct, I’m certain I returned it in time, has anything arisen?” The light of Kshahrewar raised a brow at the sudden inquiry.

“Would you mind explaining this, Mr. Kaveh?” 

The book was pried open, revealing to the world the chaotic collage of jumbled words and sketches haphazardly scribbled among the print with the faintest whiff of wine.

Even from this distance, the bold vandalism was observable to his teal eyes. So was the slackened jaw of the architect with his now saucer-sized eyes. 

The closest equivalent Alhaitham could compare your current expression with was a parent’s gaze toward the discovery of a crayon mural on a wall. Three pairs of eyes observing the blatant defacement of literature. 

“The replacement cost of this book is 141,471 mora, it was an antique print.” Your hands gingerly shut the covers, hiding the book’s shame away. 

 “H-how much??” 

“I’ve written the amount down on this form, please address the payment to the House of Daena by the end of this month, Mr. Kaveh.” From your pocket, you presented the blonde with a fine that exacerbated his dreadful finances. 

With this, your performance concluded, a mannered bow before swiveling back to your post at the library’s front desk. Leaving the famed Kaveh silent and color absent from his face, the slip of parchment pathetically pinched between ailing fingers. 

Stepping back into the shadow of the shelves, Alhaitham reaches a hand up to enable the feature of his earphones that preserves his sanity. He already had a premonition of what was to greet him, might as well enjoy the fleeting moments of silence while it lasted. 

–

The sky over Sumeru was a brilliant blue, tufts of fluffy clouds cushioned the earth from the harshest rays of the sun, but not enough to embargo the comforting warmth. It’d be a shame to throw away such beautiful weather in the confines of an office.

Enough justification for Alhaitham to enjoy a quiet reading session under a hidden pavilion, just to the side of a neglected pathway at the Akademiya. 

Just because a place is neglected, it doesn’t mean it’s completely abandoned. The scurrying of two sets of steps made their presence known along the uneven path. 

“Please return Handbook of Qualitative Research to the House of Daena,” your stony voice perked his ears. 

Those words weren’t directed towards the unseen Acting Grand Sage, no, they were addressed towards the researcher whom you were just a few seconds behind. Impassive gaze concentrated on the overdue book in his arms. 

The exasperated man huffed out a breath, bringing a hand up to rub at his dry eyes drooping under the weight of the discolored skin hanging under them. Alhaitham hypothesizes that this must have gone on for a while. 

“Listen, I know it’s overdue, I promise to return it once this report is finished.” The researcher tries to quicken his strides. 

“No, it’s late 4 weeks now, please hand over the book.” That signature gesture made its appearance, palms open and expecting, your pace never once faltering. 

“Could you please make an exception, just this once?” Tired exasperation morphing into a sharper edge. 

“There are three other patrons queuing for this book, I’ll add you to the list and notify you once the title is available again.” Indifferent eyes never once left the imprisoned book. 

Ah, your words became the straw that broke the Sumpter Beast’s back.

“Three? THREE??! I don’t have the time! If they’re students they can wait, this project has dragged out for months, months! It’s only now drawing to a close, oh for the love of Lesser Lord Kusanali, just let me-”

Fatigue overboiled into raw frustration, the researcher now lively as ever, moved senselessly close to your face. 

One boot-clad step makes its appearance from behind a pillar. It’d be best to de-escalate the situation now before the potential for a physical alteration manifests into reality.

Especially for a librarian that’s too focused on a book to recognize the looming threat. As Acting Grand Sage, maintaining order was the priority.  

Instantaneously, a lone finger shot out towards the azure sky, with it followed the wearied eyes of a man mid-manifesto. The hypnotically soothing hue of the vast space momentarily ceased the researcher’s grievance, reminding him of the bigger picture, of the bigger world. 

Bringing him comfort with the realization that these sleepless nights won’t be permanent, that this too shall pass. 

Was that the goal of your diversion? Probably not. Regardless, the hostage has been rescued into your secure arms, back where the book belonged.

The view of the sky must’ve reminded the researcher’s body of its limit, as his movements faltered back sluggishly. Bloodshot eyes blinking at his now empty hands. 

“Please address the payment to the House of Daena by next week.” A slip of parchment produced from your pocket fills that void for him. 

Without another word, the librarian trekked back up the beaten path, leaving behind two very silent men. With only the researcher’s figure left in sight, Alhaitham’s mind quickly lost interest.

Withdrawing back behind the cover of the marble pillar, he couldn’t help but recount the details. 

‘The General Librarian’, ‘The Punisher of Fines’, ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’. All names coined by the sleep-deprived minds of slouching students and destitute scholars awaiting the saving grace that was their paycheck. 

Perhaps it’s that inorganic cadence of your voice. Or how one of your hands reaches out to demand the return of printed works while the other indited the transgressors with a note worth months of coffee.

Maybe it’s the focus of your catatonic gaze solely upon the books in question, denying wrongdoers a chance of mercy formed by eye contact. 

An itch tickled the back of Alhaitham’s throat, the same sensation that tugged the corner of his lips upwards towards the brilliant sky.

How did such a fascinating individual slip away from under his nose for so long? 

Almost there, just a little longer, the doors to the House of Daena came into view, you’re so close to reprieve. One hand still clutching the freshly recused book against your chest, you pried the door to the staff room open. Empty.

Thank the Archons. 

Ducking into the sanctuary devoid of library patrons and chattering coworkers, sealing the solid wood behind your back, you could finally breathe.

Lungs burning for the taste of oxygen again, the pounding in your chest subsiding with each greedy gulp. Drained figure finding solstice against the sturdy door.

You achieved your goal, so why were you so defeated? 

His eyes got close, dangerously close. In your peripheral, the puffiness of his eye bags were in full detail. Your lids shut firmly as if shutting out the intrusive thoughts that threatened to infiltrate your mind.

It’s fine, everything is fine, your eyes never met. There’s no arrow in the back of your heel, the script has not gone off course. 

What a childish Achilles heel, eye contact, the most basic requirement for a conversation between peers and people. One you can’t fulfill. Even the briefest moment of connection will crumble the mask you dawn, exposing the puny coward to the world.

One look and you’ll be thrown off script, your career’s saving grace. 

Book overdue?: “Please return [Title] and address the late fee payment to the House of Danea by next week.” 

Damages?: “Please compensate the House of Daena for the damages done to [Title] by next month.”

Need a book that isn’t available?: “I’ll add your name to the waitlist for [Title] and inform you when it’s returned.” 

Lines rehearsed time and time again, now ingrained into your tongue, spoken by instinct. It’s not a conversation, it’s merely a stage play, performed by a coward shielded by a crafted blanket of indifference. 

‘The General Librarian’, ‘The Punisher of Fines’, ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’.

Better that they interpret your aversion to eye contact as malice instead of cowardice. After all, the world is not kind, especially not towards the meek. Papers and delegated responsibilities suddenly thrust upon those too shy to voice their dismay. 

What could the meek do? Nothing. So they’ll silently grit their teeth and bare it all as a doormat trampled by those whose voices don’t stumble and shutter. 

A scheme you’ve fell victim to time and time again within the walls of this hallow institute of knowledge. An experience under oath by oneself to never repeat again.

The intermission is over, the performer must return back to their positions. You unlatched the door, stepping back into the fluorescent lights of the House of Daena. 

Alhaitham is aware of the frequency illusion, however, he’d argue that it’s no longer an illusion. The ghost has come back to haunt him. For what reason? Alhaitham’s not sure. Surely his books aren’t that overdue, and if they were then why hasn’t your hand appeared in front of him? 

Instead, you left traces, whispers of your presence in the form of handkerchiefs and pressed flowers on slips of paper.

The evidence found beside the Acting Grande Sage’s lunches and piles of applications, his teal eyes always just catching the briefest viridescent wisp fleeing the scene of the crime. 

The ashen-haired man finds great delight in abstruse books, the rare feeling of reading a line more than once to grasp the concepts formed on the page.

He enjoys the sporadic occurrences that challenge his sharp mind, it’s good to feel fresh thoughts run through. 

Has Alhaitham found an archaic journal tucked away in some dusty corner? Perhaps he found a handwritten copy of a book, one with fewer than ten in existence. Was it a long-forgotten text that challenged contemporary beliefs?

Surely, to baffle the man known as Alhaitham, the scripts must have something reality-shattering. Like something saying that the azure sky, with its moon and sun, were nothing but mere imitations.   

No. It wasn’t any print signed out from the restricted collection in the House of Daena that had Alhaitham’s mind pondering the slightest nuances. It was the librarian, currently penning his name down in the ledgers, that perplexed the towering man. 

Humans are flawed in the sense that they’re uncomfortable with the concept of ‘unconditionality’. Everything has a fair price and equivalent exchange. One back was scratched in return for the same. So, what did you want? 

Were you trying to form a bridge? One crafted from slips of paper and thin decorative fabric? If so, then why has your introduction yet to reach his ears? 

The eyes are the window to the soul. Windows that offer indispensable insight into the other person’s agenda and convictions. For the Acting Grand Sage, it’s easier for him to gain access to the restricted vaults in the House of Daena than the librarian’s eyes. 

Is it unprofessional to think that the Grand Sage, the figurehead of the Akademiya, is a menace? If you kept these thoughts to yourself then it shouldn’t be a problem, right? 

Could it be the nagging of Kshahrewar students, whining over the unavailability of their holy text, that made you hypersensitive to the treatment of printed works? 

The students should direct their grievances towards the ‘light’ of their Darshan, the one that defaced their holy text. You’re a librarian, not a magician you can’t make books appear from the abyss. 

It was a coincidence to witness the Grand Sage, Alhaitham, enjoying a shawarma wrap under the shade of a stained-glass pavilion. There’s nothing wrong with a man just having his lunch. However, there was something very wrong with how his other hand held a book.

Paper becomes discolored in the stained area and transparent as molecules of oil fill the spaces between cellulose fibers. Over time, the parchment will become brown and brittle, the ink lifted by the fatty acids. 

But what can you do? Interrupt the Grand Sage’s lunch? Lecture a superior on proper book care procedures? 

You’re not dense. 

Still, you could take some preventative measures. Done in the form of a handkerchief carefully folded just behind his right shoulder. He seemed too engrossed in the text to perceive your proximity to him. It was just for a few seconds anyways. You retreated. 

The next incident happened within the wall of the House of Daena, where food and drinks were strictly forbidden. It was a slow day, with nothing much to do besides returning a few books back to their proper homes along the hundreds of shelves. 

During one of the many trips pushing the cart back and forth along the path, a certain head of ashen hair with teal streaks fell into your peripheral. It must be a slow day for him too. The Grand Sage certainly made himself comfortable, desk piled with stacks of books strewn about. 

The purse on your lips returns as one side of your cheek is sucked in. A few of the books were opened and placed paper-side down on the smooth table. You witnessed him losing interest in his current text, letting it join the spread bodies of its fellow brethren. 

Laying a book face-down breaks the binding and weakens the hinges, where the covers attach to the pages. Some of those titles have existed for more than double your combined ages, think of their poor spines. 

Out of pity for the aged scripts and for your own patience, while passing his table from a pocket you slipped out a clumsily made bookmark.

Fashioned from scrap paper, craft supplies, and one of the many Sumeru Roses that dotted the paths in this nation. A new hobby of yours that’s proven itself useful. 

With your duty fulfilled you returned back among the towering shelves. 

–

The job of a Grand Sage is demanding, much more demand than the job description of a librarian, you understood that. However, surely there are enough hours in the day for him to have lunch and read separately. 

The position of Grand Sage means he often has to determine the best policies and actions. So why can’t he read one book at a time, close it properly, then pick up the next? 

Being the Grand Sage must be time-consuming and hectic, but he could at least send someone to return his books before the due date. 

How many handkerchiefs did you purchase in the last month alone? How many yards of decorative string? Is it possible to make the Sumeru Rose endangered? Would it be appropriate for you to itemize your purchases for reimbursement by the Akademiya? 

For a person that enjoys reading printed works, it seems that he’s only concerned with the contents of the book and not its physical well-being. A menace to literature. 

You were the unlucky sheep tasked with delivering the new budget proposal for the House of Daena. Stepping into the grand office after an unnecessarily long elevator ride, you wondered what violations will greet you this time, or if the elusive man was even here. 

Ambling towards his desk, eyes focused on the budget in front of you, only switching position once the polished wood came into view. 

Ah, he had another book face-down on the desk with one of your bookmarks just off to the side. He almost had it. Glancing up, your world momentarily stilled. 

The Grand Sage was in his office after all. Chest gently rose and fell, face supported by the back of his knuckle, long lashes closed. Thank Archons, he’s asleep. Your heart restarts its tempo. 

Your eyes quickly snapped back to the cover of the book, The Symposium, you recognized that title from this morning’s flip through the ledgers. It’s overdue.

There’s not even a point in sighing, you expected this. Flipping over the philosophical work you gingerly placed the bookmark in properly, then shut the covers closed. 

Curious eyes wandered back to the sleeping figure in the board seat. His ashen hair looked soft as it fell across his face, lips slightly parted as quiet breaths exhaled.

From his lips, your greedy eyes began to trail down his covered arms, all the way down to the bare break that exposed his robust arm-

You stopped yourself, he’s asleep. You must be reading too many books from a certain island nation.

Is it unprofessional to think that the Grand Sage, the figurehead of the Akademiya, is attractive? If you kept these thoughts to yourself then it shouldn’t be a problem, right? 

You left two pieces of parchment on his desk. 

‘I’ll give a one-week extension, please return this title to the House of Daena before then.’

Alhaitham certainly didn’t expect to find this from ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’ when waking from a nap, he wondered if it was conquered by the remnants of sleep. 

Or perhaps it was their parting gift, one last lingering trace before the ghost that haunted him for these past few months retreated back into their world. No more handkerchiefs left by his lunches. No more pressed flowers to decorate his desk. His teal eyes were unable to catch a very specific hue of viridescences. 

Did the ghost slip out from under his nose again? 

–

There isn’t much of a reason for Alhaitham to be at the Pardis Dhyai, after all, he’s not a Amurta scholar. Just a chore from this temporary position. His boot-clad steps made their way up the stone path blooming with lush vegetation, the view was almost enough to make up for the troublesome journey.  

Keen eyes honed in on familiar ebony ears from the doorway to the greenhouse. Oh, Tighnari is here? What a rare sight. 

“Please pay the late fee by the end of the week.” A certain cadence seized his attention. 

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Tighnari sighed, moving to place his closed pen where he left off in the book. 

“Chief Forest Ranger, please use this instead.” From your pocket emerged an all too familiar violet. 

“Oh? Did you make this yourself? Mm, a Sumeru Rose, on my way here I noticed that these plants don’t seem as plentiful recently.” The forest ranger observed the bookmark in his gloved hands. 

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” 

Oh, so you gave those bookmarks out to anyone indiscriminately. It made sense, you’re a librarian, employed to help the patrons of the House of Daena with their literary needs.

It didn’t mean much just to hand out a few slips of paper. Something annoying and greener than the foliage scratched at Alhaitham’s neck. 

–

At the Pardis Dhyai, you had a duty to fulfill, as did he. Not an appropriate time to initiate a conversation.

Thus, the ashen-haired man can only mull over the situation in the stillness of his own home. A blond architect sent out to fetch groceries to account for a certain damages fee. 

A lone finger taps rhythmically on solid oak while the opposite hand supports his pondering head. As quickly as you came, you left just as suddenly. As capricious as the wind, slipping through the gaps of his fingers just as easily.

How does one catch a ghost? 

Beryl gaze travels the length of the workspace, over the scattered sheets and abandoned quills, landing upon negligently stacked covers. A scheme conquers itself into existence.

Throughout history, many methods and rituals have been used to summon beings from the great beyond. As a scholar, who was he not to test those hypotheses?

The Norton Anthology of World Literature; Overdue 5 weeks

Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research; Overdue 5 weeks

Cases on Academic Rights and Justice; Overdue 5 weeks

The Symposium; Overdue 8 weeks

Patron: Alhaitham 

Ah, you can’t let this continue. It’s time for ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’ to collect their dues. Even if you wanted to bash your head into the ledgers. 

–

Just beyond the threshold of a pavilion offering shelter from the sun's rays stood a familiar caped frame. Unabashedly reading The Symposium, back resting against the pillar. 

Plugging the title into your script your lungs muster up a deep inhale, it’s time for the coward to dance on stage. 

“Grand Sage.” You stopped a few paces away. 

There was the gentle clatter of his belt and cape, the weight of his gaze now resting upon your shoulders, but your eyes were honed in on the cover in his clutches. You got his title this time. 

Alhaitham feels he should give bygone scholars and minds more merit, a ghost can be summoned, an incentive is needed for the ritual. 

“Please return The Symposium immediately, and address the payment to the House of Daena by the end of the week.” Like rehearsed, your hand reached out, palms awaiting the smooth back of the book. 

His half-gloved hand shut the pages together, rotating the book horizontally, it slowly travels the distance to your hands. Your eyes chaperoned every movement, legs eager to return backstage to the House of Daena. 

Just as the smooth cover brushed against the clammy skin of your palms before your fingers could fully enclose around it, the title suddenly took a detour. With it followed your attentive eyes. 

It’s a childish scheme really, like a schoolyard bully using his vertical advantage to hold the object of desire just out of reach. As the saying goes, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Such elementary actions hold some merit… because they worked. 

Attentive eyes clashed with teal, stunned irises that dilated faster than the thump of your heart. You got to witness the Grand Sage’s features in all their glory for the first time, so his beryl eyes also held some citrine in them. 

Instantly, your neck snapped to the side. But it’s already too late, the coward dropped their mask, shattering at their feet. Revealing to the world the scarlet face of the wimp whose sheet was stripped off their heads, there was never a ghost, only a performer.

You were standing in the shade, yet it felt as if you stumbled into the desert. 

Alhaitham’s indebted to the fact you don’t look people in the eyes, such an event would prove disastrous for this institution of wisdom and rationality. Such a sight should have limited access he deems. 

A sweet breeze blows through the pavilion, cooling his cheeks and yours the same, however, the ears hidden under his earphones still burned. 

Throughout the House of Daena, the soft fluttering of pages turning and quills scribbling down notes could be heard. At the front, a librarian glances at the clock slowly ticking down to the hour of freedom. 

“I would like to return these,” spoke a husky voice. 

Your eyes traveled up from the freshly stacked books up toned forearms, reaching their final destination on a pair of impartial teal irises. 

Opening up the ledger, you swiftly flipped to a familiar name. Scanning the titles you noted each one down. 

The Uses of Literacy; due in 2 weeks

The Great Conversation; due in 2 weeks

Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity; due in 2 weeks

Patron: Alhaitham

“Thank you for returning the books before due, have a great evening.” You bowed a little at the Grand Sage. Gathering up the books into your hand and placing them in the return cart. 

It’s past 5:30 pm, the Acting Grand Sage is now off the clock. Thus, he didn’t let one second go to waste. Long legs taking swift strides out of the grand doors of the Akademiya, skillfully dodging the searching eyes of ambitious scholars.

Ambling down the stone pathways to the bustling city center. 

Entering the favored tavern of any famished local, Alhaitham places his order. Watching the clock as Lambad packed his two to-go bags.

Dropping the mora off on the counter, Alhaitham seized the freshly made dinners into his hands, exiting the tavern. Merging back into the crowded pathways until he reached his front door. Shifting the bags into one hand, he turns the silver key to his abode. 

Placing the takeout bags onto the polished kitchen table, his teal eyes once again wander towards a clock, 6:10 pm. 

He prepares two glasses and a bottle of wine from a secured cabinet. It’s the weekend now, there’s no risk in enjoying a few glasses tonight. Just as the ashen-haired man finished setting the table, the unlocked door lightly creaks ajar. 

Your frame soon comes into view, arms stretched above your head to loosen the tension that comes with a desk job. A breathy yawn followed the release of tight muscles along your back, walking into the kitchen where Alhaitham stood. 

“You’ve worked hard today.”

You hummed in agreement, hand gently rubbing the fatigue from your eyes as the delicious scent of tandoori roast chicken beckoned your nose.

Food and drinks were strictly forbidden in the House of Daena, and you’re quite ravenous. Advancing toward the paper bag located on your side of the table with an eager bounce in your step. 

Only to be blocked by a toned arm. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something, my librarian?” Inquired a low voice. 

You glanced up at the hurdle that dare separate you from a delicious meal, lip pursed out just the slightest bit. 

“I returned my books before due, desired behavior requires positive reinforcement.” There’s a glint in his beryl eyes. 

You huffed, you should’ve known he was feeling a bit cheeky today from the moment he stepped foot into the library. Still, he’s right, good behavior deserves a reward. 

Tenderly your hands clasped around his soft cheeks, guiding his face downwards as you straighten your back. His ashen locks tickled you as you awarded the towering man his prizes. 

Your lips gingerly press themselves against his features, the warmth of your burning cheeks felt soothing to him, and you could feel the upward pull of his lips.

Once on the forehead, once under his eye, once on the nose, and… one final time against his soft lips.

Quickly pulling away, the slow blink followed by a slightly quirked eyebrow tells you enough about his thoughts. 

“The last one was a thanks for the food.” You turned your flaming cheeks away, settling down and releasing your meal from the confines of the bag. 

Your lover hums in understanding, a cheeky smirk ever so clear on his usually stoic face. Regardless, he moves to his side of the table and unpacks his dinner, filling two glasses with fragrant wine.

A clink signified the start of your dinner ritual, performed away from prying eyes. 

Somewhere during the comfortably quiet dinner, Alhaitham’s hand by habit inched towards the book placed just off to the side, violet bookmark recording his last endeavor among the text. 

Just as quickly as it started, his hand stopped. Like a stern swat, your eyes pierced into the back of his hand. A silent warning. He withdrew his hand back to his side, deciding to practice proper dining manners, for you of course. 

Satisfied, your attention returns back to the seasoned meat and sauces on your plate, fork and knife quickly getting to work. 

Alhaitham’s perfectly spiced food took a backseat in his mind, eyes more interested in observing the endearing fullness of your cheeks as you chewed.

Inquisitive irises returned his stare, he sees the teal that reflected off. How could the corners of his mouth not lift at the sight in front of him?

Please keep your eyes on him, so that he may continue to watch you for now and for the far future. His librarian. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[sunny-porridge]

Warriors knew very well about the Disappointed Stare that Time would use to smite the younger Links’ chaotic tendencies or to call out someone’s irresponsible behavior.

Of course, he did!

He himself had used it numerous times during the War, after finding himself warding two prank-positive young heroes, a guileful purple merchant, a mischievous shadow imp, and whatever Tingle was.

As so, he was well aware that the Disappointed Stare could neutralize an entire Link for up to 180 minutes, although it seemed to have a particularly strong effect on Twilight.

It was for this reason that Warriors was not surprised to find sheer terror in Twilight’s eyes in response to the look they were seeing on Time’s eyes, something far more dangerous than the infamous Disappointed Stare.

Oh, this was so much worse.

It was rarer even than the mythical Proud Dad Look.

It was a secret, more complex third thing, that Warriors had privately feared since the first time he saw it.

It was a look that sent a chill down his spine. It spoke of incoming, impending, inevitable disaster.

The Gremlin Gaze.

They still couldn’t talk about what happened during the previous Gremlin Gaze incident.

But whatever Time was planning right now, well…

It would not end well for his victims.

[autumnslance]

G'raha's Leadership in the Final Days

Finally got PunchyCat to the Final Days, and while we often speak to the big cutscene where G'raha "goes into Exarch mode" and takes command in the chaos, before that he and the WoL run around Radz-at-Han investigating the Blasphemy, and even there, G'raha's many years as Exarch really show through in how he interacts with the traumatized and terrified people.

Rahdvira: Sisters have mercy, what is happening to the world!? What am I to do…? Is nowhere safe!? G'raha Tia: Settle down, friend. The danger has passed…at least for now. If it's not too painful to remember, could you tell us what you saw?

and at the end of the man's tale:

G'raha Tia: That is enough, my good man. You were brave to share with us your tale. Many of your fellow merchants are safe. The High Crucible, too, has survived mostly unscathed. Pray stay close to your friends and loved ones, and rest your body and mind while you are able. G'raha Tia: I suspect that is the most we can expect the people here to tell us. I think it best we find a place outside the bazaar where we might rest and review our findings.

Choosing to Speak with G'raha...

G'raha Tia: It might distress those still traumatized by the incident to discuss what we've learned within earshot…

He also remembers the details of how WoL knew Khalzahl (thanks to that great memory of his, hearing the reports of the first trip to Thavnair). As Mihleel is shaken by remembering the terror erupting at her tables, however...

G'raha Tia: Forgive me. I would not have you recall the memory if it brings you pain. If I could, I would ask just one more thing.

After getting directions to Khalzahl's neighborhood, WoL and G'raha question an older woman:

Mahti: I don't travel much these days, but my daughter's told me not to venture outside. Stuck in here as I am, I've heard little about these bizarre goings-on. G'raha Tia: Rest assured, the city is safe for now, but the situation may change without warning. G'raha Tia: I urge you: stay close to your daughter, and be prepared to take refuge should the satrap order it. Mahti: Yes, I shall do just that. Thank you for your concern, and pray stay safe as well.

And then the sleepy Arkasodara down the street:

Parigha: Hmmm…? Could you come back another time? I just woke up, and I'm not exactly in the mood for idle chitchat. G'raha Tia: Well, that's one way to avoid the panic, I suppose… G'raha Tia: Pardon our intrusion. You may not have noticed, but a great danger has come to Thavnair. I encourage you to stay alert, and prepare to flee the city should the situation turn dire. G'raha Tia: But before we leave you in peace…pray allow us to ask a question or two.

And finally, when dealing with Djinabaha at Ruveydah Fibers, helping the employees pack things away before he'd even talk, G'raha finishes with this as we go on to the next quest (and Ahewann's fate).

G'raha Tia: My friend, we must take our leave. I pray that your establishment is spared further tragedy. But remember: your lives are far more precious than any wares. If you are ordered to flee, do so without hesitation. Djinabaha: Indeed… I thank you for your concern, and pray you two take care as well.

G'raha knows how to talk to people shaken by disaster, calming and reassuring, and giving them clear advice and action to take to keep themselves safe. It's a handy precursor to his taking command in the next cutscene, reminding us that he is, unfortunately, all too familiar with events similar to these, and this steadiness, thoughtfulness, and concern comes from too many years of practice.

[leggerefiore]

cw: 18+ content, afab reader, breeding kink, talk of pregnancy, Volo being himself

pairing: Volo/Reader

Minors DNI

You groaned as you were pushed against the sheets of the futon. Pleasure coursed through your veins like a liquid electricity. Everything felt like far too distant from you while also being all-consuming. Your thighs were wrapped around the waist of the merchant as he drilled into you. His expression was intense – Grey eyes entirely focused on you as his long hair hung down almost like a veil. His bun had come undone somewhere in the mess.

Why had he come here? You had not expected to see him ever again after the situation on Mount Coronet. In fact, you had been quite sure that he despised you, yet here he was fucking you senseless. A cry left your throat, but his hand came to silence you – Not wanting anyone to hear and come investigate. You weakly tried to pull away his hand, but his strength was something else. Your walls clamped down on him as his dick hit your cervix. He grinned down at you maliciously. The pounding of your heart in your chest was maddening. He brought his other hand to rest on your lower abdomen – right above a certain organ. You swallowed.

“… You have taken everything from me,” his voice was low and ominous – a hint of strain was present. “You wanted to make up, right? You begged me not to go. Well, I have a way you can make it up to me, chosen one.” The pleasure mixed strangely with the apprehensive terror in your veins. “I don't want the blood of the ancient people of Sinnoh to end.” His thrusts felt so meaningful now, and his hand massaged your womb. You swallowed dryly despite the drool escaping out the corner of your mouth. “You'll help me, right? Didn't you want to help me?” Every rut of his hip into you made drew more and more pleasure out of you. Your hands grasped onto his arm. His hand was still over your mouth.

A chuckle left him as you tightened around him even more at these words. Part of you wanted to deny his claims, but… But you could not deny what you felt for the blond. Despite everything… Despite the manipulation and even attack on your life – You loved Volo. You wanted Volo. Having a family with him… You managed finally to get his hand off your mouth.

“P-please, Volo!” you begged. His eyes narrowed. Apparently, he wanted to hear more than a simple plea. His thrusts slowed, and you shook your head. You were so close. “G-give me a baby,” the words felt strange leaving your lips – you really should just hate him. “I-I'll help continue your bloodline!” Suddenly, his hips slammed against your own harshly. His hand took your wrists and pinned them above your head as he fucked into you harshly. The hand previously massaging you came to rub your clit with some expert knowledge – driving you further to the edge. A tight coil spun into something painful before finally snapping. You came with a loud cry.

Yet, Volo's cruelty apparently knew no bounds as he kept his harsh pace to fuck you through your orgasm. Writhing under him, your toes curled painfully. He watched your reactions with a malicious intent, clearly enjoying overstimulating you. Your cries and moans were nothing but a precious song to him. Yet, he was still a human. Volo found himself hitting you with one final thrust before cumming deep inside of you, cock head pressed flush to your womb. The warmth inside of you made your body shake.

He laid atop you for a moment. Both of you a pile of limbs and panting breaths. Your freed arms came to wrap around his neck, holding him tightly. Despite everything – You really loved him. Genuinely. It was painful. Whenever he finally regained himself, you half expected him to raise up and leave you to never show his face again.

Yet, that was not what followed. With him still buried inside you, you felt his cock begin to harden again. Grey eyes stared down at you intensely.

“… We have to make certain, no?” His hands came to hold your hips. You swallowed. It seemed your night would be long and exhausting.

Volo had no intention of leaving you.

[generalsdiary]

mint tea

gn!reader x Zhongli

warnings: none

word count: 500~

a/n: in his latest bday art the shirt he is wearing is sheer so it is canon that he has gold lines on his body and i’m just screaming over the fact

description: just a fluffy drabble, domestic vibes with the geo archon

„hello, darling“ the deep warm toned voice greeted you, his hand caressing your cheek. you smiled leaning your head more into his hand.

„took your gloves off already?“ a question which was more of a statement while you looked at his forearms and the gold lines complimenting his skin.

he hums in agreement. already aware of your complaints and thoughts about how pretty they are, but he would always remind you that he preferred to keep his identity private.

his eyes close when you softly kiss his cheek, those same lines glowing softly a dim golden shade.

„who did you terrorize today, my dearest?“ you ask with a bit of amusement in your tone. he is quite a menace, especially in his old age. steering trouble and confusion amongst historians, taking money from the rich while pretending not to know much of it all the while being the inventor of mora.

„a merchant claiming they knew the original recipe of bamboo shoot soup. while the recipe did continue getting passed on for generations they altered it over time..“ he continued talking, you didn't mind. the tone of his voice is a always beautiful sound to your ears.

you reach for his hand laying small kisses on those golden lines, he smiles, humming softly stopping his story.

you look up meeting his warm gaze. „don't stop on my account, darling“

with a soft smile on his face, he quietly says, „your sweetness knows no bounds, reminding me each day why I fell in love with such a kind person as you“

he never fails to make your heart flutter, giving a bright smile to your face. like the sun shined on you and you only. it wasn't a flirty comment, more of a kind statement, he always came up with new ways, new words to which he can say he loves you.

„may I tempt you with some tea?“ you chirp.

„tea sounds wonderful“ he nods, following you to the kitchen. he stands next to you while you put the kettle on. it all feels natural, the air between you two light, welcoming, safe. his eyes are observing your movements, the sun shining through the windows throwing different shadows and light beams making it all look even more magical. he moves closer and kisses your temple, his hand caressing your jaw so you don't slip accidentally out of the kiss.

„mint?“ he asks, the refreshing scent fills the air, reminding you of your first date, the same mint. that is how you feel to him, refreshing, sweet, cooling from the loud world. he feels the same way to you; a warm embrace, a protecting feeling like mint soothes the throat when it is sore. his eyes full of love and adoration for you, and so are yours for him. the word mint doesn't mean what it meant years ago, it means you're here with me, right? and, you're not going anywhere? speaking almost like a different language, saying so much with so little.

„mint“ you answer.