#Spices Grinding Machine

[seoagency26]

Blower Pulverizer: Backbone of Spices Business in 2024

A blower pulverizer is a system used to grind diverse materials, which includes grains, herbs, and spices, into a quality powder. it is generally used in meals processing and agricultural industries to prepare meals components and animal feed.

Blower pulverizers are designed to be efficient and clean to use, with adjustable velocity and grinding settings to attain the preferred fineness and quality. they may be regularly made of excessive quality materials together with stainless-steel, to make sure sturdiness and long0 lasting overall performance.

Read More: Blower Pulverizer

[johnypage95]

Bakery oven machine India:-

Are you looking for a pocket-friendly pouch packing machine India? Get in-hand experience with the best quality products in the creature industry like masala grinding machines India. For more information, visit: https://creatureindustry.com/bakery-machines/

[simwithshan]

"Workout" Planner Traditions Mod (PUBLIC - 11/9TH)

Hey Simmers! 🌟 Get ready to spice up your Sims' lives with the "Workout Planner Traditions" mod – because who says getting fit can't be fun? Let's break down the weekly grind with seven days of wellness awesomeness!

🥦 Meal Prep Day: Make a 8 serving size meal for the days ahead!

🏃‍♀️ Leg Day - Jogging or Treadmill: Time to break a sweat with some cardio fun! Make your Sims lace up those sneakers and hit the pavement or hop on a treadmill for a leg day that's as fast-paced as their ambition.

💪 Arm Day - Workout Machine: If you don't have a workout machine at home, head to the gym! Pump those iron and sculpt those biceps. Your Sims will be flexing their muscles in no time!

🍔 Cheat Meal Day - Have a Snack: Throw the diet out the window (just for today)! Indulge in Sims' favorite snacks or quick meal, because life is too short for constant kale. 🍕🍟🍰

🧘‍♀️ Full Body Day - Do Yoga: Time to find your Sims' inner zen! Whether they're beginners or yoga gurus, this full-body workout will have them saying "om" in no time. Downward dog, anyone?

🧘‍♂️ Body Recovery Day - Meditate, Bubble Baths or Massages: Give those muscles a break and let your Sims find their chill. A little meditation, Bubble Bath or Massage goes a long way to keep them centered and ready for the next workout adventure. (Spa Day Required)

📸 Progress Photo - Take Body Photo: Say cheese! Capture the Sims' fitness journey with mirror pics! Watch the progress unfold! Stand near a mirror & use your phone to take a photo (not a selfie).

Download

[yearningagain]

it's enough (to make a girl blush)

HIIII EVERYONE so you know that fic i was asking for a beta reader for?? well i found one!! and i'd like to present the first chapter of it's enough (to make a girl blush), my first SERIOUS fic that i 100% intend on finishing!!

i'd like to thank the amazing @kayleeofcamelot for being my lovely beta reader <3

also on AO3!

wc: 1.1k | rating: e (18+) | pairing: steddie | cw: none | tags: a/b/o, alpha eddie munson, omega steve harrington, modern au, baker steve, famous eddie, getting together, gay eddie, bi steve, soulmates/true mates/scent mates, side buckingham

part two | part three

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

"God, fuck- alpha, please ..." Steve begs, sat upon a man's toned, yet lean thigh, grinding and rutting against it as he chased his high. The man chuckled darkly, his hands coming to grip Steve's hips, tight enough that Steve knows there will be bruises, guiding him along roughly.

With barely open eyes, he managed to peek at the hands that would surely leave marks come morning. Dark tendrils of tattoos that stretched from the man’s second knuckle and up his arms. Fingertips calloused and dexterous, nails bitten and paint chipped, and almost every finger has more than two silver rings adorning it, save for his right hands ring finger. No, that finger holds only one ring. An aged, loved, golden band with three small red crystals set in a line.

Small gasps left Steve's lips, every roll of the omega’s hips pressed his cocklette deliciously against the fabric of the omega's thin shorts. Both pants had surely been ruined by the amount of slick that poured out of him, but he couldn't make himself feel bad about it, even if he tried. Something inside him, his omega , told him that the alpha was having just as much fun as he was.

"Ah- ‘M close, alpha..." Steve pants, head feeling pleasantly fuzzy. He could smell how his own scent had changed, the spiced apple scent turning into something heady and thick. Suddenly, he got hit with the most divine scent in the world. Campfire smoke and pine, a hint of petrichor and old books. Home- a whispered thought. It almost sent him over the edge.

Almost.

Then, all of a sudden, everything felt wrong . It was as if he was floating away from his body, his mind a balloon escaping a child's loose clutch. He couldn't smell the alpha, just his own scent turning sour and rotten. The cool sensation of the man's rings where they pressed into bare skin suddenly spread all over, no longer comforting, but as if ice water had engulfed him. Something nagged at him, though, in the back of his mind. Something like a spark, settling into the omega and igniting coals to keep him warm and happy.

And Steve opened his eyes.

—

Steve glared at himself in the mirror, bare in preparation for a shower. There were no marks, no evidence of anything happening. One more glance over his entire body confirmed that there was nothing left of the alpha. It was a simple wet dream. The only thing that kept him from dismissing the dream entirely was his strong disappointment when he woke up alone, and the low thrum of energy he could feel stemming from his inner omega. (And the slick-soaked sheets he'd have to deal with later.) If he focused hard enough, he could almost hear the whispering rumble of "Mate. Alpha. Mate. Alpha."

He shook himself from his stupor and hopped in the shower. What did it mean, this newfound warmth over someone he'd apparently made up in his mind? Was he really that lonely? No, of course not. 

(Yes. He was.)

After turning over question after question in his mind only to come up blank, he sighed. He'd have to talk to Robin about this. 

Reluctantly set in his decision, he got out of the shower and patted himself dry, threw his hair up in a towel, and put on a fresh pair of sweats. Throwing a glance at his alarm clock, it read 9:57 AM . Robin should be awake by now, hunched over their dinky coffee machine with her eyes still closed and dried drool on her chin. 

It was Sunday, so Robin didn't have class and the bakery Steve worked at, Claudia's Cakes , was closed for the day. He figured he could take her out to lunch. Maybe the deli two doors down from the bakery? He had been having a craving for their Cubano recently. 

Stepping out of his room and shuffling to the kitchen, Steve found Robin exactly like he thought, arms braced on the counter to pillow her resting head. The coffee machine gurgled away, the strong scent mingling with Robin’s earthy strawberry aroma.

"Morning, Robs."

A small groan is all he got in response. He chuckled softly and fetched the sugar and creamer, setting it on the counter next to his best friend's birds nest of bed head. Taking his place at their table, he opened up his phone to check his messages (mostly from Dustin talking about some band he found online).  Soon, Robin slumped into the chair across from him, a mug of coffee placed in front of him as she sipped on her own. Now that she was actually awake, she looked at him with a curious expression.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Steve asked her.

She hummed, taking a calculating look. "No, nothing on your face. You just... you smell different. Not bad different! Just different, like instead of cinnamon apple cake, you smell like roasted apples. And honey? What's up with that?" 

Steve is surprised she doesn't spill her coffee all over the place with how she flings her arms around, emphasizing her question with a pointed finger and finally slamming her mug down.

"I don't know, dude.” Another glare from her. "I really don't! Anyways, did you want to grab lunch at the deli today? My treat."

Sighing and giving him one last glare, she shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I’ve been meaning to stop by the record store, could we swing by on the way back?”

Steve threw a pointed glance to their overflowing record crate below their old record player, a housewarming gift from Robin’s mom. She huffed in response, crossing her arms and mumbled “I just want to look.”

Crimson painted her cheeks and she avoided his gaze, which was all Steve needed to know. He knew Robin had made a friend (or crush rather) in her music theory class at UIC, and she and Steve were basically some sort of cosmic twins, and he knew all of her tells. So when he asked if he’s finally going to meet her, she really shouldn’t be that surprised. She still looked up at him with wide eyes, dropping her arms to the table. Another pointed look from Steve and she relented, “She told me to stop in when I could because she wants to show me this really cool limited edition vinyl the store got in recently and she looked so pretty when she asked, Steve. She had these pigtails and she was wearing this eyeshadow that made her eyes pop and she was wearing the skirt I told you about, the one with the hearts? Yeah, that one! And her sweater was, like, four sizes too big and she looked tiny! Anyways, how could I possibly say no when she looks like that?! She batted her eyelashes at me, Steve. Don’t give me that look.”

The omega simply sighed, shook his head fondly, and stood up. 

“Be ready in an hour, Buckley.”

[riverianepondsims]

The Sims 4 to The Sims 3 - LittleDica Rise & Grind Coffeehouse Set

Quite some time ago, I mentioned that a café themed set was on the horizon - here it is now! ☕ Important info and download 💾 below:

About a year ago, I worked on several projects, but many things happened that prevented the release of them. This set was one of them - primarily, I make things for myself and my own use and post later. However, when it came to posting these, some items needed a little extra attention as I wanted them to look a little better, and I ended up adding more than I originally had. It's here now, so it all worked out in the end :) Some of you may have spotted some of these items in my Target set previews 🧐 bonus points to you. Most of LittleDica's sets are my absolute favorite from TS4, and I'm already working on more. Plan to see more of these and others soon! Here's what's included: Aroma Sensations Mural - Wall Deco Professionally Scribbled Chalk Drawing - Wall Deco Dracaena Lemon Lime Plant - Deco Splash of Coffee Mural - Wall Deco Artist's Café Mural - Wall Deco Napkin Holder - Deco Café Bar - Deco Surface with many slots Counter Straw Holder - Separated deco from café bar mesh Counter Menu Sign - Separated deco from café bar mesh Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Text) - Wall Light Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Round) - Wall Light Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Large Backlit) - Wall Light Preparation Station - Display/Miscellaneous Surface, has many deco slots for holding items Coffee Beans Bin - Floor Deco Coffee Bags Bin - Floor Deco Coffee Bean Silo - Deco Wall Menu Sign - Wall Deco Iced Drink Tumbler - Deco Coffee Machine Pods - Deco Coffee Mug - Deco Espresso Powder - Deco Corporate Window Stickers - Wall Deco Syrup Bottle - Deco Spice Shaker - Deco Reusable Hot Coffee Cup - Deco H&B Smooth Pro Blender - Functional food processor appliance Barista Professionista Coffee Grinder - Functional coffee machine appliance Functional EA Edit by Me - Separated Barista Bar - Fully functional version of the barista bar coffee machine without the counter. It is "floating" and does not require placement on a counter or surface. May want to use moveobjects and/or alt placement to place around objects and surfaces, but is very versatile and works just like the original! Dunkin' - Lot file, modified version of TKL4EVR's Great American Eateries Baskin-Robbins Lot. Around this time last year, Dunkin became my favorite go-to coffee, and mocha cold brew has got me through the rollercoaster of this last year! ☕️ I edited this lot for me, but figured I'd share. Place in: The Sims 3 > Library Collection File - collection file to find the items easy in build/buy mode. Place in: The Sims 3 > Collections > User 🔍 Search: You can search for riverianepondsims, LittleDica, or 2023 to locate the items conveniently using a catalog search mod.

- You can find all of my previous uploads conveniently by clicking “Navigation” on my blog and going to “Downloads” or visiting riverianepondsims downloads

My downloads will always be free, but if you would like to say thank you: Ko-fi ☕

💾 Download: SFS - Archive file ☕️🍩🥐

[mockerycrow]

Undercover IV (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — previous | next

Summary: You have a rocky introduction with John Price and you continue your interview, despite a certain someone’s hesitant protests. You finally have your dreaded psych evaluation while your stress reaches it’s peak.

A/N: considering this is a reboot timeline + Makarov is only vaguely mentioned in mw2, i’m taking inspo from og mw and adding my own spices. and holy shit why was this so difficult to complete??? i also apologize for this taking so long, i live where the smoke from the canadian fires dragged across and my chest hurts. update: russian was corrected!

[WARNINGS: flashbacks, Price is a bit of an ass but trust me, vague descriptions of torture and murder, angst.]

“I learned from him that often contradiction is the clearest way to truth.” -Patti Smith.

“We need to get your head on straight.”

That’s what Price said, and I don’t know what about how he said it made me mad, but oh boy, did it fucking piss me off. “What?”

“We need to get your head on straight,” He repeats, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He’s wearing his tactical vest, dawning a U.K. badge. I eye his gear before making eye contact with him again and he continues. “We can’t afford to sit around, we need that intel. We have reasonable suspicion Makarov will move on with his plans quicker than we anticipated.” My nose scrunches up a little bit as he’s basically avoiding saying it without saying that he’s avoiding it. “You want me to continue with the interview.” I say it like a statement and not a question because all three of us know it’s not a question.

“Price, that isn’t a good idea,” Soap says, his voice considerably alarmed. He grinds his teeth together because he knows my reaction to just fucking closing my eyes while talking about it was extremely concerning. “I know it isn’t, but we don’t have a choice,” Price mutters before pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He looks at me with a pointed look, eyes flickering over my body in confliction.

I mimic his look because as much as I would love time to calm down, I know what he’s saying is true. If they truly have reasonable suspicion that Makarov is going to advance in his plans early, they need what I learned.

Fuck, man..

“Okay.” I move the pillow around on my lap. “Let’s do it?”

Soap’s head snaps towards me, eyebrows furrowed. “What? You’re agreein’ to it??” I look back at him with a frustrated look and I can feel myself wanting to explode. “What choice do I have? Not say anything and risk peoples lives, or have a little freak out and no one dies—except maybe for him?”

The room goes silent except for the beeping of the machines and Soap sighs, taking the recorder out of his front pocket. Price remains on his side of the bed but this time finds a chair, pulls it around and sits down. His hands stay on the armrests. I glance at Soap who presses a button and holds it a bit away from himself. “This is Sergeant John MacTavish, Callsign Soap, this is day two interviewing Sergeant [Name] [Last Name] of the Eclipse Task Force.” Soap hesitates to say the next part, his eyes tracing him face as he mutters. “Last subject was Makarov’s ‘entry tests’ and ‘loyalty tests’.”

I feel my stomach collapse in on itself, tightening into a painful knot. I know this was coming eventually, even if I didn’t want it to. “Yeah, uh..” I trail off, averting my eyes to stare at something, anything but the two men looking to me for answers. “After two months of living in Russia, I got into contact with Makarov. It was completely by accident too, I was just trying to collect information about him, seem like I was interested and then I was.. picked up.“ I pause for a moment before continuing. “I had to build up a reputation, something that made it look like I didn’t pop up in this city out of the blue, y’know?”

“Мы не используем здесь его имя.” We do not use his name here. “Секретность должна быть сохранена, не так ли?” Secrecy must be kept, right?

There’s a hood over my head and my heart is pounding inside of my chest—I could die, right here and right now and nobody would know. I could fail this entire mission right at this moment and that’s fucking terrifying. I twist my wrists ever so slightly, not in an attempt to get away, but I can’t help but check out tight the rope is. I’m surprised they didn’t use handcuffs. I blink rapidly as my eyes burn a bit, trying to properly adjust to the bright light above me.

I look around and I’m in a warehouse with two men—neither of them being the man I want, but one of them is Sergei Orlov, one of the men I had been tracking since I’ve gotten here.

The intel suggests he has close connects to Makarov, indicating that he may be in a right-hand man type of situation. That’s the position I’m trying to bury my way into. Sergei’s eyes are sharp and intimidating, the color being a deep, cerulean blue with dashes of green near his pupils.

There is absolutely no light in them, no positive emotion—I didn’t expect to see any, but it makes me wonder if Makarov’s eyes are the same? Will I be able to get close enough to see?

“Мы наблюдаем за тобой уже несколько недель. Ты пытаешься предать свою страну и начать войну. Почему?” We have been watching you for several weeks now. You are trying to betray your country and start a war. Why?

My fingers twitch as I offer a scoff, a snarl curling at my lips, like I’m snapping at another dog. Of course, I show no disrespect. I need this to be perfect. “Вы не представляете, что этот мир сделал со мной, люди, которые в нем живут, сделали со мной.” You have no idea what this world has done to me, the people who live in it have done to me.

Sergei has his hands behind his back as he slowly walks around me, circling me. I keep my eyes on him as much as possible, I’m radiating distrust—trying to keep up the character I’m playing.

“Это правда, я не знаю. Но я точно знаю, что такие, как т��, просто так не появля��тся.” It's true, I don't know. But I know for sure that people like you don't just appear. I feel my heart drop into my stomach because fuck, man—I thought everything was good?? My backstory, my profile, I didn’t think I had any holes—

“К счастью для тебя, у нас есть сложная викторина для людей, которые, казалось бы, появились из ниоткуда. Чтобы предотвратить явку шпионов, м?” Lucky for you, we have a challenging quiz for people who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. To prevent spies, yes?

I immediately nod in response, brows furrowed, eyes filled with determination. Sergei’s lips curl into a dreadful smile—one that screams “get away from me or else”.

“Хороший.” Good. He unties my bindings, allowing me to rub my wrists. I don’t have a good feeling at all. Sergei grabs my upper arm and has me stand up, and him and the other man lead me out of the warehouse, going to a truck. “Куда мы идем?” Where are we going?

He doesn’t bother to answer me besides motioning me to sit in the back of the car. I hesitate for a moment out of weariness, but I comply. I open the door to the truck and climb into the back and Sergei slides into the back with me. The other man climbs into the driver’s seat. “привод.” Drive.

I can feel myself begin to space out with every word and I can vaguely feel my fingers tightening into a fist. I pause my retelling of events as my train of thought breaks apart, the crawling feeling on my back intensifying. “Hey,” Price’s voice is low. “You with us?” It takes everything inside of my goddamn soul to nod, but God, I wish I wasn’t. I know we’re getting close to the part of my.. atrocities.

My heart jumps inside of my chest and my monitor beeps loudly for a moment. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes—“Hey!”

My eyes snap to Price who has a furrowed brow, annoyance lacing his features. I notice my chest is moving up and down with every harsh breath coming out through my nose. “Focus.” I grit my teeth, my fingernails digging into the palm of my hand. “I’m trying.” I retaliate with a tight voice. I understand they need this information, but they have to understand how hard it is to recount literally every single life taken, innocent ones??

“Clearly you aren’t,” Price scoffs, his lip curling in anger. “You’ve barely started the bloody report, what’s the issue?”

I laugh humorlessly, my eyes going wide. “What—Did you actually just fucking say that?” Soap stands up, putting his hand out towards his captain. “Price, I—“

“Stay out of this, Soap. That’s an order.”

I can feel my bones ache under my harsh clenching of my hand, an angry smile coming to my lips. I feel this weird smoldering feeling in my gut that’s spreading heat across my body and into my limbs. I hear my heart monitor picking up speed. “You have absolutely no fucking idea what I’ve been through—what I’ve had to do!” I’m aware I’m raising my voice, but I honestly cannot bother to give a fuck by now.

Price crosses his arms, glaring down at me. His eyes are scrutinizing and it makes me want to punch the fuckin’ daylights out of him. “You’re right,” He begins. “I have not the foggiest idea because you’ve not said anything of actual value thus far!”

Oh, he wants me to fucking punch him. This man is so fucking asking for me to knock his teeth out. I open my mouth to speak but Price swiftly interrupts me. “What did you have to do, [Name]? Kill a few innocent people? Children, maybe? Did you have to torture them?”

I can feel that hot feeling turn to ice cold in a split second, a ripple of sweat dripping down my temple. “..What?”

Price waves his hand around as a general statement. “So what, you had to gut a few children? That’s nothing. Oh, did you have to keep them alive? Did they force ya to hear their screams, [Name]? Or did you have’to—“

It’s like I don’t have control of myself when I reach forward and snatch the front of Price’s shirt and pulling him near myself, my voice loud and booming, nearly cracking. “YES, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR? DID YOU WANT TO HEAR THE SICK DETAILS OF WHAT I DID?” I take a deep breath, continuing. This fucking rage is flowing through my bones and I just cannot shut myself up—“DID YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT HOW I BROKE BONES, INFLICTED WOUNDS AND LEFT PEOPLE TO ROT?”

The room goes silent, aside from my harsh breathing and the beeping from my heart monitor. I lower my voice, but i don’t stop the absolute anger dripping from every word as I speak through clenched teeth. “Every dirty fuckin’ detail is a weight on my goddamn conscience and you don’t seem to understand that, Price.”

The room is eerily silent again and I fucking hate it. I look down at the pillow on my torso as I feel their beady little eyes peering into my soul, judging my every sin. I hear Soap turn the recorder off and I feel hot from embarrassment for a moment because I just realized.. he was recording all of that. Of fucking course.

Before anyone else can say anything, the door to my room opens. I pick my head up and see a woman in business casual clothing with a notebook, pen, and a clipboard. “Hi, my name is Doctor Elaine Stewart, I’ll be conducting this comprehensive psychological and psychiatric evaluation on you today.” Her voice is soft and light like how her hair looks—dark curls that seem to bounce right above her shoulders, her skin is a darker tan too. Her eyes are big, round, and soft. She’s British—I can’t place what region she grew up in, though.

They probably picked her because she would feel less like a threat towards me.

Dr. Stewart turns to the two men, glancing between them. “I’m going to have to ask you two to leave for patient doctor confidentiality purposes.”

Price goes to speak up, but she puts her hand up to stop him. “I’ll call if I need anything, but I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

I hear Price sigh, but I refuse to look at him. Instead, I look to Soap, who’s peering down at me with concerned eyes. I still don’t get why he’s so concerned.. Or why he’s so quiet, because he really doesn’t seem to be a quiet person. Soap takes his notebook sketchbook thing, murmuring a “see you later” and takes his leave next to his Captain.

Once the door closes, Dr. Stewart smiles at me and walks over to my bed, heels clicking, and then takes a seat. “You know how this goes, yeah? You’ve been in the military for quite some time now.” I nod in response, taking a deep breath. My back is beginning to ache from not getting up or moving.

“Yeah, I know.” I say anyway. I put my hands on the bed and go to use my strength to sit myself up, but immediate tight and bursting pain bubbles where my stitches are. One of my hands fly to my stomach—which is covered by the pillow, followed by a loud curse. Dr. Stewart quickly sits up, alarmed. “Are you alright??”

I nod as I hiss in pain, clenching my jaw in an attempt to distract myself from the pain. “Didn’t realize it would’ve hurt so bad..”

Dr. Stewart nods, leaning over and click a button a few times which raises the back of the bed to a proper sitting up position. I feel my face heat up from embarrassment again. Fuck.

Dr. Stewart holds her clipboard and looks at me. “Have you experienced moments where you felt like you were not in your body?”

I take a moment to think about that. “Yes, but only when I was actively tortured or, er.. uh… did the torturing.” I look away from her and back at my lap, a weird feeling bubbling in my stomach. She takes a moment to write down my answer. “Have you ever felt out of control of yourself?”

I shake my head no—and then I pause. Have I? I shake my head no a second time after thinking.

“Within the last 6 months, have you heard disembodied voices or noises no one else around you could hear?”

“No.”

“Have you ever found yourself back in an event that already happened? Maybe you’re just sitting down and for a moment, you’re back in that warehouse?”

I look at her with a furrowed brow, and I immediately want to deny it, but I can’t. “I mean..” I trail off for a moment. “I don’t.. I don’t hallucinate that I’m back with Makarov’s group, if that’s what you mean.”

Dr. Stewart leans forward a bit, her perfectly painted nails tapping against the clipboard. “Then what do you mean, [Name]?” I swallow the spit in my mouth before speaking, yet it feels like my mouth has gone dry. “I don’t know, all I’m saying is that I don’t experience that.”

She looks at me—why is she staring??—and then she writes something down. “What have you done to them, [Name]?”

My heart skips a beat. “What?”

“I said, what have you experienced? I’m talking about anxiety, maybe dread, everything you’ve felt within the last day.”

Did I.. did I mishear her? She definitely said ‘what did you to them’, right?

“[Name]?”

I blink rapidly and look at her. “Sorry. What?”

Dr. Stewart bites her lower lip for a moment, watching me with worried eyes. “I think it’s best to conclude this evaluation for now. It looks like you’re having a hard time adjusting, so I will check back in with you in a few days.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” My voice is teetering on the edge of anger and I know I shouldn’t be mean, but I feel like my skeleton is trying to shed my skin from how jumpy I feel. “That means I don’t think you’re coherent enough for your interview, nor your evaluation; the one that’ll tell your superiors that you can return, anyway.” She picks her pen up and she begins to write something down—seemingly a longer paragraph. “So.. that means you have a temporary conclusion? Of my psyche?” I ask slowly, and I know that isn’t the right wording, but I’m not sure how else to do it.

Dr. Stewart stands up and begins to collect her things. She sighs and looks at me with.. sympathy?? Pity? I can’t tell. “You just went through something extremely traumatic, [Name]. You’re still in fight or flight. I can’t conduct a proper assessment like this.”

I hold my tongue from barking at her that I’m fine, from telling her to get the fuck out or me making some obscene threat.

I feel my heart sink in my chest because I feel like she’s vaguely suggesting something I cannot handle right now.

🏷️: @hardnutpost @glitterypirateduck @elowynnlane @boycigs @wolfyland07 @escapefromrealitysm @tapioca-marzipan

[charliemwrites]

I have returned! I have been Eating all of the writing you’ve been doing in response to the asks. It is very yummy. Alas, I have no thoughts except price and good girl being Spicy.

Hmmmm spice you say??? 🤔 lemme see what I got in stock *clattering, banging, a brief chainsaw noise* how about edging?

You don’t usually cry during sex. Forget to breathe? All the time. Get dizzy and shaky? Sure! You even sometimes make sobbing noises, vocal cords out of control and brain turned to goop. But you almost never get to the point of tears.

But today might be the day John changes that.

He was so so clear earlier that this is not a punishment. As far as you know, he’s never lied to you. You’re starting to think that maybe today he did.

Because you’ve been on the edge for what feels like hours now. Brought to the edge, then back, jerked like a puppy on a leash, never quite able to fall over even though you gave up holding back about four almost-orgasms ago.

You’re pleading, voice high and cracking. It does nothing except make him chuckle and coo and tell you that you’re being so good. If you’re being so good, why isn’t he letting you cum?!

“If you need me to stop, princess, you know what to say.”

It’s like a taunt. He says it when your cries start to get too desperate. The first time he denied you, and you’d been so lost in his tongue massaging your clit that you forgot what game you two were playing.

The next, when he was three fingers deep and petting, petting, petting at your walls, curling them just right to toy with your g-spot.

Again, when it took him so long to sink inside you just because the perfect way he stretched you out made you twitch and clench dangerously.

He’s been pounding into you for hours now. Your arms and legs gave out on you awhile ago, so he’s just holding your hips up enough to fuck you stupid - like a machine made specifically to ruin you.

He keeps changing the angle, the speed, the pattern just enough to keep that pleasure from building. Hasn’t touched your swollen, sensitive clit since he flipped you over. You’ve given up on asking by this point, don’t think you could form words to beg at this point anyway. Even your cervix feels used and abused from the fat head of his cock bullying it.

He presses his pelvis flush to your ass and grinds, filthy and deep, right at that spot that would tip you over if he just let you. You’re past frustration or desperation or need - you’re pretty sure he’s gonna break you. And you’d be fine with that if he just. let. you. cum!

The first tear falls. And then the next. Your face is soaked with more than saliva from your open mouth now. You’re actually crying.

“There we are, babygirl.”

He tips your hips to just the right angle, snakes his hand around your hip to rub mean little circles into your neglected clit.

You cum before you even realize what’s happening, screaming and sobbing and utterly helpless, limbs still weak, just being fucked through it until you’re not sure if you’re having a second orgasm or just one really long, mind-shattering climax.

Distantly you’re aware of John groaning, face pressed into your hair. Warmth deep inside as his hips stutter with his own release. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to do much more than tremble though.

[timetoletmyimaginationfly]

Coffee

Nanami Kento x Reader

(Song inspiration: Coffee Breath by Sofia Mills)

“We have one already?” Nanami said.

“But this one is different.”

“Our coffee pot makes a bunch of coffee. Why this?”

“It makes espresso.” Nanami was quiet and put in a bunch of pros and cons in his head. You held his hand and placed your head on his shoulder. “Please! It’ll save money because I won’t have to buy eight dollar lattes!” Nanami sighed. It was a good reason and you convinced him more with puppy dog eyes that he could never resist.

“Alright,” he said. “Go pick one.” He watched your smile grow.

And when you two arrived home, you happily set up the new coffee/espresso maker next to the coffee pot. Nanami watched and smiled. He loves doing anything to make you happy. Once you finished setting up, you sat on the couch next to him and went on the website.

“What are you doing now?” he asked curiously.

“Ordering the espresso. We need to go to the store so I could buy flavored syrups and more milk for my lattes,” you said.

“Can we go tomorrow? We should’ve just gotten it before we arrived home.”

“I forgot.” Nanami shook his head at your sheepish smile. He pulled you in closer and looked at your phone screen.

“That looks good,” he said. “Caramel.” You added it to the cart. “Really? An intense one? I thought you hate bitter.”

“It won’t be after I add all the sugar and milk in it.”

“So when are they coming in?” Nanami asked.

“It says sometime this week,” you said, reading the notification. “That’s really quick. Do you want some coffee, Kento?”

“Sweetheart, it’s four in the afternoon. You really need coffee?”

“I’m gonna need it for the grocery store.” Before you could add coffee grinds to the filter, Nanami grabbed you by the waist. “Kento!”

“Sweetheart, don’t worry about it right now. I promise you’ll get your things before the espresso comes in.” He leaned in and kissed your pouty lips.

“Sorry, I’m just too excited.” Nanami lightly chuckled.

“I know. It’s very endearing on you.” You gave him a bright smile and kissed his lips. “Now, you keep bugging me all week about this new show you found.”

“I totally forgot about that! Kento, it’s so funny!” And you grabbed his wrist, excitedly dragging him to the couch.

You stirred in bed. You swore you could smell coffee in your dream. The idea of your new coffee machine made you so excited. When you woke up, Nanami’s side of the bed was empty. But with the door slightly ajar, you could hear the news from the TV. And the smell of coffee…it smelt different. You got up as you rubbed your tired eyes. When you left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, you watched Nanami place your coffee mug on the counter. He smiled when he saw you.

“The espresso came, sweetheart,” he announced. Your eyes widened.

“Already?!” you exclaimed. Nanami nodded his head. “Wait, did you make one?” Nanami nodded to your mug.

“I went to the store,” he said. He opened the cabinet, where it used to contain the spices, were various syrup flavors. “I bought one of each. Except the vanilla and caramel. I bought three of each. And I have a project for you.”

“Which is?”

“I bought a new spice rack since the syrups are taking over. And I bought those empty spice containers with the cute labels that you love showing me on Pinterest.” You hugged him tightly and kissed him.

“Thank you, Kento.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Go try your latte.”

“Okay!” You skipped over to your mug. You smiled. He added whipped cream on the top with sprinkles of cinnamon. You took a sip and smiled. “Mmm that’s delicious.” Nanami walked over to you. You took another a sip and before you swallowed it, Nanami passionately kissed you. He pulled away and licked his lips.

“Very tasty,” he said with a wink.

[yeyinde]

Hey darlin. I've had a week from absolute hell at work and I'm in desperate need of some soft!Soap in my life. When and if you have time, would you mind doing a little drabble with Soap pampering his overly stressed and exhausted s/o? Perhaps a well deserved back rub (I need one in the worst way 😫). And spice it up if you like, I'm sure that man's got some serious wandering hands. Much love ❤️🖤

Johnny presses his chest against your back. His heart echoes through your ribs: the steady brag of Atlas. He holds the world on the slope of his broad shoulders—

"Let's get you to bed, alright?" 

—and your heart in the cup of his palm.

hiya, love~ 🖤

sorry this took a bit, but i really hope you enjoy this! @brewed-pangolin

⇾warnings :soft Soap; slight petting–fingering; f!reader, gendered female anatomy; Soap just takes care of you the way the man would

It starts slow—a gradual buildup: nothing immediate or noteworthy. Tension in your brow, an ache in your back. You've felt it all before. It's nothing to worry about. 

It's not that you're being crushed by anything in particular. There is no weight bearing down on your shoulders, no anvil locked around your neck pulling you down to the unforgiving concrete. You're not drowning in the middle of an ocean, or clinging to life on the edge of a mountain. And yet—

Heaviness. Brassbound bones filled with hardened lead. 

You waver under the ache. The malaise. The ennui. 

It's that feeling of being persistently chipped at until your skin is flayed, muscles exposed; a rawness in the cut of your brow, the sag of your eyes. 

You need sleep, but you know nine hours are just not going to cut it. 

It's the slough of life. Another cog in the machine that never stops moving. Grinding you down over time; an erosion until you are pulverised powder. 

It's everything. All of the aches and pains and the pressure that turns you into hard coal instead of a diamond, and then—

"You're home late, hen," he murmurs, twisting his head to stare at you from over his broad shoulders. They, you think, can take the weight of anything. Bear the burden. The promises made. 

Atlas stands in your kitchen wearing the worn apron you'd bought him as a joke a year ago for Hogmanay. He wears it each time he cooks. 

The kitchen is thick with humidity; dense with the scent of stew. Something robust and hearty. It's soft and secure, a warm familiarity that makes you shake when his hazel eyes meet yours. 

His hand curls around a bottle. He holds it out to you. Irn bru. Your fingers are stained with dust and ink; carpal and shaky, and you can't bring yourself to reach out when your joints are tense and brittle. 

Johnny says something low, but all you can think about is the time on the clock and the ache in your lower back. Only precious hours are left until you need to sink into a fitful sleep that is never enough only to wake to the jarring blare of your alarm in what feels like a minute. 

Maybe it's the way you sag, shoulders slumping, head knocking against the doorframe, or maybe he just knows, but it's instant. He's there. Arms around you, pulling your temple away from the harsh press into the wood. 

He smells of orange pekoe tea and clary sage. 

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, stubble digging into your skin. "Let's get you settled, aye?"

All you can do is nod, hands grasping the fabric of his shirt.

(Atlas can hold up the world, but surely there is no room for the weight of your burdens on his shoulders.

He does it, anyway.)

  The tub is full of rosy bubbles that slosh over the porcelain rim. A clove candle sits precariously on the corner where your bar of soap used to be. The light is dim. You smell blood orange patchouli burning. 

Its—

Heaven. 

And yet: 

Eleven hours. 

"None o'that, hen," he murmurs, hands falling to your shoulders. You ease into him to him. Softened wax under warm hands. "Can hear you from the other room—;" his cheek rubs against the back of your aching head. "Just relax, aye? Got a nice dinner waitin', a long soak in the tub."

"Not too long," you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. His fingers stroke your skin with the finesse of a musical maestro. Expert touch digging into each knot that formed, full of lactic acid, and aching. "Gotta be up early."

He huffs. The soft exhale is a breeze over the ridge of your ear. "Aye, aye. Now get in the tub, bonnie." 

He doesn't give you a second to think. His hands tug, pull at your clothes—the ones that reek of work and ink and ennui—until you're bare in his arms. The heft of them circles your middle: firm and tight. 

He perches you on the ledge of the tub, flashing another soft smile in your direction before his hands drop to the hem of his white Henley. 

"Come on," he husks, moving you forward. You're limp in the bracket of his embrace.

(Atlas, you think, with nothing but burdens to bare.)

The sight of his chest—muscles rippling, pulling taut; pale flesh dusted with black hair—makes something hungry spool inside of you. Desire. Want. Your eyes are heavy, lidded, and weighed down by lead, but the grittiness, the sting, isn't enough to make you look away. You savour it all. 

He catches your stare when his hands drop to his trousers. His brow ticks. A smirk curls over his lips. 

Johnny says nothing, but you suppose he doesn't have to. You can see the way his gaze darkens, a boscage in the bloom of spring, as he takes in your bare breasts, your tummy, your thighs plush against the white ledge of the tub. The contrast between your flesh and the porcelain makes his jaw tighten. 

His pants drop. "C,'mon, hen," he husks, hands grasping your arms, helping you stand again on knees that wobble at the sight of him. Atlas: sinew and strength. A man capable of carrying the heavens. "Let's get in the tub, aye?"

Johnny moves, lifting his leg over the rim. He goes first, sitting in the milky water—used that stuff you like, the bomb thing, or somethin'—and once settled, his eyes cut to you.

He leans back, open for you. You move after him, and his lips crook up in a smile. The water sloshes when you sit, back to him. It's warm, and perfect, and you shudder when you feel his damp skin on yours. His arms wind around your middle, tugging you back into his embrace. 

"Shush, shush," he rasps, a gentle coo in your ear, pulling you tighter in the seal of his clutch.

His chest is warm, wet, when you press your back to him. It's bliss when you ease into his hold, head falling back on his shoulder.

Arms loop around you, big and firm and secure, and the whimper you let out when everything finally cracks sounds a little bit like a sob. 

Johnny reaches for the loofah, lathering it up with the bottle of body wash on the ledge. It smells of eucalyptus and birch. His wash. You melt a little more into him when he reaches down, hand wrapping gingerly around your wrist.

"Close your eyes, hen. Know you need it."

"Johnny—;" the protests are cut short when you feel the drag of the sponge over your flesh. The fresh, minty scent clots in your lungs. 

It's soothing. A gentle scrub as he washes the stress of the day, days, away with your sponge. He's meticulous in everything he does, and washing you is no different. He starts with your fingers. Each digit is brushed with the loofah and then massaged with his bare hand. Your joints liquify. The knots in your hands ease with each pass, each roll of his fingers over you. Your palm tickles when he rubs circles over it. Pulse flutters when he drags it up over your wrist, forearm. Your biceps.

He pulls away when he reaches your shoulders, changing hands so that his arm is crossed over your chest. Secure. Heavy. The angle is a little stiff, but he says nothing, no complaints, and gathers the suds in the cup of his palm. He works his rough hands over your tense flesh until your breath stutters in your chest. Your head tips back further. The base of your skull plinthed on his broad shoulders. The wall is cold on your crown. 

His stubble scratches your temple when he nuzzles his mouth over the thrumming flesh, lips pressed taut to the place that hurts the most. "Good girl."

It's a baptism in bliss. Each pass of his rough hands over your skin turns the titanium in your bones to mercury. You melt under the heat of his flesh working those stubborn knots into ash. Johnny's hands are heavy, dragging away the malaise from your pores with each careful, reverent swipe. 

You breathe in the scent of wet pine when he drags his palms over your collarbones, the swell of your chest. His fingers catch on your nipples—hard from the chill in the air, the graze of his flesh over yours—and the pinch of pleasure makes your legs part slowly, a small mewl brimming from your throat. 

"That feels good," you whisper, head lulling on his shoulder. 

"Scoot up a bit," he husks, hands falling to your hips, helping you move. He pushes your back forward, hands sliding up to your shoulders. 

The groan you let out echoes against the humid walls when his fingers dig into your stained muscles. 

"Johnny—" 

"I know, I know…" he nuzzles the space between your shoulder blades, stubble grazing your sensitive flesh. Goosebumps ripple over your skin. "I got ya, hen." 

And he does, of course: always. 

Bliss leaks from the tips of his fingers into your muscles. He moves in small, deep circles until your body is liquid; a gooey polymer that sags in the water around you. He doesn't relent. Johnny finds each knot, tenderising it into a fine dust. Nirvana is in the tips of his fingers. 

You groan: a low, drawn-out quiver of pleasure when he works out the kink that had clotting in your shoulder blades. One born from deadlines, and meetings, and—

And gone. 

You breathe out, heavy and full, until your lungs quiver, flattened to your chest. 

"Feel good?" He murmurs, soothing his hands across your back. His knuckles notch over the curve of your spine, and the thrill of pleasure makes you pant. 

"Yeah—"

Lavender is thick in your nose. Your eyes slowly slide open when his hands curl through the gaps in your arms, winding around your waist. 

You fall back into his chest, boneless. Shattered. Dissolved. His chest rumbles with a chuckle. 

Johnny tucks you against him, coarse, damp hair tickling your back. His breath is heavy on your shoulder. 

"Hen…," there is a click in his throat when he swallows, hands roaming down to your thighs, sliding between them slowly. "Lemme make you feel even better."

It's a whisper of a touch that makes you shiver against him. 

"Johnny—"

He hushes you again, nails grazing your sensitive flesh until he meets the seam of your thigh and pelvis. "Let me do this for you, hen."

"Something tells me this was your plan all along," you huff, pressing your nose into his neck, and breathing in the mossy scent of him. 

"Nah," he murmurs, palm pressing against your core. You can feel him against your back, thick and hard, and when he parts your folds, fingers gliding through your slit, you feel him throb. His hips shift into you with a gritty inhale. His chest expands across your back. When he speaks, it's barely a whisper: "this is just for you."

Johnny knows your body, knows where to touch; his hands on you are magic. He works you—a potter moulding clay—and you melt in his arms. 

His finger ghosts over your slit, trailing slowly until he reaches your clit. 

"Relax, hen," his voice is thick, full of lust. "Lemme make you feel good."

His fingers slide back down to your hole, pushing in gently until you stretch around him with a gasp of pleasure, hands dropping to clutch at his thick forearms. His huff ghosts over the shell of your ear, lips pressing against your flushed cheekbone. 

"Gonna make you cum," he rasps, throat clicking again when he swallows. 

The low hum of his voice makes your legs part further, hips canting into his palm. His fingers thrust against your sensitive walls, thumb rubbing soft circles over your clit until you see stars in your eyes; phosphenes of pleasure that dance and sway with each press of him inside of you. Knuckles catch on the seal of your pussy, stretching you, rasping over that gummy spot inside that makes your belly fill with molten euphoria. 

"That's it, bonnie," he urges, words liquid in your ear. Oil over your flesh. A soft thrum to your core. It's good. So good. 

Your nails dig into his flesh, desperately clutching at something, anything, to keep you from slipping below the waves that lap at you. A soft erosion. The the way Johnny dissolves you into pieces until you're effervescent, veins bubbling with soporific pleasure, makes your heart lurch. The swell of affection for him—your atlas, your buoy in the churning sea—brings tears to your eyes. 

He's observant. Incredibly so. Any change, even one almost indiscernible, must have been noticed. The bunch of your shoulders. The sag of your eyes. Exhaustion fell over you in a blanket of malaise. 

You think about those nights spent bundled in his arms on the couch. Mind adrift in a sea of responsibility, lip between your teeth. You hadn't noticed the copper on your tongue until his fingers tapped the furrow in your brow. 

Y'alright, hen? 

Just—

Work. Life. Everything. 

He noticed. And—

Dinner, your favourite. The bath. The candle. The lavender bath bomb—

Lavender? He asks, rubbing a petal between his thumb and forefinger. 

You nodded. It helps with stress. 

—he knew. 

And now: euphoria pools in every synapse inside of your head until all you see is white. Body languid, more relaxed and sated than you have been in a long time, and—

The strong arms of atlas secure you to his chest. The cup of his palm is a plinth keeping you above the torrent below that wants to consume you. 

"Come on, hen," he urges, voice rucked and trembling. He throbs against the small of your back, cock trapped between your bodies.

You melt into him with a moan, dizzy and delirious from the pleasure spooling inside of your core with each press of his blunt fingers against your soft, fluttering walls. Each roll of his thumb across your clit. Your body sings for him. Aches for him. A maestro; you dance for him. 

Your head is fuzzy. Thick with somnolence and pleasure that congeal over the heft, the weight of everything else. All you can think about is how secure you feel in his embrace. Gentle and safe, and—

It's the coalescence of everything that pushes you off the edge. 

You're falling, falling—

"I got you, hen."

Your core tightens, throbs. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Oxytocin floods your veins in a deluge, inundating your being until all you can feel is static pleasure blooming inside of you. 

You fall into him. Languid and bone-weary. He catches you with a chuckle, lips pressed against your temple, chin nuzzling the skin of your cheek. 

"Feel better?" 

You've lost the capacity for speech. Tongue leaden, eyes heavy, you twist your head, nose scratching over the stubble on his cheek. Your lips find his. Soft, gentle. He peppers you in small, fleeting kisses; full-lipped and dulcet sweet. You catch oat on his tongue; almond. Sweet London fog. 

His arms tighten around you. Johnny breathes your name, and the crooked axis you teetered on shifts. The precipice you wobbled along rights itself in the hymnal he sings for you. 

Johnny presses his chest against your back. His heart echoes through your ribs: the steady brag of Atlas. He holds the world on the slope of his broad shoulders—

"Let's get you to bed, alright?" 

—and your heart in the cup of his palm. 

[thecorpuscorpse]

#6- An Anonymous Source

CW: Knife use and blood, some 'fighting', mild kidnapping

It had been two months since the sealed letters began showing up on Villains bedroom window at night when they weren't there. Each one with a different wax embellishment on the front, made of paper worn with time, and never signed. The swirling perfection of the calligraphy was unlike anything Villain had seen before, just like the words they formed. Five letters were stacked on the desk, and the sixth Villain held by the lamplight, eyes scanning over words they always wished to hear. In brief moments, they almost believed them.

The life they lived was not as tender as the words directed at them. There was no beauty in bloodshed- not anymore, at least. Yet, whoever seemed to be hiding in their blind spot thought otherwise. With how long they ran Headquarters, it was refreshing to have a little spice in the routine of wondering who thought so highly of someone as lowly as them.

After sending their squads out for recon, Villain remained tucked away in their office at headquarters to keep an eye on cameras when one detected movement in the server room. Villain knew each employee schedule inside and out- after all, they arranged each one. Within the orchestrated machine-like facility Villain spent so many years building up, the blaring alarm was akin to grinding gears.

Hero.

Every so often, Hero would figure out a new password Villain set, or intercept shipment plans that then would lead Villain to foil Heros plans, and the process would repeat in a few weeks. It was so hard to find good help nowadays, so Villain found handling Hero a nice break from handling paperwork. There was monotony in routine, but at least they could take their impatience with their anonymous admirer out on the other.

"Dammit... now of all times, Hero?" They snapped as they stood from their desk.

As much as the alarm irked them, Villain was more irritated their work was being interrupted. Scanners failed to pick up any DNA trace, leading them to another dead end. Somewhere, someone saw Villain and thought fondly of them. For a while, the simple knowledge of it was enough to qualm the loneliness, but now was more of a curse. They called the author a coward. They called the letters a trap. Yet, Villain headed down the hall to pursue a perpetrator after they stayed up until four in the morning... again... to read the letters in hope something would tell them who claimed to adore them so.

The door to the server room was ajar, main lights turned out. The dull glow of blinking red, blue and yellow lights cast shadows on the wall in varied patterns. The main lights were shorted, forcing them to identify misplaced figures in the dim light. It only dug further into Villains impatience with the matter. Against the low hum of the computers, a tinny clank echoed near the back wall.

Villain kept steady strides slow, mindful of the linoleum under their shoes and how quiet their breath was. Silence, as well as any leverage, was better than none, and it worked to Villains virtue when it guided the blade to the turned back of who they knew was tampering with their tech.

"I don't have time for you tonight, Hero," Villain said as they pressed the knife against their spine. "There is plenty of work for me as is without you getting involved."

Dressed in all-black, which happened to be quite flattering for the Hero, they tuned after setting their tools down and raising their hands. Villain took a step forward and pressed the edge to their throat.

"That's why I figure I'd lighten the load~" Hero said, offering an innocent shrug. "By-"

"Yes, yes, thwarting my recruitment of more people through disrupting our log system," Villain droned, pressing the blade harder. "Now really, I do have pressing matters to attend to."

There was a static in the air, and not from the whirring machines around them. The more Villain stood in it, the more irritated they got. It showed in the quick right cross-swing of butt-end of the knife towards Heros head before the move was blocked by Heros hand.

"Wow, whats the matter with you?" Hero mused with a shit-eating grin as he twisted Villains arm into a lock behind their back. The knife clattered onto the floor. "Not very like you to 'not have time for me', Villain. Plus, what a sloppy execution."

"You don't know me, Hero," Villain hummed with a smile in their voice, flexing their hand under Heros grip. "So I'll show you a real sloppy execution."

Villain dug their heel into Heros foot, and used the momentum to twist them to slam into the server paneling. With the grip loosened, Villain snaked away and went for the knife. It was only a second more before Villain was swept off their feet- literally- and hit the ground.

"Yeah, that was pretty sloppy too," Hero said as they went to further restrain the fallen Villain. "You're making me jealous, don't tell me there's another Hero you have to go cause havoc for~ Ugh, I'll be heartbroken!"

Villain struggled against Heros grasp, writhing and twisting their body so they could never get a solid pin. While Hero had their brawn at their side, Villain knew it was only a matter of leverage.

"I do, but they aren't a Hero~"

They took the moment Hero stalled in their attempts to pin them down to get their lets out to kick Hero back, knocking the wind out of them. Villain went for the knife again and came up behind Hero to hold the knife to their throat again.

"Bullshit," Hero gasped out, though an amused smile graced their stupid face. "I can barely tolerate you as it is."

Villain contemplated for a moment. What harm would a white lie do when they didn't even know who was writing the letters? There would be no one else to go after. It would be nice to pretend- Villain did it enough as it was.

"Oh, you should hear how they talk about their love for my vile and vulgar ways Hero. How they adore the plans of misery I make for the thousands," Villain gripped Heros hair and tilted their head back to look at them proper. "And the tongue they have..."

"Then why aren't you with them now?"

"Because I'm dealing with you," Villain said as their jaw set. "A thorn in my side since we crossed paths, and always coming back like a damn infection," They brought the edge up against Heros neck. "You are pestiferous- a plague in my life every time your head pops up." Villain narrowed their eyes, bringing small beads of blood against the blade. "And I think I'm going to purge the source tonight."

"Then do it."

Below them, there was a rumble followed by a blaring alarm from what Villain assumed was a few floors down. It only took one distracted second for Hero grab Villains wrist and flip them over and onto their back before they dove behind a rack of server blocks. There was a flash, and the room filled with smoke. The colors against the smoke were disorienting, yet once Villain got hold of their knife, they could barely make out a figure escaping through one of the vents.

"One thing after a-fucking-nother..." Villain hissed as they ran out from the server room and towards the blaring fire alarm down below.

Once done dealing with the aftermath of a blown-apart storage unit, Villain trudged back up to their office and collapsed in their chair. It was now six in the morning, and looking at the camera they had set up to face their bedroom window at home- no letter to be seen on the window. They pushed their hair back with a sigh, before deciding to freshen up there, and continuing their monotonous work for their empire, with breaks reading loving words Villain needed to hear after such a long night.

---

The seventh letter was different than the rest.

It had taken longer than the rest to arrive- almost a month later than the last one, when the others came once or twice a week. Nights were seemingly endless when Villain would simply stare at the window from the camera. They knew if they were home, they wouldn't arrive, and so they worked long into the night, going home every few days to make sure their plants were watered.

Unlike the other ornate and delicately put together envelopes, the newest came in a simple black one. The handwriting was reminiscent of the others yet the words scrawled unsteadily. The droning news anchor in the background discussed the impending weather as Villain attempted to make sense of everything they were reading.

What was said was not the romantic poetry they were used to, of regrets and promises they wished to keep to Villain of seeing them, of truly being with them and being sure there would be nothing keeping them apart anymore.

The signature at the bottom made Villains heart sink. Not because of who had written the confession they read. Not because it was from someone they wouldn't have wanted at all. But because it wasn't a signature at all.

Except a smear of blood.

Villains head felt light, the corners of their vision hazing a little as they tried to make sense of what it all meant. They sat down in their chair, still staring at the letter before them. It wasn't until the news anchor interrupted their broadcast with breaking news.

'The beloved and respected savior of our beautiful city, Hero, has officially been pronounced dead today by coroners after their body had been returned to city officials by an anonymous source. Further details the cause to be released.'

"No..."

They took a long look at the radio, eyes wide in disbelief as their mind began to piece everything together. In a moment, they were at their sequencer and after they got a sample of the paper, pulled out their knife. What little blood left from their fight with Hero remained, and they flaked off the dry remains in the other bottle. Time blurred as they waited, walking crop circles into their carpet while the machine processed the samples.

They didn't see anyone on the cameras the night before. No sound, no disturbance. First nothing was on the window, and when daylight broke, there it was. They hadn't dealt with Hero recently, which they only grew to notice the more they thought.

They couldn't settle down, and any time their office door was knocked on, they would simply throw a book at it and tell whoever it was to bother them tomorrow. Word must have gone around because soon the knocking stopped and Villain was left alone with the machine, which whirred just like the servers did their last night with Hero.

They were pulled out of their mind when the machine stopped, and the face glowed green with the information Villain already put together in their walk about their office.

DNA Sequencing Completed- Results: 100% Match

---

Villain drummed their thumb against the steering wheel of the car. Occasionally, it would follow the tempo of their racing heart, or the shake in their muscles from the adrenaline in their blood. The timer they set on their phone for five minutes was halfway through. Villain regretted even permitting that much time to wait. It had been too long already, and with any more time, they could be too late.

Three minutes and no sign. Villain shifted in their seat, instead now tapping their foot and squeezing their hands together. The last they slept was indistinct, waiting for the right moment to make their next move. A drastic one, which would leave more loose ends than they would like, but it was just as a drastic situation they had on their hands.

Four minutes and Villain was getting ready to get out and handle the ordeal themselves. They checked to make sure their gun was loaded, as they did a dozen or so times before even though they hadn't used it. Before they reached the door handle, the passenger side opened to Villains relief.

"Very good. Hurry up." Villain said, gesturing with the gun to get in.

Five minutes was all Villain needed. As they sped off, the silence was cushioned by the low hum of the car. Villain didn't know what to think. What to say. What if, in the time they were gone, Hero was too? The thoughts were heavy as Villain drove, until their passenger pulled them out of their head.

"I shouldn't be doing this..."

"Then why are you." Villain said, rather than asked.

"Well, you told me with a gun to my head that you hunt me down and kill my girlfriend in front of me, then send my body parts to various family members."

"Good memory, and I will if you make any attempts to run."

"Good to know..." The accomplice said with a tight-lipped smile before looking down at the bag.

"And... I'm helping someone, aren't I?" They asked after another moment of passing silence. "Someone you care about?"

There was a thick lump that sunk into Villains throat. It irked them to know they had to get outside sources with such a high risk, but they were pushed to no other choice. They offered a single, but humble nod before turning off onto a dirt road.

"What the fuck did you say you did again?"

"I'm a first assistant," they said as they shuffled the medical bag on their lap while twisting the handles nervously. "Not quite a surgeon, but I'm getting there."

"Of course, I pick up the intern in the operating room..." Villain uttered as they watched the road. The car, being small, only allowed the young surgeon to hear the remark clearly.

"The operating rooms of the ICU," they huffed a bit too confidently for Villains liking. "Much more intense and less room for error. I mostly make sure the room is clean but I do help with sutures, and other general care."

With a less than patient sigh, Villain parked the car in the driveway and looked the young surgeon square in the face, gun held towards them with a finger threatening pressure on the trigger.

"Keep your attitude in check, and keep them alive." They said flatly. "Both the person I'm bringing you to, and your girlfriend."

It had just been the two of them since Hero showed up battered, beaten and bloodied just two weeks before. They hadn't gotten better and while Villain was good at many things, medical diagnosis weren't one of them. They took leave from work to get Hero somewhere more secluded than Villains home closer to the city.

When Hero was awake, Villain limited themselves to one question because Hero would get winded from speaking too much. Day by day, they learned how Hero wanted things to be different, not only for themselves only, but between the two. How they grew to love Villain, admire them and respect them, to want them yet be restricted from doing so. Hero detailed how they convinced a select few to assist them in faking their death with a glow which made Villain hopeful, but then Hero fell asleep before telling them how it went, and hadn't woke up since. It'd been three days.

With a nervous nod in understanding, the two got out of the car, and Villain walked the man to the house with a gun drawn on them the entire way. Sleepless nights were still to come, yet there was a bit more relief in knowing Hero stood more of a chance now. Villain hoped they didn't make a mistake, for Hero wouldn't be able to survive it.

[xalygatorx]

Unbound | Chapter 13, "Dancing With Devils"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: A week has passed nowhere near uneventfully. The truth of Gale’s condition comes out when Elminster delivers a message from Mystra. A very worn-thin Áine checks on her companions. Wyll shoots his shot. Áine and Gale, both projecting somewhat, get into an argument. Astarion asks Shadowheart for a favor. Áine shows Astarion firsthand how he looks through her eyes. 

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Angst on angst on angst; fluff; suggestive content and dialogue (mild); mention of fantasy violence (appropriate to canon); lightly proofread; it's a really long one; besties, I struggled through this and I can only apologize so much if it sucks but if I didn't post it now I'd keep messing with it

Word Count: 11k

Listening to: my brain leaking out of my ears (idk White Winter Hymnal again probably)

The next week’s worth of travel brought more heartache than victory for the party. Camping for the night, normally something that at least held a neutral air if they were all especially fatigued, felt strained and the tension in the sweet mountain air seemed to branch from all directions.

Crèche Y’llek had been a mistake. When they’d met Kith’rak Voss and his warriors by the destroyed bridge where Zorru had marked on Lae’zel’s map, they should’ve forgone the idea of venturing further into githyanki territory, if only to avoid having the artefact taken from them. However, Lae’zel had remained adamant after Voss had gone that, despite deceiving him, they still needed to get to the crèche and be purified.

Áine, in retrospect, knew that as their appointed leader she should’ve been more forceful. She’d had a bad feeling about delivering the artefact into the heart of the gith who were seeking it out and she’d had a bad feeling about the zaith’isk too. And yet she’d allowed them to move forward with both. All because she wanted to have faith in Lae’zel and spite their “guardian” a little in the process. Spiting their guardian was petty and she understood that, so she could fault herself fully for that. However, having faith in Lae’zel was the opposite of a mistake and Áine would stand by that until it got her killed.

“Lae, please, get out of there!” 

She could still hear her own scream in her ears, the way her voice had cracked on her plea, swallowed by the roar of the machine as it rattled with its efforts to rend her friend’s mind in two. At seemingly the last second, Lae’zel had hurled herself from the pod just before it and its appendages caved in on themselves. She’d cried hshar’lak, deeming a traitor among the githyanki the only possibility that could explain the zaith’isk’s failure. And still, they’d ventured even further into the crèche to speak with the visiting Inquisitor.

Lae’zel, battered and bruised as much if not more than the rest of them, now sat silently at the entrance to her tent, her stone heart shattering with every doubt she’d taken as a parting gift from their failed venture. Each one was punctuated by the grinding swipe of her whetstone.   

The githyank warrior was scared and she felt disgusting for it. Learned self-loathing pummeled at her chest as if it could crush the shrapnel of her faith back into one cohesive piece. That faith shook the same way her hands had trembled after searching Áine’s mind for the truth of her confrontation with the being inside the artefact. With the “guardian” she still suspected of illithid treachery and not simply because of the heresy it managed to inject into her already scrambled thoughts. Lae’zel had balled her shaking hands into fists and demanded their leave, despite knowing that every one of her kin on the other side of that portal out of the Astral would be waiting to cut them down in Vlaakith’s name.

It had to be a test of her faith. Lae’zel kept telling herself until she somewhat believed it that this had to be a final test of her devotion. Because if it wasn’t, then what had her entire life been for?

Her conflicted gaze lifted from her blade to the approaching bard, wondering if she had it in her at all to bear the weight of company this night. Lae’zel’s gaze dropped back to the hand clutching her whetstone, stilled against the silver. “You must have questions,” she said slowly when Áine didn’t speak first.

Áine sighed and knelt, setting a bowl of soup and a crust of bread near Lae’zel’s knee. “I have dinner that will likely fall short of the usual quality,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Gale understandably wasn’t up for much tonight so I’m afraid you’re left with my cooking.”

“Something ails him?” Lae’zel wondered, relieved that the topic of conversation didn’t immediately fall to her. She set her sword and stone aside but didn’t yet touch the food. Not because she didn’t trust Áine’s cooking, but because she felt utterly hollow after the events of the day and in no way resembling hunger. She would eat—she needed to so she could fight—but it would take her a moment.

Áine slid from her crouched position into a seated one, wincing when she leaned on the heels of her hands to do it and her bad shoulder locked up. Lae’zel noticed but did not voice that she noticed the weakness. Áine was doing her the favor, as Lae’zel saw it, of overlooking her own weaknesses for the time being and she would return that favor. “An old friend or mentor of his perhaps, Elminster, was wandering near the path down the mountain, I guess. He happened to ask after Gale when he saw Halsin pass by with some berries.” 

Lae’zel’s attention caught on the name, her expression denoting surprise. “Elminster?” 

“You know of him?” Áine asked.

“I do,” Lae’zel said, frowning. “However I still wonder why this visit would have caused Gale any ill.”

“Elminster was a messenger this time. For Mystra,” Áine said and she had to make an effort not to spit the name. Lae’zel noticed her rancor and her expression tightened in kind. Áine sighed and ran a hand through her loose white locks. “Gale’s condition…is a Netherese orb in his chest apparently. The magical items he’d needed up until this point, up until they stopped working anyway, were to feed that orb lest it feed on and destroy him. And…everyone around him, it would seem.” 

“I fear I lack understanding,” Lae’zel said.

“I just barely have my head wrapped around it,” Áine admitted. “The orb could and would have acted as a bomb if left untreated, which he failed to tell us.”

“How did such a thing become a part of him?” the githyanki asked, her eyes troubled.

“I don’t know, I…,” Áine paused to sigh, “I haven’t spoken to Gale privately yet. I was upset at being lied to and hadn’t yet absorbed the situation in full, so that is an eventual conversation I’ll need to face.”

“You lost your temper?” Lae’zel guessed.

Áine’s brow furrowed. “Not completely. But I wasn’t as kind as I could have been before I knew the whole of it,” she said, clearly disappointed in herself.

“And what is the ‘whole of it’?” Lae’zel asked, startled that there could be more to finding out one of their companions had the equivalent of a bomb in his chest.

“Elminster’s message from Mystra,” the bard said. “Whatever caused the orb to become one with Gale, Mystra seems to think was his fault, and that was what had caused him to fall out of her grace. And her path to forgiveness that she’s laid out for him is to use the orb to destroy the Absolute. To kill himself.”

Lae’zel’s features twisted. “Elminster delivered this message?” she verified and Áine nodded back. “Hm, well… Even the githyanki have heard tell of the Sage of Shadowdale. Some of his works have been translated to tir’su slate.” Her expression hardened. “That doesn’t mean his every word carries wisdom, however.”

“He seemed devastated to tell Gale,” Áine said, recalling the old man’s tone and face. “He was simply a messenger in this, but I don’t know that I could have delivered such a message, myself. Mystra, for a goddess, seems…misguided at best. And at worst—”

“Near as I can tell,” Lae’zel asserted, “Mystra demands Gale’s faith, but holds no faith in him. Why else would she demand that Gale sacrifice himself and perhaps so many others?” Fired up, Lae’zel began to speak with her hands as well, her long fingers tensing in quick, meaningful gestures to punctuate her words. “Does she not think he can destroy the Absolute with his own immense talents? Does she not know the mighty company that he keeps?”

Áine smiled. “She must not.”

Lae’zel muttered, “Demanding Vlaakith may be, but she acts for the good of the githyanki people. Mystra is concerned only for herself.” A low, annoyed growl turned into a sound of annoyance in her throat. “Chk… Perhaps he would find her forgiveness in a fiery death. But I can’t help but wonder why he’d want it at all.”

“I would hope that he craves it more to better the state of his own afterlife rather than smooth her feathers,” Áine admitted, all the while admiring Lae’zel’s confidence. “She doesn’t deserve a good turn from him for the rest of his years based on what little I know of her. But I suppose he loves magic. He loves the Weave. And therefore he loves Mystra, too.”

“Her lain claim upon magic itself is blasphemy against its very existence,” Lae’zel decided openly, finally reaching down to retrieve the dinner that Áine had brought her. “Magic must have existed before Mystra and it would exist without her as well.”

“I wish you’d been the one to speak to him instead of me,” Áine sighed. “I feel as though I made a mess of things where there was already an abundance of messes.” She rested her head in her hands and gave an agitated sigh directed only at herself. “I should have let you lead us when we first met again away from the Nautiloid.”

Lae’zel watched Áine with a mixture of admiration and pity. “Your humility is what makes you a good leader,” she informed the bard. “We are matched in prowess and I may lead in kind in the heat of battle…however my skills ended at these sorts of dilemmas until I met you.” She offered Áine a faint smile when she lifted her head to meet her eyes. “My people are taught from their birth to forsake softness, to form from edges so jagged that contact alone will cut lethal. Our enemies, our kin too weak to avoid the cull. We are one people taught to claw across our own corpses should it mean our victory. Taught to see a heart as only a soft place for a blade.” Her smile faded. “And what good has it ultimately done me? What good is this heart of stone for it to be shattered?”

Áine felt her eyes sting with unshed tears of empathy. “Stone crumbles. It erodes,” she said firmly. “Your heart is much stronger than that. I’ve seen it.”

“In the past, I would have cursed you for such a sentiment,” Lae’zel said. “I was brought to this plane, my teachings done, only to find I am learning still. You have become another sa’varsh of my life—a teacher.” Her lips pursed. “It has been…eyeopening to learn amongst friends. As a unit without constant threat in the form of my classmates, without barely concealed bloodlust at all times. Save for Astarion.” Áine smirked at Lae’zel’s words. “Even he, with the excuse of being driven by innate instinct, has more in his heart than the warriors I trained amongst. Than I did until recently.”

Áine was touched by Lae’zel’s words. How was it that she’d come down here to console the githyanki and had instead ended up being consoled herself? “You give me a lot of credit, Lae, and I fear not enough credit to yourself,” Áine said. “This side of you didn’t simply happen. This has always been part of you.” Her throat tightened around her next words, feeling that she could stand to lend these very words more toward her own healing than she did. “The circumstances you were born into are part of what has made you, but they are not you.”

Lae’zel gave that some consideration, nodding slowly in acknowledgment after. “I am coming to understand that,” she said.

“Are you alright?” Áine asked at last. “After today, I mean?”

The githyanki warrior offered her a reassuring look. “I will be. Rest is needed. All else will come in its own time,” she said.

“If you need anything,” Áine said, “don’t hesitate to ask. Please. Not just me, but anyone.”

Lae’zel nodded once. “It will be done.”

When Áine crested the slope back to the rest of their tent setups, she noticed that—at least as far as she could tell—Elminster had left and Gale was also out of sight, but had likely retired to his tent after the grueling conversation. Despite that conversation being with an old, dear friend, its topics would have felt heavy spilling from anyone’s lips. 

Áine spent a moment warring with herself over whether or not to seek him out and address how the first leg of the talk had gone, when they’d yet to hear Mystra’s message and she’d only yet had the truth of his condition dropped on her lap. Betrayal had hit her like a flurry of knives and, after everything else they’d endured just in the past few days, it had hit her harder than it had any right to. After all, she wasn’t the one being tasked with a suicide mission from her past teacher, her past lover. Gale was. And yet she’d felt anger on hearing all that he’d kept from her and the rest of their friends.

The question she had to resolve within herself before she tried to speak with him about it was whether that anger was at Gale at all. Was it even anger? The answer to that became less and less clear the more she thought it over. 

When she dwelt on the pain in her chest, her mind offered her images of Gale’s expression breaking at hearing what Mystra wanted of him, her former Chosen. Of Lae’zel’s shattered expression both back in the crèche and down on the cliffside just now when she’d spoken of her “stone heart.” Of turning on the road leading away from the temple to find Karlach doubling over in the dirt as her engine flared hotter than ever with no signs of stopping, and Áine and the others with no way to help her except to get her to Dammon again as fast as possible with infernal iron and a prayer. And then there was nearly losing Shadowheart in the middle of everything back in the underbelly of the crèche. 

At the memory, Áine felt her shoulder ache and she subconsciously reached across her chest to sink her fingertips into the scar-toughened muscle, gritting her teeth. And, despite all of it, still having the yet-to-be ceremorphosed tadpoles wriggling in their heads and no closer to being extracted was giving her a headache that had nothing to do with the little beasts. The truth of Gale’s condition had simply been the straw that broke her back that night. If it had only been his revelation that had turned the tables on them, she may have been able to digest it better.

No, she was becoming less and less sure all the while that what had surfaced during her conversation with Elminster and Gale had truly been anger. If she was honest with herself, she’d had a piss-poor reaction to being afraid for her friends and herself. Because amongst all this, they were still making their way to Moonrise Towers, the symbolic crux of all her past but still-festering trauma. 

Her anxiety often rewrote itself as anger and it was one of her greatest flaws that she knew of. And she owed Gale an apology for that.

A flutter of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked down the hillside toward where Wyll was set up, noting with surprise that he appeared to be dancing. Either he was seeking a bit of stress relief or he’d fully lost his mind amidst all the latest developments in their journey, she decided. 

Her curiosity got the better of her and she followed the path down to his patch of camp, noting that he hadn’t been kidding when he mentioned he’d partaken in courtly dance during his days in Baldur’s Gate. He seemed to find renewed energy in its controlled leaps and arcs and the sight brought a faint smile to her face. In his spry movements, she saw what she supposed would’ve been a younger Wyll, when his only duty had been to be the son of a revered duke. Although, she supposed that too would come with its hellish qualities. 

He still looked every bit the part of a noble, she decided, horns and all.

He rounded his steps then and, in doing so, spotted her standing nearby. “Oh, I didn’t see you,” Wyll breathed, startled. “I was a bit lost in the steps I suppose… It’s been such a long time.”

“I couldn’t tell for whatever that’s worth,” Áine said. “You look like you’ve not missed a day of practice. You undersold yourself when we spoke before.”

Wyll chuckled with some embarrassment evident on his scarred features. “I needed the release, I think. It’s been a trying few days, I’m sure you could agree,” he admitted. “I am glad we at least have confirmation that Father is at Moonrise. The rest gives me pause.”

Somberly, Áine nodded. “We’re on the same page then,” she said.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve properly warmed up and brushed up on my steps a bit,” he said with a cheeky smile as he extended a hand her way. “Woeful would it be for me to fail my new partner.”

Áine smirked and gestured toward her shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ll only hinder you in my current state,” she said. “And I would hate to slow you down.”

“There is no shame in taking things slow,” Wyll said, his voice even and reassuring. His hand remained hovering between them. Áine noticeably hesitated—on one hand, she was tired and sore, but on the other dancing always cheered her up, too, even just a little. The bard’s heart in her won out as she gave him a worn-down smile and took his outstretched hand, accepting his offer for what she perceived as a simple gesture to try lifting her spirits. 

Pleased, Wyll smiled and guided her forward. “I will lead us.”

“Good because I daresay I’m unfamiliar with whatever step you were just performing,” she admitted. 

Despite her words, she easily followed along in his movements and he gave her a gentle spin with her good arm. She didn’t often have physical contact with Wyll, she realized, as she noticed how hot his skin burned now with Mizora’s punishment wreaking havoc on his body. It was nothing compared to Karlach of course, but he was fiery in contrast with her own temperatures. Especially in comparison to the frosty hands she normally touched, adoring each opportunity she got to do so. The passing thought made her smile, a smile Wyll by no fault of his own read as being meant for him. 

He moved them through the simpler suite of steps and it all felt so natural that she didn’t notice how close he’d gotten nor how his arm had moved to wrap fully around her waist until he was right there, slowing them down. It took her until Wyll’s face was just inches from hers for Áine to realize the turn that their little jig had taken and that comprehension then dawned in her expression as well.  

“Oh, Wyll,” she murmured, familiar horror sinking in as she realized she’d once again tricked them both into a situation they may not recover from. How was she so good at reading others and yet so awful at picking up on these sorts of signals? “I'm sorry, I didn’t—I’m awful at picking up on these things, I thought this was just for a bit of fun.”

Reddened with chagrin, Wyll let go of her and stepped back, his expression torn between hurt and irritation. It was a grimace of injured pride. “Why not?” he asked suddenly and Áine felt guilt stab through her stomach. “I simply don’t understand what about me isn’t worth giving a chance. Is it my Infernal appearance?”

“Not at all!” Áine quickly said. “I told you that didn’t bother me and I meant it. I simply don’t see us that way and, well…” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice lest she scare off the very interest she was soon to reference if he was in earshot. “My heart is already spoken for.”

Her discretion didn’t end up mattering much. Embarrassed and reacting poorly, Wyll asked at a raised volume, “Is it Astarion? Because rest assured that trusting in a skillful tryst to become genuine affection will come back to bite you.”

“I mean, he already does that,” Áine said unthinkingly before her own lavender skin darkened with distress. “Sorry, that was meant to be a joke. What is wrong with me?”

In a way she hadn’t anticipated, Áine’s joke had worked some wonders, serving to shock Wyll out of his embarrassment and send him into a fresh wave of chagrin that now had to do with little more than his own ego. The Blade of Frontiers ran a hand down his face. “Áine, I apologize,” he said, surprising her. “Of course, I didn’t mean it. You are both deserving of all you can give each other and I want the best for you. Pride is a fickle thing that causes one to say things that aren’t true. I fear I’m projecting my insecurities and it pains me that it’s fallen on you to weather them.”

Áine hastily shook her head. “I’m sorry for not catching your intentions sooner,” she said in kind. “And it was still nice to dance with you. It’s all okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Wyll gave her a bashful smile. “Nor do you. However, your forgiveness is not received lightly. I would be honored to dance again someday with a person I’m grateful to call a very good friend.”

Áine sighed with relief. “I’ll hold you to it. Thank you, Wyll, for being understanding.”

Wyll nodded. “As I said, I’ve been failing to look inward for ways to fix my thinking. Rejection that would, in a past life, not cause my footing to falter now feels harsher than it has any reason to,” he explained. “It is only a burden if I make it such and I have so far. I needn’t take that out on the people I care about the most.”

She smiled. “You have my full support in finding your next happiness,” she said, her panicked heart rate finally coming down. “You’re a good man, Wyll. Maybe the best of us.”

His features softened and he inclined his head. “You flatter this old devil.”

“Oh, come off it,” Áine laughed. “Devil, maybe. Old? Please. I have double your years and half your wisdom and power of self-reflection. Be proud of yourself. Always.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wyll said with a chuckle and a mock salute, all traces of his earlier hurt gone from his kind gaze.

Áine turned to head back up the hill, passing Volo as she did and giving her head a quick shake at his third offer of the night to amend her “brainworm problem.” The man had finally found his way to their camp after the patrolling party had sprung him from the goblins’ imprisonment and Áine was realizing she’d been a fool to let him examine her eye after telling him about the tadpole in her skull. She’d honestly done it just to see the look on his face, but it hadn’t been worth the laugh. She’d now had to tell him thrice at this point not to helpfully lobotomize her with a knitting needle to get the thing out. Something she hadn’t found charming in the slightest.

The bard was just passing Gale’s tent when she heard him mutter something toward her in passing. Áine stopped and turned to look at the wizard, the shadows of his tent and the book in his hands only holding partial credit for the darkness in his expression. “Pardon?”  

Ever perceptive about almost everyone but himself, Astarion had been watching the way Áine carried herself since they left that crèche blessedly behind them, its halls silenced in their wake. He could tell she was ailing, but it was more than just her shoulder bothering her. 

And he could hardly blame her given how empathetic she was—it hadn’t seemed like any of them could catch a break these past few days and, of course, it was instinct to look to one’s leader when things were going awry. He didn’t envy her the pressure, but it was her own fault for being such a hero all the time. 

Astarion didn’t think such a thing with any of his former vehemence toward her offering to help every stray that crossed their path, but he disliked the toll doing so much for everyone else ultimately took on her. Especially when she, stretched too thin to maintain her usual patience, finally snapped and hated herself for it afterward. Given the unexpected twists thrown their way one after another in the past week, but especially in the past day, he didn’t see how anyone could blame her. Hells, he was still trying to process it all, too, and he was hardly so invested.  

Now understanding how Gale had found his vampirism so easy to digest as a potential liability when he was dealing with the magical equivalent of a bomb in his chest, Astarion had been aghast at not being informed about the extent of the wizard’s condition but likewise couldn’t blame him for withholding the whole truth. He could blame the man for continuing to ogle at and flirt with his lover up until the whole Netherese orb business had sparked a spat between them. 

Instead of indulging either blame, Astarion questioned the state of his priorities if, for him, Gale flirting with Áine ranked in similar standing to a chest-bound cataclysm in the making. He supposed that some of that imbalance branched from how he’d felt over the past few days. They’d understandably had little to no time or energy to carry on what they’d started, save scattered meaningful glances and brief touches in passing. Astarion had trouble with the concept that she wouldn’t just forget or forgo him if he didn’t manage to keep her attention, even though his unwavering interest in her served as more than enough proof that such an attachment needn’t be a full-time job.

An attachment, he repeated in his mind, his expression souring at the word. It was fine and good, but it was swiftly becoming not good enough. 

Scarier than any battle-hungry githyanki or catastrophically combustible wizard—most wizards could be categorized as at least partially combustible due to haywire spellcasting, but Gale’s blast radius put him in a special category—was his growing desire to be more to her than a sometimes-bedfellow. Even knowing that he was already more than that because she’d told him directly still wasn’t quite enough. And not exclusively because he still couldn’t help getting jealous whenever anyone continued making passes at her. If anything, the way his digestion of such a sight had changed was beginning to tell him more about his own fears than the actors he projected them upon. 

At least he no longer bristled at someone looking at her with anything resembling interest, although he did, for example, find himself craving ursine blood specifically whenever he decided that she and Halsin looked a little too cozy during one of their chats. His envy had morphed from a territorial need for her attention into a deeply rooted anxiety that she would eventually figure out just how little she gained from being with him. And then of course, what could she do but leave once she had that epiphany?

As Astarion had grown closer to his other travel companions, it had become easier for him to see their appeal, which also meant that he found it easier to compare himself to them as they’d risen in his esteem. 

While Astarion still found Gale intensely frustrating at times for reasons he couldn’t concisely put into words, he’d gotten used to him at least. He even tolerated him when he wasn’t flirting with Áine and Astarion had more or less learned the difference between when Gale was flirting and when he was just being friendly. More often than not, Astarion found that he was just being friendly. 

And then there was Wyll. Princely, debonair, traditional Wyll. The sort of man that, perhaps in his long-past life before the world had caved in and broken him a thousand times over, he may have pictured himself marrying. A handsome devil of a white knight. He was getting bold lately and he wouldn’t be propositioning her with a quick fling. No, Wyll would offer her his heart and his hand, something Astarion wasn’t sure he could match. 

And who was he to get in the way of such an offer from such a hero if it surfaced? She deserved someone who could care for her.

You can care for her. Better than any of them! a small, ever more present voice rang out in the back of his mind. She wants you, just let her have you!

Astarion grimaced, his gaze sliding to the bard currently cresting the hill on her way up from checking on the githyanki. He followed her lovely eyes skyward as they briefly skimmed the night sky, darkening to reveal thousands upon thousands of stars. Alas, he didn’t know if he could care for her the way she needed, the way she deserved. He was, for all his rallying against the notion, a monster. At the very least, he was far too damaged to do any of this properly. Too broken to love her.

The trouble was that, despite knowing this, he felt himself falling. And it was killing him.       

Something had caught her eye past a small throng of trees and brush and she stepped away from the ledge to go seek out whatever had caught her interest. While she walked, he saw her right hand reflexively clasp against her scarred shoulder, her fingertips pressing into the joint like she could push her discomfort away.

Astarion’s expression turned concerned. Familiar now with her fighting style and what tended to trigger her flare-ups, he knew with little doubt in his mind that it had been the longsword that had done it this time. 

He could still see her clearly in his mind’s eye. After being disarmed and temporarily losing her scimitars amongst the viscera coating the floor, Áine had dived for the first weapon she could scoop off the blood-splattered stonework to defend their downed healer—a heavy githyanki longsword. 

Shadowheart, terrified of wolves, had been sent to her knees by a ball of psionic energy while in the midst of a crippling panic attack, buckling at the sight of the gith captain’s enormous attack hounds. Áine had thrown herself into the ring as she always did to protect her friends and, also as always, she’d gotten battered in the process. She’d succeeded in saving their cleric and cutting her attacker down, but the force she’d used to swing the scavenged blade that was, all told, bigger than she was had done a number on her shoulder.

Shadowheart sat near the fire, dressing a couple of her more minor wounds with some salve and gauze. Bluish shadows lingered under her eyes that he’d learned were telltale signs that she was drained—a tell that they had in common. She’d spent much of her energy healing their party’s worst injuries until, no matter how much she tried to harass each of them into letting her heal them further, she’d been lovingly shooed away to take care of her own wounds or rest at the very least. 

A thought had occurred to Astarion as he’d watched Áine pace away toward Wyll’s side of the campground clutching her shoulder. It was a thought that would possibly open him up to some unwelcome speculation or even embarrassment if he acted upon it. His lips formed a thin line, his cupid’s bow disappearing into it as he deliberated. There was ultimately no question of whether it was worth a bit of potential goading, which he found somewhat freeing as he made his way slowly toward the cleric by the campfire.

By the time he reached her, Shadowheart had looked up to watch his approach, her gaze already skeptical the moment it landed upon him. Astarion had successfully mustered up the courage to approach the cleric but found himself already aggrieved at the idea of asking anyone for advice. Even more so because he was sure she’d needle him over it. Internally, he braced himself.

“Change your mind about having your wounds tended?” she guessed, her eyes narrowing warily when he sat down on the log she was using as a bench seat. “If you’re looking for blood, I’ve barely enough for myself as it is.”

Astarion gave her a chiding look. “I’m not in the market for your blood,” he said, his exhaustion with the direction of the conversation already plain in his voice. “And I’d rather not be ‘tended’ to. I’m halfway healed already anyway.”

“Really?” Shadowheart asked. To prove his point, Astarion adjusted the sleeve of his soft, ruffled shirt to show her what remained of a deep cut she’d earlier tried to bully him into letting her heal up. Lo and behold, when Shadowheart looked upon the cut again, it looked a week old, barely even the thin red line of a new scar left behind after mere hours. By midnight, she imagined, it would be gone completely. “I had no idea vampires healed that swiftly. Quite the perk, I suppose, in a sea of downsides?”

Astarion nodded and rolled his sleeve back down. “A ‘sea’ may be too small a measure, but yes. A quick turnaround on healing is…something,” he agreed.

She could hear unease in his voice and noted the careful way he spoke to her, which immediately made her suspicious. What did he want from her? Something to do with Áine? She didn’t get the impression that he was just trying to be friendly. “Did you want something, Astarion?” she asked more directly. 

His jaw clenched faintly as he worked up what remained of his courage and Shadowheart watched with fascination as emotions flittered just under his surface, his statuesque face roiling with conflict. Finally, he met her eyes and said through his teeth, “I would like to request a lesson in how to tend Áine’s shoulder.”

Shadowheart’s brows shot into her bangs. “You—that’s all?” she asked, still a bit suspicious. She gave him a leering look of amusement that could have only been, he decided, at his expense as expected. “I would have expected the rake, the ‘master seducer’ himself to know how to give a nice massage. How could you skip over such a romantic staple in the manual?”

Astarion waited for her to get her gibes out of the way, only speaking when she fell silent again to wait for him to fight back. He wouldn’t lest he ruin his opportunity to glean the information he wanted, having embarrassed himself for nothing. “I didn’t skip it. I know how to give a massage,” Astarion said with strained patience that was new to Shadowheart and, honestly, new to him as well. “However, my aim isn’t to worsen her condition because I lack the medicinal know-how behind such things and am too proud to seek it out.” 

Shadowheart properly felt like an arsehole for her provocation. Her eyes rounded with surprise at his borderline vicious display of earnestness barely concealed beneath a veil of politeness that cost him whatever quips he could have tossed her way. 

She gave a quiet hmph of consideration before her head slowly tilted in a nod. “Very well. My apologies,” she said in equal earnest. Not thinking, Shadowheart reached toward Astarion’s shoulder to demonstrate only to have him deftly duck away from her touch, his features suddenly tensing as he wondered if this contact was a concrete condition on her part to teach him. Instead of dwelling on the miscommunication, Shadowheart scooped her supply pouch from the ground near the fire and pulled the drawstrings tight, using it as her dummy instead.

As she explained to him what she knew about using massage to aid old wounds, especially those with deep scarring in the tissue, he subconsciously leaned back in, paying close attention to how she positioned her hands on the pouch and how deeply she dug in. Shadowheart found his attention and the boyish turn his features took when he let his guard down alarmingly endearing and she began to worry that she’d severely misjudged the vampire up until this point. 

She’d continued her lesson uninterrupted until a sharp tone from their bard across the clearing caused both Shadowheart and Astarion’s attention to shift to Áine and Gale in the midst of a confrontation.

Even after he spoke up, Gale figured he probably shouldn’t have said anything. He was fully out of sorts and had never felt so existential and dismal and utterly embittered. He was only half-aware of what he was doing, what he was saying. He’d gone into his tent after Elminster had taken his leave just to try and contain the fallout. A poor choice of words, all things considered.

He knew how it looked, how underhanded it seemed and probably felt to them as well that he’d failed to tell them the whole truth before it was told on his behalf. But he also couldn’t help but feel wronged. Ensconced in a negative aura only amplified by the orb inside him. Even dormant now, he could feel its cold, hungry tendrils still swirling paths beneath his skin. It was just no longer leeching from his life force, his power. Now it simply wrapped around his anger, his pain, and his disappointment like a most unwelcome embrace. 

It sat barely stagnated by Mystra’s will all so he could live long enough to die conveniently. But sure, his failure to inform his companions about the dangers they might face due to the dangers he did face was of utmost precedent. 

It was fair to say that Áine’s reaction had bothered Gale the most of anyone who had been present for Elminster’s explanation of his condition and delivery of Mystra’s missive. Perhaps because he’d had the most faith in her understanding his plight out of everyone present apart from perhaps Wyll and Karlach, who were both too empathetic for their own good.

“You’ve put everyone in danger by not telling us. How could you do that?” 

She wasn’t wrong. But Áine had been the one helping him procure items, had fretted over him when they stopped working, and had assured him that they’d figure something out. And now that something was figured out, it was still an inconvenience to her that he hadn’t given her the truth in the first place. He was no longer a danger to them unless his moment to take the Absolute out of this plane with him happened to include their troop in the blast radius. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted any of this in the first place. He didn’t want to die. He’d simply been a fool in the past and he was still that same fool in many ways, he realized. He’d just not thought he was a fool for believing he meant something to them.  

And now, for whatever reason, he was sabotaging himself further by picking a fight with the head of their group on the grounds of what he’d just witnessed down near Wyll’s camp. It had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with the hurt he felt, but he’d said it anyway and now he was doubling down because being angry was easier than being in pain.

“Pardon?” she inquired in response to his muttering that she’d only just caught the gist of.

Gale sighed through his nose and closed the book with more of a snap than was needed, leveling a look at her that made Áine tense. This wasn’t a face she’d seen of Gale’s—it hardly looked like the cheerful, sometimes gloomy wizard she’d come to know. Had Elminster not made dormant the dark energy in his chest, Áine may have started to wonder if this was his affliction looking at her through his eyes.

“I said,” Gale enunciated, “Wyll is right.”

Áine’s eyes narrowed, more in confusion than confrontation. Although she could feel herself bracing for another argument. “You’re going to have to give me a little more context than that, Gale.”

Gale looked at her as if she were stupid. This definitely wasn’t the Gale she’d come to know. Was this all because of how she’d reacted earlier? “Wyll is correct,” Gale said, “in that this—whatever this is—will come back to bite you. He’s already half-bored of you, I’m sure. He’ll get what he wants, be it blood or flesh, and then go on his merry way. As many would, not just him. Meanwhile, others who would stay—”

She failed to stop her hackles from going back up when he dragged her relationship with Astarion into their evidently ongoing spat. “What, like you?” Áine fired back, also tired of him not taking “no” for an answer. Her raised voice was enough to draw the attention of the others, including Shadowheart and Astarion near the fireside. 

“Please, as if I’d want you after all you’ve put me through,” Gale snapped. “After all you’ve put us through. We nearly died back there for your poor judgment and leadership!”

Áine fell silent, shaken by his ire. When she spoke again, it was barely above a snarl. “How dare you. No one has ever forced you to follow me,” she gritted. “And I sure as hell won’t start now!”

“I think we’ve all endured enough conflict for at minimum a tenday,” came a tired voice from the fireside. Áine looked over her shoulder as she and Gale both met Shadowheart’s weary gaze, dark shadows under her eyes. Astarion sat near her, also warily looking between Gale and Áine but more as if he were anticipating a fight than hoping to prevent one. 

Shadowheart gave them both a scolding look. “Tensions have run high enough recently without us all turning on each other… Although if there is to be a fight, at least give us time to get together a betting pool.”

At the commotion, Wyll had come up to stand near the bard and wizard facing off, one hand raised placatingly toward Gale. “If this is truly about what you overheard from our earlier conversation, there’s no need to attack her for it,” Wyll said, a stern edge to his voice but concern in his eyes. “If it’s not…then perhaps rather than fight, we can talk.”

Áine was visibly shaking, meeting her breaking point in full view of her companions and deeply ashamed for it. She avoided Wyll’s worried gaze when it fastened on her, her bleary eyes inspecting the dirt until she said without a single waver in her voice, “You are correct, doubtlessly so, but anything I might say at the moment I will later regret. I need some time.” And she quickly paced away from them both, avoiding everyone’s eyes until she disappeared into her tent. 

Silence lingered after her departure, fragmented only by Wyll’s lowered voice as he tried to talk to Gale and Shadowheart picking back up what she’d been telling Astarion, both finding renewed importance in their exchange given the state Áine had left in. 

Shadowheart had him repeat the kneading pattern she’d just shown him on the pouch they were now passing back and forth. “Good,” she said, watching how he pressed more firmly on the fabric under her instruction. “Assuming she lets you work on it for her—which she will, just maybe give her a little while to cool off—you’ll be able to feel where the tissue is the most damaged. Just gradually work from light to deeper pressure like we practiced and have her tell you if it hurts. That’s really all there is to it.”

Astarion nodded slowly and Shadowheart watched his jaw work again as he drummed up the courage or energy to say whatever he was about to say. She knew this time, however, to wait for him to say whatever it was before teasing him straight away. Cautiously, he said, “...Thank you for this. I appr—I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Shadowheart gave him a humored look but allowed him the out. She only wanted to make sure he knew she was allowing it. “Of course. Happy to help.” The cleric watched his retreat with new consideration, feeling a little more at ease than she had before about the vampire her friend was swiftly falling head over heels for.  

Astarion had given her a quick, exasperated smirk before he’d handed her back the supply pouch and rose from his seat. He glanced toward Áine’s tent before going and settling on the pillows near his own, one pointy ear perked to keep tabs on her resting heartbeat so he could try to catch her before she fell asleep but still give her time to decompress as Shadowheart had suggested.

After having a reason to talk at length with Shadowheart and ask her for something that she came through for him on, Astarion had an odd impulse to find an occasion to do so again. Was this what craving someone’s friendship felt like? He who had oft dismissed the usefulness of friends and scrunched his nose at the level of maintenance those near-useless relationships required? 

Dismally, Astarion supposed he was growing a bit soft and had no one to blame but the bard that had rushed to her tent after being spurned by one of these very friendships. At least, that’s what it had seemed like. He had been so focused on what Shadowheart was saying in the moment that he’d only realized something was happening when Áine’s voice rose. He’d missed anything leading up to it, but from what he could gather, something had happened between Áine and Wyll down by his tent and Wyll wasn’t bothered by the turnout, but Gale for whatever reason was.

Astarion sniffed. That’s what they deserve for hitting on my bard, he thought dismissively, and for getting my hopes up yet again for an exciting before-bed brawl. 

Astarion afforded Áine just under an hour before he set the book he’d been barely skimming aside and rose from his pillows to visit her tent. Her heart rate had lowered but wasn’t yet at the rhythm he’d learned it usually reached in sleep. 

Something close to nervousness did creep in as he approached, however only because the path he was taking reminded him of the last time he’d attempted to visit her while she was upset and had been politely turned away. It would be no matter if she did so again, he told himself. She had every right to. Astarion just found himself very much hoping she wouldn’t.

He was so focused on his destination that a quick whistle from nearby gave him a start. Crimson eyes flickered toward the sound and located Shadowheart sitting outside her tent, waving him over when he made eye contact with her. Scratch had also taken the whistle as an invitation and bounded over to make several attempts to lick her face, which she dodged successfully until the very last one which painted a glistening trail of slobber across the Sharran’s cheek. 

“Scratch, please,” she said insistently, but her features were soft and she gave his head an affectionate pat when he sat down more politely. To Astarion, she said, “Don’t follow his example or we’ll have an even angrier bard on our hands.”

Astarion snorted. “Why even call me over then, darling?” he bantered back, genuinely wondering what she wanted all the same. Perhaps he was finally in for a “don’t break my best friend’s heart” speech.

Instead, Shadowheart held out a tiny bottle of pale yellow liquid. Astarion took it, raising it to his nose and giving it an experimental sniff. Lavender oil.

Running her hand over Scratch’s back as he laid down next to her, Shadowheart regarded Astarion with a conflicted but kind expression. “You’re all set now,” she said. He inclined his head in silent thanks, rolling the bottle between his fingertips as he turned to walk away. “Oh, and Astarion?” Astarion stopped, just turning his head to let her know he was listening. “I’m beginning to think I was mistaken about you… Keep proving me wrong.”

Astarion tsked at her words and carried on his way to Áine’s tent, leaving Shadowheart with a faint smirk playing on her lips. She looked down at Scratch, who met her eyes with his own shiny brown stare. “What do you think?” she asked, laughing when Scratch’s tail began thumping the dirt in response. “I’m starting to think so, too.”

Astarion resumed his route to Áine’s tent and cleared his throat once he was just outside. He heard her quiet “yes?” from inside and he responded in kind, “May I?”

Inside, Áine sat with her lute leaned against her bad shoulder, using the joint more as a prop in its useless state while she plucked at the strings with her other hand. She’d found solace in her solitude, but at hearing Astarion’s voice outside her tent, solitude suddenly didn’t seem so appealing. “Sure,” she said with ease, offering him a smile when he entered. 

Astarion returned her smile, ever alarmed at how swiftly his walls started to crumble whenever they found some time just for themselves. Similarly to how she’d felt when he’d first invited her to spend the night with him in his tent, he was suddenly struck by the intimate notion of coexisting with her in her private quarters. The very air hanging around him smelled like her. It was a kind of bliss. “How are you doing, my dear?” he asked.

“Better now,” she said, setting her lute aside. He first thought she was saying that she felt better after her earlier spat with Gale, but the sweet tilt of her smile made him realize that she was saying she was better now…that he was there. Would he ever grow used to her flirting with him or would it always send nonsensical heat to the very tips of his ears? “You?”

“Also better,” Astarion suggested, sitting across from her on one of the many throw pillows she’d formed into a nest in her tent. “And a bit worse for wear, too, after today, but aren’t we all. How is your shoulder?”

Áine blushed, her hand subconsciously running across the curve of the joint in question. “It’s…well, it’s how I should expect it to be after the stunts I pulled,” she admitted, deciding against playing it off to him. “In a day or so it should correct itself. It just takes time.”

Astarion nodded, suddenly shy about the proposition he’d been preparing for all night. How was it that suggesting they have sex out in a field for the first time had felt easier than offering her a shoulder massage? That they were different forms of intimacy was the answer to that question, but Astarion wasn’t yet in a place to differentiate. “May I try to help?” he asked, the words awkward as they tumbled from his lips.

Áine regarded him with confused surprise and it was all he could do to keep himself from rescinding the offer to protect his fragile ego. His panic ebbed when her expression softened and she said, “If you’d like to. I appreciate you.”

Astarion felt relieved and tried to brush off the sentimentality that bubbled up when she said she specifically appreciated him, not what he did for her alone. He raised himself just enough out of his seated position to crawl forward and settle himself behind her. Áine took the hint and scooted forward to give him space and he couldn’t help but tease her by dodging in to bury his face in her neck. She muffled a yelp that still came out as a small squeak, which was even more embarrassing, especially because she knew that his entire goal had been to mess with her. 

Redfaced, she glared down at his silvery curls as he chuckled against her throat and dropped a kiss across his old bitemarks. Áine couldn’t help the way her glare fell away to leave a smirk in its place, shaking her head at Astarion’s antics. Leave it to him to ease her mind about everything still going on outside her tent. The world still turned and the person swiftly becoming her world turned, too. Turned to settle in behind her and reach around her shoulders to untie her shirt laces, the icy tips of his fingers tracing soothing trails across her still stress-flushed skin as they moved.

Astarion let her shirt pool off Áine’s shoulders, leaving it up to her whether or not she took it off fully. He smoothed her hair away from her scarred shoulder and withdrew the vial of oil from his sleeve, popping the cap with an easy twist of his fingers. When Áine caught a familiar whiff of lavender, she started to ask, “Isn’t that—?”

“Shadowheart’s? It is,” Astarion admitted, his expression guarded even though she had her back to him. His palms and fingertips slick with the fragrant oil, he thought back to the practice rounds Shadowheart had instructed him through on her medical pouch and carefully placed his fingertips against Áine’s scars, feeling her shiver a little under his hands when he did. Silvery brows pulled together in concentration and he murmured, “Tell me if anything starts to hurt, darling.”

Áine was still trying to figure out how he’d managed to pilfer that massage oil from Shadowheart when he started investigating her shoulder, her shiver having more to do with anyone touching her scars than the now-familiar feel of his hands on her body. She nodded in reply to his request, drawing the calming lavender scent deep into her lungs and letting her eyes close as she urged her muscles to relax. Relaxation was a difficult thing to manage in the current climate of their circumstances, but she tried. 

When Astarion began to massage the scar tissue riddling the span of her shoulder joint, Áine noted the similarities in the ways his hands kneaded her aching muscles and how Shadowheart had addressed them on their accidental date. In fact, the patterns that he was carefully pressing into her flesh were almost identical. When Áine realized that, she wondered if—given the fact that he also inexplicably had the massage oil she’d used and hadn’t bragged about thieving it—Shadowheart had supplied him with the oil and told him how to work on her shoulder. 

Curiously, Áine asked, “Did Shadowheart put you up to this?” She felt his hands still, maintaining their pressure but ceasing their movement, and she hastened to add, “I’m just being nosy and you should just ignore me. Just, um, please don’t stop. This is helping.”

She heard him snort softly behind her, but he continued his work after using his pause to stretch his hands. Áine was cursing herself for prying when he surprised her by breaking his silence, his voice a quiet, focused lull. 

“No one put me up to anything, dearest,” he murmured, learning the extent and complexities of her old injuries through touch. “And you should know by now that I’m hardly capable of ignoring you.”

Áine smiled to herself, closing her eyes again and leaning back against his hands. At some point, after her shoulder had loosened up a little from the careful work he’d put into it, Astarion’s hands ran with new purpose over her bared skin. The bard’s smile skewed toward amusement as she adjusted her position so she could face him, getting scooped into straddling his lap by those talented hands of his along the way.

Facing him, Áine found herself simply content to get lost in his eyes and admire the lines of his face, the curl of his hair, the knife’s edge of his jaw, and the dramatic point of his ears. She raised her fingertips to stroke his cheek, trailing them toward his hairline and through his locks, gratified when he leaned into her hand. The corner of his mouth lifted in a coy smirk. “Like what you see, little love?” he purred.

“You know I do,” she said, gently caressing the long elven sweep of his ear in the way she’d learned he liked, eliciting a pleasurable hum from his throat. She’d seen him become gradually more and more comfortable with her, even when he was clearly still combatting whatever hells he’d been through that she’d yet to—or would never—learn of. Áine was proud of him and honored to be part of what helped to heal the wounds in his heart, even if she did end up being just a passing fancy for him in the end.

His crimson eyes searched hers, heavy-lidded with his momentary bliss. “And what is it you see?” he coaxed her, wondering if any of her answers had changed from the last time he’d asked her to be his mirror. 

Her answer had changed, just not in the way he expected. Áine had parted her lips to reply, but hesitated, her features becoming contemplative before she finally asked, “Would you like me to show you?”

“Hm?” Astarion hummed, baffled until he caught where she might be going with this. “You mean to use the tadpole? …Would that work?”

“It’s not a mirror or a reflection, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t unless I’m missing something obvious,” she mused. “I can try if you want.”

Astarion hesitated in turn, his curiosity and vanity both stirring to the surface. He was nervous though. What if what he saw horrified him? He’d never seen himself as a vampire and had endured so long and so much without seeing his own face he hardly knew what he looked like anymore. He knew because he’d been told with varying degrees of kindness that he was what society deemed beautiful, but what had that been worth in the end?

“I can just do what we did before,” Áine offered when he stayed silent and clearly conflicted. “What did we say… Ah, ‘shallow praise,’ as it were?”

He chuckled faintly, but it felt hollow around the anxious lump that had formed in his throat. “No, I… I would like to try,” Astarion said. Suddenly he found himself admitting to her exactly what was unnerving him and it felt like confessing a sin to the only goddess he believed could forgive him. “I’m wary of seeing myself after so long. Seeing what I’ve become.”

Áine’s eyes softened and she raised her other hand to gently cup his face, feeling his grip on her waist tightening as if she were a lifeline. “We can stop whenever you’d like, as with everything,” she murmured. His heart gave a painful pang and only after he nodded for her to go ahead did Áine use the illithid tadpole to open up her mind to him, a little nervous herself.

Astarion felt when she opened for him, her consciousness unfurling like a flower as she closed her eyes to concentrate. He admired her for a moment, having half a mind just to kiss her senseless and avoid his fears altogether. With his hands still rooted to her waist to ground him in the present moment, he let his mind join with hers.

He was startled initially when he was met with darkness, but as he settled into her sentience and his initial wariness of the connection itself waned, he realized that her eyes were just still closed. He could feel the way her lashes brushed against the apples of her cheeks. He could feel her heart beating as if it were in his chest, her lungs filling with air and exhaling in even time. Her calm body managed to calm him and Astarion gathered that she could sense his nerves in kind because it was only after he steadied himself that she opened her eyes.

The pale elf sat bewildered and shaken as he stared into his own eyes for the first time in two centuries. The planes of his face he could only trace with his fingertips and try to make sense of came into focus, a stranger more familiar than anything he’d ever known. His hair didn’t surprise him, so that must have been the same for the most part. Astarion couldn’t quite recall seeing these lines in this face before this moment, but they did little to catch his vanity in comparison to the bright red eyes taking all of this in. 

He remembered how she’d asked him what color his eyes had once been the first time—the only time—they’d talked about the access he’d lost to his own appearance. In mirror and memory. Another thing taken from him. Another thing she’d found a way to offer him back.

He wished he could remember. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t. And when his jaw dropped slightly at seeing just how vividly the red irises shone in the dim light, he saw the points of his fangs just past his parted lips. Astarion curled his lip back to get a better look, the tip of his tongue running along one of the sharp tips with new understanding. They weren’t as big as they sometimes, especially in his early days as a vampire spawn, had felt in his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Áine asked gently through their connection, her voice skimming his inner thoughts like a kind touch. It took him a moment to realize that she was asking him this now in real time and he wasn’t remembering another time that she’d checked on him. He acknowledged with a tug at his chest that there would be plenty of those instances for him to pull from.

“I believe I am,” he replied similarly, although he could see on his own face that he felt a bit troubled. “It’s both as alarming and not as much as I’d expected.”

Áine’s hands had remained gently cupped against his face throughout the process and his gaze left his own features to perceive how her strong yet delicate hands lingered and traced reassuring lines against his cheekbones. He found himself lightly prodding around the vision she offered him, a new question surfacing that made him even more curious and still more wary.

She felt his conflict as he searched the piece of her awareness she’d lent to him. “Something else?” she asked, removing one of her hands from his face to rub at her eyes, which had watered a little from her attempt to limit her blinking while he studied himself.

“I want to see how you see me,” Astarion told her and his expression grew vulnerable in both their minds’ eyes. “Just you.”

That made Áine a touch nervous. She knew what he was asking of her—he wanted her to let the barrier she’d put around her feelings down so he could experience her perception of him in full. She’d originally tried to stow her bias so he could just see himself as he was without her weigh-in, but now that he was requesting that, too, she was worried it would be too much. What if she scared him off? What if he laughed at her? 

Ultimately it came down to a single, simple question that tended to shake her to her core regardless of who it referenced. Did she trust him?

The answer was just as simple, if not just as foolish. She did.

Astarion felt her throat tighten like it was his own right before the barriers he’d been testing were removed. He saw himself precisely as he’d seen himself before through her eyes, but the emotion that poured in with the sight of him this time made his eyes go wide and his jaw fall slack. His chest constricted. There was no sense to what he was experiencing through her, of hers, and yet he was experiencing it in full and in real-time. Her anxiety about baring more of herself to him, her concern for him and whether or not this had been a healthy thing to offer him, a lingering sadness that came from seeing the conflict flitting through his features, and more than all of that…

…ardent care and compassion. So ardent that he could feel it burning in his chest. Shocked into stillness, he could only watch as she gave him a sort of tour of his own features that he’d just been deliberating over in untouched neutrality with only his opinions for reference. Áine traced over the bow of his lips, the currently flushed tips of his ears, the regal line of his nose and jaw, and lastly his soulful, widened crimson eyes. And the more she showed him, the more she admired him, the more unabashed she felt in her reverence.

When finally using the parasite began to feel taxing to her, Áine screwed her eyes shut, letting go of the connection and trying to refocus her vision. She opened her eyes, wondering if all of that had been too much until she met Astarion’s eyes, his vision his own again, and saw the tears streaming down his face.

Áine’s eyes widened and she instinctively smoothed the tears away even as more came, an apology springing to her lips to atone for whatever she’d done. 

An apology he kissed away like a man starving.

Thank you.

Next chapter: Chapter 14, "In Waters Deep"

[seoagency26]

Impact Pulverizer: Now Grind All Spices for Your Business

Impact Pulverizer is a grinding gadget that we use to make the best powder of spices. you could grind turmeric, chilli, coal, gram flour, salt and many extra using this system. This device is generally used in exclusive kinds of industries like pharmaceuticals, chemical compounds, food processing, and minerals processing and so on. these machines are able to grinding a extensive range of minerals, chemicals, spices, herbs, prescribed drugs and plastics.

Impact Pulverizer machines come in different designs and functions, consisting of hammer mill, impact mill and cage mill and so forth. every system gives specific benefits primarily based on its functions. maximum of these machines already come with some special capabilities which includes adjustable pace, interchangeable displays or liners for controlling particle length, and are also loaded with functions that contend with your protection, and so forth.

Read More: Impact Pulverizer

[1eaf-me-alone]

𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖔𝖊

This is my Secret Santa for @st6rly I hope you enjoy, have a great Christmas if you celebrate, if not happy holidays :)

Summary: In which you’re working in a coffee shop near Christmas Eve and Heizou wonders in to keep you company.

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None. 

length: 1.9k words. 

Other: modern au, reader works in coffee shop, the relationship between the reader and Heizou is established, Heizou is a criminology student, and both are in college/university, Gender-neutral reader

— — — — — — — —

The coffee shop was filled with an array of people overflowing onto the polished wooden tables which cascaded with chatter and laughter. 

Christmas decorations adorned the walls and golden tinsel had been carefully taped along the ceilings. A pretty garland of lush red berries and deep green holly hung below the counters and on top of the cakes. Mistletoe had been appended below the entrance door (an incentive for couples that were in a romantic mood.) A small green Christmas tree stood on the counter next to the till and was embellished with a variety of colourful quaint trinkets and baubles.

The fireplace, which had been lit to combat the unforgiving snowy weather was thriving in the heat of the fire, its ruby red flames licking the logs provided and enveloping anything in its path. Although wild and untamed, the fire still seemed to dance in a captivating manner. The bright yellows and oranges meandered with the reds creating a powerful hue which constantly changed and shifted in the light. 

In front of you, an arrangement of freshly baked cakes had just been deposited on the counters.  Warm gingerbread cookies, sea-salted gift-shaped caramel swirls and Christmas tree brownies decorated with white spiralling icing all lay in front of you.  The sweet and irresistible flavours of spiced cinnamon and aromatic chocolate wafted leisurely up your nose. 

You heard the bell of the front door jingle, indicating the entrance of a new customer, and being pulled back into reality, you looked up and saw a familiar-looking face. 

 A man with maroon hair tired loosely back in a ponytail, vibrant, emerald green eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth sauntered towards the counters. 

“May I have the spiced gingerbread latte?”

You raised your eyebrow “Suprised to see you here, I thought you had that assignment on the history of criminology to complete?” Veering around the counter, you stepped towards the espresso machine. 

Heizou nodded.

“I still need to start it, but I needed a break from the same environment and I wanted to visit you so I figured I could revise here.”

Swiftly measuring out and smoothing the dark coffee grinds in the portafilter, you tapped lightly on it and tamped by pressing into the espresso grounds. You apacely inserted the porta filler back into the machine and pressed the gauge button, watching as the previously dust-like coffee grinds transformed into liquid which poured and submerged into the latte glass. 

Laying his arm on the counter, Heizou quirked an eyebrow. “When does your shift end?”

Hearing his voice, You glanced up at him and sighed.

“Two hours, unfortunately.”

You quickly grabbed the milk from the mini fridge below the coffee machine, pouring it into the milk jug. Then you turned back towards the espresso machine with the milk in hand and pulled down on the steam arm into the jug. You watched as the jug replenished itself with steam which overflowed out of the container and floated torpidly up in the air. 

Heizou’s brows creased hearing your unenthusiastic response.

“You don’t seem too happy about this job.”

Wiping your hand with a handkerchief, you turned quickly back towards him. 

“Well, I need the money for university funds and bills.” 

You spun back towards the coffee cup adding the espresso first and mixing it with a bag of gingerbread flavouring into the mug. You began to pour the frothed milk into the coffee lowering the milk and steeping your angle to swirl it with the milk. Lastly, you grabbed the cinnamon shaker and tapped lightly onto it as the cinnamon sprinkled onto the coffee.

Tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear and brushing off the coffee granules on your apron, you handed Heizou his coffee.

“A spiced gingerbread latte, hope you enjoy it.”

Heizou beamed, the dimples on his face revealing themselves.

“Why thank you.”

Hearing him say that, a warm smile spread across your face. However, you were quickly pulled away to attend the next person in line. In a momentary glance, you caught sight of Heizou and conveyed your regret with a subtle expression of "I'm busy" and "sorry" Heizou returned your silent apology with a reassuring nod and a mouthed "No worries.”

As you worked diligently, Heizou watched you with a grin that radiated pride. For a brief moment, you disappeared behind the counters, leaving Heizou to take in the coffee shop's ambience. He gazed at the glittering decorations, the colourful atmosphere, and the lights that hung from the ceiling. Holding his drink in hand, he scanned the wooden tables, searching for one that was unoccupied. When he found an empty table, he strolled over to it, pulled a sleek laptop from his bag, and settled into the chair.

I suppose I’ll have to start studying at some point.

Sipping his drink, he started to type.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Darkness had unbeknownst crept upon you. The sun had descended beyond the horizon; a blanket of darkness plummeted upon the sky. From the windows of the coffee shop, the world outside was hardly discernible - only the vague outlines of objects could be seen and deep shadows swooped the trees and buildings, smothering them in temporary darkness. The only sources of light were the newly lit street lamps which framed the snow-covered roads and the twinkling stars above, adorning the sky with speckled patterns.

Once a bustling hub of activity and laughter, the coffee shop now lay empty, save for one individual who remained seated, their laptop resting upon the table. The silence was only broken by the low hum of the coffee machine and the sound of fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

As the clock struck 7 pm, signalling the end of your shift, you carefully removed your work badge and placed it in your pocket. Dusting your hands off, you neatly folded your apron and set it down on the counter. You glanced around the nearly empty café and noticed that only Heizou remained. You smiled as you made your way over to him.

“Did you… wait for my shift to end?”

As soon as he heard the sound of your voice, he swiftly turned his face away from the screen and shifted his gaze towards you. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away.

“Mhm.”

He looked back up at you. And in a matter-of-fact tone, he commented“You look stunning today, by the way.”

Despite knowing Heizou for so long, you didn’t expect the sudden compliment and felt a sudden rush of heat from your ears. Instinctively, you pulled the strands of your hair down and tugged them over your ears. 

Gaining your composure, you smirked "Of course I’m stunning," you flipped your hair back with your hands. 

He closed his laptop lid promptly and slipped it into his bag. His eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief, and his lips curved into a smug smile.

“Are you…blushing?" his tone was laced with a sense of satisfaction and playfulness.

Immediately your masked confidence fell, and about to deny this allegation you opened your mouth to speak, but before you had a chance; Heizou pushed his chair back and stood up from the table  “It’s dark outside. We should probably head back to campus soon.”

You nodded.

“Let me put my jacket on.”

You reached for your jacket hanging on the back of your chair. You slipped your arms into the sleeves and pulled the jacket over your body. Hastily, you zipped it up to the top, ensuring that you were well-covered and protected from the chilly air and snow.

You glanced back at Heizou, a look of “I’m ready” in your eyes as he pulled out his hand for you to take. You accepted it and looked outside.

“Let’s go.”

As you both approached the door, you felt a sudden tug on your hand. Looking back, you noticed that Heizou had come to an abrupt halt, causing him to stop in his tracks.

You stared back at him, the words “What are you doing?” About to exit your mouth. You stopped.  He was looking up at the wooden frame of the door where the vibrant leaves of the mistletoe hung.

He looked back at you, a smile stretching upon his face.

“Would you like to kiss under the mistletoe?” his question was direct.

You glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at the man in front of you. His big green eyes glittered in the darkness, and a hopeful smile on his face.

You nodded. A soft smile radiated on your face.

Before you had time to react, Heizou leaned forward and embraced you. His heartbeat was thumping loudly against your own. His lips were feathery and cushioned they were smooth and soft and gentle. His hands clasped you and your heart throbbed faster, your head was buzzing, feeling your cheeks grow hot once more. With your eyes closed, you felt his mellow breath against yours, his hair lightly tickling your neck, his eyes half-lidded, eyelashes tickling your face. And then slowly, he stepped back, his face beaming and equally as red as yours.

For a moment, you both stood in silence. Not knowing what to say. The gentle sound of snow falling outside could be heard, accompanied by the temporary howling of the wind as it rustled the branches of the trees.

You looked back at him, with your cheeks still flushing red, and you rubbed the back of your neck. “We should really start heading to campus now, it’s getting late.”

“I agree.”

As you pushed the door of the cafe open, a harsh gust of wind slapped your face and penetrated through your skin, sending a sharp prick all over your body. Its icy fingers seemed to crawl into your bones, making you shudder. You quickly wrapped your coat tighter around your body in a desperate attempt to ward off the chill and find some warmth. "It's freezing out here," you shivered.

“Yes, but look up.” he tapped your shoulder, and gently, Heizou turned your head so you could see what he was pointing at.

The night sky was alive with falling snow, each flake gliding down as if performing a delicate dance amongst the stars. The snowflakes landed ever so softly, wrapping the the ground beneath in a blanket of pure white. The warm glow of the lamps along the path cast a shimmering light upon the snow, illuminating the way ahead. As you walked hand in hand with Heizou, gentle snowflakes landed gracefully upon your nose, eliciting a small laugh from you. Feeling his hand tighten around yours, you both continued your journey home, the snowflakes falling steadily around you like a serene, calming melody.

— — — —

After wandering for a while, you finally arrived at the campus. Heizou had stepped alongside you up the stairs to your dorm until the two of you reached it. You inserted the key into the lock and turned it, feeling a satisfying click as the door unlocked. As you pushed the door open, you turned back to face Heizou and offered him a soft, appreciative smile.

You reached out your hand and gently pulled him towards you, feeling the heat of his body against yours. As you leaned in, you pressed your lips softly against his cheek, savoring the comforting sensation that spread through your body. The moment was fleeting, and you pulled away just as quickly as you had drawn him in.

“Merry Christmas Heizou.”

He grinned.

“Merry Christmas.”

[her-favorite]

might write about this 🤭

Cameron teasing you with a vibrator. He would be so into it BUT only after having seen how you get off on it.

I can just imagine him thinking about spicing up your sex lives (not that it needed it... Definitely doesn't need it) and bought a vibrator.

You spot it on the bedside table one day and you question it, feeling a little shocked and flustered to see a vibrator just sitting in it's box in your bedroom.

AND THIS MF IS JUST SO 🤷‍♂️ ABOUT IT LIKE HUHHH??

"I thought it would be fun, let's try it out sometime, yeah?" with a teasing wink before entering the bathroom.

AND HE JUST LEAVES YOU STANDING THERE WITH A LIGHT BLUSH ON YOUR FACE AND THE VIBRATOR IN YOUR HAND AHDHAHSH

Anyways, skip to when you use it – he definitely did his research, I just know it. He spend a while researching how it works to make a lady oragasm, the best places to put it, what to do alongside with it etc.

I won't go into too much detail (later I will 👀) but I can imagine when you're on the brink of cumming and he just slightly puts pressure on your clit, whilst his tounge laps up at your wetness. Your fingers fly to his hair and grip the curls, pulling gently, as moans and curses slip past your lips.

The moment you cum, a gasp falls from your lips and you moan out his name, the butterflies this man gets oh my gosh. Your back arches if the mattress a little once you realise he isn't going to let up,

"Fuck- Cam! 's too much!!" Your pleads falls on deaf ears as he gently shakes the vibrator, his goal being to make you oragasm till your thighs twitch.

Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips to stop you from edging away from you, he chuckles lowly,

"We're not done, baby. Couple more, yea?"

Fuck that teasing smirk on his lips as he kisses your inner thigh, fingers slipping past your hole, and you whine, pulling harshly on his ginger curls and practically grinding on the machine.

YOOO IM SO GONNA WRITE THIS

YOU BET.TER WRITE THIS.

STOP TEASING US WITH THESEEE I NEED YOUR FICS 😭 i literally cannot put into words how excited i am for your ideas girl omg AND THE WAY YOU WRITE HIM OH MY GODDD

All of your inboxes are giving me motivation to write for cam and im so glad to have someone to talk to about him 🤭🫶🏻

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #87

I'm still going to procrastinate talking about ACEs. Though it's not because I'm too terribly frightened of writing about it at this moment; I have a vague plan about where I wanna start. No, today I'm procrastinating because Br is visiting my house for today!!! And this is the greatest thing ever all by itself, but!!! She brought over a thing called "Cream of Rice"!!

It is basically a box full of rice that has been ground into a fine powder, with vitamins and minerals added. I had never seen anything like it before!

Br prepared the cream of rice on the stovetop in my trusty wok with milk, salt, and butter! Then we put almond butter, blueberries, and sliced bananas in it! And I gotta say, the resulting stuff was SO AWESOME that we ate it all up before I even thought to take a picture for you. I'm sorry. I'll work on that.

At my house, we tend to get giant 50-pound (22.5-ish kilograms) bags of medium-grain rice (it's almost, but not quite like short-grain rice, which is the typical rice in Japan), which has a different texture and consistency than the typical rice that is available in the United States; I assume if I grind up this rice into a fine powder, it will have a slightly different consistency than the ground rice in the box.

…Oh right. You probably have no idea what my world looks like, so words like "United States" and "Japan" likely mean nothing to you. That probably doesn't seem very fair, given that I know very well what yours looks like by now. Here, let's fix that; you can use this to see how my planet is shaped:

I live somewhere around here…

...And Japan is over here:

…Unless your planet is comprised mostly of massive, giant oceans, I think your planet must be a lot smaller than mine. It seems likely that this would also mean that your gravity is weaker than ours. And since your planet still has stunning sunsets (despite the fact that your atmosphere is probably a lot smaller, if your planet is smaller, which means the light gets bent/filtered less), I assume your atmosphere must be a bit more dense than ours, too. And these factors combined might explain why you all can have such crazy-looking flying machines that would absolutely not be possible in my world. But I digress…

Anyway! So sometimes I like to make rice pudding in my handy-dandy rice cooker with regular ol' medium-grain rice; it's got a stickier consistency than the usual rice that's available here, which makes for AMAZING pudding! But with this new "discovery" (haha!) of powdered rice and knowing full well of its deliciousness, my mind filled with ALL SORTS OF POSSIBILITIES, oh my goodness!!

…So I took my medium-grain rice and used my handy-dandy spice grinder (got it as a prize at an old job I had!) to grind it into very fine powder! Here…

So then, I went and measured out two cups of the rice powder with my handy-dandy rice cup!

Then I filled the rice cooker with milk, up until the "2" line for white rice. After that, it's 1 tbsp of butter for each cup of rice! Easy peasy!

Once the rice is done cooking, you're supposed to add heavy cream and sugar - 2 cups of heavy cream and half a cup of sugar, in any case. But… well… it got weird:

It seems like the increased surface area of the rice, combined with the sticker consistency of short-grain rice, yielded a kind of… weird sort of rice cake? I broke it into pieces, but it's still pretty clumpy. It's not ready for sugar and heavy cream yet. After tasting some of it, it was pretty good, but I concluded that it was still a bit undercooked. So I added a bit more milk (I didn't measure; sorry...) and stirred it until it stopped being absorbed, and then added a little more milk after that, and I am putting the heat on it again as I'm writing this; hopefully that should soften any remaining clumps, but we'll see! I've never worked with powdered rice before, and I have no idea what to expect! Kitchen adventures! Now we wait for the rice cooker to beep!

That said, I am wondering if the nature of powdered rice makes it necessary to stir it continuously while cooking so that it doesn't clump like this. I imagine a wok and a whisk might be the thing to do for future iterations of "Cream of Rice Pudding". Also, Br brought some masala chai teabags in addition to the cream of rice, so I wonder what it would be like to cook the powdered rice with brewed masala chai and a little bit of honey instead of just milk or just water. I'm eager to find out!!! But not today! Next time!

...Okay! So the rice cooker beeped and is done, so I stepped away from writing to check it out, and!! Oh!! It turned out REALLY WELL. So I added the cream and sugar, and this was the result:

So, I think due to chemistry, physics, and surface area, next time I'll need to fill the rice cooker to the 3 line, or maybe even to the 4 line, for 2 rice cups full of powdered rice. From there, it's business as usual - 2 cups of heavy cream and half a cup of sugar. At Br's suggestion, I sprinkled in just a pinch of pink salt into my bowl (pink salt has iron in it!), and the result was EVEN BETTER. I wanna eat another bowl because it was THAT GOOD, but I know that if I do, I'm gonna end up feeling sick, so I'll make use of my impulse control skills and delayed gratification skills instead, even though that's really hard.

It's very tasty and VERY filling; I wish that I could give you a bowl of it. The fact that I cannot give you bowls filled with delicious things continues to be a source of very real grief for me. But it is what it is. I can only hope that my intentions reach you somehow, and that through this you can learn about all the awesome snacks and make them for yourself someday, as impossible as that probably is...

Well. My being here to begin with seemed like an impossibility at one point. So maybe I'll try to keep an open mind. Maybe I'll imagine that all these wonderful flavors and all these wholesome feelings can reach you and move you, somehow...

...Somehow...

Hey Sephiroth? I'm glad you're here, even if I can only know of you in an abstract sense. I'm glad you're here, even if you're just an art form. Even though you've been through so much stuff, and even though your heart and your mind probably hurt a lot right now... still I'm glad you're here. So please keep trying to learn about the kind and gentle things. Please keep seeking out the beautiful and loving things. And please try to make good choices so that no one else has to get hurt.

I love you and I'll write again tomorrow, so please stay safe out there.

Your friend, Lumine

[evilhasnever]

here’s some fluffy xiyao drabble prompts! i hope one of them strikes your fancy ☺️

xichen meeting rusong or something to do with a sleepy rusong)

something to do with spice tolerance or a gift of unliked food (not alcohol)

one of them has never done X—the other one is surprised, and seeks to remedy this immediately

one of them finds out about an unusual/uncharacteristic hobby the other one has

modern AU: xichen loves being festive for ANY holiday, and wants to do something ayao thinks is just so, so cringe

modern AU: xiyao goes swing dancing (look up aerials for some inspiration 👀)

modern AU: xiyao goes to daiso/the dollar store

I zeroed in on swing dancing immediately 👀 (but I might come back for the other prompts later!)

Modern AU - Connection

“I’ve been thinking we should pick up a new hobby. Something we can do together.”

Jin Guangyao smiles and rubs his husband’s nape with a light hand, eyes still glued to his laptop. “We do yoga, play tabletop and play duets sometimes. Don’t we have plenty of activities we do together, ge?” 

“But they aren’t traditional couples activities,” Xichen insists, his ears pinkening, “for couples.” Ah, so that’s what it is. Married life has made Lan Xichen more inclined to show off, much to Jin Guangyao’s delight. 

“I will gladly review my husband’s proposal, please submit it by noon tomorrow,” Jin Guangyao replies in a pretend-formal tone, knowing he will say yes no matter what oddball activity Lan Xichen chooses. 

If he is to be honest with himself, he’d expected Lan Xichen to choose something sweet, creative, and slow paced. Pottery class would have been his number one guess. 

Instead, he is sweating his balls off on a dance floor, wearing what his husband enthusiastically deemed “compulsory swing dancing attire”. They got rid of the vests about ten minutes in, but the long pants are a little stuffy nonetheless.

They’re not the only gay couple in dance class, but they are probably the only first timers. His husband only smiles brilliantly and recommends he just have fun, but Jin Guangyao has already sized up the athleticism and general coordination of the other guys, and is fairly certain they can show them up from the get go. None of them has ballet training nor Lan Xichen’s preternatural comfort in his body that makes him good at just about any sport. They’ll grind them to dust by the end of the session.

Jin Guangyao is no show-off, but he enjoys being very damn good at things. Visibly, demonstrably good at things. And though he gave up ballet as a teen, years of dutiful yoga stretches were not for nothing. He’d kept up with it for the sex, to be honest, but he suspects that flexibility will be equally convenient when he has to flip a leg over Lan Xichen’s shoulder to fold himself into a scarf. As soon as they’re done with steps and stomps, anyway. 

The teacher lavishes praise on them - “Incredible connection!” - and Jin Guangyao lets himself preen a little. “We’ve been together for a while,” he says, making Lan Xichen flush and glow with pride. “We’re a well oiled machine.” 

The first challenging exercise comes in the form of aerials. They’re not quite ballet lifts, but close enough in his estimation. It’s all about landing right. 

Now, Jin Guangyao has always preferred to have his feet firmly on the ground. He’s not afraid of heights, but he likes to know where he stands at any given time. So when he and Lan Xichen run through basic throws, he is skeptical at first that he will enjoy this - though he is willing, because Lan Xichen’s absolutely glowing joy whenever he throws him in the air is palpable. 

Obviously, Jin Guangyao watched countless videos of aerials for beginners last night. He did not care for the frog jumps the teacher is intent on making them do, but the idea of wrapping his legs around Lan Xichen’s neck is an appealing one.

Lan Xichen, both sturdy and fluid, his anchor and the rubber band that propels him back and forth, moves with him with ease. It feels good to stick to him. It feels hot. 

While they take their third break of the evening, Jin Guangyao carefully adjusts his yoga pants and chugs water, but the sight of his husband absolutely sweat-sodden and positively flooded with endorphins does not help in dousing his flames. 

“Gege,” Jin Guangyao says, crooking his finger to pull Lan Xichen aside while some couples return to the dance floor, and others amble towards the exit. “I think we can call ourselves satisfied for today, don’t you?”

Lan Xichen, damn his stamina, has the gall to look surprised and a little put out, lips pursing in a conflicted manner. “Of course, A-Yao. We have been practicing for a while. Were you not enjoying yourself?” 

“That’s not it,” Jin Guangyao assures him, draping his towel around Lan Xichen’s neck to pull him down and encase him in a warm, private dark space where their noses touch. “My knees do need a bit of a breather, but I think we can continue practicing our connection at home.” Horizontally, ideally.

Lan Xichen’s eyes widen in rapturous enthusiasm and he nods, leading him to the changing rooms with a gentlemanly hand on the small of his back. Jin Guangyao makes sure to say goodbye to the teacher while he exits with maximum dignity. They’ll be back to effortlessly upstage those uncoordinated newbies next week.

(The Scarf is the first move in this video - probably not a first day kind of exercise, but they’ll get there in no time.)