#if fafnir is playing blackjack then she's 100% counting and doing more math than actually relying on luck

[moonsglare]

ARCHIVIST’S RECORDS: FAFNIR [HSR], 002

cw. [NSFT][MDNI], generally mild and suggestive at best but adding the cw just to be safe

this record involves @spirit-lanterns’s incredible casino AU and @e-hibiscus’s bunny oc misha! they’re both amazing creators 100% worth checking out!

“You know, I’ve heard about you,” Fafnir hums, trailing a hand down Misha’s thigh as the bunny perches on her lap. The dragoness's touch is warm, even through the expensive leather of her gloves.

“Yeah?” she responds breathily, placing her hands on the other woman’s waist to steady herself. Fafnir’s abdomen is firm under her hands, and she actively has to tamp down the urge to pop those buttons off right here and now to see what lay beneath.

“Yeah,” Fafnir croons, the hand on her thigh coming to rest at Misha’s hip. Her grip is firm, possessive, keeping her decidedly in place on her lap—and it sends an electric thrill shooting up Misha’s spine. “I heard that you’re an odd little bunny—that you like to watch your patrons lose instead of win.”

A giggle escapes her lips at the (entirely true) accusation. “Ah, well—you got me.”

“Hm,” the dragoness hums, and something shifts in her eyes. They go from glittery gold, the kind befitting jewelry, to molten pools swirling with dangerous, devouring heat. Fafnir leans forward, close enough to whisper right into one of Misha’s ears, sharp teeth grazing the pink fluff.

“So you think I’m going to lose, little rabbit?”

Her heart thunders in her chest, and she swallows. Her veins feel alight with excitement, and her arms wander up to loop around the dragoness’s neck. Fafnir is so close now, and Misha can feel the wisps of heat emanating through that dark, sinfully well-tailored and form-fitting suit of hers.

“Maybe your luck will run out this time,” she challenges, and it pulls a low, hissing laugh from Fafnir while the dragoness's hand cards through her pretty, pink hair.

“Bold little thing, aren’t you?” Fafnir muses, pulling back to casually lean in her chair again, as if she wasn’t betting millions on the Blackjack game before her. Those golden eyes were fixed on her and her only—it shouldn’t be as fucking thrilling as it is, but Misha’s blood sings nonetheless.

“Let’s make a bet, little rabbit,” Fafnir offers, her tail curling on the floor, scales shimmering like jewels in the low light. “If and when I win, I get to have you as my reward.”

“Wow, confident. And if you lose?”

The grip on her hip tightens by a fraction, before it relaxes again. Misha has spent long enough in a casino to recognize a tell when she sees one. It seems the dragoness does not take the concept of losing easily. “If I lose, I’ll give you anything you desire that is within my reach.”

“Anything?” she asks, a devious little smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “That’s dangerous, wouldn’t you say?”

"Indeed it is," Fafnir chuckles, a low rumble deep in her throat. When she breathes out, the column of her throat emits a light, orange glow, like the color of magma. The glow pulses in tune with each beat of Fafnir's heart, slow and steady. “But you like playing with fire, don’t you?”

“Guess I do," she shrugs with a smirk that's more teeth than anything, and the adrenaline coursing through her system feels like liquid fucking fire. Who even needs to hit the bottle anymore when she's got this? Fafnir meets her intensity in equal measure, true fangs glinting as her lips peel backwards in something between a sneer and a snarl.

“So do we have a deal, little rabbit?”

The dragoness's gaze is deep, dark and vast—both a warning and an invitation. Something buried in her subconscious screams at her, a bone-deep instinct, a prey response ingrained into the molecules of her being. It tells her to run before she gets devoured.

Too bad she's never been the type to listen.

“Deal.”

It's like the atmosphere shifts, the temperature of the room turning up a notch. The other players at the table squirm nervously in their seats—some tug at their collars, while others unbutton their store-bought suits. Fafnir holds her close as she leans forward, territorial, possessive, a draconic grin nearly splitting her face in two. When she speaks, the words engulf every other player at the table like a pyroclastic flow—scorching and inescapable and damning.

"How about we have some real fun, hm?"

In the end Fafnir wins just as she had promised, and Misha has never taken a patron to the private rooms quicker.

(She'll have to do a lot of explaining for the number of bite marks along her skin on tomorrow's shift, but that's a problem for future Misha. Current Misha is much too preoccupied to care.)

Linking OC sheets here: - Misha, @/e-hibiscus's OC - Fafnir, my OC