#it does come to a discussion between them. heated of course

[impossible-rat-babies]

there are certain conversations that happen and im like. this is ripe for A Conversation Huh

[leejenowrld]

‘yes, professor?’

professor! jung jaehyun x reader

smut, 1.5k words

it starts with whispers. nothing concrete, just hints scattered in the air like cigarette smoke curling in the hallways after late-night classes. you hear about him before you meet him: jung jaehyun, the youngest literature professor in the department, rumored to have a sharp tongue and a reputation for unraveling students’ egos in seminar discussions. not in the humiliating, arrogant way—he’s too controlled for that. he dismantles arguments with precision, makes you feel the cracks in your logic as if he’s pressing his hands to them. but what everyone talks about isn’t just his intellect. it’s the way he looks, the way he moves—how he reads a passage from paradise lost like he’s seducing the room.

you sign up for his seminar on a whim, telling yourself it’s because you like the syllabus—something about desire and morality in 18th-century literature. it’s a lie, of course. you know exactly why. you’ve seen him once before, walking across campus with a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm, his fitted dress shirt pulling taut against his shoulders. you’d been curious then. intrigued. and now, sitting in the second row of his seminar, you realize curiosity was too soft a word for what you feel.

the first few weeks are uneventful. he’s strict, dismissive of lazy interpretations, and ruthless about deadlines. when he speaks, it’s with a deliberate cadence, like every word has been measured for weight. he doesn’t look at you—not specifically—but you feel his presence like a charged wire running under the surface of the classroom. and then it happens: he catches you staring during a lecture, his eyes lingering just a moment too long. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to send a rush of heat straight to your stomach.

you don’t mean to push. it starts small—comments in class designed to catch his attention, emails phrased too carefully to be casual. he doesn’t bite, not at first, but there’s a flicker in his gaze every time you speak, a slight pause before he responds. it’s like you’re testing a boundary you’re not even sure exists, prodding the edges of something unspoken.

it shifts one evening during office hours. you come in with a question about your essay, and he barely glances up from his desk, motioning for you to sit. the room smells like old books and his cologne, something warm and musky that sticks to your clothes even after you leave. as you talk, his gaze sharpens, not in the way it does when he’s dissecting someone’s argument, but like he’s reading you, peeling back the layers of what you’re really asking. you stumble over your words, and his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like he knows something you don’t.

“you’re distracted,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair. his tone is measured, neutral, but there’s an undertone that makes your stomach tighten.

you make some excuse about being tired, about the pressure of keeping up with his class. he doesn’t buy it. instead, he stands, moving around the desk to lean against it, arms crossed. he’s closer now, the sharp line of his jaw more prominent under the low light of the desk lamp.

“you’re a good writer,” he says, and it’s the first compliment he’s ever given you. “but you hold back. afraid of pushing too far, maybe.”

the air between you stretches thin. you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, your throat dry. his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second, and you know you didn’t imagine it this time.

“i think you know how to take risks,” he continues, his voice lower now, almost a murmur. “you just need the right… incentive.”

it’s not an invitation, not yet, but it plants something in you, something dark and electric. you leave his office flushed, your skin buzzing with the memory of his voice, of the way his eyes lingered just a little too long.

you start to write differently after that. your essays become sharper, more provocative, laced with a kind of defiance you didn’t know you had. when he reads them in class, his comments are laced with a subtle edge, like he’s speaking to you and no one else. it’s maddening, intoxicating. every interaction feels like a game you’re not entirely sure how to play but can’t seem to stop.

the break happens late one evening when you show up to his office after hours, the building nearly empty. you tell yourself it’s about your paper, about some question you need answered, but you know better. and so does he. when he opens the door, his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes your breath hitch.

“this is inappropriate,” he says, but his voice is thin, stretched too tight. the way his eyes linger on your lips betrays him. he steps aside, letting you in, the door clicking shut behind you like a trigger. the space shrinks, the air heavy, pressing down on your chest.

you’re not sure who moves first. it’s a blur of tension snapping, his hands grabbing your hips, your body colliding with his desk as his mouth crashes into yours. the kiss is bruising, all heat and hunger, the faint taste of coffee and mint on his tongue. your back arches into him as his hands slide up your thighs, rough and impatient, pulling your skirt higher.

“do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he growls against your lips, his cock already hard and pressing against your stomach. his hands are rough on your ass, pulling you closer, making you feel every inch of his need as he bites down on your neck. “every fucking time you walk into my class with those tight little skirts, pretending you don’t know what you’re doing—this is what you’ve been asking for, isn’t it?”

“yes, sir,” you whimper, breathless, gripping his shoulders. “please, i’ll be good. i’ll do anything.”

his eyes darken, and before you can say more, he grabs your hips, spinning you around and slamming you against the desk. the edge digs into your thighs as he presses you flat against it, his body caging yours. “anything?” he repeats, his voice dripping with dominance. “then stop pretending to be so fucking innocent and take it like you’ve been begging for.”

his hands yank your blouse open, buttons scattering across the floor as he pulls down your bra, exposing your breasts to the cool air. his mouth is on you instantly, sucking and biting at your nipples, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. his hands slide up your thighs, bunching your skirt around your hips. when his fingers find your pussy, he groans, deep and guttural.

“you’re soaked,” he mutters, pushing two fingers inside you, slow but deliberate. “all semester, acting so innocent, sitting in my class with this pussy dripping and waiting for me.”

“i—i couldn’t help it,” you stammer, your voice high-pitched and needy as his fingers curl inside you. “you’re so hot, professor. i just want to be your favorite.”

he lets out a low, dark laugh, pulling his fingers out and grabbing your hips to flip you over, slamming you down against the desk. “oh, you’re my favorite,” he growls, his voice dripping with heat as he unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking sharp in the silence. “and i’m going to fuck you like it—fill this pussy so good you’ll never want anything else.”

the clink of his belt barely registers before he pulls his cock free, thick and leaking, the sight alone making you clench. he lines up and thrusts into you in one brutal motion, his cock stretching you so perfectly it steals the air from your lungs.

“fuck,” he groans, his grip on your hips bruising as he sets a punishing rhythm, driving into you so hard the desk shakes beneath you. “you feel that? this is what happens to little sluts who tease me all semester.”

“yes, sir,” you moan, your nails dragging against the desk as he pounds into you, each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “mmm—fuck—your cock’s so good, professor. i’ll be so good for you—promise.”

“you better be,” he growls, leaning over you, his teeth grazing your ear. “because this pussy is mine now. no one else gets to touch it.”

his hand slides between your legs, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that make your body shake. “come on,” he growls, slamming into you harder. “take it. take every inch like a good girl.”

your walls clench around him as the pressure builds, your cries turning into screams as pleasure crashes through you, leaving you shaking beneath him. his thrusts grow erratic, his grip tightening as he buries himself deep, his cock twitching as he spills inside you with a guttural groan.

he stays there for a moment, his cock still throbbing inside you, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he murmurs, almost mockingly. “all fucked out and stupid for me. maybe now you’ll learn how to behave in my class.”

but as his lips brush against your ear, there’s no mistaking the hunger still burning in his voice. you both know this isn’t over.

it’s only the beginning.

[mistressofstars]

A Lecture on Desire - Part V (NSFW)

pairing: Kathryn Hahn x reader

summary: A lecture on The Price of Salt is supposed to be all about Therese and Carol, but when Professor Hahn locks eyes with you, lines blur. Smut. Non-magical AU

content warnings: 18+, smut, student x professor, age gap, praise kink, Top Kathryn, Sub reader, fingering, nipple play, spanking, power imbalance, spilled wine. Read at your own discretion!

word count: 2.3k

»I feel I stand in a desert with my hands outstretched, and you are raining down upon me.«

- Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

Part V (NSFW)

The fabric of your skirt brushes lightly against your legs. It’s a simple black skirt, paired with a soft blouse tucked neatly at the waist, professional but flattering. You take your usual seat, placing your notebook on the desk, though your thoughts are elsewhere—on her.

Professor Hahn enters the room, her stride confident, a stack of books under one arm. She places them on the desk with a purposeful thud, her sharp gaze scanning the room until it lands on you for a brief second longer than it does on anyone else.

As she begins the lecture, her voice smooth and steady, you try to focus, scribbling notes in an attempt to ground yourself. But it’s hard. Your mind keeps wandering to her grey eyes, her hands… You shift in your seat, the edge of your skirt brushing against your thighs as you cross your legs.

“Miss Y/Ln” she says, her tone sharp. “Am I losing you, or are my words simply too much today?”

Without missing a beat, you let the corner of your lips curl into a faint smile. “Oh, all my thoughts are on you, Professor,” you say, your voice light but purposeful.

You freeze, your mind scrambling for an answer. “I- uh, no, Professor,” you stammer, fumbling your pen as your cheeks heat up.

She studies you for a beat longer before moving on, her smooth voice resuming the lecture.

As the class continues, you grip your notes tightly, biting the inside of your cheek. “All my thoughts are on you.” The perfect reply crosses your mind too late. It’s probably for the best, you think, You don’t want anyone else catching on to whatever this is happening between the two of you.

The lecture finally ends, and Kathryn leaves without a glance in your direction, her heels echoing as she strides out. You sit for a moment, uncertain. Did she forget?

You knock on her office door and for a moment, there’s silence, then her voice comes, cool and precise:

“It’s open.”

“Close the door,” she says.

Her fingers are tracing the edge of a notebook, she leans back in her chair, her gaze lingering.

“Well,” she hums, “shall we get started?”

“The contract outlines the professional aspects, but there are... personal boundaries we need to discuss.” She pauses, her eyes searching yours intently. “Tell me, are you comfortable with working late sometimes?

She leans back looking at you expectantly.

“Of course”.

"But I must warn you..." Her voice drops to a whisper "...I have a habit of working in less than conventional ways late at night. My mind tends to wander..." She pauses, letting her words linger

„That won‘t be a problem, Professor“ You maintain her gaze.

“That’s settled, then. Make yourself comfortable.“ She moves to the cupboard in her office, retrieving a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. „I've already spread out some files on the desk."

She turns, extending one glass to you.

She observes you taking a sip while looking over the files. Your nerves settle slightly. "Good, good. Now, let's get started on those files." She sets her glass down, picking up a stack of papers and handing them to you. "Can you organise these into chronological order?"

You begin organising them to the best of your ability, occasionally glancing over at Kathryn. She seems preoccupied with sorting another stack of papers, but you can feel her eyes lingering on you over the rim of her glasses every now and then.

Time slips away quickly, and Kathryn’s voice breaks the silence. “Ah, excellent work on those files.”

Her smile is warm, a quiet satisfaction evident as she watches your reaction, noting how your expression brightens under her praise. "You have a keen eye for detail, you know that?" She moves closer to you, reaching around to point something out on the next stack of papers. "Look here..."

Suddenly you’re enveloped by her perfume, warm and subtle, catching you off guard. When did that scent start making my heart race like this? Maybe it’s not just the fragrance—it’s her, standing so close. brushing against me.

I shake the thought away, forcing myself to snap back to the task at hand. Your eyes locks on hers—calm, piercing, impossible to look away from. When your focus drifts to her lips, the way they move as she speaks, the sound fades entirely.

You snap back to reality with a sharp breath, chastising yourself as you reach for your wine glass. A quick sip should steady you, you think, and you take it. But then you turn too quickly. Kathryn’s elbow nudges the glass, and in an instant, it tilts.

Before you can react, the wine spills, splashing across the papers and soaking into your blouse.

Kathryn glances down at the mess, then back up at you, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t immediately seem concerned about the spilled wine, but her focus sharpens. Her eyes flicker briefly to your blouse, then back to your face, as if weighing her next move.

“You’ll want to clean that up, honey“ she says, her tone calm, almost amused.

The wine-soaked fabric of your blouse catches her attention more than the mess you’ve made. “Such a shame,” she murmurs, her voice soft, but the meaning behind it makes your heart race.

“I—I’m so sorry, Professor,” you stutter, your voice shaky

Don’t worry,” she says softly, her voice like silk, “accidents happen”. She steps even closer, her presence engulfing you, and in a slow, deliberate motion, she reaches for your blouse.

Her fingers brush the fabric of your shirt, and you freeze, your heart racing. She doesn’t seem in any rush. Her hands, though steady, move with precision, unbuttoning the first one without a word.

“You don’t want to get too wet from the wine,” she murmurs, her voice low and teasing, as her fingers continue to work down the blouse. The space between you has all but disappeared, and you can feel her breath on your skin now, making it hard to concentrate.

You watch her hands, the way they work, and despite yourself, you find your eyes following the line of her fingers as they trace along the fabric.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can stop yourself, you whisper desperately, “Professor…”

She pauses, her eyes flicking up to yours, taking in the flush on your face. You can’t look away, the weight of her stare making it harder to breathe. She leans in slightly.“You’re trembling”.

With a gentle tug, Kathryn removes your blouse, letting it fall to the floor. She stands back, taking in the sight of you in your soaked bra. Her eyes linger on your chest, the delicate lace of your bra.

Her elegant fingers reach out and take a drop of red on the top of the curve of your breast and licks it deliciously with her grey eyes never leaving yours.

She pushes you gently but firmly against the heavy oak desk, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your body. Leaning in close, her breath tickles your neck as she whispers,

„This would be your chance to leave, Miss Y/Ln”

When you don‘t move her index finger, with which she had just deliciously liked away drops of red, now softly touches your hard nipple. Circling it through your lace bra. Sensitive from the wine, her touch sends a deep, fluttering ache through your stomach.

You throw your head back slightly. She is stepping closer, your legs touching she moves your chin up.

"Say it," she demands, her own chin tilted up, asserting her dominance. Her finger continues to circle your peak through the thin lace, teasing you mercilessly. "Say 'I'm staying‘”.

Right as you try to answer, she squeezes your breasts and your breath is takes away. Your ass is pushed hard against the oak desk.

“Uh-uh..." she whispers playfully while pressing firmly against you. Her grey eyes gleam wickedly at your parted lips, obviously enjoying the sound of your breath catching in your throat. "I can‘t hear you, Miss Y/Ln," she chirps.

„Y-yes I’m staying“

Kathryn turns you around in a fluid motion, your pelvis pressed against the edge of the desk. She hikes up your skirt, pushes your upper body on the wood, bunching the fabric around your waist. Without warning, she delivers a sharp slap to your backside, the sound echoing through the office. "Louder, Miss Y/Ln”.

You whimper. The sudden slap sends a jolt of surprise and pleasure through your body, making your cheeks flush and your heart race. You feel a warmth spreading through your core. Your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as you feel your ass sting from the impact. Your voice caught in your throat.

She rubs the spot she just slapped, "Look at you, blushing and trembling," she murmurs huskily. "Such a good girl for your Professor..." She slaps the other cheek.

Each slap making your breath hitch and your underwear dampen.

She reaches on her desk and pulls out a red pen. She uses it to trace with its cold metal cap on your thighs, slowly inching higher. You know, Miss y/n,” she says with a playful smirk, “I could always find someone else for this job, if you’re not up to the task.”

“No please“, you whisper, your voice trembling as you cling to the edge of the desk. Kathryn chuckles, a cold, dominant sound. She turns you back around, your face inches from hers.

Her breath hot and teasing. She presses the cold pen tip firmly against the thin fabric of your panties, right over your center.

Causing a shudder and gasp from you. You're absolutely soaked, Miss Y/Ln. This is turning you on, isn't it? Being bent over, helpless in your professor's grasp.“

„Turn around for me“

You do as you’re told and so she continues tracing the pen's tip along your slit, watching intently as you struggle to maintain composure.

„Mmm..." She moves the pen tip in small circles, watching with satisfaction as you squirm and whimper "Mrs Hahn knows exactly what you need... Don't hold back, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want it." She presses just hard enough to make you gasp audibly.

As she leans in closer, her lips brush against your ear as she whispers, "That's it, let out those delicious little noises for me." Slowly sliding the pen tip downward, teasingly caressing you.

"Sit on the table,“ she commands.

As you lift yourself up, she hooks a finger under the hem of your underwear and pulls them down, exposing your bare bottom and the slick folds to the cool air of her office.

Her eyes darken with lust as she takes in the sight of you exposed before her. She circles the pen tip teasingly around your now exposed clit, making you shudder and moan softly.

The pen is still teasingly circling your most intimate area as you desperately try to grab her collar. She catches your wrist with her free hand, stopping you short. She looks at you with a stern expression, "Ah ah".

She pushes you forward, causing you to land on her desk, papers scattering everywhere.

Her eyes flash with authority as she looms over you, pinning your hands above your head with one hand. With the other, she brings her index and middle fingers to your mouth. "Open," she commands sternly.

Kathryn bites her lips slightly as she watches you comply. "Good girl”. While maintaining eye contact, she pushes her fingers deeper into your mouth "Get them nice and wet.“

Her pupils dilate with lust as she watches you eagerly suck her fingers. She withdraws her them and without a warning, she slides her wet fingers inside you.

“Fuck" you moan, gasping for air, your back arching.

Kathryns expression darkens. She stops. "Language Miss Y/Ln.“

”Professor Hahn I-„ you cry desperate for her to continue.

”Mmmm, is that supposed to be an apology?" Keeping your hands firmly placed on top of your head, she leans in closer.

„I‘m sorry Professor“

„For what?“

„Cursing“

„For cursing when I don‘t allow you to“

She reenters with a single hard thrust, her fingers stroking slowly in and out, curling just right.

She picks up the pace slightly, fingers pumping harder as she continues to fuck you slowly.

Kathryn is breathing heavy. Then she gives attention to your swollen clit, rolling it between her fingers as she continues to finger you and fuck you at a slow, deliberate pace.

The sound of your moan encourages her, hitting that spot that drives you wild. "Look at me,"

Her eyes lock onto yours, intense and commanding. "I want to see the pleasure on your face as I make you come undone. Don't you dare look away." She increases the pace, her fingers flying over your clit as she fucks you harder, deeper.

Feeling your walls start to flutter, she leans in close, her breath hot against your ear. "That's it, baby. Come for me.“ her raspy voice sending you over the edge.

She feels your inner walls clench around her fingers, your body tensing as the orgasm washes over you. She holds you close, her fingers still buried deep inside you, drawing out your orgasm. A triumphant smile plays on her lips as she watches you tremble.

Panting lightly, she pulls back.

As you recompose yourself you look around. Papers are scattered everywhere, across the desk and floor.

Kathryn sweeps her hand through her hair, eyes roaming over the papers strewn across the desk and floor. “I suppose we’ll have to revisit this at our next meeting.“

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.80)

(Sneak Peak)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: none of your pack ever expected your heat to come with so many biological changes but now that your mate has a knot...you have but one thing on your mind.

Tags: Groupsex, fivesome? threesome? exhibitionism, voyeurism, praise kink, Knotfucking, dumbification, mindbreak, omegaspace sex, Mating cycles/in heat, lactation kink, false pregnancy, some good ol' tiddy sucking, omega x omega content, scissoring? pussy spanking, jungkook x m/c, mommy kink, daddy kink, trans charecters, discussion of girl knot/cock, girl on top, feral sex, biting, humor, this is soft and horny and funny,

W/c: 11.0k

A/n: Ahhhh i'm sorry it took so long for me to write this chapter- the good thing is the next one won't be that far off! Until then if you like this story and want to read a different version of the beginning that has like 5+ additional chapters of how yoongi and the m/c got together you can read it here

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

~-~

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” Seokjin asks, carefully. Pillow over his bare lap. Namjoon has the good sense to at least put on some shorts. Jimin looks at Tae quickly and Tae does not return his gaze. Some secret soulmate conversation going on between them that you can’t read.

When you look up at Hobi- he’s watching your face. He doesn’t look away but after a moment- he does shrug as if to say ‘our beta has a knot- so what?’

“I’ve never heard of a beta popping a knot. I’m not sure. I think this might just be us.”

You groan, hiding your face under Yoongi’s chin. His breath heaves, and he turns back to you, nuzzling back.

“Is it my slick? Or the mating mark? Did I do this to him-” your eyes are wet, tears already threatening. You are already generally sensitive, and even more so in heat. Yoongi eases away your worries with a quick kiss to the side of your face. Cutting off your guilt before it has a chance to build.

“None of that now, if I had to change for anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

The pack is quiet around you, all in varying states of nudity. Quiet at the truth of what he says, how suddenly deep this has gotten. But he's right, you'd change for any of them. You wouldn't mind either.  Yoongi rubs your cheek and you pull yourself half into his lap for a cuddle. Needy, too worn down to let it go. Yoongi’s hands go around your waist keeping you close. You melt into his arms, still sniffling.

"Your dick was perfect before though-"

"Sweetheart " he groans.

"What? I'm just saying-"

Hoseok chokes back a laugh and tries to keep it in, but before you can help it everyone's laughing and covering their faces with their hands to keep from smiling. 

“You didn’t cum at all. Did you?" Namjoon asks, eyes dark. Yoongi starts to lift the hem of the shirt you wear, showing. “No, I didn’t.” Yoongi can feel a bit of skin at the base of his cock, still loose, still half popped. If you weren’t more preoccupied with holding your mate and shaking through a bit of weepiness, you’d be more curious about the knot pressed between your legs.

Maybe this is just resource-guarding. Classic omega in heat, of course, the most valuable resource is your mate. 

“You know” Namjoon hesitates, looking from Yoongi to Jin. “Popping a knot without ejaculating sperm is kind of medically dangerous-”

“Namjoon-” Jin scolds.

“Sorry, without Cuming is actually kind of dangerous, especially because it’s like, not typical for you to have a knot.”

You don’t know if it’s hornyness or just Namjoon being concerned for Yoongi’s health (probably a little bit of both) but you perk up. Blinking at the pack alpha who looks a little strained. A little like he’s trying not to look too much.

Across the nest, Jungkook shuffles forward, blatantly eyeing Yoongi’s knot like he’s just found his new favorite toy. But no sooner is he putting his hand on the beta’s tight before Jin is pulling him back the collar. "no no no pup, that's not yours yet."

He lets out a little bereft whimper, but you hardly notice. Eyes bright, directed up at Namjoon. Like it honestly hadn’t occurred to you that now that your mate has a knot that means he can use it.

Yoongi can knot you now. Pack alpha is so smart! you don't know how it didn't occur to you yet but.

oh, you really want that. You really want Yoongi to knot you.

Coming saturday Jan 25th at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below).

[atsadi-shenanigans]

A Misuse of Potions 2 - Invisibility

In which I write probably my most demented smut so far. Predator/prey. Buckle up, friends and enemies, cause that man gets REAL WEIRD in this one. Full-force Creachur Astarion.

On Ao3.

On the third day of Eleint, she comes to him. Her dark eyes are warm, her limbs loose, and he doesn’t even have to scent the air to know what’s going on between her legs.

“Would now be a good time?” she says.

Always, he wants to say, though that’s not always true. Sometimes, even now, the memories seep in and it’s all he can do not to shred his own skin with his claws.

But this is not one of those times. This is the third day of Eleint, his Eleanor has a glint to her eye, and they’ve discussed this subject at length.

Astarion snaps his book shut and lets it drop to the floor. Rolls to his feet to sweep her into his embrace and buries his face against her neck to breathe her in, slow and deep.

Warmth, life. Salt and clean.

Moon blood.

“There’s nothing I’d like more,” he says and means it. Can tell in her gaze she sees the truth of it.

They’ve planned for this. Extensively. His Eleanor does love her planning. She’s quite prepared.

He’s not even surprised when he follows her upstairs to their bedroom, and she pulls a pack from their wardrobe. Removes the items within and inventories them on the bed. He takes a small, velvet pouch she holds out, and his groin is already starting to tighten. From her scent, of course, and from what he knows this pouch will lead to.

She goes over The Plan again. They both need to be certain, after all. There’s not much on his end; neither of them expect much on his end once they start, save for her words “red light.” She’s used them before; by now they’re both comfortable with it and what comes after, even if it sometimes makes his guts squirm.

No pain follows it, though. Not ever. Not after red light, not after cub. Sometimes they resume, and sometimes they just…stop. Hold each other. Dress and move to the lounge. Sometimes she’ll get herself a bite to eat, and sometimes she’ll give him her wrist or her neck when he needs it.

She dressed carefully, this night, from an outfit she had folded in that pack. It’s cheap material. Far too flimsy for road travel, but it’s meant to be cheap, and he watches her slip the layers on and his cock begins to fill in earnest.

She does not wear her moon blood belt. She does not tuck rags into her trousers (her face flushes adorably as she slips nothing but a single pair of panties on, followed by said trousers).

He has to lean against the wall and keep his arms crossed. His own trousers become uncomfortable.

She notices that. Of course she does. Gives him a little smile, the minx.

“Ready?” she says.

He wants to push her to the floor and spread her legs and—

He steps away from the wall. “Very, my love.”

The teleportation spell is not his favorite, even if it is useful. For this, though, he swallows down his complaints (he’ll be swallowing down much more pleasant things tonight), and a moment later, they step onto soft grass.

It’s a lonely patch of woods. Or as lonely as any patch of untended woods can be. They’d scouted it some months back, when passing near the Bear’s newest little enclave. No one lives out here. No guards, no gaggles. No one to get the wrong idea or try to do something stupid and ruin the night for all involved.

There’s also no goblins or worgs or other worrisome beasts. Just the bunnies and other snacks.

The late summer heat clings to the air, but the wind already sweeps a soothing chill over his face. His Eleanor glances about, her poor, human ears straining, and looks to him.

“We’re all alone,” he says.

His fangs ache. The beds of his nails tingle as his claws threaten to sharpen. Alone out here, in the wilds, with her.

They look at each other for a long moment. He lets himself enjoy the way the silver moonlight—nearly full, lucky him—paints over her skin, sinks into her dark hair.

“You sure about your getup?” she says.

He’s wearing his home clothes, the ones he was loafing about it: a loose tunic tucked into his trousers. He hadn’t thought to change. Had only grabbed his city shoes while trying to adjust himself in his underthings.

He waves her off. “I can replace it.”

Gives her an appreciative sweep. She put on a light jacket and a pair of stays, as she would need the support. At least initially. But they’re the most basic pair she owns. Easy to mend. Or replace, should he get a little…rough.

Most of all, his gaze is drawn to the juncture of her thighs, and the small, dark patch just beginning to show itself.

He’s scenting the air, isn’t he.

He slips the velvet pouch from his pocket. It’s a small thing. Light. Holds only two, delicate golden ear cuffs, which spill into his palm as he tips it.

He slides the first one up, halfway between the lobe and the point. His Eleanor licks her lips like a degenerate. He’d had the initial idea for this outing, but she’d leapt on it, proposed all of these additions.

The other cuff pinches on his other ear. They’re rather plain, with only the hint of swirled knot work along the sides. But they warm his ears as he speaks the activation. The magic sinks into them and spreads like warm fingers (hers) over his ears.

Until the world muffles itself. The racing rodent hearts disappear. The thunderous pulse of his love fades to nothing. He flails in his mind a moment—not used to this, danger, if he can’t hear, if he’s trapped in silence again—

“Still okay?”

He catches her voice. He can focus on that. He’s deafened as an elf. As a vampire. But they tested these on her, and she notices no difference.

“You poor thing,” he says, because she has to live like this, in such a dim and dull world all the time.

She flips him off. Unfortunately for her, he’s close enough to snap at the offending finger. Slowly, of course. Gives her ample time to pull away and snort. Which makes him want to kiss her.

So he does. Luxuriates in her hot mouth, the slide of her tongue, her scent and that heavy, heady ambrosia of her moon blood.

Gods, he’s glad she doesn’t mind letting him feast upon her like this. He tries to remember the feel of his life before this, before the beach and the tadpoles, and he cannot fathom existing so long without this. Without her.

But before he can be carried away, his Eleanor takes a step back. Her cheeks are flushed. Neck reddened down to where her skin disappears beneath her light jacket and stays and under tunic. Her eyes are pools of heat, her lips already swollen.

Her moon blood—when not crippling her in pain—can sometimes spike her desire. This appears to be one of those times (gods below, there’s a damp spot high on his thigh where he’s already leaking).

She retrieves a bottle from the pack she’s secured to her person. Liquid silver sparkles in the moonlight. His nail beds tingle hard and this time he cannot stop the claws from forming.

“You’re sure?” he says.

His delightful contradiction, no longer a virgin but having lost none of her hidden boldness, only says, “Close your eyes.”

He does.

A year or two ago, he wouldn’t have. Blindness meant vulnerability. Meant unseen blows to unprotected places. Meant clawing starvation hollowing his guts and drying out his flesh, his throat so withered he could barely produce a sound that wasn’t a deathly, rattling click.

Now, as he obeys, a shudder of anticipation shivers down his spine.

He can just hear her uncork the bottle. Cannot hear her swallowing, or the air in her lungs, or the way he imagines her own heart races in lust and anticipation.

Nor can he hear her shift closer. Not until the rustle of fabric reaches him, right in front of him. And the scent of her blood suddenly surges. His lips part as he gasps, and his demented little love sticks two, wet fingers into his mouth and the taste blinds him to anything else.

“Trackers need a sample scent, right?” she says.

She’s stuck her hand down her trousers. She’s smeared his lips and tongue with her blood. Lets him suckle desperately a moment before she steps away, and he’s left to wipe his mouth to ensure no drop escapes.

“You are utterly deranged,” he says.

“Pot kettle,” she says, another of her people’s charming sayings.

She falls silent after that. Astarion keeps his eyes closed, searching the spaces between his teeth with his tongue for any last hints of her.

“Darling?” he says after a moment.

No answer.

His cock throbs. His claws fully extend, his fangs aching.

He counts to forty three times. Opens his eyes.

He’s alone. The clearing is empty, with no trace of his darling. Nothing but her scent floating in the air, an invitation to him.

He nudges the empty bottle she left at his feet. It’s not like her to waste anything. Which means this is a taunt. The cuffs deafen his ears to her, a potion of invisibility blinds his eyes to her. All he has to track her is scent. Her skin, her hair, and the dizzying harpy song of one of his most favorite things: her blood.

He has one job. Well, two, but they’re the same in the end.

Track her. Hunt her. Capture her.

And take her. Any way he sees fit (that they’ve discussed, and she was quite open). Her blood, her body, her sex. She’ll try to evade him. But he will find her. He’ll plunge into her, first with his fangs, then with his cock. Or perhaps the other way around. Perhaps both at the same time. He’s not sure. Didn’t bother to plan that far, because that’s what she likes to do.

He sucks air deep into his lungs: plush grass (her plush thighs on his hips), damp earth (her wet cunt pulling him in), the almost sweet smell of late-summer leaves (her arousal thick as he slips his tongue against her).

There she is. Headed immediately for the thickest part of the underbrush. Hoping to hide her tracks, hide her trail, slow him down.

He imagines her crouched behind a tree. The startle as he grabs her, spins her, pressing her to that tree and the way she’d moan as he slipped inside her…

He reaches into his undergarments and adjusts his cock. Running like this won’t be fun, but it’ll be so, so worth it once he finds his devious darling.

He stops at the edge of the underbrush. Looks to the closest tree: a large oak. They’re all large, with wide, thick branches nearly touching.

Astarion ponders a moment, and then slips off his shoes. He doesn’t technically need to, but it seems the sort of thing to do.

Sets his bare foot on the rough bark, and scurries right up the side of the trunk into the canopy above.

Brush doesn’t matter to a godsdamned immortal vampire, after all.

***

The rest is on AO3 because I wrote like 14k for this, goddamn, and also for the horny.

[oleanderflower]

Awkward Bonds: An Alien’s Guide to Human Behavior

Summary: On a spaceship, human Y/N and their alien roommate Orven navigate the complexities of their growing bond. As Orven seeks to understand human ways of affection, their connection deepens, leaving both of them questioning what comes next.

a/n: This was supposed to be something else entirely but I couldn’t stop writing and now it’s this, unbetaed, mistakes made are my own! please let me know what you think and if i should continue with Orvens story or move on !

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and your companion, Orven, quickly became close friends after the start of the space mission you were both assigned to. While you were human, he belonged to a social species that thrived on interaction, finding comfort in companionship.

The captain had decided that pairing the two of you—despite being of different genders—wouldn’t cause any issues like in any other species. Orven’s kind didn’t rely on intercourse for reproduction and where pretty docile, and frankly, the captain was certain that nothing was going to happen between a human and his kind. Of course...

As the days passed on the ship, the bond between you both deepened, forming an unspoken understanding. His curious nature led to countless late-night conversations about humanity’s quirks and habits, while you found comfort in having a companion who wasn’t wary of humans. He found you fascinating, and you found him simply enjoyable to be around.

It wasn’t long before the two of you became inseparable.

The crew often remarked on how naturally you both complemented each other—your so-called “human-ness” and Orven’s species’ innate need for companionship forming an oddly perfect balance.

-Which is why that one question completely threw everything off balance.

It was another late night in your shared quarters. You were lounging on your raised bed, absorbed in a book on your portable reader, while Orven rested on his lower bed beneath you and across on the opposite wall. The atmosphere was peaceful, the quiet hum of the ship in the background.

Then, he turned to looked up at you.

“Miss Y/N… I may have another strange question about humanity.”

You immediately perked up, setting your reader aside. Orven’s questions were always so interesting—half the time they led to deep philosophical discussions, and the other half… well, they were just funny. He never dropped the Miss thing, despite your repeated attempts to convince him it wasn’t necessary. Apparently, it was a sign of respect. Oh well.

“Yes! What’s up?” You scooted closer to the edge of your bed so you could look down towards him.

His expression was alight with curiosity, his equivalent of excitement evident. “I’ve recently read that humans require two individuals to reproduce, unlike my species that is able to do so asexually if chosen, which we can do independently making the need for a partner unnecessary. How exactly does your process work, what are the differences?”

You froze.

Your face heated up instantly as your brain short-circuited.

It’s fine. It’s okay. It’s just a biology question.

No reason to panic. Absolutely no reason at all.

Except for the fact that your very sweet, very curious, and very cute alien roommate had just asked you to explain human reproduction while looking at you with that eager, innocent expression.

Oh god. Answer him.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. No words came out.

Orven’s head tilted slightly, his species’ version of a curious frown crossing his face. “Are you alright, Miss Y/N? Your face has changed color.”

Great. Fantastic. Now he’s concerned.

You cleared your throat, willing yourself to focus. This was a perfectly normal question. A scientific question. It wasn’t his fault that humans had such an incredibly embarrassing way of continuing their species.

“Well,” you started, then immediately regretted it because you had no idea where to go from there. “Human reproduction is… uh… complicated.”

Orven’s eyes—lit up with intrigue. “Complicated how?”

Oh no.

You couldn’t back out now. Taking a deep breath, you clasped your hands together, adopting the most academic tone you could manage. “Humans require two individuals to contribute genetic material. One provides an egg, the other provides… uh… genetic material that fertilizes the egg.”

Orven nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Ah, like pollination?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Like with plants.” He gestured vaguely. “One spreads genetic material to another, and then the offspring grows?”

“Uh…” You supposed that was the most PG way to describe it. “Sort of?”

Orven hummed thoughtfully. “But how does the genetic material get from one human to another?”

Your soul may have just left your body.

“Uh.” You hesitated, scrambling for a way to say this without saying it. “Well, there’s more of a… direct transfer.”

Orven perked up. “Oh! Like an exchange? A secretion process?”

Why does that make it sound worse?

“I—um—yes, technically,” you stammered. “There’s a… uh… physical connection involved.”

Orven tilted his head again. “How so?”

You stared at him, praying to whatever cosmic forces existed that he would magically drop this conversation.

No such luck.

He was still looking at you, blinking expectantly, completely oblivious to your internal suffering.

“…I’m gonna need a diagram.”

Orven brightened. “Oh! I enjoy diagrams!”

Why me?

You hesitated, already regretting your choice of words. He looked so excited—his version of excitement, at least—like you’d just promised him the best lesson of his life. It was kind of adorable.

Which only made this situation worse.

You sighed, pulling out your portable reader and tapping through the library of information stored onboard. There had to be a basic, non-graphic explanation somewhere. Preferably one that didn’t involve words like secretion process.

Meanwhile, Orven continued musing to himself. “I imagine there must be a strong biological drive, given the inefficiency of requiring two individuals to align at the right time. Do you just ask someone, or—” He paused, glancing up at you. “Oh. Wait.”

You didn’t say anything, but your burning face probably said enough.

His expression shifted.

It wasn’t easy to read the emotions of his species, but over time, you’d learned to recognize the subtle ways he expressed himself. Right now, his posture stiffened ever so slightly, his usual enthusiasm dimming.

“Ah.” He tilted his head in the other direction, slower this time. “This is… an awkward topic for humans, isn’t it?”

You let out a long, suffering sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Orven blinked a few times, processing. Then, with what you could only describe as realization, he straightened up. “Oh. Oh.”

You nodded.

“…And I have been making it worse.”

“You have been making it worse,” you confirmed.

He immediately clasped his hands together—his species’ equivalent of an apologetic gesture. “I sincerely regret this.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, still recovering from your near-death experience.

A brief silence passed between you. Then, hesitantly, Orven spoke again. “Would it help if I offered an equally embarrassing fact about my species?”

You raised a brow. “…That depends on what it is.”

He thought for a moment before nodding to himself. “Alright. In my culture, prolonged eye contact is considered a pre-mating behavior.”

You stared at him. “Wait, what?”

“Which means,” Orven continued, a bit too calmly, “that I have been accidentally flirting with you this entire time.”

Your brain promptly shut down.

Orven observed your stunned silence, then let out a soft hum, looking pleased with himself. “There. Now we are both uncomfortable.”

…Yeah, ok. That was fair.

You sat in stunned silence, your heart still pounding from Orven’s unexpected admission.

Flirting.

“Wait… you’ve been flirting with me?” The words were a little breathless, your chest tightening. This is fine. Totally fine.

Orven didn’t seem to notice your nervousness as he casually nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t realize it was problematic for your species. If I had known—” He paused, his voice softening. “I would have adjusted my behavior to be better understood.”

He said it so sincerely, like it was just another piece of information he was processing, that you couldn’t help but find it endearing even if you where a bit (very) surprised.

“Flirting isn’t bad, Orven,” you said, your voice quiet now. “It’s just… complicated for humans, certainly more complicated then just prolonged eye contact.”

Orven tilted his head, still intrigued. “Complicated how?”

You sighed, a mixture of frustration and fondness swirling within you. He was so sweet—so honest in his curiosity. It made everything feel lighter, even in the awkwardness of the moment.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, “we don’t really do the eye-contact thing, that’s more of a respect kinda deal I guess. It’s just that there are other… ways humans show affection.”

Orven’s expression shifted to one of deep concentration. He looked at you like he was trying to work out a puzzle. “Other ways?”

You nodded slowly, a little unsure where this conversation was going but somehow not wanting it to stop. “Yeah. Like holding hands, or… or maybe a touch on the arm. You know, something gentle. Something that says I’m interested and I want to know if you are too. You know? Well, I guess not difference species and stuff-”

Orven was quiet for a moment, then took a small step closer to you on your bed, his 7’1/2 ft frame easily letting him be near you even if you where sitting on a raised bed, his usual casualness replaced by something more deliberate, more intimate. “I think…” He paused, then slowly reached out, his hand resting softly on your arm, his fingers brushing lightly across your skin. “I think I understand.”

Your breath hitched at the touch, warmth spreading from your arm to your chest. It was subtle, but the way he looked at you—so open, so sincere—was almost enough to make your heart skip a beat.

He took another small step, his hand still gently resting on your arm, his gaze never leaving yours. The way he looked at you made you feel like the only thing that mattered in the galaxy at that moment was the space between the two of you.

“I care about you, Miss Y/N,” he said softly, his voice quieter now, almost like a confession. “And I want to understand the human ways of bonding. I would like to try them, if you would accept me.”

It was your turn to shuffle forward now, still sitting on your bed letting you be just a bit taller than him. Your heartbeat quickened, your breath shallow, unsure of where this was heading but so very ready for it. “I—” You stopped, then looked at him, your heart in your throat. “I’d like that too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, simply standing there, the connection between you two so strong, so felt, it was as if it was pulling you toward him. Slowly, tentatively, you reached up, your fingers grazing his cheek. The warmth of his skin under your touch sent a shiver down your spine.

And then, without a word, Orven closed the gap between you. His lips were smooth, tentative at first, as if testing the waters, before he pressed just a little harder, the kiss deepening with an undeniable sweetness.

For a moment, everything else faded away. The hum of the ship, the lingering awkwardness, even the question of species—it all melted into the warmth of his touch, the quiet certainty that this, this connection between you, was something real.

When you finally pulled away, your faces were only inches apart, breaths mingling in the soft silence.

“That… that was different,” you said breathlessly, your heart still racing.

Orven smiled, a quiet, contented smile. “It was. But I believe I could get used to it, with you.”

You smiled back, warmth flooding through you. “Yeah… me too.”

a/n: the end?? if yall want ? i was gonna have a smutty ending but i wanted to leave it fluffy, lmk if you want a part 2 with more Orven!

[imloyaltoscoups]

naughty temptation | yoon jeonghan

You sit in biology class, as you glance over at your boyfriend, Jeonghan, who seems to be lost in his own world. With a gentle nudge, you whisper, "Hey, pay attention to the professor."

Jeonghan looks at you with a mischievous grin. "But babe, I've got more interesting things to focus on," he replies playfully.

You raise an eyebrow, not quite sure what he means. But as the discussion shifts to the reproductive system, you suddenly feel his hand creeping up your exposed legs.

"Jeonghan!" you hiss, trying to suppress a giggle as you swat his hand away. "Not now, we're in class!"

He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Can't help it," he whispers back, leaning in closer. "You're just too distracting."

"Stop it," you say firmly, squeezing his hand as it inches dangerously close to your underwear. He just smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know we shouldn't..."

His smile widens, and he leans in closer. "But it's so tempting, isn't it? Just think of all the naughty things we could do..."

You can't help but feel a rush of arousal at his sudden boldness, your breath hitching slightly. "I know, but... we really shouldn't..."

He chuckles softly, his fingers tracing tantalizing patterns along your skin. "Maybe we shouldn't, but that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun, does it?"

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, and glance at Jeonghan, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself. With a quick scan around the classroom, you realize that you both are sitting at the back, with no other students beside you.

"Yoon Jeonghan, seriously," you whisper urgently, trying to keep your voice low. "Not here, okay? We'll get in trouble."

But Jeonghan just chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Come on, babe," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

You bite your lip, torn between the thrill of his touch and the fear of getting caught. But as his hand continues its tantalizing exploration, you can't help but feel a surge of arousal coursing through you. Despite your best efforts to resist, the temptation of his touch is simply too strong to ignore.

As Jeonghan's fingers traced small circles on your skin, you found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the lecture. "Jeonghan," you whisper, trying to sound stern despite the shiver his touch sends down your spine, "We really shouldn't be doing this in class."

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "But you're not stopping me," he murmurs playfully, his fingers continuing their tantalizing movements.

Your cheeks flush as Jeonghan's teasing words send a jolt of arousal through you. "Jeonghan, stop," you whisper urgently, feeling the heat pooling between your thighs.

But he only smirks, his fingers continuing to brush against the fabric, making you squirm uncomfortably. "You're really getting wet, aren't you?" he taunts, his voice low and husky.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan, and instinctively close your thighs in a feeble attempt to regain control. But he's having none of it. "Open them up," he demands softly, his gaze intense as he meets your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat as you reluctantly obey his command, feeling a rush of excitement mingled with apprehension at the thought of being so exposed in public. You slide your thighs apart, giving him easier access, your heart pounding in your chest.

As his fingers slip inside your underwear, you can't help but gasp, your hand instinctively flying to cover your mouth to stifle any sounds of pleasure that might escape. His touch sends shockwaves of sensation coursing through you, and you struggle to maintain your composure, torn between the need for discretion and the overwhelming desire building inside you.

You try to focus on the lecture, but Jeonghan's fingers persistently tease and tantalize, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Every subtle movement sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, and you struggle to keep your composure.

Glancing back, you see Jeonghan's other hand casually resting on his chin, his gaze fixed on the projector screen where the professor is talking. It's as if he's completely absorbed in the lecture, his expression unreadable, while his fingers continue their illicit exploration beneath the desk.

You bite your lip, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks as you realize the audacity of his actions.

Unconsciously, your hips begin to move in rhythm with Jeonghan's teasing fingers, betraying the growing arousal coursing through your body. You know you should stop, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.

You hear him chuckle softly, leaning forward to whisper in your ear, his voice low and suggestive. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you?" he murmurs, the hint of a smirk evident in his tone. "You can't resist me, can you?"

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan, acutely aware of the risk of being caught.

As Jeonghan skillfully inserts a third finger inside you, your head lowers instinctively, a mix of embarrassment and pleasure flooding your senses. His movements become faster, more urgent, driving you to the brink of ecstasy.

Suddenly, the professor's voice cuts through the haze of arousal. "Is everything alright?" he asks, concern evident in his tone.

Before you can even respond, Jeonghan smoothly interjects on your behalf. "Oh, she's just feeling a bit under the weather, but she'll be fine," he says, his voice calm and collected, as if discussing the weather.

The professor accepts Jeonghan's explanation with a nod, returning to his lecture without further inquiry, unaware of the illicit activity happening right under his nose. You exhale a shaky breath of relief, grateful for Jeonghan's quick thinking, though you can't help but marvel at his audacity. Despite the close call, the forbidden thrill of the moment only serves to heighten the intensity of your shared desire.

Jeonghan's whispered words draw you back to reality, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "We almost got caught because of you," he teases softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You're about to shoot him a glare in response when his fingers start moving again, igniting a surge of pleasure that makes coherent thought difficult. Your grip on his arm tightens instinctively, a silent plea for him to stop, but also an admission of your own inability to resist.

"You're such a menace," you mutter under your breath, a mixture of frustration and arousal lacing your words.

Jeonghan chuckles softly at your remark, taking it as a compliment rather than a reproach. "I'll take that as a compliment," he says with a smirk, his fingers moving even faster now, driving you closer to the edge.

You can feel your climax building, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. "Jeonghan," you gasp, your voice barely a whisper, "I'm... I'm going to..."

But he interrupts you with a mischievous grin. "Let go," he murmurs, his voice filled with desire and command, pushing you over the edge into ecstasy.

As you reach your climax, you lower your head again, biting down on both hands to stifle any sound of pleasure that might escape. You feel the intensity of the moment wash over you, leaving you breathless and trembling with ecstasy.

Jeonghan withdraws his fingers from inside you, and before you can even process what's happening, he brings them to his lips, licking the remaining juices with a satisfied expression. "You taste delicious, babe," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire.

You blush furiously at his bold actions, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and arousal at the intimate exchange. Despite your protestations, a part of you can't help but be thrilled by his uninhibited desire.

Afterwards, Jeonghan acts as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, returning to his normal demeanor as if he hadn't just sent you spiraling into ecstasy. You can't help but marvel at his ability to switch between playful seduction and casual nonchalance, leaving you both exhilarated and utterly captivated by his charms.

As the bell rings, signaling the end of the lecture, Jeonghan leans in to whisper, "Thank you for making this class bearable."

You roll your eyes playfully. "I didn't learn anything, thanks to you," you retort with a smirk.

He grins back at you. "Well, who needs lectures when you can learn so much more interesting things with me?" he replies with a wink.

You playfully smack his arm. "You're just horny 24/7," you tease, unable to suppress a giggle.

He chuckles, unfazed by your comment. "Guilty as charged," he admits with a smirk. "Since we don't have any classes for today, why don't we head to my dorm and continue where we left off?"

You raise an eyebrow, considering his suggestion. "Hmm, tempting," you say with a grin, already imagining the possibilities. "Lead the way."

....... ≿━━━━━༺MASTERLIST༻━━━━━≾ .......

[sxvual]

Felicity • f i v e

a/n: sorry all. i had a very busy and unplanned day.

also gonna be reworking all the banners for each chapter, i want them all to be different and set the tone for the chapter. so if yall get any notifs on past chapters, its not new content, just me messing around x

DM always open beautiful ppls 💌

cw: alcohol consumption, mature themes, suggestive content mentioned between consenting adults

listening suggestions 🎵: night + morning by alina baraz

word count: 3.9k (sorry she’s a shortie)

*The Lunch Meeting 

One thing about Athena’s career path was that it required many inhuman skills. Practically seeing into the future being one of them. She saw herself coming to this meeting with Roman to potentially consider his offer, but ultimately turn him down at the end. Citing her inability to balance any new high profile clients with her busy schedule as the reason. 

She didn’t see herself indulging in Roman’s casual flirty banter. 

But she did. 

She didn’t think she’d shrug off her coat due to the way the conversation heated up over time. 

But she did. 

Athena also didn’t foresee herself being on a third glass of chilled cabernet as she thoroughly enjoyed herself much more than planned. 

But she was.

This was risky. Athena had spent years perfecting the art of professional distance, of being respected rather than charmed. But Roman Reigns had a way of disarming her carefully curated strategy with nothing more than a deep glance in her direction. Coupled with the slow, easy confidence of a man who never had to try too hard. 

Their conversation began with logistics of their next steps—the interviews, further control of the Solo situation, a roadmap to success already forming in both of their minds. But then, somewhere between the appetizers and the main course, the discussion had shifted. 

“That accent I heard last night, on the phone,” Roman mused, tilting his head slightly, “Something else there?” 

Athena glanced up from her plate, surprised he even noticed—her polished corporate image included an impersonal monotone drawl. “Dominicana, I’m afro-latina.” she admitted, “My family’s originally from there, but I grew up down in Miami.” 

Roman’s brow lifted in interest. “Miami? That explains a lot.” 

She smirked, “And what does that mean?” She feigned offense as she perched her chins in her hands.

Roman leaned back in his seat, it cowered a bit in light of his large built frame, studying her like she was a puzzle he was enjoying the challenge of figuring out. “You’ve got this fire to you. Confidant, sharp—like someone who grew up having to prove herself. Miami’s got that energy. I get that, I was like that.” 

She hummed, satisfied with the answer but not wanting to give away just how right he was. “But you live here in Tampa now?” She shook her head while sipping her wine. “No, I moved down here right after college, better opportunities for what I wanted to do. I double majored in Marketing and Business Administration. And by the time I was 22, I was already making the moves to start my own firm.”

Roman let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn. You weren’t playing around.”

“I never did,” she admitted. “Still don’t.” 

He smiled at that, a slow, approving grin that made something warm unfurl in her stomach. “A prodigy.” 

“I was ambitious.” she corrected. “When you come from where I come, you learn to work twice as hard. Me and Amina built from nothing.”

Roman’s expression shifted slightly, his respect deepening, “You built an empire by 29. That’s impressive as hell, Athena.” 

She shrugged, but she couldn’t deny the satisfaction that bloomed in her chest at the acknowledgement. “It wasn’t easy, there were…complications.” 

His gaze sharpened in curiosity, he wouldn’t ask but he wondered if she’d tell. 

Athena hesitated before answering, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I come from a big family,” she finally said. “Not a wealthy one. When Amina and I started making real money, things changed. Some of our relatives were happy for us, but others…they expected things. Help. Before I knew both my parents quit their job without even telling us. They wanted money, and we gave it. Willingly. But–” she stuttered a bit. “No matter what we did, it was never enough. They’d ask for more and more, but wouldn’t even visit. Wouldn’t call unless they needed something.” 

Roman’s jaw tightened slightly, like he understood all too well. “That's rough.” Roman understood the feeling of getting lost in the shuffle of such a big family but being used and underappreciated, no. And he felt for her a lot. 

“It is.” she admitted, “I still take care of them. I probably always will. But the only real family I have is my twin. Amina and I…we’re all we’ve got. And that's okay with me.”

He nodded with a thoughtful expression, he appreciated her openness with him and without even realizing he gained even more respect for Athena. “Yeah, big families are like that for sure.” 

Athena neatly arched brows lifted in surprise. “You speak from experience?” 

Roman chuckled. “Oh yeah. Samoan. Big family. Three older sisters and a brother, my brother passed away a few years ago.” his face pinched up in a pained expression and Athena found herself softening. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Roman nodded but continued. “Yeah—and too many cousins to count—but there's one person more important than them all.” 

She tilted her head intrigued, “Who?”

His entire face changed, His lips curved into something softer, his eyes warmed with an affection so genuine that it caught Athena off guard. “My daughter,” he said. “She’s four, and she’s my world.”

Athena blinked, absorbing the revelation. A daughter. She hadn’t expected that. She chided herself for not doing her research on him as she properly should’ve but Roman had been properly distracting. 

“You’re a father?” she asked, her voice gentle barely above a whisper. 

Roman nodded, and there was something almost reverent in the way he spoke.

 “Yeah, she’s everything to me.”

Athena allowed a smile to creep on her face despite herself. “I can tell. You just lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Roman chuckled. “Yeah, well. She’s got me wrapped around her little finger, and she knows it.” 

Athena leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her hand, “Tell me about her?”

And he did. 

For the next hour, Roman talked about his babygirl. ‘Gigi’ he affectionately called her, his tenderness made something deep inside Athena ache and she fought to ignore it. She saw a different side of him—the man beneath the larger than life persona, the ‘tribal chief’, the face of the WWE softened when he talked about tiny hands and bedtime stories and a little girl who had him completely in her grasp. 

By the end of night Athena had learned a lot about Roman. She could say it was for work, that she was just getting to know a client intimately for the sole purpose of ensuring their success. But it wasn’t. 

She was looking at Roman differently and she didn’t expect this at all. Hadn’t expected to enjoy his company, hadn’t expected to find common ground with him, and certainly hadn’t expected how intimately they’d get to know each other in the end…

*hours later

Everything had unravelled so quickly. 

Roman’s mouth was hot against hers, his body pressing her now into the cool surface of the nearest wall. A perfect contradiction of fire and restraint. 

Athena knew they were being reckless. Knew she was going too far with him. But as Roman hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

Their breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, as his lips traced along the delicate curve of her jaw. “Tell me, to stop,” he murmured in his voice a low, dangerous growl against her hot brown skin. 

Athena fingers gripped at his taut golden skin and felt around the rippling of his back muscles and arms, that held her up with ease. Her nails scraping lightly over his tattoos. “I should,” she whispered back, her voice betraying her hesitation. 

Roman lifted his head slightly, their faces mere inches apart. His dark eyes were intense, searching hers in silence to ask for permission. And then, instead of telling him to stop, Athena attacked his lips again, surging their hot kiss forward. 

It was slow and deep this time, less frantic, but no less consuming. Roman groaned against her mouth, his hands tightening around her hips sinking down to the swell of her ass as he pressed her harder against the door.

“Athena, babygirl,” he muttered between kisses, his voice thick with dwindling restraint. “You’re making it really damn hard for me right now..” 

She let out a breathless, teasing laugh. “You’re the one who came up here..” 

Roman smirked, pressing his forehead against hers. “And you’re the one who invited me in.” 

For a moment they stayed like that, foreheads touching, breath mingling, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. 

They both knew better but no one was moving away. 

“Tell me what you want Athena,” 

He just barely whispered groaned into Athena’s waiting ears, his hands roamed up and down her body leaving a hot trail of heat in its wake. Roman had barely touched her and he was doing something to her she’d never experienced before. 

He forced a response out of her that not even Dallas could get after ten years of marriage. 

Dragging his soft lips to feminine column of her neck, his lips were so soft.

Tipping her head up to look into his eyes Roman reiterated his words, deeper and seductively.

“Athena, tell me baby..”

She licked her lips, the wanton need painfully obvious all over her pretty face. Slowly Athena slid her head down the expanse of his hard chest and to the front of his slacks until she found the object of her desires. ‘Well damn’ Athena was almost sure by the way Roman moved he was packing something but to actually feel it for herself, she was very pleased. 

Throbbing under her touch, Roman’s member twitched and jerked, sending a chill of anticipation through her body. Athena slid her hand up and down applying pressure to the tip as she caressed him through the material. His sharp inhales of pleasure made her grin happily. 

“I thought it was understood what I wanted as soon as I asked you to come up here.” They both smirked. 

The first thing Roman became aware of was the smell. Sex lingered in the air, the warming odor a reminder of the pleasurable night before. Warm skin, faint traces of sweet perfume. The unmistakable lasting notes of her. 

Athena. 

The second thing? The fact that she was no longer curled into his chest, long statuesque legs draped over his naked waist. 

He cracked open a tired eye. The sunlight filtering in through the blinds was soft but persistent, painting long golden lines across the crisp white sheets. The same sheets that were not frustratingly empty on her side. 

Roman smirked to himself. He knew what this was. 

Athena was panicking. 

And if he listened closely—there it was. A faint rustling from somewhere in the room. Then the sharp sound of a drawer opening, followed by a muttered curse. 

Yeah. Definitely panicking. 

She was still beautiful as ever, oversexed and frazzled. 

He turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow just as Athena emerged from the closet wrapped in the bedsheet like a woman preparing for battle. Her hair—wild from his fingers tangling in it several times in the night—framed her gorgeous face, big eyes darting around like she was looking for an escape route in her own home. 

Roman grinned. “Morning sweetheart.” 

Athena whirled around so fast she nearly tripped over the sheet, her ass jiggling with the movement. “Oh, hell no. You do not get to be relaxed right now,” she snapped, pointing a stern finger at him. “You should be freaked out. Why aren’t you freaked out?” 

Roman stretched comfortably across the bed, utterly at ease. “Because I don’t regret a single second of last night?”

Her nostrils flared. Oh, she hated that answer.

Too bad for her, he wasn’t lying. 

Athena groaned and rubbed at her temples. “You don’t have to regret it, but you can at least acknowledge that it was a huge lapse in judgement.”

Roman lazily scratched his bearded jaw, pretending to think about it. “A huge lapse, huh?” 

“Yes!” 

He smirked. “So you’re saying it was bad?” Roman knew for damn sure it wasn’t, he just wanted to make her squirm. Her mouth opened and closed. She scowled. “That’s not what I said.” 

Roman pushed himself up to sit against the headboard cocking his head, also not bothering to hide his…very erect friend. “It sounds like that's what you said.”

Athena shifted uncomfortably. “It was….inappropriate.” 

Roman shrugged. “I don’t know, it felt very appropriate at the time, especially when you did that thing on top and you—”

Athena glared. “Roman.” 

He held up his hands. “Fine, fine. You want me to acknowledge it was a lapse. Sure it was.” He let out a haughty scoff, “A really, really good lapse though.” Athena groaned like she was in physical pain. Roman chuckled. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He could see it written all over her face—she was spooked. And not just because they slept together. 

No. She, just like him, was terrified of what it meant.

In her eyes, her life was ruined. 

She slept with Roman Reigns. Her client. 

Her very high profile, very bad for her career client. 

Athena sucked in a sharp hasty breath. 

So yes, Athena was terrified. Because for the life of her she still didn’t know what this meant. 

And that was interesting for both of them. 

“Look,” she started, taking a deep breath, like she was trying to rein it in, after it had already been let loose. “We crossed a line. A big one. I should have never invited you up here.”

Roman stood, stretching, utterly unashamed at his bareness as he walked towards her. He didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked down—just for a second—before she forced it back up. 

“Can’t take it back now,” he murmured. “And I don’t think either of us wanted to at the time.” 

Athena folded her arms under her chest, her hard nipples hard and visible peeking through the thin fabric of the sheet she donned. “Not the point, Reigns.”

“Then what is?” 

“That we work together, and now it’s complicated!” 

Roman scoffed. “Athena, we just had great sex. No one died. What’s complicated?” 

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Roman smirked. Got her. 

She huffed. “Are you always this insufferable in the morning?”

He grinned. “Depends on who’s in my bed.” 

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. He loved riling her up.

Athena exhaled through her nose, clearly trying to stay on track. “I need to get dressed. You need to get dressed. And then you need to leave.” 

Roman raised a brow. “Kicking me out already. No breakfast? Coffee?” 

She shot him a flat look. “Maybe if we didn’t miss our meeting!” 

He sighed dramatically, “Well excuse me if I rocked your world and wanted to bask in it.” Roman stepped forward into her space till he was forced to look down at her. “And here I thought we had something special.” 

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. “Roman.”

“I still love it when you say my name..” His smirk couldn’t leave his face if he tried. 

She glared holes into the pecs of his chest, “Alright, alright.” He lifted his hands in surrender, but the amusement didn’t leave his face. He was enjoying this too much. 

Still as he grabbed his pants from the floor, her words finally started sinking in. 

She wasn’t just panicking over last night. 

Athena was considering pulling back entirely. 

Roman fastened his belt, watching her carefully. “So what now?” 

Hesitation clearly plagued her pinched expression. “Now we pretend this never happened.” 

Roman’s jaw ticked and for the first time the knowing smirk was wiped off his face. 

Pretend?

Like hell. 

Still, he could see it—her walls were flying back up, reinforced with steel. And if he pushed too hard right now, she might actually shut him out for good. 

So, for now, he’d let her think she was in control knowing that's where she felt the most comfortable. Safe. 

He smirked, slipping his watch onto his wrist. “Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.” 

She frowned, clearly suspicious of how easily he conceded. “That’s it?” He shrugged. 

“You want me to leave? I’ll leave. I respect your wishes, Athena.” 

Athena eyed him warily, then nodded. “Good.” 

Roman grabbed his shirt off a nearby chair, taking his time rolling up the sleeves. He noticed the way her gaze lingered on his forearms before she willed herself to look away. 

He grinned, poor thing. She was trying so hard. 

Once he was fully dressed, he made his way to the door and opened it—then paused. 

“By the way…” He turned back to her, tilting his head. “You never answered my question.” 

She frowned. His smirked deepened. “Was it bad?” He knew she would be instantly flustered because by the way she was screaming last night, it was anything but. 

Her eyes darkened, jaw twitching. Roman let out a roar of laughter. “Didn’t think so, baby girl.” 

Roman whisked past her landing a sharp smirk on her ass on his way out. 

The second the door closed behind him, Roman let out a long exhale, rubbing at his jaw. 

Shit. 

He thought taking her to the bed would also put to bed his growing attraction. And that maybe once he had her, he’d be over it. 

Instead?

He wanted her more. 

It wasn’t just the sex—though it had been more than phenomenal. It was her. The way she challenged him. The way she thought steps ahead of everyone else. The way she tried so hard to keep herself contained—especially around him. But when she cracked? 

Goddamn, was it worth the wait.

And now she wanted to pretend it never happened? 

‘Not a chance in hell’ he thought. 

Roman smirked to himself as he headed toward the elevator. Athena could pretend all she wanted, but he wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he was coming harder than ever because this all confirmed one thing for Roman Reigns.

He wanted Athena James. And he was gonna have her. 

It would just take a little convincing. And Roman had the time and the means. 

Roman did a lot of thinking on his drive back to his side of Tampa. He let his fingers drum against the steering wheel thoughtfully. The drive should have been peaceful as he navigated the quiet roads home—just him, the hum of the engine, and the lasting impression of Athena. 

He could still feel her. 

The warmth of her skin, the way her nails raked down his back, the breathless way she moaned his name. Damn. 

He hadn’t just enjoyed her. He had been completely consumed by her. 

And he knew, without a doubt, she was gonna put up one hell of a fight after this. 

She would probably try to keep him at arm’s length from now on, maybe even attempt to rescind her agreement to handle his image personally. But last night wasn’t some random hookup. It was the start of something completely different. 

What exactly? 

Roman still wasn’t sure. And as a man who was almost always particular and decisive it bothered him. Still, he wasn’t about to let her run from it while they tried to figure things out. 

His musings were interrupted by the sharp ring of his car's bluetooth system. The name flashing across the screen immediately evoked a cringeful sigh from the big man. 

Tianna. 

Fuck. 

He sighed, his jaw tightening as he inevitably pressed the answer button. “Yeah?”

“Where the hell were you last night?” She practically screeched. 

Roman rolled his eyes. “Hello to you too, Tianna.” 

“Don’t fucking play with me, Roman,” she snapped. “I called your ass twice. No answer. Where were you?”

Romans grip on the wheel tightened. “That’s none of your damn business.” 

She scoffed. “It is when I need to talk to you about your daughter.” 

Roman blew out a ragged breath, already knowing where this was going. “What do you want Tianna?” 

“Whatever boy, I’m dropping Gianna off today. I got shit to do this weekend.” 

Of course. 

Roman wasn’t mad about seeing his daughter earlier than planned—in fact, he was thrilled. But what pissed him off was the way Tianna did this—always on her time, always last minute, and always like she was doing him a favor by letting him have his own kid. 

“She has preschool tomorrow, I have to start getting ready to fly out for smackdown.” 

“Then take her with you, I don’t care.” 

Roman clenched his jaw. “You mean I gotta bring her to work with me? She’ll miss school—”

“She’s four, Roman, she’ll live. Or I can just stick her with my mom and let her know daddy don't have time for her again.” Roman shook his head, ire simmering deep and hot in his veins. As much as he wished Tianna wouldn’t be so spiteful to hurt their daughter like that, he knew better. She absolutely would.  

She did it all the time. Any time Roman didn’t bend to her will whether it be money, attention, sex, she wouldn’t let him see Gianna for weeks, at one point months. But Roman couldn’t take her to court again, not only did the court side with her as the mother, Roman also had a schedule too busy to go for full custody. Sometimes he felt trapped (he was, honestly) and as much as he loved their daughter, he couldn’t stand the evilness in his babymama. 

“You could’ve told me earlier. You knew you had plans yesterday, I'm sure.” 

“I’m telling you now.” 

Of course, now just meant whenever it was convenient for her. Roman breathed through his nose knowing damn well arguing wasn’t going to change anything. “I’m not home yet. Drop her off in an hour so I can get ready for her.” 

Tianna let out a sarcastic laugh. “Where the hell are you?” 

His silence must have pissed her off more because she immediately snapped. 

“Oh, I see. You were out screwing around.”

Roman’s patience was wearing thin. “I don’t owe you an explanation. We’re not together.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe if you kept your dick in your pants, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” 

Roman laugh was bitter and humorless. “Oh, so now Gigi is a mess? Don’t talk about my fucking daughter like that.” 

She huffed. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Then what the hell do you mean?” 

Silence. 

Because she didn’t have an answer. 

The truth was their relationship had been mistake since the jump. A whirlwind fling with a beautiful girl that turned into something permanent when she got pregnant, and the evilness that lurked beneath a pretty face reared its ugly head. By the time he realized how chaotic she was, it was too damn late. Roman still didn’t know how she got pregnant, he was always careful and she swore she was on birth control as well. 

Four years later and he was still sure that was an absolute lie. 

But he couldn’t complain, he got the love of his life out of the deal. And for all the hellishness that was her mother, Gianna was the best thing he could’ve ever done. And Roman refused to let their personal issues affect his daughter's happiness. 

“Just drop her off later,” he muttered. 

“Whatever, Roman,” she snapped, and before he could say another word, the line went dead. 

Roman exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as frustration rolled through him. 

His mood definitively shifted. But then, Athena's face flashed through his mind. 

As bothered as she was this morning she still looked stunning. Her voice, her touch, the way she had melted under him the night before. 

His lips curled into a small smirk.

Maybe his morning had started with complications, but he sure wasn’t about to let that ruin the fact that it had also been one hell of a beginning. 

tags 🏷️: @trippinsorrows @southerngirl41 @lilucey @alichesmi @skyesthebomb @reginawhorge01 @jazzyboo123-blog1 @overrboarrd @purplementalitybluebird @whowrotethenote @heerah34 @sharmelasworld

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[madeby-meru]

I have always seen the argument of "If you don't like it then stop playing" flying around since I have been in gaming communities and I have been thinking on writing a more detailed post on why I personally think that this statement doesn't truly fit in many of the complains about MCL NG.

Just as a heads up, I am not directing this to anyone in specific, honestly I can't even remember who has said this cause I have seen this comment across multiple social medias and various forums. So, to make things clear: I am only discussing the concept behind the argument, that's it.

Leaving it under the cut.

Now,

why do I think this response doesn't apply to (many of) New Gen critiques?

Lets use another free game with microtransactions as an example that I think will make things pretty obvious: the new Nikki game

If I came into that fandom and began complaining about the concept of style battles, of how focused it is on dressup, the storyline being about fashion... That is a me problem, that is my issue alone. I am complaining about the core of the game, about the purpose of it and about what makes the game what it is. I am not the target audience. I should, therefore, simply stop playing cause the game does not align with my taste and I am not gonna enjoy it.

I believe this is not what is happening with New Gen.

The most common critiques I have seen about it are: - The AP system (merging AP and Gold, expensive dialogue choices) - The style contest (unfair competition) - The price of packs (they are not simply cosmetics, they are means of earning more in-game currency, so they create an imbalance in the playerbase between those that can afford them and those that cannot) - The lack of transparency and communication with the company (announcements coming too late, not letting the players know what they will need to spend in events) - The timing of events (the pack event timings, overlapping) - The quality of the writing (inconsistencies, lack of a linear storyline, characters feeling OOC, nonsensical plots)

These complains are not a matter of taste, these complains are a matter of unfair treatment and poor quality (despite the cost of the game).

In this specific case, those of us that complain about these things are the target audience. We have a history of nostalgia, we like the personalization and dressup aspect, we like the adult setting and characters, we like the style of otome, we like the free option to play. And most importantly, I feel like most of us that complain so vehemently want to keep playing. We are still here for a reason, there is still something that keeps us logging in every day. We don't want the bad things to overpower the good ones.

"Don't play the game" feels like a dismissive argument here, it casts aside complains that should be made. You should complain about the poor quality of a product (specially if you have invested money and time in it), you should complain about the poor treatment you are receiving (feeling pushed to make purchases, feeling unlistened, feeling like you are not treated the same as other plaeyers, etc). These types of comments are necessary and beneficial. A critique that is well worded and based helps the game be better, a company should hope to receive those and not simply compliments. A company should what to fix what is wrong.

I think that the negative sentiment many players share its completely understandable and it should not be labelled as simply being hateful for no reason.

Of course I am not including hate for the sake of hate here. That may help vent when you're frustrated (valid) but it does not add anything or help in any way. Obviously, it's very easy to get wrapped up in the negative mindset and not allow yourself to enjoy the parts of the game that you do like and that you can find fun and engaging. It is important to take a step back every now and then and see when you may be being unfair (specially to other players, its unfortunately easy to get heated in a discussion and hurt someone else). And if you feel like the critiques towards the game and company are affecting you in any way, please step away from them. Mute, block, silence, keep your peace in your online experience and cater it to yourself <3

[fall0utmind]

hi, i used a translator when i wrote this text, so if there are any mistakes, please forgive me 🙏we probably have one brain for the whole fandom, because i'm also hatching an idea with an a/b/o au in my head.my main idea was similar to yours with all the pain and illness, but in addition to the main focus on the relationship between vale and marc, i also wanted to write about marc's pack.his pack, consisting of young boys with whom he trains and cares for. for example, dani holgado, is definitely an alpha. looks at marc as an example, as someone to look up to. david alonso, i don't know, most likely also an alpha (for the sake of the plot lol). fermin aldeguer could be a beta. and of course maximo quiles, marc's protégé, omega. a hot-tempered boy looking at david with loving eyes.(all the boys look at him with such tenderness) I think they fit your idea perfectly.Marc, who is not a member of any packs except for the family one and is only the unofficial head of the pack of these boys. They are like his children to him.In the 2025 season, when all his guys are either in moto2 or moto3, they need his support, help and advice (they need to be held in the evenings after falls or when they are on the verge of a rut/heat) (this is in addition to his own season) and he has no time to think about his inner omega.I think this would be so different from the relationship between Vale and his academies, where the alpha of the pack is support in the media, a firm hand on the shoulder and distraction from all problems through entertainment.And Marc is soft with everyone, a support for them (he does not run away from problems, but solves them). the boys always know that they can come to him: he can listen to them or understand without words, teach them to stand up for themselves, give advice on how to take a certain turn on the track or what to choose as the first gift for courtship (or from what angle to look at the alpha))well, here is the true omega of the pack.another scene before his eyes - the day before the public loss of consciousness. maybe this is maximo, before the third race on the calendar on saturday - his first moto3 race because he just turned 17 the other day. he lies close to marc in his camper, burying his face close to the neck of the older omega. in his arms he feels like he is on the clouds, sometimes he does not finish some sentences, but marc understands everything and answers him with a laugh. perhaps before this grand prix, the boys gathered in their little pack and, he does not know for how many times, discussed that marc does not smell of anything. nothing at all. they asked alex a long time ago, but he never answered them.and max awkwardly asks about it, when before that he had been mumbling about David and his unique overtakes in his first year in moto2 for about 7 minutes non-stop, feeling how Marc relaxed. and literally three seconds later he regrets it, when Marc's breathing rhythm gets out of whack and how his shoulders tense under his grip. but the man only grabs the kid tighter and tells in general terms what happened between him and Vale, choosing only soft expressions, without hatred, sadness or pity.and the next day after the victory he faints. imagine Maximo's face lolin any case, thank you for your creativity and for your brain. not only is every word of yours read in one breath, you are also a very nice person. thank you ❤️

Hi, firstly, I'm so in awe of everyone on this app when English isn't their first language. You all make me feel so stupid 😂😂 so never apologise for that.

Secondly, what a lovely message!!!

Omg!!! Im so excited?? We all have a million a/b/o ideas and it's fantastic!!! I love that for us!

Wow! I never even considered that, it's so good??? The idea of Marc having this little gaggle of boys (borderline men) following him around like ducklings because he's like the main/pack omega (and he should be for the whole paddock) - i love it. I think there's so much room to work with in that dynamic. Like you said, the way the boys look up to him, how they need to be looked after when they've fallen or when they're about to enter heat/rut cycles. And marc is 100% being a mother hen. He doesn't even realise that he's doing it half the time? Like sitting with all the boys over lunch, giving advice, talking to them after a bad race, squished onto the motorhone sofas.

In one way, it's healing for his omega. But another is ruining him. Because it's suppressing so much that he isn't actually bonded to these kids, not on a biological level. He doesn't scent with them, etc, because he doesn't do it with ANYONE. (Post reconcilliation, he does. And they become his pups basically). These kids are clinging onto him and it hurts so bad because he doesn't actually have that connection with them 💔💔

Omg, and yes, the idea of Marc, an omega, by definition, being head of a pack. He is the one they always come to for advice, direction, and love. I especially love the comparisons to the VR46 pack. I think it would be really different. I think a. It is not a true 'pack' because of Marc's issues (although they act like one, and the boys desperately want it to be one, but don't want to push marc, just sometimes pile into his motorhome and lie on Marc's bed, confused about why there's no nest; leaving their clothes in Marc's space, he secretly hoards them for comfort).

The boys asking marc what happened omg 💔😭 marc telling them, but only the bare bones as he knows they look up to Vale and he doesn't want to ruin that, also he doesn't want to hurt/scare them because he's FINE, damn it. And then how they react when marc gets sick, can you imagine the fear? The anger they have at Valentino, but they feel so powerless because they're young and in lower leagues and UGH. God I love this idea so much. Love the dynamic, its very cute.

Thank you so much for the ask and for the kind words!!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

[jamereadsmanga]

Crazy hc time:

So if was looking at a map of Europe today and I realised east Germany is very close to like Norway, Denmark and Sweden and them.

So, if decided that, in the past, there were migratory movements sort of down that path from the Scandinavian region to Ostania. As a result, lots of Scandinavian traditions and cultural practices can be found throughout Ostania.

And the one cultural tradition i want them to inherit in the tradition of not feeding your house guest. Like Ostanians will lock you in a room when it's dinner time. If you don't gtfo by 5pm, you're done. It's generally seen as a bit bizarre to be in someone's house past a certain time or too long of a time. If the sun is setting, you should be on your way home. And missing dinner with your family implies you have an unstable family life, and nobody cares about you.

Obviously, Westalis (well, Southern Westalis) does not do this at all. In fact, it's considered rude not to let your guests eat. It's a sign of poverty and greed. If you invite someone into your house and you don't feed them, word will spread up and down the street about how awful you are. Some compassionate neighbors will start to leave you food since you clearly don't have enough.

Like with many things, neither Yor nor Loid discussed this little cultural nuance, and it leaves Anya very confused.

Imagine Anya goes by a friend's house (she has other friends idk) and then Loid comes to pick her up at like 7 pm, thinking nothing of it. When he gets there, he's surprised to see that Anya is so hungry and upset even though he can clearly tell they already had dinner. Anya clocks that he's about to ask questions and begs to go home before trouble breaks out.

Now Loid is pissed off. Normally, their kids stay with them after school, and Loid makes sure they're well fed and taken care of. Normally, they come after 5, meaning he doesn't have to do more than snacks, so Loid made sure to tell them he would be there after 7, so it's not where they weren't expecting it.

He comes home ready to vent to Yor, but she's already mad. Because she got a call after 6 asking if everything was alright at home since Loid was picking Anya up so late today. He's like well I was working so I left her in the care of trusted adults and Yor is like why didn't you just tell me so I would pick her up, now people are gonna be suspicious of us.

Now, Loid is fully out of spy mode ok so he's not thinking as rationally. His baby is hungry, and now he's getting the blame. Like his [RETRACTED] side is coming out, accent poking through even because he is heated. They start fighting, trying to understand the situation (while also preparing a nice meal for Anya of course and tucking her into bed).

It gets so bad (well as bad as an argument between these two can get so not that bad) they gotta call in reinforcements.

Yor calls Yuri. Loid calls Franky to keep it balanced. They both immediately clock the issue.

Yuri, working for Foreign Affairs (and following Westalians as an SSS officer), is a bit aware of this discrepancy. The number of times they get calls about crazy negligent Westalian parents being labeled as spies sending them on a wild goose chase and getting them in hot water with the embassy, yeah he already knew from the moment they said Anya was by a friend.

Franky has been working with Westalians (mainly spies), so he has some insight on their weird approach to life. He is constantly trying to remind Mr. Greatest Spy in all of Westalis that he can't do certain things here or he will get caught. Normally, Loid is good at playing the role of assimilated Westalian, but when it comes to raising Anya, he always defaults back to culture. Just hearing it was about Anya he knew Loid was kinda in the wrong.

Anya did not have the heart to tell anyone that she was offered food (kinda) only to turn it down when she realised how nasty that shit was.

Bonus inspo:

[candyhartes]

mine to lose

s: zoro and you don’t seem to understand each other well enough

cw: angst

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

you knew what you got yourself into the night you and zoro had shared, the security of a relationship with the swordsman who’s only goal is to become the greatest. you’re an understanding person; there’s no zoro without his swordsmanship just like there’s no you without the crew. that night the two of you discussed the conflict that would arise in a potential relationship and yet the two of you were unwavering—diving into each other without hesitation.

and yet as you watch your boyfriend walk onto the ship after yet another difficult expedition on your most recent island; the once full swooning, heart blooming feeling that you’ve once gotten turns into the sound of glass cracking under the intense pressure of heat.

your captain, luffy, turns his shoulder and catches the gaze of zoro on his right. the two share a brief moment before he leads the rest of crew back on the ship. not once does zoro meet yours.

the adventure on this island was nothing more than a test of loyalty; at least it was in your eyes. split into groups and taking down the enemy was something you were used to, you didn’t mind. you can hold your own. but when the time came to save luffy and nami or you and usopp: your mind was busy hoping the man you love would be the hero you’ve always thought he was.

and he is.

just not yours.

you missed the brief exchange between him and sanji, missed the way they communicated with eye contact, missed the way he said ‘i would never leave you’ with his usual stoic face, you had missed it all.

and maybe if you had understood him a little better, you would know why he chose to save luffy over you. leaving you in the arms of another as he runs away from you.

“we’ll meet up with them on the ship,” sanji mutters, the sound of the lighter flickering covering the the sound of shattering coming from your chest. sanji blows out a puff of smoke watching the wave of emotions crash through your eyes. he hums and nudges you, “cmon let’s go.”

usopp gratefully begins to spew about how happy he is that sanji got there before they were ‘dead meat’ (no offense to you) but his skills were needed.

now, as you watch zoro bandage the wounds you got from the island, you notice the distant gaze in his eyes. he still cares, that’s obvious from the delicate touches and his usual hard grip turning feather-like as he wraps your arm. there’s tension in the air—perhaps you’re to blame, but he makes no effort to dispel it.

“don’t try to win something you know you won’t,” zoro mutters softly. his fingers tap on bandage refusing to meet your eyes. and in that moment, hope floods your chest. of course he still cares. he finally moves his head to match your height, “what will the crew do without their favorite seamstress? get some rest.”

and that hope you once had? evaporates as he stands to leave with a kiss against your temple and a slight ruffle of your hair before he disappears out the door of your room. he didn’t notice your sadden eyes or the way they pleaded to give you an once of attention.

“don’t go,” you plead to yourself. if only you understood zoro a little bit better, you would understand why he chose to give you room. and maybe if zoro understood you better, he would know you didn’t want that.

note. oh em gee i haven’t gotten the chance to write so i just threw something together from my drafts. idk it’s just word vomit. there will probably not be a part 2 for this srry

[themuseinthewoods]

Hey, I love your blog! I feel weird asking this but could you do a platonic friendship between a reader and doc holliday? I've read multiple books about him and just... idk, I like him. And I'm ace and don't feel a ton towards people romantically. so I just kinda want to read something like that.

I'm interested in writing and history, I'm a girl and I do an internship with the athletic trainer at my school. (basically helping with athletic injuries) I also do jiu jitsu a couple times a week!

Based on tombstone (1993)

also, book recs? I've been wanting to read about him, he seems really cool.

I was so excited when I got this, I love, love, love writing platonic stuff, and I don't get a ton of requests. I did gender neutral, I hope that's okay, as I have found for headcanons it is so much easier to make them so and I'm trying to be a more inclusive blog!

Platonic headcanons with Doc Holliday (gn!reader)

Doc holliday says himself in this movie that he doesn't have a lot of friends

and he does some pretty extreme things forthe few that he does have.

so congratulations, not only do you have one of the most loyal companions in the west, you also have one of the funniest ones.

He's more then happy to discuss any and all of your interests with you, although you may have to get used to his sense of humor when it comes to literally anything you do

Your willing to discuss history?

He's an educated southern gentleman, of course he knows it and will be perfectly capable in keeping into the many discussions you two are sure to have over the course of your friendship

it is doc Holliday, so he might offer you in on his schemes of getting richer through not always legal means

and if you are not up for that?

that's just fine, there are many other shared activities that the pair of you can participate in

such as listening to him play piano, or getting in heated yet friendly debates on what historian meant what

if there's something that you find interesting, he will happily listen to your opinions on the topic, as long as you're willing to hear him out about poker being an honest trade.

over all, your friendship is going to be wildly unpredictable but a whole lot of fun!

Tysm for requesting!

I know this was short, I was kinda sick all night, but I really wanted to get this posted and not leave you hanging. I love platonic stuff, this made my heart so happy, TYSM for requesting it!

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter five: taste test

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Four |🩸 Chapter Six

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi has words with her alleged ‘husband’.

Chapter CW: Chapter includes a brief discussion about fear of sexual assault having occurred. No sexual assault occurred.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“When a vampire is created in the traditional manner…the new fledgeling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses, and needs. Not so the bride. Newly-created brides are generally ignorant of their own capabilities.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

“You’ve forgotten yourself, sister.”

The voice chills her. 

Naomi’s legs dangle over the cliff’s sheer edge, clouded by the rising steam from the hot springs below. She’s spent her entire life down here in the thick heat of the Underdark, among the towering violet stalactites, in Eilistraeen temple nestled between them. 

There’s a razor thin slice of sunlight that cuts across the turquoise waters below, cast down from somewhere so high and far away, it might as well be a fantasy. Naomi’s never seen the surface, or the sun that boils above it. One day, she wants to.

She’s never felt the frost of winter, either. But she knows Calaerys. And with her brother always comes a cold dread that sinks into her bones and lingers. It always feels like she’s sitting on a precipice when they speak. It doesn’t help that, this time, she truly is.

“Then help me, brother,” she mutters numbly. “Lead me back into the light.”

His footsteps drag to a gritty stop behind her. Her shoulders stiffen as he looms, seething. Naomi’s fingers fret the neck of the fiddle poised within her grip. 

One of the priestesses had given it to Naomi after seeing her stare so longingly. Or, maybe, the woman was simply tired of seeing Naomi’s poor attempts at Sacred Flame. She’d never mastered even the simplest of cleric spells. But Eilistraee’s domain includes music, dance, and light. Not just bent knees, mumbled prayers, and blind devotion.

Today, she’s stolen away to solitude, hoping the nearby waterfall might drown out whatever mangled noise she can manage from the fiddle. She’s never played one before, and only has the faintest clue as to how. A pleasant tingle courses through her fingers as she strokes the strings aimlessly. It brings a thrumming sense of vitality that roots within her, resilient, defiant, even in the wake of her brother’s bitterness.

“I saw you with her,” Calaerys sneers. “You know she was once a Lolth-sworn.”

Naomi sighs, the seeds of a headache weighing heavy on her brow, and sets the fiddle aside. Gingerly, she inches back from the edge and stands.

“I know she was saved as a child, as we were,” Naomi answers brusquely. “I know she prays to Eilistraee every night as we do, and weaves her songs with the Dark Dancer’s praises. And I know it’s none of your concern who I choose to kiss.”

Her brother’s nostrils flare. She averts her eyes from his as she always does. As if that will protect her. Her gaze fixes, instead, to the trio of birds tattooed along his left cheek, keenly aware of the step forward he takes, and the lack of space for her to step back.

“Does our parents’ sacrifice mean nothing to you?!” He hisses. “And their parents before them? You and I are the product of generations of restraint, planning, resistance!”

Well, all that ‘resistance’ was futile, wasn’t it? Naomi grinds her teeth, keeping those words to herself. If not for this temple to Eilistraee and its followers, neither she nor her brother would be breathing at all. They would’ve died as children at the hands of the Lolth-sworn, the same way their parents did. The same way their entire sect did.

She and Calaerys are all that remains of the Reclaimants: the cult that thought they could pray their way back into Arvandor and the cycle of reincarnation denied to all drow. If only they could rid themselves of Lolth and any speck of her impure influence, daddy Corellon might decide to make them wood or high elves again in another, better life.

The pinch in Naomi’s gut is a guilty one. It’s accompanied by the twin sensation of relief she always feels when she thinks of her parents and their ilk. She wishes they didn’t have to die a bloody death for it, but she has no desire to follow in their footsteps. The temple to Eilistraee is far less exacting upon its followers.

The Reclaimants marked themselves so as to readily identify each other, and to pay tribute to the ascension they hoped to one day claim. Her brother’s bird tattoo is the same one that stained their father’s skin, or so Calaerys tells it. Their parents died when Naomi was still too young to remember them. Allegedly, the traditional marks were typically placed somewhere more easily hidden than one’s face. Calaerys’ pride wouldn’t abide such discretion.

“She isn’t for you!” Calaerys spits. “There are matches to be made here. Pure ones who have never fallen for Lolth’s tricks. You sully yourself with their filth! You stain our name!”

Suddenly, he jerks towards her. Naomi side-steps away from the edge only to be crowded against the rockface. It scrapes rough against her back, tearing the leather of her vest.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” She blurts, voice bounding off the stone. 

The thunder of the waterfall swallows the echo. No one at the temple will hear her. Naomi squirms, electric fear thrilling through her veins. Blunt force slams against her stomach, sending her back crashing against the ground. She’s too winded to fight the rope that binds her wrists.

“Get off of me!” She shrieks, twisting to no avail. 

By the time the stony ceiling above her stops spinning, it’s already too late.

The needle pierces the skin at the peak of her cheekbone. At once, it sears like hot coals. It quickly numbs into a dull, persistent poking. Naomi’s limbs grow heavy, and then limp.

Was father’s ink laced with a paralytic? Calaerys never said. She suspects her brother bent this tradition just to break her with it.

“You’ll never forget again,” Calaerys snarls in her ear when it’s done. She doesn’t need a mirror; she knows the marks he etched on her face match his own.

Naomi’s lips tremble. Sensation trickles back into her body in the form of scorching fire. The rage burns and builds in her belly, until it erupts in a broken, bloodcurdling shriek.

Calaerys seems to shudder before her eyes, the sound rippling across his skin and rushing through his ashen hair in a shockwave. For one sickening moment, his face shifts and thins. Naomi sees the polished white of his skull. His eyes are dark, vacant hollows. His skin pulls over it again like a mask. Her brother scrambles away from her, tripping in his haste to flee, pure terror painted on his face.

I’ll remember that look, she thinks, a savage smile peeling back her lips. Every time she sees her own image in the mirror, and the trio of birds tattooed on her cheek, she’ll remember all the ways Calaerys made her small. And how delicious it felt to finally see him cower because of her.

Naomi sits up abruptly, clutching the comforter to her chest. It’s so silky, it nearly slips through her white-knuckled grip. Her free hand flies to her left cheek, grazing over smooth skin. There’s no residual roughness, no lingering sting. 

Sheepishly, she lets her hand fall to her side. It was only a memory, after all. Her tattoo healed long ago, even though the ink of it endures. Calaerys can’t harm her from the grave. There’s no rocky roof above her head, only the delicate lace canopy of the massive four-poster she’s stranded in.

The luxuries surrounding her feel all at once foreign and familiar, as does the crimson stare of the vampire in the corner. He sits in a high-backed armchair with a festering frown. The sussur bloom thrums quietly on the side table next to him.

Her voyeur is displeased. 

“Was your trance unpleasant?” He asks, his voice decadently soft like the sheets she’s tangled in. He wears a deep crease in his brow and not one wrinkle on his dark brocade doublet. His silver curls rest perfectly coiffed atop his head, as if they haven’t moved at all since the last time she woke.

It’s more space than he granted her before. And still too close for comfort. She takes a brief scan of the room and finds it mostly as she remembers. The floor-length mirror is angled away from the bed, the brass frame gleaming with the silver leak of moonlight angling in from the vast, curved windows. The ornate rug, in the same shades of winey burgundy and bright turquoise as the bed, still blankets the smooth stone floor. And the far wall is still lined with dark polished shelves of leather-bound books.

There’s a subtle shimmer around a number of shelves she hadn’t noticed upon her first awakening. Dim light lines the closed door in the corner and the windowed one leading out onto the balcony. From here, she can just make out the faint banter of gulls. They must be near the Sea of Swords, though she can’t see anything in the darkness outside but a scattering of stars.

There’s nowhere far enough for her to run. Besides, his speed is uncanny. And even if it wasn’t, there’s the matter of his compulsion. The sussur bloom still stifles her magic. The only weapons at her disposal, then, are words.

“That’s a rather personal question,” Naomi says warily, “don’t you think?”

“Hm,” he hums with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Far be it from me to ask after my consort’s comfort.”

“Consort?”

Astarion’s eyes go round, like he’s just as startled by the word as she. It’s striking how the sharp angles of his face seem to soften with his shock. As if he’s someone else entirely. When she blinks, he seems to resettle again, a pitying smile lifting his lips, a knowing gleam entering his eye.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Astarion. And I’m your--” 

--he breaks into an airy chuckle that sets her hairs on end--

“--husband, I suppose. It’s a rather quaint way of putting it, truth be told. A very mortal word. A bond between vampires is something far deeper. And ours is unique among them all.”

The v-word puts a frantic flare of nausea in her gut. But it’s another that tilts the room at an unsettling slant, dizziness swelling inside her skull.

Husband?!

He’s crazy. He must be. Unwittingly, her eyes flicker down to her left hand. Her brows shoot towards the ceiling.

The rose-gold band and its dainty laurel-leaf etchings are overwhelmed by the giant kite-cut amethyst at its center. The deep violet stone nestles into a vee of small diamonds that glitter around the thin circumference of a second band. If she squints, she can just see the engraving on it: aeterna amantes. It’s--

“Stunning, isn’t it?” He says smugly. “Of course, it could never eclipse or compare to your beauty, but I had to try to find something at least remotely suitable to symbolize our undying devotion.”

Naomi blinks rapidly, as if it will clear her head. As if it will make any of this make more sense. There’s a cruel humor in her alleged matrimony; Calaerys wouldn’t approve of this one, either. Reclaimants were meant to mate and procreate with other drow seeking ‘purification’. Or, if there was no unrelated, unwed member of the sect available, then with a drow deemed to be of ‘pure influence’. All in the hopes that if they failed in their dreams of entering Arvandor, then their children, or their children’s children, would be granted reincarnation. Every generation was intended to inch ever closer to reclaiming it.

But wedding a high elf? Oh no. That would be putting the cart before the horse.

Pain throbs through her gums. She grimaces at the panging reminder of her forgotten death, her fingertips coming to press against her aching jaw. Perhaps it isn’t so ludicrous that the man who apparently murdered her married her while he was at it. That if she forgot one such monumental occasion -- or wasn’t lucid for it -- she could certainly have forgotten the other.

“Yes, dearest,” he says, like he can hear her very thoughts. (Gods, can he?!) “You’re a vampire. But you needn’t grieve, nor fear the sun. You needn’t fear anything. You’ll see. Now, can we be civilized about this?”

She ogles him, flummoxed. It hadn’t even occurred to her to fear the sun, among the myriad of other terrors tugging at her. At least it explains, if only superficially, why they both can stand in it and be unharmed.

Be civilized, he says. Comply or be compelled is what he must mean. In the absence of alternatives, she reluctantly nods. 

“Good,” he purrs. A fresh ease relaxes his shoulders, his smile widening far enough, she gets a glimpse of his pointed fangs. The sight spurs an uneasy shiver down her spine. Instinctively, she shrinks back into the sheets as he stands. His smile falters.

“Join me, won’t you?” He asks, sauntering past her bedside with unsettling grace. The scent of his cologne carries past her nose, smooth as velvet, with the faint simmer of citrus. Something else cloys with it -- a faint, floral interjection that rouses a persistent itch in the back of her throat. She swallows, but she can’t seem to wet it again.

Naomi frowns as she tracks his path to the far wall, stacked top to bottom with books. As he approaches, he mutters something barely audible beneath his breath. The same shelves outlined in that ethereal blue glow reshape before her eyes, compressing their contents to form a rounded archway. Astarion steps through it into the room beyond, peering back at her expectantly.

It’s then, for the first time, she becomes fully aware of what she is -- and isn’t -- wearing.

It’s the same silver nightgown she remembers from the mirror, with the same dribbled, dark stain of her own blood along the draped neckline. Surely sleepwear has no need to sparkle so much. The billowy sleeves slouch off her bare shoulders, and the skirt’s long enough to come to her ankles. Sh hadn’t noticed how sheer it was before, when she was gawking at her reflection in terror. It’s like a veil of starlight coating her skin. Her freckles mingle with the glinting sheen of the fabric. It doesn’t so much cover her body as it illuminates it.

There’s nothing else beneath it but her.

Naomi’s eyes meet Astarion’s and narrow. She shifts, easing her legs over the side of the bed, gathering the comforter in her arms like some frouffy ball gown. She pulls it taut across her chest. The fabric practically melts against her, soft as butter. It must cost a fortune. It comes with her as she rises and crosses the room, dragging across the floor with a dull swish. She hesitates a few feet from the archway where Astarion still lingers, blocking her path.

With an exasperated sigh, he reaches into the chamber beyond and pulls out a decidedly opaque black robe. Hastily, she snatches it. At least he has the decency to turn away while she sheds the comforter and cinches the robe tight. It’s made of some sort of fur. Perhaps a bear. It’s dark as midnight, and brushes pleasantly against her neck.

“Come,” he says, stepping from the archway into a small but sumptuous vestibule. Hesitantly, Naomi follows. 

Initially, the brightness of the rooms burns. She shields her eyes with her hand, squinting against the light. It calls to mind her first expedition onto the sunlit surface. She’d relished the heat soaking her skin, until she woke flaking and freckled the following day. She regards her new surroundings with the same wariness, even after the ache from eyes fades.

It’s a stark contrast to the bedroom, where the only brightness was the occasional blue accent. The vestibule is white stone from floor to ceiling, and awash in shimmering moonlight. The same wide, curved windows line the exterior wall, with cushioned benches tucked against them. 

Ivory fur softens her bare steps, like a thick bed of snowfall. Another rug made from another exotic beast. There’s a candlelit hallway off the vestibule with a closed door on either side. Steam clouds her view of the wider chamber at the hall’s other end. She peels her attention away to her more immediate vicinity.

Instead of books on crowded shelves, two large canvases dominate the walls: a pair of twined skeletons on a bed of dark grass and pale flowers, and another of a seaside castle basking in a bloody sunrise. There’s a third space between them, where something else must’ve hung. Only a discolored, rectangular imprint remains there, now. Beneath the paintings are various pedestals with assorted treasures: a golden key, a jeweled goblet, and a silver amulet. The glint of it skewers her.

She knows that necklace. It used to live around her neck, and her mother’s before her. The icon of Eilistraee is cracked through the center, the Dark Dancer severed from the sword she holds above her head. 

Naomi stiffens, throat thickening around a raw, stinging dryness. These are trophies. Things he’s taken. Just like her.

“A-hem.”

Reluctantly, Naomi turns towards the vampire, who awaits her at a glass table set for two. There’s a porcelain pitcher and a pair of wine glasses atop it, filled red to the brim. The light-weight scent that wafts her way matches the floral notes that interrupted Astarion’s cologne before. The liquid is deep, dark, and viscous.

It isn’t wine. Her stomach sinks.

“You must be thirsty,” Astarion says with a sharp-edged smile. 

Her resounding silence outlives his patience. He shifts his feet, but it doesn’t quell the irritation in his voice. 

“Sit, my dear. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Naomi raises her chin. “Aren’t you just going to make me?”

He tilts his head, his mouth forming a firm line. “We won’t be trying that again. It won’t do either of us any good. And deep down, I think a part of you knows that’s the only reason it happened at all.” He swallows, shaking his head as if to clear it. “For your own good.”

I don’t know that, or you, at all, she thinks helplessly.

Astarion circles to the table’s other side and pulls out the chair. Even with his spoken assurances,  she moves towards it sluggish and slow, drifting forward as if entranced. His knuckles brush her shoulders as he presses the chair in behind her. Naomi recoils from the touch. An anxious awareness lingers on her neck even after he takes his seat opposite of her.

The tabletop is small enough, they could easily clasp hands across it. Astarion’s wrists are half-way there, his elegant fingers folding around the stem of his wine glass, periodically twisting it. He nods pointedly towards the glass in front of her. Naomi tucks her hands deliberately beneath her arms.

“If you’re going to explain,” she says tersely, “start with how you forced me into trance.”

“I compelled you,” he says flatly. “Since I am your sire, and you are my bride, you obeyed to the best of your ability.”

Sire. Bride. Gods. Her skin starts to burn beneath her borrowed finery.

“What else has my so-called husband compelled me to do for him?”

His gaze goes sharp, and then round again. Lines sprout along his forehead and beneath his eyes. All at once, he looks aged a dozen years. His jaw slackens, lips parted around a low gasp of breath.

“That’s what you’ve been so scared of. Oh, darling. Any love we made before was entirely mutual. I’d never violate you.”

“Before..?!”

“Before you lost your memories.”

His face blurs into a smear of silver. She blinks fiercely, clearing the burn from her vision. Her stomach turns in a tumult of grief and relief. For the yawning gap in her recollection. For the harms that, according to him, haven’t befallen her. She believes him on that account, at least. Not merely because he looks appropriately horrified at the idea, but because even with all she’s forgotten, she remembers each of his other compulsions with crystal clarity.

The rest, she isn’t so sure of. 

She’s assumed, until now, Astarion had a hand in snatching pieces of her memory. That he tore them away with his teeth when he took her life. That she’d forgotten all the gorey details of their entanglement in the fog of trauma that obscured them.

Except the logic doesn’t quite latch.

Remember what you’ve forgotten, he implored when he first woke her. It was a compulsion, said with the same immutable force as the others before it. Except, it didn’t work. It didn’t take her will away. It didn’t return any memories like, it seems, he wanted it to.

If he wanted her to remember, he can’t have been the one to make her forget in the first place. But if he turned her…well, then he must’ve killed her, too. And, evidently, leashed her with the chain of compulsion that he can tug on every time he thinks it’s for her own good.

He continues, indignant now as he leans back in his chair. “You were attacked. Some vile wizard cast a spell and put you in this state. I never compelled you at all before. I never needed to. We are bonded, you and I.”

So he can’t be as powerful as he pledges to be, she thinks, if I came to harm the way he claims.

Her mind reels, but it catches on the growing sting on her throat. She winces at the sandpaper roughness of it. For a second, his gaze seems to soften with something like concern. It hardens in defiance when she speaks.

“Then I do have some things to fear, it seems,” she says coolly.

He bristles. “We’ve faced far worse and fared exceptionally well on every occasion. You’re perfectly safe here!”

She eyes him apprehensively. “What did you mean that we’re ‘bonded’?”

His mood shifts on a dime. He gestures widely with a proud smirk. “Look around you. This entire palace is ours. We share wealth, power, and so much more. My desires are yours, too. I know your needs as if they’re my own.”

Naomi stiffens, eyes skimming over all overwhelming opulence of her surroundings. Is this all she’s known while bound to this man? A few lavish rooms? Perhaps a few more? A gilded cage? His discretion and decisions about her wants and needs? The trappings might be more luxurious, but it doesn’t sound so different from the ‘brother knows best’ of her past.

No magic. No music. No life at all. The only sounds she hears are the grating hum of the sussur bloom and the steady thump of Astarion’s heartbeat reminding her that she no longer has one. Her fingernails bite into the beds of her palms.

She had her magic. She had music. Somehow, she had a glitzy little harmonica on hand in the throne room. It smashed to pretty pieces beneath the heel of Astarion’s boot. You’ll have another, he said, once you’ve come to your senses.

Is that what he expects? That she be on her best behavior, at his beck and call? That if she’s good enough, and plays her part perfectly, he’ll treat her? Like she’s some sort of--

“Drink, pet,” he purrs. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

A furious bravery thrills through her with righteous abandon. Naomi shoves the wineglass towards the table’s edge. A dark stain blooms in the snow white rug beneath their feet. Astarion watches her display with composed indifference. She goes rigid, pressing back in her chair, bracing for the burn of his ire and the compulsion sure to follow.

Instead, he merely utters a tired sigh. “So much for being civilized, eh?”

She grits her teeth. “You said you’d explain--”

“I have.”

“You haven’t! I don’t even know how we met! You say you didn’t kidnap me, but you certainly murdered me! And that’s about all I know of you!”

He inclines his head with an infuriating pout. The sultry dip in his voice doesn’t soothe; it’s a nuisance. “You may have forgotten me, my sweet, but I know you intimately.”

She scoffs. “Prove it!”

“As you wish,” he croons, eyes flickering with something unfathomable. “I know what it is you saw in reverie. You remembered your brother. How he hurt you. Didn’t you?”

A slow spill of dread sinks in her stomach, like sand collecting in the bottom of an hourglass. Unwittingly, she shakes her head.

“You told me how you danced and sang and drank the day he died. How you later came to the surface to sing in taverns and gradually made your way to the Gate. You said it was to start a new life, but truly, you had something specific in mind. You wanted to try your hand at theater.” He chuckles quietly, propping his chin against his palm. “You own one now, you know. My little starlet.”

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. “H-how did you--”

“Because you’ve told me before how you got your tattoo. I’ve lied beside you countless days and nights. I know what you’ve seen when you wake and touch your cheek. I know all your dreams, and your nightmares. All the threads that twine together to make my beloved bride.”

Such honeyed words for such a seductive fantasy. A happy one, maybe. He is breathtaking in more than one sense. Anyone with eyes would say as much about his straight, elegant nose, his high cheekbones, and the too-perfect curl of his hair. Even the velvet flex of his voice. His scent alone entices, every element of him beckoning like a crooked finger. Or coiling like a noose about to tighten.

But even this close to him, she’s devoid of any recognition, of any desire but to be somewhere far, far away. To leave Baldur’s Gate for (her own) good and never return, even after travelling so long to get here, and never seeing the stage she yearned for, or hardly any of the city itself.

He tells a pretty tale, but he doesn’t speak of the darkness that paid for it. Of the death -- her death -- that built it. And he doesn't say a thing about himself. Naomi’s throat bobs. She meets his smolder with a steely stare.

“All right,” Astarion sneers, with a melodramatic sweep of his arms. “Let’s play out this game you think you’re running. You’ve been kidnapped by the big, bad vampire. Do you think plucking his nerves like a petulant child is endearing? What exactly is this strategy?”

“Spite, mostly,” Naomi answers coldly. “Do you know what it’s like to be compelled?”

The glare he gives her is scalding. “Careful, dear.”

“How long have I been here?” She demands. “How long have I been a vampire?”

“You’ll be able to think far clearer if you drink, darling.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. He’s so insistent on it. He could just compel her. He said he won’t. For now, at least, he seems intent on playing his part as the protective sire.

Or, maybe, he needs her to drink of her own volition. She knows little of vampires, aside from a few tawdry novels. But she recalls, vaguely, a myth warning against taking food and drink in a devil’s house. And something else about being stuck in the hells for six months each year, all because of a pomegranate.

Pomegranate. That’s the smell that’s been teasing her nose. Her eyes flit to the blood in his cup. Beneath the floral notes, the scent is tangy. Light. Luscious.

Her throat scrapes with a sudden heat. “If I do,” she rasps, “will you answer my questions?”

He purses his lips, falling quiet as he weighs her offer.

“You know,” she presses, “communication is typically key in most marriages. One would think you’d want your wife to know about her circumstances. For her own good.”

“A new vampire is a delicate thing,” he says evasively. “A bride even more so. You’ve forgotten three years in an instant. That makes you new all over again. You need time to--”

“Three years?!” She chokes.

“I think that counts as one answer, doesn’t it?” He grins darkly. “Hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll have so much more.”

Naomi scowls. He pushes his glass across to her, gratingly slow. The blood within trembles.

“Go on, little love.”

The liquid ripples again as she reaches out hesitantly and takes the glass in hand. “What will happen if I don’t drink it?”

“I’ll give you that one for free,” he says tartly. “Vampires drink blood. If they don’t, they’ll be hungry. And agitated, and paranoid, and generally, bad company. Their mental faculties will become muddled. Eventually, they’ll fall ill, then feral, with pupils blown wide, and fangs aching something awful at the mere smell of blood. Does that sound relatable to you?”

Splat. Naomi flinches. Something wets her knuckles. She sees the moisture dangling there by a silver string and-- Gods, she’s…salivating. She wipes her mouth shakily with the back of her hand, scowling over the edge of the glass.

“I have the sense you’ve been trying to puzzle me out,” Astarion muses. “To outplay whatever villain you think you see. Let me help you, darling: having freshly fed wouldn’t have won you our little spat in the throne room, but you would have fared better. And you’ll fare better now if you stop starving yourself.”

Her gaze drops, heavy-lidded, back to the glass. If it will help, make her stronger, clear her head, then she’ll succumb to one sip. Just a taste. The scent of roses eases her eyes shut as she tilts the glass to her mouth.

It melts petal-soft against her lips with the tenderness of a lover. She gasps, long and lewd, like she’s writhing beneath one. The taste swells tantalizingly across her tongue. Soothing warmth trickles, syrupy sweet, down her throat, waking her nerves, rousing a tingle beneath her skin. The more she takes, the more taken she feels. She swears there’s fingers stroking through her hair. Good, she thinks, deliriously. It’s so very good.

The only thing better would be more. She feels the pull, as if whispered from the blood itself, coaxing her open. Take it. Take it all.

It’s then she manages to wrench away, slamming the glass down. A hairline crack sprouts in the tabletop. She pinches the stem in a vice-grip, mesmerized by the red trails dripping down the side of the glass to pool at the bottom. Only a few drops remain.

“Tell me how we met,” She pants, as if surfacing from vast depths.

For a moment, his eyes glisten. A mess of emotions plays across his face in an instant, each one vivid and fleeting. He flits through masks until he settles for a stony one. He blinks at her blankly once, twice, and then he jerks to stand, rattling the table as he goes.

“I’ll return later,” he says crisply, taking the pitcher with him, “with a meal more fitting for your palate.”

“What-- wait!” She scrambles from the chair, hurrying after him as he crosses the archway.

To her surprise, he freezes. She stops just short of barreling into his chest, a flurry of fear swarming in her stomach. 

He turns, peering down at her wistfully. “Why?”

“I-I thought we were getting somewhere,” she stammers. “I only want to know you, too. So you're not a stranger. So this all stops feeling so…strange.”

The arch of his brow is just as skeptical as she is. He searches her face while she wracks her brain for a more plausible answer. She has no idea what inspired her to rush after him when only moments before, she loathed his every word. All she knows is the sudden, overwhelming plea pressing on her mind: come back to me.

She hears it in her own voice, in her own head, but it feels starkly foreign. The yearning flares again, insistent, frantic, as he takes another step away from her. The noise that comes next puts her blood on ice. 

A deep, bestial snarl rips across the room. It didn’t come from Astarion; his mouth hasn’t moved at all. Naomi blinks feverishly, gaze dropping to see her hands clenched in a death grip around the pitcher he still holds. She gapes, aghast, but she doesn’t let go, even as she trembles like a leaf. 

Astarion merely tuts. “You’re never quite yourself when you’re hungry, love. But don’t you worry. We’ll fill you right up. Perhaps before you go for a stroll through the city streets, hm? We wouldn’t want you to make a mess out there.”

He lets go, and she staggers back, cradling the pitcher to her chest. Blood splashes over the sides, spattering at her feet, and soaking the front of her robe. It’s such a lush, vibrant color. Every drop, a precious gem. She’s so hypnotized by that ruby sheen, she hardly hears his parting words.

“There’s a bath for you, if you wish, and fresh clothes. Wear whatever pleases you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She retreats to the far wall. Her back slides against the slick surface as she drops to the ground and lifts the pitcher to her lips. She gags in her haste to guzzle down its contents, red rivers running down her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks.

A/N: The unserious working title of this chapter was “Vampire’s First Juicebox”.

Now also feels like a good time to mention that while I may at some point continue Midnight Chimes, this fic is my primary focus, and I will be pulling in scenes/material/backstory for Naomi and her game timeline with Astarion as it makes sense to do so. This will effectively spoil what I had planned for MC, but after giving it a lot of thought, it feels important that these pieces are included in AN, as they are really vital to Astarion and Naomi’s journey in this story and I'm excited about working those elements (like the flashback included here) in.

Thank you so very much for reading! I hope life is being kind to you all. <3

[dearydery]

haha first post kinda nervous, i lurk all the time on a diff account but i need to SPILL my thoughts or i’ll go insane even if i flop </3

been literally obsessed with chenle lately, first half is pretty sfw and it goes off the rails under the cut, gender neutral pronouns but heavily implied fem reader

to kick things off, i just feel like despite his tendency to tease people, he’s just so sweet and attentive. he may come off as abrasive and loud, but he looks at you like you’re his whole world <3

pays close attention to your likes and dislikes, like he’s keeping a mental note on everything. gets you personalized gifts for every half-year anniversary at least. remembers seemingly trivial things, such as your favorite flowers, restaurants etc., even if you never outright tell them that you like them.

notices little habits and pet-peeves and makes sure that you’re comfortable (anyone remember that time on vlive when chenle asked whether it’s okay to share chopsticks with jisung and then went "well IM okay with it but YOURE not" and went to grab another pair)

he's so observant and picks up on the tiniest behavioral patterns, knowing exactly when you’re feeling down, always ready to cheer you up!!

absolutely the type to come home to you with your favorite takeout after a long day just to flop down on the sofa and watch a movie together. he’s talking through the whole thing, going on and on about how the plot doesn’t make any sense. most likely to the point you’ll forget about the movie altogether, so caught up in some random heated discussion that ends with both of you in a heap of giggles :( probably partly due to the fact that he absolutely will start pestering and tickling you halfway through your argument, but he inists he isn’t distracting you on purpose!!

just the sweetest guy ever, even if he can be annoying at times.. he always means well and makes sure you’re cared for in every possible way

more under the cut <3

nsfw warnings.. a lil mean/possessive chenle, bdsm dynamics (pet play specifically), bit of dumbification ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

now we know chenle comes from a rich background, so this man would absolutely spoil you. he loves you dearly, and at the same time, you’re like his little prized possession :( he buys so many cute outfits for you to model for him and loves watching your face light up when he presents them to you. always asks you to give him a quick spin, and absolutely relishes in it when you’re even just the least bit shy about it.

i've always thought that chenle is 100% the neo who’s at the top of the "most likely to be into pet play" list. and bear with me here, it makes so much sense trust

all that spoiling he does? like yeah, he dresses you up in gorgeous dresses and lingerie, but it all comes together when he throws in a cute collar to top it off. to him, they just complete the look, complete you, and he will absolutely get you multiple to match everything else he’s dressing you in. always making sure they’re as comfortable as they are pretty, some of them lined with a plush layer of faux fur, a soft barrier between your delicate skin and the beautiful pieces of leather and ribbon <3

maybe you feel silly at first, adorned in a lacy collar, silver tag spelling out chenle's name, framed by delicate swarovski crystals.. only the best for you. but to him, it’s anything but silly, and he makes sure to make that clear for you in any way he can!!

of course he’s still your sweet chenle, always attentive, always pampering you,, but seeing you like this, proof of his ownership over you right there on your neck, it’s like heaven to him. you’re his pet, his most precious plaything, and oh, how he loves playing with you <3

chenle isn’t ever dehumanizing, nor overly controlling, no, but the power dynamic fuels him. feel like he’d prefer a kitten above all, watching you get so flustered when he calls you his cute little pet, trying so hard to not let it show just how much you’re truly affected by this :(

he’s sitting down, has you on your knees between his legs, giving your collar a gentle tug, watching your thighs rub together for some relief.. pretty lace panties he got just for you clinging to your sticky folds. you try to avert your gaze, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red, but he gives your collar another tug, a little sharper this time, making you look up at him again. he would definitely let out a laugh at how your composure is slipping, so condescending, urging you to keep your eyes on him at all times unless told otherwise!!

and being the obedient little pet you are, you happily oblige, squirming in your spot and waiting for chenle to finally give you a treat for being such a good kitty <3 though i’m convinced he wouldn’t mind having to correct some bratty behavior from time to time..

i actually don’t have anything else to say for myself and this was just me rambling for ten minutes straight, fully raw dogging it no proof reading no nothing but hopefully someone sees my vision LOL. would be delighted to expand on this though

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Roy had, he realizes, half-expected this to happen. He must have suspected on some level that their trip up to Manchester to face off against City would see a repeat of last season’s illicit night-time outing, because when he catches sight of Jamie surreptitiously slinking away from the team movie night just as the film ends, he isn’t surprised.

Just rolls his eyes and huffs a fucking prick, before telling Nate that he’s going out and not to let any of those idiots cause any trouble.

He can feel Beard’s eyes following him as he follows Jamie, out of the impromptu movie hall and the hotel, and into the chilly evening.  

Roy lets Jamie amble on for a couple of streets. Let the little muppet think he got away with it; it’ll make his realisation to the contrary all the more satisfying. Then, as Jamie idles on the pavement while waiting for a lull in traffic, Roy sneaks up to him and grabs his shoulder.

”Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Jamie startles, which is pleasing. He doesn’t look particularly concerned at catching sight of his fearsomely scowling coach, however, which is less pleasing.

“Fucking hell, Roy,” he says, having the gall to sound mildly reproachful. “How’s giving your best player a heart attack the night before you take on the champions a good idea, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Roy drawls. “Is it a worse idea than letting one of my players sneak off and break curfew the night before we take on the champions?”

Jamie snorts, unimpressed at his coach’s careful omission of the best. Shrugging out of Roy’s grip, he starts walking again. “Weren’t going to get into any trouble or nothing,” he says airily. “Just wanted to see me mum.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Not exactly a leap. (And if there’s a part of Roy that had been concerned that Jamie might slink away to see someone else, well… No need to bring that up. There’s been enough heated discussions on that topic between them ever since Roy learned of Jamie actually going up to see his fucking piece of shit father in rehab.)

For a few moments, they walk in silence, through the chill October air and the increasingly distant rush of Manchester traffic.

“Are you… okay?” Roy asks eventually. It comes out hesitant and it takes all of his willpower not to smash his own stupid face in for how silly he sounds. He’s getting better at this, he thinks – the emotional shit – but he’s still not good at it.

Jamie cuts him a surprised look. “Uh, yeah? Awesome. Why?” Then his face softens into understanding, his soft lips curling into a silent oh. “I’m good, Coach,” he says earnestly, pushing a strand of his carefully styled hair out of his eyes. “Swear down. Just wanted to say hi to mummy, yeah?”

Roy nods. He’d thought as much, but… he’d needed to make sure. “You could have just asked.”

Jamie gives him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, well, but. You’re not Ted. Might have said no.”

Roy’s eyes snap to Jamie’s face, narrowing in incredulity. “And if I had I told you, specifically, that no, Jamie, you may not fucking run off to see your mum the night before a game, then you wouldn’t have tried to slip away?”

“Yeah, man, ‘course.” Off Roy’s sceptical look, Jamie makes a face. “Come on, Coach. I do everything you tell me to, don’t I? Even when it’s stupid,” he adds, not quite under his breath.

And Roy doesn’t know what to say to that because… Jamie is right, isn’t he. He does everything Roy tells him to, and while that’s… good, obviously, hearing it stated so baldly leaves Roy feeling. Well. Something. Not bad, exactly, but slightly like he’s on a roller-coaster and suddenly he’s weightless and breathless and with that sucking sensation in his gut. Or like when he held Phoebe for the first time, awed and terrified of all that frail softness in his rough hands.

He clears his throat, pushing that weird feeling right back down into the dark recesses of his mind where it belongs. “Sneaking out of the fucking hotel when I told everyone to stay in and hit bed before eleven is a weird fucking way of doing what I tell you.”

“Yeah, but that was like, general,” Jamie says, waving away Roy’s fully legitimate argument like an errant fly. “It’s different, yeah?”

“It really fucking isn’t,” Roy snaps, even as there’s small, strange part of him that feels that Jamie – inexplicably – has a point.

Jamie grins at him, then, “And yet you haven’t hauled me back yet,” he notes, exaggeratedly looking around them to indicated the more and more run-down surroundings, and sure enough, if memory serves Roy right they’re already halfway back to the council estate where Jamie grew up.

Fucking hell.

But he’d suspected this, too, hadn’t he. Known that he wasn’t really going after Jamie just to read him the riot act and bring him back in.

“Half an hour,” Roy growls. “Then I am hauling you back to the hotel, and if I hear one complaint about it, I’m making you run the whole fucking way and then we’re doing burpees until you drop and I don’t care if you’re too stiff to play tomorrow.”

Like hell you don’t, Jamie’s laughing eyes tell him, but all he says is, “Yes, Coach. Mint.”

Roy gives a curt nod. Mint. Yeah. Maybe that’s what this is.

At least it could be hell of a lot worse.

At least until Jamie asks, much, much too innocently, “So, Coach, are you coming with me ‘cause you wanna keep an eye on me or because you wanna see me mum too?”

Roy is grateful that there’s no telling if his cheeks redden in the autumn dark, and that his voice is as gruff as ever when he growls, “All right, you are definitively running back to the hotel, Tartt.”

Jamie sighs. It’s a happy sound. “Yes, Coach.”