#like work on a mask for nothing other than my own satisfaction

[welcometomybraincomics]

Me: *like a dramatic damsel* Ack! I'm in so much pain! How could that possibly be? Am I fated to live this cursed life forevermore?

The me of yesterday, who just spent the last 2 days hand sanding a mask and then drew for 4 hours when I was already having issues:

[flowerandblood]

A Wife's Only Duty

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Aemond • Targaryen x wife • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, toxic relation, violence, marital rape, choking, character death ]

[ description: The war changes Aemond beyond recognition, and his wife becomes the target of his eternal abuse, also in bed. One day, however, he crosses the limits and has to face the consequences. Angst, violence, marital rape, very dark!Aemond. ]

This oneshot is an Anon Request and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these oneshots will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

____

At the beginning of their marriage he was terrified. He had no idea how to handle this young, gentle girl who, by his parents' decision, became his wife. Her presence embarrassed him, he hid his feelings behind a mask of indifference and hostility, he deliberately did not allow her to get close to him even when she tried.

He had had a few one-off adventures with servants before marrying her, but at the time he cared less for their fulfilment than for his own, treating them like vessels in which he drained his seed.

During their wedding night, he didn't know how to act, her face pale and frightened, he guessed her mother had warned her that the act would only be pleasurable for him.

He ordered her to lie on her stomach and she did so without a word. He told her to lift her hips and spread her thighs, and she did. He liked how meek and obedient she was and thought he would try to be gentle, that way he would reward her.

He heard her breathing hard and stifling sounds of discomfort as he entered her, as he began to move slowly inside her, panting hard, her hands clenched on the pillow. She was tighter than he had expected, her walls squeezing him from all sides, giving him pleasure he had never experienced before.

Unwittingly, he began to slide faster into her, panting louder and louder, her sounds of discomfort becoming more pronounced, he heard her cry out softly.

"− quiet −" He exhaled coolly, for she tightened her lips and fell silent, taking what he was giving her, cuddling her face into the pillow, obediently waiting for the end, which came soon after.

He cum inside her with a loud sound of relief and found to his surprise that he was satisfied.

"− you did well, wife −" He praised her with a low murmur, sliding out her slowly, and she breathed a sigh of relief, her whole body quivering.

He let her stay with him that night, she moved away from him to the other end of the bed and did not speak to him. The next day at breakfast, he saw that she sat up in pain, a look of discomfort painted on her face that she tried to hide by adopting at least a partially satisfied expression. She tried to start a light discussion about nothing, but he was not interested in that and remained silent.

After several of their close-ups, something changed, since she directed his hand between her thighs as he slid into her with deep, sure movements, since he discovered the point between her folds, her insides became exceptionally moist and sticky, no more gasps of exertion came from her lips, only moans, her insides clenched against him.

"− please, husband − touch me like this −" She mumbled, and he felt his manhood throbbing hard at her words, some kind of pride and satisfaction filled his chest, so he did as she asked.

That night was the first time he had seen female fulfilment.

Since then she had sought the closeness of his body herself, unable to bond with him outside of bed, approaching him in this way, and he had not spurned her. He could consider that at this point their marital life was quite successful, approaching what might be called a bond, even if only carnal, still close.

And then Luke died because of his stupidity.

He saw a change in her, her face, her eyes no longer lit up with desire at the sight of him, he saw pain and horror in her, she blamed him for starting the war, for making them no longer safe.

"What is the meaning of that look, sweet wife?" He asked, staring at her watchfully, his fingers rubbing against each other in a gesture of frustration that she knew all too well. She swallowed loudly, apparently wondering strenuously how to ease his anger.

"Forgive me. I'm terrified." She whispered, and he, without knowing why, burst into laughter. He approached her and she took a step back, her eyes wide.

He didn't like that.

"Come here. Come here, I say." He hissed, furious as she tried to pull away from him, his hand clamped tightly on her shoulder. He turned her around with her back to him and forced her to bend over, but she still tried to break free.

"− no − please − please, husband, I don't want to −" She mumbled out with difficulty, her voice and body trembling, her tiny fingers clenched helplessly on his skin. He pressed his lips to her ear.

"− you don't want to? − are you disgusted with your kinslayer husband? hm? − you swore to me, you fucking whore −" He growled furiously, struggling against her, pulling up her skirt in a violent motion, grabbing her head by her hair and pressing her cheek against the table.

She cried out loudly as he entered her suddenly and violently, panting hard, sliding into her hard and fast.

"− that's it − fucking take it −" He growled out, pumping his length into her so fast and aggressively that he felt like he was going to pierce through her stomach, her sobs mixed with her moans.

He slipped his hand between her thighs, teasing her pearl in circular, slow motions, her lips parted, horror and indecision on her face, her walls throbbing on him suddenly. He licked his lips feeling it.

"− just like that − that's my good wife − it's okay now, I forgive you −" He breathed out, fucking her with all his strength, the sticky, loud slapping of flesh against flesh echoing through his chamber. He chuckled under his breath as he felt her come suddenly, moaning and whimpering, her legs trembling all over as waves of pleasure ran through her body.

"− fucking knew it − greedy little whore −"

From then on, their rapprochements became more and more violent and aggressive because of him, because of what had happened to Aegon, because of what had happened to Helaena, because of Alys, whom he fucked every time he appeared in Harrenhal, because she was expecting his bastard child and his wife still hadn't given him an heir.

"− you drink Moon Tea, don't you? − say it, or I'll strangle you −" He growled, his cock slamming against her back wall again and again, pushing her walls to their limits, his two hands clenched on her neck. She cried out, all pale, shaking her head.

"− no − no −" She mumbled wearily, and he pressed his lips together, looking at her with rage.

"− fucking whore − you think I'm an idiot? − that I don't know? − that I don't know that you hate me, that you abhor the thought that you could bear my child? −" He wailed in despair, feeling like he was about to burst into sobs for some reason, her eyes rolled back, her breath caught in her throat.

If he had let her go then, she would have been able to tell him that she was expecting his offspring.

His hands held her neck in an iron grip until he finally reached his peak inside her with a growl of pain and relief. He looked at her face, panting heavily, her eyes empty, her body lying still.

She was not breathing.

He let go of her suddenly, looking at her with wide eyes, his hands trembling in the air. He touched her cheek and patted her lightly, as if he wanted to wake her from her slumber.

"My love? My love, wake up. I didn't really mean it, I would never hurt you." He babbled out with difficulty, his throat tighten, his heart pounding like mad, he felt like his head was spinning.

She didn't react, her absent gaze fixed somewhere far away, into nothingness, her lips slightly parted, her body soft and relaxed.

He whined like an animal, pressing his face to her cheek, holding her still warm body close, the tears he hadn't let fall for years dripping down his face.

"− I'm sorry − I'm sorry − I'm so sorry − please, forgive me −" He cried out in despair, cradling her in his arms like a small child, stroking her hair. He lowered her onto his bed again, stroking her cheek, kissing her nose, her forehead, her lips as tenderly and gently as ever.

"− please, wake up − please, I promise I'll change −" He mumbled, but it was too late, all that remained was her empty body, her heart no longer beating, on her neck bruises from the grip of his hands.

She ran away from him where he could no longer hurt her.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @verena-targaryen-writes @travelingmypassion @cryingforlife

[yokohamapound]

Myshka - Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader

I can't believe this is my first Fyodor piece, but here we go... This is silly but the idea wouldn't leave my head for an April Fool's fic.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He’s nothing but a silhouette. A wall of screens rises up before him, glaring like suns in the dim room. Information flickers across them in a constant, incomprehensible screed. You couldn’t read them even if you wanted to. 

He sits with his back to you, a ragged outline of darkness against the wall of brightness. A fur hat and fur-trimmed collar, only moving every now and then to look at this screen or that, his hands dancing across the keyboard like a concert pianist. You can’t see his face, but his hands are pale, long-fingered, moving almost with minds of their own, independent of each other. 

“I can feel your eyes on me.”

His voice is deeper than one would expect, from such a pretty face. Though he faces away from you now, you remember it well—sharp, delicate features, pale skin, shadowed violet eyes. The thought of being pinned under that stare again makes you shiver. 

You don’t know who he is, or what he wants with you. Just that he swept into your life, plucked you off the street, and here you are. 

Trapped, tense, waiting to discover your fate. Destiny hangs over you like the sword of Damocles. 

So far, all he seems to do is work, tapping away at his keyboard and humming to himself. Others come and go—a man in a black cloak, a jester in white who likes to poke at you and gibber nonsense—but no one seems to have a use for you yet. 

“Nothing to say, myshka?” 

His voice floats over to you, taunting. He insists on speaking to you, even though you don’t—can’t—respond. What would you even say? If you opened your mouth, all that would come out is a frightened squeak. 

It isn’t all bad. You’re given food and drink, somewhere to sleep. Whatever your purpose in this man’s grand design, it doesn’t seem one of suffering. He will keep you alive for as long as he needs you. 

Your silence finally seems to get to him. He turns in his chair, the flickering screens painting his features with uncertain blue-white light. 

Frozen, huddled, you watch him as he regards you in turn. A smile tugs at his mouth, an amused noise bubbling up from in his throat. Oh, you do seem to amuse him. Why is beyond you. Nothing you’ve done is remotely funny. Perhaps he simply enjoys your helplessness. 

“Look at you,” he hums, rising to his feet. “Still so frightened of me?”

His footsteps seem to echo through the cavernous room as he approaches you, picking his way easily between the wires that trail everywhere like vines.  He bends down to get a better look at you, his locks of dark hair shifting around his face as he tilts his head. 

Long, pale fingers reach for you and you cringe backward. The man lets out a low sound, seeming almost…disappointed. But that cannot be right. You know he takes satisfaction in tormenting you. Otherwise, why would you be here?

“Do I not give you everything you need, myshka?” he asks. “Are you hungry? Is that it?”

Freedom! you want to scream. Release me from this cage—

Suddenly, a head of white hair pops around the door frame, long braid swinging. The jester wears a grin like a carnival mask, his eyes crinkled with sadistic amusement. 

“Are you still trying to play with that pet mouse of yours?” he scoffs. “Just give it a morsel of cheese.”

Fyodor looks down at the cage housing the little mouse he plucked off the streets on a whim. Beady black eyes glare at him through the bars, tiny pink paws curled into miniature fists.

And here he thought the creature was warming up to him.

:P

[theres-a-body-here]

Male survivors with Creep!reader (part 1)

The wolf-masked creep makes their rounds around the realm

Dwight Fairfield

Hates going against you in trials

You seem to always know where he is

More than once has Dwight been working on a gen when he notices you simply watching from afar with your camcorder recording him

He hates the breathing you make behind the wolf mask

It's not labored breathing

Dwight feels a pit in his stomach when he realizes it's heavy breathing one makes when aroused

He's certain you do it on purpose to mess with him

You love this nervous bundle of anxiety

He's so cute when he's focused on them gens

You almost feel bad about hurting him

Almost

Chases with you are long, even when they shouldn't be

There are moments when Dwight is certain you'll swing your whip at him, only to feel nothing

You love chasing him, so much so that you'll draw out the chases for as long as you can

You only swing when you're sure his guard is dropped, leaving zero time for Dwight to prepare for the pain

Dwight thinks you're even scarier when he's hurt

The weight of dread settled heavily in Dwight's chest as he felt hot breaths on his neck. You were closing in fast, relishing every moment of your hunt. All Dwight could do was run toward what little hope he had left - the killer shack.

As he stumbled into safety, gasping for breath and feeling like vomiting from both exhaustion and fear, your voice echoed around him.

"You make such cute noises when you're in pain, my lambkin," you purred from behind your wolf mask, leaving no doubt about your true intentions.

Terror coursed through Dwight's veins at those words, making him feel dirty and violated even without any physical touch...yet.

David King

Hates you, and you hate him

You hate him so much you refuse to record him

You feel a bit less hateful when he's shirtless in trials

But just barely

You like to sneak up on him while he's doing gens

You get really close behind him

It's only when David can feel the snout of your wolf mask pressing against the back of his head that he realizes he was too focused on the gen

"you're a bit daft innit?" you'd say while trying to hold back a snicker

David would insult you all the way as you carried him on your shoulder

"Oi, don't think for a second we sound like that, you arsehole!"

After hooking him, David always makes an attempt to kick you in the face

He's only sometimes successful

You made it your personal mission to tunnel him out of every one of your trials if he's present

In turn, David has made it his personal mission to deny you the satisfaction of hurting others

He always manages to body-block your whip swings before it manages to hit their intended target

It's like he waits for the moment to fuck you over

With unyielding resolve, David positions himself behind Nancy, using his own body as a shield against your whip's strike. Despite the searing pain that courses through his back, he remains steadfast, fueled by the gratifying sound of your frustration.

The grunts and growls of frustration that escape you are a testament to his success in obstructing your goals.

"Fook off, you bloody wanker," David retorts, unfazed by the discomfort as long as he can provoke those telltale noises of anger from you.

For him, the symphony of your irritation is a victory in itself, worth enduring the physical discomfort he's inflicted upon himself.

Vittorio Toscano

Like most of the other survivors, Vittorio doesn't like you

But you sure as hell like him

You've made it clear during trials with him

The other survivors love and hate having Vittorio as a trial mate when going against you

For one reason and one reason only

You would absolutely throw the match just to record him all trial

Chases with him lasted a long time

Sometimes they lasted 5 gens

The other survivors took this as an easy win, even if they were reluctant to let Vittorio deal with you alone

It took lots of reassuring from him to make them stick to gens as you had your attention on him

You always chased him with your eye on your camcorder's viewfinder. Even if it made you slower

"This is definitely going in my daddy compilation"

You went absolutely insane when Vittorio arrives to a trial in his shirtless outfit

Vittorio swears he heard you softly moan under your mask when you saw him

Cue a long and agonizing chase

you eventually catch him

You left him slugged as you recorded with your camcorder

You made sure to get every angle of his aged body

Vittorio felt absolutely disgusted as he hears you breathing heavy

But as long as you're here and not hurting the others, he can bear with it

It doesn't help that you make such vile comments as you record him on the ground

"I'll be rewatching this later for a while," you begin, your voice dripping with arousal, "I wonder how many times I'll cu-."

His mind recoils, cutting off your words as he clenches his eyes shut. The thought of what you were about to say is too repulsive to bear, and he desperately tries to shut out your presence, focusing on whatever fragment of mental solace he can muster.

Masterlist here

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

What would make mean Konig all red and flustered you think?

I think if newbie started complimenting him and being absurdly nice to him out of the blue that would definitley get him all embarassed and worked up 🫣 maybe even defensive because he's rlly self concious and has bad self esteem

“König, have I ever told you what nice shoulders you have?”

König stiffened under your touch almost immediately. Your fingers were clenching on new knots now as you continued to rub his back, forcing a frown on your face when he didn’t ease up. You knew that him being suspicious was part of his withdrawn nature, but seriously? This was enough to have him tensing?

“What makes you say that?” he asks finally, turning to look at you. 

You sigh and come round to the side of his uncomfortable plastic office chair, casting your eyes over the mountains of paperwork he has to fill out. Apparently Kortac wanted details on his last mission, they’d been unhappy with the fact that two of their soldiers had failed to return home and now König had to make a detailed account about it - thus the need for a massage. 

“I just wanted to let you know I liked your shoulders,” you shrugged. “Is that so bad?”

“It is,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes at you. 

They look like slivers of blue moonlight through his mask. You tilt your head at him and smile, your lips spreading wide, and lean against him, burrowing your head under his chin. Now you can feel his heartbeat, can hear the thumping crash grow louder as he further questions your motivations. 

“And why’s it so bad?” you hum.

The rhythm in your ear is growing louder, you can practically hear König starting to lose it. 

“Because there must be some ulterior motive to your flattery that I’m not aware of.”

His tone is flat, but his body would be hammering out a techno beat on a heart monitor if it could. You grin all the more at the thought and shake your head, breaking away from him so that you can look him in the eyes. 

“There’s no ulterior motive. I just wanted to let you know that I like your big broad shoulders. They feel so good to rub like this, feels like there’s so much of you. There’s plenty other things that I like too,” you say, raising your eyebrows. “Like your lips…”

“My lips? What about my lips?” he asked, sounding ever more unsure of himself.

You feel your own heart start to jump. You’d never caught him so unawares like this. It made you feel powerful, made you feel like you were the one in control for once. To think, all it took was telling him how much you admired him. 

“Well…” you smile, reaching your hand out to the hem of his mask. “I just think they’re so nice and soft, they’re perfect for kissing. I really like a man that looks after himself.”

He grunts at that, visibly frowning at you now. Everything else he might’ve been concentrating on is forgotten, his full attention is on you. His whole body is practically vibrating with tension and he could hardly seem to cope with the compliments coming his way, no matter how superficial. 

You bat your eyes at him and gently pull up his mask, exposing said lips to the air, but nothing more than that. He didn’t like to expose his full face to anyone, not even to you, preferring to blindfold you rather than take it off for his convenience. Though that was beyond your reasoning. Afterall, even despite how little you’d seen of him, you thought that he was beautiful, and it wasn’t like you were going to sell out his identity to anyone.

“My face is covered in scars,” he grumbled, finally finding words. “My lips as well - they’re not perfect.”

“Doesn’t matter if you have scars. You’re still fun to kiss,” you say with a smile, just before leaning forward and taking his mouth in yours.

You hum in satisfaction when he groans and after a few seconds you break away, revelling in the way he keeps his eyes closed afterward. Your ever observant superior was slacking now. His eyes were hidden by his makeup, lost in a sea of black. Though there was a creeping pink blush working its way to the bottom of his cheeks and neck, breaking through the clash of pale skin and black makeup, treacherously giving away how much you were affecting him. 

“Yeah… They feel pretty perfect to me. That reminds me as well - your voice! You have such a pretty voice. I love it when it gets all deep and growly especially. Love the way you take charge, König…”

He opens his eyes again and when he does it almost breaks your heart. They’re wide with confusion and lost adrift in a sea of emotions that you could never-endingly explore. There's a sadness that lurks beneath those depths - you were sure of it. He didn’t exactly share old stories from his past with you, but you knew enough about him to know that he hadn’t been shown much love.

“You must tell me the real reason why you’re saying all this,” he whispers, voice practically choking back a whine. 

“I told you the real reason,” you hummed. “I just want to tell you how handsome I think you are. In case you weren’t aware, König…I think you’re very handsome.”

You dropped your voice almost conspiratorial at the end, and it was that last sentence that had him whimpering and turning completely red. You’d never seen him like this before, it had your mouth dropping open in awe before you could think to clamp it shut.

He fixed his eyes on you then and growled, tugging down his mask and shooing you off of his lap. 

“König-”

“Don’t! Not another word,” he rumbled, hunching back over his work. “I don’t need to hear your lies.”

You huffed out a breath and frowned at him, watching as he furiously returned to his work, scribbling like a madman as he fought back for his self control. You opened your mouth, ready to combat his denial, but he held his finger up at you before you could free even a miniscule decibel of sound.

“I’m serious. Go attend to whatever it is you should be doing. Not. Another. Word.”

[smallraindrops-blog]

Fukin

Thinking about Y/n being a favorite/champion for a god now because of that Athena line.

Athena would be a good choice, but I also think about if Ares and Y/n met differently.

What if Ares met Y/n when he was still in the fighting ring. A viscous child who won every fight and quickly put his opponent down. Surely Ares would be drawn to the desperation, the need to win and survive. And when the boy gets older, Ares is sure he would make a fine warrior.

And when he's adopted by Achilles and Patroclus, he has a bloodlust Patroclus trys to curb, and Achilles trys to hone in training.

Of course, they can tell he's been influenced by Ares. All they can do is hope bloodlust doesn't take over Y/n life.

I dunno just a more vicious Y/n who does love his parents, but just wants to fight everything all the time.

Long response. Small flash fic inside.

funny enough, y/n was somewhat blood thirsty when was younger (and a strong drive for survival which kept him alive as a child and after the war even though he was in a deep depression)

He was a quiet but high-energy kid with anger problems.

Honestly, I don’t remember how much i have gone into it much but it is part of the reasons why Y/N’s training was hard as a youth.

Y/n was essentially doing manual labor a lot on top of training with Achilles. He was running with heavy animal feed bags and a lot of his chores involved chopping wood and the like.

It is part of the reason he was always hungry as well.

As for Ares finding a young y/n, his life would had turned out very different. I think for everyone’s sake, it was better for him to end with his parents. But I am in full agreement with everything you said.

Here a have a flash fic. ( i had this in my back pocket since i wasn’t sure if anyone wanted to read it but it is too fitting to pass up this opportunity.)

~~

(Early childhood)

Kneeling front of Achilles and you, Patroclus lifted both of their left arm to inspect the marks.

On Achilles’ forearm, there was a neat little bite mark. Deep too. On yours, there was a much bigger one. Not as deep as however.

Pa inhaled sharply, looking up at Achilles who didn’t meet his hard stare. “You bit him?”

“He bit me first!” Achilles protested, scowling down at you.

“I did.” You told Pa, smiling with vicious satisfaction. You no longer felt bad for biting your Father. “He told me to attack in a way an enemy wouldn’t expect. So I did.”

“You completely missed my point.” Father said, yanking his arm away from Pa, still glaring at you. “We don’t bite each other. Ever. We talked about this before lad.”

Pa squeezed the space between his eyes as if begging the gods for patience. “Why did you bite him back?”

Achilles shrugged. “It is what my mother did with me when I was younger. It worked.” He paused, considering his words. “Eventually.”

“You and I know both know that isn’t true.” Pa muttered as he stood up.

“You like it.” Father grinned up at Pa, his blue eyes gleaming with mirth. Pa was still unamused.

“Huh?” You asked, frowning in confusion as you glance between them.

“Nothing.” They said together with Pa grabbing your hand. You wanted to tell him you were big enough to walk on your own but decided against it when Pa shot Father a glare.

Unfortunately, the medicine hurt more than the bite did.

~~

(In the distance future)

You walked into your bedchambers with a fresh bite mark on your hand. Hypnos blinked awake, lifting up his sleep mask. His long curls messy from his nap.

He looked lovely as always but you were far too grumpy to linger over it.

“Icelos?” Hypnos asked, his voice amused and sleep rough.

You grumbled as you cleaned it. “I put her in timeout.”

Hypnos was quiet for a long moment. Then he joined you, rubbing his cheek on your shoulders, his eyes closing once more.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bite back.” Hypnos teased. You said nothing.

That got Hypnos’ attention, waking him up and he narrowed his eyes. “Did you?”

You scoffed. “No.”

There was a beat of silence with Hypnos glaring at you. You shrugged. “Fine. I thought about it. But as a kid who bit his father, it didn’t work. So I didn’t bite back.”

“Oh. Good. Well then.” Hypnos sighed. “We will have to come up with a new punishment. Timeout isn’t working clearly.”

You grunted in agreement.

“Hypnos.”

Hypnos gave you a poke, looking at you with deep fondness. “At least we know where she got her biting from.”

“Hmm?”

“If she bites me again-“

“You will not-“

[writingpei]

wicked games (l.m.) - chapter six

previous chapter series masterlist next chapter

pairing: lee minho x reader genre: academic rivals to lovers wc: 2.6k words

color me green

everyone ought to know not to mess with the extreme hormonal imbalance that gets tangled up in the form of teenagers.

because classes started in march, the education system pulled out one of the most important events that students would most like to experience during the school year, valentine's day. what happens is that, in haneul high school, the students could not accept such slander. in the 90s, the celebration of kiss day was created; it consisted of a day that was common to see heart-shapped confetti across the floor in the halls, people crying over being rejected and others with teddy bears and bouquets of red roses under their arms, bragging about the amount of confessions they received.

to say that day made y/n want to gouge her eyes out with her bare hands would be an understatement.

everything about the celebration made her feel odd. she could not shake feeling like an alien observer watching the girls her age and all their unspoken yearning, how they fell apart over loud displays of affection and exaggerated gifts. what's with the allure of romance anyway? she couldn't quite grasp it within her fingers, and for some reason, it stressed her out.

shaking her head as a way of physically trying to shift her focus to another corner of her mind, she quickly settles into thinking about hyunjin and theorizing how much her assistance had actually helped him on his math test.

she hadn't heard from the boy the last few days, ever since the test. she figured he must have blacked out after studying as intensely as he had for the first time in his life. or he probably failed, and that wouldn't be kind to her ego.

when she first stepped into school in the chilly morning, she noticed that the confetti hadn't been thrown all over the place yet, so she still had the margin to pretend that day was a normal day.

what caught her eye, however, was the employees hanging up a gigantic sheet of paper on the wall. a cluster of people started forming in a circle, curious eyes examining the words printed in oppressive black ink, some were on tiptoes trying to catch a glimpse among the sea of heads.

y/n hurried into the middle of the crowd. even though physical contact with so many people made her skin sting, she slipped into the tangle until she came to a stop in front of everyone to see all the rankings on display.

once she found her name in the first column of the chart signaling her perfect score, a wave of relief and satisfaction emanated through her entire body.

regardless of how focused she was on her own accomplishment, her eyes were captured like a magnet to the name right below hers, and, to bring even more joy to her day, with a not-so-perfect score...

while she made 100 points, lee minho's name got stained by a hideous 98.

after the hellish week the boy had put her through like he had decided out of the blue to tease her countless times more than he already did on a day-to-day basis, y/n allowed herself to rejoice at the feeling of pride she felt because of the score.

caught out of her blissful trance, she realized classes were about to start, if the halls beginning to overflow were any indication to follow. her steps were determined while she made her way to english class with certainty that nothing would strain her mood.

when her eyes found minho sitting at the back of the classroom with his pet friend on his side as usual, she didn't refrain from her calculated stride until she came to a stop in front of the boy. minho, seeing her approaching, already masked his lips with the classic sarcastic smile he always performed flawlessly whenever he saw her, taking advantage of any prospect to get her worked up.

"what do i owe you the pleasu-" he started, but quickly realized she wasn't having any of it at that moment.

"shut up, now it's my turn" she interrupted, crossing her arms and lifting her chin, superioring herself through her ever-so-fierce body language. "you got 2 math questions wrong on the test? what's going on with you? i hate to say it but you were better than this back in the day..." a smirk that held no trace of kindness bloomed on her face as a silent challenge to his own, that started to die down by the second, cheeks falling.

he just frowned as if he had come upon something that had a bad smell, disgust being physically transferred from her to him, tables turning.

"you know it's not like me to put the blame on other things when it comes to my performance, but taking this test in the same classroom as you really affected me. i almost had to go outside to throw up 3 times just because i couldn't shake off your presence inhabiting the same space as me."

"oooh, taking it to heart now, are we minho?" a humorous little laugh escaped her lips as she lightly tapped her fingers on her arms.

"this is much worse than when you're tearing your hair out just by listening to me" he rolls his eyes and turns his body completely towards the blond boy who was aggressively drinking from his juice box, not daring to spare a glance to the frightening girl in front of him. "she's so annoying, seriously..."

"so you can play the game but i can't?" the question sounded dumbfounded and she felt anger starting to bubble on her chest.

"uhm, duh-uh" he replied as if it was obvious. "i prefer it much more when you are locked up in your own brooding"

"i don't get locked up in brooding" her tone got higher at his ridiculous accusation. "i'm sorry to spoil your childish ways of entertainment but my pride won't allow you to remain unchecked"

"talk about your pride" he scoffed with all his might, disdain evident in his voice. "don't go putting all your judgment over me on a single test, especially the first one. i don't want to see you crying later when i start to take this seriously."

"what ever made you think that i'm afraid of you taking things seriously? if you are trying to humiliate me by attempting to put me at your level, i can tell you is not working" her hands slipped from her previously crossed manner, and descended to settle on top of his desk, leaning in as a way to provoke him. "your immaturity has no bounds whatsoever."

minho looked into her eyes in silence for a chain of seconds until he groaned in desperation, eyes rolling back and an irritated sigh escaping his lungs.

"ugh, today is going to be a good day for me filled with chocolates and love letters, so stop trying to spoil it with all your nagging on my ears" he said, eager for the conversation to end soon.

minho hated it when she was like this, and getting 2 questions wrong on a 40-question test was disgraceful enough.

sometimes he found himself believing that both of them were one and the same while being two completely distinct planets all at once. he could tell that her talent for consistent pestering was just like his, but he couldn't help but prefer when she was the one hot-faced and struggling to hold her unceasing rage from lashing at him in a deadly streak.

and he really was looking forward to all of the confessions he was going to receive throughout the day, that hadn't been a lie. the compliments that were thrown in his direction by lovesick girls always amused him and tickled his undying ego.

"you never fail to make me sick to my stomach" she says with a deep frown, knuckles turning white at how hard they were being pressed against his desk.

"speak to my hand" minho raised his hand towards her, mocking her with movements imitating someone talking. "ah, i'm park y/n and my favorite pastimes are terrorizing innocent classmates and institutionalizing extreme boredom" he spoke in a demon-like voice as if trying to imitate her, and she only managed to scoff at his antics.

it took all her strength to walk over to her usual spot at the table at the front without caressing his pretty face with an uppercut.

he was outrageously unbearable, lee minho was the worst of the world.

"you fell asleep in the middle of the math test. you wouldn't do that if you had doubts about any of the questions" yongbok started right after she left them be, looking at him from the corner of his eye, pinning him in an accusatory stare.

"the last few days have been weird for me, yongie, give it a rest" minho dismisses his friend while sulking and crossing his arms, face falling slowly until his forehead reached his desk.

"if you say so..."

“why, are you insinuating something?” it didn’t take many seconds for him to get defensive as he always did over topics like this. topics that were about her.

minho liked to perceive himself as a person who was fully aware and in control of why he did the things he did, and having someone who knew him as well as yongbok insinuating things bothered him beyond measure, making him doubt his own conscience.

“oh, no, never” he answered sarcastically and kept chugging the straw coming out of the orange juice box. 

“ugh, whatever” minho says finally, shrugging and pretending he didn't care. "you've been weird as hell these past few days too..."

the class went by smoothly and y/n believed that her good mood would be unshakable for the rest of the day. it all ended in shambles when the bell rang and people started to leave the room to go to their respective next classes.

it all ended in shambles because it was at that exact moment that hwang hyunjin burst through the door like a cannon, wide eyes scanning the complexity of the classroom in search of the girl.

"y/n! i've been looking for you everywhere!" hyunjin's voice calling out for her in such an open place and in the midst of so many of their classmates put y/n on alert instantly.

she didn't even think about looking to the back of the class to check if he was still there.

"um, what do you need?" asking carefully collected, she looked barely managed to scan around her to see if there were still a lot of people in the room who hadn't left yet.

"you are never going to believe it!" he was anything but quiet, still daring to bounce up to her in his unmatched good humor. "i got 30 out of 40 questions right on the test! can you believe it? can you?" he exclaimed, and she realized she hadn't looked up the boy's name when she'd seen the rankings earlier.

regardless of the non-existent relationship she had with hyunjin, the information left her very much satisfied. knowing that she had the ability to teach well meant that she could land some tutoring gigs down the road.

"that's nice, hyunjin" she responded with a small sign of contentment on her face.

while she started bending down to pick up her bag from the floor and going on her way, he stopped her by handing her a white bag.

"this is a thank you present for you. as soon as i entered the school and saw the rankings, i skipped the first class and ran to the bakery near the school to buy this. it's a cupcake, no big deal!"

but y/n's focus had been ripped from the words that came out of the mouth of the boy in front of her and thrown to the small whispers she heard behind her back as soon as he waved the gift in front of her face.

"oh my god..." a girl said.

"so the rumors were true? they're going out with each other?" another trailed.

y/n gritted her teeth and exasperation started building up inside her chest.

"hyunjin" she called him, firmly yet quiet as ever. "have you gone insane?"

"what? why?" the big smile that previously covered his face was replaced by an expression of pure confusion. "you don't like cupcakes? i'm sorr-"

"today is kiss day, you dumbass" she explained, holding the bag he had given her with only one finger as if she touched it more than necessary, she would be consumed by it on the spot.

"oh" was his first reaction, realizing that he had completely forgotten about the day. however, when he finally came to realize how what he just did could create such horrific misinterpretations, his eyes widened and he let out another "oh!", this time sharing y/n's panic.

after his comprehension of how grave the situation was, hyunjin's first instinct was to snatch the bag from her hand without hesitation or grace. "it's nothing like that!" he exclaimed loudly almost as if he was screaming at her, noticing that there was a considerable amount of people still in the room who were eyeing them curiously.

"tutoring session this friday again!" was the only thing he accomplished to say before running out the door with the same agitation he had entered it.

all's well that end's well.

"i hate cupcakes anyway..." she whispered at last, leaving the room without looking any of the people who saw the scene in the eye.

as if ignoring that everything that had happened would immediately be forgotten and left behind by everyone. she knew she was fucked.

"we're going to be late for the next class, minho" yongbok called over to the boy who was still sitting fixedly in the chair, eyes narrowed at what he had just witnessed.

with his best friend's call, he put the bag on his shoulder and started walking next to the blonde in wary strides.

"who was that poor guy?" he asked, a lump in his throat that felt like something else was trying to escape from his lips, but he couldn't put it in words.

"that's the hwang hyunjin you asked me about these days" yongbok clarified, not missing the bewildered tone coming from his friend.

"oh. i really had no idea who he was until two minutes ago."

after a few seconds of walking in eerie silence, a squeaky voice shouted "minho!" at their back, and echoed down the hall.

when they both stopped at their steps and turned around, they saw a small girl with long dark hair and red cheeks running towards them with a giant box of chocolates.

"this is for you!" she held the box out to him, starting to smooth her hair in a not-so-discreet way from the second he took it from her hands. "my name is bae minah, let's hang out sometime."

minho smirked mechanically but the genuineness was nowhere to be found. he still leaned into her slightly as if to take a better look at her, flattering the younger girl in the process as her eyes started to blink rapidly at the sight of him growing closer.

"yeah, sure, i'll think about it. bae minah..." he said and she opened a big - and pitiful - smile. 

and so they both went continued their way, leaving her behind.

"take this" minho held out the box to yongbok, who looked at him confusedly and adjusted his glasses that fell down his nose.

"don't you want it? it's a super expensive brand."

"nah" he said, looking away. "i'm actually feeling a little nauseous."

stay tuned for chapter 7! ☆

[yisony07]

As big as they want

"Ken, Ken, come see this!" Jay yelled as he walked into Kennedy's room like it was his own house. He was in high spirits, and he was carrying a box in his hands.

"Jay, shit…" Kennedy muttered, opening his eyes. He noticed through the window that it was already night. He got up from the bed after a yawn and settled down. "Hell, Jay, what the hell are you doing here at this hour? And who let you in?"

"Your mother announced that she would go on vacation to a hotel with the others, remember? She was just leaving when I arrived, and she let me stay with you" he answered. "Anyway, I wanted you to see this."

"What is now?" he asked with a hint of mistrust.

"An item I bought while on my way here… the vendor told me that it is capable of fulfilling your wishes" Jay commented excitedly. "We could stop being seen as younger than we are!" Both boys had known each other since childhood and had always felt alienated from each other, because their genetics, for better or worse, made them look younger than they really are.

Jay, a term college student, a couple of semesters away from graduating.

Kennedy, a recent engineering graduate student applying for an internship abroad.

"Keep going believing in everything they tell you, that you will lose your money easily" said Kennedy leaning his body, sitting on the edges of the bed, towards his friend. "But let's see what's this time."

"What are you interested in too, huh?" Jay opened the box and took out a wooden mask of a worn green.

"Wow, that's interesting," Kennedy ironized, rolling her eyes. He noted that Jay looked at such an object between confusion and disappointment. "Try it on, see if it works."

Jay heeded Kennedy's words, turned the mask around and innocently brought it closer to his face, but...

"What the hell?" Jay whispered. "It felt like something was sucking on my face…" He took another look at the back of the object in his hands.

He was mesmerized by that glow with his eyes wide open. He brought the mask closer to his head until he molded it onto his face. At first nothing happened, but then Jay grunted: the mask sucked at his face and magically began to spread around the edges by tendrils and tentacles, as if it wanted to cling to his head, to his face, to be him...

"What are you doing? Take it off!" Kennedy told him, scared by what he was seeing.

Jay, on the other hand, did not stop the mask from continuing. He felt good, as if a cozy warmth enveloped him; not only on his head, but also on his whole body, so much so that, without knowing how conscious he was, he began to pinch and fondle his own nipples.

"Ah… yeah… it feels good…" Jay said softly as he gave slight movements, as if that would help the mask to cover him. Then he began to moan almost shamelessly.

Kennedy looked at him disgusted at first, thinking that the mask influenced him in terrible ways, but there was a whoosh (perhaps that green smoke expelled by the mask) that made him reconsider his feelings... did he like it?

The mask ended up engulfing Jay's head and Jay, feeling his libido rising with every second, ripped the mask off with satisfaction. He felt his body creak and expand, but it was as if he was being stroked from behind him and reached for one of his hands to masturbate. How could he not? It felt too good, like he was going to ejaculate every moment. However, he noticed that over time he stopped moving: first his grayish legs turned to stone; then his butt and his cock, huge and erect; followed his torso and finally his head, complete with mask. Jay had turned into a greenish stone statue, with a larger body than he originally had, and a slightly longer penis than usual.

Kennedy didn't know what to think. Did the mask turn his friend into a statue? "I already said that it was dangerous…". He was about to continue his groans of concern, when he noticed that a crack formed in the center of the body and with a *crack*, the statue collapsed, leaving behind a pile of dust and green gas, and revealing a smiling figure.

"I am amazing!" he said as he ran his hands all over his body. "I'm bigger, stronger, sexier… See Ken? I told you it worked!" he added. He turned on himself, forming a small tornado, and when he stopped he became another person.

"Uff… this is…" he noticed how her cock grew until it broke his underwear, revealing a huge member with a greenish glans, and without any shame he began to massage it uncontrollably… "Fuck…!" he said he and shot a load of cum that filled poor Kennedy, who was slow to process what he saw. "Hummm, Kennedy… you look so hot covered in my semen."

Masked Jay turned Kennedy around to clean him up and started kissing him. Kennedy's feelings were changing and a blush lit up his face, wordlessly consenting to his best friend's actions. Jay, with another twist, undid Kennedy's clothes, laid him down on his bed, and stood over him. "So, whaddya think?"

"You sure look older and… bigger than normal" answered Kennedy calmly.

"Well, I hope you're ready, because we're going to use this big thing to enjoy this time alone" and, inserting his cock into Kennedy's pinkish hole, giving a stroke, he began a pleasant night.

(...)

"Argh… ah… ugh… hmm… fuck yeah! That feels great" Kennedy moaned with the quick movements of Masked Jay. The bed moved, threatened to break from the violent shaking of both. Covered in sweat, semen, flushed giving it their all as they screamed from the pleasure they felt. Kennedy was in four, or rather in two, because his face was glued to the bed, with his hands clinging to the damp sheets.

"Almost there… want me to cum inside this time?" Masked Jay said about to come, reaching out with his long hands to grope Kennedy's nipples, abdomen and ass as he fucked him from behind.

"Me too… do it outside" Kennedy replied as he came.

Masked Jay pulled his penis out of Kennedy's ass and sprayed his river of cum all over Kennedy's back. "Oh…fuck!! I couldn't get enough of this…" Jay whispered. "Ready for another round?"

"I would, but I'm sorry: I'm extremely tired, my whole body hurts and it's already the fifteenth time…" Kennedy gasped. His breathing was quickening and his eyes felt heavy…very heavy. "I think I'm going to…". He didn't continue talking, because he fell asleep.

Masked Jay, for his part, in the absence of amusement, placed his hands behind his head, on that subtle line where the mask met. He put a finger under the rim and it felt oddly good, like he was fingering himself, but instead down there, just above the back of his head. Enjoying the situation, he placed his other fingers and pulled.

At first he hurt, it was like taking off a part of himself, as if he was shedding a bit of his own skin. His arms and his entire body spun in tornadoes as he felt himself grow weaker. He tugged at the mask, which was doing its best to continue clinging to his precious face, but Jay's will was stronger, and the mask was pulled from his face.

"Uff… you sure do give a lot of power" Jay praised the mask in his hands. "And now it's dear Ken's turn to enjoy it." He laughed a little, feeling as if he was making a prank.

He turned Kennedy's body slightly, enough to place the mask under Ken. Then he released it, and Ken's face made contact with the mask. This, similar to Jay's case, spread across Ken's face, completely engulfing his head. Kennedy was not moving, it seems that the dream was so great that he was unable to feel the power of the mask flowing through his veins.

"That should be considered a superpower". Jay commented surprised. He felt the sheets tug under him, knocking him off the bed. Jay saw the sheets cover Kennedy's body completely; green lights came out from under them, and within seconds, the sheets lifted, revealing a figure below them watching Jay.

"You are right, J…". The voice that emerged was deep, masculine, intimidating… "This is incredible." In no time, Jay was under him, eager to worship such a body. "How about we continue with the sixteenth time?".

Thanks to @thesantorias94 for the masked pics.

[udretlnea]

Lie Down and Rest A Bit

Summary: You’re a writer and your significant other Rosaria - bless her for working so late at the office - is in the adjacent room sleeping. You’re struggling to write lately, and that’s when the story begins.

Words: 1.3k

The furious clicking of keys being pressed would be music to some, but for this one, they were a testament to how long they were writing without much progress being made. 

With a swift kick, the masked villain went down-

“Stop. Delete. Again.”

The vigilante nun darted forward, pointing her spear at the kidnapper. The hostages cried out, but-

“No. No-no-no. Not optimal. Delete. One more-one more try.”

She squinted her eyes at you, though you couldn’t tell if it was out of suspicion or intrigue; maybe both-

“Idiot. This is the opening statement-the hook! You can’t just start the story in the middle of the plot…!”

“Unless I write how the protagonist got into this situation, then this option is valid!” You mutter to yourself out loud. You lean back, the chair creaking slightly as you carelessly let your hands hit either side of your laptop loudly; you groan in frustration at your plight. With a hiss, you quickly retract them and pray that they didn’t disturb your other half.

“What was that?” A tired-sounding voice trickles out from the room next to you. You suppress a feeling of guilt, though it’s in vain when you hear her getting off of the bed and the footsteps that follow as they come closer to you; you bite your lip even as you turn your chair around to meet her eye-to-eye.

You forgot - almost forgot - how intrinsically gorgeous she was that your mind goes blank for a moment to admire her features. Her pale magenta eyes were usually filled with three things: a casual disdain for her office job, the satisfaction from drinking wine, or - like right now - the soft concern, that honest vulnerability that sometimes frightened you yet touched your heart all the same. That vibrant, choppy wine-red hair you adored so much glows as she stands in the doorway, an effect made by the window to your side. Her white turtleneck sweater fits her body ideally while somehow enhancing her already generous bust; her sweatpants-and-socks combo the finishing touches to her already casual outfit.

Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out; you blink and realize she just called your name.

“Oh…my apologies. I’m fine for the most part. It’s-” and you hesitate to tell her because it’s just a tiny thing - not even a problem. “Just ran into some writer’s block. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

You smile at her to reassure her that you weren’t in trouble, just your daily torment with your own writing.

She clicks her tongue, a hand on her hip as she studies you; you swear you could feel your soul struggling to keep calm as you stared into those cat-like irises she had. “Hm. Let me take a look. Maybe you could use another perspective.”

“I…can’t. It’s not even finished…!” A slight feeling of anxiety spikes in your stomach and you quickly stamp it out. You smile wider.

“Well then, why don’t I see what you’ve written so far.” A response dies in your throat.

She’s not going to drop this - or rather you’re not going to waste this opportunity, are you? A voice in your head asks. You retort that she’s showing sincerity and that it’s only polite for one to return it with your own; the voice says nothing.

“Sure!” And you slide your chair to the side a bit, inviting her to come take a look at what you’ve created; you turn your head to the screen, though out of the corner of your eye you see the way her hips sway back and forth.

She crouches down enough that she is on the eye-level with you and stares at the screen silently; there wasn’t much on there since you had just started writing, after all. The summary was the only thing that existed and even that was nothing more than a vague idea, poorly articulated with several statements.

On another note, you observe Rosaria’s face, watching for any signs of a reaction; now though it seemed she had her poker face on.

She’s so close. You think as your eyes observe her pale skin; they remind you of imagery of snow.

Suddenly, she huffs and straightens, crossing her arms against her chest.

You absentmindedly fiddle with the black ring on your right middle finger; you suddenly find the walls more fascinating than your partner in front of you.

“Huh, so from what I can parse from your thought process, you were trying to make an anti-hero story with some lighter…what did you call them?” She furrowed her eyebrows as she struggled to remember. Then she snapped her fingers, bringing your attention back to her. “Tropes. You were going to balance out the edginess with those, yeah?”

“Correct,” you reply in a tone lighter than you’d use. You clear your throat and stare at the floor in concentration.  “Anything else? That you’ve observed, I mean. You know how much I value your opinion.”

Rosaria opens her mouth, only to squint at you a moment later.

“What? Is there something on my face?”

“Are you alright? Your face looks flushed.” She takes a second to observe you before placing a hand on your neck. She feels warm for someone whose usual temperature is cool. Then again, she did sleep in a sweater. “You’re awfully cold. Did you go outside?”

“I took a slight walk outside the apartment earlier.”

“ Did you remember to wear a jacket?”

“My-” You bite your lip when you realize all you wore was a beanie; your long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants covered your limbs enough that you thought it was valid enough to go outside, jacket be damned. “No.”

Rosaria clicks her tongue in disapproval and you cringe under her disappointment. Before you can say anything, she speaks again.

“When did you go to sleep last night?”

“Midnight,” you reply easily. 

Rosaria closes her eyes. You assume she’s thinking of what to do next seeing as how she’s muttering to herself.

“You need to lie down. Come with me.”

“But, my story-?”

“Can wait. I’m not going to let the consequences of your idiotic decision to go outside rear its ugly head soon,” she commands in a tone that was both frustrated and intensely worried. Her stare is enough to send a shiver down your spine.“So. Rest. Now.”

With that she grabs your wrist and pulls you out of your chair with enough strength to surprise you. Guiding you to your shared room is the last thing you expect, surely it’d make more sense to-

Your train of thought is interrupted when she pushes you onto the bed and covers you with the blanket before she climbs in and wraps her arms and legs around your frame.

You only now notice how…warm the room is; she must have turned the thermostat up when she got home.

It didn’t take that long for a sense of coziness to attach itself to you. You yawn and rest your chin on top of her chest; you look up to find Rosaria peering down at you. 

“Better?” she asks in a softer tone.

“Mhmm,” you nod slightly.

“Hm.” She places a hand on the back of your head and gently rubs. You wrap your own arms around her and draw yourself closer until your nose is buried in her chest. Rosaria lowers her mouth to your ear and breathes a hot puff of air. “Cuddle slut.”

You make a weak sound of protest and hide your face in between her breasts, too shy and sleepy to properly respond. You feel her chest vibrate as she chuckles at your expense and she rubs your back in a circle with one hand and holds your thigh with the other.

You listen to her heartbeat, the comforting thump-thump slowly lulling you to sleep until you fall unconscious.

[rahnbadeaux]

Bonding Time

His new schedule was... new. To put it nicely.

In truth? He hated it.

Originally he had spent the mornings and afternoons working with their knight: shifting through paperwork, attending meetings, even going to meetings himself to lessen Aerulian's work load. And he liked that. He got to spend time with his husband, bond over the elezen's culture and peoples, ask questions and be asked in return.

The only problem was, he couldn't do the same with Bram and Xynal. It wasn't a time thing, despite everyone else jumping to that conclusion, it was just - with Aerulian he had topics to discuss. Shared and not. With his other husbands... he felt as if he didn't. And it made him upset.

Which, in turn had his husbands plan to see what they could do to cheer him up, hence the new schedule:

Either the mornings or afternoons were spent with Rulian as he usually did. The other half, he spent with either Xynal or Bram. And while he welcomed the extra time to spend with them, loved it even, he hated the long silences and patches of nothing where he struggled to even speak to either of him.

Of the two, Bram was the easier. Not because the man couldn't talk, but because he seemed to be so full of joyous life that Rahn couldn't help but smile. Bram would take him shopping, as was his wont, but in doing so there was much joy to be had - plenty of the shop keeps, especially the smaller ones with more handmade products were both friendly and informative. And Bram himself was more than happy to feed into Rahn's curiousity no matter what it was (from history of designs to even meanings of certain jewels and flowers). It wasn't enough to make Rahn truly satisfied, he felt he was still floundering with what he could do, but Bram masked it well enough that it soothed him.

Xynal by contrast he wonders if they have anything in common. He loved to read. And it wasn't that Xynal didn't; he did. Twas just, Xyn yet struggled to read. And all the titles that Rahn would have loved to gush and tell him, the man had yet to finish a chapter in one book and he wouldn't dare spoil it for him. Xyn's magic and knowledge extended primarily into the healing arts. Which left little room for theorycrafting if any at all, and he usually directed Rahn to Bram for such things.

For personal interests? Xyn loved to cook, and while Rahn gained great satisfaction in making his own meals when he felt brave enough to do so, it was no where near to the joy that Xynal had, and certainly not enough for them to bond over. The silences between them drove him mad, yet seemed to contend Xynal well enough.

It had put a significant drop to his mood that he had done his best to hide, even now when he kisses Rulian good day when they split to meet with their others.

Xynal seemed nonethewiser. As usual, he asks how the meetings went, if any paperwork was meant for the Firmament that he could ferry. About how Rahn's day was, if there was anything notable about the meetings or peoples. So deep into his thoughts, it was little wonder that he stared at Xyn flabbergasted when the Duskwight asked, "Are you ready for your surprise?"

Rahn could barely stammer a "what"? Before Xyn grasped his hand and Teleported. When the spell cleared they were in Gridania and the miqo’te had little time to wonder why before Xyn started gently dragging him along.

From the Aetheryte it wasn't long til they reached their destination: "The... Carpentry Guild?" He looks up to Xyn in confusion.

The Duskwight nods. "There’s an open workshop today that I thought you might enjoy."

The miqo’te deflates. "I am not good at-"

"You said the same with cooking, and I'll tell you the same now - I'll help you." He blinks and looks up at the taller man. "What? I know how to carve. I had to make my own staves."

Rahn pauses. He doesn't want... but maybe it wouldn't... He nods though, because should he say the word, Xyn would find them something else to do, respecting the man’s decision.

So they go in and find a spot to themselves. There are already tools and wood laid out for them to use. "What would you like to make?" Xyn asks gently.

The first thing that sprang to Rahn's mind was perhaps a wooden toy. He decides not to voice it. He knows Xyn would happily help him, but he wants to make something himself with as little aid as possible. He stares at the wood and thinks of Aerulian and Bram and what he could make for them. And the idea comes to him: "A jewelry box."

It was simple and easy to make. No need to over embellish the design, though he's sure they can paint or stain it that way. Xyn doesn't do much more than hum and they get started.

Rahn appreciates that his husband lets him wield the tools doing naught more than directing with his voice and adjusting his hands to make things easier to shape as he desired.

It came out crooked but smooth. And before he could get disheartened, Xynal was quick to use it as a base to make a straighter cut, guiding his hands gently so he could also make the cut. With the first part done now, they worked on the other ones and bit by bit they attached them together in a neat little box. Smaller than what Rahn wanted, but still whole.

"There. What do you think?" Xyn asks.

"Tis... a bit small and bland... we... could stain it o-or paint?"

"If you'd like. I think it's pretty. Who's it for?"

"Bram," Rahn says warmly. "They don't have a purple I think."

"We have some at home."

While Rahn couldn't say he cared for the activity over much he still wanted to be with his elezen. Having the man’s hands on his, warm and gentle. Working on a project together... he liked that very much. ...Perhaps there was some merit to the workshop.

Xynal must've seen him droop a bit. "We are not going home yet. In fact we may have time for another project if you would like to continue?"

It was tempting. But if Xynal said they weren't going home yet... "What did you have in mind?"

He sees the elezen smile. "Nothing other than this, but I'm sure we can find a few interesting things. Are you hungry? Shall we get something to eat?"

He shakes his head. "I am not hungry quite yet... Is... what did you do when you were here?"

They carefully put their hand made box away and Xynal showed him. There were a few performances in the Amphitheatre. Several musicians and a play - a small one for children.

Afterwards they went to the Canopy and shared an eel pie as Xynal shared with him what it was like the first him he came here as an archer and again as a new conjurer.

From there they visited a few places around the Shroud and went to what few festivals though many of them were unremarkable. Rahn liked it anyroad. Twas insight into his husband's past life that he gets to see first hand.

When done, the sun was starting to set and the miqo'te thought they may head home then. Xynal surprises him by calling to Celestelle, his draught chocobo who seems to never be too far from the elezen, and takes him deeper into the Shroud, places the Wailers and Adders advise people to stay way from.

It was here, deep in the wood darkened by a thick forest canopy but brightly colored with various plants of biolumessence that they stop by and sit.

It was quiet for a moment. Rahn, however couldn't help it. He asked questions.

Xynal didn't mind. He answered as many as he could and even unprompted gave his thoughts and stories.

When they finally returned home, Rahn was carried in thin, but strong arms, curled in his coat and thick blanket, purring up a storm.

[asterjennifer]

Mystictober 2022 | Day 8 - Favorite Antagonist

Summary: What's her fault? How far did it reach to claim her as the bad guy?

She's debating it all with herself.

─────◇◇◇★◇◇◇─────

There's only one thing to evolve around. She couldn't let herself be seen in any critical situation if she'd like to keep her people calm and above all; obedient. Or at least that's what outsider would phrase it like.

Sometimes she sat on the chair in her room, trying to brush the static out of her bright blonde hair which never seemed to find their satisfaction as the curls did whatever they wanted. In such rare occasions she's nobody but a woman dealing with everyday life struggles.

It's almost smoothing; to think she's not very much different from the other woman all around the world. She's just harder in her assertiveness, not that she's blaming the fears of others who weren't able to cope the same way she did.

Eventually everyone endured their breaking point to move onward into disdainfully methods. Or what's classified as such by hypnotical social rules, it made her blood boil whenever she thought about their double standards.

It's outrageous, to say at least. If there's anything for her to predict in absurd anticipation; then it's the fall of the outside system by how self-centered everyone acted without considering both the environment and their fellow human beings.

Whose world was it? The one of the narcissist, the survives or the entire ecosystem? Asking that question alone sounded ridiculous, it reciprocated with arrogance most of the time. The worst.

She sighed as she leaned closer into the mirror; trying to get her appearance done the way everyone's used to, she despised the red eyes coming to life only because she couldn't help the tears earlier. It's a hideous sight for herself, yet she had no intentions cleaning it all up.

People perhaps weren't allowed to acknowledge she's weak or heaven forbidden, even weaker than the rest, but she had nothing left for covering the humanity inside her veins. A God might not cry; she's just not that. She's a Savior and although they're better than the rest of the world, she felt they are still human.

It's beyond understanding of most what exactly she's supposed to represent, considering whenever she asked someone to specify it, they called her the Savior.

Not wrong in theory; but going further to explain what exactly that meant for her power and entire being, it's often disappointing getting a confused stare in return. She's not judging because there were days she couldn't tell herself.

A longing desire to be perfect's what made others see her as whatever they lacked and if she'd been honest; at times it's better not knowing what that missing piece might be.

She simply accepted to make them feel more secure in this horrible world, there's no need prying and come across as repelled when trying to archive the opposite result. All she had to do was keeping the mask alive.

Having her wonder who the villain was at the end of the day. She, for her extreme routines of scaring the loved into happiness or the outside world for pushing her, much like all the other, over the edge to go that far in the first place.

The knock at her door didn't surprise her in the slightest. “Enter, Saeran.”

After the door's pushed silently, her faithful Believer found her green eyes in the reflection of the mirror. He looked drained; tired due to the never ending hours of work. Regardless, he bowed in his polite manner while his rough voice filled the room.

“My Savior,” She could tell he took elixir moments ago. “The report for the last week is finished up. The other Believers are waiting in the hall.”

It strung in her chest for about a millisecond before she responded with a little smile. “Thank you, Saeran. I will be present in two minutes, go and tell them.” With that, he nodded.

She watched him leaving and found her own eyes in the mirror again. Something about him had changed over their years together; although she must've changed in some sense too. Even if she couldn't tell in which.

Either way, her people needed her guidance. She stood up and put the mask onto her face to complete the look. A little bit of privacy's like closure in such moments.

Therefore she put it right with one last gaze into the mirror. Her old friends would presumably believe she's in the wrong by how well she knew them. It's another world and with that; a piece of the past. She didn't have to think about their thoughts, as she had to focus on thousand others.

In here she's the Savior and one day she would prove she wasn't wrong; that the world was the true antagonist of every story in existence.

[slowd1ving]

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ v.

BLIGHT (ZERUEL)

"I wonder why, Why you would deface me yet won't free me from your gaze, The blade you eat from cuts me deep inside and pulls my skin away, Dreadful blight Forms inside." wc: 5.3k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

Blessed are those who take for themselves . 

“Mr Brando, could you make a comment on your recent Ascot victory?” 

Scum . This vile, pretentious crowd of nobles and their idiotic sycophants were no better than the dwellers of London’s festering underbelly – even when they pretended they were on a completely different plane of existence. As above, so below ; humans really were the same, no matter if they were a rotten stable-hand in the wretched abyss of the countryside or some putrescent Earl in the highest rings of the city. 

Diego Brando flashed a winning smile at the crowd of reporters – just a hint of teeth, and the intense gaze that the gazettes simply adored . Because, in the end, all walks of life would spill into a writhing flock of homunculi in the palm of his greedy hand; he simply had to bide his time. In the end, he would be at the top: world at his fingertips, humanity under his leather riding boots. Yes, he had everything to smile about. 

Nobody would ever look down at him again. 

“Well, I can’t say it was particularly difficult,” the arrogant drawl rolled off his tongue; angry or adoring, no one could deny his attitude provoked attention . With each victory, he could afford to look more conceited – and they adored him for it. Those same inbred fucks had once despised the very ground he stood on; now, they were practically eating out of his hand for mere crumbs of his exploits. And with a vengeful satisfaction, he revelled in it. 

After all, he left those spoiled lordling bastards in the dust – over and over and over – until the upper echelons of society were forced to acknowledge him as better than their sons and friends. None of them had grappled for a name like he had; none of them had even a scrap of the same raw determination that had fueled him to train until his very bones wept in agony. No, they had never known the clawing despair that pierced him over and over – until all that was left of him was a whisper of his name and nothing else. 

They would come to know suffering, just as fiercely as he had; at the top, he could bleed them all dry and discard them as he pleased. He’d topple all who caused his grief – with his father at the very top of that list. With his own hands, he’d bring blight on that man, until Dario was only a disgusting, snivelling carcass beneath his heel.

“Mr Diego Brando! What would you say to all the aspiring jockeys who look up to you?” This enthusiastic question came from a wide-eyed reporter – who, try as he might – really couldn’t mask the inexperience that oozed from his shaky voice. Perfect .  Those were always the ones that would sing his praises in their articles; they had no real connections to speak of, and clung to their job with an urgency that amused him greatly. What better way to get into his good graces than by joining the sycophants?

“Stay true to yourself,” he lied evenly. It was an easy feat to tailor his smile to appear more benevolent; through the slight squint of his eyes, and his concealed teeth, he could appear more genuine with minimal effort. Every time, the undercurrent of altruism towards his fans just made people want more and more from him. “I think that no matter your circumstances, passion is something to be followed – work hard and you can surely achieve great things.”

Passion . 

That was the final garnish to his performance. Who cared if Diego Brando was sometimes arrogant in his responses? Those banal platitudes spewing from his lips were always a highlight for the hive of reporters that followed him around – the ‘self-made stablehand that encouraged others to follow their dreams’. The genius jockey that rose from poverty . 

Of course, there were those who looked at him through narrowed eyes. He could spot one or two in the crowd surrounding him: flat mouths tapered off with disgust, brows levelled with exasperation. There would always be those who read between his truism – work hard and you can surely achieve great things . They were the ones who picked up the insult towards his competitors that he beat time and time again – you’ve never worked like I have . But frankly, he couldn’t care less; there was nothing they could do about it without looking like half-wits reading too much into something. 

“I think that’s really inspiring, Mr Brando,” that bright-eyed reporter was looking awfully emotional; was it due to Diego looking straight at him as he spouted his inanities? What a hopeless sap . He looked away from those glassy eyes with no small amount of satisfaction. 

“You’re joining the Steel Ball Run, right?” 

He paused. It was uncommon for reporters to address him without any honorific; after scouring the crowd, he finally saw the reporter that had just spoken. Beady eyes, a long face, and some distasteful blue outfit that belonged two decades in the past. How gaudy . More importantly, this woman was one of the reporters that had only disgust in their eyes. Revulsion, and a hint of ambition – this reporter was asking the big questions that led to big stories. 

“What’s your name, miss?” Diego mirrored the condescending tone of her question, yet with enough leeway that it wouldn’t look like it to anyone but her. 

“Judith Elton, London Evening Standard ,” her polite tone bordered on derision. Fine . Two could play at that game. Whatever heartfelt emotions that previously dripped from his visage were replaced with subtle contempt. “Please answer the question.”

“I don’t plan on joining the Steel Ball Run,” he began, letting the jostling of reporters begging for an answer crescendo into a spiralling cacophony of voices and scribbling. Now that he scrutinised Elton more carefully, she was still just a novice : desperate for a story, desperate for a name . This was probably her first time working at an event like this, where nobility and journalists mingled in one, clamouring cesspit. 

“I plan on crushing the competition – then taking home the gold,” he finished with a roguish smile. That mocking voice only riled up the reporters further, until they were a huge, cresting wave about to swallow him whole. 

“Mr Brando! How do you plan to win against world renowned Urmd Abdul?”

“Mr Diego Brando! Are you planning to compete on Silver Bullet?”

“Sir, whatever will you do with the prize money if you win?”

“ Will you take the gold just like you took that old widow’s fortune ?”

He barely heard it over the tumultuous tide ebbing and flowing around him, but it was there nonetheless. Diego locked eyes with Elton, and he could see the hint of victory tracing her sclera and lining that sneer – just until the gathering journalists were ushered out by some very insistent valets. 

“I’m sorry, sir, that the journalists got out of control,” one apologised, bowing deeply to the contemplative Diego. “The Baron extends his apologies.”

“No need,” he replied magnanimously. In the grasp of his crisp white gloves, the pressure on the crystal champagne flute’s neck increased minutely. As much as he was loath to admit it, there was nothing that he could think of as a response to that question. She had won at that moment, but he’d make sure her reputation steadily crumbled – until her very name was muttered as a warning. His gloves would remain pristine, of course; not a single red string would ever connect him to her downfall. “No harm was done.” 

Diego downed the ludicrously expensive champagne. 

It was truly a pity. Some people never realised the virtue of minding their own business – while some learnt it far too late. What a valuable lesson , and here he was, giving them out for free. Can’t be helped . There always had to be an example. 

Glistening chandeliers cast pristine diamonds of light on the marbled floor. Beneath the glow, Diego knew he was resplendent; Baron Menini’s so-called ‘gatherings’ were always the place he stood out most to the fools of the upper classes. Simply put, he was alluring : hair shining like gold, a bejewelled turquoise jacket, and black riding boots that were polished until he could see his very reflection within the depths. He played his part, and he played it well – there was nobody who could criticise his ramrod straight posture, or the elegant curl of his fingers resting on his hip. Diego Brando more than belonged at the pinnacle of society. 

“Baron Menini, the man of the hour!” Diego greeted the approaching baron with a warm smile and open arms. It was all in the details; be overly enthusiastic and Menini would be too put off to even talk to you, but be distant and you wouldn’t even see the next party. He could do details – Menini, after all, was one of the best rungs of the ladder to the top. The man had connections , and through him, Diego could form his own network. 

“Brando – I trust you’re enjoying yourself, lad,” Menini’s eyes always had that heavy weight to them; even for Diego, the noble was difficult to talk to, to say the least. Not only did he physically tower over the jockey (which wasn’t a particularly strenuous feat, but that was besides the point), the man spoke with such a serious tone that put a damper on even the most jovial of conversations.  

“You always throw the best events, how could I not?” The rhetorical question held just enough flattery that it could be considered a part of the danger zone – yet the flippant tone and casual wave of his champagne flute assured that it was nothing more than a nonchalant fact . Yes, Diego Brando was a master at the long game. Especially with men that had too many ulterior motives up their sleeves. “But I assume you’re not here to exchange pleasantries?”

“Glad you caught on, son,” Menini gave him a withering smile – which might’ve been that scarred face’s attempt at a genuine one (but he couldn’t be certain). He clapped a large hand on the jockey’s shoulder, but Diego would never be fooled by this affectionate farce. No, Menini was a bloodthirsty man who wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of him should Diego’s name suddenly spell out ‘danger’. “Mingle with the guests for a bit, then join me in the drawing room in a half-hour.”

As the baron walked off, Diego stared at the back of his elaborate dinner jacket. No, there wasn’t a red target slowly emerging yet – but the time would definitely come. And when it did, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of the man either. 

Blessed are those who influence others .

“Diego – I’m such a huge admirer of yours!” 

From behind, he could hear the faint rustling of expensive fabric – and was that a fan fluttering in the corners of his vision? He spun on his heel: cautiously, elegantly , until all that he could see was canary yellow silks and plumes of off-white feathers. Perched on the noble lady’s coils of hair was a tightly pinned hat, one that still managed to teeter precariously on her head. She held out her satin-covered hand expectantly. Yes , this was good. 

“With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Diego kept his voice cordial, yet allowed the burrs of a cruder accent to tinge his question. The lady tittered behind the fan as he kissed her hand smoothly; only her eyes peeked out amidst the mercurial powder coating her skin. He stifled a grimace at the cloying poison – ultimately, he’d take whatever resource came his way, and it was even better if it came willingly. He’d smile all the while. 

“Millicent of the Bismarck family,” she replied breathily. Lady Millicent von Bismarck ? He eyed her with a touch of wariness, comparing the set of her features to the ones he had seen in the papers announcing her engagement to one vapid little Marquess Hirsch. Oh, this was positively brilliant – if this went well, he’d have a potential marchioness under his thumb (and that was a whole lot closer to the top than Menini was). 

“Your portraits do you no justice, Lady von Bismarck,” he tested the waters; it was no hard feat to cast a rougher cadence across his statement. Rich ladies treated him like some commodity – a jockey born from poverty, who managed to wrest victory for himself. Who wouldn’t be touched by such a tragic story? Diego had an eye for the particularly philanthropic, naive nobles who sought to establish their moral superiority over their peers, or those who wanted to feel like a benefactor from a Dickens novel; Lady Millicent was no exception. If she wanted to play that part, he could play his assigned role too. 

“You flatter me too much, Diego,” she murmured, peering at him from under her lashes. Perfect . No, maybe she didn’t just want to give him charity – with such an insipid fiancé like Hirsch, what romantic would ever be satisfied? Surely, it was better to feel that whirlwind of passion with someone like Diego: the enigma, the genius on the track, the one who regularly triumphed in a haze of dust and cheers. “Is there any way to discuss your fascinating exploits further?”

Rich people would never be satisfied. But that was fine with Diego. The most insatiable of them always had the most to give him – be it hush money or hush services . No, blood would never taint his pristine gloves.

She leaned in a touch closer than what was socially appropriate, but this corner of the party was secluded enough that nobody saw. Perfume and wealth practically oozed from her. “Without a chaperone, of course.”

“Oh? How scandalous ,” Diego commented with a canted head. For this was what nobles lived and breathed – the pushing of boundaries and finding out just what they could get away with if they had the funds. A night with some famed jockey was scandalous, but it was exciting , as was the evasion of consequence. When that old widow had died, he had felt that same high: just as Lady von Bismarck did now. 

Once she had her fun, he’d reap the rewards.

“You haven’t said no yet,” she tilted her head in an imperfect mirror of him. To her, he was nothing more than a plaything – utterly malleable and desperate for attention. Perfect . Nobles never failed to amaze him with their lacklustre intelligence – ‘ you won’t ever turn this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get in my pants, will you ?’. Forget a quick fuck, these nobles acted like they were doing him a favour in the process. Well, if he was being technical, they were – they just didn’t quite know it yet. 

“No, I haven’t,” he agreed. Heaviness forced his eyelids down, until he was gazing at her with what could only be considered a sultry glance. If it mingled with the exhaustion from the earlier triumph at the Ascot, she’d be none the wiser. “What would you say if it were at dinner tomorrow? I long for your company before I depart for America.”

Hook, line and sinker . He’d be her Darcy, or her Heathcliff – or whoever else she fancied him as. In return, he’d gain his most valuable connection yet. Well, the most valuable since that Dowager Duchess died and left him everything . No noble had ever come quite close being bled out of that much wealth. 

“Of course,” she breathed. Her mouth closed, and she swallowed before continuing. Didn’t expect to get this far ? “Tomorrow, then.” 

“Tomorrow,” he assented, pressing another kiss to her knuckles. Against his venomous lips, the satin of her gloves felt disgustingly oily. 

Blessed are those who stand at the top . 

. 　⁺ ✦

Thick clouds of smoke billowed out from Menini’s mouth as he took a long drag from his pipe. Cigars were all the rage amongst the Barons and their ilk nowadays, but that geriatric alligator would never bow down to modern conventions. Pity , Diego observed idly. Maybe his wife wouldn’t have left him had he actually taken his daughter to these newfangled doctors .

The assorted sconces mounted on the walls made all the dark furniture look more imposing than it would be in the daylight, but he settled into the leather armchair in a picture of utmost assurance. Menini hated many things: flimsy boots, weak liquor, and weakness . The old fuck was like a circling shark – ready to strike if Diego’s throat looked a bit too appetising. 

“So,” he levelled the baron with a stare as he took a swig from his brandy glass; the burnt caramel aroma was something to savour , and the irritated clench of Menini’s jaw was also something to enjoy profoundly. Subtle cinnamon washed over his tongue and warmed him into a summery stupor that felt appropriate for the beginning of the season. It was a pity, really; other than his connections, Menini only had his booze collection going for him. Was that a hint of truffle he could taste? 

You’re just like Dario . 

He scowled then, until his features were contorted into a foul mask of his displeasure. 

“You want your payment, don’t you?” 

Menini took another long drag of the pipe as Diego asked. Those grey eyes never left his movements; their weight was exceptionally heavy when one was alone with the man. The silence was an invitation – go on . 

“I need to be sure that no one – especially none of Scotland Yard – comes sniffing around when I transfer the funds,” he insisted. Because of course the man wouldn’t accept gold or jewels; it just had to be an archaic cheque and trip to the bank. Of course Menini had to pick the most traceable means of payment. Stupid Menini . This is why your wife left . 

“They won’t,” Menini rolled the wooden tube between two wrinkled fingers. His tone was bored – that familiar, entitled drawl that only deepened Diego’s scowl. “It’s been a year since that old bird died. No one will suspect a thing.” 

“And you’ve already bribed the tellers?” 

“‘Course,” Menini glared at him. Who do you think I am ? “My men are meticulous with the accounts.”

Diego nodded with an almost imperceptible sneer curling his mouth. No, Menini really was too valuable at the moment to get rid of. A terse silence settled over the two of them like a fog of the filthiest grease and smog – it almost rivalled the billowing mire that never let London streets go. 

“And a bonus,” he added after another swig of the cognac. Those wrinkled, bushy brows furrowed over the man’s flinty eyes. He drew out the suspense, until the burn on his tongue subsided and he could taste only phantom bitterness. “I’ll add in your interest and a bonus for a new hit.”

Menini barked a laugh at that, slamming a sledgehammer fist on the table. “After your twittering about not wanting any detectives after you, and now you’ve decided to grow some balls?”

“Do you want me to take my business elsewhere?”

It was an empty threat, but Diego’s poker face was immaculate. Baron Menini was the only one he could trust to get these jobs done; could it even be considered trust? An agreement , where both parties would like nothing more than to be rid of each other – yes, that’s what it was. It was a business partnership, where both parties entered to pursue the mutual hate of the other more efficiently.

“I’ll do it,” Menini cracked the knuckles of his freehand on the desk in idle curiosity. There were only two Diego had ever requested. “What’s the job?” 

“And you haven’t found the man I asked about yet?” Diego interjected. There was no waver in his voice as he asked about Dario; not a hint of consternation showed through his even tone. 

“Ongoing, lad,” Menini waved his pipe in boredom. “You didn’t give us much to work with – Dario, unknown last name, around his late 50s, working class? He’s probably already rotting away in some ditch already – get to the new job before I keel over and choke my last.”

“I wish,” Diego glowered, leaning his elbows on his spread thighs. Contemplatively, he assessed the pending request about to leave his throat. “This job isn’t a hit .”

Before him, Menini gestured impatiently. Get to it . 

“Are you familiar with the name Judith Elton?” Diego continued, keeping his tone conversational. “London Evening Standard?”

The baron’s expression turned into a knowing one. “Did a reporter say something that made you want to cry?” 

“What?” 

“What?” Menini mimicked. God , the man was incredibly infuriating to work with. 

“Can you shut up?” Diego scowled. Exasperatedly, he knocked back the rest of the cognac, then promptly refilled his glass from the crystal decanter on the mahogany desk. Fuck , that geriatric cunt was doing a number on his head. “She was sniffing around the widow, you stupid bastard.”

“Watch it,” Menini scowled back. Almost mirroring his displeasure, tobacco smoke curled through his nostrils like angry plumes emerging from a dragon. Diego glared through the haze clouding his vision. “Don’t forget your place.”

“Anyway,” he thumbed his left temple and took another generous sip of the amber liquid sloshing in his glass. “I need your men to plant some things, frame her, then destroy her reputation so her career plummets down in flames. Keep her alive and healthy so she can watch her life fall apart.”

“That’s quite a generous time-frame you’re not mentioning,” Menini gave him a sardonic grin. “You’ve already decided how much this is worth, haven’t you?”

“Calculated to the very minute,” he replied offhandedly, settling into the buzz that writhed in his veins. “Let her downfall be slow enough that it looks like a series of coincidences that can’t have possibly stemmed from her meeting me.”

“That’s not very calculative, now, is it?” Menini puffed exasperatedly. “Always the liar, Brando, aren’t you?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt in return.  

Blessed are those who hold the world in their palm . 

. 　⁺ ✦

In the dewy mist of dawn, the graveyard wept with a silent stillness that pulsed incessantly through the air. Not a soul stirred, not a corpse groaned in agony, not a bird chirped in this sacred ground – everything was just as it should be. Peaceful . When winter rolled over, snow crunched beneath his boots, and he always developed a cold right after his visits – but it was worth it. He’d visit the graveyard for as long as he lived. 

Each victory brought him back here, to these grass covered mounds covered in wildflowers. All paths lead to Rome – to him, this was the greatest city he could imagine. Weighing down his pockets were pebbles, dutifully collected from whatever racetrack he’d triumphed in. A memento – something that wouldn’t rot away with the ruthless passage of time. 

While others offered candles, or flowers, or even alcohol (his face always twisted into a grimace at the very thought), he brought a fulfilled dream. I’ve done it . 

(“You’re good with horses, Diego – even the most untameable ones that buck and shy away from the other stablehands.”) 

He came to a rolling halt at a marble tombstone. Amidst the forest of unmarked poles and wooden crosses, it was something that stood out dramatically. A delicate frieze was etched in, and his eyes traced the smiling cherubs dotted around the headstone. God , coming here was the most difficult part of each victory – coming here sober , to put it more precisely. 

But no. He couldn’t defile his mother’s final resting place like that; Diego Brando wouldn’t stoop to the level of that putrid swine of a father. 

How long had it been?

Fifteen years ago, her corpse was buried in an unmarked grave just like these. He still remembered it: the brutal crash of rain against his emaciated body, and the stink of rotting flesh not washing away. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her hands as she was lowered into the ground without the luxury of even a coffin – they were still blistered, still septic, still furiously red, as if her body still clinged on to life. 

The sky cried with him that day. 

A decade later, he finally returned to build her a proper grave. No, she wouldn’t have wanted a whole mausoleum, and he didn’t want to move her body after all she had suffered – both at the hands of Dario and those stupid fucks at the stables. 

He crouched down by the stone. The moss slowly creeping into the grooves of the letters were cold as he pried them off with his nails, but he didn’t particularly care. After all she had done for him, this was the least he could do back. Even as cold seeped into the marrow of his bones, even as his nails grew ragged and bloody, he determinedly scraped away at the encrusted name. 

“I won’t be back for a while,” he began, placing the pebbles down on the slab. His eyes searched the patterns and swirls that plumed throughout the stone, as if they’d give him an answer. “I’m going to win the Steel Ball Run in America – the biggest cross-country horse race in history – and I’ll bring you stones all the way from across the ocean.”

With the prize money, I’ll become the Prime Minister of this shithole country , he left out. That was a dream that only came into existence after her death – it would do no good to tell her that. 

Thoughts of his mother were restricted to this limbic space. Here, he wasn’t someone who crushed people beneath his polished boots – he was just her mournful son. She didn’t leave the graveyard; not when her son plotted and stained his hands outside of it. Diego wouldn’t tell her, and she wouldn’t know. She couldn’t know of it. 

Did she?

No , he thought furiously. She was resting here, in that eternal slumber amidst the mist rolling around the grass. There was no way – no way . Her soul had to be at peace up there. On Earth, on this vice-ridden planet, he was free to do what he desired without her scrutiny. 

What would she say ?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, rising from his place in the dew-soaked grass. He backed away – unconsciously repeating his words over and over – until he was past the grove of trees that circled around the dead. 

“ I’m sorry. ”

. 　⁺ ✦

How far are you willing to go ?

As he boarded the luxurious cruiser bound for America, the question echoed in the depths of his mind. It drummed within him – much too mellow to be his own internal monologue. How far is Diego Brando willing to go for his dream ? 

In the privacy of his cabin, he carefully thumbed through the worn leather journal lying on his table; lists and lists of contacts, addresses, and connections – all scrawled on the yellowed parchment in a deep red cipher. Years upon years of ploys and careful alliances: yet here he was, not a step closer to the peak than he had been all those years ago when he first vowed to enact vengeance. 

Even with the curtains drawn to block the blistering sun, Diego could feel the droplets of sweat trickling underneath his collar. The Steel Ball Run was the biggest opportunity yet – he couldn’t possibly fail. He couldn’t . 

Fuck . He tipped his head back with a groan, letting his skull collide with the wooden chair. With closed eyes, he debated whether to send a letter to that old bastard to ask about his men in America. No , Menini would never let him hear the end of it; he’d have to scout his own allies out. Even if it were through dirty means, he’d win the race and take home that money – finally, power would be his. 

World politics would be in the palm of his hand once he found his way into the government: diplomatic immunity, better connections, and access to international influence that he had only brushed with the very tips of his fingers as the world’s most famed jockey. Whatever pedestal he clambered on would be significantly more stable than that of an athlete – just look at that fool, Joestar .  

That brat might’ve become a rival had he possessed the same drive Diego lived and breathed. Stupid nobles . Jojo never had to fight to be recognised – never had to claw his way up from the sludgy underbelly of society, either, like Diego had. He hated them – hated them all . 

The acerbic frustration welling up within him coated his mouth in a bitter dryness that refused to let up, no matter how much he swallowed.

From the first day that he’d been found lying near the woods of the Joestar manor, Jojo had always been a snivelling, snot-nosed coward who idolised his brother and disappointed his father. From that very first day, Diego revelled in the searching looks George Joestar had given his horsemanship – then the angry looks he threw at his own son. 

(“ Why can’t you be more like Diego here? Diego – who knows a thousand more things about horses than you ever will – who has the makings of one of the greatest jockeys I’ve ever seen . God knows the talent wasn’t passed down to you .”)

It was exhilarating. He could see that spoiled noble – only one year younger than him – tear up and shake in suppressed grief. For the first time in Diego’s life, he had influenced an adult to treat him with favour. Diego was better. I was better . 

Yes, that so-called genius he wouldn’t even call his rival. 

They hadn’t been rivals – though the esteemed Joe Kid had certainly attempted to garner such a title, and failed miserably along the way. Diego crushed him under his heel with every race that he entered. How could Joestar win, when Diego spoke the subconscious language of equines like a mother tongue? 

Really, that boy was a fool. 

The only one he could’ve considered a competitor from that wretched house was Nicholas. George was far past his prime, and Jojo was inferior to him in every way. Nicholas, though, had all the makings of a young star: charming, disciplined, and talented . Hopes and dreams of a legacy were pinned on the older boy, until the very magnitude of them made Fate chuckle with a malicious glee. 

Then, in a bout of cruel irony, the accident happened without Diego even having to lift a finger. 

There, surrounded by the billowing dust clouds, stood young Diego on the sandy racetrack: eyes transfixed on the splintered fencing and his ears ringing with the screams of both horse and spectator. It wasn’t immediately clear what was going on, but he could feel the impending panic settling into the crowd before him. 

And he watched. 

It was the particular neutrality one felt when stepping on an ant, or upon hearing news of war breaking in a land so far away it might’ve been another world away entirely. Diego’s face remained impassive – only the slight quirk of his brows betrayed any interest in the scene before him. His eyes traced the murky haze, then to where a small white streak raced out of the fog. A mouse . 

Then, as if by fate, he looked up and met Johnny Joestar's eyes as the boy stared in horror. 

Amongst all the wreckage, there lay the horse. But where was Nicholas ? A bloody jacket, a curled hand mangled beyond recognition, and the carmine seeping into the sanctity of the racetrack – all the signs pointed to one irrevocable fact. Nicholas Joestar, the genius of a jockey – the one who could time his speed without a fraction of a second out of place – lay dead on the filthy track. 

It was ludicrous , it was pathetic ; he could feel manic laughter threatening to spill from his lips. 

A blight upon those who have wronged me . 

Nicholas Joestar – the only noble Diego had considered a threat – had just plummeted back down to Earth in an undignified, convulsing death. An Icarus amongst men ; that impossibility Nicholas created with his birth had just been righted. Catastrophe and calamity, all heralded by Diego’s ominous arrival! 

The wheels were set in motion.

Diego Brando is fated to become the best .

. 　⁺ ✦

[averysexyleon]

Purgatory

(warning, all hurt, all angst, no comfort here) Astarion takes a target to his Master and hopes she will suffice enough for him to avoid punishment. Cazador toys with him.

This is my part of a co-written piece, and yes, it's a crossover. Sharing mostly because I wanted to see more out there of what Astarion went through with Cazador. Content is mildly dark, you've been warned.

The dissociation, the feeling of leaving his body. It crept up his legs as they walked toward the door. Time seemed to slow on those familiar cobblestones, worn down by his shoes, and his shoes by them, for decades now. He knew the number of years. But he could no longer reach that information. Astarion was numb, floating, as dead to the feel of hard stones under his feet as he was dead to the warm flesh beside him. He could still smell. She smelled lovely. Strange. That warm, burning scent.

The numbness threw itself over his shoulders like a cloak, and would have weighed him down had it not been for his own muscle memory. The walk was quite literally practiced. He’d learned it years ago, in the ballroom. Chin up, shoulders back, almost a prance. None of the haughty satisfaction from his smirk made its way to his eyes. Those were cloudy, listless. Somewhere else.

Especially as they approached the castle. It bustled a bit at night, more than it should have; Cazador often hosted soirees at sunset, if only to keep those in the city sensing that life stirred within the palace. All a ruse, just like the ruse of Astarion’s prideful walk, his nice clothing, his serene expression.

She was going to speak; he could sense her inhales. Hear her heartbeat in her chest. There was a sense of questioning as she looked up at the magnificent building, his prison.

He didn’t look at her when she spoke. He couldn’t.

She was food, that was all.

"Are you sure I will not be a bother to your lady wife and children?"

They were on the entry steps. Astarion chuckled in a heady, singsong tone; he could almost have passed for drunk, with his giggle, and the sway with which he walked. Perhaps it was the severe numbness that caused him to be too honest.

“A wife! Children! Those dreams are long dead to me.”

Were they ever, had they ever been, dreams of his? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.

In this state, he was liable to forget everything; where he was going, what he was doing. Again it was muscle memory and probably some servitude-coded response to Cazador’s commands, that stirred him forward.

He also knew what would await them in the lower chamber; he needed a name from her. “By the way,” he said, hiding his regret with an airy nod, “My name’s Astarion. And you are?”

Nettles? Nettles, Nettles. What a strange name. Perhaps it wasn’t a real name. He didn’t deserve to get a real name, after all. He couldn’t comment on it; he couldn’t risk any type of connection now. He simply needed the name as a formality; like everything else he said, did, felt, was….it was to avoid pain and punishment.

As a pair, they strode into the main ballroom floor–the castle’s main entry. Her eyes likely wandered over the wonder that was the grand castle; he didn’t know. His gaze was fixed, trancelike, on a vast nothing in front of him. Detached completely from this room. This plane.

Not that he would blame anyone for staring in awe; it truly was a magnificent structure, with expansive murals, immaculately hand-carved wooden trim, and marble polished so clear it cast reflective shadows. Every inch of the room was decorated for the season. Part of these decorations–the fixtures, the candles, the bouquets, the sculptures–were his job to set up, to arrange. Part of the art of the lure. Part of a vampire den. There was in fact a little party going on tonight after all; he could scent the mortals and the other undead, who masked their own scents amid the huge, sweet-smelling flower arrangements he worked so hard over each week.

This event was nothing to take note of or write home about; several noble families found themselves frequent guests of the Szarr family, and they were none the wiser of its patriarch’s condition. Perhaps they would get fed on and returned, but more likely not–they were put under spelled, used to gather information. Usually Cazador did not show himself at events, save for the masquerade balls.

Ugh. Astarion hated those. He was happy to slide past the few bodies and their murmur of conversation. To drift by the unsettlingly-echoing chamber music playing from the quartet nearby, and past the dinner and drink tables set out for human guests. He couldn’t smell what little teasing they offered; that was probably a blessing. The spawn were not allowed anything from the Master’s kitchen. Taverns and the spare city event after nightfall were his only opportunities to taste the drink of the living, and it all tasted rancid anyway.

“It’s…not much further,” he said apologetically, as they moved into a longer hallway adjacent to the ballroom. Down a marbled flight of stairs; he peered into this change of landscape, realizing he could see the silky reflection of a candelabra on the landing, as if it floated in a portal down there. Could others see him for what he was, he wondered, see that he didn’t cast a shadow, not even a hint of one, on the floor?

No one ever had. Or if they noticed, it went unmentioned.

At their descent, he gestured toward the large door in this quiet, barren and almost sterile area. It was everything the warm, inviting hall upstairs was not. It wasn’t used for its original purpose–true sleeping quarters–it was more of…an area of holding. Storage.

Purgatory.

Behind the door, an empty room, with empty intentions. Impeccably cleaned by human servants, little more than thralls themselves. This was the room where Cazador’s victims were led. Sometimes they were kept here, and there was a cage against one wall for those brought while the Master was away, but more likely, Cazador met them directly. Assessed them. Taunted them, perhaps–taunted or praised the retrieving spawn, as well. Here were punishments for deemed-poor retrievals dished out. Here were the very unusual rewards given.

If all went well, and he hoped it would, he would simply be forced to choose between a slap in the face or a rotten rat, and he could return to his own kennel more or less unscathed. Cazador rarely punished or praised his spawn in front of their catches–he had to keep the living charmed, to keep them quiet, after all. More involved behavior warranted a more private area. Which, unfortunately, Astarion had also guested several times. He wouldn’t hope for that tonight.

In truth, most dinners didn’t stay here for very long; Cazador would lead them away wherever it was that he led them, and they would be disposed of by someone else, somewhere else. Somehow.

Astarion was luckily spared that gruesome knowledge; he wasn’t certain why, but he had no desire to ask. He had enough to deal with.

Two of his fellow spawn had gone ahead of him, they were there, in this room of Waiting. Past the large door, which was slightly ajar, he could hear them groveling, muttering pleas of some sort. Probably begging, or thanking, the Master Vampire as he spoke in his harsh, shrewd tone. Astarion’s blanket of numb felt like prickling pins against his back when he heard that voice. As haughty as full of power as Astarion pretended to be. Cruel, heartless. Inhumane. A monster.

Astarion sensed, rather than saw, that the others had brought victims. He could smell them, and feel the throb of their heartbeats through the door. It was a fruitful night for the spawn, then. Perhaps he could have a break tomorrow, a rest. He could hope.

“And what do we have here?” the shrill voice didn’t change in its coldness, its hatred, but he swore Cazador perked up slightly when he pulled the door toward him, Nettles still holding onto his other, offered arm. His two siblings were cowering, ducked in a corner of the room. Their prey were already charmed; a young man and a middle-aged woman stood, eyes glowing, unmoving, nearby. Cazador turned from them, but their gazes did not part from his as his eyes landed on Astarion. They glowed, not from hunger, but from power.

“The young troublemaker returns. And he has brought a guest!” Cazador clicked his tongue. “My goodness boy, are we learning manners after all these years?”

His voice swayed, his tone thick with some noble-bred pretense. It was a tone that Astarion imitated when he was hunting, but not for want. For necessity. Truly, it sickened him in his core, the dismissive way that the elder danced around his own disgusting cruelty. “Have I taught you properly? Will you introduce us?”

He wanted to scream as the mask of numbness slipped from his face; Astarion’s narrowed eyes grew rounded, his eyebrows arching and threading together in the middle with worry and pain. He wanted to look her in the eye, tell her he was sorry. Scream at her to run, perhaps.

No, though. He had to stay stoic, he had to simply do what was asked and leave. He couldn’t lose composure at the end of all this, the end of yet another miserable night. Cazador’s smile was callous; he watched the elf’s face fall, and he anticipated some show of emotion. Now was the time when Astarion could earn himself another beating, or get out of it with simple words and a careless visage.

He was holding her tightly. In fact, he was probably digging nails into the soft flesh of her arm, so great was his fear. He didn’t know–it was all so far away to him. His other arm came out, his slender fingers dancing across the patterns that the moonlight made as it cascaded through the stained glass window. His open-hand gesture swept toward Cazador.

“Of course,” his tone was full of unease, his smile as temporary as moonbeams, “I present to you, the Master of his House, Lord Cazador Szarr.” The Vampire’s sweeping bow would have seemed charismatic–he certainly liked his theatrics. Astarion’s gaze was back on her, now, and he was filled with sorrow, suddenly, as their eyes met, and he knew his gaze gave everything away. He’d faltered, stumbled somehow, his mask was gone, and he knew that she could see the fear and pain on his face.

“This is….Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Cazador almost looked delighted; he let his eyes glow brighter for a moment, and then came his beckoning hand. “Nettles, what a strange unorthodox name, for a strange unorthodox girl. You smell of sweat and sea,” now Cazador’s eyes burned, and the form next to Astarion stiffened. With something of relief, he let her go, his shoulders sagging. He wanted to pick back up the cloak of dissociation, to leave his body once more, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead the pale elf closed his eyes, letting the false confidence slip away; he was barely standing, little better than his groveling siblings with his stooped posture.

Cazador was in charge now. His power, his strange trance-like magic, made the air crackle, as if filled with electricity. Perhaps it was. The other mortals in the room squirmed, and sighed, as if delighted; they probably were. Vampires were by their nature, very alluring.

But the sensation was just knives to Astarion. Settling over his veins, pressing close. Never giving release, simply growing in pressure. The Vampire’s hand reached out further, beckoning, and she slowly left her place at the spawn’s side as Cazador continued to speak. He was sniffing, feeling, anticipating. He was judging.

“But there’s more, isn’t there? You’ve been near a dragon. I can smell it on you.”

Astarion’s gaze lifted sharply–a WHAT? He remained guarded, his face a porcelain mask, as his Master continued to speak. “Yes…interesting. And you’ve been riding it. I can see it in your mind now. How curious. Yet you don’t have the burning mark of a devil’s hand over your soul. How did you come to mount such a steed?”

If she thought to answer, it never came; she was at his side, and he put up a finger to silence her. For a moment, Cazador studied her in a way he so often studied mortals, and Astarion swallowed nervously. His gaze moved over every inch of her, drinking her in. The spawn never knew how to read the vampire, never knew whether to expect the calm hand or the whip. To be fair, he hated both. He hated the loving, doting actions from his master just as he hated the punishments. Any touch was disgusting, any touch wasn’t wanted.

But he had to endure.

Thou shalt know that thou art MINE

“Astarion, perhaps you have learned some taste in my servitude.”

His shoulders picked up slightly; true, Cazador loved beautiful creatures. He would be pleased at the woman’s beauty.

“But that scar….tsk,” a slight shake of his head, and Astarion’s stomach dropped into a pit. He hadn’t even noticed she had a scar. She was beautiful all the same, and perhaps he just…didn’t look too much into it. His eyes closed in silent regret. Not simply that he didn’t notice the scar. Regret at everything. His entire pact with his master.

Cazador looked almost curious, studious as he slowly circled his night’s meal. He smelled the woman’s neck, then extended his charm to her limbs; with one wave of his hand, her dark-skinned arm rose in the moonlight, as if beckoning the pale elf.

He stared at the hand, mentally preparing himself. Astarion knew what was coming his way, but still didn’t know if Cazador was pleased or not. He actually seemed rather confused by the woman. His gaze peered at her so fiercely that it looked uncomfortable. The fingers that were raised flexed. Again, in Astarion’s direction. His submissive gaze grew uncomfortable; he blinked rapidly.

Was she…resisting him? Fighting his influence? It happened now and then, over the years, but usually not until blood had been drawn.

“Come here, boy.”

He obeyed, so quickly he almost looked giddy to answer the call.

“Make the cut.”

“W…what?” His voice was small in the empty room, and it echoed full of his breath. So different than the one whose confidence he pantomimed.

“Make. The. Cut. You’ve got a dagger, don’t you? One you so long to use on me, as if it would harm me in the slightest.” Cazador was smiling. The vampire was teasing him, trying to break him down, and it wouldn’t work. Astarion licked his lips, and fished the dagger from his pocket, his eyes still stonily aimed at the floor. His gaze flickered to her arm. It had been so warm and soft.

It would be over soon for her, he repeated in his mind.

Astarion couldn’t even choke out an affirmative; he simply obeyed, wanting this to be over fast. He knew what was to come after this demeaning task. Cazador would extend an offer to share the woman’s blood, and he was damned no matter his answer.

So it seemed his Master wasn’t too busy with his meals to terrorize Astarion after all. Why was it that way? Always. It always had been. Even now, two of his terrified siblings clung to the wall and each other, watching the punishment instead of receiving it. They were weeping, if vampires could weep, but the whimpers only spurred Cazador forward. Likely, Astarion’s arrival had interrupted their own punishment. In a twisted, sick way, he was their savior tonight.

He made the cut, grinding his teeth as he felt the blade sink into flesh, and then with a flourish, he pulled it away, leaving droplets to cascade toward the ground. Blood pooled into the space created by the blade; it dribbled from her forearm. Gods, it smelled so good, so sweet. He would smell the blade later, when he was alone; he returned it to his pocket.

His eyes closed in something not unlike ecstasy, although Astarion would never know the taste that he currently craved. Abruptly, after the scent of blood was upon his body, his head spun from hunger and his lips tingled; the numbness was returning. Oh, thank someone. Finally. His body was prepared for the beating to come; he was being taken somewhere else. He could float somewhere peaceful.

Perhaps he dissociated from the familiar onset of the punishment’s ritual. The rest of this entire night would be so familiar to him, he could recount it with eyes closed, after all. It happened so many times. Cazador would ask if he wanted to share. Tonight, he would answer honestly, and say no. And he would be sent away hungry, to suffer a horrid beating, one that would last days. Probably from Godey, who awaited in the kennels, every bit as ecstatic and energetic as Cazador seemed now. Every bit as cruel, and eager to carve into Astarion’s flesh.

Cazador, however, did not ask the question he always asked. Instead, his fingers danced into a point, and he gestured at the floor. “Kneel before us. Both of us are your betters tonight. This woman is a dragon rider!” Red eyes glowed mischievously. Astarion was nothing but perplexed; his eyebrows threaded together again in confusion as he sank to one knee on the unforgivingly firm marble. It was with an elven grace that he knelt so easily; had he wobbled or stumbled, no doubt that would have added lashings to Cazador’s unending list.

“Open your mouth,” the Vampire’s voice finally wavered, trembling, and Astarion realized with a lurch in his own stomach that this was…pleasurable, for Cazador. Well, all forms of torture were, but this would be no simple physical torment. This was something far worse. What, he didn’t quite know, but he didn’t want to use his imagination to find out. He pled for the warm comfort of nothingness to return. Still he could feel the cold stone. The spawn’s mouth opened stiffly, as if on a hinge. He could hear Leon’s breathless, confused mutterings somewhere behind Cazador, and Violet’s sobs.

A cold, sharp clawed hand on his chin was his next answer; he closed his eyes against the penetrating nails; Cazador repositioned Astarion’s head, tilting it back, and then the humiliation’s purpose became clear when Nettles moved, her still-leaking arm draping over the knelt elf. Down came fat, sweet-smelling droplets of blood; some of them landed on his cheek, and he flinched, but Cazador’s hand was stone-strong, and stayed his jaw. More drops of blood fell into his mouth, and the hunger flared into something nearly excruciating. He made a guttural sound–it was truly a cry of pain, his entire body was starving–and Astarion’s eyes began to glow as his body felt its true call, its true urge, its intended source of power near. He could no longer feign disinterest, or ignore the heartbeats that throbbed, excited, in the room. They were driving him mad. But he was trapped, stuck in this loathsome position by command, as his mouth slowly filled with the one fluid that could nourish, sustain him. If only he could close his mouth. Cazador’s claws dug into his throat, his chin. His body was trying to move, to buck away, or toward. Away from something. Toward something.

There were two forces, equal, opposite, fighting for dominance over him, both against his will. His body leaned into the scent, the taste—so, so near, but his compulsion commanded that he reject it. He could not swallow, or even close his mouth; he would be disobeying Cazador’s own word. The spawn felt the crushing pain of fear wrapping itself around his entire torso, like an icy hand. His struggle amounted to little more than a sad attempt at a head shake, despite every muscle in his body tightening, flexing, screaming for nourishment, and also wanting to recoil, turn away, reject it.

It was Cazador’s hand that held him there. That even held her there.

He heard his own gag of a whimper and hated himself deeply for it. Cazador sighed as if satisfied at the noise. He didn’t know if she was watching; his vision blurred with tears and he finally tightened them closed; this seemed to annoy the vampire, who snorted a laugh, and then pushed Astarion’s face far away from its held position.

He did topple over, sprawling onto the marble, and his instinct to retch took over as soon as he was disconnected from the spell; despite his starvation, he could not consume her blood. WhoEVER she was, this mystery dragon rider…she was a thinking creature. He felt every bit of rat blood as it poured out of his throat, and with a choked sob, he cringed away from the crimson on the floor. Astarion couldn’t mop the blood from his chin; he only had this one shirt, and it mustn’t get any stains on it. His ruse depended on it. He spat instead, forcing himself to bite his lip instead of cry again. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give the bastard that satisfaction. It was a small victory, but it was all he had.

With a betrayed, shocked grimace, Astarion steadied himself after vomiting what would likely be his only sustenance for the next tenday. With an unsettled sigh, and wide, wild eyes, he turned back to Cazador.

“Impressive,” the Vampire murmured in what was, unfortunately, a pleased tone. His attention flickered between the pair. Finally, in answer to Astarion’s bitter, questioning gaze, he provided, “You’re too stupid to know it, but she smells….different. Will taste different. Better.” He turned toward Nettles, brushing her braids aside delicately. “This was a good catch. Get out of my sight, I will deal with you later. Go on, the rest of you.”

The spawn scrambled out of the room, none of them looking back save Astarion, who gave what had to be a rather pitying glance to Nettles before he, too, left the cold, lifeless room with its moonlight, echoes, and enchanted inhabitants.

[agirlgonerogue]

Exposed

News media wants Richard's head on a stick. 

He's been subpoenaed. Again. And his biggest contract is at risk. I spent a weekend with him after he received the news and encouraged him to lay low for a bit. But it's not in his nature. By the end of the week, he'd declared war to save both the contract and his company.

When events like this happen I wonder if I'll ever get caught in the crossfire. Once, when traveling with another client for business, I got a call from a friend saying she'd seen me in the back of a televised interview that he'd given. The interview was filmed live on the spot so he didn't have time to warn me without making it obvious that we were together. When I realized what was happening, I moved fast, stepping out of the frame just after the crew began filming. My friend assured me that the distance between me and the client made it look like I was a spectator, not a mistress, but urged me to be careful. I could hear the worry in her voice. I was worried, too.

.

Richard hates the spotlight. He says that since he made his first fortune, nothing good has ever come of it. I believe him. But we've known each other for years and I still don’t know a thing about him. The few personal details he’s shared don't paint a full picture: He cares for an aging father; He has a few homes in a few hemispheres; He enjoys expensive toys; His palate is simple. Sometimes he refers to a "we" when talking about his personal life, but not always. After all the time we've spent together, I still don't know if he has a wife or kids.

Superficial conversation is psychically painful for me. At best it’s a mask, and at worst it’s a closed door keeping everyone locked out and the speaker locked in. It’s boring, unimaginative and disingenuous. Anti-social as well, if you ask me. At some point, I stopped listening to what people were saying and started searching for what they weren’t. I’m a glutton for knowledge and understanding, for deconstructing and rebuilding. I love a challenge and what could be more challenging than understanding the unexplained?

It turns out that most people are easy to read. Myself included. Others peoples feelings pummel me daily and that’s what gives us all away. Longing, ecstasy, devastation and satisfaction ripple off of us without our awareness. The air buzzes with unclaimed emotion and it's overwhelming to be so attuned to the chaos. It’s why I don’t like crowds, unexpected touch and struggle to socialize in groups. In those situations, the assault can be crippling, but it’s not always like that.

.

At work, I let my intuition guide me. Implicit understanding of the emotional field within my clients makes it easier to respond appropriately and remain flexible. It’s my foundation.

But Richard confounds me. He makes me stumble.

Unlike most people, his silences are quiet. Almost empty. I can’t tell if the emotions aren’t there or if they’re locked down, bolted to the floor and draped in dusty, white sheets. Either way, I have to focus more than usual to feel them. And sometimes I can't. I haven’t met very many people who operate on that frequency. It speaks to airtight control, which I have very little of but find immensely attractive in a man.

After he told me the media was hounding him, it took a few days for me to check what they were saying. When I did, his name was plastered across news outlets and Twitter was riddled with think-pieces. One said that he was playing dirty and I’d bet that he was. You don’t get to where he is by following anyone’s rules but your own. Another mentioned that he had been seen out with younger women, but that no one had been named and the nature of the relationships was not yet confirmed. My breath caught in my throat. Still no mention of a wife.

[huge-enthusiast]

Miraculous fic recomendations!!

This is just an excuse to show all my bookmarks? Yes. Yes, it is. I'm pretty sure most of this fics are really popular, but try see if you find something you didn't knew about!

All of the fics will be rated Teen and up audiences or lower. Also if I don't put the author's tumblr is because they didn't put it in the fic or/and I couldn't find it.

Pairing: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

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the last day on earth by Reiaji

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tell me something i don't know by carpisuns (@carpisuns here on tumblr)

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The odds of having a soulmate are about negative one billion (or something like that). But somehow, like they always have, Marinette and Chat Noir find themselves together. They’re ready to finally tell each other everything, but it turns out that even soulmates have to keep secrets, and while their bond draws them together, duty forces them apart.

Chapters: currently 17/28 (WIPs can be exhausting but this one is 100% worth the wait!)

Mostly marichat but almost all of the lovesquare sides make an appearance, soulmates au, mostly fluff but it can get angsty if it wants to.

One Thing After Another by SKayLanphear

Marinette notices that, sometimes, Adrien acts a little out of the ordinary--like the time he stood in a cardboard box for no reason, or when he actually hissed at Nino. It's only when she starts to notice the similarities between Adrien and a certain feline that she begins to get suspicious.

Basically, Adrien acts like a cat when he probably shouldn't.

Chapters: 15/15

Mostly adrienette with one sided reveal by Marinette's side, miraculous side effects (by both sides wich is really cool!), it's fluff with a lil tiny angst for drama.

This would take some getting used to by Codango (@codango here on tumblr!)

Adrien peeked out from behind the chimney even as the magic of his own Chat Noir mask fell away.

She was still visible, her dark hair bobbing under the street lamps a couple blocks away.

“Marinette.”

Adrien blew out a confused breath. His fiery Ladybug… was the quiet little mouse who sat behind him in class?

“What. The.”

This… would take some getting used to.

Chapters: 8/8

Adrienette with one sided reveal by Adrien's part, awkward flirting, just fluff, nothing to worry about.

comfort food also by Reiaji!

In Marinette's house, cooking is a language of love, and Marinette loves Adrien more than most.

Chapters: 1/1

Adrienette with a little of ladynoir, super super fluff, a lot of insight into Marinette's chinese heritage.

The right side of his face by walkingonthestars (@hamsternamedmarinette here on tumblr!)

Marinette and Adrien are able to remain in their new seats in the back of the room at the end of Chameleon.

Chapters: 1/1

Adrienette, fluff with light angst.

it's a long way forward so trust in me by aloneintherain (@captainkirkk here on tumblr!)

“You’re not the only strong one around here, Chat,” Marinette said. She looked a little winded, but she wasn’t struggling to hold him up.

This close up, he could see the freckles on the bridge of her nose. He could see how that smug smile lit up her eyes. He could feel the strain of her arms—and wow, okay, he really wasn’t the only person around here with muscles.

Six times Marinette carried Adrien (plus one time he carried her).

Chapters: 1/1

All the sides of the lovesquare! Fluff with LOTS of mutual pining.

a fight that you were born to lose also by aloneintherain

When the prosecution starts throwing around the word victim in reference to Adrien, he has to stuff his hands under his thighs to keep himself from bolting out of the courtroom.

Adrien had felt unsafe during those last few weeks, but, until he had woken up and seen Father silhouetted in his bedroom doorway, that had only been paranoia. Father was controlling and cold, but he wasn’t hateful. Adrien was isolated. He was often hungry. And some weeks ago, when he had snuck out to visit Nino, sitting thigh-to-thigh on his bed while Adrien cried in that silent, crumbling way of his, he hadn’t argued when Nino put a hand on his shoulder and said, tentatively, That’s abuse.

But Adrien remembers being small and Father touching his hair after he’d aced another test; Father holding his scribbled drawings like they were something precious, and framing them around his office; Father, dressed as Hawkmoth, his eyes wild behind the mask, lashing his sword against Adrien’s baton; Father, collapsed against Mum, crying into her ashy hair.

Adrien finds out Gabriel is Hawkmoth, and Gabriel gets to bring his long-waited plan into action.

Chapters: 1/1

This one doesn't really focus in the ship that much as is an Adrien character study and an exploration of his relationship with his father, but they're still there so I put them here. Really heavy angst (this is one of this fics that haunt me in the middle of the night) with a happy ending. ❗TW: parental abuse, eating disorders❗

Supercut by LNC

Marinette loves her friends and Adrien can't deal.

Chapters: 1/1

Post-reveal lovesquare, again light angst, an exploration of Adrien's insecurities, Marinette Dupain-Cheng deserves the world, happy ending.

Madame Snare by jettiebettie

“Sounds like a lot of work for nothing. She should take this as a sign to have a relaxing weekend with no responsibilities.”

“It's a lot of work she put her whole heart into. It wouldn't be right for it to go to waste,” Adrien whispers to him. The look on Marinette's face is enough to cause Adrien's own heart to ache. If anyone deserves the satisfaction and pride from a job well done, it's her.

“Too bad there isn't anyone else who can walk in those death traps,” Plagg says. Adrien hums in thought, tapping his chin.

“I could.”

Chapters: 1/1

Marichat, episode-based, Chat Noir in a dress!!!, light angst but it's mostly just idiots being idiots and a lot of fun.

in the same sun by peachcitt (@peachcitt here on tumblr!)

"It’s hard to believe that I saw you last at the peak of summer, when the sun was close and warm - and so were you. It should go without saying that I miss you. I miss you something terrible."

//

"It’s been seven months to the day since I’ve seen you. I wish you were here more than anything else."

Two letters, signed with initials instead of names, found in Paris, France.

Chapters: 1/1

Ladynoir, just angst, that's it, written like letters. No ending, just pain.

an uncurtain discovery by Missnoodles (@ladyofthenoodle here on tumblr!)

When he returns from school on Wednesday afternoon, Adrien discovers the darkness in his own home. He struggles to come to terms with it. To his utter mortification and delight, Ladybug is nearby to rescue him.

(He does not discover that his father is supervillain. That will happen on a different Wednesday.)

Chapters: 1/1

Ladrien, it says it's crack, and don't get me wrong, is super funny, but I also found it sad as fuck?

An Open Secret by Kasienda

Adrien whirled around toward Marinette. She smiled at him.

He couldn’t smile back. He stared at her like the dumb blond model that he was often accused of being.

Something shifted in her expression. And her warm open Marinette smile transformed into Ladybug’s grin. He was looking at Ladybug right now.

He knew Ladybug’s name!

Her name was Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

And he couldn’t say anything! Not to Marinette! Not even to Plagg, who had confided two weeks prior that Master Fu was growing increasingly paranoid since the location of his home and hideout had been compromised. Their master had apparently decided that Chat Noir and Ladybug would have to give up their miraculouses if they ever discovered each other’s identities.

It wasn’t fair!

...

A fic where they both know, but can't openly talk about it.

Chapters: 4/4

Post-reveal... but is it? Mostly adrienette and ladynoir, fluff with light angst and them being absolute idiots at hiding their secret identity.

golden (like daylight) by okayanna (@anna-scribbles here on tumblr!)

Friendship, Adrien decided, shaking off the mental image of Marinette’s hurricane eyes and hesitant mouth, parted in a small, careful “o.” He had a very strong friendship with Marinette. That was all.

or

Adrien thinks a lot about words, love, and Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Chapters: 1 + epilogue

Adrienette but has lots of ladynoir, another Adrien character study because I hate myself, it tries to not be angst but the writing will punch you in the guts and make you cry, it's so good.

Strangers in the Bright Lights by poodles (@ladybeug here on tumblr!)

Adrien is about two drinks in when he sees a girl at the end of the bar wearing black cat ears. It's kind of weird, so he watches her, and although it's crowded he can see her face when she turns around. She’s wearing a Chat Noir mask. He takes a quick look around- nobody else is wearing a mask. Just her.

Adrien finishes his gin martini and heads over to her. He could use some company tonight anyways, he hasn’t told anyone he’s back in Paris and Nathalie won’t arrive in town for another month. And it’s been a rough day, okay? A rough move! He’s not sure he wants to be back yet, and he spent most of the day in the Agreste mansion sorting through some photographs of his father he found in the study. Maybe he wants a drink and some stranger to tell him he’s pretty! That’s not a crime, is it?

Chapters: 1/1

Adrienette but it's also ladrien??? I think??? It's super super angsty but they're both drunk the entirety of the fic so it's also really funny.

Pick-Up and Chase by also SKayLanphear

After she accidentally trips into Adrien and apologizes about "falling for him," Marinette learns that he's no match for cheesy pick-up lines--whether they were unintended or not. And while she finds it flattering that he turns into a flustered mess with only a few words, Marinette comes to regret making him uncomfortable. That is, until she learns he's Chat Noir. At which point the phrase "just deserts" becomes a permanent fixture in her everyday plans.

A story in which Adrien is flustered, Marinette is smooth as glass at dropping lines, and Chat Noir gets the romance he was always asking for--even if he doesn't quite know how to handle it.

Chapters: 10/10

Adrienette with one sided reveal by Marinette's side, it doesn't say it in the tags but I'm pretty sure the characters are much older than they actually are in the show, so much fluff and so much flirting.

Pairing: Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe

Nino Has Done Nothing To Deserve This by GuardianKarenTerrier (@guardiankarenterrier here in tumblr)

It's nothing, really- just an innocent comment, a joke. But when they hear it, Nino and Alya come to a realisation.

There were, in retrospect, dozens upon dozens of hints. Now that they're suddenly aware of all their friend's flimsy excuses and rushed explanations, they're not only sure how they've missed it, they're not sure how anyone else has either. They realise that it had to be magic protecting their friends- and that same magic has ceased to work on the two of them.

Well, this means they'll just have to start watching over their friends themselves.

Chapters: 7/7

This is more a found family fic than anything else, Alya and Nino are the mom friend, has light angst but it's mostly identity shenanigans in the most bizarre way. ❗TW: eating disorders❗

christmas lights by demistories

Nino checks up and down the street, checking to make sure there’s no raging akuma headed his way before he crosses quickly and ducks inside the small café. He closes the door quickly before the icy air can blow inside and tugs his beanie down over his ears. He spots Alya sitting alone in the corner.

Chapters: 1/1

Just fluff!! Really short but really sweet.

hold on, i still want you also by Missnoodles!

Written for the @thedjwifizine ! Wich I also recommend if you wanna binge a lot of djwifi fics while also looking at amazing art!!!

Five times Alya ran into her ex, and the one time he stopped being her ex.

Chapters: 1/1

Light angst with a happy ending! I don't really like the ex-lovers to lovers trope but this one is the only exception.

I will continue to expand the list in the future! But by now I hope I was helpful in the search of new fics!

[whiskehorange]

Omg could you please do a part 2 to that rz Myers x nurse reader that was so good like maybe he starts playing up because he wants to see her and she goes back for round 2 👀🥺🤩THANK YOU LOVE YOU ❤️

Part 1

Michael

You twirled the pen in your hand, waiting for the clock to remind you of the first round of patient check ups. There wasn't anything that could keep your mind off of Myers. The tension the two of you had each time you came into contact was unbearable, thankfully that wouldn't last very long; You were transferred to Myer's permanent nurse.

The fake annoyance you played for the head nurse was anything but convincing, but it didn't last very long before she shooed you away from her desk and back to work.

The buzzard rang in the corridors, sounding the the nurses to do their first checkups before twelve o'clock lunch shift.

You had also found a little secret to being able to stay with Myers the entirety of your lunch. The guards here made no effort to do their job correctly, so if they so much as heard the cell doors close around the time for lunch, they figured you'd be in the cafeteria. Simple.

He also liked to bang around on his desk loudly right as the bell would ring, having guards call you down to check despite being lunch. It was unnecessary, but kept the suspicion off of the two of you.

Michael stirred to the sound of your heels clicking towards his cell door. He was already standing by the time you were able to unlock his cell, walk in, and close the door behind you.

At this point, you could easily turn your back to Michael with no fear. Maybe a grasping hand at your hips and ass, but nothing more.

Spinning in his direction you sat yourself on his bed, sliding your heels off with one finger and sliding them beneath his bed.

"I actually brought something for you this time, Michael,"

Your hand rustled around in your pocket before holding out three large, soft bristled paintbrushes.

"I saw these the other day while I was shopping and thought of you. They have good reviews and looked pretty good, so they shouldn't break as easily as those little plastic ones."

He stared at them for a while before taking them into his own hands. They were much larger and thicker than the other ones he had, but seeing them in his hand made them seem so much smaller still. Michael was good with his hands, you could admit. That was one of the things you liked about him. Providing him relief in his masks and... well your body of course.

And just like every other time, Michael made no effort working his way over to your body, making his way across your skin.

"You know," his hands grasped at your blouse, unbuttoning it eagerly as you slowly helped.

"You just have to let me know if you want something else," he gripped at your chest, hungrily removing his mask and placing his rough lips on your skin.

"Chances are I can get it for you easily." Rough kisses and bites mark your soft skin while the same rough hands pull down at your skirt. You help him calmly, lying back onto the cot for him.

"I know you won't tell me, but you can still make a list for me. I can try my best for you!"

You couldn't tell if he was listening to you or just ignoring you. His lips moved down your chest and made their home around your thighs and he pulled his own pants down, grasping firmly with one hand on your underwear.

"Fine."

You nodded at his gruff voice, waiting patiently as his figure positioned himself before your entrance, his cock bouncing at the idea of sliding into your cunt once again.

But you intensely looked up at him the moment you realized: Michael had just spoken to you. It wasn't much but it was certainly progress in terms of him alone. A smile crept across your face as you reached up to him, too stunned to speak.

Michael bent down to your satisfaction as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks as a reward, his cock routinely slipping slowly into your pussy. You could feel him adjust and twitch once inside of you, it felt the same every time but somehow so much better than before.

There was no getting used to Michael's length, especially at the rate he starts. In his mind this was a good kind of hurt to let you experience, and you couldn't agree more. It was a bit to get used to, but nonetheless worth it.

You could feel him slowly working away at your insides, bruising your walls as he pounded into them. It was impossible to have a quiet moment with Michael, especially with how he stretched and handled your tiny body. Moans, whimpers, yelps, and yells filled the tiny cell as his paced stayed exhaustingly brutal. Your abdomen tightened as you arched, Michael leaning up to better hold your hips within his large hands. You palmed at the thin sheets of his cot, twisting your face in pleasure. His cold eyes were fixated on your body, your chest, your face, your wriggling body as he pushed deeper and deeper inside of you still as you finished on his cock, moaning like a desperate angel for him.

Michael was close as well, bruising your cervix. His eyes still fixated on your face, his pupils almost completely black as he himself groaned and huffed from the pleasure. The pace was slowly stuttering, his pupils slowly shrinking as he was nearing his climax, one hand grasping at the iron bedframe as he pumped into you. The grip of his other hand on your thigh left shallow bruises, slowly turning purple as his grip loosened, his seed spilling into your womb as he came to a stop. He held himself there for a while, the both of you panting and coming to, your drowsy eyes looking up at him for comfort. your body was exhausted and settled into the bed. Despite his "normal" eyes, you still looked absolutely stunning, oddly in a non-sexual way. This was new for him, but it was a good feeling as far as he could tell. Slipping out of you, cum slowly leaking down onto the bed as he gently laid himself on top of you, encasing your small self in his chest. His body was a lovely heat radiator in such a cold sell, his weight pushing the pressure right from your muscles.

Shaky fingers worked through his uncombed hair, you placed a kiss on his forehead. The sound of the afternoon bell slowly working it's way down the hall into the enclosed cell.

"You have to move, Love," you whispered. At any moment the guards would be back to make their rounds after lunch and you were needed to clock your lunch.

Michael said nothing, only shifting more of his weight atop of your figure.

"Fine, let me slide under the bed then. Make the bed at least before they check in. You'll get me fired and then I can't be of service to you anymore, got it?"