#unvarnished for now. will do

[arsonistbunny]

tiger 🐯gouache on wood!! :)

[ortustheninth]

What do you think tazmuir is implying about Augustine

Fratricide :(

[slytherinslut0]

tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers. 

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.

[writersdrug]

Nectar and Bane - Pt. 1

Pairings: Hunter!König x Witch!Reader

Pt. 2

Summary: König is hired to hunt down a pesky witch by a warlock, who paints you as the most evil thing in the past three centuries. With the promise of finding true love (or, the closest thing the warlock can offer: a brainwashed woman who is forced to dote on the hunter), König sets out on his journey. However, you aren't what he was expecting at all, and he develops a newfound obsession with making you become his.

Warnings: dubcon, mentions of rape, manipulation, kidnapping, sex pollen (kinda? If you squint? not really, but better safe than sorry), corruption kink, mentions of blood and violence, mentions of consuming human organs, unrequited pining, angst at the end, death (not for main characters), cowgirl, missionary, mating press, biting, hair pulling, nipple play, power imbalance, handjob, obsessive thoughts and behaviour (please let me know if I missed any!)

Notes: thought I'd try my hand a fantasy au version of cod, or at least of König. This is really long (over 15000 words) so I split it into two parts. The next part is pretty much done, I'm just exhausted and wanted to at least crank out half. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt 2!

ps if anyone has any suggestions or tips on how to make collages or banners for fics, pleeeaseeee lmk

translations at the end

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Watch your every step. From the moment you step foot into those woods, you can’t trust anything you see.

That’s what the sorcerer had drilled into his head before he had begun his journey. He called you dangerous, cunning… “A sneaky, meddling bitch…” he had grumbled over the table in that crowded tavern.

Two small pouches, one of silver, one of gold, sat in between the two patrons on the table. Stains of ale and coffee rings littered the unvarnished wood. The wax of the thick candle had trickled down and formed small, hardened pools at the base – its flame flickered weakly, casting unflattering shadows against the man’s weathered features, and making the portentous hood covering König’s face only that much more ominous.

He'd listened warily as the sorcerer described the witch – you. Tens of centuries old, too much knowledge and too little wisdom to use it sensibly. You take whatever you want by whatever means possible, and your favored method was using your physical assets and the promise of sexual devotion to coerce those within your web to do your bidding. “Sometimes it’s for her personal gain – sometimes, she does it for fun.” The warlock added bitterly. “Akin to a serpent, she winds you into her embrace, and then crushes your bones before she swallows you whole, saving your heart for last.” You’d done it to him, ensnaring him into your alluring trap, before stealing his spellbooks, his potions, his most prized collections… and vanishing into thin air.

An enchantress, König had concluded.

The warlock’s request? “Kill her. And be quick with it. The sooner this earth is rid of that swine, the sooner we can all rest. And, better yet – bring me her eyes! Potent things, witches’ eyes can be – of course, that is if they’re still working. If the bitch has gone blind, don’t waste dulling your dagger. A handful of her hair would do just fine.”

König had killed much worse for much less, and this sounded like it would be on the simpler side of things. A few days’ worth of hunting and a quick, efficient kill – hopefully, one of his easier jobs, although with the way the sorcerer described you, that might not be. He’d dealt with magicians before; up until now, they had been rather boring to hunt – tedious, but nonetheless, boring. Most of the time, they tried to end him with some elaborate incantation in the few seconds remaining of their life after he’d ambushed them. His silver blade would be slicing across their throats before they could utter five syllables. They were always so intent on murdering their victims slowly and in a flashy manner. With König’s preference for a more immediate result, he was usually the one collecting the fingernails, teeth, and tongues.

(Over time, he’d had noticed that it was always sorcerers ordering the assassination of other sorcerers. He wondered why they had so much of an issue amongst themselves, but he didn’t question it. Whatever kept him fed and paid for his room, he would do it.)

The picture the warlock was painting of you, however, made you seem much craftier and more calculated. You couldn’t resist the glamorous ways of murder via magic – it was written in your nature as a witch. But you played the game with your charisma and wit, too; something magic users didn’t typically rely on (half of the time, because they weren’t charismatic, nor witty). You waited until your assailant would fall to your wicked charm, before dissecting him like nothing more than a toad for your cauldron. If not an easy kill, you at least sounded like you would be an exciting one – but König knew he could get something more from this client for killing you.

“What more can you offer me?” he asked.

The warlock chuckled. “The gold is insufficient, is it?” he leaned forward and hunched his shoulders, speaking in a hushed tone. “Tell me, what do you desire? Recognition and respect? Revenge against someone who’s crossed you? To bring back a loved one from the dead? Or, perhaps, to find a love of your own?”

König’s shoulders tensed, and the rest of the warlock’s utterances fell on deaf ears. Could he possibly give him a chance to find himself someone to love? Someone that he and only he can worship? It was true that he would be happier to live alone, in whatever way that would allow him to be independent of society… but the thought of being able to live alone with someone, someone who was devoted to him, someone who could decorate his hut with signs of life and warmth, someone with a kind smile and a sweet voice, someone who he could spend hours upon hours with, memorizing each curve of their body, the taste of their nectar on his tongue…

He called it love. Others would call him insane. He’d heard it all before – how no one would ever love him, given his profession, his awkwardness in carrying a conversation about anything normal other than how sharp his knives are, and how he uses them… that, and the fact that he never shows his face (“He must be hideous under there…” they would speculate). Nonetheless, he still craved the devotion of an obedient, warm body waiting for him in his cabin at the end of the day – once he did get a cabin. Why should he be denied what everyone else wants?

He knew he was a hypocrite; he couldn’t expect someone else to be so willing to leave everything and run away with him. Not with his insane ideations and obsessions – hell, not with who he was as a person. But if he killed enough healthy rabbits to keep her fed, and if he fucked her hard enough that her eyes rolled back into her head and she couldn’t muster enough strength to escape the mattress… would she ever care about what kind of man he was?

The warlock smiled slowly. “Of course… that’s what all of you sick bastards want.” He said, leaning back and folding his arms. “If it will seal our contract, I will give you whichever woman you choose. I’ll make her yours, and only yours, with unconditional love – even for your damned soul.”

A fair deal, König had thought. Which is exactly what had him currently trudging through the dense woods, searching for any traces of a witch – a sack with two loaves of bread and some apples hung over his shoulder, along with his well-worn tashka stuffed with the coin he had earned over time. His sword was strapped to his hip in its sheath, his dagger (a short sword, when it was compared to the average person) stuffed into the lead-lined, deerskin sheath on the side of his boot; and a pelt, heavy and thick, hung around his shoulders. All he had to his name.

König had done a day of research on you – testimonies and sightings of you ghosting the perimeter of the woods at an early age, hoping to lure some poor soul away as your very first victim. “I imagine she was a succubus in her previous life,” the warlock had spoken, “maybe too much of a whore for even the devil to handle.”

He had caught you one night by luring you to his cabin with the scent of a savory meal. Guessing by your inexperience, and the way you avoided using words as you snarled and thrashed in the warlock’s grip, he assumed you had not yet reached one hundred years old. You were still young and fresh-faced, appearing no more than twenty to human eyes. “After a few decent meals, and reintroducing her to the work of her past life – she’d settled in as the perfect student. It almost felt like having a pet.” He added with a smug smile.

König questioned how happy you were with being reintroduced to the work of your past, but he didn’t comment on it.

After living with the warlock as his student and whore for a few centuries, you turned into a strong, young witch. You didn’t care to go into town, preferring to stay at the cabin and watch over the brews whenever he had to make deliveries or run to the shops. The warlock had no complaints about your desire to stay holed up in his home – fewer people to ogle at you, fewer glimpses into a more civilized life that might tempt you to run away. He’d much rather you be a brooding, antisocial bitch, than watch one of his clients stare at you with a yellowed, lustful grin, like you were some harlot in the window of a brothel.

On one particular day, without any indication of what you were planning, he had returned home from his rounds to an empty cabin – not just empty of you, but of his potion stock, his rarest ingredients, and his most prized spellbooks. He’d run into the woods in fury, screeching your name and hurling threats into the trees around him – but you were gone. Not a trace of you could be found within a five mile radius of his home.

It was like you had never been there, save the absence of his personal belongings.

In König’s opinion, you didn’t strike him as an extremely dangerous individual. Sure, the warlock had harped on and on about how cunning and deceiving you were – but all you had done was lie to him. And from the way he had described the conditions you were under, König didn’t exactly blame you for running away. Maybe this job was a waste of his time…

Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain, despite the nip of the mid-autumn air, and the fact that he was embarking on what might be one of the most treacherous endeavors of his career. He was getting a decent payout for it – that is, if he lived to finish the job. Additionally, the scenery was a comfort to his journey; wiry birch trees stood high and thickly clustered, their brown and black spots like ever-watchful eyes, staring at the gargantuan hunter as he moved. Their golden leaves mimicked the light of the sun, the real thing blocked out by the overcast skies. A whisper of wind flew by his ears, carrying down and blowing the leaves further along his path with a gentle sigh. As if nature herself was telling the world to be quiet, be still, and prepare for winter.

It was times like this where König became unsure of himself. What if he hated having someone else to care for? What if, deep down, he preferred the silence and the solitude? But then, the loneliness would strike him. The longing to be understood (if that was humanely possible), and the desire to have something warm, alive, and sentient to acknowledge him. It consumed him on those sleepless nights, perfectly warm by the hearth of whatever inn he resided at, yet so hollow without having someone to wrap his arms around.

A swaying movement in the branches above pulled him from his thoughts. Hanging down by a twine thread, tied to one of the spindling birch branches, was a tiny, burlap pouch. It reached a few feet above König’s head, and was drenched in a dark, thick liquid that dripped rhythmically onto the forest floor. Looking to where the drops landed, he noticed the matter on the ground was decaying – a steaming pile of rot was all that was left of the leaves that were once there.

He frowned. The trap was clever – for a witch in their first century. König had expected something a bit more dangerous for someone your age. Maybe the last hunter had been too gullible, and you stereotyped them to all be oafs. Or, maybe you were too old and couldn’t craft traps with the same skill and precision as your younger self.

He drew his dagger from his boot and quickly sliced the twine thread. The pouch dropped to the floor with a squelch, landing in the very puddle of death it had created. The liquid beneath it bubbled and hissed, and the bag soon dissolved to reveal its contents: bits of bone – a kind of reptilian foot, from the looks of it – dried pomegranate seeds, and a fuzzy layer of mold, all appearing to be drenched in some kind of blood.

He carefully stepped around the stinking mess, his eyes turning back onto the path to continue his hunt. He both hoped for and against finding more evidence of your existence. He wanted to get back to town as soon as he could, so he could hole himself up in an inn until his money began to run out – all the same, his mind craved a puzzle and a chase. Though, with how old you were, he doubted there would be much of a chase.

More leaking, swaying hex bags hung from branches as he trudged on, pointing him in the right direction. He didn’t bother to quiet the sound of the leaves beneath his footsteps – the rustling of the wind through the foliage was doing the job well enough. He held onto his dagger tightly, his other hand on his longsword, as he carefully toed through the dense forest. He had to be close – the smell of fennel and turmeric settled around his presence, along with the babbling of a nearby stream.

The sound of a distant tune danced through the trees. The voice was soft, yet clear, and whoever it belonged too was much too confident that they were alone in these woods. König wondered if it was actually you, and not some poor soul who had been foraging for the autumn mushrooms and berries – but he was nearly a day’s trek into the forest. No one would dare come out this far, unless they wanted to be alone. And, they were potentially hiding from something; their own past, perhaps.

He cautiously followed the sound of the tune, still disguising the sound of his own steps within the rustling leaves and wind. His heart thrummed with both uncertainty and excitement; he always did get too thrilled at the idea of a struggle and blood covering his hands. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, focusing his attention on the voice that carried through the trees, pulling him closer and closer… He gripped his dagger tightly as he crept, reminding himself of the warlock’s warning: cunning, sneaky – be on your best wits.

The voice brought him to the edge of a clearing. The birch trees parted and encircled a few meters of earth, and a few bushes huddled along the far edge, dotted with purplish berries and thorned branches. A wicker basket, woven clumsily and rather lopsided, sat on the ground and caught each berry and branch that was tossed into it. A figure knelt in front of the bushes, carefully plucking the berries with thin, delicate fingers, stained purple from the juice of the berries, and nails that might need a trim soon, unless they were intended to be claws.

The cloaked figure confused König. The voice was too melodic, too clear and fresh for an old witch. He had assumed you weren’t much younger than the warlock, but still old. He remained a few yards away from you, shrouded by the trees and dense foliage outside of the clearing.

It was when you turned your head, dropping your handful of berries into the basket, revealing your face, that he realized how wrong he had been in his assumption.

Your skin was soft, he could tell even with the distance between the two of you. Your lips delicately moved as you sang your tune, your eyes sparkled in contrast to the dull autumn colors that surrounded you. Small wisps of your hair danced around your cheeks as the wind caressed it. Your entire body looked soft, warm, and pliable… exactly what he needed. Craved.

It wasn’t hard for him to imagine it: leaves tangling into your hair as he pressed his fingers around your neck, pushing you to the cold ground and watching as you gasped for air. He’d use his knife, but not to kill you. He’d drag it over your hardened nipples, watching them perk up even more at the prickling sensation, before he’d carve his name into your stomach. Smear your pretty blood all over your pretty face, watch as your eyes widen with horror, as you question how someone can be so deranged and cruel, how he can take so much pleasure in something so vile and horrible-

Or maybe, he could convince you that he just wants a fuck. You looked like you could use one – when was the last time you’d had someone’s lips on your breasts, or their cock in your cunt? It had certainly been too long for him… he couldn’t imagine how long you had gone without being thoroughly ravaged, living in these woods all alone. He could take care of that. He could be gentle, for a little while; holding your wrists above your head as he pushed you against a tree, whispering praise and encouragements into your ear, “… so gut, so Schön, genau so…” taking you from behind as your nipples perked up from the rough texture of the bark, listening to you whine and moan in that sweet voice of yours as he lets out months’ worth of pent up frustration by thrusting his cock into your warm pussy, over and over and over until you scream and tighten around his length, milking the cum right out of him as he fucks you deep, maybe sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck-

He growled quietly, palming his rapidly-growing erection as he tried to clear his head. Stay focused. Kill the witch, and then you’ll get what you want.

Remember the warlock’s promise.

Even if he didn’t need you to satisfy his needs, he could still make this interesting. Not like you could outrun him, anyway.

He stepped into the clearing, and as if by some ironic joke, the wind died down immediately. The crunch of his heavy boots was enough to make his presence known to any living thing within a mile radius.

Your singing stopped. You whipped your head in his direction, and immediately a look of fear fell upon your face. For a moment, the two of you were frozen in a staring contest. You reminded him of a doe, staring at the crossbow of the hunter you had noticed, wondering if this being was actually dangerous, or nothing you needed to worry about. He wondered what he must remind you of, and he wished to hear the panicking thoughts flitting through your mind.

Finally, you broke the trance – you gasped, stumbling backwards and awkwardly standing as you ripped a pathetic, little knife from your boot. You faced him and pointed the knife at him – you held it improperly, and if he truly wanted to make this messy, he could easily make you stab yourself in a struggle. He wondered what it would feel like when your nails dug into his rough skin, dragging marks down his forearms (or his back, if he played his cards right).

You pulled the thick cloak tighter around your body – you were tiny. Well, everything was tiny compared to König. But you were unexpectedly small. With the way the sorcerer had described you, he had expected you to reach his shoulders at least. But there you were, craning your neck to look up at him with fearful, owlish eyes.

“State your business!” You demanded, your voice cracking slightly.

König chuckled in response. You really were too pathetic for your own good, weren’t you? He took you in – your lips were pulled into a frown, parted slightly to reveal your perfect teeth, the way the fabric of your cloak quivered where it bunched in your fist… perfectly ordinary things that ordinary people do. But, besides the fact that you were a witch, something about you made it all so captivating.

“Hey!” you shouted, bringing his eyes back to your gaze. Your fear had given way to a judgmental ire. “Gods, have you ever seen a woman before?!”

König scoffed. “Woman? Yes, of course. I’ve seen witches, too. None as young as you, however.”

Your eyes widened in panic once again. You stretched your knife out towards him as he stalked over to where you stood. “S-stay back! I’ll kill you!”

Your meek threat didn’t slow him down. He continued his advance until he had corralled you against a tree, your one hand bracing against the trunk behind you, and the other holding the knife under his ribcage. The only thing between his flesh and your blade was his linen tunic, which wouldn’t do much to protect him should you decide to stab him – but were you capable of that? Your eyes were so filled with fear as they stared at him, your chin to the sky to take all of him in. Your fingers trembled around the handle of your knife as if the prospect of having to nick him made you uneasy.

“Not with magic?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the bush next to you. He plucked one of the berries between his thick, gloved fingers, rolling the onyx sphere between his thumb and middle finger before squashing it.

You pouted (a sight König could never grow tired of). “I’m not a wi-“

He snatched your forearm, and you yelped, dropping the knife to the forest floor. His fingers easily wrapped around you; he wondered how easy it would be to break it.

“Don’t lie, now.” He ordered, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance. “You’re not good at it.”

He released your arms with a shove. You scrambled back with a fearful expression, swiping the blade from the ground. He watched with interest as you stood several yards away from him, pointing your weapon towards him once again.

“Fine.” You said, holding yourself a bit taller. “You’re right. What’s the crime in that?”

For a moment, König was lost. Why weren’t you trying to weaponize your magic? It was almost as if you had forgotten you weren’t a human. For someone who was supposed to be a cunning bitch, as the warlock had put it, you weren’t very smart.

“I’m not here for justice.” He replied, wiping his glove on his shirt. “Just doing my job.”

“Hunter?” you asked.

He extended his arms – gods, he could have crushed a pillar between those arms – as if presenting himself to you. “Was it not obvious?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his tone.

You huffed. “Well, you’re not a very good one. Most hunters don’t make conversation with their prey.”

Prey. He liked that you understood your position, that he was the one in charge here. Maybe you were a clever girl…

“I like to listen to the begging.”

“Begging?”

“For your life.” König folded his arms over his chest, inspecting you closely. The only thing you had to protect yourself was your cloak, and that hardly provided a shield against the wind. Even though you were obviously wary of him, it wasn’t wary enough. You had spoken too many words with the hunter, and had it been anyone else, you might have been dead long before now.

You seemed malleable – book-smart and spitfire, yet all too gullible. Easily manipulated. Just what he needed to brainwash you into loving him. Or, at least, being his pet. You’d never truly love him, he had come to learn that from experience. But maybe, if he could somehow convince you that you needed a big, scary man, who could protect you and fuck you nicely, it would be enough to make you stay. After all, you were too naïve to be alone out here, weren’t you?

Could the warlock perhaps make you his prize? It’d kill two birds with one stone, he could convince you to return whatever knickknacks you had stolen, and your presence would never bother anyone ever again – besides him, but of course, it would never be a bother to bed you every night.

Your expression turned sour. “I don’t beg.”

The tone of your voice sent a shiver down his cock. He’d have to pound that little attitude right out of you.

“Who hired you?” You asked indignantly. The knife in your hand had slowly lowered, now pointing at his feet. Your initial fear seemed to have worn off. Were you brave, or just that stupid?

“It doesn’t matter.” König replied.

“It does to me.”

“You don’t know? How many people have you wronged?”

You scoffed. “I haven’t wronged anyone. People just don’t like it when you call them out on their atrocities.”

König hummed. You had a point. “Your teacher – the warlock.”

For a moment, you scrunched your face in disgust. Teacher. Only a fool as mad as the warlock himself could consider he was any such figure in your life, other than a torturous one. Then, you sighed, shoulders slumping defeatedly, the knife now aimed straight at the forest floor. “That old toad can’t even kill me himself…” you muttered. “What payment did he offer you?”

“He promised me anything I desired of your possessions.” König replied, taking note of the change in your presence. He purposely left out the warlock’s promise to find him a “companion.”

“And what would you do with cursed fig seeds, or stag’s blood?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest (which, König noted, framed your breasts perfectly). “I have no gold – not enough to be a reward for the trouble of killing me.”

“He gave me three hundred gold coin, too.”

Your lips turned down into a scowl. “That’s all?! That absolute hypocrite!” You lodged your knife into the tree behind you and placed your hands on your hips. “I took everything from him, save that disgusting old shed he called home, and that’s all he’ll pay to kill me?!”

Your outburst pulled König from his obsessive staring. “You’re… insulted?”

You turned back to him and huffed. “Well, obviously.” You retorted. “I stole all he had to his name, and he treats me like a fly buzzing in his ear. I deserve a bit more recognition than three hundred gold coin.”

“You admit to it, then.” König said, stepping closer. You appeared to be too angry to notice how near the hunter was to you. “You are a thief.”

You laughed – a sound that König did not expect to be so sweet. “I’ve done much worse than thieving, mind you.” You shook your head. “And he’s done even worse to me.” You sighed, pulling the dagger from the tree trunk and sheathing it back into your boot.

Once again, he was reminded of how small you were. Why weren’t you afraid of him? Sure, you had the advantage of magic while he did not, but you weren’t even acting defensively anymore. You treated him like a traveler who had stumbled across your path, starting up conversation and sharing your story.

“What has he done?” he asked, his interest in you growing by the second. An outcast, despised, hated by others. He felt that the two of you were kindred spirits, and he would not risk losing a connection so rare – one he had never felt.

“You mean he didn’t even tell you?” you said, sounding more hurt than anything else.

“He did.” König sheathed his own dagger as a peace offering. “But I’m coming to think he was not entirely truthful.”

You sighed, looking down at your basket, then back at König. “I suppose I could tell you, since he brought you all this way to kill me. Walk with me – but keep your dagger away. And if you try anything, I’ll slit your throat. Understood?”

He suppressed the urge to laugh. Could you even reach his throat? “The warlock said you would lure me away to your hut, and carve out my heart.”

You huffed disappointedly, walking back to the bush near König. Completely calm, like he had only ever come up to you with the intention of finding a friend. “And yet, he’s still alive, after all the chances I had to kill him. We can stay outside of my hut, if it eases your mind. I’ll let you make your own tea, too. But if you aren’t set on killing me right this minute, I really should return to start drying these out.” You held up your basket. “Before too much time passes, and I can no longer use them.”

König had never given his prey more than a few moments to try and beg their way out of his crushing hands. He couldn’t believe he had even given so much lenience to your baseless trust in him – what he should have done was take the opportunity to grab your face and snap your neck. But he was starting to doubt the warlock’s testimony; you were a thief, yes, but had you really committed any crime? Or were you simply just taking the revenge you deserved from your captor – or, as the warlock called himself, your master?

König sighed. He gestured his hand out, signaling for you to lead the way.

You frowned. “First, give me your word.” You demanded.

“I will not harm you.” He said, with a hand over his heart. He didn’t care about forcing you to make the same promise – you were harmless enough. He did, however, make sure to avoid saying that he wouldn’t touch you. Although he was developing a few ounces more of respect for you, who knows? Maybe you would find a reason to drag him into your hut and satisfy both of your needs – and, if he was lucky enough to get that far, maybe you’d offer for him to spend the night in a warm bed, and he could be saved from sleeping on the cold earth for one night.

His word seemed promising enough to you. Threading your arm through the handle of the basket, you began marching through the woods, watching the ground carefully as you stepped over roots and twigs.

König followed by your side, watching you from the corner of his eye. You really were helpless – all it would take is a strong push from him, and you’d be tumbling down, maybe hitting your head on a stone, or rolling down the mountainside until your neck snapped. Even if the fall didn’t kill you, he could easily land one hit to your chest and pierce your lungs with your own ribs. But here you were, worrying more about the uneven forest floor than the lumbering creature by your side.

“What did he tell you?” you asked, pulling him from his fantasies. “About the beginning, when he took me.”

König laughed in pity. “He made it sound like he caught you, not that he took you.”

You sighed. “He didn’t catch me… well, I suppose he did. More like how animals are caught.” You adjusted your grip on the basket, still watching the ground beneath you. “I was the botanist’s assistant before he came along. Stared at me like I was naked. He would come more often than he needed to -  asked me where I was from, who my father was – things I didn’t understand why he needed to know. I still don’t.”

König didn’t understand himself. He continued to listen, the sounds of his footsteps drowning out your quiet ones. He began to wonder just how much of the warlock’s testimony was true.

“He came to the shop one night.” You continued to recount the story. “I was lighting the lanterns in the greenhouse. It was storming, and I didn’t hear him. He bludgeoned me and dragged me into the streets like I was some sort of animal.” You paused, turning your own words over in your head. “I suppose I was, to him.

He brought me back to his cabin – that’s when he started the curse. All I remember when waking up is feeling sick. I tried to stand, but it- everything felt heavy, like I was stuck in mud. I managed to crawl outside, and he was there. Saying my father wouldn’t recognize me, that he had killed the old lady at the botanist, that everyone would think that I had killed her… that I would be burned if I returned to the village. That I would forever be an outcast as long as I lived – as a witch. As what he made me.”

You paused again, for longer this time. König looked down at you, observing how your face twisted in… disgust? Anger? Your eyes were somewhere else, possibly somewhere where you could light the world on fire, drain the life from everyone who had ever done you wrong. König had felt that same hatred before, and he had learned to let it pass. You were still stuck there, wishing you could drive a blade into the warlock’s neck – and more.

“You stayed, then?” König asked, returning his gaze to the trees before him. “Why?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like I could go anywhere, not during the change. For the first fortnight, I couldn’t do anything but crawl on the ground and wail. And he let me – I’d get to the edge of the woods, and he’d be there to drag me back. Drug me into the hut at night and held me, fucked me, saying he was protecting me and similar bullshit. Of course, he was right; at that moment, I was as good as dead if I had ventured out on my own. And once I’d gotten my strength back, I was still a new witch. I’d never be accepted into the village – witches never are, despite the warlocks being the vile ones – and I had no idea how to live as one. So I relied on him for a while, until I knew enough to make it out on my own.”

König hummed in thought. Despite the initial desire to snatch you himself and have his way with you, his fists clenched at the thought of you being dragged around by the warlock. This life wasn’t one you had chosen, and yet the very person who had forced it upon you was killing you for it. It made something within him boil, something deep and buried, that he had thought had been tucked away for good.

You didn’t deserve any of this. He was fighting with himself in that moment, but the desire to show you what you should have been given was consuming him. He wanted to tell you that he knew what it was to be an outcast, he knew what it was like to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. To wish that you had the power to hurt anyone you deemed deserving of it, yet to have that someone who would never hurt you.

He would do it. He would be that person for you, he would be the one to kill for you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself – after all, he was hired to kill, you, not fall for you. And he knew it was just another one of his delusional fantasies… but he couldn’t help himself. You were like him, which was something that he had not yet been able to find. Something primal in him told him to sink his teeth in, to hold onto you until you stopped your struggling and realized that this would be good, for the both of you.

He was insane. But did it matter what he was, as long as he could give you what you needed?

“So, yes-“ you continued, bringing König out from the depths of his thoughts. “- I stole from him. Took the books he used to teach me, maybe a few ingredients for potions, a few seeds to start my own garden… but compared to what he took from me, I might as well have taken a loaf of bread.”

You stopped suddenly, and König came to a halt beside you. You nodded your head to the scene before you. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

König looked ahead: the trees parted into another clearing, larger this time. A rickety hut leaned against a wall of rock, made of thin, birch logs and mud slathered on top to keep out the wind. In the center of the clearing was a large stone, positioned near a pile of ash and rocks. A log lay near it, possibly another place for someone to sit. A small garden sat closer to the creek before your hut – it didn’t look to be doing very well, but that was expected as winter approached.

By the creek, there was a large, twisted oak. Its roots hung directly off of the bank and down into the water. Its leaves had fallen to the earth and mingled with the rest of the foliage by now – the entire thing had crimson paths winding around it, hauntingly similar to blood-filled veins. Several pieces of clothing and fabric hung from the branches and swayed in the autumn wind.

As you marched ahead, placing your basket down by the makeshift firepit and disappearing into the hut, König took a few, cautious steps forward. He was both charmed by the simplicity of it, and despondent that you were forced into this lonesome sort of life. He wanted to drag you from this measly hovel and show you something better.

But how? He was no better off than you were. All his earnings were spent on a room at the nearest tavern and a decent amount of ale to help him fall asleep. He never cared about having a home, as long as he had a place to keep out the cold. He didn’t think it would be good enough to drag you back to the village and convince you to spend the night with him in a thin-walled, noisy inn… but, even if he didn’t end up killing you today (something that seemed more and more likely with each passing second), he refused to leave you in this hell. If it was a cozy cabin, built so far away from civilization for the sole purpose of privacy and comfort, he could understand. Maybe even plead his case to you so you would let him stay. But this – this was a last resort. A broken down spot in the woods that you made for your banishment, for hiding. This wouldn’t do.

Call him insane. Call him crazy, hopeless, sick in the head… maybe his desires were founded on the thought that he would give you what he had never received.

You emerged from your hut, the thin, wooden door clanging shut behind you. You looked at him with a puzzled expression. Why was he still standing at the edge? You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and made your way over to him, your hair blowing across your face.

He watched as you stopped in front of him, your brow creased with question. Your head tilted back to look up at him, yet any traces of fear that you had shown earlier were gone. You looked at him like you’d known him for the past hundred years. It made his heart ache within his chest.

How could anyone have painted such a wretched picture of the woman who stood before him?

“Is everything alright?” you asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Like I said before, if you’d rather we stay outside-“

König interrupted you, reaching down and grabbing the sides of your arms firmly. You sucked in a breath warily, but you were still not afraid of him.

“I- you-“ Scheisse, what is he trying to say? He wanted to take you away, he wanted to show you how similar the both of you were to each other, he wanted to show you what (he thought) love was – slow, gentle, possessive, and strong. He wanted to keep you in his pocket, both to keep you safe from the world, and to make sure you couldn’t be taken from him. He wanted you, you, you –

This is insanity. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the fire in his chest, and the questionable throbbing in his trousers.

You knew. Your eyes said everything as they softened, as your lips pressed together into a knowing, sad smile. Were you going to turn him down? Would you say that you preferred it this way, that you liked being alone and living like a prisoner on the run? You took his face in his hands, and he had a foreboding sense in his gut that you might tell him to leave.

Quickly but gently, he cupped one hand at the back of your neck and pulled himself down to you, pressing his lips to yours before you could speak. It was only right, he thought, as he held the kiss – you didn’t understand that he could help you, he could build the life you deserved and keep you safe from any other hunters and warlocks. He placed his other hand on your lower back and pulled you in, moving his lips against your own and praying you wouldn’t deny him.

Like an angel answering his prayers, you tilted your head and wrapped your arms around his neck, standing on your toes and kissing him back. He tugged his teeth at your bottom lip, and you so graciously allowed his tongue to slip past your teeth, letting him taste you. He whined, flooded with relief that you didn’t try to shove him away and call him deranged.

His cock was quickly growing hard, but he ignored it. Right now, he needed to figure out exactly what he needed to say to make you-

A raven’s call tore through the air, piercing his thoughts. It was much too close than any bird would naturally be.

He tried to turn his head in its direction, but you dug your fingers into his hair, making him stutter and freeze on the spot. He grabbed your hips, about to pry you away-

You pressed your lips firmly to his, and he heard you faintly muttering incoherent words against him. The world around him was suddenly showered with colors: purples like the berries that had stained your fingers, oranges like the leaves that were scattered across the ground, silvers like the thick clouds that blanketed across the sky… The black spots on the birch trees suddenly blinked and flitted across his vision; thousands of them stared at him, and he heard your sweet laughter echoing in the distance as the world spun, spun, spun…

He felt the cold earth press to his cheek, and the last thing he remembered was a sickening ache in his stomach.

He should have heeded the sorcerer’s warning.

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

"… so gut, so Schön, genau so…”

... so good, so beautiful, just like that...

[darcydarlingdabbles]

Meadows and Moonlight

Astarion x F!Tav(Est) + Halsin ~4.7k

After the epilogue party, Astarion and Tav finally take Halsin up on his proposition.

Smut. This is shameless smut. Two elves and a tiefling doing it the woods. Soft Dom!Astarion. More submissive Halsin.

//This is a little rough and unedited. Life said, that's a nice mental health ya had, would be a shame if something happened to it...but I think this helped me through it. Maybe XD// ✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

The warmth of the crackling campfire was a welcome and familiar embrace as Tav scanned the faces around her.

Their companions, their friends, looking better than they ever had, celebrating their victory nearly half a year ago. Wyll, Gale, Shadowheart all looking so content—even Lae’zel had the edge of a smile to her sharp features.

Though they weren’t all gathered around the fire.

Tav caught movement in her peripheral vision, drawn over to a secluded corner, where Astarion was murmuring intently to Halsin.

The hulking druid’s brow furrowed as the pale rouge bent his ear, like the devil on his shoulder. But as Tav found her way over to the elves, they both pulled back with smiles on their faces.

“Darling, were your point little ears burning?” Her vampire said, with a smirk he hid behind his own wine goblet.

“Maybe a little,” The tiefling said, with a flick of her tail. “What nefarious plots are you two cooking up over here?”

Astarion waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. Just catching up.” 

Halsin gave the man a bemused expression, but he leaned forward to Tav. “I was just remarking to Astarion how vibrant and...energetic you two seem together these days. That aura of yours could blot out a full moon on a cloudless night.”

Tav nearly choked on her wine, shooting Astarion an accusatory look. He held up his hands defensively, but there was no remorse on his tongue.

“Now dear, don’t give me that look. You know how Halsin is—he’s just naturally attuned to those sorts of...energies.” His voice dropped to a sultry purr on the last word.

Halsin chuckled, his voice warm and rich. “Indeed, the two of you simply radiate...primal passion.” His deep gaze met hers. “Any being would be lucky to revel in such a profound bond.”

Tav’s eyebrows shot up. That…was almost subtle for the wood elf.

Astarion let out a low laugh beside her. “Why Halsin, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her surprise redoubled as she watched this new boldness in her partner. He reached out, placing a hand brazenly on the druid’s thick, muscular arm.

But Astarion wasn’t putting on one of his cavalier acts this time. 

His interest was undisguised, unvarnished desire writ plainly across his aristocratic features as he appraised Halsin with open want.

“What do you say, my love?” Excitement and curiosity danced in those piercing red eyes.

The druid said nothing, but she could feel him waiting on her answer with baited breath.

Tav felt a shiver of anticipation course through her. Astarion wanted this—wanted Halsin. And from the way the burly elf’s gaze roved appreciatively over them both, the interest was utterly mutual.

She found herself unable to tear her eyes away, imagining what might unfold when this raucous celebration finally dispersed.

Picturing Astarion’s cool confidence melting into ardor, his lithe form entangled with Halsin’s powerful frame. 

The thought sent a delicious shiver of arousal through her core.

“Yes, I say yes.” Tav grinned as Astarion took her arm in his.

“Then, I am even more enthusiastic for this party to end.” The vampire said, with a mischievous purr.

✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

Astarion nipped playfully at Tav's earlobe, causing her to squeal in surprise and stumble into him.

And he tumbled right over into the soft grass, landing with her sprawled across his chest.

“So much for a rogue’s grace.” Tav huffed, pushing herself upright. “You’re not near drunk enough to be unsteady, my love.”

His laughter echoed up to the full moon hung overhead. “Perhaps I’m trying to catch you off-guard, hmm?” the elf smirked, tilting his head as he looked up at her.

Tav pushed herself up onto her knees, making a point of pinning him to the soft meadow as her tail curled around his thigh. “And yet, I’ve caught you.”

Astarion smirked, those red eyes as bright as the sky full of stars above them. And that look, as it always did, drew her close. Wanting to feel his lips on hers once again.

“Have you…?” He hummed, a breath before she could kiss him.

“Have I wha—”

Astarion had Tav on her back before she could finish her question. And she was looking up at him. His blonde curls ethereal in the moonlight that glinted off of his open smile.

The tiefling’s tail curled as arousal coiled in her core.

“Can you smell that, my love?” he murmured against her ear, his voice like velvet. “Your blood sings a different tune when desire courses through you.”

All of Tav’s limbs went still under Astarion. She tilted her head to expose more of her throat with just one of his intoxicating caresses.

He ducked to her neck, filling her with the anticipation of his teeth—when she felt that damn laugh of his instead. “You’re too easy.”

“I am not!” Tav shoved at the vampire’s chest, until he rolled off of her with utter glee.

“Aren’t you just?”

A rustling along the treeline drew their attention before Tav could come up with a response, which was actually a relief for her.

That turned to a thrum of excitement when she saw the hulking frame of Halsin stepping into the silver light.

“The night air carries far more than the fragrance of wildflowers.” He rumbled in his warm voice. “Your scents together are sweeter than honey.”

Tav swallowed thickly against the thrill Halsin’s easy words sent through her.

If they were right, about her scent and how it changed…she wondered how much it had already given away. Were her deepest cravings laid bare? Not only for Astarion’s wicked touch—but the primal pull she felt for the druid.

The vampire’s breath was back along her neck, his voice in her ear. “How deliciously wicked of you, my darling.”

Astarion’s arm slid deftly around Tav’s middle, pulling her back into his chest, nipping at her shoulder.

His playful tone was gone. Replaced with something almost, possessive about the way he held, the way he teased the marks he’d left along her throat just the other night.

Astarion wasn’t taunting anymore. He was showing off.

And she was malleable as clay in his hands.

Halsin’s gaze burned as he drank in the sight. “If…my company remains desired, that is.”

Astarion lifted his head long enough to give an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You’re as insufferable as this one.” He scoffed, giving Tav a playful squeeze. “I believe we are both still willing…but.”

Tav turned to him, just to see him smirk.

“We play by my rules.” His lips grazed the shell of her pointed ear, making her tail curled. “Won’t we, my sweet?”

Her mouth opened to give a teasing protest, but the implication finally sank into her lust-addled mind. He wanted control.

And she would gladly give it.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice tinged with a needy rasp. “Whatever you wish, Astarion.”

“So it shall be.” Halsin’s approval was palpable, a low rumbling purr resonating from deep within his chest as he stepped closer to where they were tangled.

In one fluid motion, Halsin shed his clothes and armor, baring his toned, sun-kissed form with shameless ease.

The druid cut an impressive figure in the moonlight—power and grace given form. A bear of man, bound and rounded with muscles. And…blessed with size in another, poignant area. 

Astarion bit back an Elvish curse beside her.

Desire scorched through her veins, but her gaze deferred to her vampire, who surprised her yet again with his reaction.

Astarion snicker, a sly smirk curving his sculpted lips. “I told you,” he said, recalling a previous conversation. Making her eyebrows lift. “Our dear druid would outlaw clothes if he could.”

“It is a crime to cover up the natural beauty of each and every creature.” Halsin stepped closer without an ounce of trepidation. “Especially, of the two before me now.”

“Halsin, is that an invitation to disrobe?” Astarion teased, as he slid from behind Tav. “Subtly isn’t your…strong suit, is it?

The vampire approached the druid with a flourish, his pale fingers splayed over the tanned, broad chest. Drawing that delicious contrast Tav had been craving. Delicate features against the rough and wild.

Her thighs pressed together.

She watched him, the way he shed his clothing, waiting for the mask to slip over his face and make his eyes go distant. 

But, there was none of that. Tav was left marveling at the ease and confidence Astarion exuded. He was a man transformed, free from the bounds imposed and…happy to pursue his desires. 

Astarion’s crimson gaze gleamed on hers, as he leaned up to kiss Halsin.

Their lips met eagerly. Reveling in the taste of each other, tongues exploring and claiming territory. Despite his vampiric strength and power, Astarion appeared wonderfully porcelain next to the broad-shouldered Halsin. Masculine in their own ways that contrasted beautifully. 

Tav needed out of the confines of her clothing.

Astarion’s hand slid over the druid’s face like well-worn leather as he tilted down to the pale elf. The shorter was still up on his toes—when he murmured something to Halsin.

 His arms slipped around the larger man’s neck as, with a laugh of pure delight, he leapt into Halsin’s waiting arms, his lithe legs wrapping around the wood elf’s muscular waist. Halsin caught him easily, strong hands gripping the vampire’s thighs as he pressed Astarion against the rough bark of a nearby tree.

Heat surged through Tav's entire body, her tail curling fully against her back, the sound of want nearly escaping from behind her hand.

Halsin was leaving searing kisses down Astarion’s throat, pink spots blooming along his pale skin—her blood making him flush. Until the druid moved to the side the vamp’s neck that still bore twin marks—

Tav was on her feet, naked, but her tail lashing from side to side. Ready to protect her elf, even from the mountain of a man.

The rogue’s fingers tangled in Halsin’s mane of hair, giving a sharp jerk. Halsin didn’t need more of an explanation. The man just seemed to understand, and his mouth moved from the tender territory of Astarion’s neck.

Lower still he went, peppering kisses along Astarion’s chiseled chest, his toned stomach, until finally, he took Astarion’s aching cock into his mouth. 

Tav watched, transfixed, as Astarion’s head fell back against the tree, his blonde curls over his forehead and clinging to the bark. . His red eyes fluttered closed, but his sounds sweet and understate.

She knew his sounds intimately now. The desperate way he kissed like he never wanted to part, like he was still shocked by the moans that fell unbidden from him when he was truly pleased.

He wasn’t playing it up. He was just…enjoying it.

Halsin was as capable as he boasted, apparently. More than that, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy hollowing his cheeks, sucking to the tip of Astation’s length, and sliding back down him to swallow more. The druid seemed to know, or her vampire had told him, that pleasing Astarion made Tav nearly feral with want.

Desire coursed through her veins like molten lava, pooling low in her belly. Her tail swayed, slow, the tip curling up with an eagerness…to touch, to taste, anything 

As if sensing her need, Astarion’s crimson eyes opened lazily, catching her gaze, and he lifted one of those elegant hands towards her, inviting her closer.

“Darling…” The way his lips parted and showed his fangs—Tav was already closing the distance between them. “You…really must try this mouth of Halsin’s.” 

She could have snorted at his audacity, but still it drue her right in.

Astarion was kissing her as soon as she was within arm’s reach, pulling her in to his side, none too careful with her hips or tail bumping into the massive druid between his legs. Tav lifted her appendage away though, sliding it to just barely curl around her vampire’s thigh, the caress comforting and familiar. 

“I would find great joy in satisfying your desires, should you so wish.” Halsin said, pulling his mouth free enough to do so. “Your body is a work, crafted with nature’s artisan skill. It would be a pleasure to appreciate it.” 

“And you thought I liked to pontificate in bed.” Astarion smirked, pulling Tav into his arms, his pale hands sliding over her heated tiefling skin. 

“I assure you I did not say pontificate.” She huffed as he pushed her back against the sturdy oak.

“No? He cupped her chin, his hand sliding down to her throat. “What was it…monologue then. Like a villain upon the stage, delivering a dying soliloquy?”

Tav opened her mouth to retort, when both men decided to remind her where they were.

Halsin’s large hands grabbed her hips, already making her gasp with the contrast of his warmth to the usual chill of Astarion’s touch. 

Her legs parted around broad shoulders as the druid hoisted her over them with a grin. “Hells—” She gasped, her back pressed against the bark of the same tree as she was lifted. Her grappled for Halsin’s hair, though her tail flung around Astarion’s waist—clinging to him for balance. 

“Relax darling, we’ve got you.” The vampire purred, moving to her side, leaning up to kiss her. Just as the druid’s mouth lapped at her soaking folds. 

Tav groaned, her head titled back until her horns dragged across the tree.

Normally, recently, perhaps she’d been the one doing the most talking. Astarion had his lines, his well practiced charms, but Tav cut right through them. 

But, it was damn hard to focus with Halsin’s tongue lathing at her sex, finding her clit with ease and confidence, though far from the practice and precision of her vampire’s dexterous mouth.

“Ah, my dear, the sight of you in such ecstasy as your essence is devoured... I could easily become accustom to it.” He purred to her, until her chest was so heated the summer air felt chilled against her peaked nipples.

Tav’s nails dug into the tree behind her, just as a deceptively delicate looking hand grabbed her by the horn, tilting her head to him. “All it took was an archdruid, to get you to focus on your pleasure first?” Astarion rumbled low to her. 

Tav couldn’t help but be just a little…defiant. Her vampire was calling the shots, but she could just let her palm just graze the length of him, before the vampire caught her wrist, pinning it to the wood behind her. 

“Ah-ha, not tonight my sweet.” 

Tav blinked at him, with as much focus she could manage as Halsin drew her closer and closer to the edge of her pleasure.

“I want to ravish you, have you be ravished. To have you enjoy all of the attention and affection gift to me.” Astarion confessed, his face gone softer. More sincere. “That is all I want.” 

Tav felt half-wild. Driven to a mad love, body and soul, by this amazing man.

✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

The moonlight cast pale highlights across Tav's bare skin as Astarion's lips trailed down her neck. His fangs grazed her delicate flesh, eliciting a shiver. "Do as I say, druid," he murmured against her ear, glancing at Halsin with a wicked grin. “Our darling Tav deserves to be pleased.”

Halsin's eyes burned with an animalistic desire, and she could feel his growl rumbling in her trembling thighs.

"Please," Tav breathed, desire coiling hotly in her core.

With a feral snarl, Halsin parted her thighs and his tongue darted out, lapping at her slick folds. Tav gasped, back arching as Astarion captured her lips in a searing kiss, swallowing her moans. His hands roamed freely, tweaking her nipples as Halsin's expert mouth worked her into a frenzy.

Unbridled pleasure crashed over her in waves, each flick of Halsin's talented tongue sending sparks dancing across her nerves. Astarion devoured her cries, his touch fever-hot against her skin. The coil within tightened, tightened until finally, it snapped. She shattered against Halsin's mouth with a primal cry.

As the last tremors faded, Astarion scooped Tav into his arms effortlessly. He carried her into the tall grass, laying her down with utmost tenderness amid the wildflowers.

Tav traced her fingers along Astarion's chest, admiring the way the moonlight caught on the sweat glistening on his skin.

"You two are a vision" Halsin said, a note of awe in his voice.

"You have no idea," Astarion murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her neck.

Tav shivered at the touch. She let her eyes drift over to Halsin, who was kneeling in the grass next to them. Slick on his lips. His massive cock aching for attention.

“Astarion…?”

“Hmm,” The darkened red eyes took in the sight that was the archdruid on his knees. “Well, I might like to get my mouth on you, Halsin.” Astarion's voice was low, almost a growl.

The wood elf let out a low, throaty chuckle.. "I think that might be a bit much for one mouth," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Then I should help.” Tav said, sliding from Astarion’s hold onto her knees.

He cocked an eyebrow, before giving his assent.

"I've been wanting to do this for a long time," he said, pushing at the druid’s chest. The muscle-bound man fell willingly back onto his heels.

Astarion smiled, his eyes never leaving Tav’s as he lowered his head to Halsin’s lap. Tav watched as he took Halsin’s cock into his mouth, her body trembling with fresh anticipation.

He was…big. Massive. Damn the druid for being right. He tasted of earth and musk and raw want—and Astarion drew Tav to him with a gaze. They knelt in tandem, their attention wholly consumed by Halsin’s aching cock.

Tav lips stretched around Halsin’s tip, greedy as she ever was to suck him down. Her moans hummed against his skin. It his turn to join Tav, watching as Halsin’s face took on a wild obscenity that the vampire couldn’t help but admire. For how open he was.

As they continued their dual ministrations, Astarion saw the flick of Tav’s tail, curling at the small of her back with renewed desire. He spotted the moment her hand snuck between her legs.

Suddenly, Astarion felt a shift in the atmosphere, his sharp eyes catching Tav's hand being gently enveloped by Halsin's larger one.

"May I?" Halsin asked him, his voice carrying a note of respect that Astarion found endearing. The druid was committed to following his rules, especially for such a untamed man.

Astarion gave a nod. He watched as Halsin’s thick fingers replaced Tav's delicate ones as they pressed into her. The sight of her squirming under Halsin’s touch stirred something within Astarion—that made him purr against his mouthful of the druid’s cock.

Tav gave a soft moan, her hand wrapped around the base of Halsin’s length, eyes gone unfocused as he slipped another finger into her. Astarion couldn't help but tease, "Oh my, how ever will you take all of him, when a couple fingers drive you to distraction" His smirk held a hint of challenge.

Halsin simply smiled at Astarion’s remark, his gaze never leaving Tav. “I know a rather ancient magic for such a predicament. ” he responded calmly, his hand never ceasing its efforts to make the tiefling tremble.

“Please…” Her voice quivered, those bright eyes unfocused as she begged him. “Astarion…can I?”

He grinned wickedly in return. “You may.”

✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

Tav sank down onto the soft grass, her hands and knees buried into the lush carpet. She was soaked from the druid’s mouth, and his fingers, and burning with how empty she felt.

Her eyes still on her lover, as she arched her back, position herself. As she curled her tail off to her side, presenting to hurry the druid along to take her.

Halsin’s large hands caressing her curves, anticipation making her shudder.

The blunt head of his cock pressed against her slit, and the tiefling’s talons pierced into the turf. When he finally sank into her, stretching her, filling her. Tav cried out, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

“Just relax, little one.” With one slow thrust, he pushed inside, stretching her deliciously full.

“Are you alright, love?” Astarion asked, concern lacing his voice.

Tav gasped, rocking back against the druid. “It’s…good…fuck, more.” She demanded. 

And she was rewarded with Astarion’s deep chuckle, and more of Halsin’s thick cock. 

“More you shall have.” The druid rumbled.

Fuck, the way he stretched her. She could feel him against every wall, and even a shift of his hips made a mewl come from her bitten lips. 

Reassured, Astarion let out a filthy praise for her, his hand sliding over the arch of her back. Before deft fingers found their way down her belly to play with her clit. 

Tav cried out, back arching as the elves took over every sense. Her tail curled around Astarion’s arm as he played with her.

Halsin set a steady rhythm, driving into her again and again until her cries melted into wordless moans of bliss. The pressure built rapidly until finally she fell apart, climax crashing over her in shattering waves.

“Gorgeous creature.” The druid hummed, his fingers curled into her thigh.

“Careful…” Astarion eased her into the grass, his hand along her trembling thigh. “She’s quite sensitive after she comes.”

Tav was sinking to her belly, worn out, needing a break as Halsin slipped from her.  Astarion He soothed, his cool touch welcomed against her still throbbing sex.

“M’fine Tav panted, her cheek pressed into the soft grass, her usually sharp eyes completely out of focus. “More than fine.” 

The vampire’s eyes went to Halsin as the druid stroked himself with Tav’s slick.

"Is this the usual response from your bedfellows?" Astarion inquired, a hint of admiration slipping into his tone. Tav had rolled onto her side on the grass, a smile on her lips still as she shivered with aftershocks. 

“She did exceedingly well.” Halsin said, with all the warmth they expected from him. “Usually it takes a Nymph’s spell to take what nature has blessed me with.” 

The tiefling chuckled, but the vampire’s brows rose nearly into his hair. “A what? Sexual magic? Halsin…well, actually, I’m not at all surprised.”

“Would you like me to show you?” Halsin’s voice dropped impossibly lower, and he gestured towards the bed of grass. 

Astarion’s eyes darted to hers, but Tav could see the curiosity, and want. She grinned and nodded, as if he needed her permission to have what he already wanted. 

The pale elf moved, fluid as he always was when he crawled over his Tav. A kiss demanded and a kiss given. 

Then, to both Tav and Astarion’s surprise, Halsin leaned forward, his tongue tracing along the vampire’s tight rim of muscle.

Astarion yelped, his eyes flying wide, before melting into the unexpected touch.

Tav leaned up on her elbows, alert, scooting to sit up, to act. ”Astarion?”

“I’m fine.” He shivered. “I’ve never…experienced nymph magic,” he breathed, his voice thick with wonder and delight.

Tav had to make sure. Cupping his cheek until she caught his eyes—his gaze bright, wild, and fully present.

Her fingers curled into his silvery hair. 

Halsin…never lacked enthusasim. Even the push of his tongue dropped Astarion’s head to her lap, his panted breaths across her thighs.

“More?” The druid asked, leaning up from the vampire with a sound of protest from the pale elf’s lips. 

“Oh yes,” Astarion groaned spreading his legs wider in shameless invitation. “Take me, beast.”

He’d been waiting to use that line, she knew it. But that meant he was here, his humor intact as Tav watched Halsin press his hips flush to Astarion’s ass.

✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

Astarion’s breath caught in his throat as Halsin’s thick length stretched him open, the delicious burn stoking the flames of his desire. He was already shuddering before the druid even moved his hips. 

It wasn’t…his first time recieving. Far from it. He did his best not to let his mind wander back to those times—but he couldn’t help but wish he’d known the spell Halsin had whispered into his skin. The sheer pleasure of the stretch alone. 

He was panting against Tav’s familiar skin, breath playing over her ribs and her chest. If he had enough focus, he’d latched his lips around one her dark nipple—but that would require him being able to focus enough to watch where his teeth landed. 

He must have been still for too long, because he felt the blunt points of her nails slidng through his hair, tugging at him to look up, always making sure he was alright.

His cooled heart was always warmed when she did, even if he pretended to be annoyed. 

“Fuck,” Astarion finally lifted his head, a grin on his lips even as he panted. He pressed his lips to hers. 

He could hear the grin in Halsin’s face as the druid gripped his hips, and slid back slowly from him. 

Anticipation built sublimely in the vampire. And the first powerful thrust was everything he’d craved—he was driven deeper into the cradle of Tav’s thighs, her slick folds caressing his aching cock.

He could feel her shiver under him as each buck of Halsin’s hips rutted them together. 

“Tav…come here,” the vampire barely had to voice his desire against her still shining lips. 

Tav whimpered into his mouth in assent. She slid down his body, hooking her legs along the back of Astarion’s thighs—until he slid easy into her waiting warmth. 

They both groaned at Halsin’s next brutal thrust. 

Tav’s claws skimmed his sweat-slicked shoulders as she wrapped her arms around her vampire. 

Halsin pounded into them both with bestial fervor. The air was thick with the tang of sex and the slick sounds of flesh meeting flesh.

Trapped between them, wonderfully so, Astarion couldn’t think of a word other…than complete.

He drank in Tav’s cries of ecstasy, reveling in her growing desperation.

“That’s it, my love,” he panted against the curve of her neck between fevered kisses. “Let me hear you.”

Her walls clenched around him in response, silken and scorching. Halsin’s wild abandon jostled them both, the spawn taking Tav with as he was taken in turn.

Astarion threw his head back with a guttural sound, lost to everything but the dizzying spiral of pleasure consuming him from all sides. He was alive and set ablaze.

And how pleasant it was to burn.

✿⊹₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩ ₊⁺⋆☽⋆⁺₊⊹ ✿

Halsin wrapped his bulky arms around Astarion and Tav, pulling their sweat-slicked bodies against his broad chest.

The three figures lay entwined, spent and panting, exhausted limbs heavy.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breaths mingling with the gentle rustling of leaves and chirping of crickets in the surrounding woods.

Astarion turned his head on Halsin’s shoulder to gaze at Tav, a lazy smile playing at his lips.

Tav met his eyes, her own crinkling with amusement.

A chuckle bubbled up from Astarion’s throat. “Well, that was certainly...invigorating,” he quipped.

Tav’s musical laughter rang out as she leaned in, capturing Astarion’s mouth in a tender kiss, the casual intimacy of long-time lovers.

As the couple exchanged sweet nothings, Halsin watched them with a soft, indulgent smile, content to remain a silent observer.

There was something profoundly beautiful about the pure adoration that flowed between them, the deep bond they so clearly shared. An intimacy he could appreciate, even if he had no real part in it.

“Enchanting, how enraptured you are with one another. ” the druid remarked warmly. “A fleeting moment of passion, precious in its ephemerality.”

Astarion rolled his eyes fondly at the druid’s poetic waxing. “Ever the hopeless romantic, aren’t you Halsin? I suppose there are worse things.”

He turned back to Tav, fingertips grazing her cheek.”Now, where were we, my dearest? Ah yes...basking in the afterglow of our salacious little adventure...”

As Astarion drew her into another languid kiss, Halsin suppressed a wistful sigh.

What they had was rare and special, not to be intruded upon. He would enjoy this temporary closeness, this glimpse into their private world...but come morning, he knew, it would be a cherished memory and nothing more.

The lovers only had eyes for each other.

[ingravinoveritas]

So, some folks have probably seen by now that the trailer for Michael's appearance on The Assembly this Friday has dropped, and the first question shown is, "How does it feel to be dating with someone who's only 5 years older than your daughter?"

Already, I am seeing people clutching their pearls in response to this, particularly on Twitter. Saying that it's an inappropriate question, that this person has an opportunity to ask Michael anything and chooses this, that he looks so uncomfortable, and so on. One piece of context that seems to be missing is that (to my knowledge), none of the interviewers are fans of Michael's. They were given the opportunity to do research prior to the interview and developed their questions based on that, but none (again, AFAIK) are coming from the vantage of being a fan. So immediately, that gives a different sense of where the interviewers are coming from and how this shapes and informs the interview itself.

What also came to mind is that if Michael is uncomfortable, it's worth thinking about why that might be. It seems like a lot of fans have created this perfect portrait of Michael and Anna's relationship in their minds, so if we are to follow the logic of that--if his and AL's relationship is as sunshine and roses as many people believe it to be--then Michael might be surprised by the question, but probably wouldn't be uncomfortable. Yet in the trailer, we can see the change in his body language and the way he tenses up immediately after the question is asked. Because for as talented an actor as he is, Michael absolutely cannot seem to hide his true feelings as himself.

I also definitely think that whatever answer he gives to that question will be a PR answer. Which is not to suggest that Michael will be dishonest, but rather that he will be polite, but likely without saying what he really feels about their relationship. Again, do I think he owes anyone his full, unvarnished emotions? No, of course not. But Michael is a fully grown adult man who is more than aware of the consequences of his actions, and he does not need to be "protected" or shielded from such questions. So if fans are uncomfortable with Michael's discomfort in talking about a relationship he's been in for the last five years, it might be a good idea to think about why that is.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that the editing of the trailer is already confirming some of my previously-held fears where the autistic/neurodivergent interviewers are portrayed as rude/weird, and Michael is "so brave" for taking on the "challenge" of being interviewed by "those people." It's somehow a combination of objectifying and dehumanizing, putting us (I include myself, as an autistic person) in the category of "other" for actually saying out loud what other people are only thinking. This both entirely disregards the producers/editors tacit encouragement as part of the format of this, and Michael being willing to answer, and demonizes/places the blame on the ND interviewers instead.

That is my take on the trailer, at any rate. I still intend to watch the full show once it's released, and am hopeful that the joyful atmosphere found in other parts of the trailer will prevail throughout the show. Happy as always to hear from my followers with your thoughts, so feel free to chime in...

[pin-k-ink]

matters of the heart // ukitake jushiro & kyoraku shunsui (pt. 2)

tw ⇢ highly suggestive content, strong sexual tension, making out, slight nipple play, just a hint of ukitake x kyoraku, lots and lots of complicated feelings

wc ⇢ 3.4k

part one | part two | part three

You found yourself absentmindedly running your fingers along the spines of the ancient tomes lining Ukitake's chamber walls - a nervous habit born from too many silent visitations attempting to soothe his latest spells of ill health.

Even now, after centuries of close companionship, there was something about being alone with the sickly captain that made your pulse skip erratically. A burgeoning sense of anticipation you didn't quite understand fluttering low in your belly.

"You seem distracted today, my dear," Ukitake's mild tenor cut through the heavy stillness, instantly commanding your attention. "Is something weighing on your mind?"

You glanced over to find him watching you with those lambent green eyes, expression etched into thoughtful lines as he studied your momentary lapse in composure. A tremulous smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you turned to face him fully.

"As perceptive as always, Jūshirō," you acknowledged with a rueful dip of your chin. "Though I can't seem to put my finger on what precisely is causing my...distraction this time."

It wasn't quite a lie. While flashes of your heated encounter with Kyōraku continued swirling through your psyche, it was the undercurrent of ineffable yearning in his eyes that wouldn't quite leave you be. As if he'd purposefully laid bare some fundamental truth about your long-intertwined existences that you'd been studiously ignoring until now.

Ukitake made a soft noise of contemplation, seemingly unaware of the direction your chaotic thoughts had taken. "I see. Well, you needn't suffer under its weight alone. I'm happy to lend an ear, if you think unburdening yourself may help..."

He trailed off meaningfully, the achingly sincere invitation settling around your shoulders with gentle insistence. You felt your breath catch minutely, rooted to the spot as you simply drank in the sight of him - hale and vibrant in a stolen moment of relatively robust health.

The tender sincerity bleeding from his every pore acted like a tonic upon your psyche. You felt the tangled knots of tension slowly being massaged loose as the endless expanse of your decades upon decades of close friendship blanketed you like a soothing balm.

How many times had you simply existed in these suspended heartbeats of abject intimacy with Ukitake over the course of your entwined lives? Drawn solace from his quiet steadfastness like a parched traveler at an oasis in the endless wastes of Soul Society's eternal churning?

Too many to count. Just as the number of times you had effortlessly gravitated into his vital orbit without a second thought threatened to blur together into a singular, unbroken spiral of cherished recollections and fevered devotions.

It was this bone-deep certainty of what existed between you that suddenly allowed the chaos of your thoughts to settle into soothing stillness. For all that Kyōraku's burning stare and wrenching confessions had shattered your tranquility, upending your composure onto uncertain new tides...here, with Ukitake, you felt the indistinct pull of a different sort of sublime gravity reasserting itself.

"Actually..." you murmured at last, crossing the space between you with unhurried grace to resettle yourself at Ukitake's bedside. "I think perhaps you're the only one who can help put my mind at ease on this matter, Jūshirō."

Ukitake cocked his head slightly in that endearingly quizzical way of his, patiently waiting for you to elaborate. You inhaled a steadying breath, feeling the treacherous flutter of courage sparking to life as you allowed the words to spill forth in an earnest, unvarnished tide:

"Tell me...do you ever look at someone and realize in a single, dawning moment that they are an inextricable part of your existence? That no matter how far your paths have strayed or how deeply separated your fates have become over the eras...there's some transcendent tether anchoring you together in a way that defies reckoning or separation?"

You watched Ukitake's expression shift into something unnameable and visceral as you spoke, felt an imperceptible current of spiritual energy begin to thrum between your interwoven existences. For several breaths, he simply absorbed your softly murmured epiphany with rapt attentiveness.

Then, slowly, he shifted until you found yourselves a mere hairsbreadth apart - separated only by the gossamer partition of realities as he gentled his larger hand over yours and peered down at you with an achingly tender intensity that robbed you of breath.

"Yes," Ukitake rasped out fervently, each infinitesimal consonant seeming to sear itself into the fabric of your spiritual essence. "I've found...I do know precisely what you speak of."

The look he leveled into you then was a devastatingly radiant testament of truths brought to searing awakening. For in that moment, it felt as though every lingering gossamer shroud between your essences was rendered to smoke and char, leaving only the sublime inevitability of an infinite, soulful conjunction smoldering in the aftermath.

A heavy, electrically charged silence descended as Ukitake's words seemed to resonate through the space between you with a profound weight. You felt the delicate hairs along your nape prickling as an unmistakable frisson of anticipation began thrumming through your spiritual signature.

Almost unconsciously, you found yourself shifting nearer until the sides of your bodies were flush - heedless of propriety or restraint. Ukitake's intense jade regard didn't waver an inch, burning straight through to your deepest core as if he could perceive the molten truths roiling just beneath the surface of your composure.

You parted your lips, intending to respond, but the simple inhale felt thick and heady - as though the atmosphere itself had transformed into something molten and viscous. Charged with undercurrents too primal and indefinable to put into mere words.

Ukitake seemed to recognize the weight of the moment as well. His free hand drifted up in an unhurried, reverent glide until calloused fingertips ghosted along the line of your jaw with maddening delicacy. You couldn't quite smother the full-body shiver that lanced through you at the featherlight caress, suddenly hyper-aware of every molecule of air displacing against your heated skin.

"Tell me..." Ukitake rasped out, the low timbre of his voice seeming to reverberate straight into your marrow. "What finally allowed you to perceive the truth of this...inextricable bond between us?"

He emphasized the last few words with an achingly poignant lilt, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with tortuous leisure. You shuddered again at the sensation, feeling your composure rapidly splintering into a thousand incandescent shards as his spiritual pressure seemed to enfold you in a palpably smoldering embrace.

"I...Shunsui..." You managed to stammer out, feeling the brand of Ukitake's touch searing away any semblance of coherence. "He tried to..."

An infinitesimal furrow creased Ukitake's brow at the mention of your other oldest friend and confidant. His expression settled into one of rapt contemplation as he parsed the implications of what you were struggling and failing to articulate directly.

Then, with a subtle shift of weight, he was bridging the final scant inches between your bodies - close enough for you to feel the scorching thrum of his spiritual pressure like an electrical storm resonating in your bones. Ukitake pinned you with his piercing stare, the hand cupping your jaw flexing with undisguised possession. When he spoke again, each word dripped with smoldering intensity.

"Go on..." he commanded in that low, reverent rasp that seemed to ignite lancing trails of heat across every inch of your tingling flesh. "Tell me how our dearest friend finally revealed the depth of what this has always been between us. What inevitability we have only been deluding ourselves against embracing fully until now..."

You could only whimper softly at the blatant undercurrents of challenge and promise threaded through Ukitake's murmured intimations. He held you completely transfixed, helpless against the intoxicating sensory onslaught of his proximity and burning spiritual magnitude.

It would be so easy to finally surrender entirely in that moment - to arch into the delicious friction of your bodies pressed infinitesimally nearer and close the remaining distance into oblivion. To seal your existences into the sort of rapturous coalescence you now realized was the inevitable culmination of this fraught, eternal dance you and Ukitake had been engaged in since the dawn of your earliest recollections.

But the flickering remnants of propriety and self-restraint wouldn't permit such an absolute dissolution...not yet. So you clung to every fraying thread of composure and managed to drag coherency back into your words in trembling, breathless fragments.

"He...Shunsui tried to seduce me after reliving heated memories of our promiscuous Academy days," you rasped out in a confessional rush. "He held me and kissed me... But then pulled back, reminding me that you were the one whose yearnings deserved to be honored."

A muscle ticked in Ukitake's chiseled jaw as he absorbed your staggered recounting. His thumb traced a scorching path along your kiss-swollen lips before sinking lower to languidly follow the thrumming pulse at the base of your throat.

"I see..." he rumbled at last, the words seeming to reverberate straight into your hollow marrow with bass intensity. "So it took our dear friend openly showing his desire for you to finally break the fragile delusions that were hiding this unchangeable truth?"

Ukitake shifted again infinitesimally, until his nose was a searing brand against the vulnerable juncture behind your ear. You felt his lips ghost a searing whisper of contact against your flushed skin as he continued in an even deeper, grittier rasp:

"Good...then I suppose I should show you precisely how much more fierce and inextricable my own yearnings burn, hmm?"

The unspoken promise in his richly intoned words washed over you in a searing tsunami, effectively scouring away what miniscule reservations still flickered. In that suspended breath, you simply nodded in a tiny, helpless motion and surrendered utterly - finally embracing the inevitability of Ukitake's rapturous possession without resistance or restraint.

Ukitake's lips curved into the barest hint of a smirk as he absorbed your silent acquiescence, emerald gaze blazing with the first inklings of unholy intent. Without preamble, he slanted his mouth over the scorching pulse point beneath your jaw in a featherlight graze of contact.

You couldn't stifle the trembling whimper that spilled free at the exquisite brand of his mouth against your hypersensitized flesh. Ukitake simply hummed out a low rumble of approval, apparently taking immense satisfaction in reducing you to such delirious disarray.

His questing lips trailed higher in a string of searing, gossamer kisses along the elegant column of your throat. Each maddening point of contact seemed to sizzle straight through to your very core, stoking embers of rapture you'd been determinedly smothering for far too long.

At the same time, you felt the slow, torturous drift of Ukitake's thumb skating up from where it had been branding patterns into the pliant flesh of your inner wrist. Higher and higher it inched in a molten glide until finally brushing the pebbled peak of your nipple in a devastatingly casual caress through the thin material of your kosode.

You bucked helplessly into the white-hot frisson of sensation with a strangled keen of need. But Ukitake was utterly merciless, maintaining that same infinite leisure as he scattered scorching whispers of intimacy across your bared throat and scissored his thumb and forefinger around the sensitive bud of your breast in an expert pinch.

Just when you felt on the precipice of shattering completely beneath the banked intensity of his onslaught, Ukitake stilled. You blinked up at him in a haze of frantic bewilderment, only to find his burning stare fixed over your shoulder towards the distant doorway. A heartbeat later, you sensed the subtle displacement in the atmosphere signaling another spiritual signature rapidly encroaching.

Kyōraku...of course. As if the universe itself had decreed to slam you back into harsh reality before you fully surrendered to oblivion.

Ukitake exhaled a soft, rueful huff even as he withdrew from your intimate tangle with maddening nonchalance. Though his eyes still blazed like emerald suns gone supernova, the inscrutable mask of composure had clicked firmly back into place.

By the time Kyōraku came ambling into view, there was no outward indication of the seismic undercurrents still roiling between you and Ukitake - save for the fine sheen of perspiration beading your brow and the slightly dazed look you couldn't quite banish.

Kyōraku's gaze tracked between the two of you with palpably weighting intensity. And in that pause-laden moment, you realized with searing clarity that he perceived the shift, the unmistakable blaze fueled to rapturous awakening between his two closest companions.

Yet his expression remained jovial and easy, the facade of their easygoing dynamic reasserting itself smoothly as he quipped a suggestive joke about interrupting an intimate moment. You couldn't quite restrain the flare of heat that rose in your cheeks, but Ukitake's answering chortle and breezy deflection was flawlessly executed.

The atmosphere was thick with unspoken undercurrents as Kyōraku settled himself next to Ukitake's bedside. You could practically feel the weighted stares he kept cutting between you and the pale-haired captain, clearly sensing the charged shift that had occurred.

"Well now, what sort of private moment did I intrude upon?" Kyōraku remarked lightly, though his perceptive gaze revealed he knew there was more than idle chatter at play.

Ukitake's responding chuckle seemed almost too casual as he waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing untoward, I assure you. We were simply...catching up as old friends are wont to do."

The meaningful look he cut your way made your pulse spike treacherously. You fought to keep your expression impassive, though Kyōraku's knowing smirk said he missed nothing.

"Is that so?" he drawled, taking an indolent sip from the sake dish never far from his side. "My, it seems I may need to loosen up a bit in my twilight years. Such innocuous 'catching up' shouldn't leave lovely faces so delightfully flushed."

You couldn't stop the telltale flush from warming your cheeks further at his blatant insinuation. Ukitake simply made a soft noise of mild reproval in the back of his throat, though the gleam in his green eyes spoke volumes.

The three of you settled into familiar, easy banter after that - trading jokes and gossiping about the latest Seireitei happenings. But the undercurrent of charged tension wouldn't dissipate so easily.

You were hyperaware of every weighted look and pregnant pause between Ukitake and Kyōraku, the two men communicating entire paragraphs of subtext with the slightest arched brow or quirked smirk. Meanwhile, the lingering imprint of Ukitake's callused fingers continued branding itself into your flesh like a searing brand any time your gazes met and held.

The depths of desire he'd allowed to flare so blazingly between you before Kyōraku's interruption seemed to smolder in the heated jade of the captain's stare. As if he was simply biding his time until you were alone once more to pick up where the rapturous awakening had been halted.

For his part, Kyōraku played the fool with his usual masterful grace and nonchalance. But you caught the occasional shadowed look he shot Ukitake when he thought you weren't observing - weighted with knowledge and unspoken admissions that raised the fine hairs along your nape.

Whatever had finally catalyzed the tectonic shift in dynamics between the three of you, it was clear the former boundaries and easygoing affections would never again be tenable. You had crossed firmly into new intimate territory - one thick with inexorable gravities and the heady promise of profoundly intertwined fates finally being embraced without restraint.

As Kyōraku's boisterous stories and Ukitake's mild rejoinders washed over you, you couldn't shake the sense that you were teetering on the brink of rapturous surrender. That inevitable moment when the last vaporous veils would finally part...and the truth of what existed between your entwined existences would blaze into searing transcendence at last.

You spent the next little while basking in the comfortable camaraderie and familiar rapport shared between the three lifelong friends. The easy jokes and gentle ribbing flowed as naturally as breathing, helping to soothe away the last lingering wisps of charged tension thrumming beneath the surface.

At least for the moment. You caught Ukitake's gaze straying to you with unmistakable hunger more than once, only for him to quickly shutter it behind that placid mask of mild pleasantries whenever Kyōraku's sharp stare flickered his way.

Finally, you decided to take your leave before the fragile veil of propriety surrounding the intimate undercurrents could disintegrate entirely. Rising fluidly, you fired off one final teasing wink at the two captains.

"Well, this has been a delightful interlude as always, gentlemen. But I really must be going before poor Jushiro combusts from any more wicked teasing."

Kyōraku barked out a rich laugh at that, eyes dancing impishly. "Our dear friend makes a fair point, Ukitake. Wouldn't want you overtaxing that stubborn health with any overindulgences this evening."

Ukitake made a show of rolling his eyes long sufferingly, though the subtle uptick at the corners of his mouth revealed his amusement. You simply shook your head with a fondly exasperated smile and swept from the room, conscious of both men's weighted stares trailing after you.

The moment the door slid shut, cutting off your exit, you could have sworn you felt the atmosphere in Ukitake's chamber thicken perceptibly once more. You paused briefly, suddenly curious if either would breach the lingering tension now that you were out of sight. But their voices remained pitched too low to discern anything distinct, so you finally continued on your way.

Behind that closed door, Ukitake watched you depart with a hungry longing he didn't bother trying to disguise in front of Kyōraku. The other captain's deep chuckle rumbled through the stillness.

"Careful now, Ukitake. You're practically panting after our dear friend like a man half your age," he teased, amber eyes dancing with mirth.

Ukitake felt his cheeks warm slightly but didn't look away. "As if you were being the perfect example of subtlety earlier with all your crude insinuations."

Kyōraku's grin widened wolfishly. "Who, me? I was simply having a bit of fun reminiscing about old times, my friend. Though I must admit, the prospect of reliving certain...intimacies from our Academy days does hold some appeal still."

The suggestive arch of his eyebrow made Ukitake chuckle despite himself. Leave it to Kyōraku to steer any conversation into salacious territories without preamble.

"Is that what you'd call your drunken groping and slobbering kisses the other night?" he rejoined dryly. "Reliving old intimacies?"

Rather than looking abashed, Kyōraku simply laughed again - rich and full-bellied. "Ah, so she did fill you in on those details! I wondered if she'd confess to our heated indiscretions."

"She mentioned your antics, yes," Ukitake confirmed, unable to keep a slight edge from sharpening his tone as he recalled the pain he'd glimpsed lurking behind your eyes that evening. "Among other revelations that reordered certain...inevitabilities between us, it seems."

The meaningful weight he let linger on those last few words didn't go unmissed by Kyōraku. The older captain's expression sobered somewhat as he studied his closest friend's earnest countenance searchingly.

"I see," he murmured at last. "So you've finally allowed yourself to embrace the yearning you've carried for our friend all these long centuries, have you?"

Ukitake didn't look away from the other man's knowing stare, movements unhurried as he shifted closer until their spiritual signatures mingled with intimate proximity.

"I have," he rasped out simply. "Though I suspect you already discerned that awakening earlier, despite your teasing deflections."

Kyōraku's answering smile held no guile whatsoever as he reached out to clap Ukitake's shoulder warmly. There was only unvarnished approval shining in his russet eyes as he gave his oldest friend's arm a meaningful squeeze.

"You know I'll accept whatever path your heart has drawn you towards, Ukitake. Especially if it finally allows you to find happiness with the one whose radiance you've orbited since we were all young and reckless."

He let the weighted sincerity of his words linger meaningfully in the stillness for a beat, allowing Ukitake to parse his steadfast blessing of the profound intimacies now reordered between them and their third companion. Then his smile turned wolfish once more as he slanted the pale-haired captain a sly look.

"Though I do hope that path will still allow room for myself to...indulge in life's finer pleasures from time to time. I shudder to think of being wholly bereft of our dear friend's delectable company."

Ukitake surprised himself with a rich laugh at the shameless proposal, shaking his head ruefully even as he reached out to grasp Kyōraku's shoulder in a warrior's grip of profound understanding and fealty between them.

"As if anything could ever truly keep you from her, Kyoraku..."

[vashtijoy]

Hiiii!

I don't remember if people asked you this hut I suddenly got curious

Is "Don't troll me online" an ACTUAL quote in Japanese?

Hi! Not only is it a thing, but he says more than in English:

Akechi 『マナー悪いぞ明智!』とか、ネットで叩かないでくださいね? “manaa warui zo akechi!” to ka, netto de tatakanaide kudasai ne? Please don't troll me online for this interruption, okay? Don't troll me online with things like "You're so rude, Akechi!", okay?

manaa warui zo—literally, "you have bad manners". tataku is a verb meaning to hit or strike. But it also corresponds to what we call trolling or (so very long ago) flaming on the Internet—telling people what you think, usually of them, in the most unvarnished terms.

It's pretty clear that Akechi doesn't enjoy it when his fans turn on him. He has a similar line on 11/23, in his post-interrogation room TV interview, better known for "the same strategy used in romance":

Akechi 実際、ネットとかですごい叩かれましたし。 jissai, netto to ka de sugoi tatakaremashita shi I mean, people often lashed out at me online and whatnot. In fact, I had to deal with so much trolling online and so on.

It's almost the same wording, except this time it's passive—netto de tatakaremashita. Essentially, in context, "They were trolling me all the time, and it sucked, I hated it."

There's also the week of 8/28 and 9/3, of course, when Akechi shows up at Leblanc not once but twice, having finally found somewhere people won't attack him:

And Futaba has a similar usage about a month later, at the start of the Okumura's Palace mission, in one of its missable chats:

Futaba 叩かれまくって逃走 tatakaremakutte tousou He's in hiding now that everyone turned against him. He's on the run from all the nonstop trolling.

This is another example of a line that loses its impact in translation; Futaba is not Jane Austen! Literally, she's saying "he's in flight from being tataku'd nonstop with reckless abandon"—the -makuru verb ending there. The public from mid-August onwards really don't like Akechi.

In short, tataku crops up extremely often, sometimes for physical violence (Makoto's "Do you want to be smacked?"), but more usually when people are being criticised or attacked online.

revision history

Click here for the latest version.

v1.0 (2024/04/01)—first posted.

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Girls Group 3 Round 2 Match 5

SUBMISSION PROPAGANDA:

Sayaka -

"Deadpan, forthright, and unapologetically candid, Kanamori never hesitates to voice her thoughts, no matter how harsh or unvarnished they may be. She is often deemed as impolite, ruthless or severely intimidating (by adults and peers her age alike), and is jokingly compared to the likes of the Yakuza. She’s regarded with a degree of caution, due to her unwavering no-nonsense attitude and the fact that she will stop at nothing to get what she wants, phone camera at the ready to capture any slip up that could potentially be used as blackmail later. Survival is her top priority, looking out for herself and whoever might be left behind unfairly by circumstance. She has a steadfast mind for business and strong work ethic, openly admitting to her desire for monetary compensation (or other favors and methods of payment, such as milk or food) for even the smaller and most mundane of tasks, and won’t shy away from charging fellow members of the club as well.

She firmly holds the belief that friendship is an idealized and glorified notion. To her, individuals referred to as "friends" are often mere products of chance, brought together by shared interests and nothing more. Sayaka adamantly refrains from using the term "friend" and readily corrects anyone who mistakenly categorizes her coworkers or those she spends time with as such. She befittingly conveyed this perspective of hers to Midori on the very day they first crossed paths, and this prompted Midori to freely opt out of using the label entirely as well, instead referring to her closest peers as “comrades” ever since.

Regardless of this, Sayaka prefers to achieve a level of coexistence, as she personally describes it, with those she truly cares about, such as the few other club members. While not explicitly considering the girls as her friends, her actions reveal a deep concern for their well-being. She often watches over them, remains by their side and is ready to defend them and their cause whenever necessary. A significant reason the club came to be in the first place is Sayaka's recognition of her classmates' immense artistic potential. She encouraged them to establish their own independent studio, enabling them to create their animated films, attain recognition, and reap profits from their efforts.

In her role as their producer, she's primarily motivated by financial gain, but as she reviews Midori's and Tsubame's work, she ensures they always have the option to do their job efficiently and avoid overexerting themselves if they ever choose to do so. She’s equally supportive of their goals and will often assure them that their art is more than good enough. She insists that their work is already impressive; therefore, they could forgo so much self-imposed pressure and stop doubting their abilities or attaching undue importance to others' unhelpful criticisms, as these are often incongruent with their own artistic sensibilities and convictions.

Sayaka lacks interest and doesn’t possess much insight about art herself, yet she is more than willing to learn from her team to become a better producer. Aside from having a keen eye for business since her early childhood (despite being bad at math), she also appears to be quite knowledgeable in a wide variety of topics, and will take people by surprise whenever she starts rambling about the ins-and-outs of something that’s relevant at any given moment. One time, someone pointed out that Kanamori wasn’t at all different from Asakusa on this regard, to which Tsubame responded with a simple and knowing “yup”.

She can be seen idly cracking the knuckles of her right hand every now and then, and rarely displays a different emotion as she goes about her day donning a neutral grimace on her face. Kanamori almost only ever smiles when she’s getting paid, when friendly mocking someone, or when she’s in the middle of twisting someone’s arm to hers and the club’s advantage.

I’m going to cut it here, since I realized I have much more to say about Sayaka than any other Eizouken member so far (I thought Midori was going to be the longest but this one was already effortlessly surpassing 700 words and counting. Good god) Please please PLEASE consider voting for her!! she’s an amazing character in general, and I can easily see why she’s Sumito Oowara’s personal favorite of the bunch."

Miku -

"Hatsune Miku is the character/persona created for a voice bank. As such, she has no set personality and can essentially be molded to fit the song’s scenario. She’s basically made to be your little dress up doll except your not dressing her up with clothes you’re dressing her up with your special interests and hyperfixations. She’s like the Barbie of Autism, if you will. As such, she has garnered many fans since her debut because of how relatable she is and how comforting she can be and how you can project your own interests or quirks on her and it’d still fit her because that’s essentially what she was made for!!!

You could consider the songs she sings and brings to life for producers to be her special interest!

As she’s a voice bank, she also can struggle with tone and inflection when speaking or singing, but can also, at times, sound very life like as well! She’s incredibly versatile as a tool to use for songs and as a character! She can do anything and be anything!

Also, all characters under the Vocaloid title usually come with an item that represents them! Miku’s is a leek/spring onion, even her hair has a similar appearance to one and it could be considered a special interest of hers!

I know the whole “she can be anything” seems sorta like flimsy propaganda for her, but I think it can also resemble how some people on the autism spectrum mask our true personalities and try and adapt to who we are talking to! And we can also have many talents and special interests at a single time! At least, that’s how my experience has been with being on the spectrum….

(Anywhosies I hope this helps! Miku has been important to me and many others for a long time and it’d be a shame for her to lose due to lack of propaganda 😔)."

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 4 — the day after you stole my heart

rating: explicit. the smut chapter is here. i’m done edging ya’ll. or am i?…

word count: 5,5k

pairing: viktor x fem!reader (no use of y/n, as usual)

cw: smoking, some mild cussing. now to the real shit: did you know you can play chess and fuck simultaneously? well now you know. everybody say thank you sober. brief oral, (fem receiving), unprotected sex. poorly proof-read, i’ll deal with that a bit later.

part 5 —

Every chess player had a favourite vice. That is a proverbial axiom, a mandatory requirement to pursuing a chess career: if one doesn’t have a murderous little something to kill him slowly, but surely — then they shall forever be declared an amateur, a poser, a pathetic excuse of a genius. 

Blackburne loved a good drink. He would chug that scotch down like a thirsty man, but it didn’t stop him from becoming the greatest of his time — he mastered the art of combining poison with flawless skill. Tal, on the other hand, held onto his liquor crutch a bit too tight — it didn’t blunt his sharp mind, yet still made people wonder how he‘d managed not to drink himself into a much earlier grave. Generational differences or the infamous Eastern European relationship with alcohol? The biographers weren’t exactly sure, but one fact still remains a tragic reality: once you touch the piece professionally — you’re doomed, and winning a tournament won’t be the only addictive feeling in your life. 

But what were Viktor’s vices? 

He liked to think he had none. He would politely turn down every temptation, and it made him unique — an outstanding exception, a pleasant anomaly. 

Until he met his undoing. His mess of disheveled hair, mingled scents of thrifted threadbare leather, nail-polish and tobacco, mascara fallouts under each tortured with the lack of sleep eye, his  constant, impeccable taunt — light-hearted, slightly erotic, animate. 

A vice of special danger. A vice much worse than some substance corrupting one's lungs or liver. A vice that went straight for his poor heart. 

A woman. 

A provocation.

You. 

Viktor knew he was a goner the second you challenged him, smartassing your way out of the massacre of pawns — a risky trick not every professional is daring to try, crass and intimidating, and therefore effective. Quite the aggressive nuisance you were — you encroached on his pieces, yet even the possibility of swallowing a delicious knight or two wasn’t tempting enough for you to stoop down to chasing after a man. He really had to lure you into losing that carefulness, boring you out to make you throw yourself at him — but only on the board, of course. Viktor would never indulge more unvarnished fantasies. A bewitched one, yet still a gentleman. 

Although he could picture making a solid threat out of you. After all, you were already threatening his sanity. He wore the afterglow of your touch like a phantom trophy, sweetly picturing how other parts of you would feel at the mercy of his tenderness — if only you’d be willing to allow him near you like that: in ways that involved sacrally holding hands and shyly asking for permission to press a goodbye kiss to the crooked corner of your smirking mouth. A threat like that is more than capable of becoming a chess menace: if that’s what you can do to a delicate man’s mind after just one unfinished match and a few equivocal conversations — then you could easily become a champion.

But was he allowed to become something more than just a counterpart shaping you into a better player? Was he allowed to think of you softly when he laid face up in the dark comfort of his room, silence pulsating rhythmically in each ear, as mind drifted to the sound of your laughter — raspy from all the cigarettes you have for lunch? Was he allowed to stare at your hands as they contemplated their next move? To memorize each crack of the thick red coating your nails? To wonder if you’d be opposed to accepting a soft kiss pressed to the cleft of your knuckles after he’d helped you patch up — if only he was brave enough to offer it?

The desperate need to acquaint himself with you more intimately kept suckling at his usually reserved demeanor, melting it off his secretly passion-starved soul. The whole Saturday was spent in aching anticipation, the board with your by-heart recorded moves spread on his desk, a palm slammed across Viktor’s forehead as he replayed your game over and over again. Jayce peeked from behind the sharp arc of his shoulder, clueless as to what could possibly drive his tactful friend into a distress of that extent. 

Viktor groaned, aggressively pressing his fingers into his hot from the restless thinking temple. The pieces were mocking him from their hopeless positions — at this point they could’ve aligned into the word ‘liar’ and it would still pain him less than their current placement. 

There was no draw. The absence of queen was crucial in your situation — especially considering your previous moves. You really couldn’t get out of this. And he knew it the very instance you’d accidentally caged yourself with that impulsive hunger for his bishop. 

And he lied to you. Willingly. Out of pure, selfish eagerness — just to see your brain come up with a solution, and he was oh so close to witnessing it — if only you didn’t gnaw into your nail halfway through. If only he didn’t have a lecture to get to that Friday. 

But charming women demand academic sacrifices. He’ll do better next time. If next time ever comes. How naїve of him. 

“I don’t get it,” Jayce muttered, throwing another puzzled gaze on Viktor’s dim misery, “why would you lie to her about the draw?” 

Viktor sighed, leaning into his chair, wincing at the heavy moanful creak of it.

“I wanted to see her squirm, I suppose,” he confessed, but the answer didn’t seem to please him. “Scratch that, not squirm. She’s a… strange player, let’s put it that way. I just wanted to see her try to get out of that irreparable quandary. Sheer curiosity, if you will.” 

“Strange player as in… hopeless?” Jayce quiered, carefully hovering about the board, forehead wrinkled into a frown as he desperately tried to understand what ‘quandary’ Viktor was referring to.

“No, not at all,” Viktor objected, defensively. Had Jayce smiling knowingly at the rushed remark, light-hearted mockery spilling out of his friendly grin. “Impulsive, more like. Brilliant, but so impulsive. If that wasn’t the case — I would‘ve offered her a draw. At the very least. She could’ve beat me if she noticed my plans on her queen in time.” 

“Tell her you lied to her.” 

“I’m certain she already noticed that much,” Viktor muttered, tired frustration prominent in each heavy sigh as his fingers found a few pieces, twisted them nervously a few times, then poked the pad of his index sharp and angry — as if trying to pierce right through it, to sober up from the heaving regret. 

Charming women demand honesty. Precision. Utter resentment even towards experimental white lies.

Or do they really? Viktor was about to find out. 

On a Sunday morning he woke up coated in sweat, trembling hand an anxious slam against his wet forehead in a frightened search for signs of fever, followed by a relieved exhale when he didn’t find any. The squealing alarm clock kept persistently reminding him of the tortures he was yet to endure before the revanche — two hours of cramping anticipation: one spent on a rushed meal and a cold shower and the other on an even more hastened trip to the bakery. 

He watched the baker wrap the pastries for him with a meticulous frown — that polite old lady wasn’t aware of the importance of her mission, of the fact that those fluffy buchteln were actually a peace offering. Them, and his decision not to bring the timers with him today. Perhaps keeping you well-fed and unlimited in torturing him on the board for however long you pleased could make up for the silly lie he’d regretted so immensely. 

The walk to your dorm was slow, slothful even — he picked the long picturesque path on purpose: both not to suffer from the still merciless sunlight, and to avoid showing up earlier than you requested. It takes a lot to please a woman, and he was willing to commit to it — but a sweet little something and some punctuality would have to suffice for now. 

So at eleven sharp, with a handful of baked goods wrapped in crispy paper and a nervous grip on the handle of his cane, Viktor was already standing at your door. He sighed, checking the number on it for the umpteenth time — and when that glistening little ‘505’ glared down at him from its honorary position, his hand had finally flexed into a fist and knocked. Politely. 

No response. Only an illegible little something — supposedly, an annoyed groan — audible through the door, and Viktor cocks an eyebrow, knocking again; this time, a little bit more insistently. 

“Fuck’s sake, what part of ‘do not disturb’ you didn’t get?” 

Five angry footsteps. No warning to back off. Five more jarring spins of the clanking keys — and the door flies open, practically disarming Viktor of his cane, forcing him to clumsily step away, going limp and even paler. 

“Oh. It’s you.” So soft. Like that mouth — now stretched into a lovely grin — wasn’t just spewing harsh swears. Like those tangled signs of freshly interrupted slumber weren’t scattered across your hair like a sweet morning torture. Like you were completely oblivious to the slight arc your waist caught as you leaned on the doorframe, thin straps of the see-through shirt hanging loosely off each shoulder.

A dare. To slip even lower, to find that fabric crumpled above your navel and — of course — fully absent around the skin of hips, flowing into just as exposed thighs, then calves, and, finally, a definitely barefoot sight. 

He didn’t make it past your underwear. 

Spellbound, he followed the nod of your head — a few hesitant steps inside, gaze clumsy and inquisitive, already roaming across your room. A humble tremble as it slid over the swell of your backside when you rushed to the lock — to keep him in that cozy cage of yours for today. Eyes rolled, running over the messy bed — no doubt, still warm after you basked in it sweet and half-naked. He spotted the board and lingered there, in a nervous attempt to count every fallen into the folded sheets piece. Anything to find a decent enough distraction while you were struggling to crawl into your jeans — the ones you threw onto your desk the night before, hoping to have them on before he shows up. 

“You really do sleep in on Sundays,” he found his voice, choking on a chuckle and watching you scurry around the place, finally not with your ass out. One hop to the left to grab a brush, one slip to the right to practically knock over an ashtray on the bookshelf — a haphazard thing, chaotic and rhythmless. 

“I went to bed late,” you mumbled a confession apologetically. “Took me a while to analyze our game. Which, mind you, wouldn’t have been the case if someone didn’t lie to me about the draw.” 

“Is that the reason for your, eh… discontentment?” Viktor quiered, chuckling again. Caught you facing his back with a quizzical frown and met your gaze slyly over his shoulder. Pupils dilated and swiftly followed you to the bathroom, beautifully regretful as they realised you were about to leave him for a few minutes. 

“No,” you laughed, walking out of the reach of his peripheral vision. “A few neighbors tried to disturb my precious beauty sleep earlier. You just happened to come under the fire.” 

He hummed in silent understanding, accepting the invitation to explore your room with every fiber of his insatiable curiosity — fingers ran over the contents of your bookshelf, stroked the spine of ‘Masters of the Chessboard’ languid and delicate, relishing that delicious dejavu of the library incident in dreamy reminiscence. Had him stiffening as he caught a rhythmic shuffle coming from the bathroom, then smirking awkwardly as he realized you were simply brushing your teeth. Legs were aching for rest, yet he didn’t answer their painful calling, simply hovering above your desk with a heavy gasp — taking in every notebook and unsharpened pencil.  

“Would you take that handsome nose out of my writing?” 

Viktor shuddered, clinging off the crime scene with a dismissive shrug, shoulders arched and tense as you raced past them and whisked an ashtray out of its lonesome spot behind the books. Elbows brushed against each other sharp and brief, causing him to turn around with a guilty giggle. Eyes met yours one more time, then fell to your still tortuously uncovered clavicles. You didn’t change out of that loose shirt. A vengeful move or a generous blessing — Viktor was grateful for it nonetheless. And you kindly let him feast upon you in his respectful rapture, as long as he kept looking at you like that — with the excitement of a medieval man fainting at the sight of an exposed ankle. 

You crossed whatever little distance divided you from the bed in a single step, kicked the muddled blanket off it like a stupid obstacle and slithered straight on the mattress, ordering him to sit down with a muffled tap by your side. Viktor cleared his throat and obeyed, albeit not expecting to get into one bed with you that fast; left his cane by your desk, took his shoes off and joined you on the sheets, stretching a braced leg out with a fleeting wince. Smiles were exchanged again, limbs relaxed and sank into the all-besieging softness, fallen chess pieces found and resurrected from their countless dents in the linens. 

“Did you have any trouble finding me?” you finally interrupted the comfortable silence. He shook his head. 

“No. I’m good at following instructions. Didn’t even have to bother your clientele.” 

“And what’s that?” your finger pointed at the package he held protectively and your stomach suddenly whined for whatever was inside of it, instantly recognising the familiar bakery label on the paper. You spotted an oily stain at the bottom of it. Must be something sweet. Pastries. 

“Oh,” he handed the precious wrap to you. “I’ve brought lunch. Well, breakfast, in your case, I suppose.” 

You abandoned the chess board for him to set and anchored greedily into your bucheln, devouring it in a few excitedly large bites. It made him laugh — low and raspy, head rocked back in a precious quiver as eyes closed shut, tempting you to steal a peek at his contorted with chortling face. Flushed. Pretty. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled through a chew, feeling the treat melt on your tongue deliciously — a freshly baked gift all yours to satiate with. And when you were done with it — all too fast, to be frank — your gaze returned to the board, widening at the sight of patiently waiting at your side white pieces. 

“I thought we’re handling some unfinished business first?” 

“No need. We both know the outcome anyway,” he declined discreetly. “I’d rather watch you take your revenge.” 

You froze above the row of your pawns, considering the offered privilege. They were reflecting the light with hostile glints, ready to attack. Belligerent and nothing like those glimmers in Viktor’s eyes — all humble and endlessly curious. His dark pieces tensed up in quiet obedience, fully anticipating the first blood to be drawn. 

So you indulged him, but not at all mercifully. No pastries can quench the hunger for vengeance. And he understood. He complied. 

You greeted him with the taste of his own venom — pawns met in a good old Sicilian once again, resenting each other obliquely from their standard positions. 

1.e4. The predictable, flavourful treason. A choice made not for the sake of efficiency — you opened like that because it was personal. 

Simply couldn’t resist when it felt so right — to have Viktor completely at your disposal, and, most importantly, out of his own will. He huffed and moved his piece with an unimpressed sigh. Must’ve seen that coming. Of course. 

“Eye for an eye, Viktor.” 

He snickered. “Pawn for a pawn, more like.” A fucking smartass. 

Your knight made an appearance next — you wanted to punch your way through a barricade he was about to build for you, hoping to prevent a possible attack. No need to fight the urge to shift closer, foreheads practically touching as both of you hovered above the board, glances so sharp no blade could ever compete with their inveteracy.

The plan was working. He moved another pawn to d6 for protection, playing into your delusion, and your breath grew hotter before his face in a cheeky laugh. Matched his energy with the same careful move — but not for the sake of creating a shield. It was a calculated preparation for a strike. And as you waited for him to bend to your will, he proved you wrong and took your pawn in two swift motions — one on the board, the other in a small jerk forward, close enough to steal that incredulous gasp of yours into his mouth, if only he was persistent enough. 

Oh the fucking audacity! You pulled away from him to a distance more appropriate for a game of chess: both to bite back and to compensate for the distracting nature of your attire. Amber eyes twitched and descended to the crevice of your cleavage, then sprinted back to the board. Either still not brave enough, or simply reluctant to stare at the cost of a loss. 

But you noticed. Noticed, and took it to your advantage, cruelly destroying the pawn he tricked you with while he was distraught. Weaponized his obvious weakness to whatever was so precious about your chest and bare shoulders, watching him put his knight into action with a now trembling hand. All is fair in love and war. 

The torture was impeccable. It lasted long — diabolically so, extending every time he stepped back to save his pale ass from your aggressive approach. Fingers fiddled with the button of his collar when you almost caged him into a stalemate. Took you a dozen moves, one lost knight and around twenty minutes to do so.

Only twenty minutes. Filled with tension thicker than Bobby Fisher’s book, but that’s besides the point. 

And yet he managed to get out of it — his queen lurched a few squares forward and dissected you from the check, ruining the perfect sight; made you swear angrily in a bitter whisper. Close, but no cigar. And you needed one. Desperately. 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” you queried, watching him frown with a dismissive shrug. 

“It’s your room.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Viktor sighed. Fingers flew to his shirt again, popping open one more button. Had your gaze nailed to the bulge of his voice box, to the slight tilt of his head when he smiled, tucking a single chestnut strand out of his narrowed eyes. A tease. A fidgety vision. 

“If you please.” 

Good. 

You reached for the thrown somewhere nearby ashtray — as if the version of you from twenty minutes before knew that dealing with this man would be impossible without nicotine. Slipped into your pocket and handed him a pack, offering to share the poison together. He declined with a polite head shake and watched you put the cigarette slowly into your mouth — supposedly jealous of the stupid thing. Your pieces waited all around the place, aching to repeat the maneuver as soon as you were done harassing that poor, rusty lighter. 

He ousted you of some promising options. You let the smoke fill your lungs, overlooking whatever little possibilities he left you to choose from — you could sacrifice one more pawn in exchange for his bishop later: but that won’t work if he notices it in time. Or you could refrain from attacking him just now in order to move closer to that delicious piece you were eyeing — both would result in a little compromise nonetheless. 

You picked the latter. Moved the rook to d6 and exhaled with a wet little pop, catching him drawn to the slowly flowing out of your mouth smoke. Like he cared more about the shape of your lips than a grave you dug for him on the board. If only he slipped up to actually fall in it. 

“You look distracted,” you whispered, going in for another drag. It burned your throat nice and thorough, adding to the kick you were getting out of aiming for his defense. 

“I am distracted,” he confirmed with a hard swallow. “You’re not playing fair.” 

“How so?” 

“There was no need to make this so, eh… intimate.”

“Intimate?” 

“Well, excuse me for the lack of a better vocabulary,” he snapped and abruptly captured your pawn, then threw it off the board with a hopeless huff. “You never claimed to be condescending and I’m aware of that, but please don’t toy with me. That’s beyond cruel.” 

You stirred, letting the cigarette smolder into a thin bridge of ashes. Smiling to the accusation didn’t feel right anymore — his voice, tired of devastation, reduced you to thoughtfulness for a split second. Made you crave to address it softly. 

“Are you questioning my methods?” 

“No,” Viktor sighed. “I’m questioning my ability to resist them.” 

Amber eyes flickered and slid up the curve of your shoulder, hands failed to abide by the stupid restraint and reached for you: one twined around your wrist and squeezed, tight and desperate, the other itched to cup your knee — but still lacked the boldness. Thankfully, you had just enough to flood the whole room. 

“Then don’t resist,” you pleaded, feeling his breath collide with the bitter heat of yours. 

And his hesitation crumbled, spilling clumsily against your bottom lip. Faces crushed together above the board, mouths opened and molded together hastily — a strangling union, full of whimpers and urgent tongue flicks. Made your hand go limp in his possessive clutch, and he used that opportunity to guide it into the ashtray, putting out the cigarette your tongue still tasted of. 

So needy. Like he wanted you to crawl into his throat and slice it tenderly from the inside — if only doing so could guarantee that your kiss will be his undoing. In every single appropriate and inappropriate way. 

Lips felt bruised, fingers used their newfound freedom to dig into his hair and tug him away from you softly, lungs burned from breathing him in sharply but oh so heavenly, and you were back at it again within seconds, though with starvation not nearly as impressive as his. Spine arched for him, tingling sweetly when he nudged you slightly to the left  — away from the ashtray, the board and all the moves you were yet to make. Feral, but so careful — he was so afraid of destroying your work, yet so keen on ruining you. Preferably for any other man. 

Viktor touched like a keeper, like someone others wouldn’t even dare to compete with. Had you shivering in a little convulsion when two undoubtedly talented fingers clung to your lower back and pressed, gliding swiftly into that delicious little dip. Made you wish he could grab more — like a trembling thigh or an ass cheek. You should’ve stayed in your underwear. 

But he yielded so preciously. Didn’t let you near that pulsing spot on his neck when you tried to switch to it from his mouth: lips stayed on lips, and he intended to keep it that way. Hands locked behind your back and forced an attack, pulling you close enough to melt gently into his lap, and you left that vampiric attempt for later, settling for straddling him — tight and selfish. Not without a tiny evil itch to tease him out of that sudden bravery, to remind him that it’s you who plays White today. But judging from every pant Viktor made beneath you, he was pretty much aware of that. 

You heard him gasp when tongues finally unraveled reluctantly, sharp chin still glistened with your spit, breath was a mess subtly tickling your neck. It drew a laugh out of him — that lovely sound of contentment nuzzling your collarbones with a soft shake, grateful for whatever pieces of you he was allowed to feel. Palms kept sweating nervously against the skin he found under your rolled up shirt. 

“Greedy much?” you gave into the soft, tempting mockery. Leaned into his craving mouth and threw your head back, seizing every lick, nip and suck it had to offer. Let him move his palms elsewhere — wherever he pleased, really — and they fell into a cautious squeeze of both breasts, leaving sweet, eager scorches. Scooped your heart race up into a grip and pinched teasingly at one nipple, rolled it hard and stole a choked up moan. Yes. He was greedy. Very much so. 

But the jeans were still there, tangling into the embrace and making it impossibly hard to find where he was hard for you. And you needed to feel him throb, raw and impatient as he was against your own torturous ache. As he would’ve been, to be precise — if not for the thick denim separating you cruelly from this obscenity. 

He wasn’t thrilled to part with you even for a moment, eyes the prettiest begging stunt when you slid out of his lap — and, simultaneously, out of bed, pupils widened when he realized just what kind of honor you were about to do him. Fingers stayed on your hips and held them in place as you rose above him, digging into each shoulder for whatever leverage those trembling things could provide. Letting him help you out of that attire nice and slow — for the sake of savoring the sight Viktor didn’t deem himself worthy of earlier. Catching the bat of his breath when the cloth thumped to the floor, wrapping around your feet creased and forgotten. You stepped out of it in mad haste, felt him admire the softness of thighs with a languid touch as gaze flew back to yours in a shy request for permission. 

And when you nodded, suddenly flushed from having this boy like this — messy-haired, hot and soft spoken, he stilled you securely between his widely parted legs and kissed you softly on the belly — just above that aroused little spot where you needed him most. Had you breaking in half above him, keening raggedly as he hooked his thumb into your pitifully soaked underwear and pulled it tenderly to the side, dark eyes glistening about just as much as the slick of your exposed folds. 

A resolute man —  he knew exactly what he wanted and went for it without hesitation. His tongue darted out to taste you in one long, relishing swipe — from slit to clit, deliciously sour as you were, moaning at his ministration. And that skilfull torture lasted a few pleasantly long minutes — until you were turned into an almost cumming disarray of weak knees and spasming muscles. 

But, strangely enough, you wanted to be even with him. One knee bent and pushed lightly into his crotch, felt him tense up inside the tight cage of pants. He handed you the lead and fell boneless onto the sheets, head a muffled smack against the roughness of your headboard. Had you crawling back to him on all shaky fourth, shirt and ruined undergarments thrown barbarously to the nearest nightstand. 

Impeccable in your naked splendor, you sat atop him again, chest heavy with all the things his spread out form did to your fragile heart. And it failed to resist the flaming urge to kiss him, smiling at the way he absorbed all of you so quickly — tongue caustic with your flavour, chestnut hair smelled of bitter cigarettes. Like he was already yours, ready to be kept in this muggy room for as long as you wished to have him. 

You pulled away to cup him gently through the tortuous obstacle of clothes, palming whatever you could feel through that redundantly thick layer. And, judging from the Czech curse he hissed through his clenched teeth, you managed to feel just enough — made him slam a palm against that debauched little whimper, appalled to his own loss of eloquence. Bit his lip and nodded, weak and wobbly, at that curved throb. 

“Please.” 

And you allowed him that mercy. More so to soothe that painful need of him inside you than to ease his sensitive predicament — but it didn’t matter. Not when you pulled his pants down, brusque and impatient, let them roll clumsily around his lean thighs. Didn’t waste much time on his underwear either — lust came before manners, made you gasp when fingers wrapped around just what you were about to take. Body foretasted a tight, girthy fit. 

It felt heavy in your hand, smacked against his stomach with a lewd sound when you failed to hold it through a shudder. Caught him staring not so placidly when hips arched, making you glide along the inches of him in a smooth little agony. Gaze darkened when you hovered, working him through the warm clench of entrance. He didn’t dare to rush you, to pierce through you to get that over with. Just took you carefully by the wrists and leveled the back of one palm with his swollen lips, softly kissing each knuckle while you stretched around him slow and pliable. Had you swearing when he budged and tip finally slid deep inside with a delicious tingle. 

“Is being defeated the price I must pay for this?” he spoke through a raspy laugh, eyes still nailed to the debauched twine of your bodies. “I’ll gladly start resigning after my very first move if that’s the case.” 

“But I didn’t win,” you breathed out, freeing one hand out of his lovely grasp. “We didn’t get to finish.” 

He stiffened. Fingers unraveled from yours completely, returning to his side. 

“Would you like to finish?” 

You gulped, twitching around him with a strangled whimper. 

“Yes.” 

And he took it for a command. Turned slowly to the board and reached for it not exactly effortlessly, cautious not to knock any pieces over. Brows formed a concentrated frown as he rotated it, attentive and skittish, returning the army of attacking white into your possession. Placed it all softly onto his stomach and held a breath, trying oh so diligently not to ruin a single thing with the slight rise of his inhale. Made you laugh as your thighs parted wider to make more place for the duel, felt him quiver inside you out of sheer, depraved excitement. 

He won’t last long. Not a chance. 

So you decided to rid him of his misery. First rid, then ride, to be precise — but was it really a misery when you were wrapped around him so viciously tight, keeping him so warm through the rough slap of defeat? If anything, a single loss is a steal for that twisted bliss. 

And you could already see the sweet victory. Rook took the bishop you were drooling over the whole time, gave you the cheeky opportunity to switch to a wheezy whisper. 

“Check.” Good god. 

Caught you nearly cumming on his cock — who needs friction when seductive mockery is an option?

His move smelled of retreat — not that he had any other routes. King ran away to h7, hiding behind the pawn, but you were biting right at its shiny crown, destroying his precious shelter with that same acute rook. 

“Check.” Again. Had him twitching into that luscious spot in one sudden hitch, mouth failed to suppress the most pitifully delicious moan. 

So when he attempted to escape for the third time — though rather reluctantly, to be frank — your queen stood right there before him, emitting pure humiliation. And, sure, he could still sweep it off its precious square by a simple f8 move — but it wouldn’t save him from the sly rook, sneakily waiting to put him into a numerous deadlock. A sweet, inescapable doom, leaking all over him. So he picked that poison and surrendered. In an old-fashioned way. Just like you imagined. Left the honors for you to do. 

“Checkmate,” you uttered, and couldn’t take it anymore — foreheads bumped together fervent and sweaty, pieces poked the skin of your stomach, crushing beneath it as you leaned to kiss him rough and desperate. Hips finally made their first buck to help you both pick up where you left off. 

But Viktor yearned to be helpful too. Pieces fell all over the place for you to find them later when long fingers dug into your hips, forcing both you and the board off of him. So pent up, so lovingly untamed — he threw you into the pile of chess, sheets and ashes, and thrusted deeper, had you seeing stars on the blank space of your ceiling. Quarrel died beneath him with whatever little shame you still weren’t disposed of, and your legs wrapped around his waist into a tight lock, pulling him so flush against you that breasts started to hurt from just how hard they were squashed under the pressure of his chest. 

—

That Sunday you received a noise complaint from your neighbors. Lost three pawns, one rook and two bishops. Viktor walked out of your room with a giant scratch across the crook of his sore shoulder and a few buttons of his shirt missing. 

But looking back at it, when you collapsed, breathy and fucked out, onto the destroyed amenity of your bed — the thoughts of your newfound counterpart haunted you until eyes squeezed shut, drifting to slumber with a content smirk.

And it was totally worth it.

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[eco-lite]

Finally got to read Volume 6! I didn’t think anything could top Volume 4, but this one is a very close contender for my favorite. Here are my unedited thoughts:

“Sinhalite Beckons, Part 1”

* An extra case first??? Okay then.

* Who is this female version of Seigi? This is hilarious, they’re way too similar!

* Very curious where in the timeline this story takes place…

“The Wandering Conch Pearl”

* WAIT WTF?? That was Seigi’s dream? Did he dream of himself as a woman interacting with Richard in Sri Lanka??????

* Not the milkman omgggg.

* Oooh Richard’s assistant in Hong Kong. That’s probably the sleezy guy he was talking about in the last story. Can Seigi see into other peoples’ pasts now? Didn’t know there was going to be a supernatural element lol.

* “I couldn’t decide if I should serve tea or not, so my brain cells had a meeting and came to the unanimous conclusion not to” (34). I love Seigi so much. 😂

* “I couldn’t stop smiling. Richard thanked me. He said he thought I was dependable. His smile was beautiful enough to start, but boy, a direct hit from his charm sure packed a punch. I was glad he’s withdrawn to the back room, because I was pretty sure my face wasn’t going to go back to normal for a while” (42). Oh, honey… 😌

* Wow, I did not think I would be learning so much about post-WWII politics between Japan and the Dominican Republic from this series, but here we are.

* This conversation between Richard and Seigi from page 62-67 is all over the place. Richard shutting Seigi down when he invites Richard over, but obviously still wanting to let Seigi in. And he ends up asking Seigi to dinner even though he just made the argument that Seigi should go home and go to bed early. And then he gets frustrated that Seigi is being so amenable to going out to dinner with him?? Bro, get your emotions together! You of all people should know that Seigi is not a mind reader. Let him know how you feel, for fuck’s sake!

* “To me, Richard’s beauty was like Mount Fuji at sunrise or the windswept sand dunes in a desert. Anyone else’s beauty was…very human. When I looked at Richard, I felt a mysterious calm, like if I were looking at a lake or the sky or the sea. Normal human features weren’t even in the same category. But if I said any of that out loud, I was pretty sure I’d offend literally everyone” (67). Yes, would would offend literally everyone. You’re learning, Seigi!

* “To have someone look upon the grain of truth hidden within the most tender part of yourself, and tell you their unvarnished opinion of it—I thought that would, without question, be cause for joy” (69). Okay well then you better tell Richard how you feel about having to leave Étranger in the next story, Seigi! Expose that grain of truth!!

“Resplendent Spinel”

* Seigi is really too nice. Filling in for someone in a club where you don’t know any of the other members? Could never be me.

* Ayame describing the “insincere drivel” her boyfriend spouts at her and Seigi’s reaction is “I felt like I was about to go into cardiac arrest” (93). 😅 Is he finally gaining some self-awareness about how ostentatious his compliments of Richard are?

* Ayame: “‘And if you think that a compliment can’t cut as deeply as an insult, you’re terribly naive’” (93). Seigi: “I felt like I’d been sent flying by a body blow” (94). Seigi is really going through it…

* “‘But you are different. Your words are different. When your words brush my face, it’s like a playful wind. With your absurd vocabulary, you are expressly telling me that my appearance brings you joy. It does feel a bit peculiar at times, but perhaps I find that peculiarity oddly endearing, Seigi.’ And then he smiled. I was struck dumb for a while” (96). Holy shit… 😳

* “‘I have a hard time understanding the nature of your love for me. It’s be a great help if you could give me a rundown, as if you were briefing me for a job’” (101). I wish Richard would ask Seigi to do this. But I think Seigi needs to complete his “self assessment” first. He doesn’t even understand the nature of his own love for Richard.

* Wow, Itagaki is actually pretty mature. Good for him.

* “‘Well, I just want you to know there has been a lot of diversity in body type in the industry lately, and I would love you even if you put on a hundred kilos, so don’t overdo it’” (110). It’s really nice to see a male character so adamant that his girlfriend shouldn’t have to worry about losing weight, especially since she’s in the entertainment industry. I hope we see even more diverse body types in Japanese entertainment in the future.

* I hope we get to see this “long talk” they’re going to have in the next story.

“Paraíba Tourmaline Romance”

* Omg Tanimoto is back! And she’s finally meeting Richard!! The two of them ganging up on Seigi is so funny.

* “Once again, it was Seigi Nakata versus the allied forces of Richard and Tanimoto. Honestly, I was probably the happiest if ever been in my life, but I was also just as embarrassed” (135). This is so cute.

* “‘I agree that romance might just be a stone I don’t know yet, but it feels so removed from me—like that planet made from diamonds orbiting a distant star. Maybe I just don’t have the courage for interstellar travel’” (153). This is so ace. I’m so so glad Tanimoto decided to be true to herself and not force herself into a romantic relationship she didn’t actually want. Sometimes you don’t need to experiment. You just know yourself. I’m so proud of her!

* Wow, I really teared up seeing Richard talk about queerness and fluctuations in identity so directly. I’m so happy Tsujimura had the courage to include frank conversations about queer issues. Richard’s perspective here truly is “like a spring breeze rushing through a window that no one remembered opening” (153).

* “‘What really matters is that you never forget that while you possess the potential to change, your present self continues to become your future self… I know it’s hard to decide what choice will be best for you, if I were in your position, I would not think forcing myself into a romantic relationship would be that choice… While dying on your feet is all well and good, one wrong step might make it nothing g more than foolhardy and reckless. And perhaps in the same way, a strategic retreat isn’t running away so much as it is a change of course’” (157). Ace ally Richard is so important to me. This is why he’s my comfort character.

* “‘When Seigi told me about this place, I thought it was a shop run by a foreign man who would show his customers wonderful gemstones. I see it’s actually a shop that provides kindness and comfort to those who see themselves as Étranger’” (158). fUCK.

* I’m so glad Seigi apologized for what he said to Tanimoto at the museum. I know it’s hard for him to let go of the fact that Tanimoto doesn’t feel romantic love since he has a crush on her, but I think he’s more understanding of her feelings now, thanks to the conversation with Richard.

* Omg Seigi and Tanimoto having a mature conversation about why they wouldn’t work out romantically. So nice to see. I think Tanimoto still kind of misunderstood why Seigi wanted to ask her out before, but that’s very on brand for her lol.

* “‘I feel like having you around has made me a better person than I was before’” (173). Richard!!! 💘💘💘

* Tanimoto defending Seigi and telling Richard to never hurt him again! I love her so much!

* I love this story so much! It was great to learn more about Tanimoto’s past and see her finally interact with Richard, who was just so thoughtful here. I can’t believe he felt bad for telling her not to worry about romantic love because he thought it might hurt Seigi. That’s sweet, but I’m glad he was true to himself and what Tanimoto needed to hear in that moment. And Seigi got just a bit more mature, too. I have such intense affection for everyone in this situation. But not Seigi’s father coming to ruin the vibes at the end. 🤬🤬🤬

“The Tanzanite of Rebirth”

* Seigi’s father is such a disgusting manipulator. I always say I want to learn more about Seigi, but learning how awful this man was to him and Hiromi, and how dark Seigi’s thoughts were at that time… How dark they are now… It’s really distressing.

* The fucking tonal shift from this melancholy last dinner together to Jeffrey showing up in the hotel room is so funny. For real though, what did Seigi think would happen when he followed Richard to his room?? 👀 But it’s really concerning that Seigi felt he had no choice but to follow Richard to his room. Obviously that’s Seigi’s extremely negative headspace talking, but please have some self-respect!

* “‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I spent a long time stalking you within the realm of what’s legal, of course. Obviously, I’ve repented of my actions—please, God, forgive me for my trespasses. And since I’ve repented, I hope you’ll forgive me for reoffending. It’s plain for anyone to see that something’s been eating at you’” (228). JEFFREY. It’s kind of sweet that Jeffrey has been keeping an eye on Seigi, but did he have to get this intense about it? This kidnapping situation is so chaotic lol. That is his style, though.

* “‘Why do you treat me like some rock on the side of the road? What do you think I am? A doll that’s not good for anything but being on display? I’ve been on this Earth longer than you have. I possess more knowledge than you, and I have enough free time to be able to afford to spend some on you. And yet you had the audacity to try to abandon me and walk off into the darkness. It’s beyond asinine and irrational’” (230). YOU TELL HIM, RICHARD! (Not to even mention Richard told Seigi he loves him just before this rant.) But I feel like Seigi could have said this exact speech when Richard ran away to England before. They both feel that the other should rely on them more, but wouldn’t want to be a burden. After the England debacle, Richard learned that it’s okay to rely on people who love you. Now Seigi has to learn that lesson too.

* “There was a large dam inside my heart, and what it was holding back wasn’t water but sludge. And I didn’t want any of that getting on Richard. It’s the sort of thing that you let out into a drainage ditch in secret” (232-233). Oh, honey, no. First of all, Richard is a human being who loves you and can withstand hearing bad things. You’re not tainting him. He’s asking you to trust him with this. Second of all, please go to therapy…

* It’s really concerning to see how Seigi thinks of himself as having the potential for violence against people he loves. It’s really common for witnesses of domestic abuse to think that way, but it’s so clear in Seigi’s actions that he could never do that. He has such a good heart. But he’s really clouded by dark thoughts from interacting with his father. It’s not like he was thinking this when he wanted to date Tanimoto. These thoughts resurfaced very recently. Thankfully Richard has done enough self-reflection to throw his own situation in Seigi’s face to show him how ridiculous he’s being.

* “‘You don’t think of me as normal or expected. You don’t think of me as tangible, something that is always by your side. That is why I remain someone distant and unreachable to you… You never attempt to close the distance between us. And you never allow me to pay your price, the affection, you are worth’” (243-244). Wow. This reflective Richard is extremely powerful…

* “The moment I realized that he had been watching over me and accepting me for who I was on a much deeper level than I could even have imagined, I felt like I’d been tossed into the middle of the ocean—it was salty, and I struggled to breathe. I was such a loser, such a thoughtless person, a timid child crying in the dark with his knees held tightly to his chest, and yet it felt like he took it all in and said that it was fine. But it wasn’t just a feeling, he believed in me, more than I could ever believe” (247-248). Yes, Seigi, that’s what you do when you love someone. You did the same for him.

* Omg punk Jeffrey?! I wish I could see all those photos Richard keeps as blackmail. 😂

* I’m glad Richard brought up “what floor?” Seriously, Seigi not feeling able to reject him was scary. For both of them, I think.

* Seigi’s stepdad is an absolute legend! King of positive masculinity! “‘I don’t think being strong or not has anything to do with whether you’re okay’” (272). Fuck yes. Hiromi did so well marrying this man.

* “‘I don’t want an apology, I want you to reflect on your behavior. I imagine you understand this by now, but your number-one assignment at the moment is learning to value yourself more’” (274). The fact Richard is able to say this to Seigi is a reflection of his own growth as well. I’m so glad they’re in each other’s lives. They make each other better. 🥹

* Seigi trying to tell Richard he wants to keep being around him even if he doesn’t work at Étranger anymore but it keeps coming out likes he’s proposing or asking him on a date. I think his first statement was the truest to how he feels: ‘“I want to be by your side from now on, if you’ll let me’” (280). I think Richard was ready to accept that as a proposal until Seigi made a bunch of qualifying statements lol.

* Wow, this story means so much to me. Everything that came out of Richard’s mouth was something both Seigi and I (and so many other people, I’m sure) needed to hear. Their relationship got so much deeper. And I can’t wait to see what shenanigans Seigi gets up to in this hotel lol. Especially if Richard is staying there as well. Very excited for the next volume. This one had better come out on time! 😤

“Sinhalite Beckons, Part 2”

* OKAY this is wild! I swear to god the person on the motorcycle in part 1 is Richard, but it seems to be Seigi now???? And he and Richard seem to live together in this nice house in Sri Lanka???????

* Omg she’s the sister of the airport lady from “Flourite By Your Side!” 😲 Glad she’s feeling better!

* Okay so it’s been three years? And there are pictures of the shop in Ginza and their families on the coffee table?? This is so fucking domestic. Is this their future???

* It’s refreshing to see someone call Seigi attractive for once! RIP Keiko’s love life though lol.

* “‘But you know, you really surprised me. You speak textbook-perfect English, but your Japanese sounds like someone from a local convenience store.’ I told him I thought is was a very interesting gap, and he smiled bashfully. ‘He always tells me that—“At this point, the language you might be the least eloquent in might be Japanese.” It is the one language he didn’t teach me, after all’” (301). This is so funny. And it’s making more sense why I thought Seigi was actually Richard in the first part. I can’t believe Seigi speaks English with a British accent! 😂

* Lol once again somebody’s first assumption is that Seigi and Richard are a couple, and it’s still not hard to see why. Love that Keiko immediately asked Seigi out after learning they’re not together, though. You go, girl! But Seigi’s heart belongs to someone else, huh? For real, please tell me he knows it’s Richard at this point!

* I find it so interesting that Tsujimura decided to show us this glimpse of Seigi and Richard’s future. What was the purpose?? It’s a fun and cute story, but not very satisfying if you’re routing for them to get together. And it weirdly feels like an ending even though I know there are at least two more volumes after this…

“Afterward”

* This isn’t a story but I need to record my reaction to the sentence “the first part of the story has now come to a close with Volume 6—though there is still more to tell.” 😲😲😲 Okay, I didn’t realize this story was in parts! Maybe “Sinhalite Beckons” is a way to transition into this new future chapter of Seigi and Richard’s life. 🤔

* Tsujimura actually knows a jeweler who taught them how to make royal milk tea lol. That’s adorable. They do say to write why you know.

* “It would make me very happy if you would keep me company on their journey for a little while.” Tsujimura, I am with you for the long haul. 🫡 Let’s do this!

[mimisempai]

Clear-cut

Summary

Greg is in hospital and injured. When Mycroft finds him, he tries to play down the seriousness of his injuries, but Mycroft has had enough and wants the unvarnished truth.

Notes

Mystrade Monday  3.0  #10 - Character A likes to include half-truths and tall-tales in their stories and Character B likes to keep track of them. (I deviated a little from it) 

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

On AO3

804 words - Rating G

"Greg! What the hell happened?"

The doctor who had just finished treating Greg turned to Mycroft and said, "Sir, you shouldn't be here..." 

Greg replied to Mycroft, "I'm fine."

Mycroft frowned and Greg sighed before insisting, "It's just a few scratches."

He folded his shirt sleeve over the bandage the doctor had just applied to his arm. 

"Monsieur Lestrade, we were this close to transfusing you, so don't minimize your injuries."

"And perhaps I didn't want my partner to worry!" 

Then, seeing Mycroft's exasperated expression, he added, "I certainly didn't mean to tell him like that."

Mycroft came and stood by the bed as he replied, "You would have minimized it even more. You'd probably only have told me half the story. I know how you are. Although I usually like to decipher your tall tales, this time it's not the case. This is serious, Greg."

Greg struggled to keep his eyes open and whispered, "But I swear I'm fine."

The doctor interjected, "I'd rather keep you overnight. "

Mycroft, knowing Greg would protest, intervened, "I'll take him home. I promise to keep an eye on him, Doctor."

Greg grimaced. They'd planned a dinner and now he'd ruined it.

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft took his hand and squeezed it gently into his own.

"Don't be. It won't be at the restaurant, but we'll spend the evening together anyway." 

Then he turned to the doctor and asked, "Is there anything I should be aware of?"

"Just keep an eye on him for the next 24 hours. Even if the wound isn't as deep as we first thought, it's still a total of sixty stitches in three different places."

Halfsmiling, Greg replied, "You should have seen the look of my opponent".

"Your opponent?!" 

Greg replied sheepishly, "The glass door to my sister's balcony."

"Greg..."

"I couldn't help it, she had cleaned it too well, I didn't see that it was closed and ran into it at full speed. Apparently there was already a crack and it literally exploded from the shock."

Feeling exhaustion wash over him, Greg added with a sigh, "Can we go home now? "

The doctor took pity on him and nodded.

Greg sighed in relief.

Mycroft asked gently, "Can you walk?" 

Greg grimaced and replied, "With help I should be fine."

Thirty minutes later, supported by Mycroft, Greg made his way as best he could through the door of their apartment.

His lover helped him make himself comfortable on the sofa before sitting down beside him, a worried expression on his face. 

Greg put his hand on Mycroft's knee and said quietly, "I assure you, I'm all right."

Mycroft wrapped his arm gently around Greg's shoulders and held him close before asking quietly, "Why didn't you want me to know? "

Greg dropped his head against Mycroft's chest and replied, "It's not that I didn't want to, but I wanted to tell you so that you wouldn't worry as much as you do now."

Mycroft harrrumpha, "Idiot, I'll always worry, and probably more if you don't tell me things as they are. No secrets, no half-truths, just the facts."

Greg nodded as Mycroft continued, "With you, when it comes to your well-being, your mental or physical health, I don't want to have to use my insight or deductive skills, I'd rather you told me plain and simple."

Greg nodded again, and after a few moments he muttered, "Mycroft."

"Hm?"

"It really hurts. I could use a painkiller."

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his lover's hair and replied, "I'll get you what you need right away."

He gently positioned Greg on the sofa, elevated his injured arm with a pillow, then went to get what his lover needed. He returned a few moments later with a pill and a glass of water, which he handed to Greg. When Greg had swallowed the pill and drunk the glass, Mycroft asked him gently, "Is there anything else you need?"

Greg nodded and replied, "Just one thing."

"Tell me, love?"

"That you take me in your arms."

Mycroft chuckled softly before sitting down next to Greg and wrapping his arms around him, holding him to his chest while being careful with his injured arm.

He planted a kiss on Greg's forehead and asked, "Is everything all right?"

Greg replied, "It's not the best I've ever been, but you're making it better."

He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's chest and added, "And that's not a half-truth."

Mycroft laughed lightly and tightened his arm around his lover, saying softly, "Try to get some sleep. I'll be here if you need anything."

Greg yawned and grumbled, "'kay..."

The backlash and the painkiller soon got the better of him and he fell fast asleep in Mycroft's arms. As for Mycroft, he didn't sleep and watched over his lover's sleep until he woke up again.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade mondays 3.0 : here

Mystrade masterlist here

[etruatcaelum]

[ @nothingbutthenight \\ for cinder]

Cinder isn’t altogether sure what brought her back to the convoluted ramble of Mistral’s lowest slums. Maybe a vague impulse to recapture the clear, burning sense of purpose she’d felt the last time she found herself stranded here, alone. It had been raining then; it’s sleet now, pelting down in miserable formless globs of slush.

Prowling through the deluge with nowhere to go and nothing to do is not how Cinder imagined this would go.

She’d planned to run.

Salem would come after her, and the unsettling mask of magnanimity would end. There would be pain enough to make what happened on the whale seem like a kindness, and Cinder would endure it all. No more pretending. No more games. Just the unvarnished truth Salem thinks she’s too stupid to realize, that Cinder is nothing more to her than a pawn, dredged up and laid bare.

Exactly none of that has happened. The dark glint of connection through her arm has lain quiet and still for eighteen days. Cinder made it to Forever-Fall like she’d planned—and there had been no chase, no hunt, no vindicating struggle against her fate.

Nothing.

Several tense, sleepless, uneventful nights led her to conclude that Salem believes she’s bluffing, and even worse was the uncomfortable realization that she might be. Alone in the wild dark of that forest, Cinder found that she could think of nothing she wanted that wouldn’t lead her right back to Salem. In pursuit of a new world…

Fuck her.

Cinder scowls, kicking disconsolately at a loose paving stone. Slush splatters everywhere. She’s not going to give Salem the satisfaction of crawling back empty-handed. She won’t.

She can’t. She won’t.

The problem is that Salem has the lamp and the staff, Cinder can’t retrieve the crown for her without first going back to Beacon, and with the whole world forewarned and rallying to Vacuo’s defense, she doesn’t like her odds there alone. And all Salem cares about, the only thing she wants, is those damned relics.

Snarling under her breath, Cinder whips around a corner. There has to be something–

Cinder never gets cold, but few other people are willing to brave the slum’s tangled byways in such foul weather; so her eye narrows when she sees another person coming her way, bent against the driving wind.

No one down here is worth robbing, and the stranger doesn’t have the bearing of a huntress. Still, Cinder draws an obsidian knife out of thin air to hold in her palm as they pass. Talons on the one hand, a blade in the other: if the woman recognizes her, she won’t have time to scream for help.

[btsbabe7]

November Prompt 7: Soft

Words: 713 | Pairing: Severus Snape x reader

It’s exceptionally cold this morning, maybe because Severus had left in the middle of the night for a meeting. You hadn’t asked what it was about; though, you were more than curious about your lover’s frequent partings at dawn.

Your eyes flutter open to a ray of sunlight peeking through slips of the heavy, emerald green curtains. The sunlight illuminates a single crack across the ceiling.

With his absence and his blankets doing no justice, you toss them back and shiver towards his makeshift wooden wardrobe in the corner of his room. Severus doesn’t have much, but he never did. It was the trauma. In a sense, it had carried over from childhood or throughout the years of his life in general.

The lesson? Well, it’s simple. You can’t miss what never belonged to you.

So, with the slim pickings in his wardrobe, your palms mull over a thick wool sweater. You’ve never seen him wear it, not even once in the years you’ve been together. The wool is soft and warm against your frigid fingertips and the coolness of the space, so you settle on taking it out. Slowly removing it from the hanger, you turn towards the mirror, eyeing it against you over the nakedness of your body.

Somewhere in the rush, just the night before, you’d lost your own clothes before Severus’ hands and mouth had replaced where they’d been. And you’d look for them, but it’d be of no use. Just knowing Severus, they were probably cleaned by him long after you drifted to sleep in his bed and hanging outside to dry, knowing his need for order in even the simplest of things.

In the stillness of the morning, at least inside, you listen to the scraping of the old maple tree branches brushing against the tiny house. You listen to the whirling of dead and dying leaves spiraling in the wind before coming to a crash against the forest floor. You listen to the howling of the wind bristling through the tops of endless ascending trees.

In the house, you gaze away from the foggy mirror, not foggy from perspiration, but foggy from aging. Your eyes roam over the tattered, brownish black wallpaper. It’s peeling in the corners just a bit, revealing a grayish gold tint underneath. He had covered it all up when he’d moved here, much like you covering yourself in the softness of his sweater.

The wool fabric falls just above your knees and itches slightly against your goose-bumped skin, but you pay no mind now that you’ve been shielded from the cold.

Searching for a bit more warmth, you wander into the kitchen where the same wallpaper is peeling and reach into the cabinet for a mug. You settle with tea at the wooden table, perched in an unvarnished wooden chair. The fingertips of your left hand curl around the mug and your right ones rub into the unfinished carvings in the table top.

You watch the leaves swirling just outside the small paneled window above the old, rusting sink until the steam curling from the mug becomes too much a distraction. Just as you stand to move, the front door swings open, bringing in a gush of the cold that makes your legs tremble, then comes the heat.

“Sev,” you hum, immediately placing the mug on the table to rush towards him.

He tosses his coat on a nearby chair and kicks his shoes off before greeting you. He allows his coolness to melt into your warmth until he’s just warm enough to place his hands on your cheeks.

His eyes fall into your gaze and all the words he wants to say, the words that linger on the tip of his tongue, fall short in the exchange of gazing into each other. It’s like peeking into pieces of each other’s soul. Both your lips tremble, yearning for each other in the realization of it all. The realization being, the two of you are madly in love, no matter how mad love can be.

And with that profound realization, he brings his lips to yours, allowing them to curl against you. You’ve always found so much warmth in his kisses, so much softness there… in his touch, when he is with you.

Please be sure to check out my other latest fics:

⚡︎ November Prompt Challenge (days 1-30)

⚡︎ For You Always - reader x Snape

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Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, but please don’t copy! Written purely for fun :) Please only repost to other socials w/my permission and credit! Reblogging w/credit is fine. Thank you! ♡

[maternity-morningstar]

Lucifer: *using his phone — talking to himself* Okay how do I…?? Oh okay! Like this! And then I just…huzzah! I made my blog….now what should I put?

Welcome to my blog, sinners and saints alike. I'm Lucifer Morningstar, and this is the unvarnished truth of how one wild night during Rutting Season turned my world upside down.

[materassassino]

Ooh, prompts. ^⁠_⁠^ C, SangCheng or NieLan, please!

Ok so, it's more preslash than an actual shippy thing, and it's more the lead-in to respite than actual respite, but... I think it works. Post-canon, anyway.

Minific prompts!

---

C - A moment’s respite

“Working yourself to the bone, as usual.”

Jiang Cheng’s head snaps up from his work, his eye twitching. He glares at the doorway. Nie Huaisang merely waves his fan, slow, almost mocking. The silence lengthens, and Jiang Cheng then realises how much the shadows have also lengthened: the sun is low, the lamps should be lit soon. How long has he been bent over his desk, squinting at accounts and inventories and other banalities of daily sect rule?

Loath as he is to admit weakness in front of Nie Huaisang, he has to rub his eyes. They ache now, freed from their work, and he scowls at the chuckle that elicits from across the room.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, waspish as always. Nie Huaisang snaps his fan shut and bizarrely takes that as some sort of invitation. He flounces across the room and arrays himself decadently on the cushion opposite as if he belongs there, smiling some enigmatic smile that grates on Jiang Cheng’s nerves.

“Can a sect leader not visit a friend?” he asks innocently.

There’s nothing innocent about this man, Jiang Cheng knows now, and that knowledge is cacophonous at the front of his mind. He watches Nie Huaisang like a bird in the nest watches a snake, waiting.

Nie Huaisang stares right back, frowns at what he apparently sees, and sighs. “Jin Ling sent me. He knew you wouldn’t listen to him and he couldn’t think of anyone else who could convince you to cease working yourself to death. He asked me with a politeness I’d never have expected from his before, it was a delight to see. Having friends has done him good.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens, the fist that bears Zidian clenching on the desk. He doesn’t know where to start with that. He couldn’t think of anyone else? Jiang Cheng can think of someone else, but that is precisely a someone he does not want to see, or even acknowledge. He will have to, at some point. But not now, because the thought makes him sick.

Nie Huaisang continues to study him, and his face softens from something distant to concern. Jiang Cheng abhors it, because he doesn’t know whether it is genuine or some bitter act Nie Huaisang plasters on, like everything else was.

“You will drive yourself to qi deviation if you continue like this,” he says, and he sounds imminently practical. Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“What would you care?” he asks, sneering.

He is shocked when, instead of some snivelling platitudes, Nie Huaisang’s face hardens into a disapproving scowl.

“Because you are my friend,” he says. He pauses, tapping his fan on the table. “You are free to distrust me. I fooled you all for a very long time. But if my actions were not sincere would I have travelled all the way from Qinghe to Yunmeng, at the request of a child? What possible ulterior motive would I have?” He leans forward, staring right into Jiang Cheng’s eyes with a gaze that is piercing to the core, sharp and observant. “You are a smart man, Jiang Cheng, but sometimes you can be blisteringly stupid.”

Jiang Cheng’s first instinct is the righteous flare of anger. It makes him pound his fist on the table and half-rise from his seat, expletives crowding in his throat, the crackle of Zidian along his fingers. Nie Huaisang has not even flinched. On the contrary, he looks thoroughly unimpressed. This, Jiang Cheng suddenly realises, is the actual Nie Huaisang. He is being offered the unvarnished truth, no grovelling playact, no feigned ignorance. This is the cunning, no-nonsense Nie Huaisang, the thing he was formed into by loss and betrayal. This is… an offering. It is the same vulnerability Nie Huaisang is asking him to show himself

The air is very still.

Then Nie Huaisang smacks his fan into the palm of his other hand and gets to his feet.

“Come, we shall eat, and drink, and perhaps even enjoy some music if you feel space in your heart for it. Otherwise, we shall simply talk.”

“Music?” Jiang Cheng asks, unconvinced. Still, he’s gotten to his feet, adjusting his robes and brushing off invisible dust. He feels almost… compelled to follow, when he knows perfectly well he should throw Nie Huaisang out and get back to work. But if he looks down at the ledger, he can feel all inclination to continue seep from him, leaving him hollow.

“There is a very accomplished travelling guqin player currently here in Yunmeng. I have heard her skill rivals that of the Lans – no cultivation involved, obviously, just pure musical skill, but I want to hear her for myself.”

Jiang Cheng snorts, something inelegant but somehow sincere. He almost surprises himself.

“There’s your ulterior motive,” he says, trying for accusatory. It comes out, to his own bewilderment, as a joke. Nie Huaisang’s fan snaps open, and he hides a smile behind it. The smile, Jiang Cheng thinks, might actually meet his eyes, and not be a trick of the dying light.

“One can accomplish more than one task at once, Jiang-zongzhu,” he says airily, and leads the way out of Jiang Cheng’s study.