#while moon's was made to be sturdy and practical

[transgenderfivepebbles]

Moon and Sliver design sketches :) They are Bouba and Kiki. to me

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 54: Alexander's Tutor

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December 1815

Despite being wrapped in several layers of wool with hat, gloves, and scarf to match, the winter wind was chilling Lex to the bone. The evening was clear, with a bright moon overhead, and deceptively cold. Lex couldn't fathom why his voice teacher had chosen to hold practice so late in the dead of winter, yet another of his eccentricities. If he weren't one of the finest tutors in the region -- stern but fair and deeply knowledgeable -- Lex would have surely gone elsewhere by now.

But music was his heart's great passion, and he'd already seen such improvement under Master Laurent's tutelage. He really had no choice but to brave the winter and hope that his vocal cords weren't frozen solid by the time he arrived. So he soldiered onward, trying hard not to think about how much more pleasant it would be back in his chambers, curled up by the fire with a good book.

"There you are!"

Lex was suddenly clapped on the back by a strong hand. He turned to look into the grinning face of his close companion Anders. Anders was wearing only a sweater, not even a hat, his unruly mop of blonde hair gleaming in the moonlight. "Aren't you cold?" Lex asked.

"No. I'm made of sturdy stock," he said, laughing. "But you must be cold, seeing as you're bundled up so tight I could barely tell who it was."

"If you ask me, I'm the one who is being sensible," Lex said. "Without a hat, your ears are going to freeze and fall off. What would Master Laurent say if you went deaf?"

"I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't have to hear Thomas's awful squawking right behind me." Anders leaned in to look at Lex's face. "Are your teeth chattering?"

"No," said Lex, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Poor little princeling, can't handle the cold."

"I'm certainly not a princeling."

"A little lordling, then. Don't worry, my lord, if you can't make it to your practice, I'll have to carry you."

"What --" Lex had no time to protest before Anders scooped him up in his arms and began to dash down the street, laughing at the top of his lungs. He couldn't help but cling to Anders's sweater. "Anders! You're going to slip on the ice!"

"And drop my lordling? Never."

"I hope your ears do fall off."

"What a rude thing to say to me, while I hold your very life in my hands!"

Anders looked down at Lex with that beaming smile, and Lex couldn't stop his heart from fluttering. He was a handsome lad, and Lex had been struggling with feelings he'd rather not entertain for some years now. Stunts like this were certainly not helping.

When Lex and Anders arrived at their lesson, cheeks red with cold and laughter, the choir room seemed strangely colder than usual. Master Laurent had a roaring fire in the hearth, as he always did -- it wasn't the temperature that was different, exactly, but the atmosphere. Master Laurent himself was standing behind his podium, busily arranging music sheets. Some of the other young men were huddled in the corner, whispering amongst themselves.

There was a strange man standing near Master Laurent, tall and thin and dressed all in black, with a foreboding nature about him. He was looking at the students with an expression that somehow conveyed both indifference and disdain, and seemed to be the source of the frigid mood. Something about his sharp gaze made Lex feel uneasy -- but thankfully, he barely paid Lex and Anders any mind as they took their places for practice.

"Quiet and take your places. It's time to begin," said Master Laurent, standing up straight. "Today, I've invited… an acquaintance of mine to observe the class, one who also happens to be an excellent music tutor. Now, let's begin our vocal exercises…"

Lex thought it a bit strange that Master Laurent hadn't introduced his acquaintance by name, but that thought was quickly driven from his head as he concentrated solely on his music. He had the finest voice in the choir, and it wasn't mere boastfulness for him to say so -- he had been told by respectable men, even Master Laurent himself, that his voice was unusually clear and arresting, effortlessly capturing a listener's attention with its rich tones. His voice, his skill at the piano, and his carefully curated collection of books were his chief joys in life, and it was easy for him to become lost in the music as he sang, feeling almost driven by a power greater than him.

That is, it was usually easy for him to focus. Tonight, however, he was becoming all too aware that he was being observed. A nervous glance revealed what he suspected -- the stranger in black was no longer regarding the group of boys with detachment. Instead, his gaze was trained on Lex and Lex alone, piercing as an arrow.

Lex swallowed hard and steeled his determination. Well, if this man wanted a performance, he would give him one. He'd show Master Laurent's acquaintance why he was the finest young voice at the university, and make his teacher proud. With confidence backed by talent, he hit every difficult note in the solo, his voice ringing from the rafters and holding the rest of the chorus spellbound.

Finally, practice was over. The stranger finally left his post to whisper something to Master Laurent, and freed from the weight of his gaze, Lex turned to Anders.

"Impressive," said Anders. "I've never heard you sing like that. You performed that solo as if you were possessed by a muse."

"I felt like I had no choice. That strange man was staring at me the entire time."

"Was he? I was trying to ignore him."

"Alexander?" Master Laurent was waving him to the front of the classroom. "A moment of your time before you leave."

"Yes, sir," said Lex. "You go ahead, Anders. I'll catch up to you once I'm done."

As he walked over to Master Laurent, Lex realized that the stranger was already gone.

"I have an exciting opportunity for you, Alexander," said Master Laurent. "One which you shouldn't refuse."

"What is it?"

"My acquaintance was so impressed by your voice that he wants to offer you private vocal lessons."

"I'm flattered, sir, but I already have private lessons with you."

Master Laurent looked pained for some reason. "His talent surpasses my own, I'm afraid. You won't find a finer music tutor in the country. It's one reason why he's so secretive -- he only takes on students of his choosing, and he chooses very few. He told me that your voice surpasses any he's heard in many years."

"It's kind of him to say so."

"…I don't think he's saying it out of kindness," said Master Laurent. "I strongly encourage you to accept the offer. My reputation is on the line."

Something felt wrong about all of this, but Master Laurent always had a way of setting Lex at ease. Besides, what harm could extra vocal lessons do? "…I suppose I don't see why not, if he's as skilled as you say."

"Excellent! Now, just one thing. My acquaintance is very private. He even keeps his name hidden. What's more, if the rest of the chorus learns that you've received an opportunity they have not, it might create bad blood between you. That's why I'm asking you to tell no one about this, not even Anders."

Lex wanted to protest, but truthfully, he knew Anders probably would be jealous. "All right. May I at least write to mother and father about this?"

Master Laurent looked oddly pained. "He really prefers his privacy," he said. "Besides, won't your parents be surprised when they attend the holiday concert and hear your improved voice? Don't you think that would delight them, if they didn't know beforehand?"

Lex nodded slowly. His parents didn't always take his musical talent seriously, preferring if he went into a more practical trade. It would especially be good to impress his father.

"Good, now that that's decided," his teacher said. He took a slip of paper and scrawled an address on it. "Here. It isn't far. Go here tomorrow evening at eight o'clock sharp, and knock three times at the door. Don't be tardy -- he won't accept tardiness. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Lex said, trying to shake off the odd dread that had consumed him.

"Good, good. Run along now."

"Thank you, Master Laurent, and have a good evening."

"Wait!"

His teacher's voice stopped Lex at the door.

"…You're a good student, Alexander. One of the best. You always have been."

What an odd thing to stop Lex to say. After all, he had another lesson with Master Laurent in just two days, and he always praised Lex when he'd done well. "Thank you, sir," he said, putting the slip of paper in his pocket and heading back out into the harsh winter wind.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Thank you for reading this brief interlude into the past. Next, back to Oliver.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

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@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping

[fruitcoops]

Resurrection

Fic O'Ween Day 13: Resurrection, for a continuation of last year's Season of the Witch. Endless love to @noots-fic-fests for another spectacular fest, and of course all the kudos to @lumosinlove for bringing this community together <3 Happy belated Halloween! Thanks for sticking through another year! This fic o'ween was simply a joy to be part of.

There is a house on Lacewing Drive.

This is not that house.

This house is located on Collins Street, a block east of Lacewing Drive. Passerby marvel at its vibrant colors and sturdy bones—friends of the inhabitants joke that it’s simply a gingerbread house, come to life. A street dead-ended by a house so fantastical, it couldn’t possibly be a place people live.

Collins Street is kind enough to divert attention from its (notably odder) neighbor in spite of the creeping vines that continuously attempt to tiptoe across backyard fences. Autumn stretches into being with a yawn and a lazy roll from sun to wind to biting cold, and with it, the earth below Lacewing Drive charges with anticipation. It is the duty of the house on Collins Street to take the brunt of tourist curiosity, and it does so with gusto: peaking eaves, rounded lintels, and statuesque windows draw all wandering eyes while the magic begins to seep forth.

That is not to say there is no real magic outside Lacewing Drive. An argument can (and has) been made that there is more magic on Collins Street, actually, and perhaps the tall dark-haired witch at 126 Lacewing should keep her mouth shut. These beloved arguments frequently go nowhere at all. That does not seem to stop them from happening.

Regardless of presumed magical ratio, November is a quiet month for all. The magic is receding, changing, growing ready for the lumbering of winter and resurrection in the spring. Dormant? Never. Drowsy? Most certainly. The rainy days will start soon enough, then the snow. First frost nibbles the sills every other night. There’s still time for a last harvest before everything goes down, but not much.

November 6th dawns chilly and gray. Lily stretches, yawns, and lazily rolls onto her other side with a mumble of nothing in particular. The window dressings were left open the night before; goosebumps prick her arms, and she burrows down under the burgundy duvet with only a whisper of a shiver.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Hrngerfrng.”

“I never get hangovers. You know this.”

Lily’s grumble is lost in a silky pillowcase. Her hair spills in a loose auburn flood to the top of her shoulders before vanishing under cotton and satin thread. The sudden supercharge of magic takes a toll on her—perhaps not as severe as Remus when the seasons change and the moon hangs heavy, but enough to make her head throb and her mouth go dry with the drain of each ritual. A magical hangover, she had complained the first year they moved to Collins Street. That’s what this is. Someone get me hashbrowns, stat.

James flips to a new page and slides a few inches lower under the blanket. It’s a good morning. A quiet morning. Another Halloween, gone without a hitch. Sirius’ raging birthday party, lighting up the neighborhood long past midnight if not for the layers of diversion spells wrapped around the little cottage. The lull is sweet as fresh chai and warms the belly just as deep. Even the newspaper is quiet today, full of lovely, inconsequential things typed up by Eliot Johannes three doors down. The neighbors feel the roar toward Samhain just like the witches do, though they may not know the reason.

November is the exhale after a two-month gasp for air. James is more than happy to spend the morning in bed, enjoying each moment of it.

Harry will be up soon. Seven years old and likely still riding out the sugar rush bestowed upon him by his aunts, who just don’t know how to put candy bowls out of reach—he’s practically unstoppable like this. Like his mother. James loves them both so dearly.

Lily’s hand emerges from the sheets to flail around. “Jamie,” she rasps. “Baby?”

“He’s asleep.”

“Mm. Coffee?”

“Downstairs,” James laughs, squinting at the ‘Best Rated’ section. “Probably with my glasses.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then peeks out with one sleepy, hopeful green eye. “Get some for me?”

“Glasses? Sure.”

“Coffee.”

“You’re a real monster in the mornings, you know that?”

“November,” she offers by way of explanation. “Need coffee.”

“You have got to start listening to Remus.”

“The day I drink chamomile to make myself feel better is the day I go in the ground forever.”

She can’t see James’ eye roll from her faceplant in downy pillows, but rest assured, dark eyes are undoubtedly rolled. Fond, all the same. James is spellbound by her in every sense except the literal and everyone knows it; neither would change a thing about it. It’s mornings like this that make it count. Sore from dancing on Sirius’ dining room table, buzzed from the tingly residue of Samhain magic, both so pleased to wake up beside one another for the thousandth consecutive day.

They built the house on Collins Street together, the four of them, back when love was muddled and confusing with its deep, deep roots. There’s a touch of them in every paint chip and floorboard. Remus’ rich earth tones, Sirius’ stained glass. James and Lily kept the place once they were all sorted, and as such there isn’t a speck of house left without their signatures. Scorch marks from Lily’s cauldrons and scuff marks from James’ boots. Crayon scars on silk wallpaper and vivid paint alike. Candle wax left so long that it may as well be part of the desk, now, because spirits know the actual holder is too far buried to be found again.

“Jamie.”

“Mhm.”

“Coffee.”

James smiles into ceramic molded by Lily’s own hands. “Yes, my love.”

“Mrs. Gibson tried to gimme some of that pumpkin spice creamer.” Lily manages to sound indignant even boneless and half-asleep. “Can you believe? Out of season?”

“No pumpkin spice,” James promises.

“I know you wouldn’t. Love me too much.”

“Sure do.”

Lily is silent for another handful of seconds. James watches them pass on Sirius’ handmade cuckoo clock. “Don’t want coffee.”

“No?”

She sighs and reaches out with both arms, giving a noise of pure contentment when James sets the mug aside and joins her under the covers. “This,” Lily says on a misty November day where nothing bad can touch them. “This is what I want.”

[msfcatlover]

Moonbeam Cass (Reverse Robins)

As Duke's successor, Cass will of course be iterating on his design. Normally, this would've taken a lot longer to put together (as you've probably noticed, they tend to be multi-day designing marathons.) However, I had a stroke of inspiration last night that I absolutely love, and everything else came together very quickly after that, so let's start the ball rolling with Moonbeam's new helmet...

...a gold-mesh saber mask! Cass wraps the top in cream-colored fabric, so that it's an off-white helmet with a gold mesh bubble in front of her face. She also wears a white neck gaiter under it to further conceal her identity, even when the light does hit the mesh just right for someone to see through it.

I feel like Cass would go back to the demi-cuirass, but she'd change it up; now it's a cream-colored leather piece worn over the brassy/golden chainmail tunic, which obviously goes very well with the new mesh mask.

(This, but in off-white & without the tie. Its job is a little extra protection and displaying Moonbeam's symbol. On a meta level, it also helps visually break things up & keep them interesting.)

The Moonbeam symbol is still an iridescent white circle, but Cass's version is definitely ringed in gold.

The chainmail tunic hangs just past her knees, but splits into multiple panels (3-6, though I'm sure some people would draw it as individual strands, which while not practical, is a hell of a look that I absolutely support!) at the tops of her thighs.

Cass actually wears 2 utility belts, in that complete-fantasy way where they hang at a diagonal to form an X at hip-height. You know, the kind that would just fall off if anyone really tried to wear them that way, but looks so cool in character design?

(I'm so annoyed that I can't find a reference image for this, so here's a super-quick mockup thrown together in GIMP. Thanks to the base maker for saving me here.)

The undersuit Cass wears is white, but is only really visible on her legs; the chainmail is full-sleeve (fitted, rather than hanging loose.) It looks like she's wearing lightly padded white leggings, though they are, of course, made of the most flexible stab- & tear-resistant fabric Bruce could get his hands on.

Continuing down, Cass wears sturdy brown motorcycle boots, probably with a little pocket or two, under the same greaves she briefly wore in Red Robin (2009), but the greaves are the same golden as her mask.

(These boots but maybe a little taller, an example of pockets, and the awesome costume she wore for all of one single issue and then we never saw it again.)

Bouncing back up real quick, I'd give Cass her Orphan pauldrons, specifically this iteration of them where it looks like they have a little gold moon on them, but with a cream background instead of black.

(I want to say she has tiny matching elbow pads worn over the chainmail sleeves, though that's another detail I feel would disappear fast if anyone actually had to draw this costume for a comic. Possibly for good reason, I worry they might be just a little bit too much.)

Finally, Cass's costume is topped off with a pair of gauntlets; the metal is once again that creamy-white (this time with gold edging) and the leather base matches her boots perfectly.

(Source 1, Source 2. You'd be surprised how long I looked to find a style I actually liked for this costume.)

The Moonbeam circle that Duke wore on the back of his hand is now inlaid at the center of Cass's palm, and is rigged to actually work as a flash-weapon if she needs it to. This helps her pretend that Moonbeam still has Duke's powers, acts as a last-resort surprise in a pinch, and I'd like you to imagine her holding out her hand to help someone with a shimmering, inviting glow lighting up her palm.

(I also want you to imagine her standing next to Shadow!Steph, since they're basically a matched set. I was not actively working to have their costumes compliment eachother, since that wasn't the in-universe plan when Cass took up the mantle, but I think they'd compliment eachother nicely.)

That's all for this one. Thank you for your time.

[plaindangan]

Shinigami being a death god has developed a massive crush on our resident assassin Maki. To the point where she's even used her powers to put Maki in several "inappropriate" situations with all kinds of pervy people. In her own words, "down the rabid hole they go!"

Disclaimer: R18 material! If not to your liking then please do not view!

Hey, don't judge her for her tastes!!

Shinigami was a death goddess through and through. Those who can bring mass amounts of death would be someone she'd keep close tabs on!! Besides, was she supposed to just ignore someone with the name of Ultimate Assassin??? Hell no!!! She needed to see if she was...up to snuff~

And up to snuff Maki was - not just in terms of her murderous actions, but also in terms of her cold personality...but also her otned body as well. Those sturdy, well-sculpted legs that could rush down enemies in seconds. Those abs that Shini could swear she could grate souls on! Flashes of that big, toned, ass that always mooned Shini because Maki was such a tease in fighting in such short skirts. Shinigami was totally smitten~

Though, as one can imagine, this being Shinigami, she couldn't help but fuck with Maki for a bit~ Nothing too major, of course, just enough to let the whole world know how lewd and attractive this faux caretaker was.

Sometimes this was on a minor scale, such as pantsing the girl while she was changing in front of a very horny Tenko, Angie and jealous Miu. Shini was practically rubbing herself silly from how the trio's instant reaction to seeing a flash of cheek was to grope, smack and comment on how plump the woman's butt was (and ignoring the threats to their life as well)~

When she was attending Ibuki's death metal concert, Shini couldn't help but pull up Maki's shirt as well - right as the jumbotron was flashing by and showing off Maki's toned core...aaand also her perky nipples, since it was also the day Maki chose not to wear a bra~ Something that riled both crowd and Ibuki up something fierce, and earned an encore from Ibuki that had her sing her hit song: "My Boobs Maybe Smol, But My Sex Drive Is Huge As Shit!!!!" Something that made Maki swear off of concerts ever since.

But, her favorite act was when she decided to possess a certain blue haired geek to insist on Maki wearing an exact copy of Shinigami's outfit while Shini took pictures of her 'for reference and shit'. Of course, Shini had to account for Maki not having godly curves, so she made her dress on the shorter side...the incredibly shorter side~ Enough so that you can barely see her red thong underneath, and was more than getting enough of her sexy thighs (let alone her booty whenever she was forced to twirl around and bend over a bit).

It was a fantastic afternoon that had Maki burned into the goddess' mind...and gave Tsumugi more than enough material to not only make further lewd cosplays, but even sell to rake in the cash that the cosplayer rolling in dough and inadvertently making Maki very much known and respected in the pervier side of the Internet.

...Not that she wanted to be known for this, but when a death goddess has taken this much interest in your life, Maki would gradually find out she didn't have much say in the matter~

[thefivekins]

(banner photography by Neil Burnell)

BLACKSMITHING, ARMOR & CROWNS.

Blacksmithing is a recent art in ThunderKin, with roots tracing back to Star Thunder himself. Star Thunder developed a fascination with fire after one struck the forest, and dedicated his life to learning how to tame it.

The blacksmiths of ThunderKin have a forge just directly outside of camp, situated between two large rocks that are balanced in a way for there to be a hole for smoke in the roof. The atmosphere inside is dark and humid, the only light coming from tamed fires in dug-out holes or scavenged twoleg buckets. Buckets are also used to collect water from the river. Fires are started with rocks (usually found by/in the river) and are sustained with twigs, pine needles, dried moss, and leaves. Anvils are simply large, flat rocks that were brought to the den.

Materials are forged from scavenged metal found and traded around the territories. Occasionally, blacksmiths will also make things out of carefully carved rock or wood. Hammers are made with a rock head, a handle of wood, and lots of ivy, vine, even strips of prey leather, to hold it all together. These hammers are rarely handled by paw; instead, blacksmiths handle them in their jaws with protection. This protection is a device simply known as the hammerjaw; a crafted metal muzzle that can open and close, carefully fitting around the face of the user. There’s also such a thing as blacksmith’s claws, which are paw coverings crafted from metal and lined with prey leather. The claws are dexterous, though extremely sturdy and long, crafted to handle hot materials.

Although a practiced blacksmith should rarely be burning themselves, there’s a culture to be found around it. Any scars mean strength to the blacksmiths; singed fur, dry paw pads, cracked claws are seen as evidence of hard work. The blacksmiths may also purposefully cover themselves in soot, if not already covered from their work; they tend to be extremely proud of their status in the Kins and want to make it known to others.

ARMOR

Armor is crafted and commissioned by the blacksmiths for all Kins for battle, but not every battle has armor. Armor is only to be worn when absolutely necessary, as its creation is a very meticulous process; besides, there are blacksmiths found in only one out of the five Kins. If tensions rise or alliances change, a leader may prohibit access to new armor being commissioned. 

Kin armor is made from scrapmetal, prey leather, vine, and other found materials. All things considered, sets of armor aren’t perfect or entirely beautiful either. The pieces that are made usually cover: claws/paws, face, neck, back, tail; but this is for a full set. Depending on the situation, not every cat will have every piece. Suits of armor are passed down throughout families and can be customized to fit a particular Kin's aesthetic. Accents and other details can be carved or traced into the metal, done by blacksmiths and requested by the commissioner. Animal pelts may also be added.

Beyond that, cats may customize their armor however they please. ShadowKin’s armor is often intertwined with magic-inclined herbs, while other Kins will weave flowers, grasses, and other plants found in their respective territories. In the Greenleaf moons, WindKin will pick wheat and rye from the farmlands and intertwine them in a way so the tops of the plant are sticking out of the armor, like fins or decorative spikes. 

LEADER CROWNS

Another thing the blacksmiths of ThunderKin are commissioned for are decorative crowns worn by the leaders of each Kin. They are important, but not worn often, reserved for Gatherings and other important occasions. These crowns are almost as old as the Kin founders, passed down to the next in line and refurbished when needed. Below are descriptions of what the respective leader crowns look like:

THUNDERKIN - Made from interwoven twigs with a pair of young roe deer antlers in the middle, positioned so they stick out between the ears of the wearer.

WINDKIN - Made from woven heather, gorse, and wheat.

SHADOWKIN - A thorny crown decorated with hanging willow, elm leaves, and lavender.

RIVERKIN - Carefully carved driftwood woven together with reeds and sedge, decorated with marsh marigolds; a shiny stone is found in the front, stuck between the wood.

SKYKIN - A crown of interwoven twigs, decorated with dandelions and covered with moss; hedgehog spines are stuck in the moss as decoration (and to keep it in place).

[dyxtd21]

Green Tourmaline aesthetic moodboard!!

Green Tourmaline:

Appearance: Green Tourmaline stands tall and proud, his vibrant olive green coloration marking him as a figure of resilience and hope. His skin, clothes, eyes, and hair all share a rich olive green hue, reminiscent of verdant forests and fertile fields. His gemstone, a round-cut jewel, is prominently set on his forehead, symbolizing his journey from bondage to heroism.

Attire: Green Tourmaline's attire combines practicality with subtle hints of his heroic status. He wears a well-crafted leather jerkin, dyed olive green and reinforced with olive green metal studs for added protection. The jerkin is fitted to his muscular frame, allowing for freedom of movement while providing adequate defense. Beneath the jerkin, he sports a long-sleeved, light linen shirt in a slightly lighter olive green, offering comfort and breathability.

His trousers are made of durable, dark olive green fabric, reinforced at the knees and thighs for added durability. They are tucked into knee-high, sturdy olive green leather boots with green laces. The boots are designed for both combat and travel, with thick soles to withstand rough terrain.

Over his shoulders, Green Tourmaline wears a dark olive green, hooded cloak that reaches his calves. The cloak is fastened with an olive green brooch in the shape of a crescent moon, symbolizing his mysterious and strong nature and demeanor. The cloak can be drawn up to conceal his face, adding an element of mystery and providing additional protection against the elements.

He accessorizes with an olive green leather belt, from which hang various pouches containing essential tools and supplies. A small, intricately carved dagger is sheathed at his side, a weapon that doubles as a tool for everyday tasks. His hands are protected by fingerless olive green leather gloves, providing grip and dexterity without sacrificing protection.

Features: Green Tourmaline’s features are rugged and determined. His face is framed by tousled olive green hair that falls just past his shoulders, giving him a wild and untamed appearance. His eyes, a deeper shade of olive green, are piercing and filled with a steely resolve.

His gemstone, set in the center of his forehead, gleams with an inner light, symbolizing his inner strength and the clarity of his purpose. Scars and marks on his arms and face tell the story of his struggles and battles, each one a badge of honor.

Personality: Green Tourmaline is a figure of unwavering determination and unyielding spirit. His experiences as a slave have forged him into a hero who fights for justice and freedom. He is fiercely protective of the downtrodden and oppressed, always ready to lend his strength to those in need.

Despite his tough exterior, Green Tourmaline possesses a deep sense of compassion and empathy. He understands suffering and hardship and is driven by a desire to make the world a better place. His leadership qualities are natural, inspiring others to follow him and believe in his cause.

He is also resourceful and cunning, able to think on his feet and adapt to changing circumstances. His intelligence and strategic mind have helped him outwit enemies and overcome obstacles, earning him respect and admiration from those who know him.

[aikuutv]

Under Stars

Tagging – @anzepanpan | @sophiethewitch1 | @effulgentfireflies | @mcdonaldsnumberone

Gender neutral reader (they/them)  

Warning – none 

The bass felt right in Kurona's hand. The atmosphere around the crowd was electrifying and rowdy. Kurona’s fellow members of the band were practically feeding from it. He could tell Isagi was getting hyped by the riffs he belted out from his guitar on his right. Yukimiya was farther away from him but the thunderous chords he strummed made him feel surrounded. Not to mention Kunigami, he was practically bashing in the drum kits. He was afraid that all the backup sticks were gonna end up broken by the next set. 

Sweat was forming at his brow from the lights of blue and purple illuminated his band members. It was his turn to choose what color scheme was going to be for tonight’s show and he wanted them to be reminiscent of space, to which made Isagi and Kunigami groan slightly; Yukimiya was more supportive of his choices.

As he sang back vocals with his lip chain moving to the rhythms, fingers moving by memory to the chords of tonight's current song, ‘Planet Hotline’.

Everything was going well. Everything was doing good: so…why weren't you there? 

All that filled Kurona's mind was looking for you in the crowd that filled the rented venue. Where are they? 

He scanned the people most noticeable out front. Many were singing along to the song, some were dancing, a pair of two were straight up making out and one was recording the band performing with their phone, but you were nowhere. 

Did you get held up at work? Did some sort of family emergency come up and you had to help? 

...Did you decide the show wasn’t worth going too…? 

As the song ends, Isagi announced they were going to take a small break for water and equipment check to the audience’s chattering protests. Yukimiya, on his mic, reminded the crowd it would only be 20 minutes until the next set with the kind reminder to hydrate, use the washroom, and eat a snack while they were out. Fans bursted out in shouts when Yuki’s dazzling smile was directed towards them.

His mind only could think about texting you, calling you to see if you were okay, questioning about what happened that you hadn't been to the concert he was (secretly) excited to play for with his band. To play for you.

Before entering the backroom with his group, Kurona dropped to one knee to retie a loose boot lace, his 1460 slip resistant steel toe Doc Martens. Reliable and sturdy for standing hours on a humid stage. Glancing at the little charm of the constellation of Andromeda ‘The Galactic Rose' clipped to the back of his boots why he let you put it there was still debatable, Kurona thought of the explanation of why you chose this specific charm from an Etsy store you randomly found in his librarian job.

—

"Did you know that when galaxies come too close together, their mutual gravitational pulls drag at their shape, pulling them out of true?" 

Kurona, who was putting away returned books back to their rightful shelves, blinked a few times at the sudden explanation, "No, I did not know that." You handed him some non-fiction books from the rolling cart which he quickly grabbed from you, his callous hands brushing against your supple ones. 

"Well, guess what? This is for you–wait give me a second…" You quickly grabbed your bag to pull out the so-called ‘this’, which seemed to be giving you quite the frown in concentration. 

Realizing that it would take a while for you to search for whatever you had in that bag, Kurona slipped off his reading glasses to clean the lenses. I should really do that more often… 

His glasses had thin, gold, metal framing with a matching golden chain of stars with a set of the sun and moon to complete the theme. Readjusting his glasses back to the bridge of his indented nose and looking back at you, all that was thrusted towards him was an acrylic keychain of a galaxy that was similar to a rose. 

He admitted it was a beautiful piece of art. All of it had soft swirls of blue and pink and hints of brown in the middle, some shining stars dotted around; it really looked like a rose. "It’s pretty. Why did you get me this?" 

At his words you seemed to become flustered, eyes scanning the books, occupying the shelves and your focus on him, "W-well I just–that...we’re close and all, and reading about how these two galaxies had their mutual gravity so out of place their entire being gets reformed in a way...I thought it was like you and me in a way..." 

Cute. So cute. You were the cutest you've ever been to him right there in the non-fiction area. 

As if you are a blackhole consuming everything in its touch, Kurona was pulled into you. His hands reach to cradle your head, his lips touching yours in an attempt to thank you in ways he could never say with words. 

His starlight. His sundrop. His moonbeam. The reason the earth pulls and waves tide. Venus with her beauty and scorching heat. You blind him and burn him and all he would do is pull you closer. Hand in hand with your hair and your charm. 

—

Kurona felt a bit warmer at the memory, finishing his lace before he could think about how you weren't at most of the concert. They really didn’t show up…

His hands opening the backstage door, two things immediately came to mind. One, the crisp air conditioning that assaulted his sweating body. Two, the body that had thrown themselves onto his sweaty one.

'I'm so so so soooo sorry I'm late!! There was an emergency at work because some lady wanted a non-caffeinated drink even though she ordered a latte which does have caffeine in it which she yelled for and a traffic jam happened while I was riding the bus the way here but I saw that I was running really late and was missing out on your concert so I told the bus driver to stop and BOOKED it on my life to the hall! So I ran all the way here, showed security my backstage you generously gave me and I've been waiting for you since! Man, you feel so sweaty, there's some towels over on the cou–mhmmp–!" 

His mind made no sense anymore. His brain has been eviscerated by a flaming meteoroid, his body overeating like the molten core of the earth. The idea that you cared so much about his show you ran for him? The idea itself was like the possibility of a supernova and yet—you came, you came. You came.

You didn’t ditch him…

The kiss Kurona pulled you in for could only be described as desperate. Lips moving along one another in ways only lovers could. Eventually both of you had to pull away because of the oxygen. Your lungs missed oxygen too much, which Kurona huffed, “I’m glad you came…thought you would just go home…” At his words you cradled his face to yours, foreheads aligned and breaths shared, “What? Never! I could never miss the Kurona Ranze playing in his own concert!” 

That made Kurona chuckle, “Yes my concert for me and me alone and definitely not for a band which usually consists of a guitarist, drummer, even a tambourine if the band feels so inclined”

Now pouting, you turned your body away from Kurona’s teasing smile and crinkled eyes while his arms trapped your body with his swaying lightly to an non-existent rhythm, now sitting on the tilted floor while the chatter of the crowd outside the room served as white noise. 

"Woooooow just for that I’m leaving. I will start a hate account for you on twitter and spread hateful messages of how mean you are and that you bite the end of your pencils.” Now Kurona laughed at you, the vibrations sending your body a telephonic message to laugh along with him. 

"Ranze, do you want to get off the floor now? As much as I love being in your lap, I don’t think it's recommended to have your ass on a stone cold floor. No, wait, this is a public floor, what if it's dirty..." 

All Kurona did was squeeze you in response, burying his nose into the nape of your neck that did nothing but send trembles along your spine. 'Just wanna stay like this for a little bit longer..." 

Soon after you and Kurona simply leaned against each other, like galaxies pulled to one another out of true, like the planets pulled to the sun, like stars scattered in the solar system. Kurona couldn’t have doubted this moment you would always be there, his Galactic Rose.

[onyxedskies]

lucina/inigo fluff? how about this prompt: ❝ you're not alone. you'll never be alone. not as long as i'm here. ❞

hi var ily tysm

word count: 1004

The sky was pretty.

Lucina sat perched in a tree, leaning against the trunk with one leg dangling off the branch as she listened to birdsong and the sound of children playing in the market not far off. The setting sun painted the clouds a whole host of colors–pinks and oranges and purples that part of her had once resigned herself to never seeing again, the sun and its art hidden away by thick clouds of magic and ash.

She let the thoughts of Grima come and go idly, knowing that while the damage he did was real, it was in the past. In her past. She knew she wouldn't have to worry. Not now. Not ever again.

She closed her eyes as she tilted her head back, enjoying the warm wind that ruffled the leaves and her dress. She could smell honeysuckle and citrus on the breeze, and she knew if she turned her head slightly she would be able to see Father and Aunt Lissa eating oranges in the orchard, no doubt while Owain and Gerome attempted to hide the way they practically clung to the fence with the flowers and sucked the sweet nectar from them when they thought they wouldn't be spotted. She chuckled quietly to herself as she imagined it.

How wonderful it had been, when she realized flowers still grew in this world. When she realized anything still grew in this world, other than the mosses and mushrooms that preferred a shady atmosphere.

She opened her eyes when she heard rustling, languidly tilting her head and smiling when she realized that it was just Inigo, climbing up the tree to sit by her side. He looked up at her and offered a smile, the little, bashful one that only she was ever privy to. It made something warm bubble in her chest, as though he'd managed to capture sunlight and put it directly where her heart should be. (She had no doubt that if she asked, he'd find a way to do exactly that.)

"Hi, love," she said, smiling and breathless as the sun caught his hair at just the right angle, sending beautiful ripples of orange flame across the pink. Warm brown eyes smiled back at her, coming up beside her as he situated himself on a branch that was slightly lower but sturdy on the same.

"Hello, my star," he replied, and Lucina felt herself blush. She wondered if she'd ever get accustomed to the nickname, the idea behind it all. She found herself hoping that every time it was just as novel, just as special, as it was now. It was a feeling she knew she'd always cherish.

Lucina eyed the other branch for a moment, determing how thick it was the further out it went, before adjusting herself and managing to climb around, situating herself next to him. He chuckled at her antics, kissing her cheek as she sat next to him before resting his head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around him, leaning her head atop his with a smile.

"Any reason you came up here?" she murmured, smiling at the puff of air she felt on her neck in response.

"Just didn't want to be alone," Inigo replied, and Lucina tightened her grip on him.

"You're not alone," she said. "You'll never be alone. Not as long as I'm here."

She felt him smile against the skin of her shoulder, something broad but genuine, and he relaxed even more into her grip. "I know," he said, and Lucina smiled.

They sat like that, facing west as they watched the sun dip below the horizon. Inigo's breathing was deep and even, but she knew he wasn't asleep. He wouldn't be, not until long after the moon had reached his peak and the stars twinkled brightly in the sky, immortalizing the stories that Owain and Inigo alike had spun for her since their youth (the ones she pretended not to remember if only to see the joy in their eyes when they got to explain it again).

"I can't wait to marry you," Inigo murmured eventually, as the first stars made their light known. Lucina had no doubt that seeing them had sparked the thought, but her face still heated as she remembered the ring on her finger, the weight of it familiar and novel all at once.

"And I you," Lucina replied. She pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, and he tiled his head to do the same to the bottom of her jaw.

She shuffled around a little, leaning her back up against the tree, and Inigo followed, leaning back against her when she gestured for him too. They could better see the sky, this way, as dew began to form on the leaves and the night grew slightly colder around them.

Lucina drew idle patterns into the fabric of Inigo's shirt, and he began to mumble legends she had heard again and again yet found herself never tiring of, the melodies of his words carrying comfort and familiarity with them. His voice was rich and smooth and him, and Lucina thought that if he told her anything in that voice she would find herself enamored.

He was her strength. But he was also her weakness, she had come to realize. He gave her extra shields, extra muscle, extra speed. But with that, he gave her a place to let it all down, to shed off the mask and just be her. Let her be his star. And she knew he felt the same, could see it in the way his eyes became guarded and his shoulders became tense when others were around, but how they relaxed so quickly wen it was just them, just Lucina calling him her strength, her sun.

And as he rambled on about the legends associated with different constellations, as she traced each one out on his shoulder, his chest, his stomach, she decided that this was the life that she wanted to keep.

[pyro-the-kin]

Outer Wilds - Protagonist

Short one. Fun little worldbuilding too.

On me:

Young, barely an adult.

A bit over-enthusiastic at the beginning, eager to start my career as an explorer.

I was young at the highest point of space exploration, when the astronauts were exploring and mapping our solar system. So I was raised with constant news and discoveries, which ignited my love for it.

On Hearthians:

Unlike the game, there were more villages spread through Timber Hearth, of various sizes. But ours was the first and the biggest, and where all space exploration started from.

Our technology was of a low level but we advanced quickly every day, learning a lot from the Nomai. Despite many living in small wooden houses, we built and kept stone buildings, often adapting from Nomai ruins.

Our wood was sturdy and durable, at least from certain trees we cultivated for such means. Most of it was used for our spaceships and structural parts in the villages, but was rare as it was hard to grow and even harder to cut. Most things were made with softer and more practical woods.

Although we had mines ourselves we used the old Nomai structures as a starting point 

We really didn't know the meaning of violence, I mean our species was extremely pacifist and we never had much trouble between ourselves. So there was never the need for violence.

We had farming and animal keeping. I remember some sort of small and stocky animal that looked like a sheep, with thick fur that we used for clothing. But most of our food was from farming, or fishing. We also kept small birds as pets.

On the Nomai:

Our language wasn't gendered, so translating Nomai text always had errors as theirs had gendered words. So we could see differences between two different words, despite being translated as one.

There were works in an effort to depict how they looked from their bones, but we always had trouble with soft parts. Finding statues and drawings actually helped solve that issue.

We didn't know a lot, unfortunately most of their culture and traditions had been lost. But architectural styles, technology and knowledge on space travel remained, alongside with new knowledge I collected with the translation tool.

Scenes and events:

Dying the first time. It was purely an accident. I had traveled to the moon, and did all my research and conversation there. From that point of view I saw the Nomai ruins in Timber Hearth, and set out to travel there. I landed and started exploring the mines, jumping from slope to slope, only the flashlight to illuminate the darkness and occasionally stopping to check for ghost matter. But I didn't expect the ground to fall beneath my feet, plunging me into the abyss. I survived the fall, hitting the jetpack at the very last instant, but before I could react I felt that burning, the last thing I remember is hitting the jetpack while grabbing the camera in an attempt to escape. Didn't even feel my death, at a certain point the burning got so intense it seemed to just disappear.

I woke up in shock, but as I looked around I deemed it just a dream. Mentioned that supposed dream to Slate, they just laughed and patted my back, saying something to ease my nerves. But still, when I approached Hornfels to get the codes, it was the same exact line from my supposed dream.

I think my second death happened in Brittle Hollow. I was exploring the surface, trying to uncover where Riebeck was, when the ground fell beneath my feet, plunging me into the black hole below. Being sucked into it felt almost like a deep dive, and I found myself on the other side of the wormhole. But from my HUD I saw the ship nearby, and having enough fuel to reach it I set for it. I entered and buckled off, ready to fly again when I saw through the window, that deep red sun. The thermometer was pointing to higher and higher temperatures, until it simply stopped working. That moment was when I saw the white, that rumbling noise, and the approaching hell. But I was at some distance, and there was nothing I could do to avoid it but simply waiting, hands having long left the controls.

When I woke up again, I needed time to truly realize what was going on. But still I carried on, went to the observatory and searched everything I could on supernovas. Not much there, but all pointed to being way too soon for it to happen.

There came a point where I didn't need to see the sun to know it was going to happen soon. Even in the darkest caves beneath a planet, I would feel that chill through my skin, the deep rumble that defied the notion of space not having sound, and that dread feeling. So I simply breathed in and carried on my tasks, simply waiting for the white and the heat. Honestly it didn't even hurt, the white and the end always came up before the heat could really hurt.

Every time I went to the Hourglass Twins, I made sure to watch the sun carefully. When it started heating and decreasing in size, I often would kill myself in some quick way, usually by puncturing the suit, so as to avoid the extreme heat. Being that close to the sun meant that I would experience the heat of that event, and I really hated it, the heat took too long to kill me and was extremely painful.

One time in Giant's Deep, I fell when trying to reach a slope into the water. But before I could reach land again, a tornado snatched the island away. I knew my ship was safe so tried to swim to where I estimated the island would land, only to look up as it was falling right over me, killing me instantly.

In Dark Bramble, exploring the strange places, I followed the white lights, only to see the anglerfish too late as it moved to eat me. The second time, I brought my ship to make travelling easier, but had to leave to repair a part of the cockpit. I thought I was safe, with enough distance from the giant fishes, only to look up from my job and see the massive mouth encroaching around me.

Took many attempts to reach the skeleton in Dark Bramble, and more than once I reached it with barely enough time to talk with Feldspat and explore. I asked them about the statue’s eyes being open. I really wanted them to be aware of the loop.

Gabbro was a breath of relief. They were someone I could talk to freely, they always remembered our conversations and offered tips on what to do next. I shared my discoveries and investigations with them, both eager to figure a way out. They were kinda my notebook.

Gabbro would get really excited to hear my tales of the Stranger's inhabitants, often musing alongside me. They wanted me to bring their music instruments to play.

Until the very last moment at the Eye, I truly thought I would manage to get out of this situation. I hoped that I would be able to stop the supernova, to rescue all travellers, and to return home. I hoped that life could go on. But staying at that campfire, I finally realized everything. So I looked one last time at all travellers and those I met during my journey, my friends, crying for the lives that were lost, for the life we could've had.

And I promised them we would meet again. In other life, in other universe.

I was there, in the empty void, but it wasn't the void of space I knew off, something entirely different. And I saw it, a new beginning, a new Big Bang. And I've felt it, an old universe being destroyed and from its ashes a new one being born. I felt not only my physical body but every particle, every single element as it was born into existence. I felt as it drifted into every corner of existence, as it consumed my physical body and it became part of the universe, of everything. How I became part of the universe. I wasn't just assisting creation, I was becoming creation. To become nothing and everything, to be the flame that lights the candle into a new reality, to become every single element, every single tiny part of that new universe, to be one with the universe. And one day, perhaps, meet my friends again. In another life, in another story. As that universal cycle would again come to an ending, and from its ashes a new story begin.

[moonkidshome]

Discovering the Best Kids Furniture in Abu Dhabi for Toddlers: Combining Style and Function by MoonKids

When it comes to designing a perfect space for your toddler, choosing the right furniture is key. Not only does it need to be functional, but it also needs to reflect the aesthetics of your home while ensuring your child's comfort and safety.

In Abu Dhabi, where modern living meets family-focused environments, parents are increasingly turning to MoonKids for stylish, functional, and durable kids' furniture. MoonKids has established itself as a leading name in kids furniture in Abu Dhabi, offering designs that are innovative, practical, and ideal for toddlers.

The Importance of Style and Functionality

As any parent knows, toddlers grow quickly, and their needs evolve just as fast. The furniture you select for their bedroom or play area needs to keep up with their development. This is where MoonKids truly excels. They understand that kids furniture Abu Dhabi shoppers are looking for pieces that combine style with the functionality required for active, growing children.

From sleek, modern toddler beds to colorful storage solutions, MoonKids ensures that every piece is designed with the highest quality materials, built to last, and easy to maintain. These pieces offer more than just aesthetics—they’re made to encourage creativity and independence, which are critical to your toddler's early development.

What Sets MoonKids Apart?

Parents looking for kids furniture in Abu Dhabi often face a challenge: finding furniture that is safe for toddlers while still fitting into their home's design. MoonKids specializes in creating pieces that check both boxes. Here’s why MoonKids stands out:

1. Safety-First Approach:

Each piece is designed with rounded edges, non-toxic finishes, and sturdy construction to ensure your toddler’s safety.

2. Customizable Designs:

MoonKids offers customizable options that allow parents to choose colors and themes that best match their home decor, making it easy to blend style and functionality.

3. Practicality Meets Playfulness:

From beds that double as play zones to desks that inspire creativity, MoonKids ensures that your toddler’s room becomes a space for both learning and fun.

4. Locally Available:

Whether you’re shopping for play tables, storage units, or soft play accessories, MoonKids provides a variety of options for those searching for kids furniture Abu Dhabi that is both locally available and high in quality.

🌐Website URL: https://moonkids.ae/

Business Name: Moon Kids Home

🏢PO Box, 52214, ICON Tower, Al Thanyah First, Dubai, UAE

💬Contact Us +971-2650-1290

✉️Email: contact@moonkids.ae

[koshayogaco]

Elevate Your Practice: The Essential Role of Yoga Blocks

Yoga is a journey of self-discovery, a path toward inner peace, strength, and flexibility. While it's often associated with graceful poses and serene meditation, the reality is that yoga can be challenging, especially for beginners or those working through physical limitations. That's where yoga blocks come in. In this blog post, we'll explore the indispensable role of yoga blocks in enhancing your practice and deepening your connection with body and mind.

Yoga blocks are simple yet powerful tools that can transform your yoga practice from good to great. Made from sturdy foam, cork, or bamboo, these lightweight props provide support, stability, and alignment assistance, helping you achieve proper form and alignment in a variety of poses.

One of the primary functions of yoga blocks is to bring the ground closer to you, making poses more accessible, especially for those with tight muscles or limited flexibility. For example, in standing poses like Triangle or Half Moon, placing a block under your hand can help lengthen the spine and create space in the body, allowing you to experience the full benefits of the pose without straining or overstretching.

Yoga blocks are also invaluable for deepening stretches and improving flexibility. By using blocks to elevate the floor in seated or lying postures, you can gradually increase your range of motion and release tension in tight muscles. Whether you're working on hip openers, backbends, or forward folds, yoga blocks provide the support you need to safely explore your edge and progress in your practice.

But perhaps the most underrated benefit of yoga blocks is their ability to cultivate mindfulness and body awareness. As you use blocks to support and stabilize your body in various poses, you become more attuned to your breath, sensations, and alignment, creating a deeper sense of presence and connection with each moment. This mindfulness not only enhances the quality of your practice but also carries over into your everyday life, helping you navigate challenges with grace and equanimity.

When choosing yoga blocks, it's essential to consider factors such as size, material, and density. Standard-sized blocks are versatile and suitable for most practitioners, while larger or smaller blocks may better accommodate individual needs or preferences. Cork blocks offer excellent grip and stability, while foam blocks are lightweight and budget-friendly. Ultimately, the best yoga blocks are the ones that feel comfortable and supportive for you.

In conclusion, yoga blocks are more than just props; they're catalysts for transformation and growth on and off the mat. Whether you're a beginner seeking support or an experienced yogi looking to deepen your practice, incorporating yoga blocks into your routine can enhance your alignment, flexibility, and mindfulness, empowering you to reach new heights of health, happiness, and harmony. So why wait? Elevate your practice with yoga blocks today and unlock the full potential of your yoga journey.

[targaryen-dynasty]

OBJECT OF DESIRE (1/4)

Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

With your father being so insistent for you to marry some lord he’ll choose and your refusal of it, you’re more than interested in entertaining another option. And it would be stupid of you to let the idea of elopement with a man who could actually give you some power slip from your fingers.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dry humping, thigh riding, grinding

WORDS: 6 K

NOTES: It's based on a request I've received about Aemond being obsessed with Daemon's daughter. There's more to this story you'll find out in the future. Thank you for @happilyhertale for beta reading this (hdgdl) 🫶

A raven from King’s Landing, bidding for you to come to the capital, has reached Runestone two moons ago, though no distinct reason was stated in the explicit request. The question whether Ser Gerold should have gotten you ready to send you off never has never arisen with the signature of your father below, although you could spot a flicker of hesitation cross his features back when he has read the letter. 

But there was no way he was going to deny Daemon Targaryen; not if he wanted Runestone to last longer, and not be burned down by the merciless flames of his dragon, Caraxes. 

You can hardly remember the Blood Wyrm, except for his sparse roar and lean frame, but the stories are enough to know that he very much resembles his rider and his restless and chaotic temperament. That makes you three. 

Even less you can remember the city whose gates you’ve just passed. 

That’s because you’ve been to King’s Landing only once before, brought by your father to be presented to the King before he left you to grow up as a ward and the future Lady of Runestone alongside your mother’s cousin. And being but a moon's turn old back then, you were far too young to remember anything; not the short ride on the back of his dragon in honor of the king’s approval, and certainly not the people that had smothered you in attention afterwards.

The stench of the capital hangs thick in the air when the carriage makes its way past the city’s guards, prompting you to scrunch your nose in disgust. Your handmaids are more practiced at not letting their disgust show, and try to occupy their minds by straightening the skirts and fixing the clasps of your dress. 

You would have liked to appear at the Red Keep in the bronzish riding attire you’ve worn back when Ser Gerold plucked you off your horse after your attempt to prolong the departure; riding at the front of your entourage and making a statement. But your father has requested the change of your attire beforehand, even going as far as sending an envoy with the dress for you to get it fitted before the five-and-twenty day long travel. 

It has made your father’s aversion to everything you stand for more than apparent, considering the dress rather matches the attire of House Targaryen than House Royce. But half of his blood also flows through your veins, so you choose to silently swallow the obvious offense, having heard of it more often than not by Ser Gerold and the staff. 

And the dress isn’t too bad, after all. It’s not something you would have picked out yourself, but there definitely could be far worse options. It’s simple, not made out of silk but something equally expensive, and more sturdy. The fabric is a softer, dark gray with dragon scale pieces running along the shoulders, the forearms and the collar. The clasps securing the belt around your waist and the cuffs are metal findings that resemble dragon feet, if you’d have to guess, and make it obvious that you’re a dragon in all but name. 

The closer you get to the Red Keep, the more nervous your maids become. Taming your tousled waves hasn’t been an easy task, barely mastered by pulling them back into a half-up-half down hairstyle to keep the rest of your tresses open while the majority stays out of your face, yet Ysilla keeps on finding one loose strand after the other to smoothen out. 

“That is enough, Ysilla. There can be hardly any more hair left for you to comb,” you say, gently swatting the hand of the older maid away. 

She looks at you with shy eyes. “Y-Yes, you’re quite correct, my lady,” she gulps, lowering her hand and sitting back in her seat.

You sigh, and any anger you’ve felt before upon being summoned into the dragon’s lair vanishes, replaced by anxiety. “Believe me, I would love to be back at Runestone just as much as you do, alas, it is not possible.”

The nod she gives you has you setting your jaw, your gaze briefly flitting to the stoney, gray dragon egg that lays in your lap. It’s a solace, and although the egg hasn’t hatched, it makes you aware that a part of you indeed belongs to the strangers that so eagerly expect your arrival. 

“My lady, may I speak freely?” Ysilla eventually asks, catching your attention. 

“You may,” you affirm. 

“Do you have any idea why the Prince Daemon has requested your presence in King’s Landing?”

Taking in a deep breath, you shrug your shoulders. “I do, and I am certain you do as well, but we have yet to find out if our stay will be a pleasant one or not.”

She hesitantly reaches out to place a hand on your thigh, squeezing it gently in a reassuring manner, and flashes you an apologetic gaze. There are a few years separating the two of you, but your maid has been nothing if not your closest advisor and your only, true friend. 

“It is daunting, yes,” you mumble with a smile that hardly reaches your eyes. 

You peek out of the carriage’s window as it comes to a halt a little roughly, causing one of your maids to stumble to the side with a loud gasp, and you bite your tongue to keep quiet.

All of the sudden, you’re well aware that you’ve reached your destination, and that you’ll probably be face to face with the man that has forced this misery on you in a matter of minutes. 

Not knowing what to expect, you silently exit the carriage the moment you hear the guard announce your arrival, handing the egg over to the one you trusted most, Ysilla, instructing her to place it in a warm spot in your chambers. 

She has also given you a detailed lecture of who’s most likely to greet you and how to make them out. So, you know that it’s Alicent Hightower and her father Otto standing at the front of the party, followed closely by her four children. The lack of the King leaves you wondering if he has to attend more important matters than greet the future Lady of Runestone and her entourage, although it takes a good bit of pressure from your shoulders. 

A bit away from the crowd, lingering in the background and close to the castle’s entrance, is none other than your father, and though it has been a few moons, or rather years, since you’ve seen him last, he has not aged a day. 

You find his gaze, and as quickly as the anger arises, it subsides, the smooth voice of Alicent catching your attention. “Lady Y/N,” she says, and it takes a moment for your lilac eyes to dart from your father’s to her hazel ones. There is a soft smile on her lips, a stark contrast to the stoic expressions of everyone around her. “It is lovely to see you again. It’s been years since we have seen you last.”

Bobbing a small curtsy, you return her smile and calm your fluttering nerves by merely focusing on her. “It’s a pleasure to have received the invitation, Your Grace,” you blatantly lie, a smile matching hers draped over your features. “I would say that I am more than pleased to be here again, but alas, I do not have any recollection of the few days I have spent in King’s Landing.” It’s a light-hearted joke, and with the way her eyes wrinkle you know she’s not cross with you. 

“How was your journey from Runestone, my dear?”

“Long and tiresome, to be sure,” you say with a chuckle. “It felt endless, but when I saw the gates of the castle come into view it was a sigh of relief, I can definitely say.”

There follow a few more chuckles at your words, and it’s obvious that more than one member of House Targaryen is charmed by you and your soft humor. If only they’d truly know you, how chaotic you can become. 

After inviting you to join her to break your fast in the morrow, the queen steps aside to make room for the other individuals to greet you. Something of the soft-spoken and calm demeanor of Helaena rubs off on you as she announces her participation in the breaking of the fast, and you momentarily forget that there are more important matters that await you. 

Aemond and Aegon have been standing silently in the back, giving way to Helaena and Daeron, and just watch the scene play out without really paying you any mind. 

That is, until King Viserys’ second son takes the opportunity to step forward, studying you for a moment before you’re allowed to hear his voice for the first time. The quiet, observing demeanor has been replaced by an edge of arrogance, as if something in him has been stirred. 

“Lady Y/N, I do not believe we have been introduced before. I am Prince Aemond Targaryen. ‘Tis a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” 

Keeping your tone polite and formal, you nod your head once. “Indeed we have not,” you say, “for you have not been much older than me when my father brought me here to receive the King‘s blessings. But it truly is a pleasure to finally meet you, Prince Aemond.”

A chill runs down your spine as his eye roams your form from top to bottom one more time, and you’re certain you see his tongue wet his lips briefly. “Oh, I’m sure we would have gotten along just swimmingly as children,” he says in a playful tone. 

You look to the side curtly, nervous to have him staring at you so openly without shame. You’re used to men staring at you like that, since you have been raised around the men of the Vale your whole life with most of them thinking women were nothing more than broodmares and possessions to be traded at will, but it’s different when it’s a prince whose intentions aren’t quite clear to you. Yet. 

“I have no doubt we would have, Prince Aemond,” you reply, “... perhaps we still will.”

You can see him trying to fight his lips from pulling into a smirk. “I would love nothing more than to put that to the test, my lady.” 

The true meaning of his words has you pressing your lips into a thin line, a slight blush covering the apples of your cheeks. But before you can say anything in return, you spot your father making his way through the crowd of his relatives, bringing a hand to his nephew’s shoulder and pulling him back slightly as if he means to bring him down to Earth again. “Do not forget your manners,” he rasps, not mincing his words. 

Raising a hand, Daemon calls for a guard without so much regarding you. “Bring my daughter to her chambers, so she can settle into her temporary home.”

You’re not used to the protectiveness of your father, for he has never before displayed such demeanor toward you, and judging by the scowl on your cousin’s face, he’s not at all pleased about the interruption. 

The guard ushers you away from the scene, bringing you into the confines of Maegor’s Holdfast, and leading you towards the apartments you will occupy and call home for an unknown amount of time.

There are many thoughts racing through your mind on your way, especially after the brief encounter with Aemond, but the most prominent ones are the Valyrian customs and their engagement in incestuous marriages, leaving you wondering whether that fate will also include you in the future. 

A part of you wishes for it, but the other part hopes it doesn’t. You’re not opposed to the idea, but it’s just that you don’t quite feel worthy of it. For all your life you’ve dreamt of finding a noble lord as husband, an ordinary lord if that’s what you can call it, and not one that is bonded with a beast that’s able to cross continents in mere hours. 

When the door to your chambers opens, your maids already scurry through the room, unpacking your clothes and belongings. But it’s the dragon egg that sits neatly on the sill of the hearth that suddenly wrecks the most havoc on you. The thing that has calmed you before makes you terribly aware of your flaws, happening so abruptly even though it has been by your side for so, so long. 

No, you don’t want an ordinary man, you’re afraid that they deem you ordinary for lacking a dragon in a family full of dragonlords. 

Staring at the piece of stone, gaze tracing over the several scales littered all over it, you don’t register the multiple attempts of Ysilla to gain your attention by clearing her throat. You’re in a trance, processing something that has unconsciously accompanied you for all your life, and it’s your maid’s hand gently coming to your shoulder that causes you to flinch. 

“My lady,” she says, curtsying deep to you. “I apologize, but I believe you are to report to Prince Daemon’s chambers. It appears that he has requested your presence without delay.”

Smoothing down your gown in a manner befitting of a young lady making an appearance before her father she hasn’t seen in so long; you try to cover the apprehension that graces your features. “Did my father specify what it is about?”  

Ysilla shakes her head. “I am afraid not, my Lady.”

Inhaling a deep breath, you bow your head once. “Very well,” you reply, taking your leave with the guard that has been positioned at the door to your quarters bringing you to the room in question. 

You use the distance to prepare yourself for what awaits you behind the heavy, iron-bound doors, but still are ambushed when you see your father sitting at the small table, clearly waiting for your arrival.

While there briefly has been time for you to dwell on the anger you feel upon being called to King’s Landing on your father’s order, knowing all too well what the reason for it is, you don’t manage to keep your emotions at bay the moment your eyes meet.

“What is this all about, father?” you ask bluntly upon stepping into the room, prompting your father to raise a brow. “I have not heard from you in years, and then I receive a raven meant to summon me to King’s Landing. What for?”

In moments like these, you resemble your mother more than he would like to admit, you can spot the disgust flicker in his eyes, but it’s also visible that he’s impressed by the mannerisms in you that are distinctly his. 

He releases a deep breath, gesturing to the vacant place opposite of him, “sit.”

Approaching the table while still keeping a fair distance, you ball your hands to fist and shake your head. “I demand an answer,” you say, speaking firmly and confidently.

The smirk that briefly crosses your father’s features causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up, almost enough to make you submit to him. He then rubs his palm flatly over the table, seemingly soothing his anger. “And I demand obedience,” his voice is sharp, and you know there’s no way you will leave his chambers alive if you don’t comply with his command, “now sit.”

Setting your jaw, you reluctantly sit down in the chair, leaning back to keep a comfortable distance to your father. 

“King Viserys wishes for me to find you a match among the nobility. He has deemed that it is time for you to marry.”

There comes no voiced reaction from you, having expected it to be the main reason for your visit, but you do clench and unclench your fingers to handle the storm of emotions raging within you. 

Licking your lips, you contemplate over what to say next. “I am a woman grown and soon to be the Lady of Runestone. If anything, I can decide if and when I want to marry.” Your words come with a lilt of arrogance; but you keep your expression stern.

The amused chuckle he releases at your words makes your stomach drop, and he looks at you with the knowledge that your thoughts on your position are not quite in line with your true status. 

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works,” he replies sternly. 

You jut your chin at, looking at your father defiantly. “So, I don’t have a say in this?” 

Daemon shakes his head, and it seems as if there’s pity in his gaze as it flits down to his hand. 

“I will not wed without getting a say on whom I wed.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing a sigh. “Count your blessings, daughter,” he says in a condescending manner. “Most girls are forced by their fathers to marry whomever is given to them, but you are not going to be one of them. It is only by the King’s good will and good graces that he allows me to invite several suitors to court to woo for your hand. Be grateful.”

“And why should I trust that you’ll find a match worthy of me? Invite a man that is to my liking? It should be Ser Gerold arranging it for me, not you. You hardly know me.”

His jaw sets at your words, and it’s clear his patience runs thin, not having expected to be met with a reflection of himself when he called you to court. “Enough,” he says sharply. “I have a responsibility to the crown and the realm to ensure you are wed to a man fitting your station. It is not your place to question the men I call to court to vie for your hand. And you would do well to remember that.”

You narrow your eyes; hands remaining clenched. You stare at him with a look of pure defiance, ready to challenge him. Being pushed around by a man you hardly see more than once every five years isn’t something you envision about yourself. “Or what?”

His expression is one of cold, almost mocking amusement as his eyes take you in, clearly seeing much of himself in you. But he also knows he has to squash such defiance immediately. “You may toy with the lowly fools of stableboys you entertain at your whim, but I suggest you watch your tone when speaking to me, girl.” 

You grit your teeth at his words, a look of unbridled determination on your face. “I am not the meek and submissive wench you expect me to be,” you hiss. “And I am certainly not a cow to be pawned off to the highest bidder. If anything, I am a dragon.”

If there is one thing you know about your father, it’s that he isn’t one for idle threats, always going straight for the jugular. And when his eyes narrow, you expect to be struck where it hurts. “You would do best to remember your place, girl, a place that is so far below me at all times. You may have my blood, but you don’t have the legacy, and certainly not the power that comes with it.” 

Tears of anger brim in your eyes at his words; your glare making it obvious just how much your blood is boiling inside of you. The burn of his words reaches your heart, and although you're tempted to lash out at him, you have to admit defeat. Turning away from his glare, only fueling the humiliation that courses through your veins, you clench your jaw tightly. 

Aiming to put you back in your place, your father decides to go one last time to provoke a reaction. “If you want to put up a challenge, at least have the wits not to let your tongue runoff like some spoiled brat.”

“May I leave now?” you ask sternly, keeping your head turned to the side. 

Your father scoffs at the request, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of immediately granting it to you. The silence stretches on for just a few more moments, enjoying to see you defiant but defeated, knowing he has succeeded. 

“You may leave – on my graces alone,” he says, watching as you all but jump up to bring as much space as possible between you. You’re just about to walk out of the door when you hear his voice ring out once again, but you don’t stop for him. 

“You are to receive suitors in two days, so you best prepare yourself for it.”

You press your lips into a thin line, and your shoulders tense at his words. If he wants you to meet the men he’s invited to court for you, you will play along and follow his orders, but no promise is made about you being on your best behavior. 

Hurrying through the halls of Maegor‘s Holdfast, you don’t really see much with your vision blurred by tears, and that you don‘t know how to navigate the keep doesn‘t help either. 

The Red Keep, as vast as it is, consists of innumerable corridors and holds many dark corners, most of which are rarely seen by others and seldom used, and you happen to stumble into one of them. There’s little to no traffic, and you blame it on most of the courtiers and servants tending to stick to the first and second floors, rather than the upper levels that are used by the royal family and a selected group of highborn individuals. Such as you. 

There are a few guards stationed every now and then, but the last one you saw was the one guarding your father’s chambers, the guard charged with protecting yours clearly back at his post. 

Rounding a corner, you’re caught off guard as you almost bump into someone on your way. The person stops short and is quick to sidestep to make room for you, and with them not moving, it’s clear they probably expect an apology. 

You stop in your tracks and wipe your eyes before looking at the person whom you’ve inconvenienced, and you’re certain it couldn’t get any worse when you notice it’s none other than Aemond. 

His chin is slightly tilted to the ceiling as he looks down at you, barely phased by your sniffing and the dried tears on your skin. 

“Whatever ‘tis you are trying to run from, you will find no refuge down this corridor,“ he notes, raising a brow as he watches you wipe the tears with the back of your hand. 

His smooth voice doesn’t stop you from frowning, and you look at him with reddened eyes. He‘s standing tall, easily towering over you, and the eyepatch doesn’t make him any less intimidating in this dimly lit part of the castle. 

“I… it‘s-,“ you sigh, closing your eyes. “My apologies, Prince Aemond. I am not running from anything.“

Aemond‘s eye roams your form, assessing you, and a grin takes over his features. “It‘s quite alright, my lady,“ he hums. “What is it that has you in such a foul mood this evening?“

You set your jaw, biting back the anger and irritation at the thoughts of your father’s words. Your fists are now clenched tightly at your sides, and for a moment, he’s sure he’s pissed you off beyond the point of no return by just crossing your path. “I’m sure it would be none of your business if I told you,” you reply curtly, looking at the ground. 

But Aemond isn’t having any of it, if anything, he appears to enjoy being met with someone that doesn’t bow to him. “Ah, but you see that’s exactly where you’re wrong, my lady,” he says, taking a step closer to you to which you react by taking one back, just reluctantly stepping out of his vicinity. He towers over you, looming presence enough to replace the distress you’ve felt by inquisitiveness. “As a prince of the Royal family, everyone who resides in this castle is my business. And it is my particular interest to learn what has you so agitated this evening.”

Something in his gaze turns more serious, and if there remains the flash of a smirk on his lips, it’s so subtle you barely notice it. But that might also be because you don’t have it in you to break the prolonged eye contact. There’s the hint of something you can’t quite put your finger on in his gaze, something that crawls under your skin.  

“I assume it has something to do with the many noble lords flocking to the city to woo you as we speak. I can only imagine how annoying it must be to have everyone trying to charm you,” he says, a sarcastic lilt in his voice. 

You cross your arms in front of your chest. There’s truth in his words, but the way he voices it feels degrading, making you nervous to the point you cave in; your shoulders dropping slightly. “It’s my father,” you say with a huff of breath. “He’s so bloody insistent on me marrying some lord of the Realm, but I have absolutely no interest in doing so.”

“What a coincidence,” Aemond hums, advancing at you. You’re backed up against the wall, trapped with nothing standing between you. “Because I have absolutely no interest in you being married off to some other man as well.”

You feel your pulse quicken with his words and every single one of his steps, heat crossing your cheeks. Your gaze flits to your feet and back up, only to see him still staring at you. 

Biting your bottom lip, Aemond takes that as his cue to continue speaking. “You know you wouldn’t have to go through with this ordeal if you decided to elope with someone special.” 

You jut out your chin, and half-lidded eyes gaze up at him. “I’m curious, my prince,” you counter, licking your lips. “What would this special person look like?”

Watching him bring up a hand to rest on the wall next to your head, you struggle with not letting him see just how much you melt in his presence. You know what he’s referring to, and the thought seems enticing, all the more in the prospect of him not striking you as the kind of lord you detest more than anything.

With your father being so insistent for you to marry some lord he’ll choose and your refusal of it, you’re more than interested in entertaining another option.  

“Someone like me, for example,” he says, holding himself with so much arrogance, so much self-confidence.

His offer makes you consider the circumstances. You’re half Targaryen without a dragon, while he has claimed the biggest dragon alive when he was a child, and it would be stupid of you to let the idea of elopement with a man who could actually give you some power slip from your fingers. Taking in a deep breath, you look to the side with vulnerability glimmering in your eyes.   

“I imagine that– well, I would have to have a dragon to be a suitable match for someone that has claimed the mighty Vhagar.”

Taking the opportunity given to him and taking advantage of your moment of weakness, he caresses the side of your face with a gentle hand; his head dipping forwards to bring his mouth on a level with your ear. You feel the warmth radiating off of him, prompting your heart to pound in your throat.

“That seems like quite the predicament, my lady,” he says, a hint of amusement woven in his voice. “However, I may have a solution to your problem.”

His words make your head snap back towards him so fast, it’s surprising he doesn’t flinch; and most importantly, he doesn’t shy away from the proximity. You feel his breath fan over your lips, but the temptation of claiming your own dragon is just too irresistible for you to care. A dragon is a symbol of power and status, a way to take control over your own life, and to make a difference – clearly befitting for the future Lady of Runestone. 

And what woman in her right mind would refuse the chance to claim such a wondrous beast herself? 

“And that is?” you voice your curious inquiry. 

“A dragon is not what is stopping us,” he rasps, eye glinting as he notices your curiosity. You’re definitely not averse to the idea. “Elope with me, and I shall get you one. The Bronze Fury, Vermithor. I dare say he might be a good fit for a woman of your temperament.”

You fail to conceal the slight reddening of your cheeks, just as much as the change in your breathing at his words. Everything he says sounds like sorcery to you; the offer to help you claim a dragon of your own, even mentioning a dragon in question, it all piques your curiosity. You’re hooked, and that’s his last move to reel you in. 

“If only it were that simple,” you hum, leaning closer towards him. “How exactly would we–”

Aemond silences you by crashing his lips against yours in a sudden rush of passion, and his tongue is quick to invade your mouth, tasting and teasing you at the same time. The protest dies on your tongue in the aftermath, as if he knows you might be doubting him and his intentions, and this will be the only way for him to get what he wants.

His free hand slides down your side, tracing your curves in search of grasping on any part of your body, settling on your hip. You sling your arms around his neck immediately, accepting and embracing his advances.

A spark of something familiar ignites in the pit of your belly, something that has you pulling back just slightly to gasp. You were so lost in the kiss, that you haven’t paid any mind to him nudging your legs apart to place his in between, firmly pressing his muscular thigh against your clothed mound. 

Your thighs lock around his in response, that friction alone granting you a good bit of pleasure that has you whimpering, and you hesitantly grind your hips against it once. 

There’s a moment where neither of you moves in the following. He expects you to suddenly play the coy lady, to push him away and storm off, but when that doesn’t come, he can’t help but scoff. 

“Look at you,” he rasps in between heavy breaths. “So desperate for relief that you can not even wait for me to whisk you away to some quiet corner of the world.”

He doesn’t expect an answer, not that you could give him one, and is quick to dive forwards to swallow down any further whimpers and gasps that spill past your lips as his hand starts to move your body in a push and pull motion. 

It is iniquitous, but you’ve done far worse things before, and with this corridor lying relatively deserted and therefore sparsely manned, you don’t even bother to worry about someone coming upon you.

The pleasure blooming between your legs is enough to encourage you to grind against his thigh on your own, although you’re certain that if you were to touch him, you’d come to the realization that he’s hard and just as wanting as you are. 

With the thick skirts of your dress and your smallclothes rubbing your sensitive pearl each time your hips drag over his thigh, you get somewhat off-balance, holding onto his shoulders for leverage while the kiss becomes all teeth and tongue, devouring each other with passion and fire. 

You roll your hips back and forth, alternating between short, quick movements and long drags against him, your shoulders dropping as you’re completely consumed by pleasure. The friction is almost too much, rubbing you sore despite your cunt being soaked in your arousal - but you’re far too lost to really care. 

Your lips release his to catch your breath, and with the pleasure in your belly soaring to the surface, you can’t stop yourself from tilting your head back to whimper into the Red Keep’s chilly night air. Aemond immediately seizes the opportunity to mouth along the column of your throat, before gently sinking his teeth into it. 

Your hips increase the pace with the slight sting his teeth bring, chasing the sensation that bubbles inside of you. The taste of copper fills your mouth from how harshly you bite down on your bottom lip, the intimidating and domineering side of him feeding something in you you didn’t know was there. 

He brings your face on level with his again to just watch yours contort in pleasure, dark blown eye practically glued to your scrunched features. And if you weren’t so consumed by it all, you probably would have noticed the glimmer of affection flashing in it. His other hand comes off the wall to find your hip to help you grind down on his thigh, and it’s a massive undertaking for you to keep your legs steady to support yourself. 

Aemond is not ashamed to groan and pant with you, and although his groans are much quieter than yours, and you know your movements don’t grant enough friction for him to reach completion, each sound that fans over your face brings you closer to yours. 

“That’s it,” he rasps the words against your swollen lips in between fervent panting, not audible to anyone else but you, “peak for me.” There’s innocence in the way he says it, but the possessive demand is not to be doubted and exactly what you need to hear. 

The pleasure ripples through you in twitches, and your cunt spasms and clenches around nothing with your thighs squeezing his for dear life. It’s a frustrating feeling that is hardly surpassed by the relief that washes over you, but for now you’ll have to make do with it. 

“Look at you,” he coos, his voice thick with arousal and desire. “My my, aren’t you a good and obedient girl?” His praise makes you dizzy and longing for more, and if it wasn’t for him taking a step back from you, the lack of his thigh between your legs making the uncomfortable burn more than prominent, you would have done everything to tear the breeches right off of him. 

You look at him with wide, glazy eyes, your mouth agape. “I–what…” you trail off, wanting to take a step towards him. But you’re stopped by his hand coming to your waist, keeping a fair distance between you. It’s obvious he struggles to hold himself back, and you pray to the Seven for him to allow the thin thread to snap. 

“I will come back,” he says, his words doing little to mend the rising doubts that perhaps you were exploited, the satisfied smirk adorning his features not helping either. “I will have my prize, and I will claim what is rightfully mine.”

And with that, he disappears down the hallway until you lose him in your line of sight. Everything that remains of him now is the aching between your legs and the rich blent of leather and sandalwood lingering in your nostrils, leaving you to be alone with your thoughts. 

The encounter was as abrupt as it was passionate, and you just now start to process everything that was said and has happened, and how you’ve felt every emotion possible in such a short amount of time. 

With your heart hammering in your chest, you retire into the opposite direction, wandering the sleeping castle, eventually finding a corridor that seems familiar enough and brings you to your chambers. 

You hardly find sleep that night with your mind too occupied, wondering when will be the next time you’ll hear of him. 

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OOD Taglist: @vhwyrm

[digitalsatyr23]

Hunter and Bear

Setting: Arachnia           Ah, I see you young ones just made it back from the town fair. Have you seen those guild members running about? Did their gleaming armor and beautiful weapons dazzle you? Do you now dream of adventure? Well then, sit yourself down and let me tell you a tale. There is more to that life than gold and glory. You will soon see there is another side to that kind of life. Perhaps if this doesn’t dissuade you from that dream, maybe you’ve what it takes after all?

           There was once a hunter, perhaps you’ve seen their ilk before, whose spearhand was swift and whose aim was true. Such a skilled hunter, he was, that he was famed all across Haerath. He made his home in Bewic, the town just south of The Horns. There in that warm and humble town between the mountains he spent his days either in the guild lodge, seeking hunts for wealth and prestige, or on his land, tending to his fine horses and loving wife. After each hunt he’d return home with some manor of treasure or trophy, hang it upon the wall and drink to his success.

           His wife, bless her soul, was the kindest lass you could ever know. She tended to his wounds, while his second wife, the bottle, tended to his aching heart. If you had seen the kind of horrors that hunter had seen, you’d be drinking yourself into the long sleep too! Nevertheless, his wife did worry for him. Said the drink would be the death of him before any beast, though he didn’t pay her much mind. Having someone that worries about you at home was good enough for him.

           One day, a notice was posted on the guild lodge’s walls that caught the hunter’s attention.

          “There’s a bear ravaging our woods and our crops! Ten drakes to whoever bests the bear!”

           So said the post. Now here was a mission just right for the able hunter! Still, his careful eye saw the notice mentions only one bear that was the problem. One? How could a single bear baffle and terrorize an entire settlement? The notice mentioned the bear hailed from Alder Island, just amidst Black Lake, a shimmering pool known for its onyx stones. A strange feeling gripped the hunter’s stomach, and he prepared for the worst.

           The hunter went to the smithy, gathering arrows, spears, and the great deal of courage he would need for the hunt. Then he went home to grab his armor and family shield, emblazoned with a white stag. Kissing his wife goodbye, he stepped outside. A cold wind brushed up against his cheeks and nostrils, and blades of grass danced under the new moon. The hunter went to the town square and prayed before the statue of Saint Hilda, hoping the saint would guide his hand and keep his wits about him. A blackness loomed around the marble statue, and the hunter’s stomach continued to churn, gripped with dread.

           After gathering his belongings and making his peace, the hunter started to leave town, but not before stocking up on wine for the journey ahead. He would need it. The bears of Haerath were a fearsome lot, and those of Alder Island more so. The great brutes were known to stand twelve feet tall, and their furs could shrug off iron. Above all else, he feared the terrible nature of the alder bears, for even when food is plentiful they eat their young.

           The hunter began his journey, first south then west, hugging a well-traveled trail bordering Bewic’s woods. For seven days and nights he walked, feasting on pheasants and other light game, always leaving a piece in the fire for Foenere, his beloved god of valor. During the day, he practiced his aim on the wildlife and kept his muscles sturdy, and at night he used bark, moss, and insects as he worked a terrible poison. The hunter’s arrows could pierce alder bear flesh, but he knew he’d have to stop the bear’s heart to fell the beast. Anything less and the bear would shrug off the blows.

           At last, the hunter arrived at Black Lake. Night fell across the land as soon as he’d seen the water’s edge. Nevertheless, tonight was a perfect night for a hunt. The hunter slipped on magic boots to tread the gloomy waters and walked the lake’s surface over to the island. Once on the other side, he put his hunting boots back on - dark-tanned leathers and soft of heel, perfect for sneaking and better for crushing.

           The hunter scoured the island in search of the bear. Hour after hour, he circled the great land mass, looking for any sign of trail or refuse that might lead him to his target, all the while constructing traps to ensnare his prey. Much to the hunter’s shock, there wasn’t a single bear he came across on the whole island! Befuddled, he made camp for the night and prepared a meal. After eating his fill, the hunter drank his wine. Now, when in moments of sadness or frustration, many folk find it easier to indulge. And it just so happened that the hunter, on this particular night, drank the remainder of his wine stock. Quite tipsy and belligerent, he cried out for the bear to show itself. Unable to rest due to his anger, he left his camp and continued his search.

           The hunter, in his drunken stupor, forgot about all the traps that he had laid for the bear. With a click and a clank, a bear trap snapped onto the hunter’s leg. Blood dribbled out of the flesh, and a hint of cracking suggested a broken bone.

          Imagine for a moment, the sound of the earth rumbling beneath your feet just before it cracks and lava spits out of the ground in a great boom. That was how the hunter cried out in pain.

          After prying his leg free, the hunter fell to the ground. The world was spinning, and his stomach churned like a barrel tumbling downhill. The hunter sprayed vomit onto a nearby bush, much in the way a dragon might spout flame. Once he regained his senses, the hunter took a spear from his pack and snapped it in twain, using part of the wooden shaft and some wrapping from his satchel to bind his leg.

           Rising from the earth, the hunter took notice of a light further in the woods. How could he have missed this? Not bothered by the circumstance, he limped and groaned on his way over. After leaving the thicket of trees, he came upon a clearing just around an enormous log cabin. Either it was an inn or a misshapen longship stuck on land, but either way he was going to approach it. With a great slam, the hunter knocked on the cabin’s doors. When the door opened, he was met by an enormous naked man.

          “What’s this then?” the naked man asked. “A stranger moseying about my island?”

          “I’m no threat to you, good sir. I’ve been hurt by my own foolishness, and need medicine.”

           The confused lodger let the hunter into his lodge. Sitting down, he saw the lodger begin to cloth himself.

          “Wasn’t expecting company at this time of year.”

          “Is this truly your island? Where have all the bears gone?”

          “There are no more bears. They were driven off ages ago.”

           Bewildered, the hunter took in his surroundings, perhaps to come to grips with his situation. The large man before him was well muscled, perhaps a warrior in his youth. His head was white and bald, though a thick brow wrapped into a beard that was brown of hair. They were in a simple but well-furnished room. Countless animal trophies lined the walls, all silent and staring. A soothing fireplace was to their left, and a great bearskin rug was at their feet. Upon a wall were tattered leather strips dangling from nails. It reminded the hunter of skins that artists would ink familial imagery into, something to remember years gone by. After receiving medicine from the lodger, the hunter spoke up.

          “What’s that upon your wall? Looks like something used to hang there.”

           The lodger stopped in his tracks. A familiar and potent rage welled upon within the giant’s throat.

          “That was a portrait of me and my wife, from years before.”

           The hunter looked around the room more, and noticed a baby crib in one corner. It was a curious thing, barren and quiet.

          “Where’s your wife? Off in another land, or perhaps fallen from a plague?”

           The lodger stared deep into the fireplace, the flames licking his skin and flickering in his round eyes.

          “If you would hear my tale, stranger, then I will tell you what has become of her.”

           Still numbed by pain and drunkenness, the hunter was obliged to listen.

          “Years ago, back when the land was awash in conflict, I fought alongside many men to keep Haerath safe from harm. I left for the war, leaving my pregnant wife behind. Many enemies died by my hand, but even more allies fell around me. When I returned, broken and beaten, I longed for the embrace of my wife and the laughter of my newborn.”

           The hunter thought of his own wife, and wondered how well she was coming along at that time. He uttered a silent prayer to Ererah, the goddess that watches over mothers, that she would stay safe during these cold winter nights. He should have directed his prayers to himself.

          “When I came back from the war, however, it was not my child that I found in that crib. Do you see the skin beneath my hair? ‘Twas thrice darker than my own. I knew deep in my heart that my wife was unfaithful, yet the serene sight of her playing with the babe soothed my spirit. I asked her ‘Wife, where has my baby gone? I see you’ve got another there, who knows from where, but where is the one I left you with?’ to which she smiled and said ‘This is our baby, my beloved.’ and that shook me to the core. What did she take me for, a blind man!?”

           The lodger’s breath hastened, hot fumes coming out of his nose like a boar’s.

          “I asked her again and again, but she refused to tell me. When another man stepped into my home from behind, his skin matching the babe’s as clear as day, a part of me broke. Snapped. Fell away.”

           The hunter wiped his brow of sweat, concerned where the story was going and got on his feet. Even in his drunken state, he could see the new moon from behind the window, and the pink stains in the lodger’s teeth.

          “I gripped the man in my fist, crushing his skull like an over ripened peach. My hand stained with blood, I turned to my wife. I asked her again ‘Where’s my baby!?’. Of course, she merely screamed. Not for long, though.”

           With swiftness and guile, the hunter leveled a poisoned arrow at the lodger’s back. Still amidst his tale, the lodger stared out the window with a hunger in his words.

          “After I slew my wife, the baby’s cries kept piercing my ears, like the wailing dead. I could not bear it any longer, so I picked up the babe…”

           Bowstrings hissed as an arrow was notched.

          “And slammed it into the ground! WOOD! SMASH! CRASH! I stomped on the pitiful thing like putting out a campfire! SQUISH! SQUASH! I turned the thing into a fine paste, I did! Squished it good! My eyes went black that day, black as the moon! I could hear Ahriman call my name! When next I awoke, nothing but bones and blood stains were before me!”

           The hunter let fly his poisoned arrow, striking the lunatic between the shoulder blades. The lodger turned, his eyes occluded by darkness as he cried out in rage.

           It was rolling thunder, it was howling hurricanes. He let out a roar so fearsome it split the sky and parted the earth.

           Flesh split and burst from the lodger, his bones shifting and crackling. Great lumbering limbs grew where his arms and legs once were, and he fell on all fours. A thick, fur-covered backside lead up to a great toothy maw, with eyes black as pitch. The lodger had turned into a mighty beast, or perhaps he was never a man at all? The bear charged the hunter, attacking with scythe-sized claws.

           The hunter smacked the bear paw away with his shield and stabbed another arrow into the bear’s left eye. The beast flailed about as the hunter leapt away and made a run for it. If he could make it up a tree, he thought, he could rain down hell on the beast from the safety of the sky. Bursting from the cabin, the hunter hopped along, ducking and weaving through his entrapments towards one of the island’s alder trees. The bear trailed behind, brushing off the traps like so many mosquitos. He knew the scent from the hunter’s wounded leg, and followed him right to the tree.

           The hunter tried to climb the tree, but parasitic groundcones littered the earth and its bark fell away like dead skin. He continued to scramble, and lodged himself between two tree branches. Arrow after arrow came raining down upon the bear, and it ran off into the woods. The hunter’s heart was beating fast, and sweat dampened his leathers. The night went silent, so the hunter’s eyes scanned the forest floor for signs of the beast, but his eyes failed him, racked with fear and drunkenness.

           Then, out of the darkness, the bear came back on its hind legs, gripping an axe in one of its huge paws. It meant to cut the tree down, and then the hunter soon after. Adrenaline shook the hunter out of his drunken state, and he came up with a plan. Tying one end of a rope to a thick branch then the other end to an arrow, the hunter let fly the arrow from his bow. The iron bit into a tree ten paces away. Thus, the hunter gripped the rope and tried to slide down to the ground. Alas, the bear was too quick for him, and the tree came tumbling down. The rope snapped, and the hunter dangled above the ground like bait on a hook.

           In a moment of desperation, the hunter let go and jammed a spear into the bear’s back as he fell. The bear flew into a frenzy, stampeding across the island, all while the hunter gripped the wooden shaft still embedded in the bear’s flesh. Smash! Crash! The bear rammed his backside into tree after tree trying to shake the hunter off. His strength waning, the hunter stabbed the bear in the neck with his knife over and over, blood spewing forth in streams. Roaring in pain, the bear flung the hunter off with one final throttle.

           The world was spinning as the hunter tumbled to the ground. Racked with pain, the hunter struggled to get on his feet but the bear caught up with him. It spoke, in a rumbling, guttural tone.

“I take you into my home, I treat your wound and this is how you pay me back!? Well, I’ll be taking my medicine back, along with your leg!”

           Flesh parted, and bone shattered. The hatchet burrowed deeper and deeper into the wounded leg until it severed. Blood gushed out like waters from a broken dam, threatening to pull the hunter under. He would have to think fast if he were to survive the night.         

          More running would do him in, so he let fly another arrow but this time towards a trap. For you see, this was not the hunter’s first beast, and he laid many bells and chimes around the woods for distraction. The trap whistled and cried, like that of a fearful babe, and the beast slashed and stomped in a befuddled fury.

          While the bear howled, the hunter took a torch from his pack, lit it, then seared the wound shut, thus the hunter joined the bear in his howling. Noise rattled the bear’s brain, and visions of his murderous deeds flashed before his eyes. He remembered that sordid day, and the way his huge form blotted out light from the outside. He remembered the friend he asked to watch his wife while he was away. He remembered the baby in his wife’s arms had his eyes.

          “I… I know where my baby is now.” the bear muttered to himself.

           Sorrow fell over the bear. He knew in his heart what he had done. He wrenched back, letting out a terrible cry. Not in anger, but in despair. The hunter used his precious time to get back on his foot and brace against a tree. For but a moment, the bear’s eyes looked like that of a man’s.

          “Hunter… I shan’t be conscious much longer. When I hear Ahriman call my name again, I will answer him. And when I do, put me out of my misery.”

           In preparation for a clash, the hunter drew his shield and a poisoned spear. The shield that bore his family’s crest, though small of stature, was near and dear to his heart. Visions of his past hunts and that of his wife filled the hunter’s mind, and he beat on his shield in rhythm to his swift beating heart for courage, then with his good foot he leapt at the bear, spear in hand. The bear’s eyes blackened once again, and it prepared to rush the hunter for one final strike. Both the hunter and the bear howled as Death loomed above them, their fates sealed.

          They were rolling thunder, they were howling hurricanes. The scorpion ensnares its prey in grasping claws and strikes with its stinger for the kill.

           Poison rushed through the bear’s veins, and his heart beat no more.

          “I’ll be taking that fur now, to remember I beat the bear this night, not the man.”

           Working with care, the hunter skinned the beast and the massive corpse changed back into the lodger. Placing the body back in the cabin, the hunter set the lodge ablaze as he left Alder Island, letting the forsaken place burn to ash. Upon his return, he collected his ten drakes, spending five on a peg leg and the other five on something nice for the missus.

          The hunter got up from his chair and left his children to ponder the tale. They hadn’t even realized whose fur they were lying on while listening to him.

[bloodycassian]

Reader x Azriel - silver moon. Pining. 

The meeting area was bright, full and brimming with the power of seven high lords just a moment ago. Now, it was shrouded in black, as flame rippled across Tamlin’s oak table. Snarls shot through the air, defensive positions taken up while Azriel backed closer to you, an arm extended. A scarred hand at his thigh where he kept a dagger close. 

“You’re all fools if you believe a front would work. And cowards, each one of you.” Beron spat, his hands aflame where he stood. The servants shuffled quietly to put out the fire he’d sparked along a hedgerow. A once beautiful hedgerow that bordered the garden estate Tamlin had maintained for centuries. The smell of fruitful flowers and sweet fruit ceased. There was now only the scent of singed grass and sweat, power, adrenaline seeping from each member of this meeting. 

Tamlin’s eyes went from Lucien, who still sat at his fathers side, then to the singed foliage. His knuckles bore the claws of the beast within. A threat, a direct response to the male that assaulted his land. Beron’s composure slipped, just for a moment. He glanced to your side of the table, to the night court ruler and his two commanders. 

One of which, was practically waving a flag of weakness by protecting you. You mentally shouted at Azriel to move, to get the hell back to his spot beside Rhys so you could work. But he stayed, even under the squinted, judging eyes of Beron. 

Tamlin sucked in a sharp breath, and the tension spiked. Waiting for the first blow to come. For the first act of direct violence against two courts to cause a scene. To cause a war. Your shoulders ached with the nerves, waiting. Watching the eyes, the body language of every high lord and their advisors. 

Helion clapped his hands together, making the group’s tension sputter to a halt. He began laughing, waving a hand casually at his seat aside Tarquin. “You are all so interesting to watch.” He leaned forward, and took a sip of his wine. “Beron, what is your suggestion for avoiding this conflict, then?” He asked. 

Shoulders eased, and Rhys was the first to sit back down. His dark power whisked away on a spring breeze, no longer boding over the crowd like clouds. Slowly, the others followed him and Helion. All of them but Beron. “There will be no avoiding this. She will find us, and destroy us if we give her time. You’d be playing right into what she wants.” He said the words with such calm certainty, made it sound so convincing. 

Azriel’s shadows around you lessened, but did not fully disappear. And he didn’t leave your side. His massive, black wings kept a sturdy wall behind you. Like he was ready to pull you into him and take off with you at any second. 

“So we march the small amount of forces that we have straight into Rask? Without-” Tarquin began, but was cut off by Beron’s scoff. 

The autumn lord shook his head, a bitter smile painting his lips. “I dont know why I bother with you lot. Eris-” He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. If you weren’t mistaken, a flash of fear went across the prince’s face. Followed by a weak smile. “Tell me how this ends, I am very interested to see what they come up with.” And with a last, disgusted glance to the group of high lords, he was gone. 

+

“What the hell was that?” Rhys’s voice sent a thrill of fear through you as he shoved Azriel through the carved wooden door. The meeting hadn’t lasted long after Beron left. Tamlins servants had summoned food, but none ate while murmurs of strategy and plans were born and died on lips. There was no right answer here, there wasn’t a way to tell just what the wicked queen knew. What she had in her pocket for forces, for power. But each high lord knew from experience it was a devastating, terrible power that none truly knew how to combat. 

Rhysand sighed at Azriel’s fierce, defensive look. “You are meant to be my tortuer. My hammer when it comes to intimidation. She-” His long finger pointed to you, and you felt the sting of shame burn through you. It wasn’t your fault Azriel had acted the way he did. You tried to tell yourself that. Tried to reason the guilt away. But… if you were being honest, you liked the way Azriel had jumped at the chance to defend you. To keep you safe. “Does not need you at her side. You are well aware of that, shadowmaster.” The title made Azriel flinch. Of course he knew that. Of course he remembered the ass kicking you’d given him that first day in the sparring ring together. 

“I am aware.” Azriels words revealed no regret, though. 

Rhys stared at him for a long moment. Judging, weighing that look on his brother’s face. Wondering if the shadowmaster had truly lost his mind. Wondering if he would need to have a new spymaster trained. Wondering if Azriel had somehow lost his touch. 

Azriel must have seen the doubts, the hesitation in his brother’s eyes. Because he gave the smallest of nods, and Rhys’s shoulders lowered. The high lord turned finally, and gave you a short goodbye before vanishing out the door. Leaving you with the guilty spymaster.

“Walk with me.” He said, before you could lecture him. Before you could only half heartedly tell him to stay away. He had always been… territorial around you. But never risking his cover. And now he was wanting to have a stroll in a foreign court? 

You found yourself unable to deny him, though. Not when those pleading dark eyes were on you. So you nodded, and followed him as he silently led you through the spring manor. 

+

The breeze was colder than earlier, just on the edge of winter. The sickly sweet scent of blooms was thick, and made your nose crinkle. Az’s amused look made you want to smack him, but he was walking too quick for you to catch up without jogging slightly. He was on a mission, walking with purpose into the tall evergreens on the garden’s border. Heavy boughs of fruit trees swayed in the wind, forcing you to push them aside.  Azriel swept through the underbrush and over fallen logs with grace. 

“Keep up.” He called, voice taunting. You could hear the smile there, but it did work to make you catch up to him. And when you came to the clearing that he waited in, your breath was knocked out from you. 

The shimmering pool of silver was bright, nearly white with the reflection of the full moon. And the meadow of flowers around it was…. “Incredible.” You breathed, stunned at the beauty, the perfection of such a place. 

The soft sigh of the trees above was like music. The perfect background noise for a serene place like this. You began walking the edge of the clearing, observing each new patch of flowers that dotted the treeline. Azriel walked the opposite way, not bothering with the foliage. His eyes were pinned to you, watching like he was sure something would snatch you away if he didn’t. 

He met you at the other side, grinning wide. “Do you like it?”

“What kind of question is that?” You scoffed, nudging him slightly. He swayed, and laughed. His teeth shone in the moonlight, cheekbones highlighted by it as well. He was the picture of midnight. Utterly, captivatingly handsome and deadly. A thrill ran through you at the thought of him, at the perfect embodiment of him. How he shone on the inside, just as the pool in this meadow did. 

Heart hammering, you decided then that this moment wouldn’t be forgotten. For either of you. You stepped into the tall grass, and began to strip. His hesitation was noted, but he followed a few paces behind you while you strode to that pool of silver. You did not let self consciousness, or embarrassment enter your body or mind. He brought you here. He was being vulnerable with you. You would do the same. You flung your shirt back at him, earning a huff.

Not sparing a look behind you, you stepped into the pool. Warm, easy liquid parted like it was made for you body. It conformed, and waved around you like it was hugging every inch of your pebbled skin. It was easy, stepping into this. The drop off wasn’t severe, and you could easily touch the bottom if you were close to the sides. But you wanted to tempt him, to challenge him. So you went to the center of the silver water, and waved to him. 

“Fine.” He sighed, and began to kick off his shoes. Your heart soared at the implications of this. Of the thought of him joining you… What did this make you? Did this compromise your status in the court? What if Tamlin knew about this somehow? In a court full of high lords there was sure to be spies. Spies watching everyone, at all times. 

But Azriel was a spy. The best of them. If he had brought you here, it was because it was safe. Ease drifted back into you at that realization. Az would make sure you were both safe. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be stripping down if he thought there was anything else around. His shirt was off, the hooks of his wings high over his head. Stretching, posturing. Showing off the pure power of his body. Flexing, as well. You hid your laugh, and dunked your hair in the water, enjoying the pure feeling it left on all of your skin. It was clean, and deeply relaxing to be in here. 

He undressed quickly, and was in the water with you before you even noticed. Slipping in silently, he was at the walkable edge to your side in a moment. His chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, and a slight fog seemed to dampen the moonlight shining down on the water. He was nervous. Achingly so. You could feel it, straining and pulsing through the water. He didn’t know what the limits were here. Didn’t know where you stood in this regard. 

Guilt panged at you. Had you never made your attraction to him obvious enough? You were sure you had. With the long glances, the extra time you’d spend in the house of wind when he was there… your kindness to him was never met with anything out of the ordinary from him. Perhaps he had taken it all as you being purely you. 

You glided over to him, slowly. Giving him time to step away if he wanted. Giving him extra space, you stood to face him. His wings were tight against his back now, shoulders pinched. It was a wonder he could even manage it, with how blissful the water felt. You rose, letting your torso come above the obscured water without shame. His eyes drifted, cheeks deepening their color. 

“Why did you bring me here, Azriel?” You asked quietly, noting how his wings flared slightly. How that fog of shadows whirled and blocked the breeze now. 

His face was a mask of stone, though. He didn’t reveal a damn thing. “I thought you’d enjoy it.” 

“Do you enjoy it?” Your words were barely more than a whisper. “Do you want to be here?”

He stepped closer, and your body seemed to warm, this pool too much pressure on you all at once. He was only a step from you now, and he leaned over, slowly. Giving you the same courtesy you gave him. Giving you the time to pull away if this was not what you wanted. You swore he was going to kiss you, and you closed your eyes. 

But his words, muttered softly by your ear made your heart race. Made your eyes sting with tears. “I want to be with you. It doesn’t matter where. You..are what I enjoy.” 

[introloves]

i have had nothing but toshi brain rot for the past few days,,, he unlocks a new level of sub in me i didn't even know i had,,, he's so big and sturdy and strong but knows how to be gentle with his babygirl🥺,,,,all i can think of is him and the perfect mix of size kink (mainly bc of size difference)+ corruption kink + degrading praise + babying with a sprinkle of dumbification 🥵🥵

i love ushijima smmmm he truly would take such good care of his baby, this is with f! reader.

he always knew what you needed, sometimes long before you even did yourself. his hands nudged your legs apart, rough callouses spreading goosebumps.

he listened well to your soft whimpers, sitting back on his haunches, letting you relax before he continued.

your tremors from how well he ate you out, stretching your cute little cunt out were fading. the wetness he brought you stayed however, ushijima liked using your cum as lubrication for when he fucked you.

“good?” he asked, voice deep but lower and just a tad softer.

he usually looked so intimidating, so mean. but with you, his edges rounded, spurred on by the need to protect the little thing that was you currently splayed down on his bed, legs shaking with every pass of his rough, broad hands over them. he’d steal the moon from the sky if it meant keeping you happy, your glazed eyes, prickling with tears, puffy lips from his teeth passing over them forming his name in a soft plea meant just about everything to him.

your response came with a nod, you couldnt gather yourself enough to answer him properly. with how he towered over you, the mass of him so much bigger, made you slip into a space where all you could do was lay there and take it, knowing that your big strong boyfriend, ushijima, was more than happy to care for you.

with slow movements, he nudged you open once more. grunting at the way your previous orgasms made you glisten, strings of it connecting your thighs together, drenching that cunt that had him absolutely whipped for you.

“fuck babygirl.” he hissed, eyes closing, pausing to inhale you. he had been inbetween your legs for quite a while earlier, but he liked indulging himself in everything that was you.

you burned hot and cold at the same time, cold chills running up and down your spine but the heat of him ogling at your ruined cunt simmering in the pit of your stomach.

he lifted himself up, the image of him unfurling from his hunched form was truly a sight. his body, toned, thick, and so so muscular shifting to guide the tip of himself right up against your already clenching pussy. when he extended himself to his full height, you could really appreciate the different.

just how he liked it, the head of his cock now glistened with your cum. helping him push in, hissing at the warmth and tightness.

it was a sight, looking down at your cunt stretch to fit him, seeing your pussy accommodate the thickness made his toes curl, teeth clenching at the feeling.

you always whined as he pressed himself in, but as soon as his head was popped in, it made the rest sink in easier.

“almost there.” he grunted, reassuring you.

when he was pressed flush against your cunt, clit throbbing as his pelvis basically crushed it, you could exhale.

“good girl.”

you craved for more of that sweet praise, clamping down at the way he said it.

just like everything else, he let you give him the okay, letting your hips gyrate against his own, dragging your clit against him, practically sobbing at the feeling.

once he knew it was okay to move, he clamped his hand over your hips, lifting you to how he liked it.

the devastating thrusts of his hips where sharp and precise, leaving no room for your cunt to want more, to want anything other than his fat, big dick.

he made it look easy, keeping you slightly lifted off the bed while he pistoned in and out, showing you that with him, he would do anything to heighten the already numbing pleasure he fucked you with.

once again, like earlier he questioned you,

“good?”

a silly question, you were practically drooling, sobbing, whimpering as his cockhead nudged up against your cervix.

but you let a wheeze that sounded similar to a, yes. it was all you could manage and he knew that, smiling slightly at your attempt to respond.

“you look real nasty right now baby.” he hissed, your eyes widening at the words, not wanting to hear those words. you just wanted to hear him praise you.

“nasty and all good for me. dumb little thing.” bristling at his words you let a hand punch his pec, missing weakly kept you bounced you on his cock.

his laugh sounded strained at that, god he was so close.

he sped up just a bit more, an attempt at a sorry. he knew you wanted to hear only good things from him, but it was fun seeing your face scrunch up, even if you didn’t want to admit it, you really were a dumb little baby when he fucked you.

“sorry angel, youre not a dumb, nasty, slutty, baby.” he spat out, putting emphasis on those words with thrusts that knocked the wind out of you, vision littering with black spots.

the way your pussy shucked is cock, squeezing him so that it made it so hard for him to push back in let him know what those words did to you.

“you’re my pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he questioned, licking his lips.

those words were enough to once again make you cum, lower body shaking, trembling against his hold. he marveled at how well you came, even this late, even having cum so much earlier.

it was a rapid chain reaction, his fine hair stood on end as he dumped whatever he could of his semen inside. spurts that didnt fit pooled at the edge of your hole, painting a ring around him.

in the end, he held you, littering your face in kisses, silently apologizing to his good girl for treating you like that.

once you could think straight, no longer in such a subby headspace, you confessed that it made you throb, being regarded as such a desperate and filthy slut.

he blushed hotly at it, eyes closing to take in the shocks of pleasure and want that coursed through him thanks to your words.