#But the way he intonates is so unnatural

[queenshelby]

MINI SERIES: THE SLAVE

PART THREE OF THE DARK & SEXY SERIES

NOTE: This is a series of one shots and mini series for Cillian Murphy & Tommy Shelby in which he acts totally off-canon. Most of these shots are very dark in nature and you should read their individual warnings. All of these shots are requests from readers. Co-written with @darkshelbyfiction! ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18. MINORS DNI.

PAIRING: TOMMY SHELBY X VIRGIN READER

WARNING: NON-CONSENSUAL LOSS OF VIRGINITY, CAPTURED READER, SLAVE READER, TOMMY GETTING OFF ON PAIN

NOTE: AGAIN THIS WAS A REQUEST AND I FELT A LITTLE UNCOMFORTABLE PUBLISHING IT...VERY DARK!

It had been two days since you were brought to Birmingham from your home country after promises of prosperity and wealth. 

But the cost for this was higher than you ever imagined when you were sold, by your very own father, as property to the highest bidder. 

Now you had arrived at Thomas Shelby's estate, which stood majestically against the backdrop of lush greenery and manicured gardens. The mansion, built centuries ago, seemed to command the landscape around it, much like how its owner commanded people within it.

A maid named Nadia greeted you at the entrance, leading you up the grand staircase that spiraled upwards into a series of breathtaking domed ceilings and magnificent chandeliers. Each room presented an extravagant spectacle of artistry and craftsmanship; it was as if every corner had been meticulously designed to overwhelm even the most jaded observer.

Despite the opulence surrounding you, something felt unsettling about the silence that enveloped the house. As far as you could tell, there was no one else here except the maids and yourself. This was not just a house, but a fortress - an impregnable bastion constructed on foundations of isolation and distance.

"This way," intoned the maid, gesturing down a long hallway lined with oil paintings depicting scenes of aristocratic splendor. The air smelled stale - it had been many years since anyone had breathed life into this grand edifice.

"I will show you to your room," whispered Nadia, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.

As she walked ahead, you noticed her movements were careful, almost rehearsed, as if she had done this countless times before.

Her gait betrayed an unnatural rhythm, a pattern formed by habituation rather than choice.

She knew the layout of the house inside out, each twist and turn etched into her memory like grooves on an old vinyl record.

You followed her silently, allowing the grandeur of the mansion to wash over you.

Every now and then, you caught glimpses of your reflection in the polished marble floors, a ghostly image of yourself trapped between reality and illusion. You found yourself feeling strangely calm and collected, despite the circumstances that led you here.

Nadia finally stopped outside a door adorned with intricate carvings and gestured you into a room without windows.

"This is where you will sleep and perform your duties," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. There was something eerie about the maid, an unspoken understanding between her and the master of the house.

Slowly stepping into the dimly lit chamber, you took note of the opulent surroundings: velvet curtains hung from gold-plated rails, plush rugs lay scattered across the polished hardwood floor, and delicate porcelain vases filled with fresh flowers graced every surface.

However, the abundance of luxury did little to ease the unease that settled deep within your gut.

The maid turned abruptly, locking eyes with you. "At night, the room will be locked securely so don't attempt to leave. If you need anything, ring the bell by the bedside table," she told you before fluffing up some of the cushions on the bed. 

"I never..." You trailed off, swallowing back tears that threatened to betray your bravado. You forced yourself to maintain eye contact with the maid, knowing full well that any sign of weakness would be exploited mercilessly. "I have not done anything like this before. I was told that I had to because a lot of money was paid for my services, but understand please that I have no experience," you then stammered, knowing full well that you had been purchased to perform sexual acts for your benefactor. 

"The fact that you are so innocent, and young is precisely why Mr. Shelby has purchased you," Nadia responded coldly, turning away to adjust a lamp on the nightstand. 

"Now, let me explain to you what is expected of you around here," she continued, softening her tone slightly.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, and your palms slickened with sweat, though you managed to nod affirmatively, meeting her gaze steadily. "Firstly, you must address Mr. Shelby as 'Sir' at all times. Do not forget," she warned sternly.

You swallowed hard, nodding again.

"You will be allowed to leave your room with another maid, between eight o'clock in the morning and eight o'clock in the evening, but not otherwise unless Mr. Shelby is with you," Nadia explained, adjusting a silk pillow propped by the headboard.

You tried to picture a day spent in confinement, the mere thought sending shivers down your spine.

"Mr. Shelby will inform you directly when he requires your services. Most often he will come here to use you for his pleasure, and he usually expects to be attended to at least twice per day, occasionally more often. You should prepare yourself mentally and physically for his needs because it can get quite overwhelming sometimes," Nadia explained and your breath hitched, but you managed to control the panic rising within you.

"And if I refuse?" you asked, causing Nadia to pause and look at you. "Refusal is not an option. Mr. Shelby doesn't tolerate disobedience. You must do whatever he asks."

Your hands shook involuntarily, but you clenched them into fists to prevent further trembling. You nodded weakly, fighting back tears.

"What he wants...is it...painful?" What you didn't know, what you couldn't comprehend, was whether the physical pain of intimacy would be more bearable than the emotional agony of submitting to someone else's whims.

"Sometimes, but he's gentle enough," Nadia replied matter-of-factly. "Now, you must get ready for tonight. He will be visiting you at 8 o'clock and expects you to wear nothing but a pair of undergarments of your choice," Nadia said before directing you to your wardrobe. "You will lie on the bed and wait for him, understood?" she asked and, again, you nodded. 

"I will be back after he is done with you to change the sheets and provide food and water," Nadia then finally explained before she left you alone in the darkness, save for the faint glow of your bedside lamp. You heard the key turn in the lock, sealing you in the room. You sat on the edge of the bed, trying to process everything she told you.

On the bedside table you found a bottle of lubrication next to a bottle of painkillers, both small comforts in the face of the reality of your situation and, when you looked around the room, you also found other items such as restraints hanging neatly from hooks in the wall. You shivered, feeling your anxiety rise.

Then, just before 8 o'clock, there was a knock on the door. You flinched, jumping to your feet and nearly knocking over the lamp.

"It's time," Nadia called through the door. You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. 

You stripped off your clothes, leaving you naked in the dim light of the room. You pulled on a pair of cotton panties, their thin fabric barely covering the shame you felt.

You then laid down beneath the thin sheets and waited for your new master's arrival. The tension mounted as the seconds ticked by, the sound of footsteps echoing loudly in the silent mansion.

There was a creak of the door opening, and an intimidating figure emerged from the shadows. His presence loomed large, filling the space with an aura of dominance and power. He wore only a robe, his toned body visible underneath. You bit your lip nervously, unable to tear your gaze away from those imposing features.

Thomas Shelby, you reminded yourself – a name that would forever haunt your dreams. His cold blue eyes swept over you, assessing your worth.

You stared back, holding his gaze, refusing to cower. 

"Welcome, Love," he rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot, but you remained silent, swallowing the lump in your throat. He moved closer, looming over you like a storm cloud, his scent of sandalwood and spice filling your nostrils.

"I trust Nadia has briefed you on your duties?" he queried, reaching out to stroke your cheek.

Your skin recoiled at his touch, but you refused to pull away. 

"Yes, she did," you mumbled hesitantly, your voice cracking under his scrutiny. He studied you carefully, tracing the lines of your jaw with his fingers.

"Good girl," he crooned softly, a strange sense of pride swelling within you. Your resolve wavered at the compliment, but you steeled yourself, reminding yourself of the reality of your situation as he touched some of your bare skin not covered by the white sheet.

"Relax Love," he then said softly as the heat of his hand seared through your skin, sending quivers up your spine.  "You will get used to this after a while," he went on to say and his voice was comforting, yet the words stung like venom.

Your breath quickened, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, and your hands instinctively curled into fists beneath the thin white sheet covering you. You wanted to scream, but instead, you simply nodded, unable to find any words to respond.

Thomas looked at you, his eyes appraising your form beneath the covers. "I am going to have a look at you now, eh" he said suddenly, reaching down to lift the edge of the sheet away from your body.

You squirmed and turned red, trying to cover yourself. But he pushed your hands aside gently, staring at you with a mixture of lust and admiration. "I cannot wait to feel your tight little cunt squeeze around my cock when I claim you," he whispered, running his fingertips along your inner thigh, causing you to shiver uncomfortably.

"But first, let me have a look at this little virgin hole of yours, eh?" the man said and his words sent a wave of unease coursing through your veins. You could feel the sweat trickling down your face, mingling with the tears pooling in your eyes. You bit your lip, struggling to contain the sobs threatening to erupt from inside you.

With a gentle tug, he pulled your panties down just enough to expose your slit and your heart pounded against your chest almost painfully.

"I have been told that your opening is particularly small" he murmured, trailing his fingers over your slit before parting your labia slightly, exposing your tiny clit.

"Ow!" you gasped, wincing at the sudden stretch caused by his fingers.

"You do have a tight opening indeed," he grinned wickedly, licking his lips.

Thomas gazed at it with fascination, reaching between your thighs. You tried to close your legs, but he firmly held them open, pressing a dry finger against your entrance, probing it gently. 

"Look at that," he breathed, leaning forward to get a better view. "It's barely opened up yet," Tommy groaned as he probed deeper, widening your opening until he found your hymen—a thin membrane that separated you from being fully broken. His fingers brushed against it, sending stinging pain shooting through your core as he toyed with your opening.

"Now, be a good girl and hold still for me," he cooed, pressing the tips of one of his fingers against your entrance. "I need to stretch you out a bit, ready for later," he went on to say as his finger pressed harder, forcing its way into your most intimate space. It felt too big, too foreign. The pain was excruciating, but you did your best not to make a sound. 

"There we go," he muttered, thrusting deeper until his entire pointer finger filled you up. "That's a good girl. Now, let's see if I can get a second one in there," he told you before reaching for the bottle of lubrication he kept on the nightstand and squirting the viscous liquid onto two of his fingers.

"Hold still for me," he reminded you before swiping his fingers across your outer lips and then pushing not one but two fingers right into you.

You cried out and arched your back, biting into your own fist to stop any louder sounds from escaping.

"Shh," Thomas hushed you, rubbing soothing circles into your hipbone as he pumped his fingers in and out of you.

His fingers felt cold and slimy inside you, sliding easily past your resistance, tearing at your hymen with each thrust.

You closed your eyes tightly, gritting your teeth as the sensation of being stretched and torn overwhelmed you.

The sight of his fingers stretching you like this turned him on; he couldn't help but groan and squeeze harder, making sure you knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"Such a good girl," he praised between grunts, watching your petals pulse around his digits, growing wetter and slicker with every stroke.

"See how hard you make me?" he moaned, opening his robe and grabbing hold of his erection, stroking it firmly. "I really want to fuck you now," he determined before he withdrew his fingers from you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

"Now be a good girl and turn over and lay flat on your stomach, face down against pillow," he commanded gruffly, pushing your upper body onto the mattress. 

You hesitated, wanting to turn over and hide your nakedness, but fear of displeasing him kept you lying facedown.

"I am going to use some lubrication, but it is going to hurt a lot more if you don't relax Love," he warned sharply, pulling your waist upwards and spreading your legs apart.

As you lay on your stomach and your heart hammered against your chest. The thought of being penetrated by him sent chills down your spine. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping to block out the inevitable.

You whimpered softly, trying to prepare yourself for what was to come, and Tommy smeared a generous amount of lube onto his cock, coating it in a thick layer of slippery fluid. You flinched in anticipation as he positioned himself between your legs.

"This might hurt a bit for the first few days, but you will get used to it after a while. The more we do it, the easier it will get," he said while aligning himself with your entry point.

"Now," he continued, his tone stern. "I want you to stay completely still when I penetrate you," he added, applying another dollop of lube to his shaft. 

You remained silent, swallowing loudly as you attempted to gather your courage. You could hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears; the rhythmic, thunderous pounding was deafening.

"Do you understand?" he asked quietly and you nodded. Your muscles tensed, ready to endure whatever came next.

Thomas placed the head of his penis at your entrance, teasing you with a slow push. You exhaled loudly, gripping the sheets in your fists.

"Relax and let me in," Thomas urged you, nudging the tip of his member against your entrance. "That's it,"  he sighed, feeling your body yield under his command. His cock slid into you, stretching you wide open, and the friction of entering you caused a shudder to ripple through his body.

"Ah," he groaned, reveling in the exquisite sensation of being enveloped by your warm, tight channel. "Such a good girl," he groaned as he savored the moment, basking in the sensations that coursed through him. Then, he began to thrust, filling you up inch by agonizing inch until every last millimeter of his erection was buried deep within you.

"So tight," he groaned, bucking into you with a force that seemed to shake the entire bed. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight."

"You are going to be such a good little whore for me, eh?" Tommy murmured into your ear, his hot breath tickling your neck.

"You will take my cock many times a day, love," he growled, his words a dark promise that sent a chill down your spine. "In the morning, afternoon, and evening."

You swallowed loudly, unable to meet his gaze. Your heart hammered wildly against your chest, and you struggled to suppress the sob that threatened to escape.

"Every time I come through that door, you'll be ready for me, won't you?" he asked, his grip tightening around your hip.

"Because I'm going to fuck you whenever I want, Love." Tommy snarled, punctuating his words with hard thrusts. 

For almost an hour, he used you like this, treating you like a rag doll that belonged to him alone until, finally, he was ready to ejaculate inside your raw opening.

"I am going to cum inside you now, Love," he informed you, his cock twitching violently against your vaginal wall.

"Do you want me to fill you up with my seed?" he asked you, his voice laced with lust, his fingers tightening around your hips.

"Yes, sir," you managed to reply, your voice hoarse with exhaustion.

He smiled down at you, satisfaction shining in his eyes. "Good girl," he praised, pumping his cock a few more times before letting out a guttural yell and filling you up with his essence.

As he collapsed next to you, panting heavily, you could feel his warmth radiating into your channel. 

The remnants of his semen trickled down your leg, leaving a sticky trail behind.

"That was a lovely experience, wasn't it?" Tom said, his voice still coarse from exertion. "Now rest. I am going to fuck you again when I come back from my business deal tonight" he added, his gaze lingering on your tender, swollen lips. 

He moved his hands to cup your breasts, palming them gently before pinching your nipples.

"You are going to learn to enjoy it Love," he whispered, his voice harsh and commanding. "And when you do," he paused, his breath hot against your cheek, "you are going to beg me for more," he determined before putting his robe back on and calling one of the maids to help you clean up. 

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

"They're lying to you" and gerry/distortion, i think that could be SO interesting

You asked for this. This is the only time I'll write this.

"They're lying to you."

Gerry wearily cracked an eye open. The thing that called itself Michael was looming over his hospital bed, staring down at him with eyes that shifted constantly, never settling in place or shape or color. It normally hurt to look at them, but he was already in so much pain that it barely registered. "Who?" he rasped out. "The doctors? Gertrude?"

"Yes." They stepped closer, studying the monitor over his head. "They don't actually know what's wrong with you."

"And you do?" Gerry prodded, rolling on his side to keep an eye on them. It didn't help the pain radiating down his spine, but it didn't make it any worse. Michael turned their eyes towards him, and they were almost...sad.

"You are being claimed," he intoned gravely. "By What Knows You. You have been in its sight for too long, and now it is taking you as its own."

Gerry felt nausea roil through him. "The Eye," he said, glancing towards the tattoos on his skin. Were they different already? He couldn't tell. "I don't want it to have me." His words felt as bitter and broken as the rest of him, but he couldn't bring himself to hold it back. It really didn't matter anymore.

"You don't have much of a choice." Michael sat next to him and took his hand, his long fingers winding around and around his palm and wrist. "Just as I didn't. There's no way to fight when they decide to enact their changes." His grip was tight, nearly trembling. "Even I had no way to fight when I became...Michael."

Gerry felt his throat closing, his breath coming shallow and painful. "I don't want this," he gasped, curling towards Michael. The fear was taking hold, and they were the only one there. They were the only one who could understand. "I don't fucking want this."

"What would you have me do?" Michael turned and laid down next to him, eye to mismatched eye, still holding his hand tightly. "I can't...I can't kill you, my Gerry. Don't ask me to do that. I can't." Tears were slipping down its cheeks, as unnatural and inhuman as the rest of it. Gerry couldn't help but reach out to wipe them away, watching them glitter on his fingers. They seemed real for once. Genuine. Maybe it did care for him.

"Would that even work?" he asked it, dreading the answer. "If I die, will the Eye bring me back to-"

"I don't know." A long arm slid over his side, pulling him into their arms. Michael closed their eyes and pressed their forehead against his, so hard like they could crack it open and take away what was growing inside. "I. Don't. Know." They sounded like it pained them to admit it, but somehow, their words eased the tightness in Gerry's chest. At least someone cared for him. Someone- something- would notice when he died. Maybe it would even grieve for him.

"Will you stay?" he asked weakly, closing his eyes so he couldn't see his face anymore. His large hand threaded into his hair, tipping his head back before their lips met, soft and gentle, lingering like he was afraid to stop. Gerry hoped he wouldn't. He wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing Michael. No matter how long it would last.

"I'll stay," Michael promised, voice thick and trembling. "I'll stay."

[shibaraki]

WHERE I WANNA BE ┊ REIGEN ARATAKA

tags: NSFT, GN reader, friends to lovers, resolved sexual tension, fluff and smut, dry humping, coming in pants, premature ejaculation, clothed sex, what is plot, don’t look at mekasksksks

wc: 1.6k

The invitation was made with only good intentions. Reigen’s apartment flooded after a pipe burst and he needed somewhere to stay. Serizawa offered, but your place was closer to the Spirits and Such Agency, and living alongside his own employee seemed inappropriate, temporary or otherwise.

The choice was easy. It was for the sake of convenience. And yet, you’re not sure exactly how it had come to this.

“You good?”

Reigen had sunken back into your couch cushions with an unnatural effort. You’d never seen someone try so hard to look relaxed. The corner of his eye twitches at random intervals, fingers wrung tightly into the fabric of your shorts.

At what point had the accumulated longing — built steadily over years of bizarre friendship — crested?

“Not sure what you mean. I’m fantastic,” he quips, flashing you a strained smile and giving a flippant wave of his hand. In the dark of your living room, illuminated only by the cool toned glow of your TV screen, he appears a little withered. Nervous. “Totally fine! Are you?”

Your legs are folded beneath your body, settled either side of his hips. The plot of the movie has been long forgotten. You take the opportunity to watch him squirm under your avid gaze. Reigen looks softer out of his typical work suit. Dirty blonde hair stuck in all directions and mussed. He’s wearing his muted purple pyjama set: a bear printed on the chest, crew neck loose around his collar but tight around the wrists. The bottoms are cuffed just above his ankles because his legs are a little too long. You laughed gleefully when you first saw them.

There was underlying meaning. He was comfortable. Maybe not in himself, but with you— in a way that makes you want to touch him. To keep him. You walk two fingers along his collar and feel each step echo through his body. Pelvis twitching helplessly under your weight, the stiff outline of his cock presses up against your ass.

“We can stop,” you intone gently. As exhilarating as it was to have him so reactive and malleable you knew he had a habit of overestimating himself; pushing his own boundaries for the sake of proving validity or worth. “I wouldn’t be upset. This is all moving pretty fast”.

Reigen worries his lip between his teeth. There is already a sore indentation left from earlier in the evening, after dealing with a particularly grueling call from his insurance company. Your knuckles brush across the new, uneven stubble on his jaw and he takes a sharp breath, grasping tight at your thighs.

In lieu of a response, he tentatively encourages you to grind into his lap again. You follow his lead and murmur leisurely at the whine that falls from his open mouth, arms snaking around his neck. Elbows rested against the back of the sofa, your fingers thread through his hair, playing with the fine strands at his nape.

Your name is whispered between heaving breaths, not quite knowing what he wants to ask for. Hands twitch at your hips with bruising pressure, undecided as to whether he wanted you to stop, slumping down into the cushions as sense gradually leaves him.

You hum appreciatively as his eyelids flutter, “Didn’t know you were this sensitive. Got me all wet and I’ve barely touched you”.

Reigen shudders and bites down a whine, head tipping back to bare his throat, breathing sharply out of his nose. Struggling to speak, his assertion falls flat, “I’m not—ah. Not usually”.

A sweet blush spreads warm across his cheeks and kisses the tips of his ears, dark in the dim lighting. You undulate your hips, chasing your own pleasure as well as his. “Don’t stop,” he pleads with a strangled noise, pawing at your waist and guiding you over his cock in dissonant rhythm. Pure desperation. “Please don’t”.

“Yeah?”

“Yeaaa—!” the vowels drag on his tongue, drawn out into a long moan when you push deliberately into the cradle of his pelvis, pleasure prickling under your skin. His arousal saturates the and eases the motions. Slack jawed, the bridge of his nose scrunches up as he clings to you. “Fuck. Wanted you like this for so long. Wanted… I wanted to do it the right…”

His interminable rambling comes to an abrupt halt. He realises his admission— you watch the panic trickle into his otherwise pink expression, his thighs quivering in the effort not to buck up again. To save face. Hot, blood rises to the surface and emanates against your palms. Slowing the rhythm to a stop, you gently take his face into your hands. “Arataka?”

“Sorry,” he blurts. Reigen pats awkwardly at your knees, eyes wide and darting along the length of the sofa as though seeking an escape route. “Sorry. My big mouth. Damn it, I’ll—”

Before he can formulate a clever excuse to leave, you squeeze the soft fat of his cheeks together, hard. It puckers his lips into an exaggerated pout and forcing him quiet. “You’re overthinking”.

“Overthinking? Me?” he tries, that well crafted, flippant mien fracturing under the movement between your bodies. “Never”.

You release, and his expression startles with the sharp flick of a finger. A faint pink mark blossoms at the point of impact, right between his brows, and they pinch tight into a petulant frown. Rubbing at the spot he complains, “Do you usually physically assault your guests?”

“Stop that,” you mutter.

Feigning ignorance, “Stop what?”

Reigen blinks, swallowing thickly as you gently grasp his wrist. Punctuating the words with a kiss to the palm of his hand, the heel, the quickening pulse, “You can’t bullshit here, Arataka. Not to me. Your body is a little too honest for that”.

He wheezes, “Could you be merciful for once in your life?”

You cradle the back of his head as it falls forward to rest against your shoulder and his hands slide up your back, clutching your shirt. He groans pitifully, “This is worse than the time I confessed in middle school with my fly open. I’m about to cum in my pants. I haven’t done that in years—!”

The way he holds you betrays him. Grip tight around you as he speaks, squeezing to settle the nerves and keep you close, afraid you’ll leave despite his own urge to flee. You coo as you feel his cock throb and the restraint falls away for a fleeting moment; he turns, open mouthed, and keens into the juncture of your throat.

“You know I want you too, right?” you rasp, repositioning your knees and building the pace, grinding down into his lap, spurred on by the wet hiss beneath your ear. “Feel that?”

Crossing his arms around the small of your back, as if to tether himself, Reigen tries to mirror your rhythm. Bending at an awkward angle, you hook your fingers beneath his chin and force him to look at you, never faltering. You take it in— Reigen isn’t conventionally attractive by any means but that somehow played to his charm. Now, with his pupils blown, lashes damp and clumped into little spikes, hair clinging to the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, you have to admit the view is quite a good one.

His lips part for breath, tongue peeking between his canines. There’s something intense in his gaze and it looks like a plea that you want to instinctively chase, hyper aware of how simple it would be to kiss him. You keep him there a while longer, mouths brushing with each rise and fall of your hips, until a whine breaks the tension.

“Please”.

You meet in the middle in a free fall. Crude wet sounds reverberate throughout the room. You think you can taste the lingering flavour of peppermint as you pluck your name from his throat, mapping out the grooves of his teeth, directionless and sloppy.

With surprising strength he holds you tight to his front and anchors your hips to begin frantically rutting up into your heat. His eyes roll back and close, lashes casting a thin shadow over his red cheeks. You watch in awe, mumbling disjointed praises as he surrenders to it; his surroundings fall away until you’re the only thing left— trapped in his clutches, being humped like a pillow.

Reigen shudders. He moans unabashedly and the hair on your arms stands on end as it frissons through your body, throbbing between your thighs. You rock forward with the force of his hips, gasping at the sudden bang behind you where his feet kick out and hit the coffee table. Years of pent up arousal spills into his pyjama pants, saturating the thin fabric enough to feel it sticky through your shorts.

“Holy shit Arataka,” you mumble, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead as you lean back and look where your bodies align— where he’s still slowly grinding against you, hissing through the sensitivity. “Wait. You don’t need to—”

“I can keep going,” he insists breathily. While his voice is weak and unconvincing, his expression is set into familiar false confidence to bury what is likely embarrassment. You knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking. Probably suffocating in unfounded embarrassment and scorning himself for not following some self implemented rule of making his partner cum first.

His slow, purposeful friction is hard to ignore. “Okay,” petting his cheek with one hand, you concede. The other descends his torso, a finger slipping under his waistband, grazing the hair leading down his navel.

“Take these off first”.

The choice is easy.

[annaskareninas]

Chapter 8 out now! | Or read from beginning

Chapter summary: With no choices remaining, Feyre unhappily submits to marriage with Rhysand, accompanying him north to his ancestral home.

Snippet below cut!

He looked up at me, lifting my hand a little in his, his thumb warm against my bare skin. “With this ring I thee wed,” he murmured, breath ghosting over the back of my hand. “With my body I thee worship.” A strange prickling flush spread through me. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He stepped back, lowering my hand, and the unnatural tension that had been spooling between us shattered. “Amen.”

“Amen,” the minister muttered. He then began to pray, again, but the words faded to a background buzz. I felt hot all over, dizzy and confused; the ring was a heavy weight on my finger, yet inside me, something jumped, liquidy and light. 

The minister joined our hands for a final time. “Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder,” he intoned, and I felt a flash of guilt at the annulment that would be coming his way in a year’s time. “I now pronounce thee man and wife, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; amen!” 

Rhysand turned me towards the congregation, joined hands raised high. A smile spread across his face, so wide and natural if I hadn’t known better I’d have been utterly convinced it was genuine. Cheers rang out through the church, petals fluttering from hands. 

“Smile, Feyre darling,” Rhysand muttered through his teeth. “This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life – act like it.” 

So, the normal Rhysand was back. That strange, husky intimacy that had overtaken us as he had slipped the ring on my finger…had that been nothing more than my imagination?

I plastered a fake grin onto my face, trying to mimic the way Ianthe had smiled so beatifically, fluttering her lashes and dimpling her cheeks, and it seemed to work: certainly, no-one looked the slightest bit concerned or shocked as we made our way back down the aisle as…

As man and wife. 

Husband. He was my husband. 

And just like that, Feyre Archeron died. She bled out on those smooth tiled floors, back snapping under the weight of a hundred nobles’ eyes, and breathed her last, jerking and fitting, at the bishop’s feet. 

Leaving the church, climbing into the carriage that would bear me and my husband away to our marital bed and home and life…I was reborn Duchess Feyre Velaris. 

[andypantsx3]

fingerprints | 6 | todoroki x reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 4.5k of est. 25k words | 6th of 9 chapters

summary: When you’re outed as pro hero Shouto’s soulmate on national television, there are really only two sensible things for you to do: blame someone else and run.  

tags/warnings: romance, soulmate au, fluff, pining, not actually unrequited love, aged up characters, eventual smut

You couldn’t concentrate on where Shouto was taking you, too focused on the feeling of your hand in his.

He hadn’t let you go, even minutes into the walk, and you could tell he’d been keeping up his quirk, his gloved hand unnaturally warm over yours, so that the cold didn’t have the chance to touch you. You kept your face tucked into your scarf, trying very hard not to let your expression show the euphoric and embarrassed rush of emotions ping-ponging through you.

“Your mom’s just like you, you know,” you told him as you trudged carefully along the sidewalk.

Shouto looked down at you, eyes inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

“You both seem quiet and mysterious but there’s a lot of warmth under there,” you explained. They also were both weirdly insistent in their own way, and you rather thought you’d do anything to please either of them. Though for Rei, it was more in search of her maternal approval, and Shouto—

Well, everything about Shouto nuked all the regular functionalities of your brain. You were helpless against him.

“You also look a lot alike,” you said.

Shouto made a low humming noise in his throat. “I’ve often been compared to my father.”

You couldn’t help but shake your head. “Not saying there’s no resemblance but it’s so clear when you and your mom are side by side,” you said. They were both so similar, so inhumanly pretty.

Shouto stopped walking, a white eyebrow raising over the top of his sunglasses as he looked at you, and you realized with some horror that you’d said that part aloud.

“Inhumanly pretty,” he echoed, and a furious flush rose to your face.

“I didn’t—um,” you floundered, searching for an out lest he think you were hitting on him. “I just meant. She’s pretty and you. Uh, look–I mean, you’re kind of–similar looking. Um, because–related…”

“Because related,” Shouto repeated. You wanted to curl up and die.

“Shut up,” you moaned, shoving your face further into your scarf. “Princess is the real looker of your family so don’t get a big head.”

The flash of a smirk on Shouto’s normally impassive face made all your veins heat through as if lava had been poured into them.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said so blandly that you knew he was making fun of you.

If only he had let that building crush you.

His quiet was a little too self-satisfied for your liking but it only lasted a minute more, until Shouto pulled you to a halt just outside a department store. It was definitely upscale, with twisting silver characters spelling out the name, windows sheltering a very carefully cultivated display of expensive-looking items in a minimalist palette. A bald white mannequin judged you eyelessly over her tweed ensemble.

“In here,” Shouto intoned, pulling you through the doors. You noticed he kept his sunglasses and hat on, and cast around quickly as you entered the store, as if making sure no one recognized him.

The interior was even fancier, so aggressively groomed and vacuumed, with high-vaulted ceilings and neat, cleanly-kept racks lining the walkways. The patrons were even more immaculately outfitted in sharp designer coats, and the whole place smelled vaguely of some unspecified blend of fancy perfumes from the parfumerie counter, ambery cedarwood and powdery florals.

“What are you shopping for?” you asked as Shouto led you into the store. You tried not to feel too out of place in your puffer jacket, eyeing Shouto’s woolen coat a little jealously.

“Gloves,” Shouto said after a small pause, inexplicably leading you towards the women’s section.

His hands were slender and fine-boned, sure, but large enough that you thought he might have trouble with a woman’s glove. And it was nearing the holidays. So who was he buying for? His mom? Fuyumi? Or…Creati?

You shoved down a miserable little flicker of envy.

Not yours, you repeated to yourself, sneaking a quick glance at him. Your soulmate, maybe, but someone else’s boyfriend. Not yours.

As you neared the racks of accessories, you combed through your brain for some response that didn’t make you sound like the world’s most jealous little weenie, and forcibly perked yourself up. You did have plenty of experience window shopping. And you did appreciate the excuse to spend more time with him, whatever the cause.

“Need a professional woman’s opinion, huh,” you said, gently tugging your hand from Shouto’s as you finally made it to the displays. The gloves were laid out alongside all manner of hats and scarves, neat, enticing rows of leather and warm wool and cashmere.

“What luck I am a woman, professionally,” you pronounced. “And as you are probably now aware from the mountain of blankets in my apartment, I am an expert in coziness.”

Shouto was quiet a moment, and you turned to look at him curiously, only to find him watching you with a quirk to his mouth you might have termed fond, if that thought wasn’t the most presumptuous idea of all time. It looked very much like how he watched Princess, except that was the height of conceit to think so.

You hesitated, wondering what he was thinking.

“Good,” he intoned in his low tone, something like an amused note in it. “Your expertise is very much required.”

You nodded and turned back to the rows of gloves, running a hand over them covetously. You picked carefully through them, honing in on the more muted palettes, imagining both his mom or Creati might like something more classic-looking. “What’s your price range? And who is the recipient? Does she have a favorite color?”

“There is no price range,” Shouto said, moving closer to peer over your shoulder. You very carefully ignored the heat of him at your back. “You should pick something you would like.”

You imagined your tastes were miles away from those of Shouto’s mom, or Yaoyorozu Momo, heiress to the Yaoyorozu Conglomerate. But gloves were pretty neutral ground.

Eventually you settled on a pretty pair of cream cashmere gloves, so soft they almost felt like liquid running across your fingers. Classy, cozy, and utterly perfect.

“Here’s my professional recommendation,” you told him. “These are stupid cute and so soft. Unless you think she’s not a cashmere kind of a lady…? Is it….your mom? Um, Creati?”

Shouto’s mouth quirked again. He didn’t answer, just took the gloves from you and pulled your hand back into his in one swift movement, leading you over to the counter.

He answered politely to the cashier and swiped his card, but then did something totally strange when she went to put the gloves into a bag.

“She’ll wear them, thank you,” he said, accepting them from the cashier.

You whipped around, startled, wondering how he knew the recipient had arrived—only to find no one behind you—not his mom, Fuyumi, Creati, or a single other woman in range.

Shouto had yanked the obscenely, offensively high-priced tag off by the time you turned back to him, confused, and he started guiding you back out of the store.

Your mouth dropped open when he gripped your wrist gently and pulled a glove onto your hand, exactly as he’d done that night you’d first met at the coffee shop. You reflexively pulled your other hand back from him in alarm, letting out the stupidest, splutteriest sound of all time, like a platypus sneezing.

“Sh–uh–what—?” you garbled out.

Shouto’s mouth pulled into a full smile, that charming white sliver that punched all the air out of your lungs. Like the strike of a viper, his hand snapped out and caught your other wrist, tugging your fingers into the other glove.

You were stunned by his speed, and even more stunned by the fucking insane generosity of the gesture that was now dawning on you. A curling roil of emotions twisted inside you, each one more confusing than the last.

Human expression failed you.

“Shouto, you–I–you can’t—these—”

“They’re for you,” he said seriously.

“I can buy my own gloves!” you said, throat closing with some emotion very close to touched. “You do not need–”

“I don’t need to,” Shouto agreed quietly. “I wanted to.”

Your whole body felt hot and squirmy.

“These are too nice,” you said. Shouto’s fingers gripped your wrists as if he knew you’d meant to pull them off. “And I still owe you for lunch, and the cafe that time. And I work with dogs, these could get ruined.”

“Then I will buy you a new pair,” Shouto said, deeply unphased.

“No!” you said quickly. “Shouto, you don’t understand—”

Suddenly he guided you to a halt, his face so close to yours that you could see the tiniest spray of nearly-invisible freckles along the bridge of his nose. You caught sight of your own shocked face in the reflection of his sunglasses before he pushed them up, and then those horribly lovely, mismatched eyes were catching yours in an unyielding gaze.

“You bought my mother tea,” he said. “You’re allowed to give gifts, but I’m not allowed the same?”

“No–I mean, yes but—that’s not what I–”

His face tipped even closer, freezing every single one of your brain cells in place as if he’d iced them with his quirk. “Y/N,” he said, so low and soft.

He was doing it again, you thought helplessly. Pulling out his finishing move.

There was no way he didn’t know, at this point, that every single particle of your body went berserk in his proximity. He had to know how powerless you were against him. How all the fibers in your body unfurled under his attention, like flowers in the sun.

“Say yes,” he said, voice lower than you’d ever heard it.

You felt your mouth shape the answer without any input from your brain. “Yes.”

Shouto smiled again, that crescent moon sliver, and it looked so good on him you felt your toes curl in your boots.

You clamped your mouth tight, suddenly overcome with the urge to lean forward and taste his smile.

No. No no no.

“We have one more stop,” Shouto told you, and you just nodded helplessly. You followed him, dazed.

Somewhere outside the department store, you finally remembered your manners, stumbling along beside him. “Thank you, Shouto,” you said, your voice embarrassingly quivery. “I do promise I will pay you back.”

“Anything you pay me will go into Princess’s keeping,” Shouto said. “And I believe you were the one who told me she doesn’t need any more toys.”

“Okay, she deserves them but she doesn’t need them, there’s fifteen thousand and I know you’ve acquired more since I’ve last been there,” you squinted at him, realizing he was distracting you. He’d gotten so good at that.

“Just…these are beyond nice, Shouto, and I don’t think thank you is enough,” you said.

“I did not buy them for you for a thank you, or for a favor owed,” Shouto said. “I want you to have them.”

You didn’t know how to explain to him the intimacy of a gift like this, at least to you. Didn’t know if he understood that these gloves would crown the pile of confusion over your relationship to him. He’d never indicated what soulmates meant to him, personally, only that it meant something. And he likely had a girlfriend, so it couldn’t mean as much as that.

You hated to think of these gloves as a casual, platonic intimacy. But what more could there be…?

Your line of thinking was disrupted as Shouto steered you into an electronics store, all white tile and chrome finishes–and a pit of suspicion coiled in your gut.

Shouto’s quick shift into a carefully blank expression told you everything you needed to know.

“Oh no,” you said, attempting to extricate yourself from him, but his arm locked through yours like a steel band. Your stomach fluttered with just how unyielding his hold suddenly was, that pro hero athleticism turned on you, to devastating effect. Your boots literally slid across the tile flooring, propelled forwards entirely under Shouto’s power.

“Shouto, no,” you said firmly, even as his look went more innocent.

A saleswoman approached, and over your rising panic, you heard Shouto murmur some specifications to her–-highly expensive specifications.You wanted to climb out of your own skin.

“Shouto, I don’t have the money and you are absolutely not allowed,” you hissed.

He looked down at you mildly, expression bland. “Aren’t I?”

“No!” you said. “My phone works fine, it’s just a little banged up. You’re just wasting your money.”

A weird look came over Shouto’s face, then, a slight dip of his brows and tightening of his mouth, that you might have called displeased. He stepped forward to look into your face, fingers tightening in your sleeve. “Nothing done for you is a waste,” he said quietly.

Heat seeped across your face, flashing down your neck and spreading all throughout your body. Your fingers tingled with the heat, toes curling in your boots.

That sounded dangerously close to something romantic, not the sort of thing an everyday friend might declare. And especially not while purchasing you a brand new phone just because your screen had a couple of cracks. But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t mean—

“Here you are sir,” the saleswoman said, returning with a slim box clutched in her fingers. “Will we be needing a data transfer?”

“Please,” Shouto answered, hesitating a moment over you.

You hand dipped into your pocket, clutching your phone uncertainly. There was still time to refuse. Just because Shouto had said something so…perilously close to romantic, just because he had sounded like that, his voice all low and soft….it didn’t mean that you had to.

“Y/N,” Shouto said. “How will you properly appreciate the pictures of Princess unless you can see them?”

You were startled into a laugh, laughing even harder when you caught the earnest set of Shouto’s mouth. He literally meant it.

“Shouto,” you said exasperatedly, but he must have caught your defenses slipping, because he turned back to the saleswoman, bidding her to unbox the new phone. You knew you’d lost your case once she peeled back the plastic trim, knew that Shouto was going to pay for it whether or not you were being cooperative.

Your insides squirmed at the thought of him dropping all that money on you. There were so many implications to something like this–first the gloves, then the phone. And thinking back, Shouto had always steamrolled right over your attempts to pay up anywhere, at lunch with his mother, for dinner when you’d brought Princess home, at the coffee shop the first time you’d ever properly met up.

You just….

There were no words to properly express how grateful you were, but how much it made you feel like you were taking advantage of him. You wanted him to know you just liked being with him, that he didn’t need to rent your friendship—that you would give him your friendship so freely, wanted to give him so much more than that, had your affection been allowed…

Shouto, for his part, looked a little bit too pleased with himself as the saleswoman walked you through all the steps to transfer your data. You almost died of humiliation when she pulled up your camera roll and that picture of Shouto and Princess flashed across the screen, his mouth pressed to Princess’s little cream and orange head.

“Oh my god, you didn’t see that,” you told him, but Shouto’s eyes were already wide as you looked up at him, and a strange, pink tinge dusted those ridiculously high cheekbones.

You were thankfully saved from having to provide an excuse by the saleswoman directing you to pull your settings, and she walked you through a series of steps. You watched as your old phone went dark, finally, and your new phone flickered to life, with your same lock screen in place.

As Shouto and the saleswoman went through the bill, you clicked into all of your apps, checking that everything looked normal. It was only when you clicked absently into the news app that you saw it, freezing in place. It felt like Shouto had suddenly sprung his power on you, tendrils of ice creeping up your spine.

There was a picture of Yoshizuki Ayumi, her glossy hair flipped over her shoulder, those dark eyes intent on the camera. And beside her, the spine-chilling headline:

↗ Trending Now: Pro Hero Shouto’s Soulmate Revealed in New Tell-All Memoir

You clicked into the article, heart pounding, scanning down the paragraphs anxiously.

Villain attack victim Yoshizuki Ayumi rose to accidental fame after being mistaken for pro hero Todoroki Shouto’s soulmate in an incident earlier this winter. The incident, alternately referred to online as soulmate-gate or #shoulmate, revealed the existence of the pro hero’s soulmate, but the questions have always gone unanswered: Who was responsible for leaving their fingerprints on Shouto? Does he know who it was? And where is his soulmate now?

In her new book, A High Stakes Mistake, Yoshizuki retells that day from her perspective, with all its aftermath, and spills the beans on who she believes to be Shouto’s real soulmate: another victim of the villain attack the internet has dubbed Running Girl.

Your fingers shook where they gripped the edges of your new phone, and a hoarse, panicked noise escaped you.

Immediately, Shouto was leaning over you in concern.

“What is it, love?” he asked, his tone low and urgent.

The phone wobbled in your grip, your fingers suddenly flashing numb. Your heartbeat stuttered, breath stopping in your lungs.

Had you just hallucinated? Had Shouto just…..had he really just called you love? The word rang in your ears, clanging like a church bell. You opened your mouth, wondering if maybe you had just misheard him.

But then Shouto was easing the phone gently out of your fingers, his expression going hard.

He muttered a low swear, returning your phone to you, fingers dipping into his pocket and quickly pulling out his own phone. He nodded to the saleswoman, their business apparently finished, and he grabbed your hand, hastily pulling you out of the store with him.

You heard his phone ringing where it was pressed against his ear, and then a clipped female voice on the other end of the line.

“I’ve just seen it. Do you know where she is?” she asked.

“She’s with me,” Shouto said, pulling you closer into him. “I’m taking her home.”

“I’ll dispatch two heroes,” the woman said, and you realized it must be his manager. “I’ve already got PR on it, and legal is reaching out to the publisher to see what we can do to minimize the press.”

“Thank you,” Shouto said. His fingers were tight in your own, though his thumb absently smoothed over the fabric of your new glove. “I’ll be in soon.”

“Good,” his manager’s voice pronounced. “I’m not waiting for you to greenlight any of the press releases but we’ll probably need you to do some interviews.”

“I’ll do them,” he said solemnly.

There was a second of almost surprised silence on the other end of the line before his manager muttered. “Figures this is the thing that gets you to stop acting like a brat.”

You had to stuff a glove into your mouth to stop the wild, surprised little noise of amusement that wanted to come out at the sullen expression on Shouto’s face. The minute pout on his mouth was too cute to be allowed.

“I’ll call again when I’m on my way,” he said, and then hung up.

He let out a long, slow breath, and then turned to peer down at you. His gaze was hot on your face in stark contrast to the icy weather swirling around you. “I apologize,” he said, the pout on his mouth pulling into something like a frown.

You shook your head. “I don’t—I don’t want anyone to know, but it’s not your fault.” You swallowed, the real gravity of the situation suddenly sinking much deeper into your skin. If Shouto was apologizing, then….

“I’m the one who screamed about your soulmate and drew attention, wasn’t I?” you asked, fidgeting a little.

Shouto’s mouth curled almost fondly. “You also made it clear you were not to be involved.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, face warming again. “I needed the exercise.”

“I am sorry for what may come after,” Shouto said. His eyebrows were drawn with concern, and it took everything you had in you not to reach up and smooth the crease between them.

“I’ll figure it out,” you said. Though you had no idea, exactly, how bad this could get, or what figuring it out might entail. You had never really thought about what it might mean to be exposed as Shouto’s soulmate–-only experienced the raw, wild panic that had seized you when you’d first left those fingerprints on his cheek.

The desire to run came over you once more. But there was no running from something like this.

“My manager has sent two heroes to patrol your neighborhood, no one should be able to get in reach of you if you don’t want them to,” Shouto said, finally, steering you into the very neighborhood in question.

Some of the ice receded from your veins. If nothing else, you would at least be physically safe. But you wondered for how long you would have to be watched, have to be guarded like this. How long before it became too much for Shouto and his agency to maintain?

“I’ll call you soon,” Shouto said when you arrived at the door to your apartment building, the questions still churning inside you. “When everything is taken care of.”

You nodded seriously, climbing up a few stairs so you could look into his face more easily. “Thank you, for everything. You don’t know how much this means.” You pointed a finger at him menacingly. “And you take care of yourself, too.”

Shouto’s mouth twitched again, that almost-fond look coming over him once more. “I will keep you safe,” he said, stepping closer.

It brought his face so horribly, terribly, wonderfully close to yours. His breath misted in the air, the little puff of his exhalation touching your own mouth. Your heart rate picked up into lightspeed, pulse pounding in your ears.

“Shouto,” you said, unclear about what you planned to say afterwards. You didn’t know if you meant to warn him away or beg him to move just a little bit closer.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice all low and serious. There was a curl on the end of your name, almost like a question.

He lingered there for a long moment, eyes burning through you. He was so still, like he was waiting for something…so still, like he was waiting for you to—

“Todoroki,” a voice issued from over Shouto’s shoulder.

You jumped, and Shouto’s eyes closed, his mouth tightening. He let out a huffy little exhale, before he turned his head to acknowledge the interloper.

It was another hero with violently purple hair. He was uniformed in a dark jumpsuit, with a long scarf looped many times over his neck, over which hung a strange mask-like device.

“Shinsou,” Shouto said. “Who did she send with you?”

“Tetsutetsu is scouting out the back of the building,” Shinsou said. His voice was low, like Shouto’s, and almost as equally as hypnotizing, but there was an affected laziness in it that you didn’t know if you liked. “Her roommate’s not inside, and no one’s tried to get in yet.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and you saw him actively suppress a smirk, like he knew he’d interrupted something. “I’m Mindjack. Real Steel and I will be watching over you. If you need anything, Todoroki will forward my contact info.”

He made no move to offer any kind of handshake or bow.

“Y/N,” you supplied.

“I’ve heard,” he said vaguely, letting his voice trail off in a way that made Shouto stiffen beside you.

“You should get inside,” Shouto said, taking your gloved hand again and turning back to you. Those mismatched eyes found yours again, watching you so very intently. “I’ll call soon.”

You nodded, heartbeat picking up with his hands on you again. “Take care of yourself,” you reminded him again.

A tiny smile threatened the corner of Shouto’s mouth. “I’ll take care of you, too,” he said. His fingers pressed down on yours, like he was trying to leave his fingerprints on you, even though the fabric of your gloves.

And then he was gone, leaving you to turn back to your building, wondering what the consequences would be now that the world might find you out.

[shentheauthor]

Torn Tapestries AU snippet

Context: the Lamb is changing. Narinder is worried. How does one defy fate, you ask? Ask the cards.

Clauneck’s voice came before Narinder even came into view. He had known the cat was coming, as always. Narinder hated it. He hated how repetitive his interactions with the duck were, how he knew what the outcome would be no matter what he did to change it.

Still, he had to try. Even when the oracle said exactly what he had every other time Narinder visited.

“Oh, Death,” Clauneck hummed. “Shall we continue our exercise of futility?”

Narinder pushed aside the last few branches, revealing the small clearing that temporarily housed Clauneck. The duck was always infuriatingly difficult to locate, moving with unnatural speed. Fitting for one blessed by the First Gods, but endlessly inconvenient for the former god of death.

“How many times have I told you to stop greeting me that way,” Narinder growled, taking his seat across from Clauneck. The well-worn rug smelled of countless creatures, their scents mixing together until they were indistinguishable, except for one. Lamb.

Clauneck’s expression remained neutral as ever. “You know as well as I that this encounter shall be the same as the others that came before it,” he said quietly. “As well as the encounters that will come after.”

Narinder rolled his eyes, gripping the handle of his scythe. The blade dripped with heretic blood. Despite his anger, he still angled it so the blood ran off the tip and onto the grass, rather than the rug. Clauneck smiled.

“Many thanks, Death,” he said. Narinder huffed, placing his hands on his lap, palms up.

“Get on with it,” he demanded. “I do not have all day.” Clauneck said nothing in response to Narinder’s attitude, as usual. He simply nodded, picking up his deck of cards and shuffling them quietly.

He spread the cards across the rug, gesturing for Narinder to choose. As he had dozens of times before, he did. He always chose randomly, pushing certainty away with hope. He knew what he would draw, as it had happened time and time again. Always the same question, to the point where he didn’t need to ask it. Always the same answer.

The Lovers, inverted. The Wheel of Fortune, reversed. Death, upright.

Narinder snarled and threw the cards back down. “I will not accept this,” he demanded. “Their fate is not sealed. I know this, just as mine was not.”

Clauneck’s eyes filled with something akin to sadness. “Dear Death,” he said, “one cannot avoid one’s destiny. It solidifies the more one refuses to accept that they are wrong.”

“You have yet to tell me what that means, soothsayer.” Narinder glared up at the red duck. “I grow tired of your games.”

Clauneck shook his head. “I play no games,” he intoned. “I cannot answer your questions, Reaper. The only ones who can are you, and the Lamb.”

Narinder stood, dragging his scythe behind him, still avoiding the rug. “This was a waste of time,” he spat as he turned around. “You are useless.”

Clauneck hummed. “I shall see you next time, then,” he said. “May the answers be the ones you seek.”

When Narinder turned, Clauneck was already gone.

[canmom]

more baldur gate

I think I've gathered most of the party now. time to venture forth

we did find another warlock it turned out. they've got a spin on him as a kind of demon slaying folk hero, which is cute. what's weirder to me is when characters will just casually speak of game mechanical stuff like being a 'warlock'. like, oh yeah i made a pact with an eldritch entity beyond space and comprehension, but it's no biggie, you know? there's one in every neighbourhood. though that is something of the problem of Forgotten Realms, it's such a kitchen-sink setting that it's very hard to figure out any sort of coherent narrative thrust for any of it.

my character seems to be settling by default into the kind of default 'pragmatic, generally prosocial crpg hero' model. most of the other dialogue options just seem needlessly standoffish. they do have certain party members disapprove when you take plot hooks, but honestly that all feels a bit silly to take as a prodding to play a more selfish character because like. what do you want me to do, not engage with the game? occasionally you get to click a 'hey, look, I'm also from baldur's gate!' dialogue option, but it never adds up to much.

it's frustrating in a way, because this being so specifically D&D-based really calls attention to the difference between CRPGs and TTRPGs. at the tabletop, I can give my character a distinctive voice, motivation, general habitas - and other players can respond to that and react appropriately. of course, this is not possible in a CRPG to the same degree, except within the rails laid down by the game writers. since the main character is unvoiced and characters react to dialogue the instant you click it, she is even further diminished from the voiced characters.

something noticeable in this is that it has a similar line reading problem as a lot of Bioware RPGs. characters' lines will sometimes noticeably differ in how they're acted - intonation, force, etc. - and there's that ever-noticeable cut between individual lines of dialogue. it has the feeling that the lines were recorded separately in a studio without much in the way of context.

overall the NPC acting in this game is... well it's that classic modern AAA videogame problem right? the character models and rendering are very lifelike when they're still, but the way the characters move is a bit stiff, a bit broad, a bit unnatural. of course nobody has the money to individually hand-animate every single dialogue line in a CRPG of this sort of scale, so they're leaning on canned animations and procedural blending techniques, and it works sorta well enough. it's got that fuzz of videogame jank to it.

it looks like we're about to run into the Evil Races D&D Problem pretty soon, oh boy! the goblins are attacking the poor tiefling refugees. why? i'm sure it will be given a clear understandable motivation and not just that they're evil by nature, right? this is something that I'm pretty sure the game is inheriting from the OG Baldur's Gate games - I definitely remember venturing into a mine to fight gnolls or something. Minsc was there. I have no doubt Minsc will show up in BG3 as well - he's like the most iconic character in the series.

the contrived nature of the premise is classic D&D shit. "you all meet on a mind flayer spaceship, united by parasites in your brain" is definitely the sort of thing that a human DM would cook up as a campaign starting point. that said, it does feel a little weird that everyone on the mind flayer ship between them cover most of the player classes, each with their own colourful backstory and an identically sized tent that they can pitch in your mysterious extradimensional campsite. I think the fact that the introductions are spread out a bit makes it feel more artificial - I get why they didn't want to frontload it with every single character right at the beginning, but it's like, 'damn, this guy has a player character sort of vibe, i bet he was on the airship' and sure enough, he was...

(speaking of the immersion-breaking camp, the respec guy really seems kinda unnecessary as a diegetic element. just have a menu somewhere, trying to make this skeleton guy make narrative sense just raises way too many questions.)

but I mean I can't complain too much that a videogame is a videogame, right? as I recall, in BG1, the recruitable party members were just random adventurers who you'd run into here and there. this is more of a KotOR II-like scenario, where every character has a thing in common that pushes them together.

the Tactician difficulty level, combined with the squishiness of level 2 characters, is definitely pushing me a bit. I had a fight with some bandits. all of them had names and unique voices, interestingly - really applying the Apocalypse World principles. however they will not like, surrender or anything. don't ask me why I was fighting these people to the death, I don't think they did anything that really did any harm to my character, but I wanted to unlock the respec character and you have to get past them to do it. not that I knew that when I saw hostile characters.

anyway, it was a cool fight because it was a bit of party-vs-party - the enemies were using the same abilities I was, and using the environment to their advantage (read: blowing me up with exploding barrels, the nerve of it). Larian of course have their fancy fluid sim system from the Divinity series, which actually integrates rather well with certain D&D spells like Grease. there's a lot of potentially interesting tactical possibilities, although in the end, it came down to the familiar tactics of 'split them up', 'disable them with debuffs' and 'focus dps'. D&D combat is very swingy - once I took out a couple of that other party, the fight was pretty much decided, but when I'd taken a few downed party members, there wasn't really much reason not to just load the quicksave.

I decided to spec my 'lock as a bladelock - I'm playing a chainlock on tabletop so this seemed like a good way to mix it up. of course then it turned out that Wyll is also a bladelock, so he's probably not gonna get much time in the party ^^' but maybe I should bring him along and we can just be warlock buddies. that said... the 4-person party size is... I can see its necessity as a balancing measure, but it does feel like it pushes me towards the standard healer (shadowheart)/tank (lae'zel)/rogue (astarion)/me structure. since I need someone to unlock doors, I need someone to heal, and I need someone to stop the enemy beating up my poor squishy party members. but now I'm a bladelock, maybe I can take over from Lae'zel as the frontliner and free up a slot for one of the other guys. probably it's a big enough game that there will be room to mix and match parties over the course of it.

one thing I do kinda miss from Bioware's games is the intra-party dialogue triggers. the characters here mostly don't have random conversations, at least so far - maybe they will later in the game. that stuff did a whole lot to add life to your party members and make them feel more like characters.

honestly? this is making me want to go back to various isometric CRPGs like Tyranny. so far, despite spicy elements like the mindflayer thing, I'm not fully hooked by this story. but I will give this one a chance all the same.

[meoproject]

Yeah. Well. Val knows Beriith is tall compared to her, but she lacked context as to how tall Beriith is compared other members of his race. And. Hm. Yeah. Beriith is tall, even compared to his own kind. Not, like, unnaturally so? but tall enough for other goets to note it as a significant feature of his.

I also never draw Val's and Beriith's actual height difference unless it's a full body picture :') she's just lunking around several Scully boxes so she can fit in the frame better.

(the map also isn't a representation of any region in the story/world, i haven't made any maps for the world so i had to whip up something map-like for this piece.)

(also Goet language isnt like. a real conlang and not even a real cipher, its just nonsense, i should redo the font too.)

BONUS!

One significant Beriith feature that I can't really convey well is that he speaks with a noticeable accent. I've thought about phonetic accents a lot (thanks to another of my projects which has a character with severe speech impediment of not having lips) and since the balance of fun and annoying is quite delicate, I don't really write them out unless I really have to, and even then I'd downplay it. Beriith's accent isn't meant to be to thick anyway.

More accent talk under cut for those interested.

If we take "middle common" (the language Val and Beriith speak with each other) to be non-diegetic "English", Beriith has, in comparison, fairly flat intonation, and he trills his Rs and has some trouble with "ng" sounds and Ws, which he generally pronounces more like Vs. He also pronounces "th" sounds leaning towards Zs, which sorta runs into the slight logic bomb of "wait, doesn't his name end in 'th', but the watsonian explanation is, of course, that transliteration of his name from Goet to middle common isn't perfect and the h just implies a sightly softened t sound :) (the doylist explanation is, of course, that I decided the name before figuring out how accents work, but if you explain it away, it's not a mistake, just worldbuilding!)

As mentioned before, Beriith's accent isn't thick or anything, definitely not Hollywood-thick, but everyone who hears him speak either knows where he's from or wants to guess where he's from (though you can know but looking at him, Goets are distinct enough, but you know what I mean.)

Val, by the way, speaks the most generic middle common imaginable, like only a step or two below news casters; that's by design (of her parents). They sent her (and her siblings) to a school that specifically taught middle-common without any strong regional accents to give her the most easily-understood accent imaginable. Her family are big into business, mostly in export/import, so her parents figured out having children with neutral, easy to understand, "trustworthy" way of speaking would be the best. Yes, this means Val's parents have a completely different accent than she does, and Val speaks their variation of Elvish with a middle common accent. It does cause some bitterness, Val is kinda... not okay with it, but since her studies are all in middle common anyway it's kinda... whatever, not good but could be worse, but her younger sister is especially upset with not really knowing Elvish that well.

Val is fluent in three languages, middle common, high common (it's occasionally used as a language of magic studies, it's kind of an older version of middle common, or rather a version that has more in common with the older version of the language and branched out a bit differently) and Elvish. Beriith is fluent in like five languages and conversational in several more and "can sort of understand" in many more.

(this wasnt the vignette i was talking about earlier but i needed to get this out of my system.)

[sangcreole]

@childofmanynames sent: 🎲!

Kiss Roulette 26. kiss while one or both parties are crying

He can smell the blood tears before he can see them; like an oncoming storm, their presence is signaled by some sudden shift in the air, the slight tang of salt prickling at his senses just moments before the tide overtakes Armand's stoic gaze with crimson red evidence of his emotion. For one flickering moment, he thinks over all the years they had spent together, all the times they had made one another weep out of cruelty, neglect, bitterness and resentment that had festered amongst the bed of open wounds left untended for so long. Yes, he's seen Armand weep before. It's a horrid thing— an unnatural thing— to witness such beauty marred by burnt red trails trickling across the porcelain canvas of stony flesh, crusting and staining until the whole visage is wracked with anguish like some ghastly creature cast out from the Holy land.

But these tears are different. So remarkably different.

There is a sorrow in Armand's eyes, but it's rooted in something soft, something innocent. The longer he stares, the more Louis recognizes the eyes of a child left behind, suddenly overwhelmed aching flood of relief at being found once more. It's bittersweet, this feeling. It's joy and love and deep-seeded melancholy all at once, and perhaps that is why Louis finds himself smiling as he nuzzles against the soft nest of hair at Armand's temple. To feel things so deeply is at the crux of their nature, and Louis has always been so enthralled with the way his lover ignites with such emotion.

The words had felt so foreign on his lips, having only passed them in secret until this very evening. Whispered confessionals had been confined to the library walls each evening while Armand was away, practicing the strange vowels, the cadence, the intonation. He hadn't expected to say them this evening, only the feeling came over him so suddenly and so overwhelmingly that he had no choice.

Even now, he doesn't know if he has it quite right, but the gentle tears in Armand's eyes are the only encouragement he needs to say it again.

"I love you," he whispers— not in English, or their comfortable French, but in the old mother tongue that is lost to the world, the language of Armand's youth.

His lips buzz with the blossoming warmth of blood tears kissed away.

"I love you," he speaks the words one last time against Armand's lips, and he means every single syllable.

[thedragon-and-hisboy]

Two Bad Choices

Hiccup is aboard a Dragon Hunter ship and afforded two bad choices by Viggo.

The darkness was comforting. It offered assurance that whatever he opened his eyes to would be worse than it. 

He opened his eyes anyway, or tried to. It was more difficult than he was used to. He was in a ship’s cabin which swayed gently with the waves underneath. A desk bolted to the floor held maps, charts, and dragon bones. A banner hung on the wall behind it, depicting a flaming fist. No one else was in the room, and, most unusually, Hiccup found that he was not bound in any way. He was slumped in a corner of the quarters, divested of his sword, his leg, and his shoulder armor. His neck ached, both from its unnatural angle, and more acutely on one side.

Footsteps thudded outside the door, then it burst open. Ryker stormed in, glared around, and found Hiccup. His eyes narrowed. “Why isn’t he bound, Viggo?” Hiccup’s fists clenched, but his limbs felt leaden. Why couldn’t he move?

Viggo appeared in a more leisurely fashion behind his brother. He smirked at Hiccup before answering. “No need, brother. The elevated dose of sedative in his system has rendered him quite, aha, helpless.” Hiccup’s face burned. Drugged. Of course, that had to be the reason. No wonder they didn’t have to restrain him, he couldn’t even lift a finger. He could barely keep his head up.

Ryker squatted in front of him. “Helpless, eh? I’m sure my men would like that.” Hiccup’s mind went white with panic and Ryker smiled.

“Now, now, brother,” Viggo snapped, settling himself at his desk. “No need for that.”

Ryker snorted. “What? He’s sunk and killed enough of my men that the rest of them deserve to beat seven kinds of hell out of him.”

“Be that as it may, we have other plans for our guest.” Ryker grumbled and sat down. “Is the Night Fury secured?”

“It was, up until about ten minutes ago,” Ryker snarled. “That damn rider girl blasted a hole in the cell, got on the Night Fury, and rode off. Her Nadder, too. I’ve already punished the lookout on duty for that.”

Hiccup’s heart leapt. Astrid had rescued Toothless! They knew he was in trouble! 

“No matter,” Viggo said with a wave of his hand. “It would have been nice to keep them both, but I am more prepared to deal with the loss of the dragon than its rider.” He smirked at Hiccup again. 

“Don’t see why this runt is worth more than the last Night Fury,” Ryker grumbled. “For a mug of piss-poor ale I’d’ve shot that girl out of the air.”

“Patience, Ryker,” Viggo intoned. “He is more valuable than you give him credit for. The Night Fury cannot fly without him, for one thing. I need not explain to you why this is a benefit to us. Those other riders are followers, not leaders. They cannot conduct an effective attack on us without Hiccup, especially if we are using him as a bargaining chip.”

“That’s more like it,” Ryker said. “What are we demanding? Gold?”

Viggo laughed. “Don’t be so small-minded, Ryker! Gold and treasure, while nice, are not exclusive to the riders. We can make them catch dragons for us.”

Hiccup’s stomach sank like a sundered ship. Oh, gods. They’ll be forced to capture dragons and deliver them to certain death, afraid they’ll kill me if they refuse. I have to get out of here.

“What about some sort of tithe?” Ryker was musing. “I wouldn’t mind clipping Berk’s wings. A thousand gold pieces a month, do you think?” Already sunk, Hiccup’s stomach clenched. And they’ll bankrupt Berk at the same time. I’m not worth it! 

Viggo chuckled. “All in due time, brother. Hiccup, are you awake enough to join us?”

Hiccup didn’t reply at once. He wanted to spit fire in their faces, but the drug still held him down. “They won’t do it,” he managed, raising his head with effort. “They won’t hunt for you.”

“But will they hunt for you?” Viggo asked. “Ryker, bring him.” The other Grimborn approached and lifted Hiccup bodily from the corner. Hiccup hated how his limbs flopped, but he could do little about it. Ryker set him in a chair facing Viggo, one with armrests and a curved back that kept him from sliding to the floor. 

“They’ll get me out of here,” Hiccup said. Anger and no small amount of fear was making it easier to function, despite the drug. “You’ll regret all of this. My friends aren’t stupid. They’ll see through your blackmail!”

“Not blackmail, in point of fact,” Viggo said, raising a finger. “The word is ransom, dear Hiccup. We are demanding a ransom for you. It is not something that you or they are in a position to refuse.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” Ryker chimed in nastily.

Viggo permitted himself a smile at the insult. “That being said, Hiccup, hostages are ordinarily kept incapacitated. I see that your dose of sedative is wearing off, and we cannot have that. I will, however, give you a choice: Another dose, just to keep you weak, or restraints. I must say, it’s not as though you could run.” He tapped Hiccup’s leg on the desk. “So, shall Ryker fetch the bottle or a rope?”

Hiccup gritted his teeth and glared at Viggo. Two bad choices. He hated being tied up and helpless, especially without his leg, but he knew that being unconscious and at the mercy of a ship full of dragon hunters was worse. “Get the rope,” he snarled.

[pheita]

Blood Night Alternative Beginning

Yeah, the Make me Write Tag made me do this lol

I decided to switch between Lyran and Arritit for this one because it's more fun. Plus it offers some more insight we didn't had in the original version that is only Sojan's POV

So what changed? Basically a bit about the timeframe. Lyran didn't got stuck in Lagawood and met Sojan but got stuck in a town a day walk away from it weeks before and runs into Arritit because of this.

Tagging @ashen-crest @abalonetea @contes-de-rheio @writingamongther0ses @chris-the-dragonslayer since you were on the old tag list. Also tagging @tabswrites because of the make me write tag of her.

Don't forget all of my WIP stuff can be found @lagawood-guildhouse

Warnings for alcohol mentions, blood, stabbing, minor violence

A little protected from prying eyes, Arritit sat in the pub and thought. Autumn had reached its midpoint and soon winter would stretch out its long icy and snowy fingers. If she wanted to arrive in Stramsa'gonil before the big snow, she had to hurry, and above all, hope that her brother Sojan was planning to spend the winter in Lagawood as usual, and that she could collect him there.

The chance that he had not yet noticed that their father had become active again was definitely there, where he traveled as a hunter over the whole continent. On the other hand, maybe he had already noticed something without knowing what it was.

The playing of a lute made them sit up and take notice. A young bard in blue and green robes had sat down on the small stage. The wild black curls were just a little tamed and were banded with a colorful ribbon. Filigree fingers plucked the strings with an elegance that spoke of years of practice, as did the soft tenor voice that rose above it all as if it were no effort. A laugh escaped her when she noticed that he had added more depth to his eyes with black makeup, making those unnatural green eyes stand out even more. Even if he looked human, his blood was clearly not, Arritit as a shaman saw that immediately.

The thought brought her back to her problem. She was sure that this time they would have to face their father, and she didn't know if Sojan was ready, or her mother. She wouldn't be able to do it alone, especially with the insane twins on her father's side. Sighing, she emptied her mug of beer and went to get another. The only good thing about being a demon was that she had a very high alcohol tolerance, yet she was cautious.

Slowly, she put one foot in front of the other, so others would think she was getting drunk, and walked to the counter. She twirled her index finger and pointed into the empty pitcher. "One more." "You sure?" "Still standing, am I?" The innkeeper just shrugged and took the pitcher to draw another beer. This close to the small stage, Arritit took the chance to eye the bard more closely.

It might have been the alcohol, or the fact that she hadn't had sex in almost a month, or it might have been the fact that she was about to make a leap in her magic, but she had to admit that he was appealing to her.

The fine clothing stretched too much during the lute playing for him to be an effeminate fellow, and the question of what was there in his bloodline and how that might play out in bed crossed her mind, even though she rarely took a man to bed.

The thought of all she had left behind in Ryenaton flitted through her mind like a withered bush in a storm, but she pushed it aside. Her eyes still on the bard, who by now had intoned a lewd drinking song, she took two coins from her purse and placed them on the table. The innkeeper looked at her in confusion. "For our singing friend. He'll be thirsty from all that singing." The innkeeper nodded and drew another beer and set it out for the bard with a nod to Arritit. The bard smiled with a brief lowering of his head. Satisfied, she made her way back to the table where she sat before, knowing that it would still be free as little was going on today. She didn't sit long when a drunken man staggered in her direction.

Ready to fight back if necessary, her fingers sought the hidden dagger in her belt and with the other plucked her oversized scarf so that everyone could see the necklace with the many pendants that identified her as a shaman or mage. For most people, it was enough of a clue, but not for this man. Either he was too drunk or too stubborn or just horny that he didn't care and continued his way to her.

""Traveling all alone like this, beautiful?" "Yes, and I'm not your beautiful or sweetie, and I'm not interested either. If you want to keep your balls and not hang head over heels from the tallest building in the morning, then leave me alone." "Oh, look at that. A harpy," he just grinned and sat down without being asked. Arritit kicked the chair in front that he, so that it landed on the floor. Through the noise, some looked over, but no one reacted. It was not surprising. "You've got fire, I'll give you that," the man laughed as he got to his feet. "I'd be happy to show you how fiery I am." "Now we're talking the same language."

She rolled her eyes. It was becoming more and more obvious that she was dealing with the sort particularly brash and stupid. Slowly, she stood up and picked up her mug. Her eyes searched for another free table when she felt herself being grabbed by the arm. "Let go of me if you are true to your fingers." "If I were you, I would do as the lady asked."

The new voice made Arritit blink. Behind the sleazy guy, the bard had appeared. The eyes that previously laughed and flirted with the crowd were now cold and spoke of murderous desire. "And you want to stop me?" the man laughed out loud. "You should never underestimate someone based on their looks my friend, besides I prefer to play without interference, and you are an interference and a pest. So now let go of the lady and get lost." "What if I don't?" Arritit was pulled by the arm. She used the momentum it gave her to stab with the dagger. Only slightly delayed, the bard had struck.

His nose bloody and a non-fatal stab wound to the abdomen later, the man lay on the ground, whimpering like a toddler. "You have a dagger?" "You punched?" Astonishment on both sides gave way to laughter. The bard looked down with a frown. "The stab wound doesn't look too bad." "I'm a shaman, I know how to stab without killing." "I saw that." He pointed to her necklace for clarification. "I'm Lyran." "Arritit." "May I invite you to come further forward?" Amused, she looked at him. "So you can protect me?" "Much more so that I can protect my audience before you stab them all in their folly."

Lyran extended his arm to her with a playful smirk. She couldn't tell what it was exactly, but Arritit liked it. "So you're the protector of the poor and helpless?" she teased him, getting a loud laugh in response. "No, I don't have the combat experience for that then, but I do what I can, where I can." "That is already more than others do." "That may be true. So you are the avenger of women?" "Only when someone gets too close to me."

She grinned challengingly at him. Lyran raised an eyebrow, yet he smirked and led her to one of the empty tables almost directly by the stage. With a kiss on the hand and a bow, he went back to his seat and took up the lute as if nothing had happened. Arritit laughed softly into her mug. Lyran had just managed to make himself even more interesting to her.

[aaluminiumas]

Sacrifice

If you like this work, you can read others here.

His bloody fingers twitched once, twice, and the unexpected bolt of electricity coursed through his brain: by some terrible mistake, he was still alive. By some terrible mistake, his cloudy mind was still registering the surroundings. By some terrible mistake, his body withstood the onslaught of violence it wasn’t supposed to endure.

Did he have some time to take a long drag on that pipe the city council had brought him as a gift—as a bribe? He most likely didn’t. Too bad, he loved this pipe. He didn’t even smoke that much; he flaunted, putting his respectable position on display—and the presents that came with it. The council went to great lengths to please the most brilliant—and utterly corrupted—magistrate and must’ve spent hours picking the perfect offering. Astarion wasn’t easy to deal with: he willingly flouted the law and warped the regulations the way he saw fit but only when driven by his diverse and ever-changing whims. He could nonchalantly bail out a criminal or a public official charged with abuse of power—when he wanted that. Consequently, Astarion got himself a questionable reputation: on the one hand, he was universally recognized as a smart magistrate. On the other, he should have been prosecuted likewise and indicted on charges of abuse of power, but in the fine city of Baldur’s Gate, such violations weren’t even deemed harrowing. Transgressions like this were common; this rotten place had seen things far more impressive and horrifying than a magistrate trying to whitewash and re-establish some rascal’s sullied name.

So, the city council must’ve racked his brains seeking a decent present. The pipe was made of the best one-hundred-year-old oak, inlaid with gold, and polished with the petals of night orchid and corpse rose, or so he intoned, groveling before the magistrate’s desk. Astarion very much doubted that last bit, but he appreciated the effort—and eventually accepted the sop after giving the council a profound lecture on law and order. The suspect was acquitted, the case open and shut, and the nature of the crime brought up privately in his office was carefully buried in the depth of his beautiful mind. Not everyone was pleased, of course. But they were always asking the impossible. They sure didn’t expect him to serve the good citizens of Baldur’s Gate for free, did they? He studied hard and well, employed all his congenital charisma and wit, so he had a legal right to taste a little luxury here and there. That was only fair!..

Ah. Astarion glanced at his hands. He couldn’t see much: his fingers were crusted with clotted blood, painting his marble skin in all shades of burgundy that always gave him an unnatural grayish complexion, turning him into an incorporeal wraith roaming across the mazelike passages of the court. He sported a ruby red dress once, saw himself in a mirror, and discarded it, thinking it a very poor choice for his refined features. Ironically, this was exactly the color that stained his shirt.

Astarion tried to peel back the fabric, but the raw edges of the wound immediately responded, sending another spurt of blood his way. He was bleeding profusely and would probably die by morning.

Or in another hour. Or in any minute. Stupid Gur. He should’ve accused their wretched gang of something vile and ignominious, so they would have had to pack their things and abscond while they still could. Because he would make sure they were reduced to a non-existent nonentity. Good-for-nothing misfits. If they wanted to teach him a lesson, they overdid it. If they wanted to kill him, they failed abysmally. Sorrowful, deplorable cowards. Maybe he still had enough strength in his perishing limbs to write a note? He’d press charges against the Gur, someone would initiate an investigation, and it’d be over in a week.

He’ll be over, too. He didn’t expect his life to end like this, with his intestines painfully throbbing with his every shallow breath. Leaning against one wall, Astarion was left to observe the remnants of his once refined home, furnished with exquisite taste, and realize that his life was trickling like sand. He couldn’t move; his every limb seemed to have been broken, and pain, searing, impossible pain seized him, twisting every cell sideways and wringing his inner organs. It never let go; once this ache abated in one spot, it instantly resumed in another, growing in size and intensity, spreading an incandescent glow of anguish across his frame. Even breathing hurt: Astarion sensed a slight pulsation of blood underneath his hands every time he inhaled, but he couldn’t pinpoint what was injured—either because he was already losing control over his consciousness and succumbing to his mortal fantasies or because the lesions were so numerous it was pointless to locate the fountainhead of his suffering.

Still, he was fairly certain that his broken ribs must’ve punctured his lungs, and the connected bones responded with an equal dull ache, causing him to overcome unbearable anguish worthy of a religious martyr. It pattered in his whole body, rolled across his shoulders, hammered him in the chest and in the back, slithered down to his legs, and darted to his neck, lodging in his throat, falling into the pit of his stomach and climbing up across every broken rib, clawing onto every fracture and wedging into every cleft, nesting in the fragments of bone. His porcelain skin he was so proud of, was now decorated in ruby rivulets of blood, some of them growing bigger and morphing into languid streams. The newly acquired bruises painted him purple: swollen welts reminded him of a universe he once spotted in a lengthy treaty with beautifully made engravings.

All of a sudden, the steady ticking of the clock, the only sound that reigned in the quiet house, was punctuated by a feeble squeaking of the door, the barely audible sound echoing through the slumbering, lugubrious mansion. Who might that be? Did the Gur come back to finish him? Hardly possible. They wouldn’t put their own lives at stake. They were stupid, not foolhardy: they couldn’t afford to be reckless two times a day—that might result in unnecessary complications for their craft and trade. Did an assistant stop by?.. No: that idiot would’ve hurtled into the office, his flailing arms cutting and slashing the air. The silent visitor attenuated the noise as if wanting to inspect the surroundings and confirm a hunch. What hunch that might be, Astarion could only guess.

A light tread reverberated in the vast corridor—a set of soft, tentative steps threading toward his office. Obviously, a thief. The city was abrim with outcasts of all sorts, and the most vigilant burglars may have spotted signs of a melee. Usually, all melees in Baldur’s Gate ended in a most predictable way: people carried knives at all times.

The light steps halted at the door as if the cautious intruder was mesmerized by the trail of blood that led to the room. This blood spoor must’ve left ugly stains on his rugs and statues. The mere thought caused a painful, infuriating spasm. He’d better be dying soon, otherwise he’d have an additional heart attack and he’s way too young for that.

The door hissed open, revealing a tall, scrawny, wiry figure of a man holding a quarterstaff. Astarion needed a solid moment to recognize the stranger. Certainly, one of the most opulent dwellers, belonging to the entitled circles, Cazador Szarr, barely participated in social activities: he might’ve stopped by Lady Jannath’s exhibition, and that was it. People knew a few things, most of them shoddy scuttlebutt not worthy of anyone’s attention, and Cazador didn’t seem particularly interested in debunking the myths about his mystifying persona.

“Oh, if it isn’t Cazador Szarr himself,” Astarion greeted in his somewhat trenchant manner, his voice laden with sardonic waspishness, “If you’re here for legal advice, I’m afraid, I am in no condition to provide.”

“I am not here for that,” the man replied, his strange eyes—were they predatory red?—glaring directly at him, his reedy voice laced with an emotion Astarion failed to grasp. “I have been watching you, Astarion. The world will be an empty place without you in it.”

“Sure. It will lose a talented magistrate,” he parried in the same sarcastic tone, wincing in pain, “Why are you here, wasting your precious time and my final moments on earth?”

“This is precisely the reason for my visit. I can prolong these final moments of yours, Astarion. I can stretch them into many eternities to come, but you will have to pay… a price.”

“What price?” Astarion’s voice lost its jeering quality, his ears instantly perked up. A diffident noble always remained a diffident noble, but his experience prodded him to hear out the conditions—after all, this young magistrate never had trouble changing sides, once the situation grew dire. “But, for the love of gods, don’t linger. I don’t have even one eternity at my disposal.”

“A reasonable one.”

Cazador, who always had a chip on his shoulder, rarely deigned to speak to those he didn’t consider equals—or so the word went. He preferred the most annoying ruse of all, the one he’d just used: he perplexed people, made them enquire, and then relished in the quandary he’d initiated. Stalling further, the man brushed off an imaginable mote of dust from the velvet armchair and sat down opposite Astarion, crossing his legs and leaning back. “Sacrifice the sun and become the creature of the night.”

Every pause was measured. Every word that left his mouth was pondered, and every sound was unmistakable even for a man standing at death’s door, and yet Astarion was convinced he’d misheard. The creature of the night? Did he imply the nascent cult of Bhaal? How many Bhaalists were there, thrashing about in the boughs in the park, clambering to the top, ambushing their victim? But no, it seemed far-fetched: Bhaalist might be obsessed with darkness where they could hide and strike, but it would be a little of an overreach to call them creatures of the night. Shadow-Cursed Lands? The shadows that inhabited the place? This curse didn’t sound probable, the old story about some mortified, disparaged general didn’t pertain to Baldur’s Gate. Was there any other god or goddess involved? Hardly. Sharrans wore insignia, and Cazador had none. Myrkul’s doings? At this point, death would only become the beginning—

And then he understood. Sacrifice the sun, he said.

Once the idea settled down in his dying brain, Astarion mustered a barking laughter that was mostly a coughing sound in the throat.

“Vampires? Really? What other predators do you insist on making? Hags? Gnolls? Gods, this is ridiculous. Get out of my house, let me meet my maker peacefully, wallowing in luxury I earned by dealing with excruciating drudgery every single day of my tenure.”

If Cazador felt a flare of anger, he didn’t show it, but his eyes did gleam with threat, exposing a glimpse of ill-hidden contempt.

“Luxury?” the vampire’s voice sounded deadpan and neutral. “Mere knickknacks of a petulant child trying to make a name for himself. I am offering you the power you’ve never known before. I am offering you a gift no one else can give. With it, you will be able to acquire anything you want, and for that, I am asking you to simply say yes. Say yes, and avenge those miserable wrecks who ruined your beautiful life. Say yes, and you will never have to worry about death derailing your plans.”

Astarion paused for a moment, his consciousness reeling. The temptation was irresistible, and, in all honesty, he didn’t want to die. It didn’t have anything to do with his future prospects or grand plans, vaunted abilities he wanted to exercise, piles of money he could make—he just wanted to relish life for a little longer, to try new things, to visit other cities, become a council, arrange his own saloon for the most notorious scandalmongers poking noses into every affair… and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it, because a bunch of fortune teller-vampire-hunters-whoever-else-they-were decided that they could replace Tyr and sow justice. Fuck them. Fuck everything.

Cazador waited patiently, but his scary illuminating eyes betrayed a spark of dark anticipation. Other than that, it was impossible to say what thoughts crossed his mind: perhaps, only the fingertips that grew restive on the armrests exposed his emotion.

“Your time is running out, Astation,” he drawled leisurely, his thin lips curling in a grin. “By my reckoning, you will die in another hour. And you know it, too. I can smell it in the air. You are dying. And death will come very, very soon.”

The words hung in the stale air of the room, stinking with blood and sweat. Not a single sound penetrated the thick walls of his mansion, and the time seemed to have frozen, petrifying both lean figures in the room: one, dark-haired, erect and straight, sitting languorously in the armchair, and the other, sprawling across the floor, leaning against the bookshelf. The minutes were steadily ticking by, measuring Astarion’s final hours in the world of mortals, sometimes accompanied by a rare squeak of wood.

For the first time, Astarion realized how scared he actually was. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. He had so many things to do, and a gang of hillbillies took it upon themselves to end his beautiful life like this.

“Yes,” he muttered, losing his bluster and feeling his lips going dry, “Yes, please. Yes, I agree. Make me… the creature of the night.”

Cazador must’ve anticipated such an answer: even before the trembling request fell off the bloodied lips, the vampire had leaped to his feet, revealing his impatience and feline grace. Trying to keep himself in check, the man inhaled the scent of death, savoring the heavy tang, feeling the flavor of blood dissolving at the tip of his tongue.

“Do not discompose yourself, child,” he hissed in a singsong voice, lowering himself so his face was on the same level with Astarion’s. “It’ll only be a moment.”

The vampire’s voracious appetite was obvious: he was losing control, and the smell of blood engulfing his slender figure, interweaving with the scent of polished wood and broken perfume vials, aggravated the situation, causing his acute senses to blare. Driven to insanity with the intoxicating odor and Astarion’s infuriating temerity earlier on, Cazador bit into the man’s neck with diabolic ferocity. Only the stream of fresh, warm blood gushing out of the wound dulled his irritation, and the sweet wail of anguish, though feeble and muffled, pictured a beautiful picture in his perverse, devious mind.

You belong to me, Cazador gloated, from now on you belong to me.  

[prettyboykatsuki]

Ari what do you think would happen if Sae's partner came up and about how they feel like there's a wall between them in the relationship? Sorry this is too specific, i was just contemplating if he would say he has certain ways to show he cares and doing otherwise feels unnatural or if he would try to change a bit(in terms of showing that he values the relationship and his partner). Sorry this got too long lol i'm just curious about your answer as the Sae expert🙏

hi!!! not too long or anything!!

i think sae is a chara who like generally enjoys independency as a partner so i think he’s probably takes the concerns of his partner seriously? like he doesn’t date frivolously and he wants you to be happy because he genuinely likes you.

so if you feel like hes not expressive enough or that theres a wall, i do think he has to take some time out to think about it. he doesn’t enjoy verbal assurance but hes not so cruel to deny you that. he’ll sit down very seriously and be like hey i do love you im just like this in a very sae-like way

he does try to be more expressive though his intonation is like soo flat. he’ll compliment you more and try to tell you his thoughts instead of rolling his eyes and shooing u away. its definitely like pulling teeth but theres very clear effort there lol

[alolanrain]

Shadow Lugia ficlet-fourth part

With a crackle, XD-001's eyes shot open. Blinking the magenta spits out of his eyes, he grunted in pain as he pulled himself to his feet. 

Where was he? And how did he get here? He focused on the jumble of events of the past few hours.  

Yes, it was all coming back. The entity... Eternatus... It had tried to kill Ash. XD-001 had jumped straight into Hypermode when the blast clipped his son's shoulder, and had charged the entity-only to take a Dynamax Cannon at point-blank range.

The next thing he knew, he was here. He stood on harsh, jagged brown cliff, with a cloudy gray sky. He recognized it immediately: Shamouti’s highest point, with a simple overcast sky, and a beautiful view of the ocean.

...It was too quiet. Even after the Birds had been Shadowed, there was still noise emanating from the islands.

How had he ended up here?

IT IS THE PLACE YOUR SOUL GRAVITATES TO. 

XD-001 turned around slowly to face the source of the voice-that-wasn’t.

Crimson-and-black feathers. Clawed crimson wings. A soft, gray ruff of neck feathers. And blue eyes carrying the wisdom of aeons.

XD-001 bit down the rage and dipped his head as a sign of respect. Lord Yveltal. What do you mean, my soul gravitates here?

Yveltal looked at him, blue eyes boring into the Shadow. THIS IS THE PLACE YOU HAVE LIVED FOR FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHT YEARS. DESPITE THE DAMAGE CIPHER DID TO YOUR SOUL, YOU STILL SEE THIS PLACE AS HOME. Their deep, ethereal bass voice echoed in his mind, causing his feathers to rise up. 

This isn’t a social visit, is it? XD-001 asked. He had a feeling he knew; one rarely saw Yveltal unless it was Time.

YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER. The Crimson-and-black Legendary closed their eyes for a moment. I DON’T DO SOCIAL CALLS UNLESS SOMEONE EXPLICITLY CALLS ME. OR IF THEY HAVE GOOD BIRDSEED.

I suspected as much. XD-001 looked away, looking out across the unusually-still ocean. It’s... Too peaceful. 

REGARDLESS, YOU CANNOT STAY. The Reaper Bird’s voice-that-wasn’t echoed around the cliffs. YOU ARE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH AT THE MOMENT. I AM HERE BECAUSE I AM MEANT TO BE.

Of course they'd say something cryptic. So, what’s going to happen to me? Despite his best efforts, XD-001 couldn’t keep the faint tremor out of his voice.

THAT DEPENDS, Yveltal intoned. YOU’RE IN CRITICAL CONDITION IN WYNDON'S POKÉMON CENTER, BARELY CLINGING ON.

Curse me and my survivability, XD-001 deadpanned, finally tearing is gaze away from the ocean. He could feel warmth, if he really focused: his pinfeathers felt warm, and he could distantly hear Ash calling out for him, muffled and distant as if a long way away.

It was then that it fully snack in that Yveltal was here. He already knew logically why the Reaper Bird had come, but it was only then that the implications fully sank in.

I... I don’t want to die. His voice shook as his eyes dimmed, terror flooding his body. His psychic voice locked up as he tried to say something, anything more. I-

He was cut off by a long clawed wingtip being placed on the tip of his beak. YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE; SO MANY WISHED TO LIVE. There was pain in the Reaper Bird’s voice, as well as a faint hint of apology. I HAVE REAPED ALL OF THOSE WHO PERISHED IN CIPHER’S EXPERIMENTS. I HAVE EVEN VISITED YOU BEFORE, BEFORE YOU FINISHED SHADOWING AND WERE HOPING FOR DEATH. They pulled their claw back.

...But what can I live for?! A note of desperation crept into his voice. I'm an unnatural creation of humanity fueled by negativity I can't ever be free from. I can NEVER go back to being who I was!!!

The Reaper Bird was silent for a long moment. CATS, they said eventually. XD-001 did a double-take in confusion, eliciting a further reply from Yveltal. CATS ARE NICE. IF YOU CAN’T LIVE FOR YOURSELF, LIVE FOR CATS. OR LIVE FOR SOMETHING SIMILARLY SMALL. LIVE FOR YOUR SON’S HAPPINESS, OR FOR HIS RELIEF AT SEEING YOU ALIVE. LIVE FOR THE SMALL THINGS. 

Rage surged in XD-001, a hot, boiling thing that felt far more natural than any of the anger he'd felt as a Shadow Pokémon. Why do you care?! He snapped, magenta boiling behind his eyes. Master Greevil may have been terrible, but he was right: people are selfish, and nobody is truly good! So why do you CARE about these people who will only die anyway?!

Yveltal regarded him, the moment stretching into what felt like infinity. After a metaphorical eternity, they spoke. WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE CREATE. THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US. ALL THINGS THAT ARE ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION. AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOMEDAY.

JUST THIS ONCE, I CAN GRANT A LITTLE TIME. FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.

As they spoke, Yveltal's wings slowly spread out further and further, the black parts darkening until one could see the Void through them.

WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER BIRD?

   And on that note, XD-001 snapped back to full consciousness, pain radiating from his body and Ash standing over him, looking terrified and concerned

  (Yveltal is based off of DEATH from Discworld-to the extent that Yveltal's speech about caring is almost word-for-word pulled from the book. I just wanted an excuse to use that speech, because it's a great one.)

[sleepymarmot]

Get Out (2017)

[Watched on July 15th]

Very glad to see this film lives up to its reputation.

Of course I haven’t escaped spoilers in all these years; I knew what the plot was going to involve, but didn’t know how. So I figured it out 45 minutes in, when a young black guy was acting like an old white guy and also like the husband of an old white lady. This made the pacing feel pretty slow until the secret was out in the open, though I can’t tell if it’s the film’s fault for playing its hand too openly, or my own for knowing spoilers. The only thing that stayed unclear until the reveal was whether Rose was in on the conspiracy or not.

As a fan of the “bodyswap” and “actors playing each other’s character” tropes, I was very impressed by the writing and performances of the bodysnatched black characters, especially Andre Hayworth/Logan King. Throughout the whole film but in these scenes in particular, I kept thinking that it must have been difficult to localize it for other languages, especially in dubbing. The film places a lot of attention on speech — I’m glad to discover it won an Oscar for best original screenplay, well deserved — and a lot of horror comes out of how unnatural both their words and intonations sound, which is probably hard to convey in localization. I usually find the “person acting weirdly” kind of horror to be tropey and contrived, but it really worked for me here. After rewatching a few of their scenes, I also noticed that the two grandparents acted in an eerie, semi-hypnotized way, while the guest behaved more naturally as an old man with a young face; I wonder if that’s intentional and why. Another difference between them I noticed is that the grandparents have a more youthful body language, while the guest is slouching and pulling in his head as if he still has an old body with a bad back; I’m assuming that’s because he is the newest “patient” and not yet used to being young again (there was a shot of him showing off his new body to other guests).

Some nitpicks:

I had to rewatch the scene to see that “Georgina” died in the crash — the shot of her still face was very dark and short, so I assumed she survived and was confused why Chris didn't go back for her again.

The portrayal of Rod veered into comic relief a bit too much. More importantly, what was with the glorification of TSA? The film goes out of its way to say “Cops, even black ones, are dismissive, useless, and drunk on their power. You know who doesn't share the same flaws at all? The kind of cops who frisk people at the airport.” ????? Am I missing something about the US realities again or is this choice really bizarre?

Connections to other films:

I think this was more cohesive than the other directors’ recent films in the satire/thriller genre I can think of. The 2021 Candyman sequel (also co-written and co-produced by Peele), Midsommar, and Knives Out kind of undercut their own narrative each in its own way, and as for Parasite, I have already posted two angry rants about everything that didn’t work in it for me. It feels like Get Out was much better at showcasing its own themes — or maybe I’m still in the post-viewing high and the fridge logic hasn’t kicked in yet.

The plot has a surprising amount in common with Midsommar: a young American person traumatized by the loss of their family is invited into an insular traditionalist white cult so that they could be brainwashed and their body used for the perpetuation of that community. In both cases the protagonists are targeted specifically because of their race, for opposite reasons.

In retrospect, the plot of Get Out is pretty much what I expected the plot of Parasite to be. The rich are literally parasites in this one! Conversely, Parasite is like if the family from Get Out didn’t actually have a violent sinister secret and their wrongdoings were limited to “being wealthy” and “committing microaggressions”.

Had a bit of deja vu at the beginning: the protagonist of the Candyman sequel was also a young man with a successful career in arts. A relatable archetype for Peele, I’m guessing :D

Other notes:

Immediate red flag: Rose tells Chris her parents don’t know he’s black. You mean you have a good relationship with your parents and have never shown them a single photo of your boyfriend of five months? You mean your parents have invited your boyfriend to their house even though they haven’t even seen a picture of him? Bullshit.

The microaggressions were so painful and embarrassing to watch that the straightforward horror scenes were almost a relief.

Why did the grandparents pretend to be servants? Why didn’t they hide, or pretend to be other guests? Was that another mind game — did they think seeing black servants in the house would prepare Chris for his fate on a subconscious level? So in addition to his personal trauma (guilt for his mother’s death) the family also intentionally triggered his generational/racial trauma?

I’m surprised to see most reviews on LB talk only about race: my own impression was that the film was defining the conflict as being between classes/social groups as much as it was between the races. The protagonist is well off, but the difference of wealth between him and the family is even more striking than the difference of culture. One of the secret society members is Japanese. There’s a fairly long scene where a black man goes to the police about the disappearances of two other black men and expects sympathy from the policemen because they’re also black — and they laugh in his face, because they’re cops first and everything else second. It’s interesting that the film avoids a simplistic “white bad, black good” dichotomy not by adding sympathetic white characters, but by adding asshole characters of color.

[gltownsend]

(I used this word once in my entire WIP so far and it was in a scene with absolutely no plot that I'm not sure has a purpose to exist, apart from possibly character personality showcasing...?)

(I said I would stop apologising for long snips.)

- (Tijil perspective)

There was a rustling noise low in the bushes to their left. Edie whipped around to them at the crunch of a dry leaf; Adityi and Tijil followed her much more sedately.

"What do you think that was," she whispered. She did not use the intonation one usually would to signify a question, so Tijil did not reply. He and Adityi approached the bush in step behind her—while he would not normally have put her in the way of harm, the noise had sounded quite small—and fanned out.

He found himself thinking it was not something he personally would have dedicated the time to investigate had it been just him; then felt suddenly a little bit sad at the way he so easily had pushed aside curiousity in the name of having priorities. Survival becoming something that needed effort to continue should not have to mean one abandoned all other aspects of life. Watching for large and unpredictable wild animals—for safety—did not preclude watching for small and interesting ones—for simply wanting to. For wanting to know more– even when the knowledge was entirely what lives here in this undergrowth right now. 

What was in the undergrowth was a kind of small rabbit; it froze when Edie's head appeared over the top of the bush and blinked up at them. 

It did not appear frightened as much as just watching and waiting. Eventually when she did not move its whiskers twitched and it continued on its slow, slinking path towards a burrow which must be its own. 

At the entrance there was a shallow indentation in which it seemed to have gathered a paltry collection of small blue fruits. 

As they watched it lowered its head and gently deposited one more. Edie's hands flew to her mouth. Adityi glanced up at her. Tijil did not, which meant that he was looking when another—much smaller—nose poked out of the entrance.

"It must be a mother," Tijil said quietly.

Edie stumbled back with her hands still over her mouth. Tijil was becoming concerned, but Adityi did not even look surprised at this display. The rabbit had a small number of torn pieces of blue fruit skin caught in its feathers, he noticed, as it entered the burrow and disappeared from sight.

Edie's eyes were shining when he looked up. "She's feeding her babies," she said.

"That is the most likely explanation," Tijil agreed. He was not certain why the idea caused such a reaction. It was what mothers usually did– there was nothing particularly notable about it.

"She only had that many foods," Edie said. Her voice caught on the sounds the way people's voiced do around babies. Tijil abruptly recognised that she was not scientifically interested; she found the creature cute. "We should help her."

Tijil's thought processing halted. "Excuse me?"

"We should find her more food," Edie explained, like it was her words that had confused him and not her logic. "She's only tiny and we've seen tons of those higher than she could reach, oh–"

Tijil had to stop himself from frowning because Edie often reacted to it quite negatively. "We should not. Feeding wild animals can unnaturally increase animal population and cause it to become unbalanced with what its environment can support, which also negatively influences the availability resources they consume and other species in the area. Wild animals fed also can come to rely on humans for food, which causes a decreased ability to–"

Edie was squinting hard at him. He shut his mouth. "You are incredibly overdramatic. It is one rabbit one time."

"I do find it difficult to envision this chain of events you seem to be imagining that leads from a few less hungry babies to widespread ecological collapse," Adityi said drily. She was poking a pebble from the dirt with a stick now, seemingly having lost interest in watching the now long-unmoving mouth of the burrow.

"I suppose," Tijil said reluctantly. The whole conversation was reminiscent of one he could have easily had with Nikora. The thought was a sudden pang, a bruise one did not realise still slightly ached until it was touched. He swallowed. They supplemented the rabbit's collection.

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