#Nameless is my price

[maybeiwasjustjade]

Upcoming ACOTAR fics: Nameless Verse

A three-part series about Koschei’s War and after, starring Eris Vanserra and Azriel (Azris x OC with a twist) ft Nesta Archeron, Lucien, and Tamlin

Blurb:

Millenia after Prythian was born from burning fire and starlight ice, eight year old Eris Vanserra was roused from sleep by a girl falling out of his bedroom wall. High Fae, like him. One who spoke in a language long forgotten, and bore a name and a strange mark on her brow from legends old.

What is given must now be returned.

Magic has receded across Prythian. The magic of the High Fae wanes in the eleventh hour as the shadow of Death’s wings spread across the continent. Monstrous creatures stalk every court. The Middle is now nothing more than an executioner’s ground for magic. Every seer from the highest peaks of Montesere to Elain Archeron to the charlatans that roam the Human Lands, have prophesied the end is here.

The heir of Night’s rounded ears bred true—the boy cannot inherit his father’s magic. The fate of the Night Court is no longer guaranteed, and rumor has it that something far more sinister hounds the High Lady’s steps. Lady Death finds herself haunted by visions of a crown of stars, and a long-forgotten destiny determined from the moment of the world’s conception.

In the far south, walls of thorn have erupted across the entirety of Spring’s border. Soldiers return in droves from their refuge. In the heart of Spring, the pool of starlight ripples. Under the nose of its High Lord, Adriata prepares for war as its princess seek to repay a debt.

Meanwhile, the Shadowsinger finds himself drawn south by the memories of a singular dream over fifty years before: two voices, ruby hair, and sapphire eyes; a great oak where flame-gold flowers bloom. In Autumn, the Heir of Fire finds destiny at his doorsteps. An old promise almost forgotten; a mate left hanging by a glamoured golden thread.

Twilight has set on the West. A hidden gate; an old bargain forgotten to time. An ancient sword awaits the Heir of Fire. The Mother has called for her son to bleed. And only in Death will the Nameless be free.

Kill the sun, let the fire be reborn in ashes.

[athena-theunicorn]

“Nameless is my price.” “The mark of the bastard-born nameless.” I’m losing my fucking mind.

[acourtofquestions]

Fireheart

They had entombed her in darkness and iron.

She slept, for they had forced her to--had wafted curling, sweet smoke through the cleverly hidden airholes in the slab of iron above. Around. Beneath.

A coffin built by an ancient queen to trap the sun inside.

Draped with iron, encased in it, she slept. Dreamed.

Drifted through seas, through darkness, through fire. A princess of nothing. Nameless.

The princess sang to the darkness, to the flame. And they sang back.

There was no beginning or end or middle. Only the song, and the sea, and the iron sarcophagus that had become her bower.

Until they were gone.

Until blinding light flooded the slumbering, warm dark. Until the wind swept in, crisp and scented with rain.

She could not feel it on her face. Not with the death-mask still chained to it.

Her eyes cracked open. The light burned away all shape and color after so long in the dim depths.

But a face appeared before her--above her. Peering over the lid that had been hauled aside.

Dark, flowing hair. Moon-pale skin. Lips as red as blood.

The ancient queen's mouth parted in a smile.

Teeth as white as bone.

"You're awake. Good."

Lovely and cold, it was a voice that could devour the stars.

From somewhere, from the blinding light, rough and scar-flecked hands reached into the coffin. Grasped the chains binding her. The queen's huntsman; the queen's blade.

He hauled the princess upright, her body a distant, aching thing. She did not want to slide back into this body. Struggled against it, clawing for the flame and the darkness that now ebbed away from her like a morning tide.

But the huntsman yanked her closer to that cruel, beautiful face watching with a spider's smile.

And he held her still as that ancient queen purred, "Let's begin."

[buttermilkbunny]

Post infirmary shift Omega since people thought my Omega design was so hot lol

(people liking my design made me sooo happy ngl)

[bookishfart]

I missed last year cause my house burned down and I’ve been going Through It but I got it done this year…..early even!

(You can pry the Kim Possible lips from my cold dead hands)

He believed that I could take a beating But the bruises down my back don’t mean a damn thing Cause I brought the God of War to his knees With the back of my hand wiped his blood from my cheek

Godess-Xana

[brainrotcharacters]

tog and acotar are iconic because on one series there's nothing but pettiness and bickering and childish bullshit and then the other series is fantastic worldbuilding and elaborate characters

[teawithcherries]

wrong number

Ghost receives a text that leaves him absolutely reeling. OR the guy that you texted on accident is weirdly flirtatious and you're kind of into it?

1.1k words. lieutenant!Ghost x chef!reader (f). reader’s age unclear but 18+ (not a minor!!). divider by @plutism.

Unknown: SOS!!!!

Ghost immediately goes deathly still, eyes zeroing in on the text message notification that blinks across his phone before disappearing.

Having a SAS issued phone means that his phone number should be impossible to find. He doesn’t receive spam texts or calls and the few people who have his number know better than to bother him when he’s on paperwork duty. Which means that something is not right.

His phone buzzes again, and he feels his gut churn sourly.

Unknown: (1 attachment)

He doesn’t have time to think, he just braces himself for the worst. A photo of Johnny bleeding out with a gunshot wound? Coordinates to a location where Gaz is being held hostage? 

He’s already reaching for his kit in case he needs to jump on a helo when the attachment, an image, finally opens up.

The breath that was suspended in his chest slowly releases like a deflated balloon as he tries to make sense of the carnage on his phone screen. Yet, it isn’t one of his squadmates that’s crying out for help. Rather, it’s an image of a Cornish hen that’s been burnt to an absolute charred crisp. 

His mind is racing at a speed that he can’t quite process, his eyes methodically scanning the photo for any clues or hidden messages in the image. 

Yet, even to his trained eye, the image is perfectly normal. The background of the photo is a standard flat kitchen, slightly disorganized with cooking materials and ingredients scattered about. Your feet are visible in the corner of the photo, you’re wearing a pair of girly pajama shorts and bunny slippers.

His brows scrunch together in confusion, thoroughly perplexed and slightly annoyed at the mental gymnastics that he is undertaking to try to make sense of these messages.

Ghost: Who are you?

Your reply is instant, confirming his suspicion that you have truly somehow managed to message him by accident.

Unknown: It’s (♥︎), your classmate from culinary school!

Ghost glances at the image again, brows scrunching in disbelief that you are training to become a chef considering the charred and blackened state of the bird.

Ghost: Wrong number.

Unknown: Ah, how embarrassing. So sorry to disturb you! I must have jotted down my classmate’s number incorrectly during class. Have a lovely rest of your evening! 

That’s that then.

He sighs and sets his phone on his worn desk, glancing back at the mountain of paperwork that awaits him. He’s several hours away from finishing up, and Price will absolutely have his head if doesn't get it all done.

Yet, for reasons he isn't willing to unpack, the image of your bare legs tucked into those ridiculously fuzzy bunny slippers lingers in the back of his mind. His fist twitches, annoyed with himself for getting so hot and bothered over a mere glimpse of bare ankle.

You’re just another nameless, faceless muppet in the void of the digital age. Even responding back to your text message is probably a breach of security protocol that could land him in another hour long cybersecurity training seminar if he isn't careful.

So Ghost isn’t sure why he bothers picking up his phone and typing a message at all, but his thumb hits send before he can ponder it any further.

Ghost: Chicken seems a bit burnt.

Being the asshole that he is, Ghost can’t help but chuckle wryly at his own joke. He figures you’ll probably ignore his message. Maybe you’ll even take offence to it and block his number. So when his phone instantly buzzes with a response, his interest is fully captured.

Unknown: You think? I worried it might be a bit underdone.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward beneath his mask.

Ghost: I could be wrong. You’re the chef after all.

Unknown: Well, there’s plenty to go around if you fancy charcoals and mash.

He's fully smiling now, embarrassingly chuffed that you're playing along.

Ghost: You asking me on a date?

Unknown: Depends. Are you a serial killer?

Ghost: Depends on your definition of a serial killer.

It’s silent after that and Ghost can’t help the kernel of disappointment that takes root in his chest. Easygoing banter is far and few between for the lieutenant who has spent the last 48 hours trying to make sense of the mountain of paperwork that piled up on his desk during his last mission. He was enjoying this exchange with you far more than he cares to admit, and several minutes pass with no response before he glumly locks his phone and returns his attention to his desk.

A full day passes and Ghost accepts that he has scared you off.

Yet he can’t blame you. He knows full well that there are loads of creeps and nut jobs on the Internet who could take advantage of you. And even so, you’d be better off messaging any one of those weirdos rather than him. Because, after all, he’s ... who he is.

Three days later, Ghost is seven kilometers into his evening jog around the training field when his phone buzzes again unexpectedly. His eye twitches but he doesn’t check it right away, chiding himself for the persistent flare of hope in his gut that refuses to be extinguished. He’s been pathetically rushing to his phone with every notification he receives since your last text message came through and feeling disappointed every time it isn’t you.

It’s only when his phone buzzes again that he decides to bite the bullet and check who's texting him.

He’s fully expecting it to be another stupid meme from Soap in the 141 group chat. Which is why he skids to a stop, heart suddenly pounding in his chest, at the sight of a message from your phone number (which he has memorized at this point).

It’s his trigger finger that flies to open your message, eyes fixed intensely, almost nervously, on the pixelated screen of his outdated phone.

You’ve sent him a photo of a sausage roll, a proper sausage roll, that’s cooling on a wire rack in your kitchen. He's already salivating at the sight of the juicy blend of ground meat packed neatly and precisely into a flaky case of golden pastry, as well as the sliver of your bare thigh that's showing in the edge of the photo.

He assumes that you’ve accidentally messaged him again instead of your classmate until he sees the message beneath the image.

Unknown: Just wanted you to know that I’ve been testing some other recipes for our date. 

Unknown: Thoughts on my sausage rolls?

Ghost doesn’t even realize that he’s grinning like a madman until his face starts to twitch uncomfortably. He hasn’t smiled so hard in months, maybe even years, and the mechanics of beaming like a lovesick idiot have almost been forgotten by his stiff facial muscles.

He responds immediately, almost afraid that you might slip through his gloved fingers again if he is even a second too late.

Ghost: That’ll do.

(thoughts on part 2 from reader pov? i want them to talk on the phone and see ghost be all cute n awkward TT)

[delphi-shield]

— 「 STRICTLY BUSINESS 」 PT 1

Sylus x Reader x MC — 10k

summary: mixed signals are her first language. she strokes her hand down your forearm, laces her fingers with yours and hits you with a one-two punch: "i'm so happy you made it! this is my boyfriend."

content: threesome, piv, pussy inspection, body worship, fem reader, reader is not mc, established relationship (mc & sylus), creampie, unsafe sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism (fantasized), dry humping, miscommunication trope that kind of works out in reader's favor, alcohol consumption, mc is nameless, non-descript, and referred to with she/her. mdni. dividers by @/adornedwithlight

You were on your way out the first time she walked into your bar.

She had come in with a gaggle of other hunters - work friends, you’d learned quickly. Hunters came in all the time. It was just far enough from headquarters that their superiors wouldn’t stop by for a cocktail, just ritzy enough to justify the elevated prices, but not enough to break their budgets. The bartender was a complete madman, but he could make a hell of a signature cocktail. Something pretty enough for a Moments post, but tasty enough to order again and again, and rotated just often enough that there was something new to post when you needed it.

You’d worked there for years - longer than you had ever planned on staying. Cocktail waitressing was supposed to help you get through school. When you had graduated, you’d found yourself struggling. You'd landed a cushy gig in the archives. Zero contact with the general public, great benefits. It was perfect, almost, except for your salary. It would have been enough to live on if you hadn’t been saddled with student loans, suddenly accruing interest again after years. As much as you hadn’t wanted to pick up more work (read: cried into your drink with some friends, lamenting that you weren’t born rich), you wanted to be debt-free more.

It had been easy enough to start picking up a few shifts a week. No need to look around for some place new when your old manager had practically dropped to her knees and wept when you asked if there was any room for you in the schedule again. It was less that you were a world-class server, more that you were consistent. On time, minimal call outs, already knew the ins and outs of the club. The interview was a formality. You filled out your paperwork while she caught you up on the workplace drama. Who broke up, who got together, who finally got fired – important stuff.

The first time you had served her, she had seemed so polite.

Any other time, you would have been happy to have a regular like her. Hunters were usually a mixed bag. Tips were usually good, but they could get rowdy. She kept her more boisterous coworkers in line with an ease you hadn’t expected from her. She was sweet, almost gentle at times - but she curbed bad behavior swiftly. Sometimes through misdirection - her hand on someone’s elbow, nodding along with their joke, effortlessly steering the topic of conversation away from the hot button issue. Sometimes, though, she’d put a stop to things with force.

You still remember the time she’d hefted her friend off of a table, scruffing him by the back of his shirt like a naughty kitten before you’d had the chance to intervene. She’d managed to haul him off of the table top with one arm, muscles flexing underneath her sleeves, steadying the table with her foot.

“No one came here to see you crack your head open,” she started in, shoving him back into his seat. You left long enough to return the mop to the supply closet. When you got back, she was still tearing into him.

It had been such a thorough dressing down that you’d said the only thing you could think of at the time – “yeah, get his ass.”

That had been the first time you had heard her laugh.

Not the sweet, restrained thing you’d heard before, the kind that you had leaned closer to hear more of, but loud and raucous, a snort taking her by surprise. She took the drink you passed her, her shaking shoulders sloshing it from rim to rim, and pressed her laugh to the edge of the glass.

That was when she became your favorite.

It’s mutual, you think. You dove for her table every time she came in. When you didn’t manage to get her right when she walked through the door, she requested you by name. Niceties gave way quickly to small talk, to hushed confessions and secrets exchanged underneath the driving bass of the club’s tracklist.

'Please' and 'thank you', eye contact every time she spoke to you. She laughed at your jokes - a little too long, a little too loud. Was her sense of humor that broken, or was she just dedicated to being kind to service workers?

You live for the moments she walks in the door, for the times that she picks the lint off your black button ups. No judgement, no comment, cleaning up your frayed edges like it was the most natural thing in the world. You start pushing your sleeves up in a bunch, only because after her first drink she will demand you sit next to her. She pushes your sleeves down and rolls them up nicely, takes her time making every fold crisp and presentable. She pats your arm when she's done, smiles sweetly, and turns back to her drink.

You'll catch an earful about playing favorites later. What are they gonna do, fire you? You're on your way out, anyway.

That day is closer than you thought. One sunny weekend, you’d sat at your kitchen table, blearily squinting at your computer. The realization warmed over at the same speed as your breakfast burrito, the microwave blaring as you realize that you’re at the finish line. You click through the pages, searching for anything you missed, any hidden fees or missed payments that would put you back into the hellhole of student loan debt - but there’s nothing. This next payment, and it was really over.

Thank you, scholarships. Thank you, dollar menus. Thank you, pretty hunters who leave fat tips.

You didn’t think twice about putting your notice during your next shift. The late nights after your 9-5 had been getting to you for a while. There was no benefit they could offer, no raise substantial enough to get you to stay. All that was left was to tell the regulars and struggle through your last few shifts.

The temptation to walk out during your last week was almost irresistible. You’d said most of your important goodbyes. There was only her left, your favorite hunter - and lo and behold, she came traipsing in with her usual crew that Wednesday.

You’d intended to tell her straight away, but her friends were rowdy that night. You're sure they'd all want to know thatyour're getting out of here, but the selfish part of you wants her focus. Some drama about protocores and wanderers keeps them chattering. Not your concern. If there’s no immediate threat, most of it goes in one ear and out the other. With no Evol yourself, you left that to the people a little more gifted than you. It was their job to deal with that, and your job to get them drunk so they still showed up to work.

Opportunity presents itself when you're busy collecting their fourth round of drinks. Her friends dart away to the bathroom, stumbling down the stairs, leaning against each other. You stack their orders quickly onto your tray and try not to seem excited when you bounce up the steps to her booth.

She looks up from her phone at the sound of your footsteps. There's a delay in her reaction, smile lagging before she's able to muster it. She sways gently. Definitely drunk, you note.

“It's my last week.” You lower your tray. Her hand stills on the glass before delicately curling around the stem.

Her fingers are slim. Well kept. Short, clean, probably a clear coat of polish if anything. She cradles the martini glass as if you'd offered her a flower.

A rose. No – too much, too forward. Daffodils, maybe. Vibrant, bright - something that could bring her good luck.

“What? That's so exciting!”

She tries to clap, forgetting the glass in her hand. Her manhattan spills against her chest, stains her white shirt. You divert your eyes immediately, pull a clean cloth from your pocket and offer it to her. It takes every effort to stop yourself from dropping next to her and dabbing her chest clean yourself. Not appropriate behavior with a customer, you chide yourself.

"You're kind of a goblin, huh?"

Shit. Neither was that. The words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them. You kept the grin pinned to your face even as your heart shriveled up in your chest. Oh my god, how could you have said that? She was still a customer. You didn't know her like that.

She blinks at you, lips parted - shock. She's too polite to say anything, but she’ll lodge a complaint with your manager. It shouldn’t matter. This is your last week. You’ve been saying out of pocket shit all week just because you can. But to her, of all people?

"Kind of?" She laughs. She drains her drink and sets it back to the table. You intercept her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She trades you for the cloth and paws at the mess like a little kitten. "It took you this long to figure it out?"

Your shoulders round, grin smoothing into a smile. The tension in your stomach unspools into warm relief.

"You put up a good front. Want another?"

She shakes her head. Her whole body sways with the movement. Hopefully she's got a ride home. Otherwise, you'd be calling her a cab. A pretty girl like her, making her way home on public transit, stumbling every other step, was a recipe for disaster even if she was some kind of ace hunter.

"Nah, I probably shouldn't," she sighs. She lays back into the plush chair, arms splayed over the back, legs kicked out wide. Her head turns to the ceiling, eyes shut. A sigh rolls through her body.

Your eyes scan down her form. Stop, you tell yourself, eyeing the space of her legs, how the width between her knees is the perfect amount of space for you to step into, to kneel down, hands braced against the tops of her thighs.

It's not that sort of club, you chide yourself, eyes sliding back up. A jolt cracks down your spine, aftershocks tingling through your fingertips. Her cheek is cushioned against the back of the seat, eyes low and half-lidded, staring at you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, pretend to be busy wiping the rim of her glass. Your fingers brush against her lipstick print. Don't think about it. Don't think it. Don't–

"When's your last day?" She asks, leaning forward, elbows dropping to her knees. You force yourself to hold her gaze, to keep your eyes averted from the clear view down the front of her stained shirt.

"Friday."

"Two more days! Are you excited?"

I was, you think. You shrug, playing at non-committal detachment.

"It's bittersweet," you finally settle on. It's not a lie. You're excited to move on, excited to leave the late nights, the rowdy patrons, the constant turnover.

But then there were your coworkers. The years of memories. The routine and policy that was ingrained in you, as easy as breathing.

There was her. Her smile, her laugh hidden behind her hand, the brush of her fingers when you passed her a drink.There were the fleeting touches that you convince yourself you imagined when you were alone in your bed, sheets tangled in your legs. You’d stare at the ceiling, pet the empty space next to you, imagine her tucked under your arm and snoozing peacefully against your chest. How long will she stay in your memory? How long til her edges bleed into something formless? Til you no longer imagine her, or someone in her shape, or anyone at all, til you’re staring up at the ceiling alone again.

She falls quiet. You imagine it, you're sure, the way that her eyes rove up and down your body, the way they flit back to your eyes. Locked on, target sighted -- one shot from those fancy hunter pistols and you're done for.

"You're my favorite," she says, voice approaching a whine. Her head tips back, delicate column of her throat bared to you.

You laugh, a little too late to be natural. You swipe your thumb – the same one that had smudged the lipstick from her glass – against your bottom lip.

“Want the scoop on the other servers so you can pick your new favorite?”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowing.

“No. I want you.”

Heaviness settles between you. Your fingers twitch towards her. You flatten your palm against your hip. The music fades as the track blends to something slower, softer, and you realize at once that the thrumming in your chest isn’t the beat, it’s your heart, hard and fast and pounding in your ears.

“Really?” You try to whip the heaviness to something lighter, offer her a dollop of levity. “You don’t want the gossip?”

Her silence stretches on. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. A burst of movement and she fishes out a scrap of paper, struggles to find a pen.

“I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, already waving away the company line before you can draw it between you. She scratches the dry pen against the paper again and again, crumpling it until the ink flows. “But if my number just happens to wind up in your pocket, then I guess I was just a patron who had a little too much. And when you don’t work here anymore…”

She tucks her number into your pants pocket, fingers pressing flat against your thighs. Your heart is in your throat. If you try to speak, you’re certain she’ll hear it, loud, beating for her.

“You keep trying to get me fired right up until the end.”

It takes you until Monday to text her.

You have no excuse. Your weekend was unhurried. You'd barely left the house, spent your time turning her words over and over in your head in between housework and intermittent naps. Text her. Don't text her. It's wrong, it's right - do you even want to? Do you like her, or do you like being seen? You don't know her. Not really.

But isn't this part of the knowing, though? This awful in-between, hanging in limbo, getting tossed around on the wash cycle.

You type out a hundred drafts and delete every single one. She was drunk when she gave this out. You should have just texted her after that shift to check if she got home okay. That would have been what a better woman would have done, a woman that could match her step for step.

It's too late now. You're not self-sabotaging, you're just being honest with yourself. There's a difference.

Monday rolls around and you find yourself drafting out your 101st message in between synchronizing old archived files with the city’s new database. Your eyes flit from the screen, the progress bar creeping up torturously slow, to the flicker of your cursor at the end of your latest drafted message.

Fuck it. Why not.

hey. it's your favorite waitress. is this weird? lol

Regret punches into your stomach the moment that you hit send. You stare at the faint 'Delivered' status and grimace. Definitely weird. All that time and that was what you ended up with? God, you didn't even put your name in the message. She probably thinks some rando is texting her, creeping –

She read it. She's typing.

You lock your phone immediately and click around pointlessly on your computer. Open email. Close email. Refresh. Log into the old archives. Click around through the years. Nod along sagely as your eyes glaze over some old police report. Yes, of course. Evol records. Traffic reports for 8th Avenue. Mhm.

The light flickers, message preview lighting up the screen. You drop your head into your hands, more than prepared to just delete the number and forget this ever happened. You snatch your phone up, dread weighing your movements down.

I was wondering when you would text! Saving your number right now.

What are you doing?

Huh. You hadn't seen that one coming. It only takes you a handful of drafts to respond this time. You're both at work - shocking, you had commented. You thought that hunters would be too busy to play on their phones. Turns out there's more desk work involved than you imagined.

The ease you felt in person weaved quickly between your texts, even when the demands of the day pulled you both away. By the end of the day, you'd made plans to meet up with her for drinks later in the week. Some great place she knows, a real hidden gem.

The conversation tapered off naturally, and you found yourself swiping up to reread your messages. You're smiling at your phone like a teenager. Embarrassment cold clocks you. You focus up, tucking your phone into your desk drawer to try to focus.

You’re on cloud nine for the rest of the work day, humming to yourself, tapping out a rhythm against your desk while the system takes forever to process basic search requests. By the end of the day, you’re still bubbly. You bounce into the break room to collect your lunch box.

Even the sight of Inspector Devon’s scowling mug doesn’t ruin your day. He’s just clocked back in, you’re sure. A whole half shift to go, finding minor infractions to meet his quota.

"What's got you all," he waves a hand up and down the length of you, nose crinkling, "giddy?"

"Can't I be happy?"

"No. It's creepy."

You roll your eyes and brush by him, out the door. Nothing could ruin this.

You stare down at the text on your phone, brow pinched.

We’re at the bar! Excited to see you. Punctuated with a little crow emoji waving at you through the screen.

You should have just asked. You should have made sure this was a date, not just expected it to be one. Now, standing outside the club, you feel like a kid playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

You'd gone all out. Wore your favorite outfit, fixed your face up, the whole nine yards. Now it feels like too much. The jewelry is too heavy, makeup caked on too thick. You're acutely aware of every place your outfit fails to hide your flaws. The pinch of your heels is suddenly unbearable.

You had showed up on time - not early, not late, 9 PM on the dot. Disappointment stings the fresh edges of rejection. You did this to yourself. You know that. It's no one's fault but your own.

You force yourself to move, one step at a time. It can still be fun, you tell yourself, deleting the draft you had typed out that claimed some mysterious stomach virus had struck you down. You can stockholm yourself into having a good time. Your life is different now. You're different. You send back a perfunct ‘omw in’ and force yourself through the doors.

The place is packed. It's far larger than your old workplace. Less private booths, more tall tables and standing room, crowded dance floor and driving bass that propels your every step forward. Couches dot back end of the room, fitted neatly into recessed conversation dens. That’s going to be filthy, you think. The clientele skews older. One glance at the bar has you realizing you’re far out of your price point.

You peer past glittery dresses and designer shirts, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet for a glimpse of her. You expected her to be with her hunter friends, but she's posted up at the bar, leaning close to some man. None of her usual crew is to he found.

He's tall - silver hair, angular features, outfit that screams ‘I have money’. More importantly, he has all her attention. Through the crush of bodies, you see her hand rest against his knee.

You divert your attention immediately, ignoring the spike of jealousy. She takes a long sip of her cocktail - a Manhattan again, you might have guessed - and that's when she spots you.

Her face lights up. Your smile is gentle, dim in the shadow of her own glow. She pushes her drink into the man's hand and weaves her way over to you.

"You made it!" She cheers, her hands sliding from your elbows to your wrists. Your heart flutters. You try to sear the touch into your memory. "I'm so happy you're here. C’mon - you have to meet my boyfriend."

Her boyfriend. There goes that. You take some solace in the idea that she wants to introduce you to her boyfriend. What you’d hoped for is out of reach, but you can still find friendship here.

"This place is great," you lie.

She says something under the cover of the music that you don’t catch. You lean close, cupping a hand over your ear, and you still don’t catch it on the repeat. Sure. Smile and nod, and that's enough to get her pulling you back to the bar. The people part for her, like they know better than to stand in her path

The man – her boyfriend, you correct – turns, hands her drink back. He looks you up and down, opens his mouth, and she cuts him off.

“This is Sylus,” she says, hopping up into the seat next to the tall man again. There's something unspoken in his gaze, the way his eyes cut to hers, the sly twist to her smile when she ignores him. She introduces you quickly. You smile, wave, go through the motions of small talk. Whatever that was, you're not getting into it.

She leans over the bar, flags down the bartender to get you a drink. It goes on his tab. Sylus keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. He probably knows you’re into his girl, can smell it on you. She's plucked herself in between the two of you, and every time you find yourself staring at her, Sylus’ cold gaze cautions you to cast your own out to the dance floor.

Their back and forth is easy. Your heart aches, but you laugh along with jokes that you lack context for, pretend you don't see the easy touches he presses to her waist. He's not being cold, you know that. You're hyper-aware, analyzing every tiny movement, looking for a reason to call it quits. Your little rabbit heart wasn't built for this.

When she flutters away to the bathroom, she trails her hand along your back so gently that you want to believe it was intentional. Your heart plummets into your stomach. It's a miracle it doesn't just fall out your ass.

Silence stretches between you as far as it can in a nightclub. You flash Sylus a smile. It goes unreciprocated. You drain your drink instead, set it back to the bar.

How do you make a swift exit? How do you get out of this and preserve your friendship with her? You map out escape routes in your mind. You’re mentally half-way out the fire exit when the bartender drops another drink off in front of you.

"You didn't have to do that," you say, cradling your drink close, both hands clasped around the lowball glass.

"That's a funny way to say ‘thank you’.”

Real charmer, this guy. You swallow a mouthful with a swing of our head, let the whiskey burn down your throat. You were just going to assume that was his attempt at teasing. Good will goes a long way.

“Are you a hunter, too, or–”

“No.”

You nod. “Cool. Me either.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I work for the city.” You wave your hand nebulously in the air. Another long drink. “Back in the archives. I’m a ‘Data Steward’. Basically just means I handle information requests and deal with the record management.”

Sylus appraises you for a moment, carmine eyes tracing your expression, stalling on your lips. Whatever he finds, he seems to accept. He smirks - the first sign of warmth you’ve seen from him aside from the drinks you keep draining.

He leans forward, the gap where she had been diminishing. The timbre of his voice undercuts the music, reaches your ears in a way that makes you shudder. “You must have quite the security clearance.”

You laugh, push your empty glass back. Sylus raises a hand. It's removed swiftly.

“Background checks are a cakewalk. I’m super boring.”

A look flickers across Sylus’ face. Amusement, you think. You'd seen the same look when she had made a joke, thought it was disdain at first.

“And what does someone who's ‘super boring’ do for fun?” He casts his gaze around the club. Your eyes linger on the slope of his nose. “Not this, clearly.”

Wherever that line of questioning was going, you never find out. Warmth and weight presses against your back. Her perfume envelops you - sweet up front, just short of cloying, cut with a spice underneath those layers. Your hunter is back, her arms draping around your neck. You twist to see her. It takes everything in you to keep your hands on the bar in front of you.

"Dance with me," she demands, her hand finding its way to yours. She tugs you up and off your stool before you can compose a denial.

Your eyes flit to Sylus, wide and worried. He only sips at his drink, gaze focused on you. You don't know if he nodded to the dance floor or if you invented the movement in your memory to assuage the guilt.

The guilt doesn't last long. She has an incredible ability to wipe your mind the moment it’s the two of you. She twirls out of your reach, leaves you stumbling after her, and laughter comes easy afterward. You've never heard any of these songs in your life, but she dances as if every one of them is her favorite. Her joy is just as infectious as her laugh, her smile. If you make a fool of yourself, she doesn't let you feel it.

Affection worms its way between your ribs, wraps around your heart and squeezes. She grabs your hand on the up tempo, raises it high - you get the memo and keep it held there, let her do a pretty little spin that sends her reeling into your chest. You giggle, stumble back onto your heel. You brace her with hands poised on her hips, and she meets your eyes, so close, so warm.

The club dances on around you, bass a driving heartbeat that the patrons pulse to, but you're suspended with her. It happens in an instant. She moves to kiss you and you surge forward to meet her.

The first pass is clumsy. Your enthusiasm crashes your noses together awkwardly. Her lips are soft against yours. She laughs into your kiss, effortlessly shifting to align with you. She raises your hand again, demanding another spin. You give it to her - of course you do - but you're chasing after her kiss, leaning after her.

She’s at the end of your reach, clinging to your fingertips, when reality slams back into motion. Your muscles seize. The graceful, flowing way you had reeled her in turns stiff, elbow locked tugging her back. Your breath barely squeaks past the lump that’s wedged into your throat.

She's still laughing, radiant and shining under the pulsing club lights. Your hands brace on her shoulder. Confusion pushes the happiness in her eyes to the side. She tries to curl against your chest again, and you take a step back, this time without her.

"I'm sorry," you say in a rush. “I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have.”

Her boyfriend is going to kill you. You don’t know how he’s going to do it, but you know that it’s going to hurt. They’re going to bring your family in to ID your body and they’re going to shrug and say ‘this could be anyone. I’m not convinced you’re not just showing me a pile of ground beef.’

“No, I liked it,” she insists. “You can do it again.”

“I can’t.”

“Please?”

Your mouth works around syllables that stay inside your mind. What the fuck kind of world did you wake up in? Is this a protofield? Are you in a coma? You thumb towards Sylus over your shoulder, only managing to produce a singular, confused noise.

Her foot wedges between your legs, body pressing against yours. “It’s okay.”

That does not help. Your hands hover over her hips, fingers flexing in the air, so close to touching her, restraint held by a thread. If your hands land on her again, you don’t know if you’ll push her away or pull her close. What the fuck is going on?

A big palm settles at your hip. You jolt, reeling back into a broad chest. Sylus peers down his nose at you, hand tightening to keep you upright. This is the end, you think, while he sets you steady.

“You're staring,” he drawls. You haven't figured that expression out yet. Right now, they all mean death. “What? Do you want to spin, too?”

 His hand slides slowly, purposefully, along the small of your back. He steadies you there, thumb arching across the cheap material of your dress. You’re wedged firmly between them, snared between a snake that winds and writhes against you and one that keeps you still, binds your movements with a single touch.

The pieces click into place, an audible snap accented by your head whipping between both of them.

“This is, like, a thing?” You blurt out, index finger drawing a line between the three of you, wagging back and forth until she snares your finger in her hand.

She nods, confusion in her expression smoothing. Sylus smirks, his brows raised. He guides you from the dance floor with the mere suggestion of a touch, a barely there pressure at your side.

“You didn’t tell her?” He drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable.

“I thought she knew!”

You can imagine the way she might have stomped her foot if not for her heels. The world is spinning. Did you just get unicorn hunted? How the fuck did you get yourself into this situation.

“Why would I know that?”

She flounders for an answer. “I talked about my boyfriend all the time.”

“You said ‘partner’.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when you’re a hunter.”

“Are you upset?”

Yes. Of course you are. You’re completely blindsided. She could have at least given you a heads up, dropped some hints. You probably still would have said yes.

Your jaw works, grinding your sharp, pointed words down to dull, harmless things.

“No. I’m just confused."

Her hands circle your wrists. Sylus’ heat disappears from your back. He slips away, barely tracked in your peripheral. The squeeze of her hands brings you back, calluses dragging against your soft skin.

“I should have said something.”

Yes, you think, you should have. But she’s giving you those puppy eyes, big and round, the same kind that she would flash whenever she spilled a drink, when she knew you would have to clean the mess. You bite your tongue. You can’t fall for this forever.

“Yeah, you should have.” There you go. Your spine grew three sizes today. “I still had fun.”

Forget it. Your spine is collapsible. You can hear your own vertebrae collapsing into themselves, hollow thunk-thunk-thunk every time she bats her eyes.

Sylus manifests from the depths of the club, your coat slung over his shoulder. He stretches his arm out to her, welcomes her back with that simple unspoken invitation. She fits against him snugly, like she was molded for him. He reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face gingerly - the sort of care that you hadn't expected from him, that had been absent in his evaluating gaze earlier.

"Ready to go, kitten?"

There’s the escape route. She hesitates, her eyes drifting back to you. It's her pout that does you in, perfect glossy lips pursed, her lipstick only faintly smudged. (Is it pressed to the corner of your mouth, you hope.)

"Do you want to come back to my place?" She asks, voice somewhere between hopeful and hesitant. Sylus' hand squeezes her hip. She clarifies, rolling her eyes. "With both of us."

You can think of a hundred reasons to say no. This isn't good for your heart. You know it isn't. It will hurt, and you will be just as alone as you started.

"Yeah," you say. Sylus swings your coat off of his shoulder, offering it out to you. You shrug it on, noting that he has both of your purses tucked under his arm. You fumble with your coat, hand getting caught in the sleeve. You flap it aggressively until your hand pops free. Sylus snorts, but she laughs. "Sounds fun."

Her place is everything that you expected. Clean, comfortable, modern. She wobbles out of her heels the moment the door shuts. Sylus is faster than you, catches her elbow to steady her before your hand can slide to her back. You avoid his eyes, feign interest in the decor instead.

She tugs you down onto her couch the moment your coat is off. Her eyes are bright, smile wide, laugh loud. You crash down onto the seat next to her. An old classic – flop carelessly, end up closer than normal. Your shoulder brushes against hers. She doesn't even bother to play coy. She leans against your side, kicks her legs over the arm of her couch.

Sylus strides through her apartment, clearly comfortable. Glasses clink faintly in the kitchen, background noise to the idle conversation that falls so naturally from her. He passes her a water first, then inclines his head to you, wiggling the glass in his other hand back and forth faintly. You take it from him. It’s nearly impossible to avoid brushing his hand when it nearly wraps all the way around.

He makes his way around her apartment like he lives here. Does he? You look around as subtly as you can.

Not that it matters. She's chatting happily to you about the evening - the music was great, wasn't it? Yeah, it was great. Could that shoe rack fit Sylus' shoes? No way. If it would, if he was accustomed to that kind of domesticity, he would have put them there instead of lining them up neatly by the door. You had kicked yours off haphazardly, stumbled into the room after her. Decorum was a second thought when you were with her. Was the sharp scent of leather polish swept in by Sylus, or had it been soaked into her apartment, tucked away neatly in a drawer next to her things?

“Yes, oh my god, that guy was so wasted.” You parrot his drunken babble back to her in your best impression of the man from the club, and she cackles. Her hand slaps over her mouth. You're grinning toothily, eyes pressed to crescents. How do you get her to laugh like that again? You could spend the rest of your life trying to pull that sound from her lips.

Sylus drops next to you, thigh brushing against yours. The same move you'd just used on his girlfriend. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, curls behind both of you. He nurses a whiskey in his other hand - the first drink you’ve seen him have all night, you realize.

You don’t remember when conversation was exchanged for kisses. You don’t even remember who touched you first. She pulled you into her by the front of your dress, sucked your bottom lip into her mouth, and who were you to relent? You kissed your way down her body, hands bunching her dress up to her hips. Sylus had positioned your legs in his lap, hand stroking your ankle while he finished his drink.

You’re mouthing at her through her panties when his grip shifts. The only warning he gave was the clink of his glass settling against the side table. His hands slide to your hips, rucking your dress up along the way, and he flips you in one smooth motion. Static fizzes through your spine - excitement, arousal, shock. Probably all three. Your back is pressed to her stomach, head pillowed between her breasts.

Sylus leans forward. You lift your chin, angle to receive his kiss, and it never comes. She leans forward to receive him instead. The press of them, so close, so intimate, and still so far away, is maddening. Your breath quickens. You’d never expected Sylus to moan like that, but he’s unabashed in his pleasure.

He rolls your dress up further, and you lift your arms obediently once their kiss breaks. Don’t even have to be told - aren’t you good?

She thinks so. She tells you so when she presses a kiss behind your ear, when her hands push at your shoulders and guide you to lay back against her.

Your cheek presses against the plush of her thighs. You nuzzle against her skin, stretch like a pampered cat and press your nose to the point of her hip, breathing deep. Your face could be buried in her syrupy cunt if the hands bracing your cheeks and pinning your hips didn't keep you from turning over. Mean, you think. It's the last thought you plan to have for a while.

There's some murmur happening above you - a conversation about logistics, about the height of your hips, whether your breasts should be bare or restrained by your bra.

“It doesn’t matter to me, kitten.” Words like honey, drizzling lazily down to your ears. “This is your show.”

You preen. You're the pretty little bauble, all dressed down for her amusement. She strokes the back of her fingers against your tummy and huffs. It's not fair; even her grumbling is pretty. Her bottom lip juts out and you can imagine running your tongue along it, suckling gently. How soft her skin, how sweet her taste. Her hands travel down your skin, skating over the planes of your ribs, curling upwards to press your breasts together. She hums. Her brow furrows. You arch your back, mold yourself into the shape of desire.

A hand slides up the valley of your breasts, backs of her fingers dragging. She catches your chin with her knuckle, urges you to tilt your head up to her.

You can't imagine what you must look like, so you picture the roles reversed instead. She'd look just as good lying in your lap as she does looking down her nose at you. Your nipples peak, press against the cups of your bra and fuck, you must be hot if you can feel that, if every breath has you tingling for more.

"Off," she says with a determined nod. She smiles down at you, turns her hand to cup your chin. You lower your head to her touch instantly, all but purring.

If Sylus cares one way or the other, he gives no indication. He presses the small of your back, urges you to keep arching. His warmth surprises you. You’d expected him to run cold, expected his long fingers to dot your skin with goosebumps. There’s no caress to his touch (not like when he touches her, fingers drifting down her skin, stroking, circling, ever present. You could watch him pet her for hours. In your mind, she bends into his hands. You bend the same way, wonder if it will turn his touch gentle, but it’s–) just efficiency. 

His eyes trail a cold path down the curve of your body, knuckles trailing along your spine until they catch the clasp of your bra. He strokes along the band, assessing the way it sits, counts the hook and eye closures with a swipe of his thumb, and then it’s undone. 

Her hands slide down your shoulders, tidal in their movements. Down, up, down, so steadily you barely realize that she's slipping the straps from your shoulders. She presses open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paws at your chest, revealing your breasts as if they were works of art, a statue unveiled for the very first time.

Her kisses stop. She hooks her chin over your shoulder, cheek resting against your own. She sighs, her chest pressing against your back, and you find yourself mimicking the movement. Breath flows out of her and into you. She gazes down at your body from the same angle that you do every day.

You squirm as the thought truly cements. You know what she sees. Every angle, every curve and roll, all of the parts that you have fixated on and pinched at, pleaded for to smooth away, to become a firm plane of muscle not unlike the ones that lay behind her clothes.

But she runs her hands down the soft angle of your ribs, the curve of your waist, finally settling at your hips. She noses into the crook of your neck and squeezes.

"You're so soft," she says, words pressed into your skin -- flowers for the artist. You shift in her grip, trying to squirm from her grasp. It's too much attention, too vulnerable, but she grumbles. "So pretty. Look–"

She runs the backs of her fingers from your hips up to your waist. She kneads another palmful of your flesh reverently. Her breath is warm against your neck when she moans, but it sends a chill across your skin, a frigid anticipation. Your head knocks back against her shoulder.

Your eyes close. The comfort of her presence and praise lulls you to a space you’d never felt before, your body melting against her frame. Sylus’ weight is a welcome surprise. He grips your ankle tenderly, position your legs wider, and lays himself in that space, and–

What the fuck. You nearly choke.

You wish his dick wasn't big. Not because it doesn't make your mouth water, not because you can feel yourself clenching at the feel of it against your clothed cunt, but because you don't want his ego to be justified. He chuckles at your little noise, at the restrained pulse of your hips against his. He presses against you fully when he leans up to kiss her and you feel it against your core, hard in his pants. You can imagine the tip, glistening, dripping, wetting the front of his boxers, can imagine it slapping against his stomach when you dip your fingers into the waist of his pants and tug them down.

Your throat tightens, heart hammering against your ribs. His hips shift against yours and you whine like a bitch in heat. You’re torn between the need to press your hips up to meet his and the paralyzing instinct to remain still, to savor every movement. This is meant for her, you know it is, but if you lay still then you can pretend. Your body can be her proxy. He can rut against you until he spills himself on your stomach. She can admire his cum against you skin, swipe it onto a finger, lick it clean and then press her finger into your mouth, let you swirl your tongue amidst the remnants of her spit and his spend, swallow down only the traces of them.

A big hand curls around your rib cage, fingers flexing into the gaps, thumb tucked under the swell of your breast. He could squeeze, cave your chest in, and it might feel like relief. Any touch is relief, even if you want his hand to slide around to your front, his big palms rolling and squeezing your breasts together. You want his tongue running over them, teeth nipping, lips sucking, marking.

Instead, he pulls you up, makes you roll into the movement you’ve tried so desperately to restrain. Your resolve is broken easily. You rock into him again and again, whimpering, desperate for anything they will give you. Her hands slide between your bodies, squeezing your tits hard. Your clit throbs. Desperate and whining, you grind yourself into him, savor every controlled roll of his hips.

He pulls back from her and his hands slide down your body. Long fingers hook into your panties, dropping them down to your knees.

Sylus doesn't move until her hands press at his shoulders. You exchange a look with him, and the unspoken is agreed upon. It's not your pleasure - it's hers.

You thought you were ready. You thought he'd reach down, undo his belt (one hand, you imagine, practiced) and get to work.

Instead, he slips down your body, hands braced on your hips. His thumbs press the point of your hips, and a spark of pleasure ignites the kindling piled in your stomach, sends you squirming. He braces himself on his elbows, lowers his face to your cunt. His breath fans against you, thumbs massaging your skin.

"Wait–" you blurt out. You could kick yourself. You free your hand from her grasp and push weakly at Sylus’ shoulder.

His eyes cut up to you immediately. The sight is enough to make your insides squirm, breath evaporating from your lungs. What kind of idiot were you to stop this?  His hands loosen. For the first time the entire night, he's truly looking at you as if she isn't there. Sylus waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he draws himself up to his elbows.

"No?" He arches a brow. His hands slip from your skin, palms laying flat by your side instead.

Your mouth runs dry. Embarrassment heats your face. You hold his gaze.

"It's too..."

Too intimate. Too much. I don't know you like that.

Sylus seems to get the message. He shuffles back, sits on his heels. His hands come back to your skin, splayed against your thighs this time. There’s no pressure in his touch. When you knock your knees together, suddenly struck by the awareness of how bare you are, spread out in front of him, he lets you.

“We can still – other stuff,” you stammer out.

“Be more clear,” Sylus instructs.

Your breath comes out in a whistle, and the words that follow are a ten car pileup.

"You can fuck me. Like, with your dick. Or something."

The irony isn't lost on you. You won't let him put his mouth on you, but his cock will do. You're fairly certain that the quick exhale from behind you was her attempt to stifle a laugh. You turn your head away from his gaze. Too intense. Too much.

"Is that what you want?"

Your tongue is heavy and thick in your mouth, words failing you.

"I don't not want that."

He clicks his tongue. Admonishment, a quick flash of shame shooting up the column of your spine.

"Not good enough."

His hands withdraw from your skin, touch dragged away. You force your eyes back to him.

"Wait, no - I want it," you say quickly, stumbling over yourself to claw him back to you. "Please. I really want it."

The corner of his lip quirks. His eyes raise back to her, and suddenly you can breathe again. You knock your head back against her chest, rolling to settle against her tits. In your relief, you miss their silent exchange.

It doesn't take you long to piece together what's going on. She leans away, slides a drawer open, and passes Sylus a bottle of lube over your body.

“Is that necessary?”

Sylus snorts. "If you're not going to let me prepare you my way, then yes. It is."

Truly, you wish you could call his bluff, but you'd felt him against you mere minutes earlier.

He shakes the bottle in one hand, the other sliding to press against the inside of your knee. It's a suggestion for the moment, but you feel the strength behind his touch. You part your legs again after a moment's hesitation. Nerves flutter back into your chest.

He huffs. You think that might be the closest he gets to laughing.

"You'll need to be wider than that," he points out.

Her hands shift from their hold on your waist, sliding down your body and smoothing over the softness of your inner thighs. She presses you wider for him gradually.  Her mouth catches your earlobe, teeth scraping gently.

"You're going to feel so good," she promises. She could tell you anything in that voice and you would believe her, but this time it takes effort. "Can he use his fingers?"

You nod. Her teeth snag against your skin, and you inhale ragged.

"Can you tell him?" She says. If she asks it of you, then why not?

"You can- you can touch," you manage. She kisses beneath your ear, whispers for you to be more clear, to tell him how. "You can finger me."

The heat in your face is nothing compared to the pulse of your cunt. You twist to bury your face in her shoulder, embarrassed and certain that he can feel the heat fanning from you in waves.

His touch is slow, searing. His fingers stroke down your thigh. His touch hovers, and then he's palming your pussy. The heel of his hand grinds against your clit. You press back into her arms, head rolling. You mouth needily at her neck, desperate to keep your noises at bay.

Sylus drags his fingers through the mess of your cunt, slow, testing strokes. One long finger teases your entrance, lazy circles drawn against your sensitive skin.

His press is gentle. First knuckle, second knuckle – fuck, his fingers are thick. You'd admired his hands all night, spent time chasing away thoughts of sucking them, but now they're pressed inside you,

"Don't hold your breath," she instructs. Your exhale comes out in a needy, pitiful whine. She's grinning, you're sure of it, but Sylus withdraws his finger to add a second and that thought is quickly discarded for the thrill of this new stretch.

Slow and easy breaks to hard and driving the moment he pulls a shattered moan from you. You writhe as he hits the same spot again and again, callused fingers brushing and hooking against the perfect spot. Heat pools in your limbs, toes curling with every press of his fingers.

And then it’s gone. The heat dissipates, embers still burning in your veins. You clench around nothing, body struggling with the absence. Your chest heaves. You force your eyes open and you’re transfixed by the sight of Sylus stroking himself. It’s lube, you tell yourself, but god you wish that slick on his cock was you instead.

He drags his glistening tip through your folds, nudging your clit. You shift to meet him, struggling to find your timing in the haze of lost pleasure. Your knee presses against the back of the couch, desperate to welcome him back to you.

Sylus presses himself to your soaked entrance. He plants a hand by your hip, reaches past you with the other. Her hand tangles with his, their fingers intertwining against your stomach.

His fingers were nothing compared to his cock. The first thrust leaves you gasping against her shoulder, hand clawing at his back. The stretch fades to pleasure when his hips draw back and press deeper, his pace driving you back into her body.

Every time you think he’s bottomed out, he stretches you deeper. Those careful, slow thrusts with his fingers weren’t courtesy, they were reconnaissance. You choke on your moans. Her hand grips your jaw, directs you to kiss her, to pour your sounds into her while he pounds into your cunt. Her perfume mixes with his cologne, some heady concoction that will have you wet at the very trace of it in the future.

There’s no time to figure out how much of him you’ve taken, how much is left, how much could possibly fit. Their hands press against your stomach. You clench around him. Pleasure floods through you, pries free a cry that sharpens to a sob when she wedges her hand between you, two fingers rubbing your clit. He kisses you hard, teeth clacking against yours, his hips snapping. You can’t close your mouth and that’s perfect for him, his tongue delving past your lips, brushing pants yours. All you can do is moan into him.

Her fingers keep circling, circling, harder and harder, your clit throbbing, pleasure needling through your limbs. Your hands flex, toes curling - and then your knees snap closed, press hard against him, the dam breaking, your orgasm washing over you in waves. Your vision tears. Pleasure and sheer sensation sweep you away, leave you babbling and writhing.You’re pulsing around him, hands roving between her and him, unsure of who to cling to, who to claw at, who can catch you while you tumble. Sylus’ arm wraps firmly around your waist, drags up flush to his hips and keeps you pinned there. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, throaty groan rumbling from his chest. His thrusts are quick and deep, prolonging your pleasure until it verges on painful sensitivity.

His cock jerks. He presses himself deeply into you, fully seated when he cums. She surges forward to kiss him, to swallow all those pretty moans he had been panting into your skin, folding you to a new angle that makes you gasp and shudder.

Your body is a heartbeat. You’re boneless in their grip, at their mercy. Your eyes flutter shut when Sylus finally stills inside you, when his hips stop fucking his cum deeper. Her hand draws away from your over-sensitive clit, petting your sides gently. They talk, a quiet murmur over your body that you can’t be bothered to parse.

It’s not for you. Even with your brains liquefied, you have enough sense to know that.

Sylus draws himself from you, and it feels like a loss. You curl into her chest instead, movements heavy and sluggish. She strokes your hair back from your face, neatly arranges the mess they’ve made of you as she lays you back against the cushions.

Sleep would have taken you immediately if it weren’t for her probing touch.

Her fingers drift across your sensitive folds, two fingers parting your labia. Heat sears your skin, embarrassment a flash fire sparked from the dull embers of your orgasm. You’re too sensitive for her curiosity. The pad of her thumb drags against the sore hood of your clit and you turn your head the side, wounded noise locked obediently behind your teeth.

Sylus snares her wrist in a loose hold. His thumb traces her pulse point.

“Give her a rest, sweetie,” he says with all the admonishment of a parent telling his daughter to put away her toys.

Her gaze is stuck on you, watching his cum drip out of you. How can you feel equal parts adored and objectified? 

She sighs dreamily and rises to her knees. You give in, your eyes too heavy to keep open any longer. She leans over you, kisses your forehead and says, “did you have fun?”

You wake to the sound of a shower. You blink yourself to consciousness and find yourself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. The lights are warm. The blanket over you is soft, the scent pressed into the weave familiar but not your own. It takes a moment for the recognition to set in, and when it does so does the ache in your muscles.

One deep breath expands your ribs, highlights the muscles in your back you'd pulled, the fingerprints against your ribs, the soreness in your breasts. Your lips are swollen and raw, kissed to the point of pain, and your mouth has run dry. Your hand slips from your stomach, fumbles around aimlessly for your phone. It's habit, not logic. Of course it isn't there. This isn't your home, and you didn't leave it on the table. It's probably still tucked away in your purse, dead or dying.

Trying to sit up is a mistake. You feel it in you core, in your hips. Were you out of shape, or had it just been a while?

Who were you kidding. Probably both.

You squint around the room, waiting for the bleariness in your eyes to clear. Your knees wobble when you trust your weight to them. You hunch over the plush couch, take a moment to right yourself.

"I thought you'd sleep much longer than that," Sylus says, sipping at a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

You jump, grumble a quiet 'shit' under your breath. He'd been there the whole time, surely. His hair is damp, water dripping off the ends and onto a soft towel wrapped around his shoulders.

You stall in the entryway, twisting this way and that, arms stretched high over your head, then down to your toes. You regret every movement, muscles screaming at you to give it a rest.

"I don't sleep well in new places," you admit.

"Neither do I," he notes. You believe it. He seems the paranoid sort.

You'd seen his type before, the kind that scanned every corner for threats. Usually, it was a show - jumpy men scared of shadows, masking their fear with proactive aggression. You weren't so sure about him. Same song, different key.

He doesn't look up from his reading. You assume he's done with you for the moment. Not the first time someone's treated you coldly after having their dick in you, but this time it stings. You pin it on the aches and pains again, brush it off, and fish your phone out of your pocket.

4:47 AM. 6% battery.

“Shit,” you murmur. You turn it off and press a knuckle between your eyes, massaging the tension out. You would ask her if you could borrow her charger once she was out of the shower. You could call a cab, or at least map out the walk home. You'd been so blinded by her the entire drive that you weren't even sure what part of the city you were in.

"Did you need a ride home?"

It's like he's a mind-reader. That's the generous interpretation of that statement, at least. The reality is he probably just wants you out of his girlfriend's apartment.

You smile tightly and shuffle your purse onto your shoulder.

"You don't have to do that. I can walk, or I'll get a ride."

He looks up, eyes dark under the ridge of his brow.

"I'll give you a ride."

That didn't sound like there was room for argument. You stuff it down, fidgeting from side to side.

"Okay. Sure."

Her shower is still running. You hesitate only for a moment. Sylus is paused at the door, keys in hand. Not the kind of man you keep waiting. You would call her tomorrow. Maybe then you could figure out what all of this was - if it was anything at all.

The ride home is nearly silent. You’re not sure what you expected. You’re not sure why you expected anything at all. You don’t take it to heart. It’s not your first awkward car ride home after getting your brains fucked out.

Sylus has the decency to wait for you to wobble to your door, unlock it, and get inside before he drives away. That’s nice, at least. You leave a trail of your belongings back to your bedroom, too tired to do much of anything other than flop down face first on your bed. The stickiness between your thighs demands attention, however, and you treat yourself to a five minute shower.

The night replays in your mind as you wash it off. Their hands on you, their mouths - their eyes looking past you, towards each other.

You shut the water off. No more of that. You’ve tortured yourself enough tonight. You stumble through the halls of your apartment. The beginnings of the sunrise glow through the dark of night. You draw your curtains closed.

When you lay back in your bed, body aching, blood pulsing through the marks they had left on your skin, you realize that you are still alone.

[natalieironside]

(icon by @neladoesart)

Hi! I'm Natalie. I'm trans of gender and ace of sexual and I write dark fantasy and dark sci-fi adventure stories full of boners and thud-and-blunder action violence wherein no swash remains unbuckled, nor pot unboiled. I also blog about books and history and languages and I write essays and poetry sometimes, and don't forget about the many exciting Age of Empires 2 scenarios available at Natalie's Cool Website.

You might have heard my short story The Wishing Tree on the Tales to Terrify podcast! (now available as a zine from Grinning Kitten Press). Other stuff I’ve published to date includes:

THE LAST GIRL SCOUT: A post-apocalyptic wasteland adventure story and transbian romance about two women who fall in lesbians together and fight Nazis and draculas in the bombed-out ruins of Old America

LEAD AND ROSES: LOVE SONGS AT THE END OF THE WORLD: A collection of short fiction set within 23rd-century post-nuclear wasteland we’ve all come to know and love

IN THE COURT OF THE NAMELESS QUEEN: A collection of dark fantasy f/f erotica about sexy swashbuckling swordswomen (both cis and normal) and a giant scary monster lady in a far-off realm of adventure and dark magic.

If you're curious I'd really like it if you'd check out my Patreon because there's even more fantabulous treasures on there and you can subscribe for the low, low price of just one American dollar. Your one American dollar will go toward the ever topical "Natalie can make rent and doesn't starve" philanthropy fund.

I'm gonna stay here on Tumblr until they forcibly remove me from the premises, but I'm also on Pillowfort, Bluesky, and Cohost

:)

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

ch 2. impressions s. you threw a pail at your neighbor

You’ve got a good throw.

Perhaps not the first thing John should notice about the situation, given the fact he can feel the quiet familiarity of blood dripping down his temple, or the throb that follows its decent. But as you corner yourself by one of the labor tables, a road deer gasping for the air stolen by his entrance, it’s really the only thing he can think about.

“Who the hell are you?”

Guilt bubbles at the surface of his mouth, but it doesn’t take him long to remember himself. He’s no stranger to recoveries, and this entire first impression lacked any remnant of manners. But it’s never too late to find them.

He would also like to avoid meeting his end to a garden shovel, of all things.

John clears his throat, running a hand up the column of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you- my name is John Price; I live next door.” He’s got a voice for times like this- lowers it a half octave, baritone an inch slower than his usual cadence. Uses it for spooked civilians, or soldiers blinking back death. Wouldn’t call it comforting, but it’s close. Enough that after he uses it, your shoulders unhook themselves from the lobe of your ears.

He adds a slouch. A neutral position, drawing commonality between polar opposites. It’s as non-threatening as he’s able to look. “I’m Penny’s owner.”

Anxiety melts like molasses. Starts at your neck- stretching into a polite slouch. The aim of your arm dissolves by your side. Your breath slows, and for a moment so does time. Your eyes are blown wide, silting sunlight and the last bits of apprehension towards his stranger.

They are the brightest color in the room.

“P-Penny?”

He smiles. “The cat?”

As if on cue, a bolt of fur scampers to his boots- doing calculated twists between his ankles. He picks her up gently and scratches the spot behind her ear. “She lives part time in this store. With the owner when I’m gone. Must have snuck in here,” he holds her in front of his face with a stern expression, “been lookin’ for an hour. You devil.”

He steals a glance at you, past Penny’s head. The guilt swarms his throat for a second time, seeing your fear replaced with absolute mortification.  

“I- oh my god. You’re bleeding. I threw a pail at you.” Your face flushes. Cute. “I am so so sorry.”

John chuckles. “Don’t be. I made such a fuss opening the door I can imagine I scared you,” glad you have good aim sits on his tongue, but he bites it when he soothes his mouth into a gentle line. No need to soil the impression any further, now that he had just ironed out the broken silks.

“I don’t think I got your name...?”

A beat.

You offer it like its acid on your teeth. Spits it out with the last bits of terror, like a cavity that burns. But unlike the delivery, it’s soft. Curves along the line of your jaw, relaxes around your silhouette in a film that’s drunk on horizon’s champagne. Spills onto the white tiles of the floor by his feet.

Doesn’t even realize that he’s saying it back to you until he catches its last syllable on the back of his teeth. He blinks. “It’s…nice to meet you.”

John categorizes silence into two boxes.

Treasured. Costal nowhere. One in the morning. A city where all anyone does is sleep. The drag of his cigar. The pockets amid time and place that remain nameless. It gives a finite peace that John runs dry.

And then there’s this.

Stiff. Premeditates chaos. The quiet before a grenade, the cotton ears after. The hospital when someone dies, and the emptiness they leave behind. The death of conversation between a beautiful woman, and her impolite neighbor.

John will always put it out as quickly as possible.

“Well, I’ll get out of your h-“

“Let me help you.”

The silence fractures into small sounds. A wire snaps, wine cork pops, pin drops, among other fictions. The air that surrounds you beckons a peculiar clarity. Narrows when John sees you smile for the first time. What he did to earn it is beyond him. “Help me with what?”

You tap your temple. “Your head. I... You’re bleeding. I have an aid in the back,” the look he gives you must be telling, because then you say, “please.”

Christ.

“Alright.” Is all he can muster, albeit it comes out parched. You nod and scamper off to the back door.

Your absence allows him to soak the store in.

He’s been in plenty of times, so its layout isn’t alien. But he supposes that part of its charm is that it feels that way. Beyond familiarity. Every time he’s been in, he notices a new detail.

A freshly kilned pot. A corner section with seasonal flowers. You.

This time, he draws his focus to the carnations by the window. Red and alive, unfurls its buds with a grace he’s only ever seen in nature. He lets his hand come to lift the petals and smiles at himself.

He feels ridiculous, drawing so much depth from a flower, but its caretaker taught him the bizarre empathy.

The old woman would probably laugh at him.

“Uh…John, was it?”

He turns around, letting his hand fall back into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he feels caught, but the heat rises to his neck before he can stop it. “Yes.”

“Here,” You shove various gardening paraphernalia and metals from one of the work benches, push down to check its stability before stepping aside, “take a seat.”

The joke falls before he can stop it. “Aren’t we a little old to play doctor?”

Doesn’t regret it, because it makes you laugh. The hair on his neck rises, and he feels like a teen again, seeing a playboy for the first time. Since when did laughter have the same effect on him as cleavage?

Must have been sometime after 35.

He pulls himself onto the bench and grimaces when the oak whines. You snort. “Don’t worry. They hold anything.”

His eyes squint. “Didn’t you just check it?”

You bring your gaze down to grab an antiseptic wipe, a failed effort to hide your smile. “Nothing wrong with playing it safe.”

He hums. “Forgot I’m talking to the woman who throws pails at strangers.”

He flinches when you swipe chemicals across the cut. Undoubtedly to shut him up. “Maybe don’t break into your neighbors store.”

He rolls his eyes as you find a bandage. “I wouldn’t’ve if you weren’t holding my cat hostage.”

This gets you to step away. “Hostage? She was lounging in the window!”

“Clearly, she was trying to signal for help.”

A third, new silence bloats between you. He doesn’t have time to name it before it dissolves into eased laughter. You go back to applying the bandages while he vehemently ignores the soft feeling of your fingers against his face.

Kate’s words come back to him slowly. The same old song she’d been singing since she got married. Rhymes of settling down, making a home for himself, letting someone else take up the fight. He sees glimpses of these futilities every so often. Like he is now.

Niceties that fatten up the bones of his dreams and cushion the dull blow of walking into an empty home. Having someone there to wait for him. Normal. It bakes the room in a tenderness he can’t remember the last time he’s had.

But in the end, he knows none of this is real. Not in the ways Kate talks about.

Doesn’t stop him from noticing your barren ring finger, though.

“I think…I know why she got trapped.”

He glances at you as a response. Your shoulders have gotten noticeably heavy.

“My grandmother owned this place. She passed away last week.”

Oh.

“My dad must have closed up while she was in the hospital,” your voice breaks, before mending with a scoff, “he’s not very observant. Probably missed her,” she looks over her shoulder before scratching Penny’s cheek with a gentle somber, “glad there was an automatic feeder in the back.”

Despite being well acquainted with death, John Price never knows how to greet him.

Silence and wallowing are classics, but given the troughs under your eyes it would be both inappropriate and apathetic. He’d offer a cigar, but that’s only really been a hit with his soldiers, and he sincerely doubts you’d be the type grieve with tobacco.

So, he tries to picture your grandmother. A reflection of himself, 4 decades from now. Creased and warm. The way her cheeks folded around her smile. How her voice, too, was wrinkled. When she thanked him for lifting the new shipments or calling his cat Penny-girl. The subtle tremble of her hands, and youthful eyes that betrayed her age.

If grief is memory, that’s the best he can do. Looks harder, and he sees her resemblance in you.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he internally scolds himself for the cliché, but you seem to appreciate it, “I feel very lucky to have known her.”

That makes you smile. “Yeah, most people do.”

You clear your throat, and John doesn’t miss how you swipe your cheek with the back of your hand. He opens his mouth to say something, before reminding himself that he is still a stranger. No outstretched hand or comforting words take up the space a loved one leaves behind.

He’s observed this truth dozens of times, in spouses, parents, children. News about his own failings as a captain to bring someone home. Although it’s unwarranted in the claustrophobic place he sits in now, that same guilt capsizes when he sees you sniffle.

“Anyway,” you start, “I thought you should know, given the fact you were neighbors and…” you pick up Penny, who purrs in your arms, “apparently shared custody of her.”

He enjoys the sight of his cat in your arms more than he cares to admit.

“Thank you, I’m sure Penny will miss her,” he lips quirk, “she always did spoil her rotten.”

You pull Penny out from your embrace, so she faces you. “Don’t worry, I’ll spoil her just as much as Ma did.”

John does not mask his surprise. “Will you be staying?”

You turn to him, a genuine smile playing on your lips.

“Yes, with the shop and the house,” somewhere behind him, a flower unfurls itself from the final folds of its petals when you stretch out your hand, “I’m your new neighbor.”

Spring begins when he shakes it, and John has never been more afraid of anything in his life.

[honeyed-nothings]

To Have a Crush: Savanaclaw

Warning(s): Gender-neutral reader, not proof-read, OOC

Notes: Procrastination hit me hard…also I did not expect to spend an hour finding decent enough emoticons for them. May just switch to regular bullet point style someday since I’m still trying to figure out what format I like(╥_╥). Never realized how hard it was to make a pretty format on tumblr until now. Also I’ve gotten pretty rusty too but my schedule has finally cleared up a bit so I’ll be able to be a little more active now!

Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia | Special

Leona Kingscholar

𓄂 A crown of love that the king wears. A herbivore was all you were to him. Another nameless face in the faceless crowd of people who he couldn’t care less about in the grand scheme of things. That’s how it was supposed to stay…until it didn’t. The proud lion will never admit this (or at least not anytime soon) but that day where you, a weak and stupidly stubborn human, stood your ground among all the dust and debris was both one of the most frustrating experiences in his life and also the first time he ever thought of you as ‘strong’. Every so often he thinks back to that moment and sighs before pulling you towards him to lay on the grass.

𓄂 A king should always be accompanied by his retainers. However, he’s not king and you’re definitely not his retainer. Just a stubborn herbivore who happened to catch his eye, that’s all. You’re not that great as an errand runner either but it’s better than just one. A help that Ruggie greatly appreciates but occasionally complains about how you always take the lighter load. Don’t think much about it, he just doesn’t want you messin’ up or anythin’. Strangely, whenever you do run errands for him, there’s conviently always an extra that he gives to you. Reasoning to you that the King of Beasts would’ve done the same thing to those under his care. The proud lion knows this is a lie he can’t keep using to play off what he feels inside. Not when his own ears and tail betray him.

𓄂 Tch, well this is embarrassing.

𓄂 Maybe it was a good thing that Leona already knew. From the moment his tail unconsciously wrapped around you, he knew what his heart was telling him as it beat in his chest. There, with you and him napping underneath the shade of a tree, he realized he had fallen in love. He didn’t know whether he should’ve laughed or cursed the world so he chose to do neither instead. Gently brushing a stray leaf off that had fallen on your face, he chuckled. Guess something like love ain’t all that bad.

𓄂 A crownless lion who’s more hated than loved and a visitor from a place far from here. An interesting duo you two make as he pulls you yet again away from class to nap in the shade with him. His attempts at catching your heart aren’t too noticeable, only noticed by the keenest of eyes. He’ll never be the ideal partner, that he acknowledges despite his pride. But being sappy and overly romantic isn’t his style. That’s why, he’ll win your heart in his own way. A path perhaps not that of a king, but of a man in-love. The prideful lion may not bow his head to no one, but for you he’ll take a knee.

“Huh, well aren’t you gettin’ bolder? I didn’t think you’d beat me to it.”

Ruggie Bucchi

シ Hidden amidst the dirt and grime was love. It’s ingrained into Ruggie to look after people but he’s learnt to not let it be given without a price. Outside of his family and Leona, the latter of whom was more so to help his own skin, he didn’t exactly feel any desire or need to look after you. Sure he felt pity, after all you’re in a tighter spot than him in the world, but aside from that you were just an after thought. Nobody of note that could be beneficial to him in any way. That was until Leona overbloted and well…he’s somewhat grateful that you don’t have much of a survival instinct. You’re a real goody two-shoes aren’t you? Still, he’s thankful that you’re the way that you are. Hyenas never forget a debt and this one he owes to you alone.

シ It really just started off with it being to repay his debt to you. Sure it’s not much but he can’t really do anything fancy like paying you millions of madols or giving you land. That’s why, the hyena has chosen to pay it back his own way. Simple as it may be, it’s all he really has to offer. It’s not like watching your back is gonna cause him anymore work than he’s already got. Soon enough, he found himself doing more than what he intended to. Giving parts of his lunch to you, claiming he didn’t feel like it or there was extra. Stopping during his errands whenever he spotted you to have a quick chat before going off again with slightly more enthusiasm than before. Or heck, sparing you a few madols so you can get what you need. It’s kinda a loss but he just can’t seem to make himself stop. Not when you smile at him so brightly.

シ Wait a minute.

シ Nah…nahh he can’t seriously be in love with you or somethin’, right? Being close to you is just to pay off his debt, not cause he actually likes your company or anything, right?? But as his eyes catch his reflection on the window panes of the college, he can no longer deny the blush on his face or the rapid beating of his heart as the thought of you runs rampant in his mind once again. Well, guess there’s no point in fidgeting around anymore.

シ He’s not much, really he ain’t. Ruggie knows he won’t hold a candle to anyone else in the school in terms of magic or madol but what he does have is his smarts. In his own way, he’ll try and appeal to you. Sometimes he’s confident, other times he feels like he wants to die from how embarrassing it must’ve looked. Still, he tries and tries and tries. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll choose him buried underneath piles of trash.

“You-…you’re really choosing me?”

Jack Howl

ᴥ︎ Love that resounds throughout the night. A team up was all Jack figured it’d be. An agreement to right the wrongs and set things straight so that one day, once more, Savanaclaw would be able to say from the bottom of their hearts that they won. Nothing big enough to lead into the friendship that came to be between you and him. Well then things took a turn for the worse and then the better and well…he’s sure you get it. An accident, a friendship, a bond, whatever it is, the stubborn wolf has decided that he’ll have your back. No matter what and no matter where, he’ll help you out.

ᴥ︎ Respect was all it was. A respect towards a magicless human who proved their own strength by courageously standing in the face of death. Not everyone has a spirit like that and the wolf beastman couldn’t help but look at that and think ‘Ah, now that’s strength’. In doing so, he wanted to be respected by you too. That’s why, when he could, he’d wait outside Ramshackle and walk with you to your classes, carrying your books and providing an umbrella if it’s a rainy day. Need help on the homework? He won’t tell you the answers but he’ll help you figure it out at least. Like working out? Great! He’s more than willing to provide some tips and tricks to achieving the goal you want. Well it wasn’t until Ruggie teased him about how much more happy he seemed doing all that stuff for you that it finally clicked for him. This…isn’t good.

ᴥ︎ D-don’t misunderstand him!

ᴥ︎ Actually no, maybe you should— wait no you shouldn’t! Jack doesn’t know how to feel about…this now that he fully recognizes it. Well- he does, in a way, it’s just…complicated. To be honest, he did have a suspicion that his feelings of respect towards you had turned into something deeper. How fast his tail wagged whenever you were nearby, how he wanted to put even more effort into whatever he was doing when you were watching, how red his face turned whenever he took a ‘secret’ glance in your direction, it really was way too obvious looking back on it.

ᴥ︎ Wolf-type beastmen only have one partner for the rest of their lives. Dedicating themselves entirely to whoever their partner may be. Jack always dreamed of finding his one true partner, he just never expected it to happen so soon. Yes, a crush to him counts as his one true love as childish as it may be. With exactly zero romantic experience under his belt and only equipped with the knowledge of the multiple times his parents told him their love story, he attempts to appeal to you. Surprisingly, for a first timer in love, they’re all thought out and not embarrassing. Jack isn’t good at hiding how feels about you in front of you or anyone else, but it has a certain charm to it. The charm of an adolescent boy in love who cares for you quietly, unable to hide how he feels, as his heart and tail follow the same beat.

“..Phew, you’re here. Prefect, I—uh need to tell you something.”

[pseudowho]

Grey

You live a vigilante life, taking down Curses and Curse Users on commission. When finances force you to take a job from Jujutsu High, you find yourself stumbling into Nanami Kento's lap, where he has a proposition for you instead.

ThatHigurumaBathScene! But with Nanami Kento. Post Shibuya AU.

Warnings: AU!MorallyGrey Nanami Kento, Hot/ColdDom Nanami Kento, 18+, deep throat and other goodies, you know what you're here for.

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I hate to say I'm beginning to see My own reflection in my adversaries [...]

What's the price of a soul? What's its worth versus gold? I tried to beg for mine But it was already sold

Does nobody think twice? What does your hell look like? Does everyone have their price? Where they finally break

-- Sylosis, A Sign of Things to Come

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"So what can you tell me about this...Rogue sorcerer, that will make him easier to find?"

The backstreet diner was dimly lit, with a sickly orange light flickering above the window outside. Sounds and smells of greasy cooking seeped into your ears and clothes.

You swirled a spoon in your mug, already pissed off with the Jujutsu High representative, who seemed to find new ways to be spectacularly unhelpful with every answer he gave.

"He uses...a blunt blade of sorts. Wrapped in white cloth. He usually wears a suit. A tall man, I hear."

"Tall and in a suit. Right. That narrows it down. Thanks a lot."

The representative bristled. "You come highly recommended, despite being...unconventional," he sneered at you,  "The sorcerer in question has been tracked to somewhere in this vicinity." A marked map, along with a slim folder, was tossed across the table to you. The representative stood, brushing imaginary crumbs off his suit. "You know your task. Convince him to come back and work for Jujutsu High again, or eliminate him. He's too unpredictable. He threatens the fabric of sorcerer society."

You were silent, appraising the folder's contents. "Threatens the fabric of sorcerer society," you scoffed. They said the same about you. Any sorcerer acting independently of the higher-ups' control, whether a danger to good people or not, was seen as a danger, a rogue element. You would make your own assessment of the man, if you found him.

For now, it was late, the sun long gone down. You had insisted upon all expenses paid, alongside a generous wage, and were surprised when your price was agreed upon immediately. As such, a very exclusive hotel had a room reserved for you, for as long as you needed it. It was of no real comfort to your sinking loneliness, but a warm bed came second to a warm companion, when living on the move never guaranteed a good night's sleep. Picking up the folder and your bags, you headed to your hotel, to begin your hunt for the nameless rogue sorcerer first thing in the morning.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The hotel had a beautiful restaurant, you considered, sipping your wine with quiet hums of approval. Leaning forwards, your chin on your arched fingers, you pondered over dessert. As you perused the menu, you barely glanced at the tall figure pressing briefly against your side on his way past your table.

"Excuse me," murmured a low, smooth voice. A spiced, warm cologne filled your senses as you turned briefly, watching a tall blond figure walk away from you. You thought nothing more of it.

After dinner, on your way up the hotel room's corridors, you felt through all of your pockets, certain you had picked up your key card, but hopelessly unable to find it.

By the time you reached room number seventy-three, you were forced to accept you had lost it. Yet, you were about to turn on your heels and head back to Reception when you noticed the door, already slightly open. Sensing a trap, and holding little but disdain for traps, you walked in with confidence, closing the door behind you, locking it.

Scanning the room, you called out; "I'm not that easily spooked. I'm not trapped in here with you. You're trapped in here with me."

You heard a low, sultry chuckle from the bathroom, the gentle swish of water sounding as something shifted in it. You may have been forced to eat your words, when a rush of Cursed energy that was so powerful, so heavy, hit you, a sandstorm on a desert. You had a sinking realisation that your rogue sorcerer may have hunted you down, before you'd hunted him.

"Are you going to come in?" the smooth voice called from the bathroom, as you forced yourself to take a breath. "I don't bite." Shaking yourself off, you pressed your body flat to the wall, concealed, as you pulled open the bathroom door. A few moments passed, and nothing happened. You heard the man, humming a song to himself. Slow swishes of water.

Glancing in, your tummy twisted as you took in the sight before you. Lying spread-eagled in the full bathtub, fully-clothed, was a man as well-grown and vast as his Cursed energy. Long legs, clad in an expensive black suit, and thick thighs pressed over the lip of the tub, wet clothes clinging to every peak and mountain of the man's body, leaving little to the imagination. In his hands, a small pair of dark glasses. His face, as of yet, not visible, but his left hand and his neck were covered in thick, red burn scars.

"Somebody's been using my bath," you offered, more nervous than you sounded. Heat pooled in your belly as the man chuckled again.

"Does that make me Goldilocks?" he asked, "I always thought I was more of a Daddy Bear." He lifted his head, looking at you now, and you blushed. Outstandingly handsome, even with deep scarring, you groaned inwardly to yourself, why are the problematic ones always so handsome?

"I've heard a lot about you," the blond man mused, swirling the water with his fingertips, his visible slim brown eye burning up and down your body, and you felt so completely seen, feeling his gaze burn even through his eye patch.

Outwardly cool, you smiled slightly at him, eyes narrowing; "Then you probably already know what I'm here for." The man sighed, in equal measures amused and exasperated.

"Jujutsu High have been after me returning to their sloppy little books for years. What did they think sending you after me would do?" He polished his glasses, before looking to you sternly, "Unless they've recruited you, hmm? Is that it? Are you a honey-trap?" You scoffed, your blush only deepening, much to the blond man's amusement. Swiftly and to your alarm, the man began to climb out of the bath, water cascading off him. Your stomach clenched again, desire coiling within. This man is an Adonis.

He raised his hand to you as you flinched, reaching for your weapons; "Calm down. I have no interest in hurting you." The man straightened, dropping his suit-jacket to the floor with a wet slap. "Those pieces of shit at Jujutsu High, however..." He approached you slowly now, looming over you, disgust in his eyes, "...who have no regard for your wellbeing, or any of their own sorcerers and students for that matter, would happily send you to try to threaten me back, even when they know it would be a fight you could never win."

He pressed against the wall above your head with his forearm now, leaning down to your ear and whispering.

"What was it you said, Little Bear? I'm not trapped in here with you; you're trapped in here with me." Your heart thumped behind your breasts, but you raised your head to meet his eye, one hand on his chest to prevent him getting any closer. He grasped your hand, pressing it to him, "The name's Nanami Kento. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Shit shit shit. "Nanami Kento? The Nanami Kento?" you cried, "They sent me after you? You're not even--" you faltered, and Kento smirked as you caught on.

"Not even, strictly speaking, a Curse User, no," he finished for you, "Just not at their beck and call. I hunt what I want, when I want. Freelance, if you will. Just like you, Little Bear. So tell me, are you in such dire straits, a talent such as yourself, that you needed to accept me as a job?"

You huffed, head turning to the side, and Kento traced his eyes down your breasts, hardening inside his wet trousers.

"You don't only kill Curses, Nanami," you deferred, "you're a man-killer too. Your kill count is impressive to say the least."

Kento eyed you shrewdly, voice low and slow, "Would you call them men? Rapists, abusers, murderers...there are all sorts of monsters in this world." You gulped. You didn't disagree with him. It was becoming rapidly apparent that you could not complete this job. Despite his assurances that he would not hurt you, his huge frame blocking your exit, the way he had stolen your key card at the restaurant to intercept you, and the threat you posed to his vigilantism, spoke differently.

"You could always come with me," Kento purred, "we're kindred spirits already.  And a bit of company might be a pleasant change. I'll pay you whatever they promised." His soft assurances were warm and honeyed against your ear, and you felt acutely how lonely you were.

"I don't need your money," you spat, pushing him away now, furious with yourself for even considering his offer. Kento stepped reluctantly away from you, a prize which he had every reason to allow himself to be caught by. You, the stories of whose exploits Kento had drank up, coming to hunt him down? He was flattered and thrilled when his informant at Jujutsu High warned him.

"Imagine what a team we could be," Kento growled, pacing in front of you, incensed that you couldn't see how simple and beautiful the solution could be.

In truth, you saw it. You saw yourself working with this man on your shared aims. You saw yourself ridding the world of Curses and monsters without agenda, but with him. It was with a sinking feeling that you knew if you chose to go with Nanami, the brittle mutual understanding you had with Jujutsu High to leave you alone as long as you offered them occasional services, would be lost. You risked becoming an enemy, a rogue element like him.

"It's not what I came here for," you responded stiffly, Kento wide-eyed with fury at your rejection, scarred skin strained against his eye patch. You straightened, putting a brave face on your fragile resolve as you turned your back on him, grabbing the door handle. "I won't be coming with you. I'll tell Jujutsu High exactly what you think of their offer. It won't be me who bothers you anymore."

As you moved to leave, you felt strong, corded arms move around you to hold the door closed, one wrapping tightly around your waist. Your heart nearly leapt out of your mouth.

"Stay," Kento urged, pulling you back to him.

"I thought you killed rapists," you spat at him. His arms stiffened around you.

"Please, don't compare me to scum. I don't need to rape you to get you into bed with me." Despite yourself, your pulse throbbed in your ears, and between your legs. "You're lonely. I'm lonely. We have shared goals. We could defy their system together." His mouth ghosted against your neck and he was delighted to feel you shiver against his tongue.

Feeling bolder, Kento laid his hand over the back of yours, grasping, and pressing them flat together against the wall. As he leant you forwards, his teeth sank into the back of your neck, and the wetness from his suit seeped through your clothes. He was so close, you couldn't tell where you began and he ended. The urge to give in was dizzying, images of chasing a different life with this man rushing through you a mile a minute, and you felt him pause for a moment, shivering against you.

"Cold," he murmured on your neck. "Have you ever taken a bath in your clothes?" You couldn't answer him, too overwhelmed by the press of his cock, insistently rigid, against your back. He kissed your neck again, hard. "Just to feel something." His fingers, cool and rough, slipped underneath the bottom of your shirt, nails grazing against the sensitive skin of your stomach.

"I don't...Nanami, I'm not..." He groaned, still breathing heavily against you.

"I want you," he intoned against you, "Maybe you can have something better than what you came here for."

"You're...you're a stranger to me," you gasped, resolve crumbling, body crying out for affection and release.

"I don't have to be," Nanami pressed, squeezing your hand, joined with his against the wall, "so let me show you what being needed really is...and then you can decide what you want to tell Jujutsu High."

Kento turned you round to face him, his one visible warm brown eye hooded with desire, beginning to unbutton his own shirt as he stroked your jaw, maintaining eye contact. You stared him down, vulnerable, tearful and overwhelmed. His thumb swiped across your eyes, hushing you softly.

"I know you don't want me to stop...do you?" he purred, his voice low and dangerous. You trembled, never wanting to find companionship like this, but sinking into Nanami's insistent control felt so intoxicating. Increasingly fearful of your own desires, you backed away to the wall again, pursued by Nanami, who blocked you in place, his knee pressed against the wall and between your legs.

"Please..." you began, begging him for...what? Pleasure? Or escape? You warred with yourself, as Nanami finished removing his shirt, wet and peeled off his body, and gods was he a sight to behold. His taut muscles and roughly hewn burn scars drew your eyes to his chest, drinking him in. Nanami smirked, tilting your chin up to him and pulling you in firmly for a kiss which broached no argument. You gasped at the sudden intrusion and Nanami took full advantage, plundering his tongue into your mouth, filling your senses with whiskey and smoke. Your arms, numb with shock, were grasped by Nanami, one by the wrist and placed against his burned chest, and one slipped under his belt, your palm flat against the trail of hair on his abdomen, just deep enough for your fingertips to graze the base of his cock.Your fingertips flinched back, and Nanami's hand pressed over yours, holding your fingers in place, his tongue trembling against yours as he shivered.

"Do you want me to stop?" he rumbled again, his mouth beginning to make a course down your jaw and neck. Leaning away momentarily, he read your face, flushed with pleasure, tears of rage in your eyes. Nanami chuckled behind your ear, nipping your earlobe hard until you squeaked and cringed. You didn't want him to stop, but couldn't be a part of making this decision for yourself. Nanami pushed your hand deeper behind his belt, the flat of your palm now pressed hard against his throbbing erection, happy to make the decision for you. Tentatively, you squeezed him, cock pulsing enticingly against your fingers, and he groaned into your mouth.

Nanami's last reservations about your willingness fell away completely, and he grabbed your jaw roughly, his hand extending to your throat and squeezing the sides, deepening his kiss. You squeaked again, your nails digging into his chest, heat flooding through you as he maintained the pressure of your hand holding his cock behind his belt, rutting forwards into your palm. Nanami felt his pleasure beginning to peak, too early, and held his hips and your hand still for a moment,your panting breaths mingling together.

Silent, heart visibly racing through the thick veins in his neck, Kento dropped to his knees in front of you. His expression stern, determined, he gripped the front seam of your trousers and ripped them open as if they were made of paper, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time, daring you to stop him. Lifting your thighs onto his shoulders as you gasped, wordless and chest heaving, your hands fell flat against the wall behind you, and Nanami rubbed his nose and lips against your puffy folds, all but completely exposed behind your soaked underwear. You clapped your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out as he inhaled deeply through his nose, euphoric in the smell of you.

"Do you want me to stop?" he hummed, the vibrations rumbling through your clit as you moaned, a high-pitched keening sound. Instinctively, both hands came off the wall to sink into Nanami's damp blond hair, pulling hard at the roots, holding his face between the heat of your legs. Rumbling his approval, Nanami's fingers swiped your underwear to the side, his tongue delving deeply between your folds, immediately beginning to flick insistently over your clit.

All rational thoughts went out of the window as Nanami licked and sucked between your legs, full attention paid to your pleasure, as you fell apart around him, thighs squeezing his head. Nanami's strong hands cupped your bum through your trousers, kneading the plush fat as he took your clit into his lips and sucked, feeling you shake as you approached the edge.

"Do you want me to stop?" he growled, and you couldn't stop yourself from whining your displeasure as he halted just before your orgasm hit you. Giving you no chance to answer, he took your clit firmly between his lips again, mouth and tongue hot and wet between your folds as you came, crying out and trembling, both hands clawing desperately at his hair, blinded by the peppering lights in your eyes.

Giving you no time to snap back to reality, you felt yourself being lifted and heaved over Nanami's shoulder.  He kicked the bathroom door open, carrying you through to the bedroom and lounge, dimly lit by the Tokyo skyline outside. Nanami dropped you on your back onto the table, positioning you until your head hung off the edge. Neck extended as you stared up at him, panting, eyes glazed, Nanami hummed as he slowly fingered the outline of your throat, his other hand undoing his belt. You gulped, mouth watering as you realised his intentions.

Lifting his heavy cock out of his trousers, Nanami began to stroke it, thumb swiping across the leaking tip, and he looked down at you, pupils blown with lust. He pressed two fingers into your mouth, shuddering with anticipation as he felt your tongue run against his fingers, licking the precum off his fingertips.

"Do...you want me to stop?" He forced out, pupils dilating as you opened your mouth for him slowly, invitingly. "Oh, fuck," groaned Nanami, pressing his length past your lips, hissing as the sensitive tip glided over your tongue and hit the back of your throat, curving to its shape, and he bucked into you, hands gripping your jaw and throat with bruising force as you gagged around him.

Nanami pulled out for long enough for you to take a deep breath through your nose, before fucking your throat with total abandon. Your wet gags and sloppy occasional breaths sent him reeling, his fingers resting on the outer edges of your throat thrilling him as he felt his cock bully past them. Hearing Nanami cursing, his voice breaking with stuttered moans, you felt heat coil in your belly, hands reaching out to grip his wet thighs to ground yourself. You felt so used, eyes streaming into your hair as he reached down your body, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he reached between your legs and curved two fingers up into your pussy, still wet from his tongue, his thumb swiping urgently over your clit. You convulsed, your hypersensitive clit tossing you into a painful second orgasm as your muscles fluttered against his curled fingers.

"Do you...do you want-- ahhh, fuck, take it take it, you're such a good girl," Nanami caged youin, hands flat on the table beside your waist, his balls hot and heavy against your nose as he came with a shout, rivers of cum trickling down your throat as you gagged, nails digging into his thighs as he rutted into your mouth, stunned by the strength of his orgasm. He pulled out of your mouth, sweaty and panting, his abs heaving in front of your face, stroking drops of his seed away from the sides of your mouth as you gasped and coughed on the table.

"Not enough," he gasped, stroking himself, half-hard already as the sight of you, spread and messy with cum on the table, "it's not enough. I'm not finished with you yet." You began to sit up, turning on the table, moving slowly towards him as he spoke again, stumbling and sweating, "Do you want me to--" Nanami was cut off by your kiss, forceful and determined as you locked your arms behind his neck.

Groaning appreciatively, carrying your weight as you locked your legs around his waist, Nanami stumbled to the bed, kicking off his trousers and beginning to rip your clothes off you. Your breasts freed, he latched aggressively onto your nipples, growling against you, completely absorbed in his plan to pound you into the mattress until you saw stars.

You bit into his shoulder blade as your trousers and underwear were flung unceremoniously aside, grabbing his cock and guiding it to your entrance, where he bottomed out in one smooth thrust, making you shriek as your pussy stretched, and you grasped onto him as you struggled to accommodate his size. Unexpectedly intimate, Nanami clasped his hand to yours, joined as he braced on his forearm above your head.

"I can't...I can't stop," Nanami choked out, slamming into you with a force that had you reeling. Barely held in place as his hips slammed yours up the bed, you locked your ankles behind Kento's hips, and he grasped you, pressing your knees to your chest until you were folded in two. Feeling his eye patch about to slip loose, and momentarily afraid you'd be disgusted by him, Nanami buried his face in your neck, grunting with every thrust as you mewled in his ear, your fingers deep in his hair, causing shivers down his spine.

You groaned, sultry and guttural, as his thick cock pounded your cervix, shuddering as you came, heat deep in your belly as Kento collapsed onto you, weak and drained as his seed filled you again, so overwhelmed by pleasure that he thought he may have seen god for a moment.

Flopping beside you on the bed, Nanami patted around above your head for his eye patch. Your hand reached up, grabbing his, lowering it to clasp together between your bodies. Nanami felt his chest clench, momentarily touched by your companionship and easy acceptance of his broken body.

"...what the hell am I going to tell Jujutsu High?" You groaned, as Nanami laughed richly, shooting you a wicked look.

"You'll come with me, then?"

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[buttermilkbunny]

Sleepy guy <3

[blingblong55]

A story- 141

Heii! I love your writing n was wondering if you could do more platonic!tf141 x reader? I'd love to see you do an angst one where reader almost dies or actually dies from the enemies hands, like maybe by poison or freezing to death bc readergets captured by them? :D ---- GN!Reader, angst, mentions of child!abuse ---- A/N: I apologise for writing this late. Fixed things with Tumblr and I can see all of my requests :)

The room is dark, there is no silence just a hum. It's eerie. Four guns are looking for reasons to shoot. There is a body, lying right by the door, and as the four men step deeper into the room, more bodies lie on the floor. None of them were the object of their mission. So many were just nameless bodies, some were part of the bravo team and then...the object of their mission. 

Was it worth calling it for what it is over the radio? ---

About fifteen months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 received a fresh out-of-training soldier who passed selection with flying colours—recommended to Kate Laswell by an old friend. "I think this kid will fit perfectly with your team. I sought thatthey were ready to be recommended." the man said to her.

From then on, it was set, that Y/N would be a part of the Task Force. Days blended in and Y/N couldn't wait for the day to come to work with the most infamous team that had come out of the SAS. When they met the team, it had been set in motion, this soldier belonged with them. They were made for this kind of life. It didn't take much after they joined to demonstrate why they were recommended to the team. 

Ghost saw some of himself in this young soldier. Price saw visions of his younger self in them, it was odd... having a person their age brings in more reasons to keep going. Gaz knew there was something about them, he took them under his wing. And Soap, the youngest candidate to pass the SAS selection, saw the bright future this new soldier has. 

It didn't take long before this brotherhood was at the doorstep waiting for Y/N to join. 

Their first-ever mission showed the skills that were once on paper. There was a chance, one that would dictate if this kid would wear the patch of the team.

The bullets blazed through the young soldier but they pushed past the storm, ran behind enemy lines and proved the patch on their arm would be permanent. It was bold, sure it was impressive but it was ballsy. There was no punishment just a light scolding. 

By the time they had been with the team for a whole year, another mission would be called upon, this time, no one knew the result. 

Would it be victorious? Shall we even say a horror?

Ghost executed his moves, knives ended up in men's throats because of it. Soap had a bullet to the arm, shit was fucked if this bloke had been hurt. Gaz had been waiting in the getaway car, you see this was meant to be a quick mission. Price yelled over the bullets that hit the wall near him. 

Y/N, yeah...they're the reason the team got away from this mess. But...it wasn't until late that the team realised Y/N hadn't gotten in the humvee with them.  ---

It had been one official week since then. Enough time for Laswell to mark this soldier as M.I.A. 

Price went through all of the mission, wondering where it all went wrong. It was the entrance or the time, hell not even the place was wrong. So what had gone wrong? Surely it couldn't have been the week or the month. Surveillance had proven that the intel given to them was wrong, resulting in the injury of Soap and now the evident torturing of Y/N. 

You had been stuck in a cell, occasionally dragged out of it to be tortured in different rooms according to the highest bidder. It was hell but at least your team wasn't the one in your place. You had grown fond of them and considered them all family by now. You were a kid in their eyes, something that always made them care for you like big brothers would for their younger siblings. 

At pubs, they always made sure you only drank one nice pint and that was it, no need to get a kid like you drunk. There were cigarettes shared, never a cigar because you must have three successful missions before Price gives you that privilege. 

Now, stuck in a dark cell with bruises, cuts and a possible broken bone, you can't help but feel desperation cover you whole. 

They'll find me. I know they will. 

Just another beating, nothing new. 

Just another stab, what more?

A little blood loss never hurt anyone.  ---

This was just like when you were a kid. Getting beat by your dad, mum and even when you were taken away, the next family would do the same. It was a never-ending story for you. But leaving, that was a hell of an idea to have. 

You were fifteen, with a weird feeling that if you didn't leave you'd end up dead, gone and buried. That or by your own hands. So, you left, you walked away or if put in legal terms, you became a ran away. So there you were, with nothing to your name but a backpack with all the important paperwork one needs and in an office to a man who would help you get a better home until you could join the military.  ---

Present day

The room is dark, there is no silence just a hum. 

Price leads the team deeper into the room, then...there was you. Lying unconscious on the floor. Stripped to only a white tank top and underwear. Soap was the first to rush in, covering your body while the rest of the team cleared the remaining rooms. By the time the team cleared the rooms, Soap had let them know you weren't moving but still breathing. 

A couple more beatings were okay, so as long as your team was away from harm's way. 

There was so much they needed to say to a kid like you, so much they wanted to share with you. Hell, smoke a cigar after the doctor clears you, per Laswell's request. But most of all, they wanted to teach you so much. Not just about war or whatever else a soldier might need to know but about life. 

A/N: this isn't an angst as much as I'd want it to be. 

[shanastoryteller]

Happy holidays! Do you have any zagreus interacting with other gods? Thanks so much

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Other people are learning about Zagreus.

Not that they know it's him, of course. He goes by the moniker prince.

Just enough to direct prayers and pay tributes, but a nameless god standing against Demeter? It's enough to send the whole pantheon in an uproar.

It's enough to send Demeter to heights of rage that Artemis previously thought her incapable of reaching.

There are gardens that her frost can't touch. Fruit she she has no hand in growing.

There are people who will not submit and die as she wishes it, blaming mortals for her daughter's death and so making them pay the price for a lost goddess.

Not even Zeus has rained destruction upon the mortals like Demeter had and not even Zeus can stop her.

It's too much. Too much taken, too much suffering.

Persephone was a sweet girl. But her loss is not worth the life of every mortal upon the earth.

Artemis is with Aphrodite, both of them having been evoked powerfully enough to send shivers down their spine. She leans against her spear and tried to think of any other way to fix this.

It's a town on the edge of collapse, a thick forest between them and the rest of civilization. In spring the journey is long but easy enough, but it hasn't been spring for a long time.

There's no game to hunt. Loved ones are dying. They beg and beg to any god that will listen but while every god can hear them no god can save them.

None but one.

But how would they know? This far out, there only contact is other isolated villages too deep in the world.

"I'm tired," Aphrodite whispers, knees pulled to her chest, something about her coltish in her helplessness.

Artemis has never tried this. She doesn't even know if it will work. But he won't ever find his way here on his own. "Can you keep a secret, Aphrodite?"

She shifts her head enough to look at her with a single garnet eye. "What secret do you have, sister mine?"

"Aphrodite," she says warningly.

She huffs, amusement aging her. "Yes, yes, my silence or my life. What is it?"

Artemis hopes she doesn't regret this. She hopes it works. "Prince Zagreus!"

"What's Zag going to do?" Aphrodite blinks. "He can't even-"

She cuts herself off and Artemis knows she's thinking through the first part, coming to the obvious conclusion and rejecting it out of hand.

"Artemis?"

They both turn and Zagreus is standing there. Not as image or projection like he was the last time they met face to face, but solidly beside her in the flesh.

He grimaces in pain and raises a hand to his side before straightening and forcing his arm down. Whatever it is that keeps him in his father's realm still has some hold on him, it seems.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," he says. There's blood on his teeth. There wasn't any a couple seconds ago. "Oh, hi Aphrodite. Er. Please don't tell anyone."

"It's you?" Aphrodite demands. "You?"

"I am me," he agrees.

Artemis would beat him if they had the time for it. "Can you help them? This village will die. Word of you hasn't reached them and your temples are too far to travel too even if they had."

He grins it's all red. His blood drips down his chin. "It's not going to be pretty."

Artemis has never thought about how exactly the god of life and blood spreads his blessings. She thinks she's regretting that now.

"Pretty's my domain anyway," Aphrodite snaps. "Help them."

Zagreus moves too quickly for Artemis to stop. He grabs her spear and slices down his chest and then there's blood everywhere, pouring out of him, more than should be in any one body.

Aphrodite screams and Artemis wrenches the spear away, horrified. "This is celestial silver! You can't - even gods can't heal from it!"

"Death heals all wounds," he says and there's blood down his chin, spilling out his mouth with his every breath.

Then he's running.

They talk off after him and it's easy to follow his trail, the deluge blood and smell of copper filling her nose as they chase him.

Zagreus is mad. When she wasn't looking he went insane and now she's killed him.

They have to slow him down, have to get him to Hermes. It should be easy, they're goddesses and he's dying, but he stays fast enough to stay just out of their grasps.

He's lose a body's worth of blood a dozen times over and yet still more flows.

He finally trips and falls, giving gurgling breathes.

"Zagreus!" she shouts as she and Aphrodite fall into the snow beside him. "Zagreus, hold on, it's going to be okay."

He laughs and pats her cheek. He's too pale. "Relax. I die all the time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aphrodite demands, trying to put her hands over the wound but it's too long to stem.

Zagreus doesn't answer.

His body goes slack and it takes Artemis several seconds to realize the person screaming is her.

Aphrodite is sitting there shell shocked and bewildered and then Zagreus's body sinks into the earth, not even reacting to Artemis's attempts to hold on.

"Oh."

She looks up and Aphrodite is looking behind them. Artemis slowly follows her gaze.

Every place blood touched the ground, there now grows bushes of bright purple berries, more vibrant than any fruit she's seen grow that shade. They grow thick and fat on every branch and if there anything like the other food in Prince's gardens, it will keep them alive and they'll be able to grow more themselves.

If they're willing to sacrifice the blood.

The next time Artemis sees Zagreus, she's going to kill him.

[pompompurin1028]

The Painter and the Sitter

Summary: Dazai once again agreed to be a sitter for a new painting of yours

Pairing: Dazai x Painter! Reader

Genre: Scenario, Hurt/Comfort-ish

Warnings: None

A/N: Inspired by an idea I had suddenly one night earlier this month. In between me getting this idea and me writing it, I had been reading some Virginia Woolf so I was kind of inspired. Also a reference to Dorian Gray is in this fic too because why not. This is entirely self-indulgent, wrote this on a whim because I felt like it, didn't really read it over to see if there are any errors :D

My Masterlist

Although sitting and posing for hours was a bit of a bore, Dazai never said no to your requests to paint him. He knows you enjoy having him as your sitter, whether you would admit it out loud or not for you had painted him more times than you can count.

He interested you, he can tell that much at least. Every time you paint his portrait, you seem to be trying to capture something… Something intangible perhaps, maybe even abstract. But Dazai knew it was not quite so simple. To someone more oblivious, it may seem as if you are trying to capture a certain idea, a theme to go with his portrait. But Dazai knew better. He knew you were trying to figure him out, to capture him on paper, to paint a portrait of him as closely as you could muster.

This knowledge should scare him, knowing that someone is trying to dig deep into his depths, his secrets, and potentially see the darkness that lies beneath his smiling mask. But at the same time, part of him enjoyed it.

It was perhaps not quite the idea of being known that enchanted him. No… if he had been focusing on that aspect, he was much more fearful about being with you. No, he was much more intrigued by your portrayal of him, he wanted to see the colours you chose, the style you selected and listen to you as you explained your thought process behind the artwork. Though you would never admit you were trying to study him, he knew, and perhaps you knew that he knew as well. And yet, you still attempted to continue your search and so, Dazai allowed it.

Your study of him did not come without a price of course. It is said that it is not the sitter who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. So, to Dazai at least, the exchange is mutual--he allows you to attempt to dig into his depths, spending hours with you weekly, conversing with you, while you do the same, and reveal your thoughts on the world, your ideologies, your attitudes on life on the canvas you paint.

But Dazai knew it likely wasn't a fair exchange on your part and maybe one day, in the near future you will notice it too as you continue your search. He knew you were trying to paint a portrait of who he is… inside. But he knew the true answer. What you will eventually find, beneath all the layers you slowly draw apart is but an absence, a hollowness that most of the time Dazai feels can never be filled.

This was much unfair to your sincere self whose paintings were a site of vulnerability. He knows it well; you never did display your work publically, in fact Dazai hardly really knew what happened to the paintings after you finished painting them. But, despite whatever it meant to you, you still showed them to him, explained your thought processes to him, perhaps as a sign of gratitude for being your sitter, or maybe for something more. All he knew was, there was no suitable name for your relationship. Artist and muse perhaps? But no, he knew you saw him much more beyond a mere means for inspiration. Friends then? No, that was much too intimate and besides, Dazai did not simply call a person a friend easily. And to be lovers is beyond the question. But one thing was certain, there was a level of intimacy and vulnerability between the two of you, one with has yet no name. Maybe it is better to leave it nameless. This bond will not last long, at least that's what Dazai had thought. But he was much too selfish to let go of what little connection you have built. Though he knows he is only torturing himself since he knows you'll leave him eventually, once you've found the answers you're looking for, once you have found the true nature of the man you were so allured by.

As Dazai's focus was reined back to being the sitter for your portrait when you called his name. The newest portrait was finished, and as per usual, you chatted with excitement and great passion.

“This time I used a much different colour pallet than I usually do. You always request to be painted with dark colours but I thought some oranges and yellows suited you. I think it suits you much more-” You spoke eagerly, seeming very proud of your newest creation. Dazai doesn't think he's seen you this excited over one of your pieces so early on after finishing it and he couldn't stop the smile from creeping up to his face at the sight.

“Hmm, maybe you're right. I do look quite handsome in this colour pallet.” He replied smugly, staring at the painting. But if he were to be honest, he wasn't quite sure what to think of your artistic decision on this portrait. He wasn't sure how to feel seeing himself painted in such a light. It felt… unfamiliar, defamiliarizing even.

As he stares at the painting, Dazai wonders if he had misunderstood your intentions for painting him all along. Though he prides himself with being able to read others like a book, and to be able to assume what moves them most of the time, he is much like other humans--he can never access the interiority of other human beings, at best, he can infer and deduct. And the thought that he might have been mistaken for so long alarmed him.

But he took a deep breath. He knows you didn't have bad intentions, you never once showed any signs of malice. And he knew, despite everything, at least to some degree, he could trust you. But he didn't expect you of all people to throw him off guard. But with only the exteriority of people available to oneself to judge and guess, how much can we truly learn about other people? Perhaps such limitations are the manner of our seeing, and such are the conditions of our love.

Although walls and barriers still separated the two of you, for you had yet to fully understand him, and him you, Dazai felt your relationship had become if not a little bit more intimate. Perhaps within every conversation you two had, there were parts where you talked past each other, but you were still trying… trying to communicate, trying to connect. And maybe, for now, all of this is enough.