#alcohol impact

[ujusttry]

5 Harmful Foods for Memory That You Should Avoid Today

Harmful foods for memory can silently sabotage your cognitive abilities, leading to forgetfulness and even long-term memory issues. In this article, we’ll uncover the five worst foods for your memory and provide healthier alternatives to help you maintain a sharp and healthy brain. Whether you’re looking to improve your diet or just curious about the connection between food and memory, this…

[catscidr]

// the fatui's alcohol tolerance and drinking habits //  

i. note — after writing this post i started thinking about how the other harbingers would tolerate alcohol and then.... but this is also because of a lovely commenter on ao3, thank u pookie for enabling me ♡ ii. includes — all of the harbingers + pierro and the tsaritsa. gn!reader iii. cw — not proofread, alcohol, various fuckery and headcanons. crack. that's it iv. wc — 1,2k

丑角/Pierro, The director. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.   -> habits: has an entire wine cellar in the zapolyarny palace and owns a vineyard southern of snezhnaya. one of his hobbies consist of wine-testing; he’s the kind of person to cleanse his palate with a small sip that he swooshes in his mouth, then swirls his glass to observe the coat, sniffs the wine, takes another sip- you get it. if you asked, he would recommend you a wine based on your taste. you want something sweet but not dry? try dessert wines. want something a little more on the bitter side? get yourself a malbec from argentina. 

he hates anything that isn’t wine. don’t even try to give him a beer, he’ll look down at you with the most vicious glare you’ll feel sorry for being born. 

队长 /Il Capitano, The first. 

-> tolerance: 10/10, very high.  -> habits: doesn’t see the point of drinking so he never has a glass in his hands from his own volition. if he’s drinking it’s either because some coworkers managed to get him to come out for drinks, because he caught one of his agents drinking on the job and decided to have a drink as well, or because you convinced him to drink with you. 

his drink of choice is literally just any hard liquor, he doesn’t really care for taste. everyone is under the impression that he can’t get drunk, but some people just take it as an invitation to try to get him shitfaced (it never works out). 

博士/Il Dottore, The second. 

-> tolerance: 3/10, very low.  -> habits: never drinks and doesn’t see the point in it anyways, because it’ll only hinder his cognitive functions (you tried convincing him that he can get different perspectives that way. you were swiftly rewarded with a flick on the forehead). on top of that, he just can’t really handle alcohol so why purposely leave himself vulnerable like that. he didn’t care enough to give himself a higher tolerance for it when he modified his body, apparently. would probably be the designated driver if he went out to a bar (if he were invited in the first place. if he accepted the invitation, second.) 

the kind of person to get weirdly tipsy after two white claws. 

少女/Columbina, The third. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What.  -> habits: o̴̻̒f̴̭͋f̵̣͝ė̵͎r̴̻̄ĭ̵̙ñ̶̥g̸͙͋ ̵̦͆ḫ̸̏e̷̺̊r̶̳̈́ ̴͖̓ä̷͖ ̷͓͆d̴̜̆r̴̡̄i̷̪͝n̵͕͂k̵̠̄ ̴͈̈́ŵ̵̭ȉ̶̺l̸̩̃l̵̲̈́ ̵͖͝ö̸̪n̸̘͝l̸̺̈ỹ̷̹ ̴͑͜ṡ̸̞p̵̪͆e̶͈̊l̵͈͌l̶̜͗ ̵̣̌y̵̢͒ŏ̴͔u̴̹͐ŗ̶̀ ̶͎̈d̶̥͑ö̷̧o̶͓̕m̵̘̃.̷̡̽ ̵͙̐ý̴̟o̸̻͝u̵̳͘ ̶̙́s̴̠̿h̶̡͋a̴̫͊l̶̮̾l̷̳̃ ̷͓͝n̶͕͝o̶̢̓ț̵̏ ̶̞͋w̷̹͝i̶̦̚ṫ̴̪n̸̖̉e̶̢͝s̸̝̕s̸͉͒ ̵̗̈́h̸͜͝ě̵̝r̷͙̉ ̶̭̃h̵͍͒o̶̠̅l̸̗͂i̴̞̕n̷͚̓ẽ̴͙s̵̙̀s̵̖̄ ̷̟͐ć̵͈ó̴̭n̴̙̾s̶̠͋ũ̷̙m̷̬̈́ì̷ͅn̶̯͛g̸̯̔ ̴̨͝t̶͙̕h̴̢͝e̵͔̋ ̵̖̀d̵̖͛ë̷͖́v̵̯͂ii̵͖̿q̵̯̽ŭ̴̺o̶͖̔r̵̠̒.̶̺͒ ̵̙͘l̵͑͜e̸̖͗a̷̞͝v̷̉ͅe̵̮̕ ̸̦̎h̸̩̎e̴̪̐r̸̰̀ ̷̩͠b̷̛̥ĕ̸ͅ ̸̪͒e̴̜͂l̸͖̄s̴͖̆ẽ̷̝ ̸̘͘y̸̹̋ô̴̺ṷ̷̓r̸̭̈́ ̸̜̅l̶͖̾i̵͇͘f̵͉̔e̵̜̚s̷̖̏p̴̫̈́ä̷̬́n̷͔͌ ̴̰̑w̵͝ͅȋ̶̫l̶̛̯ḷ̸͒ ̸̡̊s̷̹͠h̶̭͋o̶̹͆r̵̮͂t̵̥̽é̴̡ṉ̷͌ ̶͕̑ĉ̸̰ǫ̶̈́n̶̔͜s̸̺̃i̷͌͜d̸͚̂e̵̺͊r̸̺̄ą̸̆b̷̲͘ḻ̸̎y̶̠͂.̴̣̉ 

in her free time, she likes to practice her bartending skills, like making fresh piña coladas! 

仆人/Arlecchino, The fourth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: likes to unwind with a glass of wine in her office while overlooking a multitude of paperwork. never drinks enough to get tipsy, but she could if she were surrounded by the right company...? if she wanted to, she could probably enter a drinking competition and win, though. whatever that means 

has let some children of the house of the hearth try wine. finds the grimaces they pull after a sip very amusing 

公鸡/Pulcinella, The fifth. 

-> tolerance: 6/10, moderate.  -> habits: the kind of man to drink wine with his meals, but he won’t have more than one and a half—two if he’s feeling particularly pent up. his tolerance isn’t that good because of his weight, unsurprisingly.  he doesn’t get invited to go out for drinks because he always ends up indulging just a bit too much. he then acts like a disappointed dad to everyone in the vicinity.

0/10 don’t bring him to a bar unless you want to be scolded for breathing.

国崩/Scaramouche, The sixth. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: hates alcohol but is weirdly competitive when it comes to it, if he’s with the right people. sort of. although alcohol doesn’t affect him in the same way it does regular people, it still makes him feel gross enough to not want to be near it. if he had to pick a drink it would be something like an aperol spritz. he’d wait like thirty minutes before drinking it, letting the bubbles fizz out a bit. hates the “taste” of carbonation with a passion.

don’t even try to get him to try give him a beer, he’ll turn it into a molotov cocktail 

木偶/Sandrone, The seventh. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: similar to il dottore, she hates drinking because it impairs her genius mind, but she’ll go out if only to make fun of drunk people (it rarely ever happens anyways). if she’s stuck with a drink in her hands for some reason, she’ll make the dapper ruin guard that’s at her side dispose of it for her. 

will it literally throw it away or will it dispose of it in a less destructive way? don’t stick around to find out. 

淑女/La Signora, The eighth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: similar to arlecchino, she enjoys a good red wine occasionally. the only difference is that she needs to have it while bathing in the most expensive bath salts accompanied by so many candles it would be a hazard for her lungs. the queen of being a diva, has perfected the art of swirling wine in a glass while listening to jazzy music. 

absolutely adores dandelion wine; she always buys crates upon crates despite the ridiculous import fees. has one from so long ago you’re surprised the bottle hasn’t disintegrated yet—the name Rostam is engraved into it. 

富人/Pantalone, The ninth. 

-> tolerance: 7/10, moderate.  -> habits: probably the only normal one out of the bunch (which says a lot). whenever he drinks he always ends up tipsy, and when he’s tipsy, that façade he wears crumbles at the speed of light. gone are the strained fake smiles for politeness’ sake, in are the loud, angry rants about annoying clients. he won’t stop until his voice starts straining from usage. 

his go-to drink is literally whatever expensive wine he can get his hands on; he’ll drink with pierro and analyze wines, on occasion. don’t join them, you’ll die of boredom. 

公子/Tartaglia, The eleventh. 

-> tolerance: 9/10, very high. Debatable.  -> habits: you wouldn’t believe that he can handle alcohol better than most people because every time he drinks, he always gets shitfaced. he’ll insist he’s just testing his limits and building a higher tolerance. don’t bring him out for drinks with il capitano, he’ll inhale 5 shots of fire water in a couple of minutes to “convince” the first that he’s strong. it never works. 

probably the best person to go to a bar with, if you manage to go on a day where he didn’t wake up with the urge to get so stupidly plastered that he’ll try to fight every single man in the building. don’t let him try to show off, there aren’t many bars left that haven’t banned him yet. 

Царица , The Tsaritsa. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What²  -> habits: ṯ̵̿ḧ̸̤́i̷̹͊s̴̠͐ ̷̧̍i̵̦͝ṡ̴̼ ̵̪͛ä̶̙́n̵͙͆ ̴͆ͅȃ̶͓s̵̜̅s̴̫̀a̵͑ͅs̵̡̓s̷͇̈́í̷̹n̷͕͠a̷̛̱ṱ̴͘i̷̡̕ō̴̻ń̷ͅ ̶͍̃a̵̧͝ṭ̶͝t̶̮̏e̴͉͑m̵̮̈p̵̰̕t̶̼̔.̸̯͆ ̵̗̔y̵̖͝ó̶̡u̶͇͑ ̵̜͌ẁ̶̘ï̵̢l̶̥̈l̶̲͐ ̴̩̔b̴̪͋e̸͎͌ ̷̲̑p̷̲̋r̴̦͐o̷̙͐m̵̟͝p̴͔͛t̷͔̂l̶̪̏y̶̖͂ ̶͊ͅd̵͉̓ỉ̵͔s̵̩̕p̴͖͐o̶͈͘s̵͌ͅḛ̴͂d̶̺̊ ̴̯̓ơ̵̺f̶̠́ ̵̈́͜a̴͙̎t̵̠͋ ̵̲̈ō̵͉n̴̨̒c̸̭͛ê̵͎.̶͓͘ ̵͇̃y̷̡̆ő̵͍ű̸̮ ̸̙͌c̶͈̔ȧ̷̳n̴͍̎ṅ̵͖ŏ̷̪t̵͉͝ ̸̩̇r̷͈̈́u̷͍͝n̷͔̿.̵̮͘ ̷͕̈́w̸̼̄h̴̥̏ý̵̘ ̷͇̀d̶͉̋ii̷̭̎n̶͙̎k̷̢̀ ̵̢̐c̷̣̀o̴͖̍ḿ̵̹i̵̥͘n̵̲̈g̸̫̒ ̵̠̏iͅií̷͎ť̴̻t̷̛̠y̴̟͝ ̴͖̑c̶͔̎o̴̮̽r̷̬̐ñ̴͖e̶͙͒ŕ̵̥ ̴͈̾s̶̙͊t̶̛̫ò̸̲r̶̺͊e̶̮͆ ̶̣̃b̷̰͘ḙ̴͘e̸̖̕ṛ̸̏ ̵̖̓ẃ̷̞a̷͕͐s̶̳͆ ̵̘̾a̶͔̓ ̵̣͛g̴̰͐o̴͕̊o̵̲̾d̸̦̔ ̴͓͗i 

drinks wine with la signora and arlecchino sometimes! their girls' nights only happen once in a blue moon and she doesn’t drink much, but she enjoys the slight buzz from a good red wine nonetheless. 

[wri0thesley]

a prize to be won - capitano x fem!reader (5.3k)

you are not there for the destruction of your home. but you are there for the aftermath, when you catch the eye of the captain.

cw: dark content. kidnapped 'spoils of war' reader, descriptions of a razed village and death of everyone reader knows. explicitly fem reader. dubious consent, alcohol. based on this post.

this was a commissioned work.

You have never seen so much destruction. 

You have never even thought you would see so much destruction, truth be told; the very idea of such things has never crossed your mind, when your village is ordinarily so calm and peaceful. You have loved your home fiercely and protectively your whole life - you have done everything asked of you, you have shared in the joys and the sorrows of your neighbours. Your home life is a humble one - your father a baker, your mother his assistant, your older brother set to inherit the bakery with the understanding you would work in it until the end of your life too - but it is not one you have ever maligned! 

You've felt, perhaps, a rumbling of discontent once or twice - the thought that out there, there might be something more than what you have always dreamed about - but it has always been quickly quashed when you've been called to work, or your father has smiled at you or your friends embraced you. This is a good life you lead, and you are happy to live it. 

Your village is supposed to be peaceful. 

Your village has stood for years and years; was here for your grandparents and their grandparents before them. There are people who say the great tree in the village square is a thousand years old or more, who'll tell stories about the settlement that sprung up beside it with a laugh about how it will probably stand for a thousand more--

And yet, in front of you is the heart-rending proof that this is not to be so. 

You feel yourself start to shake. 

You had only gone out for a few hours; to gather some flowers for the bakery's window, some herbs that grew in the woods that your father would turn into deliciously flavoured bread. You had expected to come home, as you have so many times before, to the exact same place that you had left. Who would expect anything else?

But before you--

You can hear shouting and screaming, the beat of boots on the ground. Great plumes of smoke rise up from the houses that you know just as well as your own, as fire devours thatch and wattle and everything else the walls are made from - your own home is on the other side of the village, and it makes your stomach twist and ache to think that it could be following the same fate. 

You do not understand. 

You drop the basket you're holding, your arms suddenly feeling far too weak to support even themselves, let alone your spoils. Your feet drag against grass as you numbly, desperately, try to make yourself approach the smouldering ruins of your home. Nobody has seen you, not yet - but as you walk, as the smoke stings at your eyes and your throat, you can begin to make out figures striding amongst the carnage. 

Big-booted, armoured and weapon-furnished figures, in helmets and furs, barking out orders in an accent you can only just place. 

The Fatui. 

But why here? Why now? Why your village? 

It would be foolish, you know, to go any further. A clever girl would turn tail and run and hide out amongst the forest and the wilderness until the threat has gone and then maybe return to her home to see what the damage that has been wrought is. Your family have always been proud of you for being that kind of clever girl, when you've found errors in the accounting or remembered some little detail or other your harum-scarum brother is too bright and bouncy to keep in his head. 

It is not clever of you to duck beneath the fence of the nearest home, to sidle into the garden, and to pick yourself a path behind the houses to try and stay out of sight. 

You cannot simply go into the wilderness, not fully knowing if perhaps within that cacophony of flame and noise and horrors your family may still be alive and frightened and able to be saved. You have never thought yourself a particularly brave person, but it turns out that when one is in dire straits a hidden well of courage may be tapped into, and that is how it feels as you work your way through the grassy back gardens, ducking behind hedges and trees and walls and begging all of the Archons you can think of for their aid in staying hidden. 

You hear screams, sometimes, and wet plunges and noises that are worse, and you cannot bear to think of what is happening to your friends and your neighbours. If they catch you, what will happen? Will they throw you to the fire? Will they plunge blades into the soft flesh of your body, will they tear you limb from limb, will you even have time to beg for your life before the rush of death is upon you? 

You try not to think about it. 

You're doing well, you think. You get closer and closer to the side of your village that your own home is on (you cannot go past the bakery - it is far too central, and has probably already been ransacked. You can only ask the Archons for their grace that your family was not inside of it when the Fatui squadron arrives). 

And why are the Fatui here anyway? Simply for the pleasure of murder and pain and suffering? There are no riches in this village - there is nobody important, nothing that ought to have dragged a whole army down onto you--

You slide yourself into a small alleyway between two houses. With the sun setting, you are more hidden - and you must cross the centre of the village in order to reach your own home. You cannot stay on this one side forever. The spot is sheltered in shadows, at least, and you will yourself to peer into the murk of the darkness to ascertain whether you can dart out without too much attention.

You hear a crunch of leaves underfoot and your heart flees into your throat. You stop dead where you are, but as the noise gets louder and louder, you realise you have been found. You will not reach your home before the Fatui reaches you. You will not get to give your father one more kiss, your brother one more whisper of how proud he makes you, and bury your face in the sweet powdery scent of your mother's apron for one last moment. 

He rounds the edge of the alley and stands there, an impressive figure caught in strands of moonlight, a visor down over his face, a cloak billowing around him. Trembling, you raise your chin to look your death straight in his face. 

When the figure speaks, his voice is low and dark and rasping. 

"Well," he says. "What do we have here?"

Everything about this man tells you that he is more than just some Fatui grunt. There is a certainty in the way he stands and surveys you, a craftsmanship to his armour that you have not seen in any of the other soldiers, a commanding tone to his voice than can only belong to a man who is used to issuing orders and even more used to those orders being followed to the letter. You are still trembling, and you do not lower your gaze. 

You wish you could tell if he was smiling, or if he was preparing to strike you down - but behind his armour, his face remains a mystery to you, no matter how badly you may wish to know. 

"Who are you?" He asks you, surprising you. You are expecting death, truth be told; the rest of your village, it seems, is burning around you. There is no reason to suspect you may be spared that fate. 

You tell him your name, still trying desperately to cling onto the bravery that has made you lift your chin and stand proudly instead of running away. Far better to die staring it down, you remind yourself, even as it feels that your insides are a snarl of knots begging you to run. You even tell him that your family owns a bakery in the village. Even, at the end, you find yourself asking this; 

"And who are you?" 

It is enough to surprise a laugh out of him - a strange noise, half low velvet and half wheeze, as if he is unaccustomed to making merriment. That helmet stays levelled at you, and you see a hint of blue fire behind the darkness where his eyes should be, and you get the distinct impression that you are being observed. Sized up. Considered. 

"I am the Captain," he says, eventually. He does not elaborate beyond that, but you do not need him to. 

Rumours do not often make it this far out, but the exploits of Il Capitano have certainly preceded him. You have heard tell that he is a monster of a man, that his men will kill you as soon as look at you, that he leaves a trail of ruined cities in his wake, let alone villages. If this is truly the Captain before you, then you are in even worse trouble than you anticipated, and any last-minute desperate hopes that your family may be alive vanish on the wind as you swallow back tears. 

He must be able to see the shake in your shoulders and the sway in your knees, but you do not let yourself show any more weakness than that. Your gaze stays steady, even as you feel a tear roll down the apple of your cheek. 

"Then I suppose I am going to die here," you say, your tone final. You swallow. You lift your chin even more, exposing the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat, hoping he will make it quick. You are all the more aware of your clothing now than you were before - the simple peasant dress, well-made but worn, the skirts and the aprons you had just a few hours earlier gathered herbs in. It feels like almost nothing, standing before Capitano in furs and silver and armour, but it is yours. And a peasant girl dies as a peasant girl lives. 

You prepare yourself for the swing of a sword, the gush of hot blood down your neck - but Capitano does not so much as place his hand upon his sword. He simply continues to look at you in that terribly interested way, as if you are a puzzle he desires to solve. 

"You would give your life to me so easily?" He asks you. "Give everything up, little flower, and die here?" 

"It is no more than everyone else in my village has done," you say, trying to be careful with your words. If you are too rude, perhaps he will drag you into the town square - perhaps he will make an example out of you, before his men. And though you are prepared and expecting to face your death, you would rather not make it even worse than it has to be. 

A figure appears at Capitano's side, and then another; two of his men, who immediately fall to their knees and do not pay you a whit of attention. 

"We're done here, My Lord," they say, in the voices of sycophants. "We have no useful information. No intel at all." 

Is that what they were looking for in your little humble village? Intel about what? Nobody here goes further than the next village over! What could they possibly know that would be of any use? 

"Very good," Capitano says, without turning his helmet from you. The two grunts laboriously pull themselves up from their knees, finally sneaking a glance at the peasant girl still standing, wondering what you must be doing here. Wondering if Capitano is about to kill you. "One more thing," he says - the men straighten to attention, waiting for whatever orders their leader is about to give. 

You think you hear the ghost of a smile in his voice. 

"I wish to take a souvenir," he says. "Bring this one back to camp and put her in my tent."

You are not fool enough to struggle against the Fatui who come to you, who take you by your arms - gentler than you'd expected - to march you on your way. You suppose they do not want to risk hurting you, when Capitano has expressed such an interest - but it rankles in the back of your throat that you are nothing more than a 'souvenir', some thing that can be taken and placed as and where the Captain pleases. 

But you are lucky to not have been killed where you stand. 

They march you out of your village, and you try not to look at the burnt-out husks that were once your neighbour's homes - you try not to let your eyes desperately seek out the shell that was once your family's bakery, or worse, your home. You keep your chin high and your lips pressed tight together, and all of the thoughts and feelings that are spooling around your head remain silently trapped within there. You do not think you would like anything you will hear from these soldier's mouths. 

The campground is more alive than you would expect - and it simply makes you feel worse. When they have meat aplenty, to roast on open fires, when they have fine furs to drape over their tents and books to read . . . why ransack your home? Why not just search for this so-called 'intel' and leave? But you cannot say this aloud. You bite your tongue. 

Before you know it, you are brought to the biggest tent of all. It stands tall and royal-blue, imposing and regal in the insignias and crests embroidered upon it. The two Fatui guards push you inside, and you hear the sound of something zipping, and see their shadows take guard outside to make sure you make no attempt at running. 

As if you would. 

You would not get a hair's-breadth from the tent before you found yourself shot or stabbed or grabbed or worse, and all the more painful they will make it when they realise you are running from their leader. You bring a hand up to smooth over your hair, noting ruefully that in your morning activities foraging and your attempts to sneak around, you are dusty and dirty and out of place. The tent is a strangely clean place, for all of the bloodshed that its occupant must regularly indulge in. 

You take a moment to peek around it. There are those fine, expensive furs - there are bottles of wine and alcohol stacked together, a makeshift desk scattered with papers and quills and ink, a bedroll far bigger than any you've ever seen festooned with pillows and blankets and more of those same white pelts. It is only a tent, only designed to be brought from place to place, somewhere to sleep at night and nothing more - and yet within it, there is more luxury than you would have ever seen in your humble cottage home. 

Voices from outside. 

A low rumble that you now recognise as the Captain makes you stand up, stock-still and straight, from the books you were crouching to read the spines of. You press your hands into fists at your side and wait for the flaps of the tent to open and for the Captain to come in, to kill you or worse, all fury and blood and desire. 

It does not happen like that. 

Il Capitano does enter the tent, and you notice that he dismisses the two grunts standing guard outside with an order ending '. . . and bring it back here'. You wonder what it is they are to bring back - something to dispose of your body, perhaps? But he does not rush at you. In fact, he strips his sword from his side to rest it in a rack by the entrance of the tent, and then he stands there, regarding you once more. 

The silence stretches between the two of you like a thing that can be seen, a shroud of fear on your side and amusement on his. Finally, you break: 

"Are you going to kill me now?" You ask him, hating the tremble of your voice. It is difficult to get a read on whatever it is he is thinking, with the mask covering his face, but he tilts his head to the side. 

"I would not have brought you here to kill you, little flower," he says. "What do you think I wish to do?" 

"I . . ." You swallow. There are hundreds of possibilities running through your head, and you do not like a single one of them. "I don't know." 

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, after a pause, your fear shimmering in the air. "I would not have wasted my time."

"Why not?" That one falls from your lips before you can deadfall it, and your shoulders draw in, all fear. You shouldn't be questioning why he doesn't wish to rip you limb from limb! You should be grateful to still have all of your internal organs on the right side of your body! But . . . you are nothing special, and you do not understand what it is that has saved you thus far. 

Capitano crosses the room instead of answering you, and one of his gauntlet-clawed fingers tilts up your chin instead, to look down at you with that inscrutable blue-fire gaze behind the mask he wears. 

"You didn't run," he says to you, after a moment. "You didn't scream. You're terribly sweet to look at. You trembled and shook like a leaf, all big wide deer-eyes - and yet you stood firm and strong and brave. Why do you think I had you brought back to my tent, little doe?"

You are saved from answering the question by the tent opening - and those two Fatui grunts from earlier enter, hauling between them what looks like a large tin bath. One of them goes to a corner and begins to poke and prod at a fire, and then they place it before the fire and bow respectfully at Capitano. A creeping tendril of dread strokes down your spine as you look at it, and Capitano calls out a thanks as they leave. 

He turns back to you. 

"You're filthy," he tells you, and that gauntleted hand strokes over your cheek now, and further down, until it rests against the bare skin of your collarbone. "Will you undress for me and let me bathe you, or do I have to unclothe you myself?" 

Oh. Oh. 

"I--" You fumble, the truth crashing about you like a tidal wave. Your hands flutter helplessly. But there is no escape, is there? And if you wish to keep your life-- "I can undress myself," you say, swallowing back more protestations and begging. You strip off your apron, and move to the buttons of your blouse - through it all, Capitano's eyes remain hidden by his mask, just a flash of blue fire. But you know he is looking at you. You know he is watching, as your skirt falls to the ground, and then your chemise, and then you are standing bare and shivering in his tent. 

"Beautiful," he says, after a moment. "And you'll be all the more beautiful once clean. In the bath, please, little flower."

You give one last lingering look to your pile of clothes - the last remnant of your home life - and hope he will not have them destroyed, before you cross the short distance to the tub before the fire. You lower yourself into it gingerly, expecting it to be either boiling hot or freezing cold - but as you dip a toe in, you find that the temperature is perfect. It soothes the aches and bruises you have from your adventures today, and you can't stop the soft sigh of pleasure that falls from your lips as you fold yourself into it. You hear Capitano let out a low chuckle - and then he is kneeling beside you. 

You notice he has shed his gauntlets, now - but he still wears dark gloves beneath them, and he seems not to care if they get wet as he reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"I shan't hurt you," he reminds you, in that low voice like the churning of an ocean. "Submit to me. Let me take care of you." 

It is a strange thing to hear after everything he has done, but you are at his merch, so all you do is give him a stiff little nod. You wonder if he smiles at your acquiescence beneath the helmet, even as he reaches to a small shelf beside the fire and pulls out a collection of jars and bottles and washcloths and sponges, in colours and shapes and sizes that feels like an excess to you. 

He pours something sweet-smelling and floral into the bath water, uses one hand to swish it through so that the sweet scent will permeate your body, and it seems it flows up from the surface of the water in almost-visible swirling curlicues.

(At home you are used to bathing in a similar tin bath, but there is one washcloth for each of you, a communal bar of soap, and the thought of anything so luxurious as bath oils or your own shampoo would get you a scolding for the waste of money. You have never wanted for such things - you are content with your life - but the thought that Capitano would use them, on you, a lowly peasant girl--)

The first thing he does is reach into the water, to swell the sponge - and your breath catches as he leans closer, and then the sponge is slowly working over your body, to clean the dirt and the dust of the day from your skin. You feel like you cannot breathe at his closeness - and you expect him to take advantage, to use this as a way to touch you more--

But he does not. You find it rather strange how his body does not seem to kick off any heat, but he is so close as he leans to work at a particularly stubborn grass stain on your shoulder that you cannot give it more than a single moment's thought. 

The way he cleans you is almost worshipful - ritualistic, slow and careful and thorough. Your breath shakes in your chest, as he reaches the curve of your breast. And though he does indeed clean it, though the sponge does indeed brush over your nipple and make it pebble and harden, he does not linger any longer than he needs to in order to ensure your cleanliness. 

Even when he switches to a washcloth and he dips it between your thighs - he notices, from the brief tense of his shoulders, that you react to the sensation - he does not push further. 

"Your hair, now," he intones, and he moves to kneel behind you - and with those same fingers that washed you like he was a postulant in a church, he works through the tangles, smooths and cleans it, until it lays about your shoulders in clean wet strands. 

You think this is to be it, but Capitano is not yet done in this strange pampering - he reaches for other things, for other bottles full of ointments and lotions and potions, and he works those, too, into your skin where it is red or bruising. You can do nothing but stay there in the tin bath, as he calmly continues. 

"You will want for nothing, now," he tells you, as he dabs something sweet smelling on your collar bones, behind your ears - you think this is perfume oil, though you've never been able to afford it. "I will take care of you, little flower. You will be my most prized of all." 

Your hair, as he works more floral oil through it. And then he is standing, taking your arms to help you up - your knees feel strangely weak, like they will buckle beneath you. You have never felt quite so clean, even after baths at home. Flour always seemed to linger in the cracks of your palms, dough beneath your nails. But you feel as if you move in a cloud of fresh-scented air, as Capitano's massive bulk lifts you from the bath as easily as if you were a doll and wraps a fluffy towel about your body, thicker and more luxurious than the scratchy old ones that you have - had - at home. 

You feel strange. Warm and hot and wanted, and fearful at the same time of what Capitano will want from you now he has cleaned you. You can feel a strange stirring between your thighs - an awareness of your body that you are not used to. You have never given much thought to the men of your village. You have always thought one day you would marry, of course . . . but no men have ever caught your attention. 

And though Capitano is your kidnapper, though he has lain waste to everything you have ever known - he is broad and mysterious and far more gentle than you would have expected, and him being the first one to touch you in such a way has ignited a fire within you that you do not know how to quell. 

"Come over to the bed, little lamb," he says to you - and like a lamb, docile and obedient, you follow him. 

This must be it, you think. This is when he will shove you onto his bedroll and have his way with you, wanting as only a man can, using you as nothing more than a receptacle - and then you can once more hate him, and these strange feelings whirling in your stomach will finally abate, and life will put itself back on an axis you understand. 

It is still not as you expect. You should not have thought anything would be, in this strange new existence you have found yourself in.

Instead, he cups your cheek and murmurs against your ear; 

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

You realise you have not eaten all day, and you feel your cheeks heat as you give him a nod. It still feels frightening to let him know of your weaknesses - but as you say it, he produces a tray laden with breads and cheeses, and places it upon the bed between you. You go to take a slice, but Capitano stops you - and then he is hand-feeding you, as delicately and with as much care as he had washed you. 

It's delicious. You are used to freshly baked bread, as a baker's daughter, but the soft sweetness in your mouth is something else - you are almost glad that he's feeding you himself, for after the day you have had you are hungry, and you are not sure you wouldn't shame yourself falling upon it like a wolf. 

"Pace yourself," Capitano says, and though you cannot see his face there is a smile in his voice. "There is more where it came from. You will not want for anything, my sweet flower. Not ever again." 

He decides when you have had enough - your stomach comfortably full, as he moves the tray and takes it across the room for some lowly other Fatui member, you're sure, to clean up. You feel that fear again, as he moves towards you, and you realise the wide bedroll you are on is draped all over with furs and cushions, and you are still in nothing more than the towel he wrapped you in after bathing you. 

"A drink," he says, and it is not a request. He brings a bottle of wine and one glass over to you, and you watch as he pours the viscous red liquid into the glass, so like the colour of blood that you have to dampen the fear that goes coursing through your veins. He must notice that you have tensed, for he softens his words as he says; "It will make you relax. It will make this easier. I have no desire to hurt you, little lamb." 

So you let him wrap one of his strong, big hands around the back of your head, cradling you as gently as one would cradle a lover. You let him lift the glass to your lips and tilt it, until the red wine - sweet and thick and cloying - slips down your throat as easily as silk. You have drank before, but never something so rich, never something so expensive - never with a man like Capitano beside you. 

"There," he murmurs against your ear, cradling you, holding you, his body still cold but firm and strong behind you. "Another sip. Good. Good girl." You swallow what he gives you, and in time - as you're laid there for him, as you're held and coddled and treated as precious glass - you feel that familiar sensation. 

A warmth that spreads to your toes and makes you feel as though you're floating on air - a soft kind of airiness, as if the things that are happening around you are not truly real. Capitano does not lean down to kiss you, but you understand why he has carefully gotten you just drunk enough to feel light and expectant when he peels your towel away and tosses it aside, leaving you utterly bared before him on his bed. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and this time he does let his hands learn the shape of you. This is no quick attempt to clean you - he is not intending gentlemanly cleaning now. This is a desire to hold you and touch you--

And yet he still does not wrest control from you, as you had feared he might. 

"I have promised," he murmurs, "that I would not hurt you." The curve of his palm, taking hold of the heavy weight of your breast - your nipple gently tugged between thumb and forefinger, just enough so that your back arches involuntarily and a soft whine escapes your mouth that makes him sigh. "I do not break my agreements, little flower. You are safe."

You ought not to feel safe. You ought to be terrified - you ought to be wondering if, when he has had his fill of your body, he will toss you aside. You ought to be wondering how much of this is a lie. But Capitano's hands are stroking over your waist, your hips, the softness of your thighs. When he urges you to spread them, you cannot help but do so. 

"Exquisite," he breathes, as he uses his thumbs to spread open your sex, the coolness of the air hitting it and making you fight back the squirming. You do not want him to touch you. You want him to touch you more than you've ever wanted anything before. 

"Lovely," he murmurs, when he leans down and presses his helmet up just enough for a mouth - strangely cold, again, a tongue harder and longer than you're expecting - to wrap around your nipple, for teeth to graze the sensitive skin and your body to go on high alert that he will bite and eat you alive the way that fairy stories and rumours of the Fatui have said that they so enjoy doing. 

"Perfect," he murmurs, when he brings his thumb to your mouth and you - terrified and brave, afraid and yielding, unsure and battling with your own conscience - open your lips to let him slide the tip of it past your lips, to rest there. 

And when he moves, when he covers you, when you feel the stiffness of something impossibly hard and big pressing against your inner thigh, he murmurs;

"Will you be good for me, little lamb? Will you be my spoils?" 

Your throat is dry when you answer him; the only answer you can really give. An answer that gives up your personhood, that reduces you to nothing more than a prize to be won - but an answer that wins you, at least, your life. 

"Yes, My Lord. Yes."

[mlady-magnolia]

“Let’s just… watch how much we drink, alright?”

[pochiikou]

[aha-chuu]

Things Wriothesley has canonically done (according to his voiceline leaks)

"escaped" from his foster home as a child (Fontaine has a bad track record with orphans)

Been homeless

Killed his foster parents (??) (apparently for good reason)

Picked a new name from an obituary (bonus points for knowing it would be hard to pronounce and going for it exactly for that reason & more dramatic reasons)

Spent almost half his life in prison

Finessed the prison trading system so hard that he became richer than all the other inmates combined

Wrote a book in prison about working out (it's very popular?? Okay, babe)

Successfully turned all the other inmates against the adminstration after the warden took all of Wriothesley's money

Beat the warden in an honourable duel (allowed by even the other guards), until the warden fled the prison

Did that on his final day, meaning there was no head administrator to sign Wriothesley's release forms

Walked into the warden's office, signed off his own release and immediately took over the job

(everyone just accepted this???? What kind of job market?????)

Made the prison so profitable that he was awarded the title of "Duke" by Neuvillette for his contributions to the economy

Hid his vision for his entire prison sentence, all the way to until becoming a duke

Is now just insanely rich. Joining the Ayato & Diluc club??

Went swimming in diluted primordial water (hun????? Go to the doctor????)

[catcze]

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

「 ### : 」 Modern AU ish !! GN Reader gets drunk at the club !! But Navia and Clorinde stay with you through it tho, because they're your good friends !! This is literally just humor and reader not recognizing Wrio but gushing over your husband so so much !! Reader swears when drunk bc same lmao

Had a vision. No editing. Feast on this while I feast on my Nissin Bulalo cup noodles.

The moment Wriotheseley steps into the club, he immediately spots you. Even over the painful strobing lights, the sea of dancing bodies, he can single you out a mile away— regardless of the fact that you're slumped over the bar, drunk out of your mind.

"Navia, Clorinde," he greets with a wave, hurrying over. His voice has to be almost a yell to be heard over the loud music.

They sit on either barstool beside you, bracketing you between them. When he approaches, Clorinde hands him your phone, and he knows who he has to thank for the 'come pick your bae up' text. The moment he's close enough, he's already looking you over, making sure you're alright.

"Sweetheart," Wriothesley tries to rouse you, but you just mumble and splay out further on the bar. Your hand knocks into a mostly-emptied glass of what he can only assume was tonight's poison of choice.

"How many—"

"More than five," Navia tells him, grinning sheepishly, just as Clorinde says, "Nine."

Your husband shakes his head fondly, sighing, and turns back to you. "Sweetheart," he tries again, voice a bit louder. He places a heavy hand on your waist, coaxing you up. "Let's g—"

But at the touch, your eyes —still hazy and unfocused on account of the nine drinks you've had— shoot open, and you whirl on him in your seat. If not for the hold he still keeps on your hip, you may have just toppled over. There's a look of unbridled, drunken rage on your face, more comical than actually terrifying.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" you hiss, slurring, as you wrench his hand off of you and fling it away with such contempt that he has to stifle a laugh. "Keep your hands off of the masterpieces, bucko."

Not even giving him a moment to breathe, you shove your left hand in his face, vehemently pointing at the ring that sits on your fourth finger. "I! Am! Married! If I tell my husband that you're out here getting handsy, he's gonna come and kick your ass sooo hard. He's gonna rock your shit, you trick ass bitch, if i don't do it myself!"

Wriothesley shouldn't find this funny— he shouldn't. But Navia and Clorinde and fighting smiles behind their palms themselves, and he can't help the grin that breaks across his face.

"Oh? Is your husband that strong?" He can't help but ask, and you scoff.

"Is he that strong— you wanna find out for yourself? Huh? Wriothesley could— could—" you hiccup, and he has to fight the urge to coo. "He could knock you out with just a flick of his fingers, you know!"

"And is your Wriothesley more handsome than me?"

You turn your nose up at him, scowling. Once, twice, you try to cross your arms in contempt as you drunkenly look him up and down.

"You're alright," you begrudge, "but my Wriothesley is the— the most handsomest man in the world! The fucking prettiest! No one holds a candle to my husband and his broad shoulders and his thick thighs and his... and his adorable smile."

Wriothesley has to bite his lip to control his grin. Navia is fighting for her life to stifle her giggles, and Clorinde hides her amused smile behind a cough.

It's like that loosened your tongue though, and you continue on, oblivious to the embarrassment you'd face the next morning.

"And he— he'll be very upset when he finds out that you're here, hitting on someone who is very happily married to one of the best men on this side of the fucking galaxy, so— so you can fuck off!"

He really, really tries his best to not laugh.

You huff, patting down your pockets and grumbling incoherently about your phone, not even questioning it when Wriothesley hands it back to you himself. It takes only a second of you furiously tapping your screen before his own phone buzzes in his pants.

[Sweetheart ♡]

babe pookie pick e ip plrase im drunk and i wanna go homd snd yhere's this assholr hitting o me love yoy [location attached]

As soon as the texts go out though, you yawn and the energy leaves you in one fell swoop. Wriothesley manages to catch you before you face plant back on the bar and break your nose, maneuvering you to lean into his chest. The fight escaping you, you nuzzle into his black button up, rubbing your face against him like a big cat.

"Mmm. I know that cologne." Blearily, you look up and make eye contact with those pretty, pretty blue eyes, and your face immediately lights up in the most delighted grin. "Wrio!" you gasp, arms coming to wrap around his waist and pull him towards you. You're still drunk, still pretty out of it, but it melts his heart how overjoyed you are to see him.

"Hi sweetheart," he says fondly, running a hand through your hair. Happily, you lean into his touch. "Have a fun time with Navia and Clorinde?"

"Mhm. Missed you though." Then, your eyes pop open and you sit up, looking around furiously as if you're looking for someone. When you don't find this person, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear— "There was this guy who tried to make the moves on me, you know! But I told him that I'm super duper married and with the bestest husband ever— if you wanna double team him, I'm sure the guy's around here somewhere."

But your husband just chuckles, pulling you back into his embrace. Smoothly, Wriothesley has you wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist so he can easily pick you up and into his arms.

"You two need a ride home?" He asks the two, but they shake their heads.

"Appreciated, but we only split a drink between us," Clorinde says, already standing up alongside Navia. "We'll be fine."

"Get home safe, you two!" The blonde says, waving you off, and that's that.

Wriothesley easily maneuvers the two of you out of the club, you having already fallen asleep on his shoulder. He can hear your soft breaths in his ear and feel the way you cling to him even in your sleep. No doubt you'd have a raging hangover tomorrow, but that's okay— because you'll have him to take care of you, too.

Bonus!!

You wake up to hands down the worst fucking headache in your whole life. Your temple hurts so hard that you swear your head's gonna crack open like an egg. Groaning, you pull the covers over your head and roll over, blotting out the mid-day sunlight as best as you can.

There's a chuckle from the other side of the bed, then weight moving across the sheets— then your husband's face appears in front of you, under the blankets too.

"So, darling sweetheart of mine" he starts, voice soft as to not aggravate your headache, and you're grateful. "What were you saying about my broad shoulders and my thick thighs?"

You're suddenly not as grateful.

Promptly, you kick him out of your blanket cave, and he goes with a laugh. He leaves you grumbling on the bed, cursing out all the drinks you had last night and swearing to never ever ever drink again.

Wriothesley grins, shutting the curtains of your bedroom as he ambles out the door, dead set on getting you water, advil, and something to eat.

Maybe by the end of the day, you'd add 'endlessly doting' to the list.

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

[komikoma]

"Huh... You have tra…trin… triangles on your EYES. Weirdo."

"WEIRDO?! You have triangles on your FACE! Who's the weirdo?!"

[kaeyacollection]

After much delay, I bring to you this fun lil game:

A silly game where you have five rounds to guess if Diluc SHOULD be there or if he's become a helicopter brother

Answers under the cut 🎉

Yes! Diluc keeps an eye out for abyss movements around Mondstadt, so it's completely reasonable for him to show up while following a lead! (Presumably why Kaeya mentions it being interesting now that Diluc showed up is because it confirms this is a bigger case than some hilichurls gathering)

Yes! He works there! Now if this was questioning ACTIONS, then the dialog it was posted with: "I’m busy today. This glass is my treat, so go home after you finish it." mayyyy have ended up with a different answer

No! If they're there gathering information, then they've gotten real off track 😮‍💨 While they could be genuine friends/informants of Diluc (since we know they've been inside the winery before), Diluc sits furthest away and keeps the conversation on Kaeya once the traveler enters the scene

No!! He's not even pretending here sjdjdjdjdj couldn't find a single beverage? No snack? Just saw Kaeya out day drinking and pulled up a seat?

Okay well now the customers are playing their own game of "where's the bartender?" Cause as you can see there's bottles faaaar in the background behind them, and where's Diluc? Following one patron around. 😤 Aka: No! Get back to the bar 😤😤 at least Rosaria knows where to find the hovering server 😮‍💨

Bonus Round:

You decide!

Points for Yay

He's been personally invited to come after he wrote a speech on their signboard

Diona is a bartender that hates alcohol (and him) while also mixing spectacular drinks, maybe he's there to chat with her

Could have been lured in by a cat

Points for Nay

He scoffed when asked if he had free time

He doesn't drink alcohol and this was (I believe) before the Cats Tail started introducing non-alcoholic beverages and tcg

We've seen this man spin on his heels and leave this exact bar to go chase Kaeya the second he found an excuse to

It always feels like it's Kaeya coming to pester Diluc, but perhaps seeing the ex-captain lingering around so often is the reason why the Knights push for Kaeya to go see him in the first place

(All these islands and dudes gotta stand that close behind his brother? 😮‍💨)

[moonybelgug]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

warnings: !MDNI! gn!reader, lots of sloppy kisses, he fiddles w your diddle but it’s barely described, kaeya was drunk but he’s getting better <33

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

Waking up next to Kaeya… The light pours in through the cracks of the curtains as the warm winds blow through and caress your skin. He shifts with the direction of the breeze, leaning on top of you even more. His hair tickles as it tangles with your body, so you gently push it behind his ear, caressing the sharp line of his cheekbones. Kaeya’s eyes flutter open, and he catches your wrist, pressing kisses on your palm.

“Good morning,” he purrs as the kisses travel up your arm and into the crook of your neck. He tucks himself there, nuzzling into the warmth.

“Do you feel any better?” You ask him as you run your fingers through his long blue hair.

“Well, I don’t quite remember how I ended up in your bed, but I can’t say I mind it.”

You sigh at this statement, and you turn to look at him, pinching his cheek and causing him to whine.

“Take better care of yourself. If I have to see you drunk every night, I’ll stop finding you attractive,” you threaten, making him laugh softly. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into him again, kissing any place of open skin.

He knew he needed to stop. But it’s, as they say, easier said than done. And though you didn’t seem to notice, he had been visiting Angel’s Share less lately since you returned. He figures loneliness was a factor in his killer habit.

His hands travel south, slipping into your underwear, prodding at you there before you dig his hand out.

“Can you even get it up?” You tease him, looking at his pouting face behind you.

“Can’t I say thank you?” He purrs into your ear, his hand on your tummy again as it tries to snake back in between your legs. You turn as he does this, and you pull him in, kissing him softly as he begins working his magic on you, surprised at the sudden affection but happily receiving it.

Your lips never stay still against each other and never part. Even if you stop to take a breath, there is still contact. You make sure of it, holding him close as though he may slip through the cracks of your fingers. He’s elusive, even with his hand between your legs, his mouth glued to yours. He’s hard to pin down or even read. It didn’t always used to be like this, but he’s changed as he grew up, and so have you. Though… you have noticed him staying around more. Had it been a few months ago, he would have left by now, leaving you only with a kiss. And come to think, every time you’ve looked for him at the bar, you haven’t found him.

You keen in his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pull him in deeper to you, making him catch himself on the bed before he rolls fully on top of you. You feel him laugh as his hand stills in your underwear. You don’t even care about that.

“Kaeya, I’m sorry,” you say, kissing and licking at his lips. He tilts his head in confusion. “I shouldn’t have snapped earlier. Come here.”

You guide him between your legs, his hips between yours, as you continue to kiss, thinking about how he showed up at your doorstep last night, drunk as a skunk. You had berated him as the time, making him shower and drink some water. You had found it extremely annoying and yet the whole time, he was just wanting to be near you. Sure, you both knew he needed to stop getting blackout drunk but you did feel a little guilty for treating him like a burden.

“Thank you for coming home.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

[bobaboob]

you ever wonder what the inciting incident was for diluc's distaste for alcohol?

what happened between the teenager who set kaeya as lookout while he stole them a bottle of wine from crepus and the adult man who never touches it despite being a winery owner and tycoon?

did it start after crepus died, when he presumably took over for him at angel's share? when he served patrons at night, did he see for the first time what it does to people who consume it without restraint? when he sees his father's wine used as a friend, lover, and executioner?

or did it start when he saw how kaeya uses it, burying his pain and grief, while his brother is forced to watch? is it just another obstacle between them as kaeya drinks to forget? as he sends his little brother home in a daze, so drunk he calls him D by mistake?

or did he once drink to forget himself, with a cold bottle on a lifeless, frozen mountain? did he crave the numbness of not feeling at all, the world reduced to white noise? did he wake up half-dead in the snow, not knowing whether he was alive or not and realizing he didn't care?

there's so much unanswered about the sudden switch from his attitude as a child about alcohol to as an adult and i have a feeling it's because diluc associates it with grief. the taste of it, to him, is a face he cannot remember anymore, the features blurry with age, and a time he wishes he could forget, etched in blood.

[brookch4n]

Thomaluc alcohol doodle based in Laufey's song, Misty!!!

LOVE THEM UGHH

[m-mink4]

... am i still dreaming?

kinich x alcoholic!reader --modern au

|| word count:: #630 || a/n:: this was an anon request from @drabblesdear ,, i have consent! || this also took 5-ever. || divider creds:: fic-dumpster ||

warnings:: none, alcohol?-- bad writing,, genre:: angst. not severe, dwdw

`"cmon,, it's just alcohol. it's not even that bad. i'm going to stop anyways.."`

kinich sighed. that's the 4th time you've said that. he really doesn't know if you're lying or not.

however, it's not like he can blame you, right? well... maybe he can. but it's still something he resents, his father never sat well with drinking.

sigh. `"y/n, you'd better stop soon. you are fully aware that liqueur is an addiction."` he said,, in an annoyed tone. you obviously could tell he wasn't so happy with that drink of yours.

`"fine, fine. someday i'll stop."`

you knew you wouldn't in a while, your favorite booze had just restocked!! you wouldn't let it go.. even for him.

--

after that night of bickering, you sighed and went for a taxi, since he always got angry if you drove by yourself.

you felt bad of course, but you still continue. its quite sad, in fact.

you went in the taxi, told the guy where you'd go. you thought what kinich would say if he knew you wouldn't stop.

you also knew that kinich's father was the reason why sometimes he'd be so anxious.

what you knew was his father always drank and ... you didn't like the story either. so, conclusion; you were just very used to drinking and you can't quit it. even if there's someone telling you to (stop) .

alas, the night grew cold,, and the sun rose from the east.

--

you woke up, groaning as the obvious effects of alcohol have taken toll. you sat up, and went for a daily walk. hoping not to see kinich, it was obvious he was going to nag all about why you should stop.

you stepped out of the door, the cold morning breeze rushed on your face.

you walked down the street, people and shops busy with activity.

still, you can't shake the fact of what you should actually do. whether or not to stop.

you sighed and just walked in a bar, when a familiar voice said behind you,

"still drinking, huh?"`

you turned to see kinich outside, merely passing by the door. you sighed.

"you really have eyes everywhere."

he sighed. he obviously was disappointed, so you had no choice but to walk with him too.

"y/n, why don't you keep your word and stop?"` he asked, rather exasperated after all the weeks of having to put up with your tantrums.

"yeah, i know. it's harder than you think."` you replied, followed by a period of silence,, accompanied by the sounds of cars driving by and people talking.

kinich wanted to protect you, and that's a fact. you didn't want to break the truth so awkwardly.

if it hadn't been for him, you'd be drunk for days already. you were lucky to at least have him by your side.

he, of course was contemplating how he should stop you. he didn't want you to end up like his father... that's the worst-case scenario.

".. y/n,, i trust that from today, you'll never drink a single bottle of alcohol. from now on."

you stared at him, at first with confusion, then with playful-sadness.

"aww, really? fine. i'll try, but i can't promise."

"you'd better."

..

a few minutes passed, and he glanced back at you.. well, where you used to be. surprised, he looked back and found no trace of you.

he desperately looked for you, and it dawned.

"sigh. when will i stop daydreaming?"

you're an illusion.

ajaw came and sighed as well. "yeah, i guess it took you long enough."

well, you never came back to drink.. or even to kinich. you never stepped foot in that earth anyway. guess it's only fair..

"hey, d'you know where ___ is?" you said, in a drunk, slurred voice.

".. it's to your right." kinich replied, coldly.

you nodded and went left.

".. that's your left. why don't i just help you?"

"sounds like a good idea." you remarked, and both of you talked and joked until the night grew cold.

that's when you two met, or.. that's when he started dreaming.

[seakicker]

Could I ask your thoughts on Milf!Reader with either Kaveh and/or Alhaitham?

i decided to go with the or aspect this time but the idea of the and... much to think about. teaching these stupid idiots to share 101. i didn't mean to make alhaitham's milf so loserpilled but now im super into it lol she needs help asap amen. NSFT but just slightly since i didn’t delve too deep into smut with either… this time :p maybe i’ll write some continuations later!

alcohol in both sections, somewhat unrequited (depends on how optimistic you are, I suppose) feelings on reader's part in alhaitham's section, and public sex + drunk sex in kaveh's section below!

You seek Alhaitham out after tiring of the proverbial game of chicken he’s been playing with you these past couple of months. Frankly, you’re not convinced he’s half as into you as you’re into him, if his nonexistent track record of interactions with you is anything to go off of. He’s just the tenant renting out the spare bedroom in your apartment following your two daughters’ departure for college, and you’re just somebody he occasionally pays his rent to and assist with groceries— nothing less, nothing more.

Nothing less, nothing more… but being a single woman in her mid-forties and an empty-nester both already bring about a great deal of loneliness and longing by themselves, but together? One would—and should— call it miserable. Alhaitham largely keeps to himself when he’s home and your schedules don’t line up very well to begin with, so instances where you two cross paths are far and few between, but when the younger man is around, he’s courteous and cordial enough to make a good tenant… albeit a little cluttered.

You harbor a sense of guilt over finding a man just a little older than your collegebound children handsome, but living about a decade alone after divorce leaves you with needs and wants as human as food and water and shelter. Alhaitham is attractive, Alhaitham is polite and curt in a way that suggests a handsome sort of indifference, and you really, really don’t think he cares for you in any regard beyond the professional, but you can’t say your feelings are limited to the same boring boundaries. You want him in ways that are surely inappropriate between a forty-something-year-old woman and a twenty-something-year-old man, but what Alhaitham doesn't know can't hurt him because you are in absolutely no position to tell your tenant how you really feel about him anytime soon.

Except Alhaitham already knows how you feel without you needing to tell him how you really feel about him because you make it so incredibly obvious in ways beyond the verbal. You can't meet his eyes when you greet him, you stumble over at least half of your words every time you attempt to talk to him, and you absolutely refuse to step foot in his room even though you literally own it and, at least in his mind, have every right to access what's yours— though he certainly doesn't mind the privacy. Frankly, he almost considers your behavior entirely unbefitting of a woman your age—what are you, eighteen?— but something about your hesitant demeanor and reluctant way of speaking almost... charms him? No, that's certainly not the right word, he thinks— that would imply he's smitten with you, and he wouldn't go that far... but he does find you and your behavior somewhat interesting. You're certainly quieter and easier to be around than half of the people his age, and he doesn't take offense to having such a quiet roommate... you have his college roommate beaten on that front if absolutely nothing else.

Alhaitham doesn't drink much, but he's noticed you're somewhat of a habitual wine-drinker, particularly on the weekends and on the occasional weeknight once you're home from your desk job. You get a good deal more talkative whenever you drink, but his inclination to listen certainly doesn't increase alongside your temporary conversation buff. He'll nod absentmindedly and offer interjections where needed, but unless you manage to pique his interest, he doesn't have much to say... after all, he doesn't know you that well nor do you know him all that well.

You sigh, a sound as pitiful as it is longing. "Do you keep secrets well?"

Oh, that's something that manages to pique Alhaitham's interest.

He thinks for a moment before speaking. "I suppose. I don't gain anything from sharing secrets with other people." Not that he has anyone to share secrets with, of course... he's no more gifted in the friendship department than you are.

"I think I... have feelings for you. Is that inappropriate? It's not like you... not feeling the same way would jeopardize your living situation here," you mumble no louder than a whisper.

He almost wants to scoff with a smug I'm well aware of that, but he says nothing. He glances over at you, but his eyes only meet the top of your head, your own gaze reflected back at you in the swirls of your wine. Alhaitham wants to ask if you really, actually, truly like him or if your feelings arose from the hallmark middle-aged loneliness stage, but even he knows that your feelings are probably a fairly even mix of both aspects.

"Please say something," you almost beg, looking up at him. Oh, has he accidentally allowed the silence between you two to extend past the socially-acceptable "I'm thinking about it" phase and into the uncomfortable phase?

"I'm well aware of that." Alhaitham decides it's an appropriate and neutral enough reply because it's the truth, after all. He's known for months now, and what good does lying to you do? He's not a liar.

You can only describe the feeling in your chest as humiliation— of course he already knew because he's leagues smarter than you are and he still has his entire life ahead of him and you're just a desperate, lonely, needy housewife. The ball's in his court and you never learned how to play tennis.

Looking up to finally face him, you set your wine down on the coffee table before you. "Do you... hate it?" What kind of question is that? Of course he does.

Alhaitham sighs with something just north of resignation but without the regret attached to such a word, and you almost wish you had said nothing.

"Come sit," he offers, sliding over to allow you a spot next to him on the couch. It takes you a moment or two before you stand up from the loveseat and join him, leaving about an arm's length distance between the two of your bodies. Does he need to lay out everything for you?

In a rare display of initiative from a man who prefers to leave the bothersome work to everyone else, Alhaitham pulls himself closer to you. You worry he can hear your heartbeat right through your flushed skin and your thick sweater just as you hear it in your ears, but he doesn't comment further on any of your very, very apparent anxious expressions.

"Show me, then," Alhaitham offers, uncrossing his arms.

"I'm... sorry? Show you... what?" You ask, somewhat stupefied. Who needs alcohol when you have fear and tension to make you feel like garbage?

He leans in and offers you a gaze that almost feels challenging, like he doesn't believe you'll do a single thing he asks you to. "Show me how you really feel if you can't find it in yourself to say it."

Ah.

You don't want to even consider if he's just doing this to make fun of you or if he really, actually shares your feelings on some microscopic level, so you act before you have to think. Kissing him in a way you haven't kissed anyone in the ballpark of ten to twelve years ago, you let out a downright pitiful moan against his lips because the most basic display of affection feels so, so good after so, so long without it.

Alhaitham moves quicker than you do, and he has you down flat on your back against the couch before you can ask him if he really, really likes you or if he's just really, really bored tonight.

"If you'll have an old woman like me," you breathe quiet and pleading and ashamed against his mouth.

"Age has nothing to do with it," he replies simply, and such a matter-of-fact expression about how little your age matters almost comforts you in a sad way. "You're no less significant than anybody else. Having lived for longer and having learned and experienced what some never will already puts you a step above most."

"And, frankly," Alhaitham continues, lips brushing down the soft, soft edge of your jaw and across the warm plane of your neck. "I find that sort of conversation much more stimulating than whatever my own peers occupy themselves with these days."

You don't even attempt to bite back the whimper that escapes your mouth when Alhaitham firmly bites into the curve between your neck and shoulder, your eyes screwed shut and hands weaved tightly through his ashen hair.

"If I'll have you?" He repeats, hands searching south of the hemline of your sweater. "I suppose I will."

Kaveh seeks you out… in his dreams, at least. He can more easily picture himself peeling some paint off the wall, eating it, and asking for seconds than he can picture himself finally asking you out on a dinner date. He's sure there's some stipulation in the employee's handbook prohibiting relationships between employees and other employees and especially between employees and their immediate managers— which just so happens to be him and you, respectively. A salaryman dating his beautiful, forward, confident, and double-his-age manager? Yeah, right— that sort of thing happens in films and novels, not in the playing field of reality.

He's had it in for you since he started two years ago, for better and for worse— having a crush on one's supervisor makes them eager to please and, subsequently, makes them a harder worker, but said crush also begets daydreaming and accidental slacking while still on company time. Kaveh can't even feel too embarrassed when you stop by his desk and scold him for simple mistakes in his filed paperwork because he'll take any single opportunity he can get to see you—whether you're happy or just slightly angry with him, it makes zero difference to recently-graduated man in love.

Maybe it's the way you command a room and your little team of desk jockeys, maybe it's the way you dress in form-fitting skirts and blouses that hug your soft body, maybe it's the appeal of someone with both professional and life experience guiding him, or maybe it's your sultry and maternal manner of speaking that drives Kaveh through the roof. Maybe it's the way you stand behind him and lean forward over his shoulder to check the work on his computer screen, maybe it's the way you sweetly call his name during team-wide presentations and meetings, maybe it's the way you and him are consistently the very final two people to leave the office at the end of the day, maybe it's the occasional invitations to go out drinking together Friday evenings immediately after work, maybe it's the...

God. Kaveh almost feels guilty staying in a job he doesn't particularly care about just so he can see his lovely forty-one year old boss every single day. Desk jockeying leaves little room for creativity which absolutely hurts somebody as imaginative and innovative as Kaveh, but he's sworn to himself that he will not seek out a new job until he takes you out on a proper date at least once.

And, no, Friday night beers at a local bar don't constitute a "proper date."

Friday night rolls around just as it does at the end of every monotonous workweek, and Kaveh doesn't miss a beat in accepting your invitation to go out drinking. The recent end of the third financial quarter has kept both you and Kaveh up to your hairlines in paperwork, so the two of you haven't been drinking since sometime in early July— and to say he's missed your little rendezvous would be an understatement. Whenever work really picks up and the rivers of printer ink, white-out, and ballpoint pen ink all flow aplenty, you barely have the time to check in with him and his coworkers between all the hours you have to spend away in your office locked to your own desk. He starts to miss you like he's a lost puppy; isn't that just embarrassing?

You're on your third or fourth beer and Kaveh's only halfway through his first because he knows he's a lightweight— he couldn't match your pace if he tried. He listens dutifully as you complain about your higher-ups and how that ginger asshole in finance always has something smug to say and how that stoic gray-haired dude who works just a few rows down from Kaveh has awful handwriting, and he finds it endearing that you're just as... human as everyone else is when you're like this. He loves seeing you in Office Demon Work Mode and he loves seeing you with your hair down, your neck ribbon untied, and your blouse unbuttoned... for more reasons than just getting to see you relax for once.

God, you're beautiful.

By the time you've cleared your last beer (Kaveh stopped counting after five) and Kaveh has finally, finally finished his first and only, you're sufficiently and thoroughly plastered. Without any rational judgement to remind you that this is your employee and not your boyfriend, you're clinging to his arm and whining about how stupid life is when you're forty-one and unmarried since you hardly have time to go out and meet men with how busy work keeps you. Even if he had the courage to, Kaveh would never offer himself as a potential dating candidate for you since you're his boss and he knows you're far, far out of his league anyways.

"Hey, Kaveh," you breathe in a way that's just barely toeing the line between innocent and sultry, and he has to really, really force himself to take it as the former. "Walk me back to my car? I'd fall asleep on the side of the road otherwise."

"You're not driving anywhere," Kaveh answers without missing a beat, helping you to your feet and thanking the bartender as the two of you leave. "You know you can't, ma'am."

"'Ma'am," you parrot, snorting. "That makes me sound so old. Young ladies get miss and us hags get ma'am, right?"

Kaveh reminds himself to pay no mind to the feeling of your breasts pressed against his arm as you walk side-by-side, but the more he has to force himself to think or look or focus on anything else, the more he notices you and only you. How could he even try to divide his attention between you and anything else?

"Aging isn't a bad thing," Kaveh musters up, holding on tight to your hand so you don't stumble off the curb. "You get to experience more the longer you live, right?"

"I've experienced enough!" You laugh. "I want to be twenty again so I can drink six beers and wake up without even a hint of a hangover the next morning. That doesn't happen at forty-one, you know; I won't be normal until next Friday now."

Kaveh chuckles. "Ma'am, you don't have to invite me to drinks every week if it makes you sick."

Glancing up at him as he clumsily fishes in the pockets of his trousers for his keys, you send him a pout so cute it nearly makes Kaveh drops his keys. "And miss out on my guaranteed dates with my star employee? Yeah, right."

Guaranteed dates.

Star employee.

"I just mean, like," Kaveh stutters, unlocking his car and guiding you towards the passenger seat. "We could get dinner instead of going to a bar, you know?"

"Are you asking me out? I accept," you purr, clumsily flopping into your employee's car and wrestling with your purse. "But, in return, I want to ask you to do something, too."

Sliding behind the wheel and turning to face you once more, Kaveh takes a split second to pray and pray and pray to every single god he's aware of that you'll invite him on a date so he doesn't have to experience the potential humiliation of a sober you declining his offer.

"My house," you whisper, leaning in so close he can smell the residual beer on your breath.

Kaveh knows he should decline, he knows he should just drop you off and help you inside then leave, he knows that if he accepts your offer he’ll regret it Monday or lose his job or hate himself or ruin your opinion of him or—

“I’m already dropping you off, right? I’ll already be at your house for a second then I’ll head back to mine and—“ He’s tripping over his works so clumsily one would figure that he’s the drunk one, not you. You only press a finger to his lips and shh him teasingly before leaning in slowly, your eyelids heavy and your lips parted invitingly.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Kaveh,” you whisper, your other hand sliding across the center console to rest on his right thigh. “I’d have to be stupid to not pick up on it. You freeze up and turn bright red when I walk by your desk and stop to see what you’re doing. You accept little tasks I give out to the whole team before anybody else has a chance to step in. I know it, dearest.” You slide your finger across his lip and cup his cheek in your palm, your thumb resting lightly on his bottom lip.

Kaveh prays you can’t hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears, but he subconsciously leans closer to you anyways and taking your thumb in between his lips.

“Just like this,” you continue. “Such a sweet boy… such an eager boy. Younger men are the best, hm? I want to give you everything you’ve thought about… I’ll show you all the love I’ve been saving for forty-one years.”

He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, and yet… he wants it. He’s earned it. He works so hard for himself and for you and he wants you so, so much more than you know.

“Spend the night with me, Kaveh,” you ask again, reaching to cup the painfully obvious bulge tenting his nice, neat worn slacks. “Consider it a demand from your boss or a request from a cute girlfriend, whichever makes you hornier.”

Releasing your thumb from his lips with a moan, Kaveh nods and reaches for your breasts. He doesn’t care if you’re only saying this because you’re drunk— what does he have to lose? He’s won a night with you and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

“I’ll take care of you, ma’am.”

[zzz1gzag]

4ggravate game nights go well.

(click for better quality!!)

[catcze]

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

Wriothesley always makes it a point to stay sober if you drink. Whether it's in one of those upscale clubs on the surface or in the safety of his office in the fortress, he absolutely refuses to touch even a single drop of alcohol when you're even the slightest bit inebriated.

Once, a few shots of tequila in, you asked him why he doesn't ever get drunk with you.

"Taking care of you all tipsy and slurring will always beat out getting drunk, sweetheart," he had told you.

And Wriothesley wasn't lying, either. To him, seeing you slurring and clingy and stumbling over your own two feet as you reach towards him is one of the cutest things ever. He enjoys being able to cradle your warm body close, being able to stroke your hair and take care of you when you let your guard down around him.

Like now, for instance. You're both in his office, a half-full bottle of Snezhenayan Firewater left on his desk, with you sitting horizontally on his lap, curling into his chest. One of Wriothesley's hands curls around your waist, keeping you safe and secure in case you drunkenly lean too far back, while the other holds you close and strokes your hair. You're nuzzled under his neck, breath tickling his collarbone with each exhale and making goosebumps rise on his skin.

Earlier he'd kissed your forehead whenever you began rambling about this and that, and had offered up his hands or his necktie for you to play with whenever you got restless. But it's been a while since then, and Wriothesley can tell when you're slowly drifting off to sleep. With each passing second your eyes grow more and more droopy, and you lean more and more of your weight into the muscled planes of his body. It doesn't help when he begins murmuring into your ear, the rumbling of his chest under you making you so damn sleepy.

And when you yawn, oh, Wriothesley can feel his heart kick in his chest because you're so cute and he's so endeared by you that he genuinely thinks you've broken him for anybody else.

He wants to let you sleep immediately, he really does, but he knows you'll kill him come morning for not forcing you to brush your teeth or wash your face. So he stands, one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, cradling you close as he tries his best to meander out of the office without jostling you too badly.

"Sweetheart," He whispers into your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I know you're sleepy, but you have to brush your teeth and wash your face first, okay? I'll help though, don't worry."

And you sigh a little, melting into his hold and nuzzling close. A kiss is pressed to his shoulder, the only place you can reach without straining too badly. Sleepily, you mumble. "Mmkay, Wrio. Thanks. Love you."

And this —his heart leaps in his chest, his face heats with a blush and he can wholly feel the way his gaze softens— this is the reason why he stays sober whenever you drink. Because nothing in the world can ever be better than being able to take care of you when you need him.