#all is fair in love and trade

[thorne-kreizler-fanfiction]

Love that bored Thorin starts sketching!

I really like when these small details that we the common people do are done by characters. We don't often see these little actions or quirks because we tend to look at the big picture when thinking of a character.

Love it! Thorin is feeling more real than ever

All Is Fair in Love and Trade –  Part 1/9

This is my reply to @gwen-ever​‘s ask. Thank you so much 💙💙💙 I got really inspired by this one and, well… see for yourselves 😉 

Relationships: Thorin x Reader

Rating: M (it will turn into E at one point)

Warnings: none The Masterlist

* * * All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 1/10

“Twenty percent off our regular iron ore price,” you state your offer firmly.

“It is not possible, my lady,” his low, rumbly voice reverberates against the walls of the chamber.

“Twenty-five,” you offer. You won’t give up that easily. Especially not when the prosperity and safety of your home, Iron Hills, is at stake.  And especially when it comes to the legendary King Under the Mountain. You have heard a lot about him since he reclaimed his birthright and the kingdom of Erebor for his people five years ago. Some said he was cantankerous, others – that he was as stubborn as a mountain goat, and some – that he was a great warrior, while the elderly dwarves claimed that he was as skilled strategist as his grandfather. Everyone agreed on one thing: Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, had a temper. Unfortunately, none of those pompous bastards cared to mention how impossibly handsome he was.

Now, he is sitting across the table in a meeting chamber of Erebor, slowly shaking his head in disagreement. A vertical line of a frown cuts through his forehead. Though no crown graces his temples, he emanates a distinct regal air. One glance into those piercing ice-blue eyes of his and no one can doubt who is the king here. The dark mane of his hair, almost as black as a raven’s wing, cascades down his shoulders. One of his temple braids brushes against his bearded cheek. You can’t stop yourself from admiring his thick beard braid clasped with a bead made of silver and sapphires. The King of Erebor is both a formidable and an alluring opponent, but you don’t plan to budge.

“Twenty five percent, and we will deliver the final product to Erebor on our cost: blast furnace-cleaned, refined, high quality iron ingots straight from the Hills, ready to work with. This is my final offer, Your Majesty,” you repeat your generous proposal.

“My lady, I told you already: this is out of the question. The Forge Masters of Erebor will never divulge their secrets, not even to their kin in the Iron Hills,” he stands up. King Under the Mountain or not, he has a nerve! You grind your teeth and rise from your chair as well.

“Every secret has its price,” you try once more, reminding him of an old dwarven saying.

“Are you suggesting, Lady Ragna, that my Forge Masters are for sale?” He rumbles at you in that deep voice of his. How dare he speak such things?! And how dare he make your knees weak with every word he speaks? His voice makes you think of wild honey, malt beer, and a stormy sky at midnight. In moments like these, you are glad that he calls you by the official name you chose for yourself when you came of age, a widespread dwarven custom. You keep your real name secret; only a handful of dwarves know it. According to a legend, disclosing your true name to another Dwarf binds them to you for life, but also grants them power over you.

You take a few steps towards him, your hands clenched into fists. No way in seven hells of Morgoth you’d show your weakness to Thorin, son of Thrain.

“I am proposing a trade deal! Erebor needs our iron and we need those long-range crossbows against the orc raids!” you throw your hands in the air, gesticulating forcibly to stress the importance of your words.

“The only deal Erebor is prepared to enter into with the Iron Hills at this point is as follows: our gold for your iron, the customary trade exchange,” he bares his teeth as he speaks, their white, even rows contrasting with his dark, lush beard, reminding you of a feral beast. And now he glares at you too. Perfect.

“But this is the exact same deal we have been renewing every year for the last five years!” you protest loudly.

“Indeed,” he articulates this word slowly and crosses his arms against his chest. There is a mysterious glint in his eye as he looks at you, but you don’t care at this point. You want to smack him in the face and wipe off that haughty smirk from his lips.

“The times have changed. We need weapons, not gold!” you protest. He clearly does not understand a thing!

“You may take it or leave it. Your choice, Lady Ragna,” he looks at you pointedly, makes a short bow, and leaves the council room. This is when you realize that the negotiations are over. Bloody, cantankerous, stubborn, too handsome for his own good king of all seven Dwarven Kingdoms!

Seguir leyendo

[pilkypills]

[akaakeis]

saw ur rb sav and all i gotta say is…

piattos piattos piattos!!!!

piattos are the way to my heart 🙂‍↕️

[remedy7411]

I am trying to be reasonable and the Canucks v Utah Hockey Club game last night. I really really am. But it is NOT working.

Because I really want to know what the fuck Rick Tocchet was thinking? Does he just not know how to motivate his team? Is he a bad coach? Why couldn't he get the boys to shoot the puck at the net? It is a failure on the players that there were only 15 shots on goal and it is a failure of him as their coach.

I might actually look for his post game and see if he said anything about the fact that the game was sooo lobsided in shots on goal and why he was unable to motivate the team.

Honestly, I'm glad I focused on the Stars game because Robo played sooo well and I have more thoughts on RoopeRobo and RoboOtter because I have problems, but I am also kind of regretting not paying more attention to the Canucks game (I watched during intermissions and then after the Stars game for the last two thirds of the third period.) and that clearly wasn't enough because they looked like a different team then they did at the beginning of the month and not in a good way.

Elias Pettersson was trying so ridiculously hard to make something happen and had a couple of really good chances. Same with Brock Boeser. But you can't score if you don't shoot the puck at the net. Idk, I just feel like the coach should have done some coaching to help the players more...

[briefeee]

You know you talk too much/write about a ship when your non fandom friend but fellow writer has to text you, "I can't believe this, but I got a SoundStar idea because of you and now I need to figure it out for you."

Aka she said: can't believe i got so brainrotted that i have a soundstar idea. can they get out of my head pls i didnt ask for the robot life

[camping-with-monsters]

and now back to your regularly scheduled Einin posting

I understand there’s some less conventional pieces here but do not make them weird. Please.

Jack of All Trades belongs to @menthum-mint

[cookinguptales]

I've decided that this is the year when I'm gonna learn to make myself fancy coffee drinks at home. I have a whole bunch of sugar-free syrups in my cart now and I'm just trying to make myself pull the trigger.

I keep telling myself that it's worth it in the long run because I'll save money on cafes (which... I don't actually use that much anyway) and I can finally have all the fanciest drinks without the milk/sugar that makes me sick and I'll be able to make myself nice little treats on high-symptom days but boyyy this stuff is expensive. ;;

[victorluvsalice]

AU Thursday : Valicer In The Dark -- Playbook Tweaks, A Bit of Worldbuilding, Potential Scores

Been thinking more about my Valicer In The Dark AU as of late, and I have a few updates and additions to the Three Pillars and their particular version of Duskwall that I would like to share with you, as indicated by the title:

Playbook Tweaks -- While I’m pretty happy with Victor’s stats as a Whisper from the original post on this subject, I found myself wanting to tweak Alice’s and Smiler’s just slightly after writing them up. Specifically, I wanted to add a special ability to Alice’s, and an extra ability point to Smiler’s. I didn’t want to do this without a concurrent trade-off somewhere else, though (yes, I know I’m just using this for potential fic-writing purposes, not actually playing the game, but it still feels only fair!), so after some thought, this is what I’ve come up with for each of them:

Alice -- I felt like she really needed to have The Devil’s Footsteps special ability (the one that allows you to do things like jump extra high or extra far) along with Not To Be Trifled With (the one that allows you to do superhuman feats of strength or battle six people at once) at the start -- those two in concert basically cover everything she can do in the games! So, in exchange for her having two starting special abilities, I’ve decided she also starts with the Haunted trauma! This is a trauma that means you are haunted by bad things in your past and sometimes slip off into fugue states -- which meshes perfectly with Alice’s memories of the fire and Wonderland occasionally dragging her out of reality! It also means she can only take three extra traumas before having to get out of the criminal game -- usually, starting characters have four slots for having their brains broken. *shrug* Them’s the breaks!

Smiler -- After reviewing their stats vs their history, I realized that maybe I should have put that dot in Survey in Attune instead -- after all, they’ve been directly touched by their god Mar-Mal! That’s how they got the glowing yellow eyes in this verse! However, I still liked them having that dot in Survey, as it did also suit their character. So, in exchange for getting that extra starting dot in Attune, I’ve decided that Smiler has a slightly shorter stress tracker than most characters -- instead of nine slots, they get seven. Stress is something that characters can use to push themselves to perform certain feats (get an extra die while rolling a weak stat) or resist the consequences of their actions (downgrade a potentially crippling blow into one that just hurts a lot). It’s very useful, but you have to track it carefully, because once your character fills up their stress tracker, they have a mental break and gain a trauma. I figured that trading two stress slots for the Attune dot was both fair and thematically appropriate -- Smiler has lived in a cult that venerates happiness as holy for years, and was directly touched by a god of pure joy. It only makes sense that they’d be a little worse at handling stress and bad emotions!

Worldbuilding -- I haven’t fully fleshed out my Duskwall yet, but there’s a few ideas I’ve been banding around:

-->This first one is straight from the Oxventure Presents Blades In The Dark stuff -- one of Kasimir’s and Edvard’s earliest scores in Volisport was at Cab-Con, a convention for the various cabdrivers of the cities. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but as I wrapped up the episode, a pun popped into my mind referencing the even-more-powerful gondoliers faction (as more of the city is traversable by canal than by road) -- Con-Dola! XD So yeah, that’s the big convention in my Duskwall -- an annual festival the gondoliers put on where they try out new boat types, exchange stories, and have races. Members of the public can come in for a fee and bet on the boat races. It’s a fun time and everyone looks forward to it!

-->While the official book outlines a few holidays on the Duskwall calendar (the monthly Moontide celebration, Arkenvorn to honor the spirit wardens, Gratitude to honor the ascension of the Immortal Emperor to his throne (and just more general Thanksgiving stuff)), I decided we needed a Halloween equivalent as well and came up with “Devil’s Night,” where children dress up as devils and go around causing minor bits of mischief and knocking on doors for spare food and coin. The actual devils in the city are also said to offer better deals than usual, with prices that mortals are better able to pay, but people tend to be iffy about checking out if this is true or not. Because, you know, devils. There’s always someone desperate enough to try, though. . .

-->I’m still working on how the other Alton Towers coasters beyond Smiler and Wickerman would fit into this world, but I know the other secret weapons would all have various cults -- the Agents of Oblivion for, well, Oblivion (who sacrifice people to the void -- not sure if they’re trying to keep it contained or encouraging to grow yet. Maybe both, with a secret internal schism in the cult?); the Spirits of the Trees for Thirteen (who worship the poisonous trees in that one park and are trying to create more -- though perhaps a little less poisonous so they don’t immediately kill everyone they come into contact with); the Clan of the Creature for Nemesis (who worship this bizarre crab-like demon and believe it will somehow save them when the leviathan blood eventually runs out); and the Galactic Rangers for Galactica (who believe the stars are the remains of their god and that if they give her enough worship, she’ll do something about the moon that seems to keep getting either bigger or closer year by year. . .). Rita doesn’t get a cult -- rather, she’s the leader of the Speed Queens, a group of smugglers known for their insanely fast car that only she can drive properly. She is, however, involved with the head priestess of the Spirits of the Trees, even if she’s not an official member. XD

-->Very tempted to put Doc and Marty somewhere in this world, of course -- don’t know if they’d be criminals, but Doc would HAVE to be a Leech well-known for his bizarre contraptions and strange experiments with electroplasm. Probably they have the local equivalent of the DeLorean around, and Doc’s looking to get his hands on an old train. . .

-->And another one just for the funsies -- having gone through both the main book and a semi-official “cookbook” supplement (see the Supplements page -- I can recommend it, it’s a short but fun read), I have decided to pull a Fallout with this universe and declare that horses went extinct sometime during the great Shattering, and goats have taken over all of their roles. This is purely because sometimes I imagine my Three Pillars trio ending up in other worlds, and it amuses me greatly for them to go “what’s a horse?” whenever the subject comes up. XD

Scores -- Obviously, you can’t have a criminal gang and not have any crimes for them to commit! Here are some of the higher-profile missions the Three Pillars would undertake during their career:

-->Sorting out Dr. Bumby at the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth (their first score after getting together, and after Alice tells them what he’s up to -- their goal being to either get evidence of his misdeeds to one of the incorruptible Inspectors, or just straight-up kill the guy in a way that doesn’t leave a ghost)

-->Getting some of Victor’s stuff out of the Van Dort mansion (which involves Victor learning just how little his parents worry about his actual safety when he encounters them and all his mother can do is complain about how Victoria Everglot has now TWICE married someone else while he’s been missing; I am also SO TEMPTED to have Barnaby and Kasimir in the mansion on their OWN score to rob the place, only to run into Victor, Alice, and Smiler, and Victor to tell them “hey, help me get my stuff back and I will just GIVE you some money from the safe”)

-->Taking care of one Dr. Kelman and his Sanctuary when he puts out a bounty on the three of them, saying that they need his special “social compliance therapy” (this is how Alice and Victor learn Smiler’s birthname, and Smiler justifies the Advocates’ gray morality by saying “at least we don’t CUT THE SMILES INTO PEOPLE’S FACES BEFORE SCOOPING OUT THEIR SOULS”)

-->Acquiring rare and not-always-legal ingredients for the Golden Plum restaurant (I have this in mind as a score that would be kicked off by the first time Smiler overindulged their Pleasure vice there -- the owner and chef, having realized who they are and that they’re a scoundrel, does a little light blackmail to get the gang to help get him ingredients; part of Smiler’s price is that they get first taste of the resultant dishes, which the owner is happy to agree to)

-->Being hired by Victoria to embarrass her parents by stealing a silver egg they recently acquired and won’t stop bragging about (as you might imagine, she’s a little bitter about the Barkis thing and wants to stop them acting like it wasn’t her husband’s money that bought it; midway through the score though, things go off the rails when the egg HATCHES and produces a baby dragon -- cue the gang getting a surprise new pet)

-->Getting Alice’s Jabberwock’s Eye Staff (she needs it as her scary weapon, and I think it would be fun to make getting it an adventure -- maybe in the Lost District outside the lightning barrier?)

-->Attending Con-Dola (this would be a “joke” score where the goal is to actually have some fun in their lives; I can see Victoria hiring them for this one too, saying she needs them to do a few things there, and at the end they realize she hired them literally to have a nice day out XD)

-->And I’m kind of tempted to do something inspired by The Hangover movies and that one Skyrim quest “A Night To Remember” where, after a night of drinking, the gang wakes up in the Lord Mayor’s house not knowing WHAT happened last night (only that for some reason the lady of the house doesn’t seem to mind they’re there) and have to figure out what they did (possibly may involve them getting drunken group-married and being upset only because they didn’t realize that was an option and they would have liked to do that SOBER damn it)

We’ll see if any of these actually make “written” status! (I mean, I hope so, but with the monster of “Londerland Bloodlines: Downtown Queensland” looming over me. . .)

[thorne-kreizler-fanfiction]

More of bored Thorin in a meeting! YES! I love that!!

All Is Fair in Love and Trade –  Part 2/9

Relationships: Thorin x Reader

Rating: M (it will turn into E soon)

Warnings: none

For @gwen-ever

You can read the other parts here:

The Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

* * * All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 2/10

“Good morning, Lady Ragna.” “Good morning, Th-- your majesty.”

“I hope you had a pleasantly warm night. I heard last evening was especially cold,” the King, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, smirks.

“My night was quite satisfactory... in terms of warmth. I can only hope that you were not left out in the cold yourself, your majesty,” now it is your turn to smirk.

He chuckles. Unbelievable. He does it very quietly, so that only you hear it, and Lord Balin as well, but the ruler of Erebor does indeed chuckle. The King’s advisor looks at his monarch with wide eyes. Oh yes! Surprise, Lord Balin! The stern and solemn King Under The Mountain can chuckle! And flirt! And make a woman’s knees go weak with one of his meaningful glances! How dare he.

You have no idea how you survived the night after what happened on the terrace, but one thing is certain: now you absolutely need to focus on the negotiations between Erebor and Iron Hills. The council chamber is slowly filling with Dwarves. Thorin, ahem, King Thorin, is about to take his seat when he places a finely looking leather pouch on the lacquered black surface of the table in front of you.

“I believe I have found something that belongs to you, my lady,” he looks at you pointedly.

“This is not mine,” frowning, you glance at the golden geometric pattern running across the leather. A classic Erebor pattern.

“Care to look inside?” he raises one of his dark eyebrows in a very alluring way. Damn his sexy eyebrows.

You open the pouch and then you understand everything. Inside you find several objects. First of them is a linen bag with the words “Longbottom Leaf” written across it. It’s been a while since you smoked it, and you always enjoyed the aroma. Who would have thought. Someone here has a good taste in tobacco. But that’s not all. You recognize another shape in front of your eyes.

Your pipe. The one that you smoked yesterday evening. The one that you forgot to take with you when you ran away from… no, no, you were not running away, you were strategically retreating in order to regroup. Damn.

“Thank you, your majesty. It seems that it does indeed belong to me,” you admit, gritting your teeth. That sly mountain goat knew exactly when to make his move. It’s not as if you were to reject his gift or make a scene with all those Dwarves around present. You steal a glance at the King, but he has already schooled his face into an official, expressionless mask. At that moment, you decide to tell him what you think about such gestures after the meeting, preferably in a secluded place, because you plan to be very loud and swear a lot.

Now, however, you sit down with a sigh and officially commence the negotiations. The advisors are doing the best they can to put you to sleep with their monotonous mumbling. You raise your gaze from a stack of parchments in front of you only to meet a pair of ice-blue eyes from across the table. If there was a shred of decency in that bullheaded Dwarf, he would have averted his gaze or at least pretended he’s looking at something else, but nooo. He’s so bloody self-confident that he keeps on staring at you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It isn’t! Kings are not supposed to look this way at their subjects, especially not while they are leading the most important trade negotiations of a decade!

Simmering in your anger, you’re about to show him (discreetly, of course) an exceptionally indecent gesture, but then his eyes travel towards Master Stenfast, who is in the middle of his speech about the importance of proper timber storage during transport. Then, the King’s gaze returns to you. And what does he do afterwards? He playfully rolls his eyes with a tormented expression on his face.

You blink. Twice. Yes, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór has just rolled his eyes at you. Really. And what’s worse, you barely manage to stifle a chuckle, as if you were a naive lass and not a seasoned diplomat. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly in amusement. You growl inwardly.

The door to the council chamber opens with a bang.

“Orcs! The Orcs are attacking!” a member of Lord Dain’s guard exclaims, holding a mighty axe in his hand. The warning horn sounds just after his words. Shouts and hurried footsteps are echoing against the walls of the nearby corridor.

“How many?” Thorin Oakenshield stands up quickly, resting his fists against the black surface of the table, his knuckles white.

“At least three Gundabad units!” the guardsman responds, standing to attention.

Murmurs and surprised gasps fill the chamber.

“We have no time to waste. Lead me to your captain!” the King of Erebor barks out the order and leaves the chamber, his dark hair adorned with silver beads spilling over his shoulders, his golden-hemmed black cloak following his every move. Faint pine scent reaches your nostrils.

“My lady,” Master Stenfast turns to you, pulling at his white beard in distress. “May I ask… Three Orcish military units… Aren’t they quite a lot?”

“Indeed, Master Stenfast,” you’re already standing up, just like most of the other Dwarves, at least the ones who are awake. Your eyes are set at the door through which the warrior king has just left. “Quite a lot.”

“Then... I guess... the negotiations can wait a wee bit���” his voice trails off.

“They will have to,” you gather your skirts and move towards the doorway, making your way through the group of Dwarves hurrying in the same direction.

“But Lady Ragna...! Pray tell... Where are you going?” the ancient advisor’s voice trembles slightly behind you.

You reply without turning your head back, “To the battlements!”

* * *

Shit, shit, shit. Who came up with the brilliant idea to run to the battlements in your very fancy, very heavy and very uncomfortable official dress?! Ah, you did. Well, you admit, it’s not the cleverest idea you’ve had, but your city is under attack. You look down from the battlements, feeling the wind brushing against your face. A horde of Orcs is approaching the gate. You notice their deformed bodies, hear their terrifying shouts, and see how the blades of their weapons glint ominously in the sun. A sharp sound of the Gundabad horns reaches your ears and then a group of the attackers on the right (the warriors would probably call it “the right flank unit” or something to make things sound more complicated than they actually were) raises spears emitting a guttural roar from their throats and…

“Duck!” someone shouts and pulls you to the ground, behind the battlement. The air is loud with the whiz of spears raining above you. Dozens of dwarven boots stomp around you, warriors running into every direction. You want to move, but something heavy and hard pins you to the ground. To your left, a Dwarf falls to the floor with a groan, a long wooden shaft pierces his shoulder. After a moment, someone hovers him, but you can’t see more, because you’re unceremoniously pulled up from the ground.

“What are you doing here?!” Thorin Oakenshield grunts at you, piercing you with his stormy gaze. “We are under attack!”

“I see that!” you bark back. If he thinks that you’re going to explain yourself to him now, he’s as stupid as a rock frog.

“Come!” he grabs your arm and pulls you back inside the mountain. Only then you notice that he wears a cuirass with chainmail underneath it, along with other pieces of armor that probably have even more complicated names. His left gloved hand is wrapped against your narrow wrist and in his right hand, he holds a sword. Or rather, the sword. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant line of its blade and you see the grip made of a fang of an ancient serpent. The legendary Orcrist. You’re so mesmerized by it that you barely notice that the King Under the Mountain leads you into a less frequented corridor.

“You could have become injured, Lady Ragna! This is not a place for a lady of your stature!” he exclaims with bolts of anger in his eyes, his brow furrowed.

“I need to know what the situation is to organize support for our warriors!” you shout into his face, stomping your foot on the ground in annoyance. Who does he think he is?! “They’ll need more weapons, and there will be the wounded to care for and...”

“The siege has just started, this is all you need to know!” he growls back, his nostrils flaring. He is like a prowling beast approaching his prey.

“You are not going to tell me what I need or not need to know! You are not my…” your words fail you all of a sudden.

“I am not your what, Ragna?” flashing his teeth in a snarl, he takes another step towards you. Your heart starts beating faster.

Damn he’s hot. And annoying. Irresistibly annoying. You grind your teeth and withstand his stare, “You are…”

“I am your king!” he interrupts you. “And I am ordering you to do two things! You will send a raven to Dain and then evacuate the ones that are unable to fight into the deep caves! Is that understood?”

Your king or not, he’s an overbearing dwarf. And he assumes too much!

“That’s what I was planning to do after gathering the information on the enemy! Lord Dain needs to know this in order to lead a successful counterattack!” you speak, seething with anger.

“You were staring at the most irrelevant Orc units! You could have gotten killed for things that I could have told you myself!” his voice deepens even more as he glares at you. “Well, you were up there on the battlements, I’d have to come there anyway!”

A loud growl rumbles in the King’s chest, his brow furrows and his gaze darkens, “You are an exceptionally stubborn dwarven lady!”

“And you are an exceptionally rock-skulled dwarf! You’d better thank Durin for your lineage! If you weren’t a king, I would have slapped you right now!” “Then, by all means, hit me if this is what you desire, but be fast because I have dwarven lives to save, just as I did with yours mere moments ago!”

And now that blasted King of Erebor and all the other Dwarven Kingdoms is towering over you, anger sharpening his handsome features. You wonder if he is unaware of what his alluring presence is doing to your knees… and your other body parts, to be honest. Oh, you want to wipe off that haughty smirk from his face so badly! Your hand clenches in a fist. He told you himself to do with him as you desire and he’s clearly thinking you’re going to do exactly what he ordered you to! Ha! That will be the day!

Your eyes fall on the Orcrist in his hand, and just then, it dawns on you. He’s going to battle against overwhelming enemy forces! They say he is a great warrior, but Mahal knows that anything can happen on the battlefield! What if he gets injured, just like that Dwarf you saw on the battlements? This last thought makes you pause for a heartbeat. You unclench your hand.

Thorin Oakenshield is staring down at you intently, still holding that bloody Goblin Cleaver in his hand. What is he planning to do with it now, anyway? What a showoff. And those damn smirking lips of his. You have enough of this! Yes, you’re going to show him what you are made of!

You stand on your tiptoes, grab handfuls of his sable mane, and press your own lips to his. Oh, sweet Mahal, how hot they are! And his deep blue eyes! Completely widened in shock. Ha! That will serve him right! You get straight to the point and teasingly suck on his full lower lip, enjoying the delicious purr that escapes him. Something clinks beside you, a metal blade against stone, but you’re not looking, because two strong arms pull you flush against his breastplate, and then his lips attack you with an unexpected ardour. He cups your face with his gloved hand, rough leather against your delicate skin, and begins the conquest of your lips. His mouth possessively and thoroughly claim the newly discovered territory, but you counterattack, nibbling on his lips, running your fingers through his beard. You hear a rumbling growl and then his tongue runs across the line of your lips. Someone here is eager, isn’t he? A chuckle escapes your lips and as they part he immediately uses it to his advantage. His tongue delves into your mouth only to meet yours in a duel of passion. A wave of impossible heat spreads through your body as he runs his fingers through your hair, completely ruining your elaborate hairdo, but you don’t care, clinging to him, demanding more of that yearning that is slumbering within him. Your hands move along his arms to his armor-covered shoulders, and you can almost feel the hardness of his muscles underneath. The way his coarse beard brushes against your skin seems to deepen all the sensations you are feeling. His lips clash against yours, thirstily demanding more and more, while your arms are wrapped around his strong neck, his hand pressed firmly at the small of your back, your nose pressed against his skin, taking in his scent, leather, well-oiled metal, and a pinewood note with smoky sweetness. You are drowning into him, into the primeval hunger your bodies share. And you want more.

“My King!” an unfamiliar voice calls from somewhere further away. Your lips and his part just as suddenly as they have met, your both chests heaving. There is a flicker in his eyes and the corner of his lips curls up in a small smile. Not a smirk. A smile.

“Will you fulfill your king’s orders with equal fervour and remain in the mountain?” he murmurs, disentangling his hand from your hair.

“Only if the said King returns from the battle in one piece,” you offer your ultimatum, feeling how tender and swollen your lips have become. Why has no one ever told you that kings could be such great kissers? “You drive a hard bargain, my lady,” he chuckles. “You will attend to securing the mountain, and I will attend to the battle. And when I return…” he raises one of his dark brows and his eyes travel to your lips, “...we will talk.”

A slight bow of his head, and he’s gone, taking both his sword and your yearning with him. Your gaze follows him until his broad-shouldered silhouette disappears around the corner.

Damn. What are you going to do about the beard burns on your skin?! That insolent warrior of a king! * * *

The Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

Don't forget to let me know how you liked it!

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Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @jotink78 @anyaspidergirl-blog @tschrist1 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon

[le-velo-pour-dru]

Do you accept the offer?

[sampilled]

I can defend Taylor for a lot but I cannot!!! Defend her merch

[autism-corner]

:3

[sheyfu]

yappologist degree holder ༊*·˚

𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦 about you.

feat. dan heng, aventurine, luocha, jing yuan, gepard, jiaoqiu, argenti and moze (gn!reader)

cw. ooc (very); jiaoqiu talks a lot; [slight] sexual innuendos

note. TRYING SOMETHING NEW GRAHHHHHH i dont think i captured their personalities correctly but 🙏🙏 WE BALL LAMSDOASDI i hope you guys enjoy it >:DD reader is identified as [name] and uses they/them prns (GANG I TRIED MY BEST LAMSDOAMSD) if you see me use fem prns in this piece please tell me <3 lmk if you'd like a pt. 2 w other chars (WOMEN ASHDUASHDUH)

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ DAN HENG

about [name] [name]? what about them?

chat: significant other  [name] is my significant other. aside from the express, they’re one of the only ones keeping me grounded whenever i become… “emo”. their words, not mine.

chat: sleep sleep is something i found hard to come by; everytime i closed my eyes, visions of my past appeared. but now that [name] is by my side, it has become easier to fall to a peaceful rest.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ AVENTURINE

about [name] through a game of life or death is how [name] and i met. hm? unconventional you say? well, it’s one of the reasons why i fell for them.

chat: bet betting has become an integral part of [name] and i’s life. while it’s not a common way of expressing your love for someone, it’s how we do things. whether those bets entail having to have the other run errands or even give your own life up, it sends spikes of adrenaline up our bones resulting in a very fun game of cat and mouse.

chat: loss there are seldom games i lose — and most of the time, i still somehow come out as, partially, a winner. but for some reason, whenever i offer a game of chance against [name], i seem to lose every game we have. i can’t lie, i get somewhat annoyed at how i can’t seem to win a game against them. but then again, life would be dull if it were just an unending series of wins.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ LUOCHA

about [name] [name] is a travelling merchant i’ve come to know over the past years of my journeys as one myself. if i didn't have anyone to rely on before, i've got my dearest to thank now. 

chat: bargain as a merchant, it is important for me to know how to bargain, especially when deals presented to me are severely unfair for me. i must admit, i wasn’t very good at striking fair deals when i was starting off my path as a travelling merchant. but over the years, [name] has taught me a lot about this art. by observing their ways of negotiating, i am now able to attain very fair and valuable trades. 

chat: aromatherapy with [name]’s upbringing as an herb specialist, i get to experience their family’s aromatherapy service. with every scent i am presented with, i am able to clear my mind and slip in the embrace of solitude and calm. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ JING YUAN

about [name] [name] is someone who can ease my troubled mind with an embrace; the calm in my storm, the light of my life, and the heart of my soul.

chat: birds when little birds flock to my head, my spouse wonders if im this character called… snow white… *sigh* i am not sure as to who that is due to my upbringing as a military leader — i had no time for these trivial tales. but whenever they tell tales about this... gizney? no.. bizney? not quite right either.. ah yes, disney princess, the intent of me being dressed with robes of royalty are reflected in their eyes.

chat: mimi what was once a kitten, has now grown into a ferocious little lion. i remember when i first got her, [name] was all over the poor thing — smothering it with their love and words of praise — mimi didn’t complain though, she let herself get spoiled. and even up until now, she’s still that same, little spoiled lion she is. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ GEPARD

about [name] [name] is my significant other – how i was able to catch their eye? i don’t know. sometimes, i doubt my ability to love, especially with my role as the captain of the silvermane guards. but whenever those thoughts appear in my mind, [name] is there to quell my uneasy mind.

chat: family the way [name] treats lynx makes me feel… funny. i can’t really describe it but my heart beats whenever they entertain my little sister. oh, and don’t even get me started with how serval treats them. *sigh* what should i do to ease this beating heart of mine?

chat: de-stress ways on how to de-stress? well, after a long day i am usually greeted with the embrace of my beloved once i step into our abode… then after that i’m littered with- o-oh.. apologies. i was supposed to give advice. let’s start over again, shall we?

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ JIAOQIU

about [name] [name]? you want to now about them? well you see, as general feixiao’s doctor, it is important for me to have assistants whenever patients visit the clinic in a time when i am tending to duties involving her – this is where my dear [name] comes in. they’ve been with me from the start; us being classmates in the medicinal school we attended and all that. they’re easily one of the very dearest people in my life. most people only know them as my assistant due to their preference of upholding a “low-profile”; of course, i am very much alright with it. but when time comes and they’re ready to reveal our bond to the world, i’ll be the happiest man in the whole entire cosmos.

chat: sweets  oh? you liked the sweets i gave you? well, you have my dear [name] to thank. they’re quite the connoisseur when it comes to making them. speaking of sweets, i forgot to mention we have a pastry shop in aurum alley. if you’re able to drop by, i’ll consider giving you a bundle of sweets, and probably other pastries, free of charge.

chat: coriander whatever you do, please do not hand me a bunch of coriander. i will absolutely lose my mind having to deal with a coriander-obsessed lover. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ARGENTI

about [name] my love for [name] transcends even the distant stars of the cosmos. my heart, my soul, and my own being belong to them. 

chat: roses roses are my beloved’s favourite flowers, as they are mine. every morning, i wake from my peaceful slumber to see my dear tending to the beds of flowers with a gentle smile on their face that makes me fall in love all over again. *sigh* i miss them so much, trailblazer.. please bring me back to my ship. i would like to sink into my lover’s embrace at this moment. 

chat: baking my beloved takes time to make my preference for thick baguettes each and every morning. while it warms me to receive such a valuable gift, i am not sure if i am deserving of their unconditional love for i am just a mere knight of beauty, idiotically searching for the goddess i’ve devoted myself to.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ MOZE

about [name] i am [name]’s lover. i am bound to them by fate and affection which is why you shouldn’t come close to them — unless you’d like to request an audience with the weapon in my hand.

chat: shadow [name] gets frightened whenever i appear randomly — jiaoqiu tells me it’s a normal reaction as he too, gets startled whenever i show my face to him. although.. im not quite sure how my sudden appearance has them stunned...

chat: cleaning [name] and i share the same hobby of cleaning. whenever i am relieved of my duties assigned by the general, i watch them- no. they tell me of the rather… unconventional ways of cleaning our abode.

tagging: @ayrastv, @whatisnerotypical, @lia-loves

🐈‍⬛: thank you for reading! reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!

if you'd like to be part of my taglist, please access the gform below! thank you and hope to see you <3

© sheyfu on tumblr

[makenna-made-this]

Candy economics is very serious business!

bawktober day 30- Trading Candy

The teens attempt to trade candy, but not everyone agrees on what's a fair trade. Don't even get me started on the toddlers...

At least the babies are happy :)

[calebrity]

love is a bitch

sylus x female reader

sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.

▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior

▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡

You’re stubborn, tonight.

Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.

Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.

Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

[andhumanslovedstories]

There's so many horrible things happening in America right now that it has been interesting to see what individual horrors hurt me personally the most. I grew up going to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Musicals, plays, concerts, that weird bust of JFK, playing around on terrace during intermissions, putting on a velvet dress that you're going to ruin dropping a milk dud in your lap and not noticing until it's fully melted, wearing the pinchy shiny shoes that are the training bras of women's formal footwear, operas I didn't like but did love, jazz I didn't understand but still fascinated me, red carpet, big stairs, the absolute nightmare amount of experiences I had as a new driver as I repeatedly got trapped in the Kennedy Center's fucking private DC island or whatever the hell is going on traffic-wise, free performances on small side stages, getting to see an enormous production on the Center's most enormous stage, all of which was accessed by walking through that a long, tall hallway lined with flags of the world that made you feel like a dignitary attending the most important even in the world.

And now Trump's taken it over. He fired its board. He appointed one of his loyalists to run it. I want to throw up.

Sometimes I miss DC so much. I love the Pacific Northwest and expect I'll live here for the rest of my life, but this isn't my hometown. I grew up the edge of the District. I've lost cumulative years of my life stuck in traffic on the inner loop and outer loop. Because of the Smithsonian, it used to be so baffling to me that anyone ever had to pay to get into a museum. I've used the Washington DC zoo as a shortcut to a different part of the city because it's free to enter. You couldn't count the amount of knockoff Spider-man popsicles that I've eaten sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. My reading tastes were molded by Kramer Books in Dupont Circle. I spent afternoons walking around the National Mall, normally just a big empty field until there's an event--book fair, country music program, international cuisine, whatever--at which point for a day or a weekend or a week it becomes a sea of tents and stages. I went to protests outside the Capital and the White House about the war in Iraq. I froze my toes off watching Obama's 2008 presidential inauguration.

It seemed like everyone's family touched the federal government in some way. Everyone's family had moved here because they were military or state department or a political consultant or worked with an NGO or some other reason that meant you had to be here, in the nation's capital. Plenty of people had connections to the federal government that we more hush-hush. Like kids in class straight up going, "I have no idea what my parents do for a living. They're not allowed to tell me." High schoolers regularly, accidentally drove into the CIA parking lot and got escorted out because the premises were that accessible. My family moved here because my dad is a reporter who ended up covering international trade. (Imagine how much his job sucks right now.) He switched beats one summer to cover the White House instead. He got to fly on Air Force One. He got official Air Force One M&Ms. I was SO disappointment my dad didn't work there for Bush to call on him by nickname.

Every day my family got The Washington Post. I read the comics and the kid's page, then the rest of the Style section, then Metro, then news. I learned to read from it. We wrapped our delicate Christmas ornaments with its pages. We used yesterday's papers to clean our windows because they didn't leave streaks. I took journalism in high school. You can't IMAGINE how much and how frequently we talked about Watergate. When Post changed its motto to "Democracy Dies in Darkness" after Trump's election in 2016 that meant something to me. I knew Bezos owned the paper now, but that was still my paper, and the motto spoke to something I fervently believed: if people just knew what was happening, they wouldn't allow it to happen. If you expose a problem, people will naturally agree that it is a problem and that we should do something to fix it. Flash forward to Trump's third fucking campaign, and the newspaper wouldn't endorse a presidential candidate. Chickenshit cowardice. Then they change the motto. "Riveting Storytelling for All of America." Eat shit. You're nothing now.

Politics in America is just telling everyone how much you hate Washington, DC so that they'll elect you so you can move to DC. Well, guys, the city fucking hates you too. Republicans will never give the District actually meaningful political representation because no one in that city would vote for them. It's not just the policies; it's the contempt. No one in the new administration loves the city they schemed and lied and stooped to take over. It's just iconography to them, and all they care about is taking that iconography for themselves. Trump doesn't give a shit about the summer program for the Kennedy Center. He has never seen a show at the Kennedy Center. When he was president, he never attended the annual awards. He's trying to destroy one of the most significant places of my life and I'm genuinely unsure if he has ever stepped for inside of it.