#and for goodness' sake read this poem

[cosmicblame]

(Untitled Fragment)

Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.

-Zampanò

[fridayyy-13th]

i had so many things to do today, but i only wound up doing two. the two simplest things on the list, in fact. putting tabs on my sheet music and writing dates in my planner. no actual homework. (or more accurately, late work.) now a week of three classes' worth of work all has to be done tomorrow, and i already made plans with my friend for that afternoon. it's 1:32 in the morning. what am i doing anymore.

[jester-lover]

P4 Relationship Headcanons

Authors Note/ I have read the manga up to the last English translated volume, but I’ll stick to the public school arc characterizations of them for convenience’s sake.

CW/fem! reader but otherwise no physical description , fluff, kindof accurate Victorian courting, a little angst, manga spoilers! I most definitely forgot this arc was getting animated, so I’m late, might be a little OOC, it’s been a few months since I read the manga

Edgar Redmond

Flattery was his main method of gaining your affections: descriptive poems sent to your mailbox, tulips and chocolates left on your doorstep by a mysterious admirer—a carefully held facade that fell apart when Edgar realized just how badly he wanted your affections returned.

While he has always considered himself a free spirit, capable of swiftly moving from one lover to another, he has an epiphany when he realizes he needs exclusivity with you. Edgar has found something beyond flings with you, a woman who can truly make him nervous; make his heart beat against his chest every time you bless him with a glance.

He isn’t always the most touchy lover, but he tends to take your arm in his while the two of you are out together. (He’ll do nothing more, as he doesn’t want rumors to spread around your private relationship.)

Edgar tends to fuss over you a bit, fixing your dresses, brushing his fingers over your coat, and generally keeping your appearance looking tidy; it’s an act of service that displays his affections for you.

Lawrence Bluewer

When I say all of his sisters gang up on him to tease him about his crush on you, I mean it. Lawrence tried his best to keep his love for you a secret, but his yearning glances over his glasses reveal his truth. They encourage him to speak to you, giving him advice about what women like. (Trust me, he needs it.)

Lawrence is a very dedicated man, particularly when it comes to you. He holds up all of the important customs of an exemplary Victorian man and treats you as an equal in all matters.

He’s adamant on listening to your opinion on matters involving the two of you, but he’ll also ask for your opinions on issues in his home and dorm. Your opinion is important to him.

Lawrence is a very intelligent young man; if you ever find yourself struggling with your schoolwork or a matter of principle in your personal life, he’ll help out to the best of his ability.

Call him by any affectionate nickname, and that carefully held stoicism crumbles before you, and a red tint suddenly appears on his pale face. The only time he ever broke his own rules was after the cricket match, when he embraced you tightly in the stands after winning, so much more proud of his victory now that you had seen it.

Herman Greenhill

It feels as if someone has struck him in the heart each time he lays his eyes on you. He can feel the warmth of his skin and the sweating of his palms each time he tries to talk to you without stumbling through his words. Herman is so utterly rigid and awkward around you, it’s completely obvious he’s head over heels.

He’s often flustered around you, even when you’re already courting, as one of his ideals of chivalry and respect is treating ladies kindly. He acts like a strict old man and a shy schoolboy at the same time, wanting your touch so desperately but bashing himself for it.

You will probably have to enact most of the affection between the two of you, sneaking kisses when your chaperone turns away, holding his hand when you walk into a more private corridor of his residence, and cheering loudly at his games. The easiest way to get a reaction from Herman is by showing off your stockings; he’s a sucker for good hosiery.

Despite his proud and sort of arrogant personality, Herman is a shy and careful lover; he remembers all of your favorites and special days, and he loves receiving your praise. Whenever he achieves something, he immediately looks to you, waiting to see what you make of him.

Gregory Violet

You wouldn’t even know of his existence when he first saw you, but he was always there, with a thick black sketchbook filled with drawings of you, going about your daily routine and interacting with others in a way he only wished he could. The sheer amount of yearning he does could put the poets to shame.

You are his muse; even when Gregory is creating something completely irrelevant to you, he’ll remember you; you are so infused with everything he makes. Because he has put you on this goddess-like pedestal, he doesn’t think he deserves you, which is why he’s so surprised when you agree to court him.

Gregory’s affection comes in bursts; some days he’ll be too nervous to look you in the eye, but other times he’s practically joined at your hip. He’s not the most talkative lover, but when his eyes flit through you, examining you closely with a blush stretched across his features, he appreciates you like you are art.

He plays the role of the gentleman in public, keeping his respectful distance, but he often seeks your comfort in the few moments you can sneak alone, laying his head on your lap as you brush through his two-toned hair and rambling uncharacteristically about the struggles of his role. He’s a non-conformist, and he often wished the society you lived in wasn’t so strict, so that you and him could act as wild and free as you did in the leather binding of his sketchbook.

[meichenxi]

Language learning: slow learning versus toxic productivity

Or: the process in crisis

Five years ago, all of the productivity advice I read (and gave out) as a successful self-learner of many different languages had one basic premise: that I was not doing enough, and that I could always be doing more.

Several burnouts later, running headlong from one mental illness into another, I'd like to invite you to entertain the exact opposite idea: there is a limit to what you can do. I have run face-first into mine on multiple occasions, and burnt out. At many points I've stopped learning the language at all. Most importantly, I've learnt to be distrustful of the very premise that all of the so-called productivity or optimisation advice is based on.

More is not always more.

Listen to a podcast in the target language whilst you exercise. Exercise to give yourself more energy to learn your target language. Talk to yourself in the shower in your target language. Do Anki whilst eating breakfast. Listen to Glossika whilst walking to work. Change your phone settings to your target language. Bullet journal. Manage your time. Make friends in your target language. Control your time. Write a diary. There's always enough time. These are all things I have done myself and recommended others do, to increase exposure to the language, to increase productivity.

Productivity? What productivity? What, exactly, is it that we are producing? I am producing sentences and words but - for who? Who is listening? Nobody's here, in my room, at 7am on a Sunday. If productivity were just speaking or writing, I'd be productive in my native language too, by virtue of speaking out loud. Or conversely, in language learning circles, should we measure it in terms of input? How many hours did you spend listening to Chinese yesterday? What about today? Is there anything you do in your life, in your daily life, that you could optimise? You're wasting time. There's time here, for those that want it. If you want to get ahead, to be successful, to be a good language learner, you have to know how to use that time. Go online, and debate over which tools are the best; watch your videos. What exactly is it that is being produced?

Productivity is a measuring tool for concrete output: the productivity of a field means how much crop it can yield per harvest. The productivity of a factory is how many mobile phone chargers it can bring to market per year. There are direct and measurable ways to increase this sort of productivity. But what is productivity when it comes to knowledge work? Cal Newport's work, The Minimalists, Essentialism: they all run into the same problem, which is that nobody seems to know what 'productivity' for knowledge workers means at all. You can look at a factory line and see which parts need greasing up, figuratively or literally: it is very difficult, on the other hand, to look at the work of a self-contained writer and tell her where she is going 'wrong'. (And by 'wrong', I mean - slow.) And language learning is an even more particular subset of that particular subset of work.

You could judge a novelists' productivity two ways: by the 'busyness' of her daily writing routine, or the amount of novels she produces. But what exactly is being produced when we learn a language? What is the end product?

In some ways, language learning as a hobby is even more playful than traditionally thought of arts and crafts. (By 'play' I mean something which is done for its own sake, and which is pleasurable, and which may yield next to no monetary reward.) We might think of the poet as sitting on a tree and dangling his feet in the river, a vision of artful indolence, but at the end of the day there is output - a poem. A knitter has a jumper. A potter has a pot. But language learning doesn't follow this [work] + [time] = [tangible output] structure. We can't even use the second metric of 'productivity' to measure it at all. Something is being done, of course - I can learn to speak Greek, and speak it markedly better after two months than one - but my point is you can't look at a day's work and say, this is exactly how much I learnt. Learning is not memorisation in the short term - it's receiving input, and practicing how to wield and use a structure. It doesn't happen over the course of a ten-minute podcast.

Learning happens - encoding happens - when the brain is doing other things. In other words, much like every creative process, you need downtime. You need rest, and sleep, and fun, and brightness and joy in your life. You might 'remember' a bunch of words on Anki, but you need to sleep before you can review them again: that's the whole point.

There is a much wider problem here, a culture of goals and optimising your life and glowing up, and to be honest, I find it disturbing. I think that for a very long time my language learning metrics were a stand-in, a relic, for the kinds of unhealthy and obsessively perfectionist thinking that gave me an eating disorder. How many of us truly believe - genuinely, with every inch of our heart - that we are better people if we 'better' ourselves? Learn more. Exercise more. Study more. How do you feel about yourself at the end of a day, exhausted, because you've completed day 75/100? Do you feel better about yourself because you've achieved? I'm guessing that you do.

For many people - including for myself - this wider culture has spilled over into their hobbies. Hobbies like language learning in particular are a target for this because they are so easily quantifiable - and we are encouraged, if we want to succeed, to quantify them. How else will we know how to improve?

Over the last few years, after burning out, after living off grid and without wifi and doing extreme minimalism and a lot of other lifestyle experiments to try and understand why modern life is so fucking hard, it's become clear that most systems of 'productivity' measure 'optimisation' by getting the most done in a day, but they don't stop to question whether you should be doing those things at all.

They don't stop to ask: what matters? They don't stop to ask: why am I trying to write a novel, finish my dissertation, pursue a romantic relationship, get healthy, learn ice-skating, learn to cook, look after my aging parents, and learn guitar at the same time? They don't ask: how do I prioritise, and where do I find silence? They ask: how do I cram more time in the day? They don't ask: how do I slow time down? They don't ask: how can I know what matters, if I never give myself space to think?

In other words: 'productivity' in language learning is measured by 'busy-work', by how much you can see from the surface.

You can't measure how well the learning is going, exactly, but you can measure how many hours a day you show up and grind. Whether or not that struggle is the best use of your time, or whether you're spending the time on things that will truly bring you value and quality, is a different question altogether.

And it's not one most 'productivity culture' will ever ask.

There will be things in your language learning journey that, to borrow from self-help terminology, no longer serve you. Habits and relics and resources and mindsets that worked for you once, or no longer did. Those books that are too advanced that you feel like you 'should' be able to read. That textbook that's been sitting beside your bed for a year. That habit of scrolling social media in your target language that was helpful when you were at a more intermediate level, but does little for you now that you're advanced.

Take stock of these. Simplify. Do less, but do it better. Productivity culture never stops to ask: what can I do without? It always asks, instead: how can I do more? But maybe - just maybe - the way to do more is to focus on fewer things, but do them well.

Multi-tasking isn't multi-tasking, but switching quickly between different focuses of attention. The average American owns 300,000 things, and watches television for 4-5 hours a day. On average, if you are distracted, it takes you 20 minutes to reach the same level of deep focus: but the average American office worker opens an email within six seconds of receiving it. Are you any better with your phone? How much time do you spend there? If you meditate, that's wonderful, but do you have any time to let yourself think? To walk and to understand how to feel? I don't want to sound like a boomer, but: can you name the birds? Do you live in a place, not just a room?

Stop trying to be 'productive'. Do less. Do it well.

I am now facing a wall in my learning of Chinese, and I'm still not sure how to get around it. The reason for this is because so much of the advice I gave others around language learning, and so much of the advice I found online, is focused on this sort of optimisation. But I no longer want to be listening to something, to be watching something, every second of every day. I have a partner to love and a house to appreciate and I want to spend time, humming and pleasant, alone with my thoughts, and it's summer, dear diary, and I don't want to stay indoors. Routines can keep you afloat, but they can also drown you. Do something different. Do something new. Do something that is not productive, that produces nothing, idle away, walk to work without music and perhaps when you sit down to your language learning that evening, you'll be filled with a renewed vigour and love for it. Do it because you love it, not because you scheduled it in your calendar.

A lesson, related, from my martial arts teacher. He said:

If you are tired, do not train. If you do not train, rest. 'Rest' does not mean go on your phone.

The same principle applies here. If you are tired of learning, which you may well be, rest. Not going on your phone, not watching Netflix. I mean taking a walk and sitting under the tree and looking at the patterning of the sky. I mean lying with your dog and absently scratching his tummy. If you're tired, and you have the luxury to stop - stop. Let yourself be tired. Don't drink caffeine. Sleep.

Last year, I was able to write 340,000 words of fiction because I focused on one thing: writing my book. Apart from things that I literally needed to do to survive and maintain my health and relationships around me, I didn't set a single other to-do. My daily list looked like: write for three hours. Not a word limit. Not exercise, though I ended up doing that, not learning a language. I imagine that if I had tried to focus on Chinese at the same time that I wouldn't have achieved anywhere near half the result. I still learnt Chinese, a very decent amount - I went to China and Taiwan for three months in total! - but I did it because I wanted to, of a whim, on a Sunday, something fun. It wasn't a must, or anything I was forcing myself to do. Many days I didn't do any Chinese at all. It was so immensely freeing to be able to think, at 11am: I'm finished for today. Even when I was at work, because I knew I was just there to pay the rent, I felt serene. Stressed on a day-to-day level, certainly, because all work is stressful, but - there wasn't any striving. I just did the best I could. And that was enough.

I am writing this, now, as I come out of my first ever information-overload burnout. I've burnt out, but I've never experienced one of these before: even looking at a book, at a phone, physically hurt my eyes. I couldn't bear to listen to people speak and would lock myself away in my room. I physically felt I could not talk, and had to take extensive time off work. Even looking at a pen and a blank page was too much; listening to podcasts was too much; reading the instructions for dinner was too much too. The only way I could heal was by doing absolutely nothing at all. That period shocked me deeply, because it showed me how absolutely dependent I was on having some input of information all of the time. No wonder I was tired.

I know, now, that there are lots of movements built around this same idea, by frustrated learners all over the world: the growing realisation that metrics and Excel and polylogger and tracking tracking tracking can't be the only way to learn. That a list of the number of books you've read in one year is hardly indicative of how well you understood those books, and what you learned from them. You've read 20 books this year already - good job. When do you think about them? What time do you spend on reflection? Why did you choose those books? Which chapters, and which characters, hit you the hardest? Why?

Minimalism, deep work, 'monk mode', essentialism, every writer's dream to run away and write in a cabin in the woods, slow learning, Buddhism, Stoicism, Marie Kondo-ism, the art of less, project 333, my no-buy-year, slow fashion, slow food, slow travel:

What all of these philosophies have in common is the idea that doing things deliberately ('mindfully') means 1) doing things slowly, 2) doing things well, and 3) doing things one at a time.

I am now at a place in my life where I understand the value of time alone with my thoughts. I don't want to listen to podcasts every minute of the waking day, because I need time to think about them. I need time to let the ideas for my novel grow in the dark. Nothing can be heard in noise; so make space for silence. I am a member of the real, living, breathing world, and that means I cannot devote 8 hours a day to Chinese television shows like I could when I was 20. I have to call my father. I have to do the dishes. I want to flex my creative muscles in other ways. Alternatively - I no longer believe that my worth is tied up inherently with how well I do my hobbies.

You're just some guy. There's freedom in that. You, my friend - you suck <3

Let yourself be bad. Let yourself be mediocre. Let yourself 'slide backwards' or regress, because all that means is that you're putting focus somewhere else. It'll come back. It always does.

I'm no longer comfortable, therefore, with the way that the language learning community tackles productivity. Please don't misunderstand; a lot of us have time spare that we could use to do things 'better' for us. I know. But I just believe now that getting rid of things, like the time you spend on your phone, is going to be more helpful in the long run than trying to force yourself into some gruelling, achievement-centric regime that collapses from within after two months of struggle and self-flagellation.

The other realisation I have had is just how much happier I am spending more time being alive, really alive, and less time in front of a screen. For a language like German or Gaelic that's much easier, because you can study with books, but with Chinese you always have to study to some extent with audios, flashcards, computers. Especially if - like me - you can read novels without a dictionary, but cannot handwrite even your Chinese name. So where next?

I don't have any answers. I'm not sure how to pair the two things together, to be honest, because almost all of my language learning has traditionally made use of technology. It's all been goal-orientated, systems-orientated, and despite the fact that I've failed at using these systems every day for years, despite the fact that Anki has NEVER worked for me, despite the fact that I have spent hundreds if not thousands of pounds on courses here, there, a wealth of overwhelm and five thousand words saved on Pleco, did I read that right? Five thousand. No wonder I'm stressed.

Regardless of happiness, it's much easier to achieve a state of deep focus and work when you're not online. After my period of information burnout, I feel actual physical pain from the weight of choices online. It's exhausting. I'm watching a Chinese show, but I want to go on tumblr. I'm on tumblr, but I feel guilty for not watching the Chinese show. I'm constantly torn between doing this and that, never fully committing to anything, seeing a post by Lindie Botes and thinking, damn, she's good. I should be better. But I don't want to compare myself to her. Do you know what? She is good. I admire her immensely. But I don't want to judge my self-worth by some imagined scale of productivity anymore - and, the more time passes, the more I'm not sure what 'productivity' in the context of language learning even means.

Try slow, focused, deep learning. You might just find it works.

There's something refreshing, almost counter-cultural, anti-capitalist, anti-consumerist, anti-rat-race, about this thought. Slow learning. I think there's an answer here, somewhere. It's a problem I've been dancing around for a while; and do you remember how you learnt your first foreign language? For me, it was on the floor, absolutely absorbed in German comic books, flicking through the dictionary furiously and scribbling things down in a notebook. I only had one book, and one dictionary, and one grammar book. I want to go back to that sort of simplicity. There was joy in that.

One again: I don't have any answers. I don't know exactly what direction this blog is going to go in, as I wrestle with these sorts of meta-problems. I'd love to hear your thoughts. And for now, if there's one thing I'd like you to take away from this long and frankly absurdly rambling post (thank you for bearing with me!) it's an alternative answer for the question I get so often, about what you can do to learn the language when you're tired, because:

Yes, you could watch reality TV shows in Chinese, or you could give yourself permission to be human. You could rest.

Thanks guys. Meichenxi out <3

[azsazz]

Brains and Bravado

Kinktober Day 12: Dorian x Reader [Hate-Fucking]

Summary: Anon Req: For kinktober I would like to see either Rowan or Dorian! Maybe reader doesn’t get along with him but they have hate sex a lot and secretly like each other, however, they’re too stubborn (their pride) to admit it. Thank you for writing so many amazing fics for us, I’m excited for kinktober!👻

Based off of the previous ask of Dark Academia!Dorian

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 3,944

Notes: You'll know the part I yearn for when you read it 😏 the rest is sort of meh

_________________________________________

You dislike Dorian Havilliard very much.

It doesn’t matter that he’s the son to the king or that his best friend is a lord-turned-captain-of-the-royal-guard. Here, he’s just Dorian, an annoying pain-in-the-ass know-it-all that you’ve sworn to demolish with your good grades.

Unfortunately, Dorian is as smart with his head as he is with that tongue.

It’s said tongue of his that always gets him out of trouble. The professors love him, eat up any excuse to fall into his good graces, whether it’s passing him with flying colors or allowing him extra special office hours whenever he should come calling. 

It’s not only the teachers who fall for the boy who makes the ugly, pristinely-pressed uniform look way too good. Everyone laughs at his jokes, flounders over his words even when they have no meaning at all. Girls and boys alike fall to his feet at the charming ways he speaks to them, looks at them, flirtatious to the bone.

You aren’t like that. Intelligent, yes, but your lips don’t curve around your words like Dorian’s do. They are his long-time lover, held near and dear and are cared for. He speaks like an age-old poem, like he’d been an esteemed author in a past life, the way they flow so easily for him. 

No, you can write beautiful sentences, transform letters into works of art, ones that bring tears to the eyes of the beholder, but it’s speaking eloquently that always trips you up. You lack the emotion, the confidence, to really make your words ring true.

The laughter and easiness of the hall seems to dwindle into a silence that only Dorian himself can evoke, and you turn from gathering the textbooks you’ll need for the afternoon to watch. You don’t want to, but for some reason you’re as drawn to him as the rest of the crowd is.

Dorian’s sapphire eyes stir something in your chest, even more so when they flicker down your body and that little smirk appears, the one he knows pisses you off to no end. Your stare turns into a molten glare at that look, and the feeling coursing through your veins must be a hot hatred for the boy striding down the damned halls like he owns the place.

Chaol trails Dorian down the hall like an esteemed purebred, waiting for a treat. He had the glare of a bloodhound too, but it doesn’t do much to ward off the flirtatious glares the prince is receiving. There hasn’t been a single time all year that you’ve seen them apart. They’re even in all of the same classes for Mother’s sake.

That look makes you want to squirm, to claw his eyes out. What a privilege it must be, to be the king’s son, you think, slamming your locker shut with a loud clang and spinning on your heel, stalking down the hall to your next class.

One of the ones that Dorian’s in.

Thankfully, he stops to ogle some girls who’ve hiked their uniform skirts up to their eyes at the appearance of the prince. Chaol, ever the mindful guard, stops with them.

You can feel those gemstone eyes following you down the hall. Of course, everything that Dorian sees in you is only surface level. He doesn’t know your background or the fact that you’d been kept at school over the summer because your parents couldn’t afford for you to come home, all while he was living it up in the lavish palace he calls home.

He doesn’t know that late at night you sneak out of your rooms and into the library. There’s a hidden door in there, tucked away within the vast stacks of a history so ancient, that it makes you shudder to even glance at. You haven’t found the courage to step foot down that particular aisle of books because the raw power in the air makes the hair on your arms stand tall. You had made it your mission to muster the confidence to see what’s behind that door before you graduate, and plan on spending any of your free time searching for other hidden passageways within this centuries old school.

Whilst lost in the thoughts of the door in the library, you almost miss out on the entire lecture. Your professor doesn’t seem to notice because Dorian is answering all the questions she asks, and she’s wooed by his boring responses that even the dunces of the class could explain with flying colors.

By the time you’re released from class, you’ve decided to explore more of the library for hidden doors or books that give off a harrowing aura, when you slam into a wall. Not a wall, but the chest of your rival, Dorian Havilliard.

“Where are you going?” He asks, blocking you from stepping out into the hall.

You haven’t realized that the class had cleared out so quickly, and you shuffle a step backwards, trying to ignore the heat of his body and the way it had felt pressed against yours for a fleeting moment. In a burst of betrayal, that warmth converges between your thighs, and your muscles jump as you try to clench them together without his notice.

“To the library.” You don’t know why you answer, maybe because you’re thrown off by his sudden presence and lack thereof his best friend. Where is Chaol, you wonder, swallowing harshly when Dorian leans against his arm in the doorframe. He’s tall, muscular, and the shape he’s in draws your gaze down his perfect frame.

Something in those sapphire eyes flash, his mouth flattening from his smirk. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” you argue. Who is he to tell you what you can and can’t do in your own free time? “I want to get started on the paper Professor Erawan assigned us,” you lie, thankfully remembering that tidbit from class while your mind strayed.

“Then I’ll come with you.” It’s not a suggestion.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, wondering what he could possibly want from you when there are plenty of people willing to give him the attention he’s craving. Dorian straightens and waves you out of the room with a flourish of his hand.

You stare for a long moment, brows furrowed as you try to figure him out. You’re not friends, and you don’t want to be. All you really want is to beat him at his game of wits, be the first in class, and solve the mystery of what’s behind the dark door in the library. None of which needs any involvement from him.

“Please,” you roll your eyes, giving him a wide berth as you step around him into the hall. He immediately steps into line with you, and you try to ignore the way that he’s slowing his gait to stride alongside you. “You’re only coming to flirt with the librarian.”

Dorian’s grin is wolfish, “Why would I flirt with the librarian, when you’re right next to me?”

You trip over your feet at his words. Dorian catches you with a hand around your arm, steadying you. His touch is hot on your skin, and the look in his eyes is hot.

Your heart races in your chest.

Of course, Dorian has an ethereal beauty to him that anyone would consider themselves lucky to be with, but the fact that he’s flirting with you of all people, when all you’ve done all year is argue and bicker like an old married couple confuses you almost as much as the idea of the hidden door in the library.

“I don’t know why you’d flirt with me at all, actually,” you reply when you can finally find your voice. You’re being snippy, but you want the irritatingly handsome boy beside you to go away. He can find a place to stuff his cock elsewhere—you’re nowhere near as easy as the rest of the students in this school. “We don’t like each other.”

“Awe,” Dorian croons. When you glance over at him, he’s wearing a taunting smile, one that fills you with as much warmth as a cup of tea. “Who said I didn’t like you?”

Turning down the corridor to the library, it’s surely unlikely that Dorian will leave your side. You make a show of glancing around as if you’re looking for something, ignoring the way that your heart stammers in your chest at the mention that there’s a possibility he might actually enjoy your presence.

“Where is your little lap dog?”

Dorian barks out a startling laugh. He looks shocked himself, placing a hand to his chest, his cheeks pinkening as his chuckle echoes through the halls. It being the weekend, students and professors alike have fled the school buildings, more than ready to start the fun of the weekend.

You’re pretty sure that you and Dorian are the only ones left in the school.

“Chaol is on errand,” he tells you, sapphire eyes sparkling with interest. “Would you rather have him join?”

He says it like it’s a proposition, like you’d be pressed tightly between both of their bodies, like you’re not walking in through the doors into the expansive library that has more secrets than books.

You shoot Dorian a sidelong glance, your brows furrowed in confusion. He’s acting nothing like the Dorian you’re used to. Well, sure, he’s still the cocky prince you know, but the flirting is new. He’s staring ahead, like what he’s said hasn’t just thrown you completely off axis.

“Here looks good,” you mutter, sliding your books onto one of the large wooden tables lining the walls. Anything to fill the silence. It’s eerie in a building like this, stacks upon stacks of books filled with puzzles you’ve yet to piece together.

“You’re actually studying?” Dorian sounds affronted, like he can’t believe that studying is something done in a library at all. Like it’s some sort of secret brothel or a place for his conquests.

You wouldn’t put it past him.

“I told you I was going to study,” you bite, “What did you think I was going to do?”

You regret the words almost as quickly as they leave your lips.

“I thought you invited me so that you could sneak your hands down my trousers. Wear my tie around your neck while I take you over the table, perhaps?”

“I didn’t invite you at all,” you fight, but your voice is as weak as the knees you’re pressing tightly together, trying to ignore the sudden interest your cunt has in his words.

You gasp when you’re suddenly turned around, Dorian pressing in close. He’s staring down at you like you’re his favorite treat, sapphire eyes dark with interest, want, and a tinge of…hate? Annoyance, maybe, because you’re putting up much more of a fight than he’s used to.

His cock twitches at that.

“Do you want me to leave?” He asks, and the tenor of his voice rumbles deliciously against your chest. His scent is intoxicating, and you’re sure that his calloused fingers would feel just as good pressed against your skin as they are pinning your hips to the edge of the table.

Your brain must be on the fritz. Maybe you’ve stepped through that scary, looming, ancient door into another world because this cannot be happening. This isn’t Dorian.

“Why me?” you voice is quiet, a minute tremble to it that makes Dorian’s lashes flutter. He shifts on his feet, and you bite back the groan that crawls up your throat at the feeling of his hardening cock in his pants against your front. “Why now?”

He leans down to whisper in your ear, his long fingers tucking your hair tenderly behind your ear. The motion has your thighs clenching. His breath is a warm caress as he says, “Because I love it when you fight me. And I’ve had enough of keeping myself at bay. Hate me, if you must, but please let me fuck you.”

 “Yes,” you sigh, and the word is barely out of your mouth before Dorian’s lips are against yours, hot and unyielding, ravaging you completely like a predator does it prey.

His fingers clutch at your clothes, curling into the fabric in a feral sort of need that has you gasping, has your cunt weeping and lightning zipping through your veins. You chase the feeling, rolling your hips against Dorian’s.

You don’t know what’s come over you. The taste of his lips is exquisite and much sweeter than the vitriol the both of you are usually spitting at each other. His scent invades your senses—ice, ocean, magic, and musk. It consumes you as much as his presence is right now, overwhelmed by not just the primal need for you in his life but because of the strange events that have led you from loathing the boy lying you back onto the wooden table.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he pants when you arch into his body. His breath is hot, mingling with your own as you gasp for air. Dorian’s cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, matching the color of his swollen lips that he darts his tongue across, chasing your taste. His sapphire eyes are all pupil, dark and consuming and hungry for more. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

You follow his instruction like a person cursed, thighs spreading wide for Dorian as he stands to his full height. His eyes burn a thousand fires down your body as he takes his time drinking you in, the gentle caress of his hands following the same torturous path has shivers awakening across every inch of your body.

“Dorian,” you plead, but he’s too engrossed with taking his time. His fingers curl around the waistband of your pants, flicking the button open with ease and guiding them down your legs.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he admits, utterly distracted by the sight of your creamy thighs on display for him. He bites back the smirk that’s threatening to appear on his lips when you impatiently start kicking your pants down your legs with a frustrated and desperate keen. It makes his cock twitch, a bead of precum leak from the tip into the fabric of his underwear.

At the sight of your soaked panties calling to him like a siren, Dorian has to press his palm firmly against his aching cock, trying to keep himself from orgasming right now.

“How long?” you ask. Your fingers curl into the wood of the table because you need something to hold onto, and Dorian’s just out of reach. Your cheeks heat with arousal as those sapphire eyes zero in on your nipples where they’re tight and straining against your shirt. You don’t know why you feel the sudden urge to know how long he’s been thinking of you like this, why now is the time he’s finally decided to make his move, but you need to know his answer. “How long have you wanted me lying out for you like this, Dorian?”

His name sounds like heaven on your tongue, and he groans, releasing himself, his resolve snapping as he bends to take your mouth again.

You moan loudly, languidly. Dorian’s tongue brushes against yours and the feeling zips to your cunt as you imagine the feeling of his mouth sucking your clit, his tongue plunging inside of your dripping cunt like a starved male.

He hastily shoves up the fabric of your shirt, sneaking beneath the material of your bra to palm your breasts. You bury your fingers deeply into his hair, tugging on it when he tries to part from you. You didn’t know how desperately you’ve needed this—needed him—but now that his admission is out in the open and has you rethinking your dislike for the prince, you don’t want him to part from you.

“Since the first day we met,” Dorian breathes against your mouth. Your body goes slack with shock at the thought, fingers falling from his locks. Dorian doesn’t seem to notice, taking advantage of finally being free from you to mouth his way down your throat, burying his head beneath your shirt for a taste of your flesh.

You’d met Dorian years ago, on the first day of your time at school here. He was just as popular then as he is now, and just as cheeky, too. All you can recall from that day is the way how all of the other students were falling over their feet for a chance to befriend the prince. You’d wanted nothing to do with that, even when he’d stopped at your locker and tried to use his charm to get you to switch with him.

He had made a joke in poor taste, one that annoyed you enough to rebuttal with words not polite for someone of your status to say to a member of royalty, ever.

That was when you started to dislike Dorian Havilliard.

That sentiment is beginning to change, especially when he rolls one of your nipples gently between his teeth.

You cry out in pleasure, trying to grind your hips against his as you writhe beneath him on the table. Your arch, pressing your breasts into his mouth and he hums encouragingly, even more so when he hears the sound you make in response.

Dorian brushes his knuckles across your clothed cunt, reveling in how responsive you are for him when he’s barely done a thing. After this, he hopes that you won’t go back to hating him because he doesn’t think he can bear it, now that he has the taste of your engraved on his tongue.

He abandons post between your breasts, sliding his way down your body, kissing, licking, teasing every inch of skin that he can before he arrives at his desired destination. He settles himself between your legs, jerking your closer to him, your legs over his shoulders and ass leaning precariously on the edge of the table.

“Sweetheart?” he questions, and it takes effort for you to lift your head to look at him. Your body is burning with need, thighs trembling with anticipation. Your gaze is cloudy with lust and it takes you a few blinks to dispel it, giving Dorian your attention.

You scowl at the smirk gracing his lips. “What?”

“Do you still dislike me?”

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Dorian pull your panties to the side with long fingers that you know could hit every neglected spot inside of you. The cool air from the library breezes across your wetness along with the heat of his breath and it sends your mind into a dizziness of desire that forces you to take a moment to catch your breath.

“If I say yes?” you ask, biting your lip. Will he stop? Pretend that this was all some sort of game? A bet that he and Chaol had going on? Will he pop out from between bookshelves to laugh?

Before your mind can grasp onto one of those thoughts and overthink it, Dorian says with a twinkle to his sapphire eyes, “I’d say that you’re not going to after this.”

And then the prince feasts.

You fall back to the table with a cry of satisfaction. The thud of your head smacking the wood echoes throughout the library but you hardly feel a thing as Dorian licks a fat stripe up your clit. He doesn’t hesitate to bury himself in your cunt, fucking his tongue into you with fervor. Your thighs are already threatening to clamp shut around his head but his strong hold keeps them splayed wide as he devours you.

“Princeling,” you whine when you feel the tidal wave of orgasm building. You don’t know where the nickname comes from, somewhere buried as deeply inside of you as Dorain’s tongue is, but it has him growling against your cunt, trapping your clit between his teeth and flicking his tongue across it faster.

There’s nowhere for you to go, nowhere to squirm with the feeling that crashes over you because Dorian’s strength is pinning you to the table. Your fingers find his scalp, biting in, and Dorian welcomes the feeling, using that wicked tongue on you even when the wave crashes and you’re trying to shove him weakly away from your aching clit.

The reprieve of Dorian pulling away doesn’t last long. He straightens to his full height, keeping your legs hooked over his shoulders. It causes your body to slide even closer to him, your wet cunt butting right up against his cock that’s straining so hard in his pants that it’s painful.

“You’ll never call me anything else. Promise me,” he says, and with that harsh look in his eyes and the way that his lips glisten with your orgasm, you could never say no.

Dorian unsheathes himself, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down just enough that his cock springs free from its confines. He takes himself in hand, eyes wild with desire as he slides himself through your slickness.

Your breath is choked when you respond, “I promise.”

It’s pressed from your lungs completely with each inch his cock plunges into you. Your nails scrape against the wood of the table, the finishing catching beneath your nails. Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the feeling of him stretching you wide, Dorian’s low groan reflecting the one that your body is desperate to release but is unable to.

His curse is sinful when his hips finally meet yours. He’s staring down at you like you’re everything to him. Like you’re his queen.

“Dorian,” you gasp.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Move.”

Move he does. Dorian’s hands meet your hips and your fingers clamp down on his forearms as he thrusts his hips. He loves the marks you’re leaving on his skin, the way you’re branding him with your hot, wet cunt wrapped tightly around him. There’s a sheen to his eyes that shifts something in your soul. You can feel it splintering out of your chest, winding through your veins and into Dorian’s where you’re connected.

He seems to feel it too, with the way that he leans over you again to capture your mouth against his.

“You will be my ending,” Dorian breathes when he’s able to pull himself away from you. He doesn’t go far, his lips brushing yours with his confession. “I would give you my last breath if it meant keeping you alive, but I’m selfish enough to admit that I’d waste it because I cannot imagine a plane of existence where I am without you.”

“Dorian!” You shudder with his words, hiss because how can one male be so good with words? So good with his fingers, his tongue, his cock? The way that he’s hitting that spot again and again and again is driving you over the edge into an oblivion that he follows you into because he meant what he just said.

You revel in the weight of his body collapsing against yours while he paints the walls of your cunt with his cum. You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him tucked deeply inside of you. Your hearts beat loudly against each other, a heady drum of confessions and more.

You peck Dorian once, twice when your mind clears, trying to pull him from the stupor your cunt has put him in. He’s never felt like this before, never had sex this good. Even when you’re spewing fire at him, he’s wanted this, wanted you from the moment he set those sapphire eyes on you.

And now he has you.

[foursaints]

the rosekiller fix-it au

the dementor’s kiss can function as a really interesting form of absolution, i think. being soulless isn’t so terrible a punishment, in a world where souls can be split and shared between people.

that’s why i’m so interested in an evan lives!AU. because evan would make a horcrux out of the empty shell left of barty

of the dementor’s kiss, lupin says: “You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you'll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no...anything.”

it’s interesting that the brain & heart are unaffected, because it raises so many questions of what the soul actually IS. barty’s existence was pretty soulless already. a boy brought up under imperius, always in service to something else. his brain was often all that mattered.

they didn’t send him back to azkaban. i think he was left in the spell damage ward of st. mungo’s, mutely accepting gum wrappers from alice & frank longbottom, not remembering what he ever did to them, just receiving their kindness.

we don’t know what the effects of the kiss look like outside the walls of azkaban, where the inhabitants are catatonic already. barty’s fate is a big question mark: what does it mean to eat & sleep & think & hear & feel, with no soul? for one thing, i think it makes him a squib. i think he can’t joke, anymore. or dream.

but then: evan rosier is a healer. a strange, dark kind. HE knows what catatonic brain damage looks like, he knows it’s not this, barty otherwise left intact. he has always wanted to make an experiment out of him anyway.

evan rosier is a dark wizard. a death eater. he would already be capable of making something as “evil” as a horcrux, but i’m curious at the idea of a horcrux made for love’s sake.

and evan rosier is a twin. he and pandora were about as close to sharing one soul as two people could be. what i’m saying is that if he split his in half, he would be used to the feeling.

i want their helpless post-war domesticity. i want evan, who lost everything, reading the prophet article on barty’s kiss, who lost more. i want evan suppressing every memory, every feeling, every ghost of his lover, to try and be a scientist again. to tend after barty’s shell. i want evan going to riddle house, grimmauld place, looking for clues. realizing a horcrux has been made of a person already.

i want barty’s second chance at a life. i want the husk of barty, wiped clean, who has only ever known the inside of st. mungo’s and evan’s care. what a meager scrap of a soul he had. what an unsatisfying meal it must have been, for that dementor. isn’t this better? he knows very little, but his terrible cleverness is still there with his brain. he knows that evan is the only other person he’s ever met who has the same tattoo on his left forearm

i want evan killing something so good & innocent that it splits his soul in half. i want him still falling in love with the shell of barty, again, this different barty, and grappling with giving him his soul, wondering if it will change him. he doesn’t even want to lose THIS barty, while he’s tortured by memories of the last one. i want them sharing two broken halves of a soul: neither of them can get into the afterlife now, but it’s okay. they can live out their lives, together.

and there is always the sharon olds poem: “So what if he had no soul / I knew him soulless all my childhood”

[shoyoist]

ﾟ+* ꔫ — 𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐒 + 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 !!

content: gn!reader. sfw — fluff. slightly suggestive in shidou's part. featuring: bachira meguru, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, michael kaiser. some of these hcs were suggested to me by other tumblr users! they are credited separately under each part<3

— . ｡˚ ♡ he thinks of these special moments whenever he's feeling down, and it helps him get right back up.

° 𐐒𐐚 . bachira meguru + painting date!

credit to @katasstrophy for the idea! the bachira family has a little art studio built in their house, owned by bachira's mom. he takes you there one time, and though you'd been doing your best to keep things clean for his mother's sake, the two of you end up making a huge mess.

you're intently dabbing brown and yellow paint on your little canvas, looking back at the mental image you've conjured of your boyfriend sitting in a field of flowers and smiling at you, when you hear shuffling behind you.

"baby, baby," is all bachira says in warning. "look this way!" and you turn around, wide-eyed and inquiring as you finally look away from the canvas on which you've been meticulously painting a picture of your rogueishly adorable boyfriend—

only to be met with a splat of bright pink paint across your face. "m—meguru? what the hell?" it's on your cheek, dangerously close to your mouth that had been open in question to bachira's urgent request for you to turn around, and it's nearly in your eye. "god i could've eaten that shit!"

the sound of bachira's unapologetic giggling fills the quiet studio as you get up and pluck a wad of tissues from the box on the table nearby, wiping your face off with it. while your back is turned, he flicks his paint-sopped brush at you again, and you feel the paint hit the back of your neck. "don't do that!"

you stand up straight and turn your back to your easel, squaring your shoulders and doing your best to protect the painting.

"it's—" bachira's laughing so hard now, he snorts in between his words. "it's even worse now, baby — it's all over your face!" and you know that. because you can feel the paint smear down to your chin as you wipe. oh, you think, he's so fucking cute right now, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkly as he giggles.

but that's not going to stop you from retaliating. meguru, you're about to get it.

his mother chewed him out and made him clean the place up afterwards, but bachira would do it again and again and again, just to see your pretty smile and hear your pretty laugh, your eyes lit up as you tried to stay angry with him while the two of you made a mess of yourselves and the studio once more.

° 𐐒𐐚 . hyoma chigiri + poetry analysis date!

credit to @yakshasslut for the idea! chigiri gives you a book of his favourite love poems to read while he's away, and by the time he comes back home, you're brimming with tender feelings for him and he flusters so sweetly when you express it. ever since, it's been a tradition to share and mull over novels and poems together.

not many of chigiri's friends or teammates are well-versed in poetry or literature in general, but there is one novel of prose that each and every one of them can name and recognize within an instant — and it's a book that you gave your boyfriend as a gift, years ago.

it doesn't have much of you in it — it's a collection of poems that express the joys and pains of long distance love, and the only hint of you in it is the lipstick kiss on the front page, with a "for hyoma, my one and only<3" written on it in your handwriting.

he takes it everywhere. flicks through the pages while he's on the plane, while he's resting in his hotel room, and sometimes even takes it with him to games.

he takes so much care to keep it safe and in good condition, but it's quite worn now— he can't bring himself to shelf it, though. it's his most prized posession, almost.

he reads it and keeps in mind that while he's away, you're reading the new book that he had gifted you before he left, and he smiles to himself, imagining how you underline and draw hearts around your favourite lines and write little pencil notes about how "this is you @ me!"

don't get it wrong, chigiri loves being on the field. he loves the glamour, the adrenaline, the fire of scoring a goal — but at his heart, he's soft. domestic.

he hopes fondly for the day he'll get to lay in bed with you again (he's only going to be away for two weeks. but it feels like two months, or even years, sometimes) and have a cozy little date where you just sip on warm coffee and share sweet cakes while mulling over poems together.

it's comforting. it's home.

he thinks about the worn book of poems that sits on your shelf, back at your place. the one he gave you.

the one you read all the time, leaving new annotations bookmarked for him to find each time he picks the book up for a read.

if he ever actually tired of football, chigiri thinks he might just become a poet. for you.

° 𐐒𐐚 . mikage reo + picnic date at the beach!

credit to anonymous! reo is a rich man, and he's so used to fancy dinner dates, luxury trips, first class service, all that. so when you take him on a cute little beach date, getting him to help you cut sandwiches and bake brownies and cookies earlier in the day, it was a new experience for him. and he loves it.

“reo, what about here?” you ask, turning around to look at him as you hop in your cute little sandals on the sand. he's carrying the picnic basket and you have the blanket folded under your arms — and he's been following you across the pretty beach for about fifteen minutes now.

though you ask him if he likes the spot, he knows from the look in your eyes that you actually like this place, and it's nice! the sand is soft and there's not a lot of rocks or seaweed under foot, the shore is a short walk away, and the sunset spills so pretty onto your skin and into your eyes.

he's almost lost in the sight — but when you call his name again, sounding a little concerned as you ask, “reo? you okay?” he snaps out of it and gives you one of his signature, wide and adorable grins. “yeah! here is fine, baby.”

he doesn't know but even his eyes are lit up, the violet of them beautiful and tinted gold in the light of the setting sun, and you can't help but cup his face and kiss him as he puts the basket down and sits on the blanket beside you.

“isn't this fun?” you giggle against his lips, and he hums in agreement, taking your waist in his hands and pulling you in for another kiss. the evening has just started, but he already knows that he'll remember this moment fondly, forever. “mhm, it is fun.”

“you sure?” you ask, tracing his cheek with your thumb, and it's almost a softer, warmer feeling than that of the sun kissing his face. “it's not your usual scene, i know. we can always go to a—”

”no,” reo cuts you off, taking your hand. the smile he gives you is prettier, brighter than any he's ever given you before. it takes your breath away. “it's not my usual scene, yeah.” he chuckles. “in fact, i've never had a picnic on the beach in my life until now. but it's... nice. i love it.”

he says it so softly, and it's rare, coming from your bubbly, bright and ever-so-forward lover. and that's how you know he's telling you the truth.

“alright then.” you kiss his cheek, pulling away and sitting back, dragging the basket closer so you can take the food out. it's just a little kiss, the same as any other kiss you've given his cheek — but somehow, it holds a different sort of warmth, and it comforts him. makes him feel so softly, gently beloved.

and he swears he'll hold this warmth to his cheek, to his chest, to his heart — forever.

° 𐐒𐐚 . michael kaiser + homemade spa date!

credit to anonymous! off days with kaiser are the nicest spent indoors. you go on outdoor dates (and on dates overseas) so often, that it's a nice change to stay at home once in a while and spend some sweet, domestic time with him instead.

“mikka,” your tone is scolding as you cradle his face in your palms, stopping him from wiggling around as you try to stay balanced in his lap. “can you stop moving? the serum is getting in your hair!”

kaiser laughs, the lift of his lips making him look all the more prettier, and hence all the more fucking distracting, as you try to wipe the residual bits of the face mask you'd just peeled off your boyfriend's face, replacing the thick, opaque cleanser with softly translucent moisturizer.

he taps your palmful of moisturizer with an index finger, and with a quick move of the digit he swipes the blob on your nose, making you flinch back and blink in surprise.

“mikka!”

ah, there it is. mission successful. kaiser almost wishes he could go to sleep forever and in his dreams, listen to you calling him by that sweet little petname for the rest of his life. almost.

because he wishes more than that to kiss you all the time. like right now. he leans forward, the smile stretching his mouth giving away his intention to you, but not in time for you to escape. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in, kissing you with soft, sweet and swollen lips that you'd just finished exfoliating with sugar and honey.

“baby,” your eyebrows furrow, but you still kiss him back and it makes him chuckle because oh, for all the fuss you make and all the scowling you do, you love him so. “we'll never get to the manipedi by movie time at this rate.”

“movie time can wait, princess,” he sighs against your lips. “all i want right now is to watch you, anyway.”

and his words are romantic, suggestive, and they'd bring a blush to your cheeks for sure — if he hadn't accidentally tipped you off balance in that second.

“mikka!—” you yelp (to his delight) as he grabs you and tries to steady you — but even as he saves you, your hand reflexively flails upwards to curl around his arm for support.

and with a smack, the moisturizer is all over his bicep instead of lathered evenly across his face as it should be.

the upset on your face is apparent, but kaiser only grins expectantly as he grips your waist, adjusts your position in his lap again, waiting.

and you don't disappoint. “look what you've done! mikka!”

[floorbe]

"oh. oh" w Raphael

Raphael x GN!Reader (implied Tav/Durge but eh)

ya idk this is just raphael (bg3) realizing that his feelings for u aren't as objective as he thought they were. also how r yall getting fancy fonts on here

The first time he saw you, he knew exactly the type of person you were.

Another mindlessly optimistic “hero”, hellsbent on helping everyone around you, even at the cost of yourself.

It was perfect, really. He’d seen your type before— centuries of heroes had come to his door, his House of Hope, in a desperate bid to save those around themselves. Every hero that had come flocking to his door (hells, even those who didn't) were all the same: desperate, a comical attempt at a sliver of the hope he knew would never prosper. Heroes were born to die just as the world was made to spin.

Had Raphael not seen the Hells themselves and the souls within it he would certainly muse on reincarnation- surely not that many souls were that idiotic? Throwing themselves into the flames at the barest hint of someone in danger?

But he'd seen more of your type than he could imagine at his age. The chances of you turning up successful were slim to none- even with that damned prism shielding you.

He knew you. Your fierce hope that seemed to blind everyone around you- you turned hearts, and if he didn't have Hope chained in his damned basement, he'd question whether you had taken up the mantle. Still, you were the same as everyone else- centuries of life told Raphael this. So when you passed on his deal the first time around, he knew you’d be back. They always came back, it just took a bit of time.

He just had to wait. And if Raphael was anything, it was patient. He’d been waiting for centuries, what’s a few more mortal weeks? Months? A blink of the eye.

~

The first stirring that concerned him was when he was with Mol, sat comfortably across from each other. When you and your team had sauntered up, he'd felt eager at the chance to poke at you and your companions- rile you all up.

The words died in his mouth as he glanced up at you with practiced nonchalance only to catch your expression. The corner of your mouth quirked up- twitching in your attempt to hide it lest it reveal the less than innocent gleam in your eyes.

This was your plotting face, one you commonly had before causing some sort of mischief- minuscule as cheating at a game or large as attempting to pickpocket a telepathic God. Truly, you were so amusing to-

Pause.

His brows furrow as he absently follows your movement to whisper in Mol's ear.

When had he started to notice how your smile looked? Not only looked, but how it specifically twitched with each different scenario?

He brushes it off as being thorough. He's a Devil, certainly he's going to be able to read expressions. It's tactic. Manipulation. Nothing more.

He ignores the pull at the corner of his lip tempting him into an amused smirk when Mol eagerly makes the next move- reversing the game. How clever of you.

Not as clever as him, but clever nonetheless.

~

Next he found himself lingering around the entrance to the mausoleum long before he knew you'd get there. He was always early, of course, but you were still dealing with the tollhouse, for gods sake! No, he reasons, he's just a bit impatient is all. He's so close to getting you to agree to his deal, especially with your painfully weeping heart for Astarion's need for information. This will be a good way to soften you up for the real deal, he thinks.

Yes, certainly, that's why he's been rehearsing his poem for the last hour. Certainly. He has to be perfect after all- for you to... accept his deal.

~

Haarlep has been giving him that insufferable smirk all week long.

("You do realize it's technically your smirk-?" Haarlep is always quickly silenced by a glare and a dim flame blooming in Raphael's palm.)

He admits, he's been a bit more wound up than usual, but he doesn't see what that has to do with the incubus.

"You've been distracted," Haarlep purrs into Raphael's ear, trailing a pointed claw down Raphael's outfit, "You don't seem very interested in... well, yourself."

Raphael is quiet. His scribbling slows to a halt in his journal, and it's only with this pause that he realizes how messy his handwriting had become. Haarlep seems to realize the same, for he leans over Raphael's shoulder in sudden intrigue at the sprawled thoughts.

Raphael slams the book shut as soon as he realizes, with a stab of anger into his chest, that most of his pages recently have involved you in some way. How you faced off that shadow, how you're faring within the more darkly cursed lands, how you're faring against his enemy trapped deep within that mausoleum...

"...My, my. The fox has left its hiding place," Haarlep murmurs, resting their chin on Raphael's shoulder. Raphael can practically feel the smug grin coming off his mirror form- frustration boiling in his gut as he shoves Haarlep off.

Haarlep lets out a delighted laugh as they back up, "My, the fox really is invested in his prey this time, isn't he?"

Raphael tenses at the words, already feeling his temper flare at the rare vulnerability that's been forced from him. But of course, it's never quite enough for Haarlep. They always have to push.

"I wonder..." Haarlep begins, a discernible pout revealed in their tone as they drape themselves over Raphael's back, "I wonder what that little mouse tastes like, don't you?"

The comment snaps something in Raphael, flinging Haarlep back with a flurry of his arm, engulfed in flame. Haarlep lets out a yell as they stumble back, only for their expression to twist back into that smug grin as they retreat from the room.

"Let's hope little mouse makes it back from your mousetrap, then," Haarlep's voice echoes before they blip out of the room.

Raphael takes a long moment, chest pushing out in his attempt at a deep breath. His knuckles are blanched from gripping his pen so tightly, and he releases it with a growl. He doesn't care for you, he just wants you back alive to convince you into his deal! For his benefit! Hells, all of his journal entries regarding you are about how to manipulate you and those idiotic companions of yours, not-...!

He lets out an angered groan, nearly tearing the paper from his notebook to flip back a few pages. He can't believe he's actually checking, but the image of Haarlep's smug tone has him itching to prove the incubus wrong.

However, as he skims back over his writings, he detects the unfathomable tone of... is that worry seeping through his words? He combs through the page again and again, the furrow of his eyebrows deepening with each word he hisses under his breath.

Raphael had always been able to count on his words, if nothing else. Splendid liar as he is, lies go nowhere when not presented properly. Stories need to be twisted, hearts swayed, tears summoned- his strength lays in his wordplay and it's something he takes an immense amount of pride in.

So why do his entries seem more focused on the prospect of you returning to him rather than scripting out what he'll say when you do? When had his mind shifted from tossing you aside to wondering when you'll be back? If you'll be back?

That thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. If you'll be back. The foe he sent you after isn't known for his mercy. What if you didn't make it? Didn't come crawling back to Raphael with that infuriating smug look you get when you know you're right-

For a split second, he feels regret at tasking you to kill such a powerful enemy. As soon as the feeling prickles in his gut it's replaced by a searing irritation. He banishes the thought from his mind in an instant, disgust curling up his abdomen and making his head spin. He didn't care, he didn't. He was worried from a business standpoint... he saw how fun you made manipulating you, curiosity on how you'll end, nothing more.

Still.

When was the last time he’s felt anything akin to concern for anyone but himself? Even in his clients he only saw opportunity: to punish them for failure, to get what he wants, to sate his curiosity to where this adventure will go... To suddenly feel a prick of care for anything beyond his own amusement was jarring. Even Haarlep wasn’t granted a modicum of his worry, and he shared his damned face— why you?

He’s met countless heroes, adventurers, nobles, and nigh none warrant his concern. His attention. No one warrants the quiver in his quill. You aren’t special.

Mm, but how you are.

That thought concerns him almost as much as you do.

[axelsagewrites]

Aemond Targaryen*Poloraids

Pairing: modern! Aemond x f! Reader

Word count: 2373

Part Two at bottom

Warnings: nudes, talks of sex, phone sex, sex toys, nipple play, dom Aemond, slight bratting, teasing, smut 18+

A/n: wrote this on my notes app and posting on mobile cause I can't sleep so pls forgive formating errors till I can check on my laptop tomorrow but for now enjoy desperate Aemond phone sex

Masterlist here

You had only been apart from Aemond for a mere three weeks but in that time you missed him more than you could have imagined. He was off to his dream college while you packed up to go to your own dream school. Aemond would never even think of asking you to follow him or potentially ruin your dream and had insisted you would survive the distance.

He was only a four hour drive away but being in your freshman year you barely had time to sleep let alot drive four hours one way to see your boyfriend. Maybe after the first semester it would be easier but for now you had to be content with late night phone calls and the letters he sent.

Yes Aemond had insisted on writing letters. You both wrote a letter to each other the last night you spent together before he left for college and mailed it out to the others dorm. You usually got two, sometimes three letters a week and of course you always returned his mail.

While you kept each other up to date on life and school over the phone the letters were a more personal touch, romantic even. Aemond did his best to write you poety even if English was not his strong suit. You just new he was blushing as you read his poems all those miles away. He'd sometimes send small packages with the letters. This ranged from books he thought you'd like to a sweatshirt from his college that he had worn for a week and covered in his cologne.

You almaot made sure to put just as much love into your mail. Your letters rambled on for pages about what you missed about him and the life you would build after university. He'd gifted you a Polaroid camera and a stack of film before you had left and you made sure to include pictures of you in your dorm, your campus, and the sights around you. Aemond had sent you a snap of his desk set up with your poloraids pinned around his reminder board, a picture of you unpacking your dorm with a cheesy grin right beside where his laptop would sit.

However while you knew you would miss him you hadn't even thought about how much you'd miss his touch. And not just his hugs which always warmed your heart but for gods sake you had never been so horny. Your roommates boyfriend was only a building away and you were jealous every time she came back with hickeys covering her neck and mascara smudged under her eyes.

"Don't worry you'll see your precious Aemond eventually," Sara joked after you had admitted to you jealous states, "then he can fuck your brains out so you're not so tense,"

"I'm not tense," but you were. So fucking tense.

It was one night when you caught Sara taking suggestive pics out the corner of your eye did you get the idea. Your eyes fell to the poloraid camera on your desk. So far you had never sent Aemond any kind of explicit pictures like that. Sure you did your best to look good when you snapped him but he'd never asked for a nude and you had never thought of sending them. But maybe if you started it, like the mail, he would return the favour.

When Aemonds latest letter came in the mail Sara happened to be out the dorm and staying the night at her boyfriend jaces frat house. After reading the letter your eyes fell to the camera. You racked your mind for a few moments, wondering if the reason why Aemond had never asked was because he never wanted them. But what guy would turn that down, you wondered. Plus it wasn't like you and Aemond hadn't done stuff in the past. He was always sneaking into your house to get his hands all over you.

Fuck it, you thought. You quickly rummaged through your drawers, finding the few nice lingerie pieces you had brought with you before you settled into wearing Aemonds boxers and a sports bra religiously.

You quickly slid into the black lacey bra and thong set you had convinced yourself you would wear to a party for a confidence boost and never had. It had been one of Aemonds favourites before you left for college. You did your best to straighten the sheets and hide your clutter as you set up for the first photo.

You took a few moments trying to get into the perfect pose before snapping a picture of your chest, sticking your tits out to make them pop. And boy did they look good. When you saw them printed on the film you couldn't help the ego boost when you saw yourself dolled up. You moved the camera lower, taking a picture of your hips and thighs, twisting your body into the poses you'd seen on dirty magazines.

You took a couple more in that set, trying the recreate some tiktok recommended poses you'd seen, when you suddenly really started to feel yourself. You changed quickly into another set, a dark red body you had bought for the first time Aemond would visit you. You were sure he wouldn't mind you wearing it without him when he saw the results. This time you made sure to capture your ass perfectly, loving how it looked in the angles you tried.

Then came your last idea. Your eyes fell to the sweatshirt he had sent you. You quickly stripped off the lingerie and tugged on a more simple thong that still looked amazing on. You slipped into the hoodie, letting yourself emerse yourself in his smell. This time your pictures were you sat at your desk, set up as if you were studying but you lifted the camera to a high angle so he could see your bare thighs. Next you lifted the shirt, giving him a show of your underboob and waist. Then finally one last pic of you bent over the desk as if you were waiting for him.

As you snapped the last pic you heard Sara's key in the lock and quickly sprinter to jump under your covers, trying to look as innocent as possible as you put the printed Polaroids under the covers.

The next day you finished writing your letter and slipped in four of the nine poloraids you had taken. You made sure to sit them behind the letter in the envelope since you didn't need his roommate getting a private show. You posted the letter and did your best to act casual over the phone with Aemond but you couldn't help feel anxious about his reaction.

Two days later your phone rang as you were sat in bed finishing an essay on your laptop. "Hey baby," you greeted as you read over your list of spelling mistakes.

"Don't hey baby me," Aemond said, catching your attention and making you move your laptop to the side, "You think trying to tease me is funny?"

"Tease you-" you said as you sat up properly in bed trying to figure out what he meant when it hit you. "Did you get my letter?" you said not able to hide the smirk in your voice.

"Oh I got your letter alright darling," Aemond said darkly and you could just imagine him pacing his dorm room while his roommate was out. "and the pictures,"

"Did you like them?" you said with a light giggle as if you had been transformed back to the start of your relationship. "I thought you mightve been getting lonely over there. So far away," you said with a fake pout, loving the affects you had already had on them.

"Are you kidding me?" Aemond said with a dark chuckle, "You look positively fuckable in these doll. I don't know how I'm supposed to contain myself till I see you,"

You felt your stomach go light like butterflies were dancing in it at his words. "I've got more if you'd like," you said as you twirled your hair like a school girl.

"God's you really are a little minx aren't you?" Aemond groaned making you giggle, "You won't be so cocky when I get there. No you get all shy don't you? Like a good little girl,"

"Maybe I don't wanna be a good girl," you teased as you discarded the laptop onto your bedside table, moving to lay down as you spoke.

"You know what happens when you don't behave doll," Aemond warned in the same voice he used when he used to hold you by your jaw, forcing you to meet his eye.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" you grinned as your hand searched your bottom drawer for the vibrator you had stashed away for nights like this where all you wanted was Aemonds touch. "You're not here to make me do anything,"

"Just you wait doll," Aemond said as you heard him crash down onto his bed, "When I'm there you'll regret being such a brat,"

"I don't believe you," you teased as you slipped the vibrator between your legs, slowly running it up and down your folds before it was even on.

Aemond was silent for a moment and you wondered how good he must look right now with that stern look on his face," You're touching yourself aren't you?" he said making your actions pause.

"No I'm-" you started to stutter out only to be interrupted by Aemonds chuckle.

"Oh baby girl you really are that desperate aren't you?" he said, his smirk evident in his voice, "trying to get off by just my voice. Bet you could as well love you're that desperate," you tried to argue but Aemond kept talking, "Turn it on doll. I know you're using that pretty little vibe of yours aren't you?"

"maybe," you said, your voice shaky as you reached for the button.

"So predictable," he chuckled, "God's you looked good when I would use that on you. Turn it on doll and go slow. I want you to earn it if you're gonna be such a tease,"

Even from so far away Aemond still had a control over you which made you switch the toy onto it's lowest setting and slowly run it up your folds, gasping as your ran it over your sensitive clit." that's a good girl, "Aemond praised when he heard your noises through the phone. "I'm just looking at these pics love," you heard him say as you moved the vibe to slowly circle around your clit, "Such pretty pictures," he said, "almost as good as the real thing. Almost because it won't be long till I bend you over that desk of yours. You'd like to that wouldn't you? Me fucking you over your desk in my sweetheart,"

"Yes," you whimpered but Aemond tutted over the phone.

"Yes what?"

"Yes sir," you correct yourself, moaning as you felt a knot bubbling in your stomach.

"Good girl," Aemond praised and you could swear you could hear him jerking off on the other end, "now turn up the vibe baby and slip it in,"

You whined but did as instructed, the soft silicone easily slipping into your wet pussy, "It's in," you said, your voice whiny.

"Good. Now tighten your thighs to hold it there. You're gonna need your hands love," he said, a slight groan in his voice as he stroked his member.

"Okay," you stuttered, doing as he said but also laying your phone next to your head on speaker, "now what sir?"

"Now I want you to squeeze those perfect tit's of yours," he said, his breathing more rugged, "they look so good in that red little number of yours. Can't wait to tear it off you,"

"Thank you sir," you moaned as you followed his instructions and wishing it was his hands.

"Now pinch those perky nipples of yours," Aemond said which you gladly complied with, rolling them between your fingers, "Miss kissing those perfect tit's of yours. Gonna cover them in hickeys next time I get my hands on them. Might even take a picture for good measure. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Yes sir," you whined as you felt your body start to jerk at your already approaching climax.

"You gonna cum baby?" Aemond asked, his breathing shaking as he approached his own edge.

"Yes," you whined, greatful your roommate had left for the night, "Please sir can I cum now please?"

"Fuck," Aemond gasped, "Yes baby cum for me. Be a good girl baby don't hide any of those pretty noises. Think I might just cum from hearing them," he said.

You couldn't even say anything else as your body began twitching, your legs shaking as you felt your orgasm rip through your body. You didn't try to hide your moans and it wasn't long till you heard Aemond mumbling curses and praise through the phone. "Fuck," Aemond gasped as he started to catch his breath.

"Did you..?" you asked, your voice trailing off.

"Yes darling," he said with uneven breath, "All over these pictures love. Is there any chance you could send some more?" he asked but this time his voice was far more shy.

You laughed lightly as you rolled onto your side, snuggling into your pillow now suddenly tired, "of course baby. How come you never asked before?"

"I didn't want you to think I'm some kind of pervert," Aemond confessed now far more sheepish than his sexy persona.

"You're not a pervert Aem, you're my boyfriend," you laughed, imagining how his cheeks would be flushing right now. "Of course I'll send some more baby you'll just need to be patient," you teased.

"I'm sick of being patient," Aemond groaned like a toddler who had been told no, "I'm driving up to see you Friday after class no questions, no excuses,"

"Aemy that's a long drive are you sure?" you asked, worried how he'd be able to get all his work done if he was so far from college.

"More than sure baby. I need to see you and besides. I have a few new ideas of what you could do with that camera,"

Part Two here

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @starkleila

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Prompt: More Last Lines

Choose one of the last lines of these literary works, and either create a new story/poem or continue writing the story...

“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.” —Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (1847)

“For the first time they had done something out of Love.” —Patrick Süskind, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (1985)

“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this.” —Louisa May Alcott, Little Women (1868)

“‘Darling,’ replied Valentine, ‘has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words?—‘Wait and hope.'” —Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo (1846)

“Later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.” —Bram Stoker, Dracula (1897)

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” —John Steinbeck, East of Eden (1952)

“I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.” —Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go (2005)

“The strains of the piano and violin rose up weakly from below.” —Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984)

“For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.” —Albert Camus, The Stranger (1942)

“The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.” —Joseph Heller, Catch-22 (1961)

If this writing prompt inspires you in any way, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read your work!

last lines pt. 1

[iambicpentameterhamster]

What i think of you based on your favourite Six of Crows character

Matthias Helvar:

You probably read a lot in the fantasy genre and take yourself too seriously (no offense) probably busy daydreaming about profound things and writing poems that you'll eventually delete. You love bleak and gritty stories and you listen to Coldplay, Conan Gray or The Tortured Poets Department. No shade though, you guys are probably great friends with value for loyalty. In summary, i think you're all either really intense and ernest or totally shy and quiet. You're probably heterosexual to be honest.

Nina Zenik:

I think people who's favourite is Nina don't tend to be much like her in real life, but are the type of people that would really want to befriend her. I'd say you're more introverted and quietly friendly, but then you act totally different and comfortable with the right friends. Technically disapproving of gossip, but turn into Regina George if the rumour is juicy enough- secretly judgemental but it all comes out to your best friends. You have a good sense of humour and probably quite a cynical/pessimist mindset overall. I know you like campy films like Legally Blonde and Clueless. Oh, and your favourite subject is definately history.

Inej Ghafta:

If you're drawn to the steady and honest beat of Inej's thoughts, I think you're quite an anxious or scattered person who enjoys how safe and comforting she feels as a character. I'd say you're a sensitive person with a keen eye for colour and art. Your favourite chapters in SOC are definately the backstory and romance chapters. You cry often at films and music and just when you feel bittersweet or happy. You have Hozier, Mitski or Radiohead on your playlists. You're either artsy smart or english smart, there's no way your a science/maths kinda person.

Wylan Van Eck:

This one is split. You're either one of those people that infantalises and simplifies his character and reduces both him and Jesper to their ship and nothing else, OR you're literally the best person ever. If you're the latter, you're probably super empathetic and appreciate depth as well as a good laugh, and i severley doubt you yourself enjoy maths and chemistry despite loving that look for Wylan. I've also never met a Wylan stan who wasn't a HARDCORE fan of SOC in general. You guys are the loudest complainers about Shadow and Bone being cancelled, and honestly, power to you. I bet your room is a bombsite right now too- pick up those dirty clothes, for christ sake.

Kaz Brekker:

All Kaz Brekker fans are somewhat infatuated with him. Your favourite chapters/scenes are absolutely the action and sexual tension scenes. All about high stakes and excitement, and you love to be surprised. That or you have a big thing for the bad boy trope. I think you have "dark achademia" or grunge-ey pinterest boards that don't match your real life style. I also think you think chess and piano are really sexy but play neither yourself. You and your friends probably read terrible Wattpad stories for a joke. Generally, you're somehow relaxed and simultaneously intense as fuck. 70% of you are Queer women/ nb people, other 30% are intensely heterosexual.

Jesper Fahey:

You have Queen on your playlist. Queen or Gorillaz. You're probably a quite casual person who is taken with Jesper's charm and humour, and you appreciate the comedic relief as you don't enjoy too much grit and heavy stuff with no humour breaks. But despite being not the most sensitive person in the world, Jesper's backstory caught you off guard and it HURT. I think you love comedies and action, you're decent at school and you're quite popular with a good circle of friends. A social person. Potential theatre kid, but minor roles/tech, and the only musical you really like is Hamilton lmao. You are generally a funny person, but you've definately experienced that moment where you tell a joke and nobody laughs.

Anybody else:

Non-existent.

OH AND ALSO, KAZ AND WYLAN FANS ARE THE ONES WHO WRITE ALL OF THE FANFICTION

[chososdiscordkitten]

pairing: Choso x depressed!reader

content: sfw, no nasty stuff, depression, mentions of family trauma, comfort, not proofread, sorry for any mistakes, idk just stuff from my brain.

word count: 594

Just thinking about Choso with a depressed partner.

Him knocking on your door after not seeing you for a while, “Are you okay?” he'd ask as he walked into your dark bedroom. Not being able to see you, only a lump under your blankets as he walked towards your bed. The light from the hallway lit up the room a bit.

Kneeling on the ground and calling your name. You wouldn't answer, only reaching a hand out to him. “What's wrong?” he'd ask, feeling how cold your hand was.

“Nothin.” you'd say, feeling his hand pulling at the blanket to see your face, seeing you balled up under the sheets, dark bags under your eyes. He had heard about depression, about how deeply it affected people's lives. And it hurt him to think that you suffered from it.

“Do you need anything?” he'd ask, seeing your eyes close and quiet tears leave your eyes. You nodded, telling him no without saying a word. Knowing if you spoke out, you'd start sobbing.

The mere question of ‘what's wrong?’ bringing stinging tears to your eyes. You felt him let go of your hand, and standing up. He was just going to get you some water or a snack, but you thought he'd leave.

“Could you stay?” you asked, looking up at him.

“Of course.” he'd say, walking to the other side of the bed and laying with you.

“I'm sorry.” you croaked, turning around to face him. He looked over at you, face puzzled at your apology. “I know you didn't sign up for this.” you continued, feeling his hands wrap around you as you cried.

“Don't apologize.” he mumbled, “I will be here through the good times and the bad.” he assured. “I will love you on your good days, and even more on the bad ones.” he continued, his hands holding you so tight that if he squeezed any harder you wouldn't be able to breathe. 

I see him bringing you pomegranate seeds in a bowl, even though you weren't hungry, you'd eat them for his sake. Knowing that he took his time taking the seeds out just for you.

Always so patient and gentle, being the kind of person who would kiss your tears away when you talk about your past. Who would cry with you when he hears about what your family did and would feel your pain with you.

Holding you as he recites poems from memory when you can't get out of bed, holding you as you cry silently into his chest.

I see him being the type to convince you to finally leave your bed, “I read that plants grow better in the sun.” he'd comment as he put a sweatshirt on you, “I'm not a plant.” you'd mumble, as he took your hand and led you out the comfort of your bedroom.

“True, but I want to test a theory.” he said, holding your hand as he led you outside. You closed your eyes, feeling the warm sun on your face, and the cold breeze on your cheeks.

“This is called photosynthesizing” he'd say, a warm smile on his face as he watched you take in the sun. "Is it working?” he'd whisper, seeing a small smile appear on your face, “A little.” you smiled, feeling his hand tighten its grip on yours.

He knows photosynthesizing only works on plants, but he also knew that back in the 1800’s, they'd send people to the countryside for mental health. So there had to be some truth to it, right?

-

this is sum a lil short, ive been feeling pretty down recently and kept thinking about this. this is my personal experience with depression so im sorry if you can't relate or something.

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 11: Fun

Summary: Astarion is surprised, in more ways than one, by the morning after. Rating/Warnings: PG, casual murder, poisoning, degradation/humiliation. Full tag list on AO3. Read on AO3. Chapter 10❤️‍🔥

Astarion wakes from his trance surprisingly refreshed. He stretches his nude body languidly, enjoying the brief flash of soreness in his muscles. Beside him, Tav still rests peacefully. He openly admires her, his eyes lingering on the bite marks he gave her last night. The mottled petals of the bruises lay so beautifully against her skin. 

The morning sunlight streams through the canopy in golden ribbons as Astarion quietly rises, moving to bask in a nearby sunbeam. His mind goes blank as he lets the pleasure of it all wash over him. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time.

His plan is working. He’s safe and full. The morning sun feels so warm on his skin.

“Good morning,” Tav interrupts his musings, her voice gravelly with sleep.

“Good morning,” he replies. He’s loath to turn around, wanting to keep sunning himself, so he shifts slightly so he can watch her out of the corner of his eye. “You’re up early! I thought you’d be exhausted after last night.”

“Oh, I am,” Tav yawns. She arches her back in a deep stretch, her nipples pebbling in the morning chill. Light purple hickeys dot her breasts, each one a small reminder of their night together. They will take days to fade. “I quite enjoyed myself,” she admits, smiling at him. Astarion preens. Of course she did. All according to plan. Behind him, he can hear Tav get to her feet. “Did you have fun?” she asks, suddenly tentative. 

“Of course, my darling,” Astarion answers, surprised by the question. “You’re a veritable feast.” “Good, I’m glad,” Tav says, relieved. “Towards the end, I was worried that something may have been wrong?” Astarion stiffens imperceptibly. “But I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to ruin the moment.” Astarion isn’t quite sure how to explain this. 

“I was holding back a little, it’s true,” he reveals. “I didn’t want to lose control. Delicious as you were, I didn’t want to go too far.”

It’s the truth, it’s just not the whole truth. For the sake of the plan it was imperative that he perform correctly, and that meant remaining in control. But even though their tryst may have been tailored to Tav’s pleasure and tastes, he still enjoyed himself. Even holding back, he experienced more pleasure last night than he has in decades. But there is no need to talk about all that.

“Oh,” Tav says, obviously chewing on his words. It occurs to Astarion that he has never had to navigate a “morning after” before. Not like this. Is it always so awkward? So vulnerable?

“Now let’s go, we have a long day ahead of us,” he prompts. He turns towards the oak tree, where he had left his clothes, but stops when he sees the pensive expression on Tav’s face.    “May I ask about your back first?” Tav asks. 

Of course she had noticed it. Most of the time Astarion tries to forget it is even there. He considers brushing her off, burying his shame even deeper down. But a bigger, louder part inside of him howls for comfort.

“It’s a poem,” he explains, crossing over to the oak tree to gather up his shirt. He had left it carefully folded at the base of the trunk. “A gift from Cazador.” He pulls his shirt over his body, fussing with its fit. “He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas. He composed that one over the course of a night.” Tav just listens, letting him speak. “He made a lot of revisions as he went,” Astarion finishes, his voice soft and deep. He can’t quite keep the pain from those last few words.

“That’s awful,” Tav says quietly.

“Yes, well. ‘Awful’ does aptly describe Cazador,” he replies.

“Are you sure it’s a poem?” Tav asks.

“Of course I’m sure,” Astarion insists, not sure at all now. “That’s what Cazador said, as he was carving it into my back.” Cazador, who of course was a completely trustworthy source of information. 

“It just doesn’t look like any poem I’ve ever seen before,” Tav presses. “Well, I didn’t say he was a good poet!” Astarion cries. “What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t look like any poem you’ve ever seen before?’”

“Well for starters, why did he write it in Infernal?” Tav asks. 

“Infernal?“ Surprise jolts through him, settling in the pit of his stomach where it quickly curdles into fear. He has no idea what this means, but it can’t be anything good. Nothing with Cazador is. 

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what happened. 

“I-Who knows. The bastard was insane,” he says dismissively. “Now let’s go, before I regret my restraint last night,” he purrs, trying to pivot this conversation back into comfortable territory. 

Tav looks at him thoughtfully before silently dressing and gathering up her things. His flirtation falls flat, ringing falsely even to his own ears. Its hollow echo follows them all the way back to camp, where they both quietly slip into their separate tents.

~

They smell the goblin camp before they see it. A miasma of filth blankets the base of the western mountains in a bouquet of smoke, sweat, death, and dung. And, of course, that one singular, arresting note: blood. Old and new, stale and fresh, rotten and delicious. It stinks to high heaven. 

There’s a group of goblin warriors guarding a narrow entrance that passes for a gate. Tav pulls them all aside before they engage.

“Listen, you three,” she levels a serious glare at Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’Zel. “I know the past few days have been….” She pauses, trying to choose her words carefully.

“Thoroughly frustrating?” Shadowheart remarks. 

“The time of your life?,” Astarion offers, suggestively.

“Bad,” Lae’Zel declares. 

“Bad,” Tav agrees. “And I know this group has had its challenges. But I don’t know what we’re going to find in there, and I don’t know what we are going have to do to make it out alive. Hopefully with Halsin, but we need to anticipate the worst. We can only make it through this together.  I need the most vicious and ruthless fighters of our group to have each other’s backs today. So, can you put aside your differences to make this work?” 

“Of course, darling. I’m a consummate professional,” Astarion vows. 

“Affirmative,” Lae’Zel confirms.

“So long as nothing is said to me, I’ll be fine,” Shadowheart says, turning up her nose. Tav sighs. 

“I’ll take it. Let’s go.”Tav is all business now, already forging ahead with the business of the day. Which is perfect, because Astarion has absolutely no desire to address the morning’s awkwardness. He’s trying to enjoy his victory, but something still feels off to him. Last night was a success, but there’s a nagging voice inside of him that says it was not enough. That he will need to do more to truly secure his place.

Lae’Zel, Shadowheart, and Astarion all watch as Tav bluffs her way past the goblin guard at the entrance. Just as they are about to pass, the guard stops her and points to a gelatinous turd at his feet. He gestures to it with his hand and pantomimes applying it to his face. Tav takes his suggestion, bending down to scoop up the excrement. 

“Oh no,” Astarion whispers to their cohort.

“She wouldn’t,” Shadowheart whispers back, incredulous.

“She had better not,” Lae’Zel growls. Tav looks back at them over her shoulder. Their disgust for this is palpable, magnified in triplicate. Her eyes find Astarion’s.

And she winks. 

Tav flings the poop directly in the goblin’s face, immediately souring any hope of peaceful entry. Astarion laughs a high, whooping laugh as he rushes to high ground. He easily snipes the goblins who try to call for help while Lae’Zel, Shadowheart, and Tav clear the remaining guard with relish and ease. So much for goblin security.

“Did you really think that I would do that?” Tav asks them as she leads the way inside. “Did you really think I would smear shit on my face?”

“I’m never quite sure what you are going to do next,” Astarion teases. Tav glares at him, playing at being insulted. Well, maybe she is a little insulted. “I just meant that you are full of surprises, darling.” 

Tav hums a low, sarcastic note. “Good surprises, I hope?” she replies. There’s a hopeful glimmer in her eye that makes his stomach flutter.

“Naturally. Only the very best,” he promises, his tone low and provocative. Tav disguises her smile with a playful eye roll.

“If you debase yourself like that for a puny goblin I truly will leave,” Lae’Zel warns. Astarion and Shadowheart hesitate at her words, but Tav giggles as if it is a joke and not a serious threat.

“Noted, Lae’Zel. I will not smear poop on my face.”

Once through the gate, no one questions their presence. The goblin camp is utter chaos, and probably more surprisingly, filled with more than goblins. As they cross a crumbling bridge, they spot a familiar face on a makeshift dias across the way. 

“Is that? Volo!?” Tav gasps. Volothamp Geddarm, noted writer, adventurer, and overall smarmy fuck, fumbles his way through a monologue of nonsense as a crowd of goblins jeers and pelts him with trash.

“With fragulous crown and sceptre abrade, Dror Ragzlin short work of the innkeeper made!”

“Bravo!!!” Tav cries, clapping loudly to drown out any booing. The goblins scowl, side-eyeing Tav with annoyance. 

“Come on darling, that’s not the kind of show they want,” Astarion whispers. “They want to mock him.”

“Z’ose friends o’ yours?” A female goblin asks, her voice laden with suspicion.

“Of course not! No funny business here!” A flustered Volo laughs nervously. He shoots a quick glare at Tav.

“What are you doing? I’m busy here!” He says, shooing them away. He begins his screed again.

“Dror Ragzlin….Dror Ragzlin….” Volo tries his best, but he eventually trails off pathetically. A goblin chucks a cup at him, splashing Volo with the dregs of stale ale. 

“If you aren’t gonna perform, you’re goin’ back in tha cage!” The goblin yells. Volo withers before her.

“Of course, ma’am,” he grovels. She shoves him harshly off the stage, much to the delight of the crowd.

“We have to help him!” Tav whispers to their group. Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’Zel all share a look.

“We are not here for the annoying wizard. We are here for the druid, as you said,” Lae’Zel reminds her firmly.

“It’s true, I did say that. But, we will almost certainly have to fight to free him! Won’t that be fun?” Tav says. Lae’Zel considers this.

“I do not fight for ‘fun.’ I fight to win. I fight for the honor and glory of Vlaakith,” she announces.

“Tav, this is Volo you are talking about,” Shadowheart complains.

“The Volo. Maybe if we save him he will put us in his next book!”

“That’s precisely what I am afraid of,” Astarion says. 

“But then we’ll be famous!” Tav smiles sweetly up at him.

“Make us rich and famous and then you have a deal,” Astarion counters.

“Lady of Sorrows, will you two stop flirting with each other? I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but this hellhole is a temple to Selûne,” Shadowheart spits out the name with vitriol. “Even if it’s appropriately defiled, l don’t want to be in a temple of the Moon Witch for longer than I have to be,” Shadowheart whines. Tav looks away shyly, chastened. But when the cleric turns away, Tav looks at him and pulls a face behind Shadowheart’s back. Astarion stifles a smirk.  

Something between them is changing, which is perhaps why it feels off to him. They have always shared banter, but it seems as though she’s actively trying to make him laugh now. And if he makes a joke, he can depend on Tav to laugh, even in a wry sort of way. It’s flirtatious, but it’s fun.

Fun. Perhaps he should chase that feeling. After the revelation that there may be more to his scars than he knows, a little fun with his lover at the expense of some goblins sounds like just what he needs. Lover. The word sounds so serious. And yet it isn’t. Not really. It could mean a lot of things. 

As they walk, Astarion takes in more of their surroundings. They seem to be in a courtyard, which has been hastily transformed into a feast hall. Meat of some kind roasts on an open spit while goblins fill their tankards from a nearby cauldron of liquor. Merchants haggle with customers while other goblins eat, sing, fight, and make merry in a haze of hedonism.

One voice emerges above the din of the camp, bragging about recent conquests. “Weaker than pixies, humans!” A goblin squawks. A gaggle of his comrades laugh at his harsh words. Even surrounded by admirers, the squat, scarred goblin still catches their group staring. “Wot are you lot doin’ ‘ere? ‘More pests?” he eyes them up and down. “You prolly think you rule the world,” he sneers.

“That’s not true. We don’t think we’re better than anyone,” Tav pipes up. Astarion catches Shadowheart’s eye, then Lae’Zel’s. He doesn’t need the tadpole to know they all firmly disagree with Tav’s assessment.

“Everyone says that, then they spit in our faces,” the goblin snarls. “But no more. Things’re changin’. We got the Absolute on our side.” He gives them an evil look, sizing Tav up. “Ya better learn yer place.” The hairs on the back of Astarion’s neck stand on end as the goblin advances towards them, a look of pure hatred and disdain on his face.

Cazador has given him that look many times, right before he made Astarion do something particularly ghastly.

“Go on. Kiss my foot,” He points to the ground, wiggling his toes. “Or I’ll wipe that nasty look right off yer pretty face.” 

“End him or leave him. But do not grovel to this slug,” Lae’Zel says firmly. 

“Just kiss the damn foot. Worse things have been shoved in your face lately.” Shadowheart is speaking to Tav, but she is looking pointedly at Astarion. Predictably, it seems the others noticed their rendezvous. He gives Shadowheart a quick, saucy wink. She scoffs but fails to completely conceal her smirk of amusement. 

Astarion can see that the goblin is growing impatient. “Well, go on. Give him a nibble,” Astarion urges. It’s horrid work, but it’s one kiss and then she’ll be done. It will be easy and then they can be on their way. Tav looks at him with surprise. He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m waiting, princess” the goblin jeers. Tav rounds on him with a withering glare.“How about you kiss my foot, before I knock that smug look off your face,” Tav says. At the first hint of pushback, the goblin quickly changes his tune. “Look mate, piss off! Yer not welcome ‘ere,” the cretin says, puffing up his chest.” Tav plants her foot in front of him. “Kiss my foot. Now,” she orders, in a tone that demands obedience. Fear flickers across the goblin’s face as the crowd falls completely silent. Tav points down to her foot and a little thrill passes through Astarion as he watches the goblin sink to his knees. He places a surprisingly delicate kiss across the worn leather of Tav’s boot. “There, I done it,” he says, rising back to his feet. 

Tav gives him a final once over as she turns away. 

“Good,” Lae’Zel says approvingly. The crowd parts for them as they leave.

“Arrogant swine,” the goblin mutters after her, but Tav pays him no mind.

“Aren’t you the domineering tyrant,” Shadowheart teases. 

“Only when I’m pushed,” Tav laughs. “I’m not wearing poop and I’m not kissing goblin feet,” she promises. 

Astarion will do what he has to do to survive and he doesn’t begrudge others who do the same, but there’s just something about a person who refuses to be pushed around. Who wields power unapologetically. Astarion snakes his hand around her waist, pulling her close. “You continue to delight and surprise me, darling,” he whispers in her ear. Tav shudders against him and he gives her hip a quick squeeze, releasing her as he playfully retreats out of reach. Shadowheart coughs loudly. 

“Lady of Sorrow guide us,” she prays pointedly. Her prayer is interrupted by a hoot of terror as a small, bedraggled clump of feathers darts past them and into a crowd of goblins, which parts for it as it scampers away. “What are they doing to that poor creature?” Shadowheart cries.

Astarion leans against a stone wall as Tav barges over, inserting herself into whatever that business is. He watches as she crouches down to speak softly to the frightened owlbear cub. Something has definitely shifted between them. 

Funny. Clever. Cunning. Ambitious. Fierce. “It’s no use,” Tav says, returning. “I gave the cub my scent, but it can’t escape so long as the goblins have it trapped.” 

“Well, then it sounds like we have some killing to do,” Astarion says. Lae’Zel grunts approvingly.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind killing some goblins to help that sweet cub,” Shadowheart agrees.

“Same here. But let’s try to find Halsin first. Once we’ve freed him, we can grab the owlbear on the way out.”

“We can still have some fun in the meantime though,” Astartion suggests. “What did you have in mind?” Tav asks. He opens his pack and flashes a bottle of Wyvern toxin at them. “We can cull some of the horde as we go. Watch this,” he grins toothily before swaggering away towards the vat of suspicious booze he had noticed earlier. He thumbs the cap of poison, concealing the flask in his sleeve. He loiters for a bit, watching as goblins meander past. He grabs a nearby discarded cup off of a table, covertly pouring the poison inside. He walks over to the punch bowl, pantomiming filling his cup as he slips the poison into the dubious punch. He takes a few fake sips from his glass as he walks back to the group. 

“Battle is more honorable. But I suppose this is efficient,” Lae’Zel remarks. “That’s absolutely terrible” Tav admonishes. Astarion frowns in surprise, but Tav quickly drops the act. “I love it,” she says, smiling. “Now, let’s go, before they catch wise,” Astarion snickers, smiling back. The group beelines for the heavy doors to the temple, putting as much space between themselves and their crime as possible. “What will your evil little mind think of next?” Shadowheart says as they disappear deeper into danger.

~

Chapter 12: Penance

[digitalagepulao]

Sun Wukong, the Monkey King: my design notes [!! click here for the full line-up !!] [click here for just the goodies on tumblr]

also titled, "I underestimated my file sizes" TAT Separate images and info below the read more, beware this is LONG <3

Stone Monkey: himbs baby, that is all <3 he's mostly based off the François Langur, but some of his anatomy and proportions lean more on the Gray Langur and Macaque side of things. His facial fur sort of forms a pentagon shape for the five elements, and I gave him ginger fur cus it's a common depiction for him but also baby langurs are very bright orange, and him not growing dark feels like an apt display of his more childish side, both good and bad. His nails are golden for a bit of a "hidden gem" from a stone egg. Also keeping the tail either in a spiral of C-curve when "engaged", and when droopy it has a feel of a heavy rope. Old World monkeys don't have prehensile tails, he can use it for balance and basic mobility but it's not a third hand for the sake of keeping his monkey-ness.

Handsome Monkey King: in one of the poems the monkeys are said to weave grass for mattresses, so I can see them coming up with a crown of woven grass and never-fading leaves and flowers for their king at the very least. His face skin is darker as an adult, but not much else changes overall. The fuzzy upper lips and sideburns are a feature of the species I'm basing him on and it felt like a good fit to add. I also love the forest langurs are so long-furred, makes for a good way to give him dimension but also, the linework style reminds me of old woodcut shorthands for fur. Added a jade coin for the symbolism, and it feels fitting that the king of such a miraculous mountain would have a treasure like that on him. Placcid chill eyes are imperative, dude's not had an existential crisis yet, he's straight up vibing.

Sun Wukong: during his odd-ten years away from home, he learned human manners so he can stand but, I can see him still needing to lean on his tail to keep up his balance here and there. As he reaches the Western Continent (India) and learns the Way under Patriarch Subodhi, he adopts proper clothes for an apprentice and eventually becomes a Rishi. He dons his facial paint from then on, and after he masters the Way, there's a brightness in his pupils to show his cultivated immortality. The beads are purple solely to stand out over the deluge of oranges that is his design.

Great Sage Equal to Heaven: really went all out on this one orz this is Wukong at his most egotistical and ambitious, and I wanted his fit to truly embody that. Took bits from Peking Opera costumes and common depiction elements of him, with some bit of extra for appropriate levels of flair, like the phoenix feather design. I wanted to go for a mountain pattern mail but I couldn't figure out how to draw it, so I winged a pattern. I,,, doubt I'll ever draw this armor as detailed as here, but I wanted it to feel a bit overwhelming to look at, while also seeming like it doesn't quite fit him perfectly like it's swallowing him. Bit of a "baby wearing their parent's shoes" kind of vibe; he's stupidly powerful but he doesn't have what it takes to sit on the throne of Heaven. Also I leaned his expression to how he might appear during the Havoc in Heaven and then his bet with the Buddha. Full unbrindled rage murder monkey <3

-- Ruyi Jingu Bang: can't quite move on without my notes on the golden-hooped cudgel, now can I? The secondary hoops are there for further design appeal and for my own visualization of how the staff changes size (the hoops move over the staff's length as if to push it outward or inward). The metal is dark damascus alloy, though the pattern can be omitted for ease of drawing. One hoop end depicts a dragon, the other a phoenix, and in the middle of the staff is the canon inscription as described in the books, in seal script. Glow is optional and mostly for aesthetics.

Sun Pilgrim: out of his stolen armor, Wukong seems to swim in his robes but in a less overwhelming way. Went for the simple fillet headband cus his face is busy enough as it is. I know he's skilled enough to skin a tiger into pretty decent squares, but after one too many battles, anything would get tattered. He wears red, teal, black and yellow, four of the five cardinal colors, while white (the West) is still missing. His red and black half-robe doesn't fully cover the yellow underneath, a call back to his golden armor; he tries to use his wisdom and teachings to fight back the impulses of his past, but they still shine through at times. I kept only the leg bangs for dynamic elements to better show movement, but also one could say he's got.... golden hoops (haha get it, like his cudgel?? :oD)

Victorious Fighting Buddha: leaned hard on the actual portrayals of the Buddha. Seeing that he's depicted with dark/blue skin, it felt appropriate to let the guy grow out of his baby ginger fur and into adult black, but a patch remains where the golden headband used to be. I didn't want to give him long hair so no bun, but instead, his fur has a sorta lotus-petals shape now rather than his single point. His face paint changes into a more domino-mask style, and his brow white line resembles a teardrop urna. I made the mail piece he holds longer to keep the flowy bits of his previous outfits, and I turned Ruyi Jingu Bang into the sword he wields.

Hello hi, this robbed me of three days of my life and I'd like to receive compensation x.x Anyway hope you enjoy this lad, I know I do! Also if you wanna send me asks about him pls feel welcome to, I'd love to chat about this bastard monkey (affectionate) (loving) (i`d die for him)

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

These fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon complaints.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries on ao3.

I ain’t missing you at all  (requires an ao3 account) by @blitheringmcgonagall

Set post first wizarding war. "Lily Evans disappeared just when the war with Voldemort ended. Nobody knows why she left. James Potter doesn't care. He hasn't missed her at all."

It reads like a character study. All of the repressed emotions are so well-portrayed that I could picture all their facial expressions and body language. The dynamic between Lily and the marauders really illustrated how she wasn't just James' girlfriend - she was their friend too. I just wanted to give them all a hug.

Up In Arms by @mppmaraudergirl

When Lily jokingly tells her owl to deliver a letter to "the love of her life", i.e. Marlene McKinnon, her owl misinterprets the directive and, to her horror, her ode to James Potter’s arms lands squarely in his lap.

The banter in this one is so good that it made my friend fall back in love with jily's dynamic and read fics again

Evergreen and Pine by @tinyluminaryzombie

Lily Evans is stuck in a closet with Sirius. All Sirius wants to talk about is exactly what she's trying not to think about: James Potter.

Or: A seven minutes in heaven that's more like seven minutes of sweet sweet interegation ft. Lily and Sirius.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes by @jfleamont

Lily's an overthinker, but fear not, James knows exactly what to say to cheer her up.

Because Lily being a stress smoker is canon (to me)

All The Things I Would Do also by @/ jfleamont

Lily can't stop thinking about James' hands.

Anything Leda writes is great so do yourself a favour and go read her works

I’ve Got My Hate to Keep Me Warm by @dizzy–bird

When a mission for the Order goes badly wrong, Lily Evans must spend the holidays lying low in the middle of nowhere. The rules: no magic, no visitors, and absolutely no Christmas cheer.

And the kicker? She’s sharing the safe house with Order darling – and rival – James Potter, who just happens to be the reason she’s in this mess in the first place.

Kat's poem from 10 Things I Hate About You

Hemispheres by @ohmygodshesinsane

James Potter and Lily Evans have set aside their schoolyard animosities for the sake of the Order of the Phoenix, but when they are enlisted to race Lord Voldemort across the world to prevent him from corrupting the very nature of death, tensions run high. In all manners.

Lily's characterisation in this one is so good

No One Knows Us by @annasghosts

As Fifth Year begins, Lily Evans is certain of a few things: she’s proud to be a Muggle-born witch, despite what Petunia might think; Severus Snape is still a loyal friend and whatever confusing feelings she has as she watches James Potter strut around the castle must be squashed because he’s nothing, but an arrogant toerag.

In which Lily gets the dynamic character treatment that she deserves.

51 Minutes to Change Your Mind by @sosohh

When Muggle-Born Oliver Wood becomes an extremely successful cyclist for the British Cycling team, both muggle and magical ministries have to come up with a plan to make sure all is fair. Enter James Potter and Lily Evans.

The Art of Self-Defense by cgner (on ao3)

Gilmore Girls AU in which "after seventeen years of single parenting, she now has to manage a persistent James, nosy villagers, and a son who's all too interested in joining the Order."

[pr0cyon-lotor]

I'm going to just copy and paste my notes on my headcanons for the Shen siblings here just in case I get too lazy to explain and I can just refer to this post :3

Shen Muchen = SY's da-ge

Naturally very stoic but has a bleeding heart for his family. He completely separates work and family, and he will always prioritize family over anything else.

He's not good with words and actually doesn't speak much if he can help it. He's blunt and to the point, and has the habit of back tracking if something came out too mean.

He's a creature of habit and very easy to predict if you know him.

He isn't very social and didn't make friends with many people when he was in school. Many people thought he was a sort of ice prince, nope he was just socially awkward.

He stepped up to help their parents mostly because his job doesn't require face to face interaction. He is the "heir" to the business, but he really only wants to do the administrative and logistics duties.

He had the tendency to try to bring in strays as a child. He grew out of it mostly, but he does feed strays because he feels bad. The Shen residence is constantly swarmed by cats and dogs because of this.

Shen Hongxi = SY's Er-ge

He's rather playful and cunning at times, but he is also the biggest airhead of all four siblings.

He has a tendency of forgetting about basic things sometimes. He even once asked if airplanes had to make detours when they flew towards clouds, and they had to sit him down and explain that clouds were made of water vapor/ect. (They don't let him live that one down)

He likes animals in theory but would scream if a large dog started running towards him.

He's far from gullible, but he is stupid. He's the type to let himself get kidnapped just to cross it off his bucket list and have no escape plan. Their parents assigned him a bodyguard (babysitter) because of his recklessness.

He learned a lot of instruments for the sake of their parents' approval, but now plays a few string instruments for pleasure.

He's so much more sociable than Muchen and typically takes care of the talking and networking aspect of the business for him.

Shen Yuan (these are just mostly family headcanons since my personality headcanons for SY already show in my writing)

Green eyes (not as sqq. he just has them and one can convince me otherwise.)

Has been, will be, and absolutely is a little shit because he was the baby of the family for a while.

Has the worst temper of all the siblings (which is still really mild. the siblings are just mild tempered in general)

Could probably convince his siblings to get into his hobbies if he wasn't ashamed.

The type of little sibling that would taste something gross, say it tastes good to convince someone else to taste it, and laugh once someone gags.

Shen Ling = SY's meimei

Is the baby of the family, knows it, and absolutely abuses the privileges. She probably learned how to cry on command, but barely has to use it since they just give her what she wants.

She has rather thick skin and barely twitches at insults. She does exaggerate hurt feelings to either tease people or bother those insulting her.

She is outgoing and friendly to everyone she meets but holds a grudge like a motherfucker.

She was in a lot of sports clubs, but her grades were below average. She had a tutor, but it didn't help much.

She likes reading like Shen Yuan but prefers tragic romances or mystery. She does read a lot of danmei and baihe, and has tried to recommend them to Shen Yuan in more than one occasion.

She probably tried to teach Muchen brainrot, but Shen Yuan stopped her.

General sibling knowledge:

Muchen and Hongxi only have two years setting them apart, but they have an age gap of over five years with Shen Yuan and Shen Ling, who have 2-3 years between them.

Hongxi tries to get into reading to bond with his younger siblings better, but he just can't get into it. Muchen likes reading, but he isn't a fan of the same genre and prefers poems or historical fiction.

None of them have a strained relationship with each other, but it isn't the tightest either. All of them are usually too busy (Muchen and Hongxi with the business, SY with bedrotting, and SL with sports)

They're all pretty mild tempered all things considered. But all of them are a level of protective towards each other. (Rankings: Muchen, SL, Hongxi, SY)

If they were given a chance to be closer, they would be chronic shitposters

Extra: They're all a special level of oblivious