#casually gazing upon his visage

[invinciblerodent]

Me: Gale is my favorite character

Me: *writes copious amounts of Astarion fic* *records every scene with Astarion and takes 47 screenshots from each* *plays about 100 hours of a second, Astarionmance playthrough before even coming close to finishing the first, Galemance one* *spends an hour scrolling through a blog that's literally only shots of Astarion's face* *gazes fondly at Astarion's little smile for minutes on end* *sets Astarion's face as my phone's lockscreen* *posts incessantly about Astarion*

Me: Yes, definitely Gale is my favorite, no doubts about that

[moineauz]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐏 ?!

synopsis: when you think you've learned just about everything about your husband, fate tells you otherwise.

side comments: the highlight of the 2.6 livestream was dr. ratio rapping. facts. also i absolutely believe that when dr. ratio was a teen he was fixated on learning how to rap.

extra: gn reader, established relationship, fluff

YOU HAVE BEEN DR. RATIO'S SPOUSE FOR ABOUT 3 YEARS. Thus, you have learned perhaps every bit of his stern and eccentric mannerism: how he abides by his routine, the books he reads, how he dresses, and how the finite curve of his ever-astute eyes seem to gaze at you with unwavering tenderness.

Yet, learning that your husband could rap was knowledge that completely escaped you.

"Oh come on!" you plead, attempting to sound grave as you grin brightly, "Pass the tablet! You looked so cute as a teenager! So scrawny and-"

"Oh, that is quite enough," chides Veritas, still in his casual clothing, the tablet now securely gripped in his hand, "Plus, how could you have possibly found my tablet— "

He pauses, his expression now humorously annoyed, "It was that damn gambler isn't it?"

You've met Aventurine several times before. Often sharing coffee and the occasional banter.

However, last's visit turned out to be incredibly fruitful.

"I can't believe it..." your husband sighs, massaging his temples, "So when I was out getting papers, Aventurine gave you my tablet? From and in my own office?"

You smile apologetically, though, your suppressed giggle escapes you.

"Unbelievable."

"Well," you begin slowly, rising from the couch, arms crossed as you saunter towards your husband. A mischievous glint nestled within your iris. "I think your unique skill makes you all the more charming."

He scoffs, shaking his head before facing you. His countenance was clearly unamused. "Is that so? How exactly can you draw upon such a wild conclusion?"

"Because..." you drawl, searching for an answer, "I just do!"

Veritas scoffs again, this time, his large hands find their way around your waist, and you uncross your arms; unravelling.

Underneath his visage of quick-drawn remarks, deep measured inflection, and the unparalleled intelligence locked within the auburn hue of his eyes, is a delicate lover. A man with unconfessed dreams with the inner desires of a boy: to be seen and validated.

Veritas leans into your touch. Further burying himself into the crook of your neck, inhaling all of you in slow, measured breaths.

From afar, the scene is comical. Dr. Ratio is a man who is similarly known for his stature: the broad length of his shoulders, the defined angle of his jaw, and his considerable height. He loomed over you in public places, your head only meeting his sculpted shoulders.

Veritas was a Greek statue eager to be cracked by the delicate touch of your hands.

"The fixations of my youth..." he begins, his voice muffled, "Are rather embarrassing."

You pull him closer.

"Not at all," you whisper, "You have nothing to be embarrassed about when around me."

The two of you stand interlocked, your husband's large figure melting away in light of you.

"I suppose we can look through videos together."

You break into a grin, and Veritas scoffs. This time, with lingering amusement.

"By the way," you whisper, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips, "Can you rap for me?"

Veritas sighs, breaking away from your embrace as he tilts your chin, "The things I do for you."

masterlist.

[ninibeingdelulu]

"I missed you"

plot- he finally come back home CLICK ME

The empty house had felt suffocatingly hollow these past six months with Simon's absence.

Each day stretching into an agonizing purgatory devoid of his steadfast presence, his rich baritone rumble, the casual brushes of his sturdy frame against yours in passing...

But today, the emptiness at last lifted like a shroud of dread finally unraveling.

Today, Simon was finally coming home.

You busied yourself feverishly preparing his favorite dinner, fussing over every detail down to the pristine place setting - desperate to rekindle an atmosphere of long-coveted warmth and domesticity upon his return from the battlefield.

Nervous energy thrummed beneath your ribcage as you strained for the slightest herald of his arrival.

Then, the moment you'd been breathlessly awaiting finally graced reality - the unmistakable creak of the front door swinging wide accompanied by the measured cadence of those combat boots you'd know anywhere.

Whirling with a breathless gasp of pure elation, your gaze instantly drank in the familiar silhouette of your husband etched in the wavering daylight spilling through the entry.

Even beneath that ever-present ghastly skull mask, you'd recognize those powerfully squared shoulders and that signature languid prowl in an instant.

"Simon..."

His name slipped forth in a tremulous whisper misting with the first prickles of joyous tears blurring the edges of your vision.

In the next breath, you found yourself hurtling across the scant distance separating you - instinctively propelled into his outstretched embrace blissfully caging you once more in those unyielding arms corded with wiry muscle and sinew.

Your own slipped around his neck as you buried your face against the fever-warmth of his skin finally within reach again, gulping in heady lungfuls of his richly musky scent you'd been so painfully deprived of.

You barely registered his dexterous fingers working to hastily peel away the obstructing balaclava, desperate to reunite his lips with yours at last.

Only once that cloying barrier fell away did the first crystalline tears at last streak your flushed cheeks - overwhelmed by the sight of his beloved visage after so many months isolated behind the stark veils of that skull facade.

"Oh God, I missed you so damn much..." he rasped in that honeyed timbre reverberating straight down to your very marrow.

The reverent brush of his calloused palms cradling your face with the utmost gentleness somehow contrasted with the intensely smoldering ardor blazing in those grounding sienna spheres searching yours.

Unable to bear resisting a moment longer, you surged upwards and seized his mouth again in a searing, desperate kiss as if to physically reclaim the vital essence of his very being into your own.

Simon groaned into the searing exchange with unapologetic need - his powerful frame arching possessively into the swell of your curves as if intent on liquifying your very bones against his own.

"Never again..."

He growled the fervent oath between fevered brushes of your commingling lips.

"Not a single day goes by where I don't count down to the moment I can come home to you again. To see that smile...to breathe you in and feel that heartbeat against mine...it's the only thing that grounds my sanity on those desolate battlegrounds."

Chest heaving with emotion, you could only nod and clutch him nearer - your own fingers burrowing wantonly through those silken sable tresses with ravenous wonderment you still held the miraculous privilege to caress them once again after so many eternities torn apart.

Simon exhaled a shuddering breath, momentarily staggered by the unsurmountable tidal wave of affection and sheer relief to be encapsulated within your sanctuary once more.

Here, wrapped in your fearless devotion and profound reverence, his battered warrior's soul at last found the absolution - the inimitable tranquility - nowhere else could grant.

The scorched battlefields and merciless atrocities of the forsaken lands he traversed so frequently faded into insignificance next to the profound grace you embodied.

Merely bearing witness to the incandescence of your empyreal spirit glimmering behind those infinitely fathomless eyes was the only benediction Simon would ever need.

Until that inevitable summons to the clarion once more beckoned, commanding his return to the cursed shadows, Simon vowed to cherish every fleeting moment subsumed in your splendorous embrace - your ardor furnishing him the unbridled fortitude and singular anchor to withstand any depravity fate hurled towards him.

For your unassailable love and pride was the only talisman he truly required to confront the hellish devastations still lying in await.

That alone would be enough to see him safely through each arduous mile until the moment he could finally return to bask anew in your resplendence again...

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere siren Neuvillette x reader (pt 2)

Your consciousness stirs as the first tender fingers of dawn caress the horizon. Half submerged in moon-warmed sand, salt and sea linger in your mouth. Framed by grey gorges, your eyelids reluctantly part. There is no immediate recollection of the night’s storm. Rather,  only fragments and lightning-flashes of memories flood your mind—fury, fear, and the visceral thrumming heart of the ocean. The bags beneath your eyes mirror the tumultuous gray of the storm-washed sky above as you exhale, hoping to dislodge the saltwater from your lips and lungs.

Wrestling the sand, you rise from your back onto your elbows. With your body aslant, a blanket of meticulously woven seaweed falls from your lap. Vestiges of brine trickling from your skin as you rise to survey the novel sight. The land slopes down, seaward to slip into blue. Further down the coast, gulls shriek and pluck at the remnants of a wrecked pier while chunks of driftwood clot at the tide-line, bobbeling in the harbor. A ship’s splintered timbers jut out into the water like the skeletal fingers of a drowned giant, grasping for salvation in the rising tide. It seems that after innumerable missions across the seas, the Waverider has at last ridden a storm to her demise. It pains you to look at, so your gaze is drawn to the chalky cliff sides across the bay. In the other direction, behind you a distance away, lies a clamoring village.

At first, there is no sound: your attention is only commanded from the village by a rippling disturbance in the waters. Cleaving through the ever-churning sea face, a series of clicks soon bubble from the waves. Your heart clenches with a primal panic when the sound reaches your ears. Memories of the storm’s wrath ignite within your veins. Yet there, amidst the undulating waves and through a cloak of seafoam and kelp, emerges not a harbinger of peril but the visage of an angel. Your senses, still shrouded in the fog of slumber and disorientation, sharpen as he surfaces from the silken depths, an apparition clothed in the palest light of morning. His skin glows alabaster against the shifting hues of the sea, and his white hair, caught by the nascent breeze, streams about him like threads spun from moonbeams. He moves with a casual serenity that seems at odds with the chaotic aftermath scattered along the shoreline, his form undulating with the subtle grace of the ocean’s pulse.

“Be… not… scared…” he intones, his voice fractured bits of language with odd, lilting sounds. With everything but his face submerged, you await his ascent, viewing as he breaches the water. He rouses slowly, digging into the sand with his forearms. Bared to the light, his skin shimmers with the kiss of the rising sun. Eyes dark as the fathomless deep gaze upon your with an intrinsically foreign interest tinged with a curious inclination as he draws nearer.

Likewise, his presence brings both mirth bewilderment for you, who grapples silently with the improbable reality of your savior. He hovers at the threshold where sea meets sand, an ethereal being drawn to the terrestrial realm by a fascination as relentless as the tides.

“Save… friend.”

“It’s you,” you say in awe. Your terror is overcome by intrigue. As a sailor, you cannot waste the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re my saviour.”

He is moored on land now, elbows resting near your ankles. His flesh begins human, yet as your gaze follows down his torso, you discover a mottled patch of pale, luminescent scales. Crowning his image is the long tail flippantly lying in the sand.

Almost timid, you offer a smile. A pale mimicry, his lips contort into a grotesque expression. You would laugh at the innocence of it, but it is precisely that—grotesque, unfitting of his noble mien, terrifying. His mouth is like a cat’s: wide-mawed with a pink and a barbed tongue framed by rows of razor teeth.

“Touch,” he says, still smiling.

For a fretful moment, you fear he is requesting your hand in his mouth. You are not certain if his desire is less shocking: without warning, he seizes your ankle. Rather than fear, captivation grips you. His unfocused gaze houses a profound weightlessness as you hesitantly extend your legs towards him.

His touch is tentative at first, as if the texture of your skin is another language he is fearful to speak. His skin is moist, somewhat slimy, and certainly softer than yours. Webbed fingers trace the contours of your legs, sharp nails occasionally nicking. A chuckle escapes you, a sound that feels misplaced amidst the solemnity of the interaction, yet it blossoms into existence, as natural and necessary as breath itself. The siren, perturbed at first by the foreign mirth, chirps. Spurred by a mix of surprise and intrigue, you permit his wandering hands to ghost across your limbs. But when his hands cup the junctures beneath your calves and thighs, holding you in place as he presses his cheek against your knee, your breath hitches. Your lips part, ready to object to the actions that stir a strange sensation within you, when the intrusion of another presence pierces the sacred silence. The moment fractures, splintering under the weight of reality’s relentless march as the dunes give way to a figure descending its slope with the ease of nightfall upon the horizon.

“Miss!” A voice booms across the sands, its urgency underscored by the sloshing of waves against the shore. “Lady down by the shore! Are you alright?”

You turn, glimpsing the man as he descends the slope, lantern swinging wildly with his movements, casting erratic shadows that disrupts the serenity of dawn. The lantern’s sway mimics the pulse of your straining heart. Each swing feels like a metronome ticking away the precious seconds you have left in the company of the enigmatic being before you.

The siren’s form tenses. With the grace of a startled swan, he retreats into the safety of his domain, his departure swift and silent save for the gentle kiss of water lapping at his retreat. The arrival acts as the tide’s turn, pulling the siren back into the embrace of the sea. As if he had never been more than a figment of your muddled mind’s yearning, he vanishes, melding seamlessly with the water that birthed him. A whisper of white hair and the ghost of a melody are all that remain, hanging in the air like a dirge for a life dispelled too soon. Your gaze lingers upon the undisturbed water, searching for a sign, a ripple, anything that might suggest his return, his existence at all. Only the vast, unyielding expanse of sea stares back, indifferent to the tumult unfolding upon its shores.

“Miss!” The dune-treading man calls out again. His form ebbs in and out of light as he strides toward you, his lantern painting him in thunderbolts of amber. It casts a golden corona on the sand. The ornate patterns decorating the sides cause it to cast flame-like shadows. In his steady hold, it becomes a miniature sun.

Your pulse quickens, hotness creeping up your cheeks as he halts directly before you. You are not even granted a proper view before he draws closer. With your gaze lingering on the horizon, you see only his dark trousers and boots until he leans down. Raven strands, so dark they almost appear blue, fall across his face. Tickling your shoulder, you pull back. His face is visible now, but your attention is drawn to his eyepatch.

Without so much as a word, he shrugs off his coat. The sleeves slip down his arms, pooling near his waist, where he seizes it. A navy and gold ensemble clings to his form. The blouse beneath is partially unbuttoned, exposing a sliver of his well-defined chest. You could have done without the proximity, but at the very least, you are warm.

“It’s a cold morning,” he says, fastening the clasp around your neck. You quiver when the cold metal skims your tender, freezing flesh. “Let’s find you somewhere to stay.”

His hand extends toward you. Surrendering to the pull, you draw a steadying breath and reach forth, fingers brushing the calloused warmth of the stranger’s palm. The contact sparks warmth into your icy appendages. His grip is firm and secure. With the gentlest of tugs, he beckons you to rise, to turn your back on the siren’s call. Your feet shift, grains of sand slipping beneath them.

You halt, an inexplicable pull urging you to look back one last time. Your figure cuts a lonely figure against the sprawling dawn. Through the misty veil of morning, the ocean stretches before you, vast and inscrutable. And there, just beyond the frothy lacework of tide, two eyes like darkened sapphires gaze from beneath the surface. A smile graces your lips, gentle and knowing, as the siren dips beneath the waves, a spectral vision dissolving into the fathomless blue. In that fleeting moment, the lines between myth and reality blurs, and at last, you begin to grasp the essence of Fontaine’s fatal allure—the dance of the visible and the invisible, ever present in the susurrus of the sea. If your crew has perished for this, then you will exonerate this land of its treasures.

He glances over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“A seagull,” you find yourself saying.

“Those creatures get braver by the day,” says the man, squinting. Attention returning to you, he gently prompts, “Tell me, what swept you here? You don’t appear to be a local.”

“There was a storm,” you tell him, your voice warbling at the admission. “And before that, it had been the sea. You no longer know who you were before, but mostly recently, you were a captain. “It… It took everything and delivered me here.”

The knot in your stomach unfurls when he doesn’t press the matter. Instead, he hums, the lantern still swinging with each stride.

“People say we should do unto others as we wish,” he murmurs. “But somehow, I don’t imagine you’re deserving of a fate like this. The sea has such malice. It’s cruel how she gives and she takes just as swiftly. Unfortunately, that is merely the way of this world.”

“Indeed. It is cruel.”

As you crest the final slope, the village enters into full view. Sheltered by stone seawalls, its quaint cottages huddle in solidarity against the capricious moods of nature. The village burgeons before you, an intricate display of maritime life. Timbered houses nestled against the meandering embrace of the inland rivers parceling the land into different nooks. The hushed whispers of the ocean still cling to your skin, yet you are ensnared by the village’s rustic charm; its cobbled streets and woven nets. Billowing sails peek out from smaller docks in rocky-walled nooks. A mosaic of piers and posts carve channels through the town in which the river courses.

Amidst the symphony of awakening—a blacksmith’s hammer singing anvils into chorus, fishwives calling in melodic cadence, gulls echoing their own shrill hymns—your spirit wavers on the fulcrum of belonging. The cacophony of coastal life reaches your ears, but it digs deep gashes into your chest, piercing your heart. You should not be viewing these streets alone. A captain drowns with their ship. A captain should die for their crew, and yet, your heart beats as if to taunt. Each pulsebeat is a mariner’s knot, tying her to the tangible world even as your soul yearns to plunge into those cruel depths, to go under and not resurface until you are reunited with your crew.

Still, your resolve to thrive crystallizes like ice amidst a wintry brook. Decidedly, you will delve into the enigmatic depths of your encounter with the siren, that creature divine. To turn away now—when everything but your curiosity and rage is lost—would be to deny the inexorable whimsy of your soul.

“I’ll take you to someone who can house you tonight,” says the stranger. “He takes in all the strays, but if you’d rather not spend your days fishing in return, my doors are open.“

“Thank you,“ you mutter.

His words are filtered from your ears by the breeze. Only now does your throat constrict. You remain silent, chewing your tongue as you acquiesced to the mind-numbing guidance, complimented by the stranger’s commentary. Fontaine is not his home—if he had not already divulged such, then his foreign appearance and slight accent would certainly betray the fact—yet he speaks at length, with a scholar’s precision. Fortunately, the walk is short. Your destination is a ramshackle, single-story cottage. Stout and wind-battered, its shingles wobble and the windows rattle with the breeze. From here, you are granted a fine vantage point of the waters beneath.

“Here.” He gestures to the modest dwelling. “Luca, as I’ve come to know, is fond of taking in travelers.” Although the offer is kind, it rouses suspicion: no good deed is faultless. Fortunately, the offer of a roof is soon followed by the prospect of purpose. “But in return, he expects you to do a few hours of work aboard his fishing vessel. Luca!” He calls, rapping a fist against the wooden door. “I’ve brought another guest for you.”

A clatter from inside, then the sound of several latches sliding out of place. A few awkward moments pass, then you’re greeting a burly man with a halo of candle light. His voice is a gruff, rumbling sound. “You called?”

“Luca! Might I introduce you to the newest transient, the enigmatic…”

“Y/N,” you tiredly offer, suppressing a yawn.

“Y/N,” he repeats, turning the sounds over. “Such a lovely name.”

Luca squints, scrutinizing your form. Flexing your biceps, he nods in approval.

“Looks reliable and hardy. Will do,” is all he offers before retreating inside.

Incredulous, you splutter. All it takes to gain a man’s favor is brawn? This land is a wondrous place, filled with peculiar figures. And you, perhaps, might be the most curious of them all.

“And what may I call you?” you ask at last.

Smiling, he tilts his head. “Kaeya.”

Your posture slumps as you lean against the doorframe. Already, the coy act is nerve-rending. “And what is your business, Kaeya?”

“I’m here on official business between Fontaine and Mondstadt,” he coyly says. “I shall see you tomorrow, Y/N. Until then, I hope you have a good rest.“

Mumbling in response, you promptly turn away and join Luca inside. To your utter surprise, you see a table set for three. Two chairs are occupied by Luca, and a woman who can only be his wife. Strangely, the wood grain of the third, empty seat appears just as worn as theirs.

Neither says a word, but you slot yourself across from the pair, begrudgingly join the vivant of domesticity. The clink of silverware and the lack of conversation paints the image of an mundane, everyday life, threads you grasp at but cannot quite weave into your own disjointed narrative. Did you once have a treasure like this? If so, will you ever again?

Through the window, dusk paints the horizon with strokes of melancholy blue and fervent gold. You see something stirring in the water beyond. You see everything and nothing: the moon’s pale reflection, a shadow, a shimmer, a secret. Unfathomable secrets beckon, yet you turn away. For now, your odyssey lay here, amidst the clatter of dishes and the warmth of hearth fires. The siren's call, though potent, will not sway you this eve. There is much to unearth in Fontaine, and first to be discovered are the dinner rites.

Eagerly, you partake, your senses alive to the flavors and sounds, yet your mind still roams those boundless seas and that moonlit visage haunts the edges of your consciousness, plastered across your eyes like an apparition.

a/n: y'all this took too long 😭 the entire story ended up being around 20k, but I'm editing a bit and reworking some scenes, so I've split it into separate parts to keep people interested. just wanted to post this. more to come soon

[blackcherryvelvet0909]

The Dragon's Gem (Malleus x GN!Reader)

Note: This banner will change in the future. I haven't had time to create a Halloween one yet. I meant to publish a Lilia fic today, but due to unforseen circumstances this week I was not able to complete it in time. I'm very sorry I've been slow lately - work has been something else. I hope to get the energy back sometime soon. My main goal is to finish the Beach Episode series, then move onto a mix of the Masquerade and Halloween events. Very late, I know, and I'm sorry. Please bare with me (I am very tired). Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this drabble in the meantime. Happy Halloween!!

“Is it real?”

“Hm?”

Malleus turned to face his beloved Child of Man. His pupils dilated at the mere sight of them, their glorious visage rivaling the most fantastic wonders of the world. To see that beautiful person staring down at his tail in their own wonderment made his heart swell all the more.

“Your tail,” they said, pointing to the appendage in question. “It doesn’t move like a fake one would, nor does it look like it’s made of plastic or something. So, is it real?”

“Yes, it is.” Malleus confirmed. “It is a part of my true form; I rarely reveal it, as it could be quite troublesome to others.”

“How so?”

Their genuine curiosity was adorable. Malleus could not help the smile that tugged at his lips. “Well, sitting at a desk would be a trifle. They are often closely packed together. Unlike, say, Kingscholar’s tail, it would be hard to tuck mine somewhere it wouldn’t get in the way.” Malleus’s smile then wavered as he continued. “That, and I am already greatly feared by most of the student body. I suppose I want to make myself appear less…monstrous around them.”

[Name]’s gaze softened, their lips down-turning along with their eyebrows. Malleus’s heart skipped a beat; he did not mean to make them sad! Before he could apologize, however, his Child of Man spoke again - softly, tenderly.

“I can’t say much for others, but you’re not a monster, Malleus.” Their hand came to rest upon his arm. The look in their eyes was sincere - the emotion so prominent it practically swept Malleus off his feet. “Tail or no tail, you’re just like the rest of us.” Finally, a smile graced their features once more. “Your features don’t make me love you any less.”

Love…could that be…? No - no, certainly not. The proclamation was far too casual to be a confession. That, and if they were to do such a thing, would it not be with some sort of gift in tow? It was the proper thing to do - at least that’s what Malleus had been taught. Could [Name]’s courting rituals be different in their world? Malleus would have to pry at a later date…but how to do so without being too forward?

“Malleus?” [Name] called softly, head tilted to the side. “Are you there?”

Malleus snapped out of his thoughts with a silent gasp. He quickly composed himself and smiled down at them. “Yes, I am alright - more than alright, actually. Your words have touched my very soul. Thank you for your kind words; I will try to remember them from now on.”

[Name] seemed relieved with his answer. They smiled and nodded, then retracted their hand from his arm. Malleus missed the contact immediately, but did not reach out for them. He would do so later, when the act would not seem to forward - too desperate. Oh, if only Lilia were here now; perhaps he could bestow upon Malleus some more wisdom if he were. Without him, however, Malleus would make due for the time being.

Malleus noticed [Name]’s eyes were back on his tail, a look of curiosity within them. The man’s smile widened a tad, eyes narrowed in amusement. He nudged his tail forward - he chuckled when [Name] flinched in surprise. How adorable they were.

“You are welcome to touch it, if you like.” Malleus’s next words were spoken with a mild teasing lilt. “I should warn you though: it could easily send you flying if you’re not careful.”

The Child of Man showed no hesitation in their smile or movements. Their eyes lit up with joy; their hands quickly found the scales of the tail, tracing each with their fingertips. It took all of Malleus’s being not to explode in a red flush at that moment - especially with the words that left his dear one’s lips.

“I’m not too worried; I know you won’t hurt me.”

No - Malleus could never even dream of it.

Perhaps Halloween outside of Briar Valley was just as enjoyable. Hopefully, in the near future, the prince could bring a precious gem back with him - if they would have him.

[cho-aaacho]

Turmoil and Tenderness

Masterlist

Imagine pt.5

This morning, chaos reigned in the school. Nanami mentioned that you had fainted, yet the most frantic individual here was Gojo. Of course, who else? He has always been a drama queen. 

After a long conversation with Yaga and fooling Gakuganji at the entrance, he hurried to the hospital with Shoko, leaving Geto behind without a word. Poor that man; now he had a consequence if Yaga asked about Shoko and Gojo's absence. 

Gojo even left his phone in class and forgot to put on his shoes—what a scatterbrain!

Everything that unfolded was a consequence of your decision to run through the rain with Gojo to buy snacks and ice cream, ignoring Geto's warnings. Geto has probably had enough with you two.

But how could you tell? You can't change everything; you can't walk back to the past and fix anything. Because it was too late.

After locating your room, Gojo's booming voice rattled the door, drawing annoyed glances from the nurse and doctor due to its volume.

As he checked your condition, his hands roamed over every inch of your body, causing a little embarrassment as he grazed sensitive areas. His obliviousness to this fact highlighted his occasional stupidity, leaving you pondering whether he was truly innocent or simply dense.

"You're warm," he murmured, pressing his cheek against yours and then caressing them.

You can observe the worry etched on his face, despite his efforts to conceal it with a smile and loud chatter. Yet a hint of concern still lingers in his eyes.

"Naturally, I am, Gojo-kun."

"If Nanami hadn't found you in time, you might have drowned."

Indeed, you would nearly fall into the fish pond if Nanami hadn't found you. Fortunately, you were light enough to be carried, not as hefty as a sack of wheat.

"Gojo-kun," a chilly whisper cut through the silence.

"Yes?"

"You're... heavy. You're so heavy."

"Ah, my apologies."

Clearly, isn't it obvious? He leaned against your chest casually, like a newborn baby in a mother's embrace, seeking comfort from your sweet body while checking your heartbeat.

Could he feel the warmth emanating from your chest? Maybe. Did he find it comforting? No need to ask.

As Gojo shifted slightly, his gaze fell upon your disheveled visage, flushed like a crab, eyes watery with distress. In his eyes, you appeared vulnerable, so fragile like flowers—beautiful indeed.

"I find you endearing when you're like this, so fragile, like a flower," he remarked, his fingers grazing your cheeks as he chuckled.

"How amusing, Mr. Gojo."

Both of you chuckled, though you struggled to breathe. Yet, witnessing Gojo's concern for you left you engulfed in an odd sense of awkwardness, a feeling you couldn't quite shake off.

Remaining in his position, Gojo whispered, "They say, when we're this close, we might have been soulmates in a past life."

You laughed. "Soulmates in foolishness, perhaps. But what do you mean by 'close'?" You teased him, which left him flustered.

Amidst his laughter, Gojo turned away, hiding his shyness momentarily. "Speaking of faces, aren't we somewhat similar? Both of us are rather attractive; wouldn't you agree?"

"Are you stupid? Shut up. I don't want to hear you boast about your looks."

Gojo snapped his fingers, his laughter echoing. "How cruel. These lips of mine could make you melt with my kiss, you know."

"Oh, really?"

Silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the patter of raindrops and Shoko's laughter in the background.

"Hey..."

"What is it now, Gojo-kun?"

He leaned in closer, his forehead touching yours and his hand caressing your shoulder, before planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. "The medicine hasn't taken effect yet."

A mischievous smirk played on his lips; he loved teasing you, finding joy in making you blush or flustered with his prank. Strangely, you found yourself enjoying his playful demeanor, willingly becoming his target.

"Do you think medicine works like WiFi? Get off my face!"

"But you seem to enjoy my kisses, don't you? How about I try your lips next?"

"I'm not enjoying your kisses; I just—I can do nothing this time."

[snapmite1998]

Chapter 17: Siege of Dathomir

Amidst the chaos and destruction on Dathomir, the Sith brothers—Maul, Savage, and Feral Opress—moved like an unstoppable force, their crimson lightsabers a storm of lethal efficiency. Each slash and thrust was executed with a grim precision, reducing the Republic's brave soldiers and Jedi defenders into grievously outmatched contenders in a battle now tipped towards despair.

Clones fought valiantly with their blasters, and Jedi parried with lightsabers that hummed in protest against the Sith onslaught, but Maul and his brothers were relentless predators. Individually, they struck with the power of an avalanche; together, they were a hurricane that seemed impervious to resistance.

In the midst of the battlefield, Maul advanced upon a fallen clone commander, the commanding officer among the beleaguered troops. His silhouette, lit by the angry embers of the burning Acclamator behind him, cast a towering shadow of menace over the prone figure. The clone reached feebly for his weapon, his training imploring him to continue the fight, but found himself overpowered and immobilized by Maul's oppressive presence. Without hesitation, Maul plunged his ignited lightsaber through the clone's back, the crimson blade erupting through his chest, bringing a swift and final darkness. Savage and Feral continued their grim dance nearby, saber blades flashing in arcs as more soldiers fell to their wrath.

With a casual brutality that reflected the harshness of his being, Maul removed the clone's helmet, letting it fall to the ground beside them before activating the recording device embedded within it. His eyes, alive with a dangerous satisfaction, focused on the lens, knowing the message would reach Republic command. Gazing directly into the helmet's camera, his fierce visage filled the screen with malevolent intent. "Citizens of the Republic," Maul intoned with low, menacing clarity, allowing the words to sink into the cold depths of their doom. "Your siege of Dathomir has resulted in the slaughter of countless clone legions and the greatest the Jedi Order had to offer lie shattered before us."

The camera continued recording as fires blazed behind him, the flickering glimpses of the shattered Republic invasion force and the triumphant forces of Crimson Dawn.

"Tell your Chancellor and tell the Jedi Council," he continued, allowing each phrase to resonate with the implacable certainty of fate unfolding. "The Sith have have triumphed and will continue to do so, with power unrivaled. And soon, your galaxy will feel the wrath of the dark side."

With a flick of his wrist, Maul deactivated the recording, knowing the message would find its way to those who had dared to defy him, a herald of the fears that now gripped the galaxy with perilous consequence.

As the recording ceased, the battlefield continued its descent into chaos, the galaxy hanging on the precipice of change, where darkness sought to drown the light beneath an ever-encroaching shadow.

[hersaladdeer]

Chapter 6: The Other

An ongoing ProHero Hitoshi x F!OC fanfic. This chapter contains risqué content, including some dom/sub themes.

"We both know if you really wanted this to end, if you didn't enjoy this, you'd just have to say so and I'd stop. You like this, kitten." Hitoshi placed his free hand on her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes had taken on a sharper, teasing edge. The smirk on his face exuded confidence as he held her wrists in an iron vice. "So if I wasn't fucking you, what was I doing that riled you up so much, huh?"

"What do cheats get?"

The binding around her wrists were pulled higher, straining her shoulders as she lifted her head to meet his eyes. Binding her wrists to her ponytail seemed cruel, leaving her with the choice between discomfort or eye contact. The struggle for power between them had boiled over into physical, and the man had come better prepared.

"Fuck you." Takara didn't have more to give her rebuke. Her wit had been quickly dismissed when Hitoshi had lifted her onto her desk, her arms already bound behind her. Her ability to thrash was limited by her bindings and how she'd been placed on the surface that sat cold beneath her. "That's not the right answer, cheat." The bastard smirked at her resolve, her continued ability to defy his question despite her predicament.

"If you'd just answer, I'd give you what you want." Hitoshi's voice filled with disappointment, as though he was not hoping to punish her. He placed a swift, decisive smack to her cunt. The contact was electric - damn her body for reacting this way - causing her to jump, grinding against the mans hand. He'd left it there to taunt her with an awareness of friction while keeping it just out of reach. She'd have to work for it if she wanted it. He stood between her legs, one arm holding her shoulder up so she couldn't lay back, but leaning down enough that she'd have to struggle to meet his gaze. A torturous precipice.

"You don't care what I want, Hitoshi." Takara response ripped from her throat like a growl, allowing her eyes to meet the ceiling. The move provided a brief reprieve for her shoulders as her wrists fell down her back, the bindings loose enough to allow some circulation to return. "I don't think you even care what you want." Takara's breathing had started to level out, the struggle between the pair lapsing for long enough for a brief respite.

"An overlay on a picture you cannot perceive, yet accept as reality." Takara looked around the space, rapidly becoming aware at the surreal aspects of her surroundings. Her shoulders relaxed, her wrists suddenly free from their bindings. Takara took a moment to count her fingers. Eight? Eleven? The number was wrong, the concept of numbers becoming increasingly difficult to understand.

"I'm dreaming." Hitoshi's eyes met hers, but they were not his. In his sockets sat Takara's own orbs, the warm brown tones flecked with streaks of red and gold. The lighting in the white space highlighted them as Takara gazed upon the strange visage, the chimera emitting a radiant warmth with it's presence. Like home and hope, a snowy morning and a cup of tea. "I'm trapped here again, aren't I?"

"Control is a concept you've never mastered." Takara sighed. This place always made her feel stupid and small, like she could never hope to learn what it was trying to teach her. The other sat, patient and happy in Takara's presence.

"My grandmother tells me her inner voice is like a shadow." Lucid dreaming had started happening to Takara as a child. It was not something she'd practiced - it had simply happened, and she'd told her parents about the white space casually over bowl of cereal the next day.

Luckily her parents did not find it strange - her father had been raised by Kiyoko, after all - and simply told her she was talking to herself while she slept, that the voice was a friend because it was also herself. Like a mirror. Kiyoko had agreed, and only shared her own experiences when Takara was a teenager. "That the shadow chases her and she has to flee, hide, outrun and escape. You may lock me here-"

"I do nothing, your dreams collapse around you because you do not believe in them."

"-but I've never found you scary, and you've never been mean to me." Takara continued on, knowing that trying to parse the others meaning in the moment would be an exercise in futility. "I don't always like what you have to say, and you're not always right. But you're always kind. Why?"

"Why would I not be kind to you?" The other turned to her, the lighting accentuating the golden hues of it's hair. Hair Takara would have died for - she'd always found her hair one dimensional, red, like brick that had been painted over. So much potential but it just didn't work. "You are the only thing I've ever known that isn't me." Takara furrowed her brow at the comment before she was ripped away from the other, the sudden pull violent as the white space rapidly retreated.

An incessant tapping pulled Takara back into consciousness. The area between her legs was wet, warm, her nerves still alight from her dream as she tried to get her bearings straight.

Something had shifted within her. Takara was no stranger to self pleasure - she had toys and talented fingers - but she'd been unable to get herself off for a few days. At first it had seemed like a challenge - like her body was edging her, bringing her right to the brink before stopping short of the big finale. The second day had been less of a challenge and more of a plea - her favorite toys, her favorite candles and music and smells had all been used - and still her body refused to cooperate.

Now, day three, she'd been furious. How dare her body do this to her - yes, she was stressed, but shouldn't that entitle her to a quick hit of dopamine to help quell that feeling? She'd come so close in her dream - so close to sweet relief - but it had been snatched by none other than herself. Takara rolled to the window angrily, finding Hitoshi perched there, finger ready to tap again.

Takara stormed over, flicking the latch open with a violent movement. "What?" She bark whispered at him, concerned about her grandmother stirring. Hitoshi was silent for a moment as he took her in - the hair that had been pulled into a loose bun, the panties and oversized t-shirt she wore. The absolute disregard for her semi-nude state. He hadn't seen her since he'd made three runs at getting her number and failing each one. The castor bean case had gone cold, but the poisonings had also stopped. Hitoshi wasn't giving up yet but the urgency had abated.

"I heard a lot of movement." Takara had been tossing and turning, the comforter of her bed now a tangled pile on her mattress as she looked at it over her shoulder. "I was having a dream." She responded shortly, surveying him with a critical eye.

"A bad one?" Takara blushed at the question, her anger mixing with her fiery needs as looked to the left of the mans head - anywhere but his eyes, lest it bring her back to her dreaming moments. Anywhere but his neck where that capture weapon sat that could so easily bind her. "Takara?" Hitoshi pressed, concern painting his voice as he moved forward to step into her room.

"No, I just- No. It wasn't bad. It was just a stupid, stupid dream." Hitoshi nodded a few times before quietly shutting the window behind him. Takara continued to stew in front of him, her odd mood not changing. "I need help." She finally blurted with a sigh, crossing her arms and still not meeting his gaze. Hitoshi didn't respond, waiting for her to continue as he leaned against the windowsill. "I can't cum."

"....Could you ever?" Takara's eyes snapped to meet his, fury in her eyes at the question. "Yes, Hitoshi, I've had plenty of orgasms before. Most of them self-given. And now my body has decided I don't get to anymore." The whisper was angry, the blush not leaving her face as she explained her predicament. "It's been three days and I've tried-"

"Three days?" Hitoshi raised an eyebrow at the number. "How many times can you fail to masturbate in three days?" Takara opened her mouth to respond before pausing. How many times had she tried? The count became difficult to discern - when did one attempt end and another begin? The lack of orgasms took away the normal end and start marks.

"Let's ballpark at ten?"

"TEN?" The number sounded outlandish to Hitoshi as Takara slapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the outburst. The pair paused for a second, both listening for Kiyoko's snoring. It continued uninterrupted in the background as Takara uncovered his mouth.

"I just- I really need to get off." Takara sighed, an edge of desperation in her voice as she moved back to the bed. "I don't know if that's on the table for whatever this..."

"I'll get you off if you tell me about your dream." Takara threw her hands up in frustration, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of that knowledge. "Why do you care so much about my damn dream?" Hitoshi smirked at her, lightly pushing her to lay on the bed as he continued to stand over her. He'd deposited the voice modulator with the capture weapon and was in the process of stripping off his sweater. "You mumbled my name, and you're avoiding answering. You have something to hide."

"What, do you have enhanced hearing too?" Takara wanted the question to come out angrily, but the sight of him casually stripping overtop of her took the edge out of her voice. The dim lighting highlighted every muscle the man possessed - the broad shoulders, the toned abdominals - and Takara found herself entranced by the trail of purple hair that pulled her eyes lower to where his pants dangled precariously close to falling off.

"You're the one answering questions, not me." Hitoshi undid the zipper to his pants but didn't remove them, standing above her with a smirk as he looked her over. She was a flustered mess, her brain rebelling against the wants of her body. "Your panties are soaked, Takara." Hitoshi slowly slid his hands up her calves, his fingertips digging into the flesh lightly. That blush had returned to her face, her breathing becoming more rapid as his hands roamed ever higher. "Were you having a dirty dream about me?"

Takara refused to answer, throwing her head back against the mattress in frustration. To avoid looking into his teasing, probing amethyst eyes. Hitoshi already knew the answer but wanted to hear her confirmation. Wanted her to admit that she'd been dreaming of him. That in her search for an orgasm Takara's brain had conjured him, and he must have gotten close to fulfilling her needs based on her flustered state.

"Yes." Takara's voice was defeated, the confirmation coming out as a pant. His fingertips dug into her thighs, the flesh soft against his calloused hands as he pushed them back towards her chest. Takara squirmed beneath him seeking friction which Hitoshi denied her.

"And what was I doing in this dream, Takara? Was I fucking you?" Hitoshi relished in the answer, in the power he held over her in this moment. He wanted to push her into a mating press, to stuff her so full that she couldn't help but cum, to feel her milk an orgasm from him with her quivering walls.

But first, he wanted details.

"I- you-" Takara's chest rose and fell rapidly as she met his eyes. She moved to sit up but Hitoshi was faster, grabbing both her wrists in one of his hands and pining then above her head. He'd let go of her thighs which stayed beside him on the bed, his body preventing her from closing them. The move had brought their faces closer together allowing Hitoshi a better view of her frustration. Her eyes were filled with rage and want as her hips bucked under him in an attempt to throw him off her. "You weren't fucking me, Hitoshi." Takara growled out, a snarl on her face as she spat the words at him. As though it was an insult. Her absolute anger, her fury at being seen by him, aroused something in Hitoshi.

He was going to drag this out. "We both know if you really wanted this to end, if you didn't enjoy this, you'd just have to say so and I'd stop. You like this, kitten." Hitoshi placed his free hand on her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes had taken on a sharper, teasing edge. The smirk on his face exuded confidence as he held her wrists in an iron vice. "So if I wasn't fucking you, what was I doing that riled you up so much, huh?" Hitoshi let go of her jaw, running his free hand up the side of her torso. "I think you can tell I like this too." Hitoshi ground his pelvis into hers, causing a sharp intake of breath from the woman beneath him as his erection brushed her soaked panties. "So why don't you give me the details so I can bring those dirty dreams to life?"

Takara's chest rose and fell frantically as she considered his offer. She tried to move her pelvis, aching for just a brief moment of friction against her core, but Hitoshi's other hand found her hip. He pinned it down with a firm push, not appreciating her trying to circumvent the game they found themselves in. "Cheat." Takara's eyes snapped to his as the word left his mouth, filled with recognition, and Hitoshi's grin widened. "Oh, did I call you a cheat in your dream too?" His hand let go of her hip and quickly found it's way to her nipple. "Did you like having me call you names?"

"Y-yes." Takara's whisper was almost inaudible, as though the confession took effort to express. "You called me a cheat. For the game. When I dealt, and you lost."

"And you liked it?" Takara didn't respond, biting her lip to prevent herself from speaking. Hitoshi continued with his questioning, not needing her to confirm it. The growing heat between her thighs was confirmation enough. "Did I spank your ass in this dirty fantasy of yours?" Her thighs trembled around his hips. Takara tried to free her arms, to hide any part of herself - she felt so exposed under his gaze, but his grip around her wrists didn't falter.

"No, you didn't spank my ass." Hitoshi didn't miss the dismissal. Odd to call out the body part in her denial. "Did you like when I smacked your cunt for being a brat?"

Takara seethed, but her anger was quickly tempered when Hitoshi gave her nipple a quick pinch, feeling the bar of her piercing beneath the surface of his fingers. An unexpected surprise. Her back arched against the bed at the movement, the assault on her aching nipples causing another wave of pleasure to overtake her body. Takara bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out, tears forming in her eyes from the edging and teasing the man above her was inflicting on her.

"Answer the question and I'll make you cum, Takara." Hitoshi didn't need to fuck her - his ego was thoroughly stroked by peeking into the woman's desires for him. He would gladly make her cum if she would give in, if she could acknowledge that he aroused her in such perverse ways.

Takara's response came out as a drawn out whine, her body settling beneath him in surrender. "You tied my hair to my wrists. You put me on my desk and teased me, you kept asking me what cheats get. Kept calling me a cheat. You got me so close 'toshi. So close. Please. Please." Her panting had slowed, her eyes meeting his as she finished her confession. Hitoshi didn't miss the final move she tried, the desperation in her voice almost allowing him to overlook it. Almost.

"You didn't answer the question." He leaned in closer to her, his erection pressing against her as he did so. "Last chance before I leave out that window."

Takara's eyes darted between the window and him trying to determine if it was a bluff. "Wait, wait wait wait." Takara closed her eyes, collecting the shattered pieces of her mind as she let go of her resolve. "I liked it. I liked when you punished me. I liked when you lifted me up and pulled my hair, when you used your weapon on me." Takara was laying it out, not wanting to risk the man making true on this threat to leave her in this state. "I liked when you smacked my clit in my dream. Please, please-" Takara bucked against him and Hitoshi allowed the movement, allowed her to feel the friction between her legs she so desperately craved "please make me cum."

Hitoshi didn't let go of her wrists, dropping her nipple to bring his hand to the overstimulated nerve bundle between her legs. He rubbed frantic circles on it and Takara moaned, her muscles loosening with the wave of pleasure his ministrations brought on. He wasted no time and slipped two fingers inside her - all his teasing had left her a dripping mess, her body giving no resistance as he set a relentless pace with his hand. His thumb continued the circular movements as his fingers found that spongy spot inside her he'd been looking for. Takara threw her head back as Hitoshi released her hands, clamping his hand over her mouth instead to keep her from crying out.

"Cum for me, you filthy cheat." Takara felt a white hot jolt of electricity coarse through her body at the words, her hips bucking against his hand without her direction as she came. His hand muffled the noises she was making, the sweet release after three days of relentless effort rewarding Takara with euphoria. Every one of her nerves was on fire as he slowed his movements, the circles around her clit becoming slower, the movements of his fingers less harsh. Her skin felt sticky in the warm air of the room, slick with sweat. Hitoshi slowly removed his hand from her mouth before leaning back, giving Takara a glorious view of his body. His body was also lightly slicked with sweat from the effort of restraining her and coaxing an orgasm from her.

"Thank you." Takara mumbled, her breathing slowly returning to normal. Her body felt heavy against the bed, exhaustion hitting her without mercy. The outline of Hitoshi shook it's head. "You can go." Takara whispered, knowing the man had his duties.

"No, you might drop." Hitoshi placed a hand against her forehead, an oddly caring move when he'd been ruthless with her just moments ago. "How do you feel?"

"Cold." The formerly warm air of the room now felt cold. She attributed it to the sweat, but Hitoshi had a different idea of why it'd come on. Takara felt anxiety creep into her peripherals but pointedly ignored it.

"Come here." Hitoshi stripped down to his boxers, going to slip under the covers with her. Takara looked at him with distrust, as though he was about to toy with her again. Hitoshi paused his movement at the sight. "Takara-" Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him, her body rigid. He'd stripped her bare, pulled dirty thoughts and feelings she'd rarely shared with others from her with a frightening ease. He obviously found her disgusting, perverse, weird-

Hitoshi wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his shoulder as her tears began to fall. He pulled her into his lap, his hands moving up and down her back in long, slow strokes. "Subdrop is a real thing, Takara. It's okay." Takara didn't appreciate being called a sub. She wasn't submissive. This whole thing had been a mistake. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing is wrong with you." A few moments passed in silence as Takara's breathing became more level, more normal. Hitoshi felt her relax into him as she fell into sleep, waiting a few more moments before lowering her onto the bed and putting the blanket overtop of her.

He couldn't leave her. He couldn't.

A quick text to Denki letting him know he'd be late and a quick glance at her door to ensure it was locked, and Hitoshi crawled under the blanket with her. Takara didn't stir or move with the shifting weight on her bed.

Hitoshi lay next to her, unable to sleep, and unwilling to leave. He let himself drift between consciousness and sleep until eventually, sleep won.

Comments are always welcome! This whole chapter was fueled by a stormy Sunday and reading a smutty book. Let me know if you liked it! One line from the other came straight from the game Slay the Princess. I highly recommend it.

Link to chapter index.

Link to chapter seven.

[rom-e-o]

Better Than Good (Modern Scroogeverse ficlet)

@quill-pen and I were chatting about physical body hcs for Eb, and this body worship fic came out of it. ;) just a fun little project, because this man deserves to be ogled for for how handsome he is.

This story is rated 18+. for nonexplicit sexual content. Minors DNI (do not interact) with this post. Story beneath cut.

Enjoy!

The man was a work of art, as far as Constance was concerned.

He was too humble to fathom it, but if he had decided to charge admission for people to watch him undress, he could have booked entire rooms with spectators. Concert halls would have been standing room only for the tall, finely formed, wide-shouldered, Adonis of a man that towered before her.

He was completely nude except for a towel wrapped around his svelte hips. He’d just come from the shower, she’d surmised. A faint cloud of eucalyptus-scented steam canopied the ceiling, and a light flush covered his body from the spray of the hot water. A few stray droplets still rolled down the wide expanse of his back, creating starlit rivulets down his skin.

Constance DoGoode-Scrooge watched as her husband, Ebenezer Samuel Scrooge, began to towel his hair dry. He’d be coming to bed soon, but she’d snuck away from her reading nook to witness his winding-down ritual. She always found the process of watching him wash away the day and remove his philanthropist persona to reveal the real man underneath intriguing. Seeing his habits, learning his preferences, and seeing him take care of himself have her a fuzzy feeling in her heart that Constance could only describe as 'positively domestic.'

It was a side to him that she knew she was privy to above others, and it gave her a secret thrill.

While Ebenezer had expressed that he wasn’t sure why Constance enjoyed watching him, he didn’t discourage her. In fact, he seemed chuffed by the attention.

“You are too mischievous for your own good,” he muttered as she chanced a glance in the mirror to find the gaze of his lovely wife.

She hummed at the way he casually granted her permission to leer. She would do so.

Donned in her bathrobe – a shade creamy espresso with a satin finish -- she leaned against the doorframe. Her head angled up slightly, perfectly accentuating her soft expression as she gazed upon him with adoration.

She could spend hours drinking in the details of him, even when he was still pink from a hot shower. In fact, that was merely another thing about his she found perfectly adorable.

While her skin fancied apricot-brown hues when flustered (hues that Ebenezer himself had described as making her ‘glow like a goddess’), his skin turned the loveliest shade of petal pink when flushed. Or teased. Or bitten. It was most noticeable when she observed their hands and limbs still tangled together after a session of lovemaking, and she noticed the different hues side-by-side.

Not to mention, she found the color extremely fetching on him, and hold told him to perhaps consider a tie or pocket-square in the shade. He, with that same adorable blush, had said he’d very much take that into consideration.

Her thoughts were interrupted as he suddenly moved.

Now done with toweling his hair, he shifted his stance at the sink and prepared to wash and shave his face.

Constance smiled. She’d scolded him lightly before for washing his face in the shower, because the higher temperature of the water could damage the delicate skin and cause irritation. He’d taken her advice, it seemed. Not that his handsome, diamond-cut visage had suffered at all from the habit.

As he lathered his face with the wash, she was mesmerized as the planes of muscles rippled so effortlessly, further highlighting the impressive breadth of his back and shoulders. They were wide enough for her to hang onto with her hands (or hook her legs over) but just as suited for hard days when she needed a private place to shed tears.

For all varieties of intimate moments, his body was a sanctuary to retreat into.

The rest of his form was just as marvelous, she continued to think. Her eyes licked up and down his back, noting the divine way his wide chest tapered down to a pair of narrow hips. Just above the edge of the terrycloth towel she could see the two dimples that marked the base of his spine. His adorable bum was nestled just below, though it was concealed from her at the moment. A small disappointment, but the damp towel still hugged the form nicely.

Her attention moved to his arms. The rounded caps of his shoulders, the definition of his biceps, and the way the veins of his arms seemed to announce themselves with every minor flex or movement never ceased to make her shiver. How any of those gossip-rag writers could doubt his manliness or virility when they talked about their relationship, she had no clue.

Since they’d been a couple, he’d also begun to eat more and spend more time taking care of himself. It had added some definition and bulk to his arms which, while still slender, had most definitely increased at least one shirt side in the last year. She knew so, because his tailor had told her.

Although it was hidden from view, his chest was dusted with dark, salt-and-pepper curls that she loved to carve her fingers through. The hair trailed up to his clavicle, and always caught her attention when he wore lower-cut shirts, or opened his collar to reveal a sliver of chest in the hotter months.

His chest hair continued all the way down his toned abdomen and beyond his belly button. Between his legs, the same graying coils gathered in a dark thatch around his cock and testes. On principle, and due to his preferences, he kept the hair in his pubic area nicely groomed. It helped both of them enjoy intimacy more.

While he was not the hairiest man she had ever seen, he boasted much more body hair than any other man she’d ever been with, especially Orin.

In fact, before Ebenezer, Constance had never paid much attention to body hair on men. Now, she found the sight and texture of it delightfully primal, as well as delightfully pleasing to the eyes.

The first time they’d gone to bed, the way his chest hair had scrubbed her sensitive nipples, stomach, inner thighs, and clit with each thrust had helped bring her to orgasmic glory faster than any other man had done before.

A breath fluttered in her throat at the memory of it.

The sound caught his attention. “Are you alright, Dear?”

He’d been in the process of shaving when he’d heard her little gasp, and had lofted the blade a half-inch above his face as they spoke.

“I was just looking at you …” she started dreamily.

Smiling, he returned to shaving. He shaved every morning, but touched up in the evenings as needed. When it came to grooming and cleanliness, he was thorough, which she adored.

“…And about how amazing your body is, in and out of our bed.”

He appeared to steel his nerves just long enough to safely slide the blade along the contour of his cheekbone, then flick it under the warm tap to rinse away the lather. Bringing a nearby washcloth drenched in aftershave to his face bought him some additional time to think of a reply.

After years of marriage, her genuine and positive comments still vexed him. Mostly because they were about him.

“And what, pray tell, brought that thought on?” he asked as casually as he could.

“The view from this doorway,” she replied smoothly. “Though it’s not the best one. I can barely see your face, after all.”

He turned to face her, and she let out an appreciative hum. Strong, masculine features grinned back at her. His icy eyes always melted at the sight of her. His precisely shaven sideburns accentuated his defined cheekbones and strong jaw to perfection. Some questioned the style as being slightly outdated, but it looked so dashing on him, Constance couldn't imagine him looking any different. His strong, Roman nose only added to the stateliness of his visage. Even with a head of wet, starlight-colored hair, he looked like the picture of elegance.

"There we go. Even better.”

His lovely chest was also on display as he turned to address her. She longed to reach out to touch it; to lay her hand over his heart and feel the pounding of his heart. Sensing this, he sauntered toward her.

The way his long, corded legs made easy works of bridging the space between them. It made his chest puff, he had to admit, seeing the effect he had on her.

“You shower me in praise,” he started, reaching out to cup her face, thumb stroking the high point of her freshly moisturized cheek. “Yet, here you are. I cannot help myself but to be reminded of your beauty every opportunity I gaze upon you.”

Poetic, as always. It was a talent of his, she’d come to learn.

“You are also a sight to gaze upon,” she reminded him.

Soft laughter, like thunder, rumbled in his chest. “So, you’ve told me.”

“Clearly not enough.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her voice shifting from coquettish to tender with the swiftness of a metronome’s pendulum. “I’d like you to believe it.”

Struck by the shift in her tone, he took a measured breath to prevent himself to pulling her into an appreciative kiss immediately.

Luring her arms from their crossed position across her chest, he took her hands and caged them between his rougher ones. They were large enough to cradle her entire hip or cup her breast with ease, but always soft when he touched her in moments of vulnerability. Those blunt, skilled fingertips had penned many check donations, put many flowers into her hair, and dutifully stroked between her legs to help bring her to the edge of ecstasy.

In that moment, they pushed one of the springy curls that framed her face behind her ear.

With another exhale, he drew his lips into a fine line as he selected his next sentiment. “I … have not known anyone before you, my Connie, that treats me with such reverence. Such disarming honesty. Such adoration. I … make a tangible effort every day to be a man that is worthy of you. Worthy of the amazing life I somehow have been afforded to live.”

He used the hand cradling her cheek to slowly guide her forward.

“If I can accomplish that, then I am more than content.”

Placing a tender kiss on the middle of her forehead, he then angled his head down to glimpse her expression. His lashes flustered a bit as his eyes drank in every detail of her expression. When their gazes finally connected, eye to eye and soul to soul, his pupils narrow slightly. Focused. Perhaps a tad nervous as well.

“Is that … good enough, my darling? At least for now?”

Always chasing redemption, even in the eyes of his lover.

Rising on tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. The smell of aftershave and his shampoo filled swam through her brain as she did so, and she even lingered and extra beat to appreciate it.

“It’s more than good,” she answered softly. She flexed her fingers in the cage of his hands. When he opened his grip, she used the chance to lace their fingers together. "Now, and always."

Once upon a time, perhaps not. She’d heard the whispered memories and stories of how he’d acted in another life. He sounded like a completely different man, and in many ways, he had been.

But the man Ebenezer had become – the one bringing their lips together in a passionate kiss while lifting her high into his arms – was him now. The man she loved.

He would always be better than ‘good’.

Thanks for reading! <3

I've been very sick the past few days, so apologies if the writing reflects that. I did have tons of run writing this, haha.

[tvreadsandsleep]

» Domestic!Attoye || Attoye Prompt Drabbles || Master List «

“I do not like the way that colonizer’s eyes linger upon you,” Attuma whispered in Okoye’s ear as he embraced her from behind. He’d finally been able to get her alone, said colonizer having, at last, gone away to prattle at someone else.  

They were at a dinner party, Okoye having insisted that they couldn’t refuse Shuri’s request to attend. After learning that K’uk’ulkan would also be serving as host, the couple unofficially debuting their relationship, Attuma had readily agreed. The gathering was an intimate, casual affair made up only of those close to the couple. How the American had gained an invite was beyond Attuma.

He'd been having a good time—his mood bright due to his full belly, the night’s dinner having been a complementary mix of delicacies from both Talokan and Wakanda, and the drinks he’d partaken in, the alcohol plentiful. He’d ended a conversation with Namora to go in search of Okoye, whose presence he missed. The two had separated, to connect with their friends, once the seated meal had concluded.

He’d spent the last few hours conferring with K’uk’ulkan, joking with Namora and getting to know Lord M’Baku, and was now ready to take his leave with Okoye. He’d been smiling, his cheeks flushed purple as his eyes searched the room. His jovial spirits had soured upon finding her speaking with the small man, who’d had an arm raised as though to touch his treasure. Her hard stare, at his hand, had the man lowering the offensive, in Attuma’s opinion, appendage, and had halted Attuma in his stalk across the room.

“Who, Ross?” Okoye asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Yes, his eyes are always filled with lust, and they follow you about,” he glared briefly in the colonizer’s direction. The man was now speaking with Shuri. K’uk’ulkan was nearby, his expression mirroring that of Attuma’s.

“You’re exaggerating,” Okoye snorted. “His eyes do not follow me, and his expression, that you’re misinterpreting by the way, is appreciation. I did free him from imprisonment, you know.”

“Yes, he appreciates the brilliance of your eyes, the beauty of your visage and the ample curves that make up your striking form, all of which are mine to cherish.” His declaration was followed by the tightening of his arms. He pressed his face into her neck, teasing the sensitive skin with the tip of his nose.

Giggling, she twisted out of his hold, and slapped, once, at his chest.

“Behave,” she instructed before allowing him to return her to the circle of his arms, this time face to face. While gazing up at him, she rubbed the area she’d struck. “Just because you spend every moment of your day pining after me, doesn’t mean that every man in my vicinity does as well.”

“That is because they are fools.”

“So, then you do want other men to look upon me with desire in their eyes,” she teased, her fingers walking up his chest.

“No, what I wish is for everyone—man, woman or child—to recognize your radiance and grace, but for every man, fortunate enough to find himself in your presence, to be too afraid to leer at your features for fear of my wrath.” His statement was serious, not a hint of jest in his tone. “In fact, the American should be the first to learn this lesson.”

He made to move away from Okoye, but she kept him close.

“Would you rather risk the treaty between our nations by attacking a man that is of little consequence to me, or would you rather take me home and cherish what you say is yours?”

The choice was an easy one, and made with no hesitation.  

[tearofisha]

Grave Digger.

In the infinite void, a planet ship drifted. Debris floated idly in space, the remnants of ships and cracked crystal domes that shone in the starlight like scattered jewels lost in the midst of a theft gone wrong. For over 300 years, the Craftworld drifted, alone and in the dark,another casualty of the galaxies genocide against itself until one day a portal flickered and a living Aeldari walked upon the Craftworld once more.

Rishaeron walked through the streets with equal numbness and reverence, clutching his rifle in tense hands and straining not to make a sound lest the ghosts of his people hear the footsteps of the lowly scavenger walking through their streets.

Despite his efforts to not look, he saw the casual horrors of war on a planetary scale in montage. The blown out ruins of support batteries with their crews scattered around them like broken teeth from a bar brawl. Wave Serpent and Falcon Grav tanks scorched with their killing blows still visible like an accusation toward their destroyer. A Wraithlord surrounded by a glut of humanity, the venerable Wraith construct with Ghostglaive skewered through the ground so that it remained kneeling even after death. So many others. But no pulse, no thrum that lay at the heart of living Craftworlds because both the Infinity Circuit and Avatar of Khaine were destroyed.

He descended further.

Passed now where only Exarchs and Farseers tread, Rishaeron saw the prize he was here to reclaim. Near the centre of the world, lay the remains of the Seer Council, Court of the Young King, and the fossilised ruin of the Avatar of Khaine, its roiling boiling visage still one of such deep and purposeful hate that Rishaeron could feel the blood in his own veins begin to simmer.

Kneeling before the now-statue of a once living God to his people, he removed his helmet, weapons and gazed up into the screaming face of death as if in prayer.

"Bloody Handed." He said evenly, aware that these were the first words spoken without his war mask on in weeks. "To thee my bloody undertakings are dedicated and with your gifts will your enemies be struck down."

The Ranger brushed some of the ash from the base of the slain Avatar onto his fingertips and drew them over his forehead before swiftly placing his war mask back on, the dread oath to the God of war and murder now made in the presence of a thousand thousand ghosts. He rose, and found the body of the Autarch nearest the chamber to the Infinity Circuit and in its hand was his quarry.

No words were spoken, and no judgement was given, but still a moments hesitation faded over Rishaeron. Of an entire destroyed Craftworld, every Spiritstone and refugee claimed that could be saved, this was the only treasure to be left behind. Deep in his bones, in the very soul that was Rishaeron Wayfinder, he knew that to take the sword was to cross a boundary he could never return to. He thought of Prince Yriel taking the Spear of Twilight, how Yriel knew such an action would condemn him but doing so to save his Craftworld. He was making no such valiant sacrifice. His sacrifice was to claim this blade in the name of vengeance and vengeance alone.

Rishaeron took a deep breath, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the blade, and the Shard of Anaris was bequeathed from the hands of one dead warrior to another, sure to join them.

[shelbsmlynn]

A Modern Day Bonnie And Clyde {a Tig Trager X OC LoveStory} CHAPTER ONE

**********THIS LOOSELY FOLLOWS THE SERIES IN TERMS OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS DEATHS,NOBODY HAS DIED YET*********

Bellatrix Morrow commanded a reputation that preceded her, not merely because of her lineage as Clay Morrow's sole daughter or her role as Tig Trager's devoted partner, but rather due to her own formidable nature. Possessing a fierce and unhinged disposition akin to both her boyfriend and her adopted brother Happy, Bellatrix was a force to be reckoned with. Despite the notable age difference between herself and Tig, their bond was unbreakable, a testament to the deep and unyielding connection they shared.

In the depths of their hearts, Bellatrix and Tig found a love that bloomed swiftly and fiercely, yet they chose to shield it from the prying eyes of their motorcycle club brethren. Their clandestine affair, born of passion and forbidden desire, remained hidden until the fateful moment when Clay, Bellatrix's father and a prominent figure in the club, stumbled upon them in the throes of intimacy.

Despite the constant teasing and jokes that surrounded Bellatrix and Tig's relationship after its revelation, the club stood united in support of their bond when it truly mattered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellatrix lounged upon a picnic table, the tendrils of cigarette smoke swirling around her as she observed her stepbrother and Chibs laboriously attempting to affix a hose to a recalcitrant radiator. With a nonchalant flick, she extinguished her cancer stick and embarked towards the Ford Explorer, the distinctive click of her platform Louboutins resonating with each purposeful step. As she approached, Bellatrix assertively hipchecked her brother aside, disdain etched upon her features. "Move, you imbecile," she chided, her tone laced with impatience, before deftly reaching into the engine bay to expertly connect the radiator to the engine.

Jax's eyes rolled in exasperation as Bellatrix stepped back from the car. "I'm not an imbecile, baby sister," he retorted, "but one might question your judgment, given your choice in significantly older men." His words were delivered with a hint of playful mockery.

Bellatrix's visage hardened into a mask of ice, her jet-black acrylics digging into her palms as she prepared to retort. Before she could utter a word, however, her "knight in shining armor" appeared, approaching her from behind. His large hand gently pressed against her throat, pulling her into his embrace as he placed a tender kiss upon her cheek. "Hey, Punkin'," he murmured, his affectionate nickname for her cutting through the tension like a soothing balm.  She whirled around in Tig's embrace, pivoting to face him directly as she initiated a more intimate kiss. "Hey, Big Daddy," she greeted him warmly, her tone laced with a hint of playful teasing. "I didn't expect you back so soon. I figured Pops would have kept you out longer," she remarked, her words tinged with a sense of curiosity. As their lips parted, she leaned back slightly, her gaze locked with his. Tig's smile was warm as he idly toyed with a lock of Bellatrix's long, cherry cola-colored hair. "He wanted me to stay," he confessed, "But I told him I had to get back to your pretty lil' ass." His words filled with a tender affection.

                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, the couple found themselves nestled in the comforting embrace of the clubhouse's common room, ensconced upon the plush sectional sofa. Meanwhile, Clay, Jax, and Opie were engrossed in the action unfolding on the massive 85-inch TV screen, which was broadcasting a live NFL game. As the game transitioned into a commercial break, Opie gracefully extricated himself from the opposite end of the sectional, intent on replenishing their libations. With a casual stride, he made his way towards the bar, his presence a stark contrast to the cozy tableau Bellatrix and Tig had created. "Could you two freaks not get all lovey and gross in the fuckin' common room?" he quipped good-naturedly, his words carrying a playful admonition. Tig shot Opie the middle finger, his other hand still gently stroking Trixie's hair. "Excuse me if my Ol'Lady laying on my lap offends you, shithead," he retorted, unapologetic in his response.

Opie rolled his eyes in response, making his way back to the sofa with a hint of exasperation. "It's not a matter of offense, Tigger," he remarked, his tone laced with a touch of amusement. "It's just... unsettling. I'm not accustomed to seeing you display such genuine affection. It's a bit of a departure from your usual sleazeball antics," he added, a playful jab at Tig's reputation.

Trixie looked up at Tig with a sleepy yet lustful gaze, pulling herself up to sit. "Take me to bed and fuck me to sleep, Tigger. Your lil' princess needs a good railing," she said, her tone brimming with sass and sarcasm.

                                                                    ***

The next morning, Bellatrix awoke to the gentle warmth of the California sun cascading over her heavily tattooed back. The electric blue numbers on her bedside clock glowed, indicating noon had already passed. She reached out to Tig's side of the bed, expecting to feel his warmth, but was met with cold sheets and a chilled pillow instead. "Dammit, Tiggy," she muttered to herself, a hint of frustration coloring her thoughts.

The petite woman rose from the expanse of the king-sized bed, retrieving yesterday's pastel purple thong from the floor. With a deft motion, she slid it up her legs before wrapping herself in her lover's Teller-Morrow Garage button-down, using it as a makeshift robe. Once semi-clothed, Trixie grabbed her pack of Marlboro Red 100's and Zippo lighter from the nightstand before making her way to the clubhouse's kitchen,As she entered the kitchen, Trixie lit up a Marlboro Red 100, the smoke curling around her as she spotted her stepmother, Gemma. 

"Well, look who decided to wake up," Gemma greeted her with a sly smile. "Tigger must've worn you out good for you to be sleeping in this late, darlin'," she teased, the playful tone of an older woman who knew a thing or two about life's pleasures.

Trixie grinned mischievously as she blew smoke in Gemma's direction. 

"Well, Mama, I reckon you're onto something, especially considering I've still got  Tigger juice drippin down my thighs," she quipped, her words laced with a playful hint of innuendo.

Gemma rolled her eyes, a mixture of amusement and exasperation crossing her features. "Bellatrix Eileen, I did NOT need to know that," she chided with a playful shake of her head.

Trixie couldn't help but grin as she poured herself a generous cup of Folgers Black Silk coffee. With a flick of her wrist, she reached into the fridge for her favorite Mocha-flavored International Delight coffee creamer. "Y'all should know by now that I love to mess with you," she teased, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth adding to her playful demeanor.

Once satisfied with her coffee, the petite, tattooed woman set out in search of her honey.She found him in the shop, diligently changing the oil on his motorcycle.

Trixie sauntered up behind Tig, her steps light and barely audible on the concrete floor of the shop. With a gentle touch, she leaned against his back as he tended to his motorcycle, her demeanor soft, sleepy, and innocent. "Good morning, Daddy," she whispered, the honorific carrying a sense of reverence and affection.

Tig laid the socket wrench he was using on the ground, rising slowly as his left hand traced a tender path up his Princess's tattooed calf, "Well, good afternoon, babydoll," Tig murmured, his voice low and soothing as he leaned in closer to Trixie. "Did you sleep good?" he inquired, his tone filled with genuine concern and affection.

Trixie rolled her eyes playfully as her big, bad biker, stole a sip of her so-called "frufru coffee." "Sure did, HoneyBear, slept like a rock!" she replied, her tone teasing yet affectionate.

"That's good, darlin'," Tig replied, a hint of excitement in his voice. "We've been assigned the Costco run for the big summer bash this weekend. Let me finish up here, and I'll meet you in the shower," he added, his words laced with anticipation.

"Actually, I kinda wanted to watch you work. You look sexy when you're doing all that mechanicin'," Trixie grinned, leaning against the stainless steel toolbench, her gaze fixed on Tig.

The man shot Trixie a flirty grin as he went back to working on his bike, his attention divided between the motorcycle and the tiny woman who was staring at him with pure adoration.

                                                                                 ***

  An hour and a half later, Trixie emerged from Tig's dormitory transformed into a vision of allure. She was dressed in a black bustier top, paired with black leather skinny jeans that accentuated her curves. Her feet were clad in black Loubi Queen Alta's , adding an extra flair to her ensemble. A cropped black leather jacket completed the look, adding a touch of edginess.

Her cherry cola red hair was styled to perfection, teased and done up to the nines. Her makeup was equally striking, with a black smokey eye that highlighted her eyes, and a wine-red lip that added a bold finish to her appearance. She carried a large Louis Vuitton Neverfull, which was her signature purse.

                                                                                                           ***

The psychotic couple cruised down the road toward Stockton, Tig confidently at the wheel of Bellatrix's prized midnight black 2012 Dodge Challenger. Beside him, Bellatrix sat, her presence a potent combination of danger and allure. Their hands were intertwined on the center console, a silent affirmation of their bond as they embarked on their journey together.

A comfortable silence enveloped the car, the only sound the deep growl of the engine as they sped down the highway. Bellatrix broke the quiet by cracking her window slightly. "You got the Costco card from Bobby, right?" she asked, her voice cutting through the rumble of the car.

Tig nodded, his eyes briefly leaving the road to meet Bellatrix's gaze. "It's in my wallet, punkin'. Did you get the list from Gem?" he replied, his tone casual yet attentive.

                                                                                                 ***

Back in Charming, chaos unfolded as both Jax and his Ol'Lady, Tara, were rushed to Saint Thomas Hospital. The reason? A simple accident: they had fallen while making love in the shower. Both the matriarch and patriarch of the club were furious. While they might have expected such behavior from the Sergeant at Arms and his Ol'Lady, it was a shock coming from the Vice President.

Gemma sat in the absurdly uncomfortable chair of her son's hospital room, disappointment drenching her features. "You're a goddamn moron, Jackson Nathaniel. Leave that shit to your stepsister and Tig," she muttered, her words laden with frustration and concern.

Jax scoffed and rolled his eyes, trying to adjust to the jet-black cast encasing his wrist. "My bad for trying to have a happy marriage, Ma. Is Clay keeping an eye on Tara?" he asked, annoyance evident in his tone. 

"Yes, baby, he is. The doctors are making sure she isn't concussed, although I'm sure she is. She bounced her head off a cast iron tub," Gemma said, her tone informative.

Just then, Clay and Tara strolled into the room casually. Tara's eyebrows jumped to her hairline when she laid eyes on the cast on Jax's left hand. "Oh, Jax, honey, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" she asked, her tone dripping with concern.

                                                                                       ***

The Sergeant at Arms and the Enforcer barreled down the highway, heading back to Charming. The trunk and back seat were loaded down with their spoils, while the lady Enforcer laid peacefully asleep in the passenger seat. The song "Luckenbach, Texas (Back to the Basics of Love)" played softly in the background, adding to the relaxed atmosphere of their journey.

Tig glanced over at Trixie with a loving gaze as he reached for the seatbelt she had refused to wear earlier on their journey. "Silly lil' girl," he muttered affectionately, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Pulling into the parking lot of Teller Morrow, Tig spotted Jax and Clay sitting at a picnic table, smoking cigars. Once the car was parked, Jax stalked over to the passenger side and slammed his large palms on the window. "SONOFABITCH!" Bellatrix hollered, jolting awake from a dead sleep.

The tiny woman removed her seatbelt in a flash and practically threw herself out of the car. "YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" she shouted, chasing after her brother.

Tig knew better than to get involved. He stood idly by, watching as Bellatrix chased after Jax like a jungle cat on the hunt. It was clear she could handle her brother on her own. True to form, she caught up to him and proceeded to kick the crap out of him, much like a jungle cat asserting dominance over its prey. 

Although he had to intervene once he saw Bellatrix reach for her blade. While SAMCRO was fine with their Vice President being beaten by his baby sister, knives were where they drew the line.

Tig marched over to the siblings, reaching for the twenty-seven-year-old and pulling her into his embrace. "Shh, shh, darling. Daddy's got you. Big brother got the message, huh, punkin'?" he whispered, trying to calm her.

He left Jax on the ground and carried Bellatrix to the picnic table where her father sat. Tig took a seat, sliding his babydoll into his lap, and then let her play with his left hand so she could self-soothe. 

Bellatrix grabbed his hand by the pinkie and thumb, her voice barely above a whisper. "He scared me, Tiggy. Wasn't expecting him to do that. Shit! We still have to get the groceries," she said, her words a mix of relief and concern for their unfinished task.

Clay eyed his only daughter with concern. "Jax! Prospect! Come here and get the groceries out of Princess's car," he bellowed, his loud voice only serving to frighten Bellatrix more.

[intcritus]

"Careful, fool, your gaze lingers too long on your King. Have you been so entranced that you forget yourself?" Prideful creature that he is, Gilgamesh holds little hesitance in drawing comment upon the weight of that stare that curls his lips upwards. They have come to his attention, word of the artist's work piquing his interest enough to invite them closer, to learn enough to care to remember their name, a feat so few achieve. He finishes crossing the room to seat himself in a casual lean, chin coming to rest upon closed fist as he studies them. "Tell me your inspirations today, what creations will you conjure." Each word falls from his lips as a command, yet beneath it his curiosity lingers.

Mismatched gaze is humored by the words, a golden brow winging up before the phoenix figures that there was a reason this King called for them. He was handsome and yet, Salem looks at him and sees mosaics inspired by him. Whole sculptures made in his visage. It’s inspiring really. It’s not a small feat to say that becoming a muse for Salem, whose created masterpieces like it's something normal, was extraordinary. 

Leaning forward, chin resting atop their clasped hands, the phoenix regards him with an abundance of curiosity, mismatched gaze tracing every inch they see, several color palettes appearing in their mind’s eye and they itch to bring it to life on a blank canvas. ❝ ━ You call for me and yet you say my gaze lingers too long ? Where else shall I look then? Who else shall hold my attention ? ❞ Salem retorts, a bit of a smirk curling pink lips, shoulders rolling back as they avert their gaze away, golden lashes feathering downward. A bit of curiosity always tends to draw their nature forward, but however shall they put their vision into words ? It is always better to show and not tell. And yet if this King wants to know, they shall paint him a picture with words ?

❝ ━ You. The sight of you inspires. Dramatic color palettes come to mind. But the more I think about it, my fingers itch to sculpt, to create something wild, majestic, powerful. ❞ Oh, the artist doesn’t see themselves creating a sculpture of this King, no, something to represent him instead. Like a roaring lion surrounded by fire with an open mouth, roaring out to the world that they are King, that there is no one to stand beside him. And they say as such before brows furrow.

Art will continue to be created but Salem wants to get deeper, not because the Lion is King, but because it reeks of solitude, no companionship and they have to wonder if that reads true.  ❝ ━ Make no mistake, King, I will create. But while you have become my muse, I will test you. I will push, cajole and bite, because no muse of mine will be one dimensional. ❞ A cheeky smile as they lean forward to meet Gilgamesh’s gaze, ❝ ━ I look forward to see just how you continue to inspire me. ❞ / @resolutepath

[cast-you-dxwn]

Justice.

“Twelve conspirators, sir.”

Megariels alto tones were casual, almost unbothered as she made report. As though she were discussing the weather, or giving tallies on rations, even as she mopped still-glowing ichor from her gauntlets with a loose rag before holding it out.

Michael took it, humming thoughtfully as he did the same, not being particularly thorough, only wiping the most excessive remnants of violence from his own hands before dropping the rag onto the polished marble of the Council hall floor.

“Only twelve?” He seemed almost unsatisfied, silver eyes rising to meet the Legate of the Second, the woman’s visage hidden by her helmet as she gave a noncommittal shrug. When she spoke, the Praetor could almost hear the smile in her voice.

“Thirteen, technically. Councilor Farthiel offered a confession before dying of her wounds.”

Michael huffed, turning from the Legate to face the open chamber of the Hall, his hands folded in front of him. The rest of the Council huddled together beneath the balconies where they normally held court, pressed against each other, yellowed bruises and broken fingers the lingering signs of the inquisitiveness of the Legionnaires who now stood guard around them, keeping them in the huddle at spear-point.

But in front of the pulpit, where those who spoke before the Council made their cases, knelt the twelve. Angels he had known for eons. Broken, bleeding, some only able to kneel upright by the bodily support of their compatriots. Their usual haughtiness gone, in its place coming only haunted eyes and pathetic whimpering.

Traitors all. Monsters, all of them.

They had thought themselves clever. The architects of a grand yet simple solution to the problem of Hells rising population. He could imagine how they had congratulated each other, themselves, uncorked wine as they had watched their long-wrought plan finally come together.

The Seraph of Justice moved quietly to stand before them, and those who had the presence of mind to be aware of their surroundings flinched, lowering their eyes to the floor or else simply trembling beneath his gaze. Michaels hand rested on the pommel of his sword, a small mote of hate even now burning a hole in his chest.

How dare they look so contrite. When they had surely laughed at the fruition of their conspiracy, when they had surely slept well in their beds knowing they were sending children to face horrors beyond their ken simply for the sake of convenience. Had they thought they would not be found out? That they, the most high Council of Heaven, could not be held to account for their sins? Lucifer and the Virtues had not been spared the righteousness of judgement, how dare they think they were any better.

“Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe to stumble,” He began, his voice echoing through the otherwise silent chamber, the accused trembling or biting back sobs, “it would be better for him if, with a heavy millstone hung around his neck, he had been cast into the sea".

He waited then, for a few moments. His hands coming to fold in front of him, his helmeted head canted ever so slightly to one side. He expected some manner of objection, pleas for mercy, or even an outburst of anger from the Councilors. But they only clung to themselves, wept, or were simply silent. None met his eye. Disgusting.

“Execute them.”

The command was met with the ringing of blades being drawn from their scabbards, not an iota of hesitation found in the arms of his soldiers. Blades poised to fall, but as Michael rose a hand, they paused mid-swing.

The Councilors looked to him, some eyes glinting with guarded hope, as though they thought some last-minute mercy had gripped the Praetors heart and stayed his hand. But as they looked upon him, his face impassive and fixed only upon the sword-bearing angels that stood behind them, they found no mercy in his gaze.

Michael spoke one word, with finality.

“Publicly.”

[blackcherryvelvet0909]

Night Drive (Rook x GN!Reader)

You sighed as you opened the balcony doors, the cool sea breeze kissing you hello. The view that met your vision was absolutely breathtaking - not a thing could beat it. When you realized the room you and Grim would share at the resort had a balcony, you were thrilled. You figured Crowley would just stick you both in the cheapest room he could find, your only view of the alley between hotels or something. The irritation you held for the headmaster mattered not at the moment. A hum of delight vibrated in your throat as you sat back in a lounge chair to bask in the evening. 

The beach was dark, quiet aside from the soft crash of the waves. The moon shone high above, its visage reflected in the sea. As another gentle wind caressed your skin and tousled your hair, you closed your eyes to further relax yourself. You faintly registered the TV as it played whatever show Grim decided to watch, the cat preoccupied by the screen. For now, he was content with his shows and ice cream. There were no chores or duties for you to attend to, either. For once, you could fully relax and be at ease. 

As you opened your eyes, your gaze fell on the hotel adjacent to yours. The two were owned by the same resort - some of the wealthier students had gotten rooms there. Well, condos, really. They were twice as big as the room you were in, their balconies just as huge. You scanned the apartments from top to bottom as you wondered just how grand they were. Kalim had thought about having a movie night in his - maybe you’d get to see then. 

Just as you were about to look away, you caught a glimpse of someone walking out onto one of the balconies. The figure looked familiar, so you squinted to try and get a better look at them. You quickly recognized the man now leaned against the railing: Rook. His gaze fell on the beach and its nightly splendor; it seemed he, like you, had come out to enjoy the view. You wondered how many times Rook had been to a place like this. You kept forgetting that, like Riddle, Rook’s family was also pretty wealthy. It was no surprise he was in one of the more upscale rooms. 

As Rook’s head turned as his eyes swept over the area, he suddenly stopped when he looked in your direction. You felt eyes upon you - he’d caught you staring. With how keen his eyesight was, he must see how surprised you are to see him. Feeling a bit embarrassed, you smiled and gave him a small wave. Your suspicions were confirmed as he waved back. You watched as he took something out of his pocket and brought it to his face. His expression was finally revealed to you as his phone screen lit up. 

He was smiling, but it was not mischievous or anything. It looked quite fond, actually - sweet. You saw in the dim light that he wore a plain dark purple t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, feet bare on the concrete balcony floor. It was odd to see Rook dressed so casually, unlike how he usually presented himself around Vil. You remembered when he and Rook revealed that Rook’s original dorm had been Savanaclaw…you wondered if he looked similar to how he did now back then. You were pulled out of your thoughts as your phone rang in your pocket. When you took it out, you saw the name of the person calling: Rook.

“Hi, Rook,” you answered, a shy lilt to your voice. 

“Bonjour, trickster.” You heard him chuckle as you watched him sit in a chair on his balcony. “There is no need to be shy; I do not mind your gaze upon me.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “Still, it was rude of me to stare. If you were anyone else, they’d likely think I was trying to spy on them.” 

“Oui, that is true.” You watched Rook manspread as he leaned back in his chair - yet another odd thing to see. You wondered if he was often this casual away from Vil’s eye. “But is that not the thrill? To peek behind the curtains of one’s window, to glimpse into their life? Such beauty can be hidden in those private places.” 

“Yeah…” You honestly didn’t know how to feel about that. It was probably normal for Rook to try and do so, but for you…you just hoped he had the decency to look away when someone was getting dressed or something. You adjusted yourself in your lounge chair as you spoke again. “Anyways, what were you doing before you came out?”

“I was in the shower,” he answered simply. 

“Oh, sorry! That was weird of me to ask.” 

“Non non, do not apologize!” Rook chuckled under his breath, likely seeing your flustered expression from his spot. His eyesight was so keen it was scary. “Such a normal, mundane part of life should not be shameful to discuss. It is simply one beauty becoming another!” 

“That’s one way to see it,” you chuckled. 

“And what were you doing, trickster?” 

“Just out here trying to relax.” You glanced over your shoulder to see Grim still on the bed, eyes glued to the TV. “Grim’s watching something on the TV; I thought it’d be the best time to slip out here.” 

“Ah, yes, you are quite the busy person.” You watched as Rook ruffled his hair to fluff it up. “You are like a bee buzzing to and fro, so dutiful, yet so fatigued. All to please a queen - or, in your case, a headmage.” 

“Yeah,” you sighed in a mix of annoyance and frustration. “Don’t I know it.” You laughed a little as you saw a seagull fly overhead. “Don’t talk too loud, Crowley might hear you.”

“I would bear such a powerful scolding with pride.” He was certainly braver than you…more patient, too. “Should he ever find out about our little conversation, I will take full responsibility.” You could see the glimpse of a smile in the faint light of his phone. “In return, might I ask a gift from you, trickster?” 

“Depends on the gift,” you mused. 

“Let me aid you in your next task,” he said. “Whatever it may be.” 

“Rook, you don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to.” He sounded so genuine, you practically melted. Your heart continued to flutter as he continued. “Though I admire your dedication and elegance in overcoming every obstacle, I know when you have grown weak, trickster. Were it not for this trip, you would have collapsed from exhaustion.” You watched him lean forward in his chair, arm now rested over his knee; though he was far away, you felt those bottle green eyes pierce into yours. “It would be my pleasure to help someone so beautifully strong.” 

If it were anyone else, you would have either questioned their motives or thought they’d torn that line from a book - or both. But this was Rook, who, despite his eccentricities, was not one to lie, at least to you. He was always so sincere when he spoke to you, gentle even. Could he really see through you that well; if so, he cared enough about you to sacrifice his precious hunting time? You’d likely be the prey then, but it just…felt different. You knew he could see the heartfelt smile that formed on your lips. In turn, you could nearly feel his breath against your ear as he mumbled a chuckle in response. 

“Thank you, Rook. That means a lot…I’ll be sure to ask for your help next time I’m overwhelmed.” 

“I look forward to it~” 

“Henchman!” You whipped your head around to look at Grim, who now stood at the edge of the glass doors. “I’m hungry! Let’s go get tuna.” 

“Grim, it’s almost ten,” you sighed. “We have some snacks in the cabinet you can ea-”

“They’re not the same!” he protested. As if to accentuate his need, Grim’s stomach growled loudly. You wouldn’t be surprised if Rook could hear it over the phone. 

You sighed again, this time longer and more tired. “Alright, we’ll go see if they have some downstairs. If they don’t…I really don’t want to leave this late at night. I don’t think Ace or Deuce would be willing to come with us, and I don’t want to bother Malleus while he has a stomach ache…”

“I can drive you.” 

You were nearly startled by Rook’s voice in your ear again. You were so surprised at his offer you wondered if you heard him right. “Huh?”

“Monsieur Fuzzball will not sleep until his appetite is sated, yes? Thus, you will not be able to sleep.” You watched as Rook stood up from his chair. “If there is no tuna available in the lobby, text me. I will get dressed and meet you there.”

“Rook, you really don’t have to-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rook tutted. “Did you not say I could help you in your next hour of need?” You could hear his smile over the phone. “It seems that hour has come sooner than expected.” 

You felt guilt pang your heart as you glimpsed the time on the clock in your room: 10:12 p.m. By the time you got to the grocery store, or somewhere open late that served tuna, it’d be 10:30 p.m. It’d be so late when you got back… “You’re really sure?” 

“It would be my privilege, trickster.” 

Though you still felt that guilt in your gut, you couldn’t help but feel your spirits lift, your smile along with it. “Thanks, Rook. I’ll go down and see if they have some. If they don’t, I’ll text you.” You tried to think of how much money you had on you. It wasn’t much…you could at least pay for the tuna, maybe the gas to get there and back. 

Apparently the hunter could read minds, too, for he caught you off guard with what he said next. “And it is my treat, trickster. A few cans of tuna and a car ride is a small price to pay for such a nightly excursion.” 

You nearly giggled. “You say that like we’re going for a night out.” 

“Hm…that is an idea.” He paused for a moment before he spoke again. “When it is not so late, and you are so tired, I shall see that thought is made a reality, ma petite trickster.”

“W-Wait, what do you-” 

“Let me know when to come down,” Rook interrupted, already making his way back into his condo. He glanced over his shoulder to look at you from across the wide space separating you two. Once more, you could hear his smile on the other end. “I cannot wait to see what your beauty is like in the evening, [Y/n].” 

The sound of your name on his lips played over and over in your head as he hung up. He hadn’t called you that before…and he sounded so sincere again. Rook was so…strange. He was always so hard to read - yet you found a smile pulling at your lips once more. You put your phone back in your pocket as you walked into your hotel room, glass door locking behind you and Grim as you shut it. Grim looked rather happy you actually took him seriously; for once, you felt the same. 

Rook looked good in those ripped jeans, that dark green tee, those hiking boots, and that snapback cap, car keys in hand as he walked off the elevator to greet you. 

[erabundus]

@geminoruma &&. said... "Are you ever curious what eating is like?"-Aether

the  wanderer  sits,  legs  crossed  gracefully  at  the  ankle.  upon  his  lap  sits  a  book  —  thick,  clearly  secondhand  if  the  well-loved  cover  and  litany  of  dog-eared  pages  serve  as  any  indication.  out  of  curiosity,  ren  flips  to  one  such  section  and  blinks  owlishly  at  the  sight  that  greets  him.  a  plate  of  northern  apple  stew  —  or  rather,  a  painting  of  one.  for  an  artistic  depiction,  it  looks  awfully  real;  the  meat  seems  cooked  to  perfection,  the  fruit  crisp  and  fresh.  beside  it  sits  a  carefully  detailed  recipe,  instructing  the  reader  on  how  to  prepare  such  a  hearty  dish  to  enjoy  in  the  comfort  of  their  own  KITCHEN.  gazing  at  the  image  of  the  purported  end  result,  the  wanderer  supposes  he  can  understand  why  the  original  owner  of  this  book  marked  this  particular  page  as  one  of  their  favorites.  he  makes  a  mental  note  to  come  back  and  memorize  it  later  —  he genuinely enjoys the act of cooking, but there  are  more  recipes  he  wants  to  investigate  first.

he's  turned  to  some  smoked  fowl  dish  (  complete  with  another  elaborate  illustration  )  when  aether's  voice  suddenly  cuts  through  his  thoughts.  ren's  hands  still  on  the  page;  he  doesn't  look  up.  ❝  ...  what  eating  is  like?  ❞   the  wanderer  echoes,  soft  and  slow  —  as  if  the  question  he  presents  is  an  entirely  new  concept.  the  tip  of  one  thin  finger  traces  the  edge  of  the  plate.  it's  a  bit  ironic,  in  hindsight;  the  image  seems  so  real,  but  it's  nothing  but  a  farce  crafted  in  the  likeness  of  something  mundane.  eternally  unchanging  —  and  he  supposes  he  is  no  different  in  that  regard.  humanoid  visage  that  never  ages,  visually  indistinguishable  from  the  mortals  around  him.  yet  aether  is  one  of  the  very  few  who  knows  the  TRUTH.  ren  supposes  he  can't  fault  him  for  asking  questions.  

❝  i  guess  i  haven't.  ❞   his  voice  is  quiet  when  he  finally  does  speak  —  its  usual  edge  sanded  down.  ❝  eating  is  a  necessity  for  humans,  but  i'm  nothing  of  the  sort.  i  can  keep  going  indefinitely,  like  a  machine  built  to  never  break ...  ❞   lips  twist  in  a  downward  tilt.  though  the  words  may  be  construed  as  a  boast,  a  wave  of  unexplained  MELANCHOLY  seems  to  wash  over  him  at  the  thought.  shaking  his  head,  ren  mutters,  ❝  i  suppose  that  just  means  as  a  concept  it's  entirely ...  beneath  me.  ❞

his  voice  fades  into  SILENCE.  a  few  seconds  pass  —  then  (  unexpectedly  )  the  wanderer  looks  up,  propping  chin  atop  his  knuckles.  the  casual  shift  feels  a  bit  jarring,  and  only  becomes  increasingly  more  so  when  he suddenly  declares,  ❝  i'm  kidding.  ❞ a  LAUGH  punctuates  the  statement,  light  and  clear  as  the  ringing  of  so  many  tiny  bells.

❝  you  make  it  too  easy ...  ❞   he  shakes  his  head,  still  snickering  softly  beneath  faux-breath.  ❝  you  know  i  can  eat  if  i  really  want  to,  right?  i  have  no  biological  need  for  food ...  but  i  still  possess  the  capacity  to  taste.  ❞