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lanternfeather · 2 months ago

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metcon - sevika x nb!reader, hurt/comfort

my first fic featuring my self-insert oc, marin! in this fic, they are new to their local crossfit gym and struggling with an eating disorder, but hopelessly in love with coach sevika and desperate to make her proud.

contains: sevika x nonbinary reader, self-insert, original character, lesbian yearning, hurt/comfort, fluff/angst, eating disorders (no numbers mentioned but behaviors are), age difference, caring sevika, reader fainting and being saved by sevika

read under the cut

also on ao3

“Alright, seven AM, circle up around the whiteboard!” Coach Sevika hollered above the blasting metal music. Marin dutifully circled up with their classmates to see what fresh torture was in store for them today. They’d joined their local Crossfit a month ago, tired of not making any progress and failing to motivate themself for self-directed workouts at their old gym. And, yeah, they were already seeing progress in both the scale and the mirror, but this was by far the hardest thing they’d ever done. They’d thought they had an okay amount of strength and endurance, but had quickly learned better when their first workout saw them gasping, drenched in sweat, and still lagging behind everyone. But they were determined to get better and reach their goals, no matter how hard they had to push. The scheduled group classes were certainly motivating on their own, but Sevika… Marin knew on their first day that they would not be missing any seven AM classes, not when Sevika was so impressive and hot and gave them so much encouragement, as the weakest member of the group. Any round was worth pushing through just so they could hear that “yes, Marin! Great job!” and feel like it was all worth it.

Most workouts were an absolute slog to get through. Marin knew they would likely do better if they fueled themself properly, but they were deeply entrenched in the practice of chronically not fueling themself. They doggedly ate very little and usually the same few low-calorie, high-protein foods in a fruitless attempt to build muscle while losing as much weight as possible. Every morning saw their vision going black around the edges as they squatted heavier and rowed faster. They knew they needed to change, and they couldn’t possibly continue making progress like this, and god forbid they fainted in front of their class… but this was what they’d done all their life and the thought of actually treating themself kindly was terrifying. They just had to keep pushing and improving and soon they’d be able to keep up with the class, and maybe impress Sevika with their progress.

As it was, the workout of the day today prescribed chin-ups for the strength portion and rowing mixed with burpees for the metabolic conditioning. Marin was excited- they’d recently progressed to being able to do one (1) quality unassisted chin-up, and they desperately wanted Sevika to notice how well they were doing, how much better they were getting under her guidance. Somewhere deep down, Marin’s rational brain told them that they should definitely not have a massive crush on their hot older trainer, and it would never lead to anything, but in reality, they were quite simple, and could never hope to resist a tall woman with huge arms and an intimidating presence. As Sevika rattled off the workout and the scaling options, she caught Marin’s eye and smirked a little. Marin smiled back and, unwillingly, blushed. They wanted to make Sevika proud. They woke up every morning dreading the workout ahead, but excited to see Sevika’s tilted smile cut through her severe exterior. Maybe they were being delusional, but they were slightly convinced that Sevika smiled at them and hung around their station slightly more than anyone else. But maybe they were just searching for evidence that wasn’t actually there.

After Sevika led the class through the warmup, which in itself had Marin sweating and panting, and demonstrated proper chin-up form, which made Marin sweat even more, it was time to start. Marin grabbed their step-up box and headed to their usual bar on the rig, hoping and praying that Sevika would make her way over to check in soon so they could show off. They set themself up with some bands that they knew they could assist them through sets of ten, eight, and six with, and, cued by the buzzer sound and Sevika turning her metal music up really loud, began their workout. They knew by the time they finished their first set that they would not be able to do the whole workout today. They felt supremely unwell, and considered grabbing some heavier bands for more assistance, when Sevika appeared beside them.

“How are we feeling about the chin-ups today, Marin?” she asked, crossing her arms and really making her biceps bulge. She looked angry, but Marin knew by now that was just her regular face. Marin swallowed and caught their breath, untangling their foot from the bands.

“I’m not feeling super great today, to be honest, so I’ll have to scale it back more…” they said, at which Sevika frowned a little further. “But can I show you something really quick?” They wanted to prove they were worth Sevika’s time so bad. Sevika gestured for them to go ahead. Standing atop their box to be able to reach, Marin wrapped their hands around the bar, exhaled sharply, and used all their strength to pull their chin clear over the bar. They heard Sevika exclaim in amazement, and then they did a second rep, so high on Sevika that they thought they could do anything. The minute their toes touched the box again and they disengaged, their vision began fading out at the edges.

“Marin, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!” Sevika enthused. Marin couldn’t feel their hands anymore. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of you. Nothing else mattered, even though they were sure they were going to throw up, and they could barely hear Sevika ask “Hey, are you okay?” I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of you. Marin toppled off their box into a faint.

Slowly, Marin’s hearing and vision came back to them. They were so disoriented. Nothing felt right. They gasped a bit, and Sevika’s unfocused face appeared over them, seeming angry.

“Marin, are you awake?” Sevika asked, to which Marin moaned, uncertain. They realized they were lying down, with their feet elevated and their head cushioned on a warm, soft surface. Judging by their position, and the position of Sevika’s face above her, they deduced their head was in her lap. The metal music was still blaring. The worst case scenario had come true. They had fainted in front of everyone in their class, who were all standing around looking worried, and Sevika had had to save their pathetic ass. They covered their face, extremely distressed and ashamed. They should have been more careful. They shouldn’t have pushed so hard.

“You passed out. It’s a good thing I caught you, otherwise I’m sure we’d be dealing with a severe head injury right now. Why didn’t you stop if you didn’t feel good? Do I need to call paramedics?” Sevika asked, quite sternly, deepening Marin’s shame.

“I wanted to… show you… my progress,” they said, sounding extremely selfish and stupid to themself. Sevika’s expression crumpled into something sad, shocked, and pitying, which was even worse than her anger.

“Please don’t call paramedics. I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m sorry for disrupting the class,” Marin said miserably, trying to roll away and sit up, but their body just couldn’t move. Sevika held them more firmly in her lap, which was horrible.

“No, you’re going to stay here until you’ve had some food and electrolytes. Coach Vi will continue the class,” Sevika reprimanded them. They were sure they had never felt this miserable. They felt like a stupid idiot child who couldn’t be trusted to take care of themself, which, in fairness, was kind of true. Sevika waved Vi over and requested her to bring a protein bar and Gatorade from the office. “What have you had to eat and drink today?” she asked them. They weren’t in the right headspace to make something up. They looked away guiltily, since the answer was nothing except their usual pre-workout trifecta of water for hydration, coffee for energy, and bone broth for electrolytes. Sevika’s expression got even sadder.

“Marin…” she said in a soft voice. Horrifyingly, Marin started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” they said pathetically, feeling even stupider and smaller.

If Marin had been privy to Sevika’s thoughts, they would have known that her heart was breaking. Sevika had liked Marin and their quiet, earnest demeanor the minute they showed up for their first class, but was alarmed as they became rapidly thinner yet somehow pushed themself harder over the past month. Each time she’d seen Marin falter in a movement or have to sit down for a bit with glassy eyes, she’d considered saying something to them, to show them she cared and wanted to help. But as soon as she’d seen Marin go pale as a sheet and their eyes roll back, and felt their terrible nothing-weight as they fell into her arms, she knew the only one at fault here was her, for not speaking up sooner and letting this go on too long. She felt as though she had been leading Marin on, for encouraging them even as she knew that they would do anything to please her. As she stared at that sharp white face and counted the seconds until they regained consciousness, she struggled to not let her desires take over. To hold close, to protect, to give, to make whole again. She knew she was in far too deep as a coach, but she cared too much at this point.

“Don’t be sorry,” Sevika said, the words sounding sharp to Marin. “I should be saying sorry. I know you’ve been overworking yourself and I haven’t checked in on you, I’ve just been feeding into you pushing yourself.” Marin was quiet as they slowly ate the bar and sipped the Gatorade. “You’re clearly struggling and I should have told you to stop coming to class for a while.” Everything Sevika said made Marin feel worse. They tried valiantly to get up, to go hide and wallow in self-loathing for a while.

“Don’t patronize me. I know I suck at taking care of myself, but I’m paying for this membership, and I don’t need to be told what I can and can’t do,” Marin said bitterly, finally finding the strength to slide out of Sevika’s arms. Sevika swallowed and frowned.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to patronize you. You have free will and all that, but…” she looked away and Marin was shocked to see she was blushing.

“I just wanted to let you know I care about you. And I want to see you get better- by better, I don’t mean thinner, I mean more lively and able to get through a workout.” Sevika said quite candidly. Marin decided to make up for being bitter, and speak candidly, too.

“I just wanted to impress you and show you how much I’ve improved since I’ve been training with you. Nothing else mattered to me except that I was worthy to keep coming here,” Marin said quietly. The truth hung heavily between them.

“You are worthy because you show up and do your best. You don’t need to impress me. Just putting in the work- in a healthy manner- and being earnest is enough,” Sevika said softly, making Marin swipe a few more tears away from their eyes.

“Let’s avoid this situation going forward. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put your membership on pause-” Sevika said, momentarily shattering Marin. “-and you’re going to come here three days a week and have breakfast with me before we do a very scaled-back workout together. The other days, you’re going to rest or do something light, like a walk or yoga. And eat . And in another month, when you’re not seeing stars through every workout, we can reconsider your membership.” Her tone was no-nonsense and commanding. The thought of not exercising hard every day, and eating more than usual, sent a wave of fear and anxiety through Marin.

“I don’t want to… gain weight,” they murmured, knowing it sounded petulant and selfish even as they said it. Sevika’s face became stern and resolved.

“That’s the only way I see you being able to stand any form of exercise,” she said, and then, gentler- “It doesn’t have to be this hard. I want to help you find a middle ground that’s sustainable, and more importantly, allows you to exercise for fun and longevity rather than trying to prove a point.” Marin had to take a deep breath. Logically, they knew all this. But somehow they’d never managed to find a middle ground for anything. They’d always lived with an all-or-nothing mindset. The thought of taking it easy somehow made them feel like they were losing, in this fucked-up, competitive world. Sevika put a hand on Marin’s arm. Something tiny and hopeful flickered inside them.

“Look, I’m certainly not a therapist, and I’m not going to fix you or anything. You have to be willing to improve your life yourself. I just want to be here to support you and make the process a little less lonely,” Sevika said, searching to look into Marin’s eyes. “Keep showing up for me, just in a different way.” Marin’s heart was pounding from that intense steel-gray gaze, but they set their shoulders and nodded once. Sevika bit her lip.

“And, listen… I’m not coaching the next class. Can we start today? Can I take you out to breakfast?” she asked, so tender compared to her tough exterior that Marin, down bad as they were, could not even hope to say anything but yes.

#my writing #fanfics #sevika #sevika x reader #soft sevika #sevika x you #sevika x oc #arcane #sevika arcane #lesbian #wlw #crossfit au

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iammistressofmyfate · 2 years ago

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hiiiiii ☔ for the asks pleaaase :)

Hi friend!! Thanks so much for the ask! 🥺💗

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

Ugh, I have a bunch of those lol Pynch Dance AU, Pynch Crossfit AU...I think CF AU is probably my favorite because it's more personal. I just don't know how to make it interesting. But I was going to have Ronan as an athlete and Adam as his PT. They slowly fall in love over time as Adam helps Ronan come back from an injury to eventually compete in the big CF competition. Lots of sweaty guys lifting heavy weights and falling in love, as one does lol

[WIP Asks]

#asks answered #wip asks #pynch #crossfit au

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lanternfeather · 28 days ago

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hello everyone i’m working on a sevika x marin (my nonbinary self insert oc) locker room sex scene in my crossfit au. i want to ask the other nonbinary lesbians out there what they prefer being called during sex. the winning choice in this poll will be what sevika calls marin, in this fic at least 🥰

#sevika #sevika arcane #arcane #my thoughts #sevika x reader #sevika x oc #headcanons #crossfit au #lesbian #smut #fanfics #polls

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scoutofmymind · 10 days ago

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Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #req

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epochofbelief · 1 year ago

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Strictly Confidential: A Feysand AU

Chapter One

She's a law student turned confidential informant. He's a prosecutor with only one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for illegal activity . . . What could go wrong?

Hi everyone! Here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy. Let me know if you're interested in being tagged. Any thoughts on the story are much appreciated, too!

Chapter One

Feyre collapsed against the wall as soon as class was over. Sweat dripped from her temples, sliding over the layer of concealer she had plastered on that morning. She wiped her forehead, swearing to herself once again that this would be the last time she allowed Tamlin to drag her to a Crossfit class.

Even though she had made and broken that same mental promise to herself three times a week for the past six months.

As she guzzled from her near empty water bottle, Tamlin slung a sweaty arm over her shoulders, his skin against hers slick. Oily. “Got any of that left?” Tamlin asked, already reaching for the water bottle.

Feyre sighed, handing it off to him. “A few drops.”

He knocked it back without another word. Not an appreciative smile. No thank you, Feyre. Not even a nod of gratitude for the water he had taken from her.

As she followed Tamlin out of the warehouse where the Crossfit classes were held, Feyre made another vow. The first of its kind, but perhaps with more resolve behind it than the one she had made only moments ago.

She was going to break up with him this week.

Feyre trailed Tamlin through the parking lot, eyes on the back of his neck, his blonde hair stuck to it with sweat. Her boyfriend of over a year had fallen into conversation with his best friend, Lucien. Lucien was also a regular at these Crossfit classes, but had met Tamlin through work. Tamlin had hired Lucien as his Director of Operations at his company, Spring Solutions. Five years later, the duo were best friends.

Lucien climbed into the passenger seat of Tamlin’s expensive truck, leaving Feyre to haul herself into the back as usual. Tamlin swung into the driver’s seat and made short of work of getting the vehicle out of the parking lot and onto the highway that would carry them back into the city, back to the building where Tamlin and Feyre shared an apartment and Lucien lived a few floors down.

As the two discussed something about work—a topic Feyre didn’t particularly care about—she thought more about the terrifying new task she had set for herself.

Breaking up with Tamlin wouldn’t be simple.

Because it was her life, of course, and things were never simple.

She had shared an apartment with Tam, who was nearly seven years her senior, since the beginning of her second year of law school. Now, a month into her third and final year, their lives were fully intertwined. Feyre paid a few hundred dollars of rent each month, but Tamlin footed most of the bill. The downtown apartment was expensive, something Feyre could never afford on her own thanks to her law student’s budget.

She rarely paid for meals, either. Tamlin subscribed to one of those ultra-healthy meal services. A week’s worth of dinners delivered to their door every Monday morning. Feyre cooked them on study breaks, and the two would usually share a quick meal before Tamlin logged back on to work in his home office and Feyre returned to her books.

Most of the furniture was his, as was the art on the walls. The kitchen utensils, pots, pans. The bed they shared. Everything.

If Feyre moved out, she would have to return to her father’s house or increase the amount of student loans she had already taken out that semester. Neither option sounded appealing. She had lived with her father and her two older sisters her whole life—all throughout her undergraduate studies and until the end of her first year of law school. How she had made it so long trapped in that house, caring for her family in much the same way she cared for Tamlin, Feyre had no idea. So when Tamlin had proposed the idea of moving in together, she jumped at the chance. Didn't think farther than Get me out of my childhood home.

She hadn't considered what would happen if things didn’t work out. If she decided he wasn’t the one for her anymore.

She had gone straight from her father’s house to Tamlin’s apartment, and had fallen into Tamlin’s lifestyle, even if she still wasn’t quite used to it.

At least the bed in the guest room was hers, and the nightstand and the few books she had taken from her father’s house. Her painting supplies.

“Babe?” Tamlin’s voice scattered the plans she was fruitlessly trying to cobble together in her mind.

“What?” She inquired, blinking up at her boyfriend.

“I asked if you wanted to get dinner out tonight.”

Feyre bit her lip. She had already put off studying to come to Crossfit—if she didn’t get home soon, she would have to burn the midnight oil to get all her reading for class done at a decent hour.

“I really have to study,” she said quietly, praying he wouldn’t try to convince her to come to dinner. Because he would never let up and she, inevitably, would give in.

At Tamlin’s sigh, she tentatively tried again. “I’m really sorry! I wish my professors didn’t assign such long readings, but I can’t change it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You know I would come to dinner if I could. I would much rather do that.” The words weren’t new—she’d used some variation of them numerous times over the past year and a half. They had almost lost all meaning to her, but she’d found this was the best combination to keep Tamlin happy: apologize, provide an excuse that was outside of her control, and assure him that he would always be her first choice.

“Alright. We’ll drop you at home and come back later.”

Feyre choked back her sigh of relief. “Sounds good. Thanks, babe.”

Lucien’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror—one ginger eyebrow cocking slightly. Feyre looked away, gaze fixing on her lap.

Twenty minutes later, she waved at the car as it sped down the street toward Tamlin and Lucien’s favorite sports bar. With any luck, Lucien would get him drinking beers and talking about work, and she would have at least three hours to herself to shower. Study. Maybe even time enough to feign sleep by the time Tamlin returned.

And indeed, she managed to accomplish everything she needed to do just before Tamlin came stumbling into the apartment hours later. Feyre shut her eyes tight from her spot on the right side of the bed, her fledgling plans swirling through her thoughts until she well and truly drifted away.

-----

The next morning, Feyre gazed at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure every inch of her suit was clean and pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. The black jacket clung to her narrow frame, the pencil skirt she wore beneath it as flattering as a skirt that cut her off just below the knee could be. Her golden-brown hair fell in loose waves just past her shoulders, watery blue eyes popping thanks to the brown mascara she had applied.

“You look amazing,” a voice from behind her said.

Feyre turned, smiling at her boyfriend despite all the promises and plans she had made the night before. “Thanks, honey.”

“What’s the occasion?” Tamlin asked, striding forward and placing his hands on her hips.

Feyre stepped back, grinning up at him. “No touching. I have an important networking event with my firm today and I can’t get all wrinkly.”

Tamlin held up his hands, backing away a step. “My apologies, Ms. Archeron.”

Feyre smiled. Tamlin wasn’t always awful.

Just most of the time.

“So when can I expect you home today?”

Feyre sighed, grabbing her backpack and purse and brushing past Tamlin, striding out of the closet and into the master bathroom. “I’ve got a full day of classes, and then this networking event at six. I’m not sure how long it will go, but I’m really hoping to be back by eight.”

“Just as well,” Tamlin said. “I’ve got a late night at work—probably won’t be home until after ten.” Feyre nodded, and Tamlin followed her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to the kitchen. Feyre grabbed the smoothie she had made earlier that morning and tucked her lunchbox into her backpack.

“Have a good day, honey,” she said, pressing a kiss to Tamlin’s lips. He nipped at her lower lip, green eyes sparking. But Feyre just smiled, retreated, and didn’t breathe deep until she made it to the hallway, door automatically locking behind her.

This week. She was going to do it this week.

Feyre’s day dragged on in one long, miserable slog. She got cold-called by her professors in two of her classes, but she managed to answer most of the questions correctly, her heart thudding violently in her chest all the while.

Cold calls and the Socratic method of teaching were one of her least favorite parts of law school. Most professors gave no warning to their students before they called their names, subjecting them to several questions of the professor’s choosing. If you didn’t know the answer, they might move on. But some waited for you to at least attempt to respond, while the class stared and stared and hands jumped into the air all around, telling you that they knew the answer, that it was obvious. Answering a question correctly felt wonderful—but answering incorrectly usually caused Feyre’s cheeks to burn a bright red.

It didn’t matter how many of the randomly determined “calls” Feyre endured—every time a professor spoke her name, her hands started sweating, her heart rate climbing up and up and up until the professor moved on to another victim.

She spent a few hours at the library after class, tucked in her favorite corner. It was private, but better than sitting in the main quad where most of the law students gathered to study during daytime hours. Feyre hadn’t spent any notable length of time in the quad since the first semester of her 1L year. As her relationship with Tamlin progressed, the few friends she had made faded away as Feyre opted to attend the fancy dinner parties and events Tamlin invited her to. Maintaining a new relationship and keeping up with her studies didn’t leave much time for anything else—not even friends. That wasn’t to mention the time she had spent at home with her sisters and father her entire first year of school, taking care of most of the housekeeping and cooking duties because the rest of her family had “real jobs” and Feyre was still “just a student” who didn’t work a regular 9-5.

Now, she felt like a ghost in the halls of the school. She would wave to her old friends if they passed in the hallways, but Feyre had long ago accepted that this would be her law school experience: sitting in the back of the classroom, answering questions if forced, and generally keeping to herself.

It was a quiet, small existence she led. Class. Tamlin. Attending whatever events or obligations Tamlin dragged her to. Studying.

After she’d had enough studying for the day, Feyre took the train to downtown Prythian, checking her makeup at least four times before the train arrived at its stop a few blocks from a large hotel and event center in the heart of the city. She started to walk the five minutes to the hotel, staring up at the enormous shiny buildings rising around her.

To think, this would be where she worked full-time in just a few short months.

Thanks to competitive firm recruiting, Feyre had had her post-grad job lined up since the summer. She would be starting as a junior associate at Hybern & Night LLP, one of the largest and most powerful national firms in the country. Jobs at Hybern & Night were hard to come by, but thanks to Feyre’s top 5% ranking at Prythian University Law School, and her ability to say all the right things under pressure, she’d scored a job during early interviewing last summer.

The firm occupied the upper floors of one of the tallest buildings downtown. Tonight it was holding a networking event for its partners, associates, recruits, and other lawyers in the community.

She could have skipped the event, but her career counselor had emphasized how important it was to immerse herself in firm activities as quickly as possible—it would make her transition from student to junior associate much smoother, and allow her to make connections with more senior attorneys and partners who might be willing to provide projects for her to work on when she started.

So, she was here, clicking down the shadowed streets of downtown Prythian, gearing herself up to rub elbows with some of the city's wealthiest attorneys.

Some day soon, she would be one of them.

Feyre tugged her coat closer around herself, the chill in the air signaling autumn’s impending arrival. A block away, the windows of the event center glowed warmly in the shadows of the buildings around her. She increased her pace, and soon found herself ensconced in a world of cocktails and arguments. Feyre made a beeline for the refreshments table. She could certainly count on attorneys to ensure there was an open bar at events like this. She seized a glass of red wine and cast her gaze around the room, but didn’t recognize anyone. She had interviewed with at least five of the attorneys from Hybern & Night in order to get her job, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Feyre thanked the man who served her the wine, swallowing back memories of her own time spent as a bartender at Humane, one of the filthiest hole-in-the-wall bars in all of Prythian. She would have preferred talking to the bartender—less posturing required—but forced herself to skirt around the room, looking around for someone to engage in conversation.

She had almost completed a full lap when an enormous man leaned against the wall just in front of her.

“You look lost,” his deep voice rumbled, light brown hair sliding over his forehead, pale green eyes gazing down at her. His cheeks were flushed—probably from the alcohol—and as his eyes slid over her, Feyre was glad she hadn’t yet removed her coat.

“Not lost. Just—” Feyre broke off, shaking her head. “Feyre Archeron,” she said, offering a hand. “I’ll be starting as a first-year associate at Hybern & Night next August.”

“Jax Smith,” he said, an enormous hand encompassing hers. “I'm in my eighth year at Hybern & Night. Hoping to make partner next year. It’s nice to meet you, Feyre.”

Feyre swallowed, taking her hand back and sliding it into her pocket. “You too.” She cast around for one of her pre-prepared questions: So how do you like working at the firm? Any advice for 3L students preparing to enter the workforce? How do you survive the eighty hour workweeks year after year after year? Is the money worth it?

Luckily, Feyre didn’t have to resort to any of her questions, because Jax spoke for her.

“You look awfully young to be a 3L,” he commented, gaze sliding up and down her body.

Feyre cocked an eyebrow, a chill trailing down her spine. “I’m twenty-three.”

“That’s young.”

Feyre gritted her teeth. This was certainly unprofessional. “Not too young, I hope,” she said, forcing a smile. This man was going to be her coworker. She couldn’t just turn around and flee. “I’ll be twenty-four this December,” she said brightly. “Practically collecting Social Security.”

Jax didn’t smile. Only narrowed his eyes like he was trying to see through her coat.

Feyre swallowed another gulp of wine, and as he inched closer, she realized that the alcove where they stood was mostly obscured by two of the many enormous columns ringing the event center. There weren’t any lights in this section, and no one else seemed to be paying them any attention. The rest of the networking attorneys seemed miles away, even the sounds of their voices muffled by a dull roaring that started in Feyre’s head as Jax’s gaze fixed her in place.

“And are you married, Feyre?” Jax asked, one arm resting on the wall next to her head. His gaze dropped to her left hand, wrapped around the stem of her wineglass, her fourth finger obviously bereft of any ring.

“No,” she said, backing away another step.

But her admission only seemed to encourage Jax. He slid forward, eyes focused somewhere just south of her neck, where her coat had fallen open to reveal the v-neck of her dress shirt. “I would be happy to meet you for a coffee sometime. Maybe even a drink. Tell you more about the firm, away from all these stuffy partners. We could even find somewhere quieter here. To talk.” His eyes slid to the hall that led who-knew-where, just behind Feyre, stretching off into the shadows of the hotel.

Feyre’s eyes widened, a lump forming in her throat. This man was her future coworker, her senior. He might even be partner by the time she started at the firm. To turn him down could be fatal. If he took offense, he could spin it any number of ways: She had no interest in learning more about the firm. Couldn’t care less about team-building and getting to know her coworkers. Clearly came for the wine and nothing else.

He could ruin her reputation. And that was something she couldn’t afford. Not if she ever wanted to be free of Tamlin, of her family.

“What do you say?” Jax asked, bending down, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath hot against her cheek.

“I—” Feyre started.

But another man’s voice, smooth as velvet and gentle as the night, floated into the alcove, startling Jax and sending a wave of relief over Feyre.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

#acotar #feysand #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #sarah j maas #fanfiction #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #modern au #feysand modern au #strictlyconfidentialau

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welcometothejianghu · 4 months ago

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Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 大理寺少卿游/White Cat Legend.

White Cat Legend is the 2024 live-action adaptation of a funny historical manhua about a country bumpkin who winds up working with a bunch of mystery-solving officials led by a beautiful boss whose tragic past means no one can know he's also a kitty.

This is one of those cases where television comes in to adapt something that has both unfilmable elements and a very non-cinematic storyline that hasn't even been finished yet, and as such mostly just takes the characters and the basic conceit, then creates an entire vaguely nonsensical 36-episode AU fanfic of it. To call this show tonally inconsistent would be an insult to shows that are only merely tonally inconsistent. It is full-on tonal whiplash, the kind you should go see a doctor about. This shit is all over the place. It has arcs and situations that are genuinely emotionally moving, and then smash cut! to wacky nonsense happening with the B-plot. It does not know if it wants to tell a Serious Story or just have bonkers antics, and it will deal with this indecision by doing both at once.

So if you're in the mood for something fun with charming characters that won't tax your brain parts, let me give you five reasons this could be exactly the junk food you're looking for.

1. Just a family of all boys

If you're looking for a show rife with female characters, go watch Legend of Fei or Story of Yanxi Palace. Over here, it's Boys' Night Out.

The show is set in the Court of Judicial Review, which solves crimes. The boy in charge of all of them is Li Bing, who is secretly also a cat for reasons he doesn't understand. He picks up naive yokel and total sweeheart Chen Shi and brings him back to work with the Court's current occupants: a sad-eyed scribe with catastrophically bad luck, a former soldier who wishes he'd been born recently enough to be into Crossfit, a generic "foreigner" whose superpowers are spending his parents' money and pronouncing things badly, and the 8th-century Chinese equivalent of a mediocre white man.

And I'm going to tell you right now, up front, above the cut, that these boys' character interactions are the #1 reason to watch this show. You watch it because you like to see them bounce off one another like the unsupervised toddlers they are. They all love and care for one another in the best ways they know how, which sometimes aren't very effective, but darn it, they're trying!

What's especially cute is how they're so touchy with one another -- and not in any kind of sexual or creepy way, but in a sincerely affectionate bro way. There's lots of hugging and supportive arms around waists. Sometimes when they get scared, they hold hands. They grip one another when walking across unsteady ground or climbing over walls to break into yet another house. There's never any gay panic or no-homo reassurances. It hits that sweet spot right between brothers and boyfriends, where you can read their interactions as fraternal and/or romantic as you like (see below).

I mean, who needs a plot when you have half a dozen charming boys canonically working, eating, and sleeping side by side? That, my friends, is quality television.

2. Jam-packed with goofball nonsense

White Cat Legend is a show that will make you laugh out loud, and mostly even on purpose.

About 2/3 of this show is silly, and the other 1/3 is trying so hard to be emotionally resonant. But you know what? Screw emotional resonance for the moment -- let's embrace the antics!

There's a lot of silliness happening even at the production level. The show also starts out doing some very cute visual things, like breaking shots into multiple "panels" that give everything a real comic feel. It's especially effective during fight scenes and other visually confusing setups. ...And then about 1/4 of the way in, it forgets about this gimmick and stops almost completely. This is a shame, because I liked it! I liked that VFX tomfoolery that paid homage to the story's webcomic roots! (Also, someone behind the camera clearly got told that the way to make a scene more visually interesting is to slowly pan in during every shot. Once you notice it, you can't unsee it.)

The main villain is ... well, he's a lot. He's just a whole lot. I'd call him Evil Garfield, except Garfield is already kind of Evil Garfield, so this guy's Eviler Garfield. He's not chewing the scenery, but is instead treating it like a cat with a vendetta against some drapes. He's just hilariously over the top at all times. It starts out vaguely entertaining, then gets annoying, then wraps right back around to entertaining again.

Also, his wig is terrible -- and it's not even the worst wig in the show! White Cat Legend has decided that the way you style foreigner NPCs is just to jam unbrushed women's wigs on extras' heads and call it a day. There are indeed a lot of foreigners in the show, and the show has chosen to handle them by assuming everything beyond the borders of 6th-century Chinese territory is a great undifferentiated vaguely Persian-flavored mass. Who's that shady-looking guy? Oh, he's Foreign. What country is he from? A Foreign one. What language does he speak? You know, Foreign.

You are not ready for the score. This is a show that spent its entire musical budget on a handful of middling pop songs, realized it still needed ~40 minutes of music to put in each episode, and decided that it could just pull things at semi-random from whatever the Chinese television equivalent of the YouTube royalty-free sound library is. The result is some laugh-out-loud hilarious soundtracking. Do you know why they usually pay people to do things like score television shows? It's because when you don't, it sounds like this.

True story: During one antics-filled scene, I frowned, listened a second, and asked my wife, "Is that ... 'Deck the Halls'?" It was!

The mysteries are -- and I'm quoting myself here -- the celery that gets the cute boy peanut butter to your mouth. Not only can you, the viewer, not solve them, I don't actually remember what most of the resolutions were. Hell, I barely remember what most of the actual setups were. The individual storylines are mostly unimportant pieces of fluff that kinda sorta tie into the big mystery of the show: Why is that boy a kitty? ...And if you think you're going to be satisfied by the resolution to that one, honestly, you haven't been paying attention to what I've been saying in this post.

Basing this on absolutely nothing but vibes, here is my guess: The original vision for this series was as an ongoing thing, something that might hew a little closer to the comic storyline in later seasons. At some point in the production, the decision got made that there would be no further seasons made. The resulting drama is something that's technically self-contained, sure, but has a lot of little lingering weirdnesses that look like foreshadowing.

As just one example, the way they frame and shoot the empress is bizarre, and she might as well have a big SHE'S GOING TO TURN OUT TO BE EVIL neon sign above her head. ...Except that, no, she's fine! Perfectly fine, mostly normal empress, mostly normal levels of evil, nothing to see here. She is, however, evil as heck in the source material (and that's not a spoiler, she's a little pink thing who's clearly sinister all the way from the get-go), and I have to wonder if the showrunners weren't planning some future heel-turn villain arc for her. Well, we'll never know now, so whatever you choose to believe, the show won't contradict you on it!

Your reaction to all of this will 100% depend on how charitable you are feeling toward staring down a firehose of (mostly) intentionally slapdash shenanigans. If you go into this demanding coherence and substance, you will wind up disappointed. If you go into it expecting nothing more than a fluffy good time, you'll probably enjoy yourself tremendously -- and you'll maybe even be moved by the rare times it does work out to being something of substance! Such as...

3. We are never ever getting back together

The first thing you can tell about Qiu Qingzhi and Li Bing is that they are as divorced as two dudes in a c-drama can be. They aren't just a little divorced. They are nuclear divorced.

Except -- and this is the juicy part -- they obviously still work really well together. If it's just the two of them head-to-head, they will be assholes to one another with no mercy. If circumstances change and they have a shared target, God help that shared target.

The unspoilery version of their backstory goes like this: They were adorable little tween besties who grew up into adorable little teen besties, until Qiu Qingzhi went off to join the army and came back a real cold bitch, and Li Bing has no idea why. Now the two of them control state agencies that should work together but actually wind up competing more often than not (think the FBI and the CIA), a competition not helped by how the Jinwu Guards (Qiu Qingzhi's group) are actual professional soldiers in very nice armor, while the Court of Judicial Review is, well, [gestures to points 1 and 2].

And yeah, baby, this right here is The Ship.

I spent a nonzero amount of time while watching this series laughing out loud because Wei Zheming's face is just too beautiful to be believed. With his sculpted jaw and his perfectly practiced looks of disdain, his Qiu Qingzhi looks like a damn Disney prince. His face could not be more perfect if you'd assigned a team of animators to draw it. This actor is the reason I found this show in the first place -- he was so beautiful in Word of Honor that I found myself wondering what else he might be getting up to. Turns out, he is again being a smug bitch and capturing the heart of a doe-eyed younger man.

Don't let me oversell how much these two are together in the show, because they're not. Qiu Qingzhi is not part of the main crew, so he's not in most of the episodes. Most of his screentime comes in flashbacks during the last story arc, to a time in his past when Li Bing wasn't even around. But when they're together, oh, the sparks do fly.

I think it helps that the actors seem to have understood the ship, even if in that video, Ding Yuxi (Li Bing's actor) is trying so hard to do the Please Do Not Cancel Us dance of plausible deniability. I honestly don't even think this is the show's doing; after all, the source material (see the section near the end) is not BL in the slightest. I'd believe the show meant to create a normal platonic bro-relationship between these two. I'd even believe that it thinks it succeeded.

Still, if you're not the biggest fan of Lovers To Enemies? That's fine! Here's the relationship that's the real core of the show:

4. Here comes a special boy

All the boys of the family of all boys are special and wonderful, but truly, Chen Shi is the specialest and wonderfulest of them all.

He is your everyman character, the little country bumpkin overwhelmed by all the big-city dealings he's stumbled into. With his cute little twang and his natural inclination to trust everyone he meets, he's the perfect cinnamon roll, too good, too pure. I want to pinch his angelic little cheeks.

Fun fact: I have been informed by someone who speaks with the same dialect he does that said dialect is very sweary, which brings to mind the wonderful image of Chen Shi just casually and sweetly dropping f-bombs while everyone else stares in shock.

In a show where the characters are way more important than the plot, having a good POV character is key. Your audience lives or dies entirely on how much they want to see that POV character put into situations. To me, Chen Shi is a rousing success at this. He's not stupid! He's just extremely sheltered and on his own for the first time in his ife. He's the bravest little toaster, the goodest boy who's not going to let the little things stop him -- like, say, illiteracy, or a lack of familiarity with city living, or an inability to give any substantial details about the brother he's looking for beyond 'he looks just like me.' That's why he's got his friends help him out!

You better believe that when it comes time to save the day, Chen Shi will do it through the power of how everyone loves him.

And he and the kitty are ... romance? Kind of romance? Romance-adjacent? I could burn even more wordcount explaining the dynamic, but @uovoc has already said it best:

cdrama Li Bing is like: I've taken an inexplicable liking to this simple country boy so I'm going to entrust him with my life's greatest secret because I'm whimsical like that. And cdrama Chen Shi is like: this man is the most beautiful cat I've ever seen.

No matter how romantically you slice it, it's a dynamic I absolutely love: where a guy weighed down by his own past meets another guy who could not care less about that. Chen Shi is Li Bing's chance to figure out who Li Bing is, without the burdens of his family history, connections to the court, job, status, or any of the other things everyone else sees when they look at him. Chen Shi looks at Li Bing and sees Li Bing, whiskers and all.

I mean, Chen Shi makes Li Bing an entire office full of human-sized cat toys. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

And if you're not into besties-to-worsties or the pure and purrfect love between a man and his cat who is also a man? That's okay! I've helpfully made a chart to demonstrate the many flavors of exciting relationship dynamics White Cat Legend makes available to you:

Imagine the possibilities! Make your own fun! And then get over to AO3 and share it with the rest of the class! The White Cat Legend tag is sparsely populated and mostly not in English, and that's a shame, because there's so much smooching potential.

5. Not as dumb as it looks

Wow, that's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? Well, no, not actually. You saw my earlier points about what a bag of goofs this show is. What's easy to miss, though, is how unexpectedly clever a whole lot of its dumbassery is.

A lot of this, I'm going to chalk up to the actors, who on the whole turn in some comedic performances way better than they have any right to be. That's the thing about comedy: to do stupid well, you have to be smart. They're all very funny, and they've got some great chemistry in combinations and permutations. It's a testament to their abilities that you can take any two of them, give them a scene together, and get something worth watching out of it.

Of course most of this is the main boys, but the major supporting characters largely have the same clever sense of comedic timing. Their actors know they're not performing some great work of literature, so they've decided to have some fun with it. I'm not going to praise anyone's performance here as particularly great, but by and large, the recurring cast members are doing solid work.

The aforementioned goofball nonsense also does a fair job of distracting from how creative the show can be. For example, the fact that many of the fights and chases are comedic makes it easy to miss how the fight choreography is often really tight. I don't think the show is trying to hide its moments of cleverness, so much as it's just grabbing them where it can without drawing attention to them.

I know a lot of people gave up on this show only a few episodes in, and I suspect I know why. It's not even that it just takes a while to find its footing -- it never quite finds its footing, on account of being such a patchwork creation. It's an adaptation of an incomplete story, forced to make changes because of budgetary limitations, promising things it's not allowed to deliver on, and further cut down between filming and release. That's what you call having the deck stacked against you. The fact that the final product is not only watchable but downright enjoyable is a testament to how the production got some critical fundamentals right.

In short, it's not just dumb fun -- though it is a lot of dumb fun. But it's dumb fun with just enough to sink your teeth into that it eventually becomes a compelling ratio. I don't blame the people who bailed, but I'm glad I stuck with it.

bonus: It comes in other flavors!

If you like the series and you want more, you're in luck! There's a whole ongoing comic and animated series!

The comic is the original version of the story: a tall vertical webcomic with a cute, distinctive style. It's still being published, and it's very different from the drama. There's a great ongoing translation project at @whitecatlegend, so if your Mandarin skills are as bad as mine (or worse!), you can follow along in English as well!

The donghua is a pretty close adaptation of several parts of the comic. You can find the whole first season at this YouTube playlist, though please note that the playlist is out of order, so you don't accidentally start with episode 8. The translation is ... eh, it's a little rough in places, to put it charitably, but it also makes some charming localization decisions, so I'm all for it. Oh, and here's the second season! It's even prettier and better-translated than the first!

Also, hey, furries? Li Bing's a perma-kitty in both of those versions of the story, so have fun with that.

The drama's casting is spot-on. Whoever picked these boys went out of their way to keep the original artistic vibe as much as possible, to the point where if you'd told me the drama had come first and then someone had drawn a comic starting from the actors' likenesses, I would've believed you.

(And yes, if you've read it, Qiu Qingzhi and Lai Zhongshu aren't technically Qiu Shenji and Lai Junchen, but I'm declaring them close enough for the purposes of this demonstration.)

I have heard that some fans of the comic are unhappy about the live-action adaptation, and I get that, I do -- they are not the same thing. There are plenty of things the drama leaves out where, okay, I understand why that person/event/factor got cut, but at the same time, dammit. In the end, I like them both as very different stories featuring the same(-ish) characters. Still, the drama is definitely not one of those situations where you get to tune in to watch the same things you loved on the page, just in a different medium. The delightfully accurate casting is about where the similarities end. Everything beyond that is its own legend.

Kitty.

Here, kitty, kitty?

The drama's an iQiyi exclusive, so that's where you'll get it.

It's a fun show, not a perfect show. It has some captivating elements and lots of promising nonsense worth thinking about. And like I said, it's a tiny-ass fandom -- a paltry 277 works on AO3, a mere 44 of which are in English. Somebody get in there and make some combination of those boys kiss!

Also, it is criminal that Kitty Li Bing has fabulous red eyeliner that Person Li Bing does not get to wear. Call makeup and fix that.

#white cat legend #all cats are boyfriends #大理寺日志 #大理寺少卿游 #rec post #i made this

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half-metal-scientist · 1 year ago

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bg3 modern au headcannons

- Gale is an adjunct organic chem professor at Waterdeep Technical University (WTU)

-halsin is a vet who has 1M TikTok followers for posting thirst traps with kittens

-lae’zel teaches Krav Maga and runs a CrossFit gym

-shadowheart is a mormon on her 1.5 year mission and she would kill 1k people for the chance to get 5 minutes to talk with Joseph smith

-astarion runs a theater troupe that does illegal reproductions of musicals

-wyll is a firefighter but he’s annoying about it. like i get such 911 on fox vibes from him.

#bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 au #bg3 gale #bg3 wyll #bg3 astarion #bg3 halsin #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 lae'zel

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adrenaline-whump · 14 days ago

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Chris & Emma, part 0.5

~In which a normal evening suddenly goes sideways~

Chris & Emma masterpost

In 2019, I wrote a little whumplet for Whumptober. Then I wrote another in 2020. And then a few more. This series exists in the Head Wind AU, where Cade and his team work for some kind of covert agency, not yet specified. So far, it's the only Cade series from an outsider's POV.

Much appreciation to the anon who's periodically requested more in the series. I don't think I'm done with it yet, thanks to you. 🩷

~~~

The doorbell startles Chris awake. His book tumbles off the sofa onto the living room rug as he sits up. That late already? He hadn’t meant to nap for long.

When he opens the door, though, the sun is just setting. And it’s not Emma. It’s a man about his own age, in an olive-green jacket over a Crossfit T-shirt. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you,” says the man. “I think I took a wrong turn, and I can’t get a GPS signal. Do you know how to get to Lee’s Smokehouse?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re not too far from it.” He lets the door swing open a little wider.

As Chris turns to point down the road to the west, the man slams into him like a linebacker intent on a mid-field tackle.

The impact knocks him backwards, into the house. He can’t react fast enough to keep his feet under him. Some half-forgotten bit of training spurs him to roll instead of trying to halt his fall, but the hallway floor delivers a painful jolt to his knee, hip, and elbow. What the absolute f....

Instinct demands a counterattack. He looks up to locate his target. The man is two steps inside the door, sweeping his jacket aside to pull a dark, angular shape from his waistband.

About to spring up, Chris freezes, watching in stunned disbelief as the gun’s barrel swings up and locks onto him. His knuckles whiten on the smooth wood surface under his hands.

Another man enters behind the first one, closing the door behind him with swift precision. This one is older, his short dark hair peppered with gray. He drops a small tool bag on the floor and strides past Chris, leading with his own pistol as he scans the rooms immediately around them.

What the hell is going on? Who are these guys? He’s never seen them before. Their stiff bearing reminds him of his ex-military coworkers. For the briefest moment, he wonders if—hopes that—this is all a horrible joke, a setup the guys engineered to fuck with him. But he can’t make himself believe it. That shove had been full force, not pulled at all.

The older man finishes his assessment of their surroundings and returns, directing a brusque order at Chris. “On your face.”

It makes as little sense as everything else that’s happening. Maybe he’s dreaming, still asleep on the sofa. But the boot that shoves the back of his shoulder for emphasis feels distinctly solid. Still incredulous and confused, Chris lets himself be pushed down. A knee comes down between his shoulder blades, and a rough hand pushes his head to the floor.

“Is there anyone else in this house?” the man asks in a businesslike tone.

Well-worn brown boots walk up to stand in front of Chris’s face, so close he can smell the shreds of damp leaves clinging to them. He flinches back, expecting a kick, but a sharp blow from above sends stars ricocheting through his skull.

“Answer me before I get mean,” the man says coldly. “Is there anyone else in this house right now?”

This is real. This is bad. With effort, he dredges up an answer. “No.”

“You’re the only one here?”

“Yes.”

“Expecting anyone tonight?”

“No.”

“Clear it,” the older man directs, and the brown boots depart. The sound of doors opening comes from down the hall.

Chris closes his eyes briefly against a wave of dizziness and nausea. The lie had been instinctive. Whatever the hell is going on, he’s not about to tell a pair of armed criminals that his sister is coming to visit. How long before she shows up? It’s a two-hour drive from the school to here. If the sun is setting now, and she’d left work and started driving...no, she’d have gone home first, wouldn’t she?

Footsteps come back toward them and deliver a report. “This level’s got a living room, kitchen, three rooms toward the back, couple bathrooms and closets. It’s clear.”

“OK. Downstairs?” the older man answers.

The boots move off again and tramp down the stairs.

Chris racks his brain for anything that could have made him a target. His house doesn’t look prosperous. He’s gotten the interior into a decent condition since he and Emma inherited the house from their grandfather, but he hasn’t yet done anything about the faded siding or the overgrown bushes. Maybe the men are desperate.

But desperate for what? More importantly, how long will it take them to collect it?

There’s only one way to handle this. Whatever the two men are here for, they can have it. Any resistance from him would only slow them down. Are they planning on leaving a live witness behind? It’s far too easy to picture himself dead, and Em arriving to a horrifying scene...but that would be better than her arriving while they’re still here.

The brown boots come back upstairs. “The sliding door on the side goes to an open area with a TV and a couch. Off of that, two more bedrooms, a workout room, laundry room, another bathroom. No one here other than him.”

“Good.” The end of the gun taps Chris’s head. “What’s your name?”

His throat is as dry as the dusty floor. “Chris.”

“Chris. Big house for just one guy. You sure you’re the only one who lives here?”

“It’s just me.”

“Are you a wealthy man, Chris?” A hint of keen interest lurks under the sardonic question.

A ghost-thin breath of not-really-laughter escapes him. “No.”

The pressure pinning him down shifts slightly as the man looks back up at his partner. “What do you think, put him in one of those rooms back there?”

A grunt of agreement. “One of ‘em’s set up as an office.”

“Got a chair we could tie him to?”

A flush of heat washes down the back of Chris’s neck, followed by a damp chill that makes his skin prickle. Just cooperate. Whatever it takes to get this over with as fast as possible.

“Not really the right shape,” the younger man says. “The desk’s a fucking slab, though. Could tether him to that.”

“Cover him for a minute.” The end of the gun taps Chris’s head again. “Don’t move.”

The man stands up and walks down the hall. After a moment, he returns. “It’ll work.”

He picks up his tool bag and sets it on the floor just past Chris’s head. “Hands up here.”

The floor seems to be rotating around him. No, it’s just that he’s breathing too fast, too shallow, even without the weight of the knee on his back. The blood racing through his body hisses in his ears, a crash of white noise. One thought threads through the static: Emma. He drags his arms forward.

Rough hands grasp his forearms; thin cord loops around his wrists and tightens down. It’s done with an economy of action that completes the task in seconds. “Up,” the older man orders.

Chris pulls his arms in and stumbles upright, lightheaded but vertical. It feels oddly like someone else is piloting his body while he observes from outside. The man takes hold of the back of Chris’s collar and pushes him down the hall.

In the office, the man orders him to sit on the floor by the desk. The younger man had been right; the desk is a solid oak edifice, a relic of an earlier time when furniture-making was more of a craft than an industry. Chris and Emma had decided to leave it here and decorate around it rather than try to move it elsewhere.

The man binds another thin green cord around Chris’s wrists, weaving this one around one leg of the desk and a supporting crosspiece. Chris keeps his eyes on the floor, though his peripheral vision tells him the final knot is tied off where he won’t be able to reach it.

The man stands up. “Stay there. We’ll be back to check on you.” He flips the light switch as he exits the room and closes the door, leaving Chris in the dark.

Chris rests his head against the corner of the desk and draws a deep, shaky breath. At least the room isn’t completely lightless. The gap under the door lets in a bit of light, as well as sound. The voices in the hall are moving away, but they’re clear enough for him to hear one exchange:

Why don’t you just get rid of that guy now?

Not yet. Not until we’re done here.

~~~

#cadeverse #chris #emma #chris's perspective on events #about 1400 words #home invasion #gunpoint #tied up #this is the one i struggled with for weeks #until i switched it from past to present tense #then it magically started writing itself #adding to a story is difficult sometimes #i ask myself WHY i chose a detail that doesn't make sense now #but writing around it can be an interesting challenge

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slothquisitor · 1 month ago

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Invisible String: Epilogue

A Baldur’s Gate III Modern AU.

Chapter Summary: Hey Selune, play 'Invisible String' by Taylor Swift...

Read from the beginning.

Read on AO3.

____________________________________________________________

The restaurant is less busy than Liv expected for a Saturday night, but her group is unmissable. She’s a minute late from dropping off Brelia and Erin at the train station after their weekend visit, but there’s a chair waiting for her beside Petras. Two others sit empty, waiting for their final guests, so at least she’s not the last to arrive.

She’s greeted with smiles and waves as she melts into the already ongoing conversations. Lae’zel and Karlach seem to be bonding over Crossfit and also Karlach showing Lae’zel pictures of her dog. Gale is teaching a very interested Petras about a puzzle game on his phone, and she suspects Petras’s interest has very little to do with the game itself. Shadowheart waves and gestures at the beautiful woman next to her, like ‘can you believe this?’.

Liv leans forward across the table. “You must be Veska.”

The elven woman with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes beams as bright as the sun. “Yes, it’s so nice to meet you. Liv, right?”

Liv nods. “We’ve heard a lot about you from Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart’s cheeks flush. “All good things.”

Veska’s answering smile is indulgent with the look of new love.

“Liv,” Petras bumps his shoulder against hers to get her attention. “I was thinking Gale should join us for our next movie night.”

She cranes around Petras to see Gale looking a bit shockingly bemused at the invitation. “Only if you promise to bring snacks. The other two participants don’t eat anything I want to partake.”

Gale glances at Petras before turning his attention back to Liv. “I can bring snacks.”

Petras grins. “Cool. It’s a date.”

Gale’s eyes go momentarily wide in surprise before he reins it in. “That…that sounds nice.”

“Wyll!” Karlach yells, standing up to hug the man who’s walked in with Astarion.

Astarion appears behind Liv’s chair, pressing a kiss against her cheek. “Hello.”

She catches the hand that rests on her shoulder. “Hey.”

“Brelia and Erin get off alright?” he asks.

She nods. “They did.”

Wyll isn’t far behind Astarion now that he’s managed to extricate himself from Karlach. “It’s lovely to meet you, Liv.”

She stands to greet him properly, finds herself pulled into an unexpected, but not unwelcome hug. “You too.”

She didn’t think it was possible for Wyll’s smile to get wider, but when he sees Petras, it does. “Astarion said you’d be here!”

There’s back-patting and further introductions and then they’re all seated and the conversation is flowing, loud and ridiculous and weaving in ways impossible for anyone not at the table to follow. Liv is reminded of another dinner, in Neverwinter, sitting around a table of her sister’s friends feeling so very out of place, and how different this one feels. She’d been struck then by all those people her sister had found and claimed as family and marveled at it even as she felt so alone in that restaurant.

It’s such a contrast to how she feels in this moment, like an essential part of a whole. Looking around the table, she’s struck by all the ways their lives are intertwined. Even if she and Astarion hadn’t become roommates, or if they hadn’t matched on the Weave, she likes to think that they would have still ended up here…all of them together. That even if things had happened differently, there was always some invisible string tying them all together.

But even so, she wouldn’t trade this version for another.

At the end of the table near Karlach, a woman approaches. She’s tall and wears baggy jeans and a green sweater. Her brown hair is cut shorter on one side than the other and she has almost as many piercings as Karlach. “Uh, sorry to interrupt,” the woman waves slightly.

Everyone at the table turns their attention to whatever is happening, but the woman only seems to have eyes for Karlach. “I…uh…I was in the booth on the other side, and I couldn’t help but overhear you talk about your dog. I don’t even know if you’re single, but…uh…here’s my number if you ever want to grab coffee or something.”

The woman hands over an elaborately folded napkin to Karlach, gives her a smile and walks away. Karlach stares at the napkin before looking at Astarion in triumph.

“I told you being HotCliveMama34 was going to work out for me.”

Astarion glares back at her. “You didn’t even meet her in the app, it doesn’t count!”

Wyll looks around the table in confusion. “What app are you even talking about?”

Gale groans.

“The Weave,” Lae’zel replies with disdain.

“It’s great!” Shadowheart and Veska say at the same time the other half of the table says, “It’s terrible.”

Astarion’s hand finds hers, and he leans close enough only for her to hear. “Well, it’s not so bad.”

She laughs. “Where else can one share mind flayer erotica recommendations?”

The conversation drifts on, but a few moments later, her phone vibrates. She’d normally ignore it, but she’s pretty sure she just watched Astarion tuck his away.

Astarion: So, what’s the verdict? Books still better than people?

Liv: I thought that our challenge was about your particular person versus a book.

Astarion: And?

Liv: I suppose that both you and these people are better than books. It was a close call though.

“Are you two texting each other?” Shadowheart asks eyes narrowed. “As you’re sitting next to each other?”

Astarion sips from his wine. “Happens more often than you’d think.”

Petras snorts.

Liv puts her phone away. “It was nothing.”

Astarion clutches his chest in feigned offense. “It was not. I’ve just been told I’m better than a book. High praise.”

Karlach shrugs, looking unimpressed. “Depends on the book, I guess.”

Liv glances at Astarion, unable to keep from smiling. “Or the person.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #bg3 fanfic #modern au #astarion x liv #invisible string #slothquisitorwrites #and it's done #now I'm going to go cry about it #lol

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smaller-comfort · 3 months ago

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Aephorul/B'st/Resh'an (Modern AU) Resh'an always gets what he wants, one way or another; Aephorul might as well accept that fact, and learn to enjoy it.

It's the fucking-on-the-kitchen-table one. Whew. I'm on a roll lately; I'm aiming for at least 1 more finished story by the end of the week.

Some general notes under the cut about how I imagine they all look in this universe, but most of these details aren't that important.

B'st:

My general image of human B'st is like...a cross between Sam from Scavenger's Reign and certain incarnations of Cable from Marvel comics. Beard is optional. (I can't decide, honestly. I think he probably *should* have a beard, but I haven't written it into anything yet and I'm genuinely too lazy to go back in and add it.)

Used to do competitive bodybuilding in his younger years (he's in his early 60s now); still works out, but does more strength training/crossfit kind of stuff, and not body sculpting. Has lots of padding over his muscles; he's just big, in every dimension. 6'4" or thereabouts.

Well groomed; keeps his hair/beard neat, always looks put together. Is entirely aware of how well his ass fills out a pair of jeans. Is also aware of how good he looks in leather, but he's been out of that scene for a long time.

He's a silver fox if a silver fox were a bear. (A polar bear? I'm pretty sure that's a thing.) Whether or not he has a beard, he's got a lot of body hair.

He drives a 20 year old Subaru hatchback that looks comically small next to him.

Resh'an:

About 5'10" and kind of squishy; he occasionally laments the fact that he's not as thin as he was in college, but Aephorul loves that he actually has an ass now. Has never willingly set foot inside of a gym in his life, and thinks it's cute that B'st and Aephorul can talk about weightlifting together.

(gotta start somewhere Resh'an weighs like 125lbs soaking wet. Runs on adderall and anxiety, and he picks up a nicotine habit during grad school, which doesn't help. Once he's better medicated, his metabolism slows down to something more human, and less hummingbird.)

Starting to go gray at his temples, which Aephorul also finds incredibly hot. Likes to lean into the mousy professor thing because it throws people off when they discover he's a trollfaced pervert.

Dark auburn hair, medium brown eyes, passes for white most of time. (Haven't quite decided what real-world analogue area his family is from. Middle east/central/west Asian somewhere, probably mixed race.)

Shaves/waxes most of his body hair because he only had to get his pubes caught in the locking mechanism on a chastity cage once before learning his lesson.

Aephorul:

He was 6', but lost half an inch or so after the accident. He's still obsessive about going to the gym, but he doesn't have the muscle mass he had in his 20s, which frustrates him a lot.

Struggles with body dysmorphia post-accident. Tends to walk with a slight limp- he has a cane he's supposed to use, but never does. His shoulders/hips are slightly crooked, which he thinks is a lot more noticeable than it actually is. Doesn't like anyone other than Resh'an seeing him naked; can't always handle Resh'an looking at him all the time, either.

His hair went white when he was a kid after a bad illness, and he's still extremely vain about it. (He is terrified of losing his hair.) Black eyes, and a darker base complexion than Resh'an; his family is from southwest Asia.

Keeps his bush trimmed but not shaved; his body hair is fairly dark. Used to shave his legs when he was younger and did drag, but doesn't anymore. (There's a non-zero amount of Gender Stuff going on with him that I don't really want to get into, but some of it might come up in later stories.)

#nattering #my fic #what the fuck is that title uggghhhh #aephorul/b'st/resh'an #I'm too tired to come up with an actual pairing name #sea of stars

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cavalierious-whim · 4 months ago

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Socially Awkward, Chapter One (Wriolette)

Wriothesley and Neuvillette are both lonely, socially stunted older dudes terrified of dating, and so they do what the youngsters do-- accidentally initiate romance over social media by way of 'lewd modeling'.

'Socially Awkward'

Part 1 of 11

modern au

old dude cliche rom-com

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter and Blue Sky.

“You do know that your phone has died, right?”

Wriothesley's face tilts towards Clorinde, who leans over the offending piece of tech. It’s propped against a stack of weights, and no, he didn’t know that—he was too busy counting out his current set and staring off into the distance. He curses, dropping the dumbbell in his hand to the mat.

“Ah.” Clorinde’s mouth curls into a smile as she watches him scramble. “So you didn’t—”

“I don’t need to hear it from you, miss, ‘I have a flip phone’—”

“It isn’t a flip phone,” she replies tersely. “Or, it is, but it’s still a fancy smartphone and certainly newer than yours.”

“You traded up because of nostalgia.” Wriothesley shoots her a knowing look before leaning over to pluck his phone from the floor. “But, you lack the technical know-how of how phones work.”

Clorinde raises an eyebrow. “Says the man who didn’t realize his phone was dying?”

“I wasn’t looking!”

She snorts softly. “I know how to text and answer a call. That’s all that’s needed.”

Clorinde would say that. Clorinde is allergic to anything that doesn’t involve CrossFit, sharpshooting, and butting into Wriothesley's business. Like being nosey and peeking at his phone.

“Well, just in time, I guess. I’ve been needing a break. Hungry?”

“I wasn’t, but now that you’ve said something…”

Wriothesley shoots her a grin. “Want to call it an early day and go to Café Lutece? An order of Crepes Suzette would really hit the spot—”

“Right in your gut,” cuts in Clorinde, following him to the locker room. It’s an unspoken rule that Clorinde is allowed on the men’s side, no questions asked. Besides, it’s not as though she’s looking with intent—her eyes wander in an entirely different direction, and the gym is small enough that the others don’t care. “What happened to the diet?”

“I’m still bulking up!” A flimsy excuse that has Clorinde giving him the look. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with a treat here and there, and you know how good the Conch Madeleines are—”

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to sell it to me.” Clorinde waves a hand. “You had me at Café Lutece. Besides, you need a break, I need a drink, and we need to talk about plans for the week.”

“It’s—” Wriothesley looks at his watch. “—barely noon, Clorinde. Surely it’s too early for booze.”

“Have you never heard of brunch and mimosas? But no, I was thinking about a nice latte. I know their tea is mid—”

“It isn’t that bad.” Wriothesley tugs off his sweaty shirt and drops it into his bag. He pats himself down with a damp towel, paying particular attention to his neck and face, and then it too is tossed into the bag. “It’s drinkable. Besides, like I said—the madeleines.”

While Clorinde’s comment about his diet was mostly a tease, he could be better about his occasional treats. But the madeleines are just too good, and they enhance even the most subpar teas.

He tugs on a fresh shirt and looks at her. “Decent?”

Clorinde leans over and sniffs, her face wrinkling comically. “Decent enough to sit outside. As long as no one is within five feet, we should be safe.”

Rude. Wriothesley reaches into his bag, grabs his soiled shirt, and chucks it at her in response.

She stands there as it smacks her, and then she drawls, slowly and deadpan, “Delightful.” She peels away the article and tosses it right back into his bag. “And you wonder why you’re single.”

Wriothesley shrugs. Reaching for a comb, he attempts to groom his wild rat’s nest of hair, grunting slightly when the tines get stuck on the coarse strands. “You act as if I’m trying to be anything else.”

Because he isn’t. Wriothesley isn’t wired for relationships. They require too much trust, too much vulnerability, and he isn’t about to dip his toes into that. Clorinde should get it because she’s the same, and that’s why they are two peas in a pod.

She’s too quiet though—quiet enough that he looks at her again. Her expression is soft and contemplative.

“What’s with that look?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing, just… Well. We aren’t getting any younger, right?”

“Surely you aren’t thinking about dating again.” Wriothesley hisses softly as the comb finally slides through a tangle. “Clorinde, you’re my wing-woman—”

“Wouldn’t that imply that you are dating?”

Wriothesley snorts. “An occasional fuck and run isn’t dating. Don’t leave me stranded.” A few more tugs of his comb make his hair presentable. “Besides, didn’t you swear off men years ago?”

Men, yes. Women, though?

“Women are fair game,” replies Clorinde, the expected response, one repeated so often that Wriothesley mouths the words alongside her the moment they slip from Clorinde’s mouth. She reaches over and nudges him sharply in the ribs. “Enough of that, though. I’m hungry.”

Only because Wriothesley suggested they grab a bite to eat. Still, he shoots her a smile, and shoulders his gym bag.

“Yeah, let's get out of here before we’re cornered by Sigewinne.”

“So, the schedule for the weekend.”

Wriothesley is halfway through his bite of crepe when Clorinde broaches the topic. He groans, shoving the fork into his mouth and swallowing. “Do we have to talk shop here? Can’t it wait?”

“It could,” she says, “but it’s better to just get it out of the way, no? Besides, you’ll bounce the moment we’re done and then we’ll have to have this chat over the phone—”

“Which you’re allergic to. Got it.”

Clorinde levels him with an unamused look. “I do remember saying that phone calls were fine. It is you who decidedly dislikes them.”

Wriothesley cringes at the accusation. It isn’t his fault that he dislikes it. Direct messages and emails are easier. Clorinde only gets a pass because he’s known her forever. She carries the distinct titles of “bestie” and “ex-roommate”, and is the only person that he remotely trusts. Others are email-zoned, as it were.

“Okay, then, the schedule,” he begins, shoving his food around his plate.

“I knew you’d come around,” she replies, earning herself another groan and a roll of Wriothesley's eyes. “You have a boxing match, right? I think I saw it on the gym calendar.”

Wriothesley nods and hums softly. “Yeah, that guy from Mondstadt. Mr. Dark-something or other.” He chuckles. “Last time we crossed mitts he told me he preferred a fight name which I get, but like…” Wriothesley waves his hand. “He could’ve picked something less comic book-y.”

“I remember that being a good match, though. Excited to have another go at him?”

She knows that he is, and Wriothesley shoots her a grin and winks before shoving another bite into his mouth.

“So, Saturday’s booked up. Good to know. Does that mean you’re streaming on Friday like usual?”

“Nine P.M. on the dot.” Clorinde nods and sips at her latte, silence stretching between them. And it’s fine—Wriothesely can sit there and just enjoy space beside her, but he’d be a fool to not use the shared lunch to needle her in the same way that she did him. “So, about earlier… got eyes on any girls?”

“Wriothesley—” Oh, that’s a terrible tone. “—we are not talking about that.”

He behaves, his mouth snapping shut. Clorinde has shot him in the ass for less things, so he pulls back his teasing and doesn’t push.

After a moment, though, she sighs, and says, “But, to humor you, the answer is no. Every recent date has been…” She trails off, her mouth contorting into a sour frown.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

“It’s a nightmare out there,” says Wriothesley in solidarity. “Especially for folks our age. That’s why it’s easy to go for something with no strings attached. Besides, you like being alone. Remember when you kicked me out?”

Clorinde’s mouth twitches slightly at one corner. “I’d seen one too many bare asses belonging to your conquest of the day.”

“Yeah, yeah, you had to preserve your sanity, I’m sure.”

“I’d prefer to think of it as self-care,” replies Clorinde smoothly.

It isn’t a fight with weight. They’d slummed it together as roommates for nearly a decade and even Wriothesley decided that he’d needed the space, so it worked out in the end. He loves Clorinde, truly, but it’s been nice to just… stretch out and make a place his.

Plus, she doesn’t get to yell at him for leaving out dishes any more. Like yeah, it gets lonely but he thinks they’re better for it. Clorinde is there nearly every other day, especially to help with—

“Oh, that reminds me,” he says suddenly. “Are we still on for tonight?”

Clorinde drags a hand down her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Gods, I’d hoped you forgot. Can’t you figure out how to use the timing option on your camera?”

“I know how to use it,” Wriothesley tells her, a smug expression pulling across his face. “But you always get the best angles to show off my assets—”

“Please never say that again.”

Wriothesley will. It’s a standard phrase in his vernacular used specifically to annoy her. He leans over and steals a madeleine from her coffee cup saucer and takes a bite. “Your help is apprecass iated. As thanks, I’ll pay for your coffee.”

“I deserve more than a damn coffee having to see your ass hanging out of—”

“And that’s a little too much info to be tossing out there in the open, Clorinde.” Wriothesley shoots her a glare and then looks frantically at a table just feet away sporting a couple and their young child. “Really?”

Clorinde snickers and steals the madeleine back. “Get your own damn cookies.”

“I’m paying for it!”

“Don’t remind me.” Her reply is as dry as the Sumeru desert. “But yes, tonight. Just try not to blind me.”

Wriothesley promises no such thing.

Clorinde gives him a once-over with a critical eye. She looks unimpressed, a furrow between her brows, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. That doesn’t bode well. She taps her chin, walking around him, taking in the sight from every angle.

Wriothesley presses a hand to his bare chest, not so much self-conscious, but concerned about his chosen attire for this particular photoshoot. Before he can ask, Clorinde reaches out and tugs on the loosely knotted tie hanging limp against his sternum.

“Do men actually find this attractive?”

“I’ll have you know that my audience is equal opportunity when it comes to gender,” Wriothesley retorts.

Clorinde meets his face. “You’re wearing a tie and a glorified jock strap.”

“It’s proper underwear!” Even if the ass is cut out. The point is that everything important is covered, fully, and the waistband even reaches his hips.

“I don’t find this remotely sexy.”

“You’re a lesbian.”

Clorinde hums. “Again, another reason that I’m the wrong choice to help you.”

She’s the best choice, actually, and she knows it. Not only does Wriothesley trust her but she has a solid camera eye. Even untrained, Clorinde manages to get his good side, leaving Wriothesley looking less like a man pushing forty and more like a silver fox to be admired. Truly, he owes his entire channel to her, which is why she gets critiquing rights.

“Look, I took a poll and this is what won. Shirtless—that’s a no-brainer. Everyone wants to see these guns—”

“I will shoot you,” deadpans Clorinde from where she sets up the camera from across the room.

Wriothesley flexes his muscles just to spite her. “As for the bottoms—”

“Can you actually call them that?”

“—these are the highest quality, made of moisture-wicking bamboo viscose. They leave no lines underneath your clothing and—”

“Your ass is hanging out.”

Wriothesley frowns. There’s no need to point it out for a second time. “That’s the entire point,” he reminds her. He turns and looks at himself in the floor-length mirror to the side. “I work hard on these gains so naturally I should show them off.”

Clorinde gives him a cursory glance and fails to hide her grin. “I’ll grudgingly admit that of the male asses out there, yours is above standard.”

A rare compliment. Wriothesley shoots her a grin and tucks it away for a rainy day. “So, where do you want me, O Mighty Photographer?”

Her teasing over with, she looks at him again, thinking. “Well, as you said, we should offer up the gains. Bend over and show me those glutes.”

Wriothesley chokes on his laughter, wheezing as he coughs through it. Oh, the things she says. But this is also why they have a rapport he shares with no one else. Clorinde knows him like the back of her palm, almost better than he knows himself. She’s aware of everything; his gritty and grimy past, the things that haunt him in the present, and his trust issues.

They’re old—old enough to be wiser but there are times that Wriothesley feels like he knows nothing at all. Clorinde makes it easier. Bearable. It’s nice to have a friend to share those woes, and who’s willing to snap photos of his mildly hairy ass for the sake of Wriothesley's dubious side hustle.

So, he could complain but he doesn’t. He just kneels onto the mattress, jutting his backside out for a good angle. Wriothesley shoots her a glance over his shoulder, schooling his gaze into something sultry, and says, “Good enough?”

Clorinde says nothing but the click of the camera is loud in the room.

The photo set is a hit, which comes as no surprise.

Clorinde’s teasing aside, Wriothesley knows that he is, objectively, handsome. Enough people toss him money to gaze upon his half-naked form that any anxieties that may have once wracked him have gone right out the door.

It’d been a mid-life crisis thing—starting up a ThirstTrap account. He’s aging, going gray, and it’s harder and harder to snag cute guys when out on the town. So Wriothesley thought: What is the harm? He posts up a few lewds, gets a few bites, and maybe makes a couple hundred on the side. Being a personal trainer pays his bills, but a slush fund is nice, and Wriothesley deemed it worth the ill-advised idea™.

Clorinde had laughed at him. Literally. Wriothesley spilled the beans the next day over coffee and tea cakes at Café Lutece, and she’d laughed so hard he thought he might’ve broken her. He’s known Clorinde for decades and that is the only time he’s seen her double over and lose it.

She’d stopped laughing after the first payout because Wriothesley was an instant sensation, a rough and tumble, silver fox showing off the goods. As it turns out, there’s a market for decent-looking middle-aged men with gnarly scars, and a bomb-ass physique.

The streaming came naturally. His fans love his photo sets, sure, but a chance to see him in action? No, not a camboy—Wriothesley would never. He’s too embarrassed to pull out his dick and stroke it in front of a crowd, but lewds? Implied content? Shaking his butt a little to ooing and awing audience members?

Worth the money, at least.

“So, what did we think of the last outfit, hm? You all voted on it and I think that it was a hit.”

The chat of his stream goes wild with comments, and Wriothesely gives a silent shout-out to Clorinde who moderates from the privacy of her own home. Bless her. Seriously. Wriothesley has a thick skin but some of his followers are… well, they’re something.

Parasocial relationships know no bounds.

“I know that I’m done up more than usual today, but you know the rules—the more donations that come in, the more that comes off.”

Wriothesely lounges on his couch in well-cut trousers and a nice button-down that defines his biceps. He fiddles with the tie around his neck—loosely knotted, just like the photo set from a few days prior. “I was thinking,” he says, “that tonight we’ll indulge in a follower favorite. What do you think about me reading aloud to you?”

The chat pops off and Wriothesley grins, pulling that tie open entirely and letting it hang across his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let’s settle in for—” Wriothesley looks at the book procured by Clorinde and instantly regrets it.

Still, the show must go on. He shoots his most charming smile at the camera, and finishes with, “Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun: The Accidental Eggening of My Beloved Archon.”

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Lead Prosecutor of the Court of Fontaine and number-one choice for the next Chief Justice, does not take time off.

He lives the latest of nights and survives on coffee (which he hates) and takeout (force-fed to him by his beloved paralegal Navia Caspar). Neuvillette has learned how to function on several hours of sleep a day. He’s perfected the interested look of disinterest—even if his mind is barely there you would never know because it would seem that you have his full attention.

Neuvillette is socially awkward, his best friends are books, and he has only three vices to his name—one being a cool, crisp bottled water from Chenyu Vale (something that Navia would grouse about being a capitalistic nightmare spurred on by rich-inclined folk such as he who choose to splurge on what she calls, “Frivolous”. It is not frivolous; there truly is nothing that tastes quite like it, and Neuvillette’s taste buds thank him at the end of a long and grueling day of case reports and courtroom arguments only to be outvoted by a hulking, mechanical device with a too-long name and a startling amount of personality for a computer).

This night is like most others. Neuvillette lets himself into his dark townhouse, kicking off his shoes before placing them neatly and side by side next to the door. First, off comes his coat. Then his tie, loosened and pulled open gently. His keys are tossed into the bowl on the entry table.

He peels his layers slowly as he walks to the bedroom. His suit jacket is hung up for another wear, provided there is no staining, and perhaps the trousers follow suit if they aren’t too soiled. His shirt is dumped into the laundry, mildly rumpled.

Neuvillette’s bathroom routine is short; he washes his face with a cleanser and water. He dresses down for the night in soft, silk pajamas, and a loose robe.

A midnight snack is often next. As the leftover consommé heats up in the microwave, Neuvillette pulls open his second vice: Kameragram. He scrolls through a slew of new notifications from his last post—a daring profile shot of him in a navy three-piece suit. From the neck down, as always. His hair swept back so the ends barely show, and others are unlikely to recognize him.

He still has a backlog of pictures to post so he picks one and uploads it; the same suit, only this time his jacket stripped off and hung over his shoulder for a more casual look.

Neuvillette did not set out to enjoy social media—he barely knows how it works—but Navia had talked him into checking out this particular application.

“I think you’d like the aesthetic of some of these creators,” she’d told him, and she was right. Neuvillette was instantly hooked by accounts that showed crisp and sleek fashion sense, and the ambiance of what he has come to know as Dark Academia.

The microwave dings just as his picture finishes uploading.

And then there’s another notification that pops up on his phone, his third vice. Neuvillette stares, reading it over, considering just how to spend the rest of his night. He could indulge, or he could indulge. There are differing levels and rarely does Neuvillette give into his baser instincts and truly let loose.

But it was a long day of Focalors running him ragged.

“I have the day off tomorrow,” he muses, thumbing his chin. His eyes fall on a bottle of unopened wine on the counter of his wet bar. A gag gift from Furina. Neuvillette rarely drinks, disliking the way it dulls his sharp-wittedness. But here in the comfort of his home… there is no harm, correct?

“Why the hell not?” he says, the rare curse stinging his tongue.

The pop of the cork is almost foreign to his ears but the blood-red splash of the wine into his glass feels like a welcome friend. The first sip is acrid and acidic—but perfect. That, paired with the consommé will spell out a divine end to the day.

Neuvillette’s third vice comes as an embarrassment in the form of ThristTrap account Cerberus69.

He is a picky man—to the point that he doesn’t date. He can’t remember the last time he was properly fucked, unwilling to let his eyes linger on anyone who doesn’t fit his standards. The Duke is not his type. He isn’t. And yet Neuvillette is hungry for this man in a way that he cannot comprehend.

And so, the indulgence.

Perhaps it is because The Duke isn’t a cam model in what most would consider its purest form. Neuvillette has sat in on other streams and was left unimpressed. Those models, those men, naked, leaving nothing to the imagination. There is no tease to it, no opportunity to be edged, just hands on their dicks and empty words cooed at their audience.

The Duke, though, is different. Classy. The mask settled over his face is handsome despite hiding everything above his nose. Never entirely undressed, just stripped down, that mouth of his pulled into a smirk as he turns to and fro. Just enough skin is revealed to entice. Curate clothing this side of tight to show off his assets, which apparently, are more than just his muscles because Neuvillette finds his gaze locked on the bulge in his trousers tonight.

Yes, this is what he likes, what he finds pleasure in—the art of the striptease. He’s left dreaming for more, coming back time and time again just to hear his voice, to wonder just what his cock might look like, imagine how it might feel—

Neuvillette has had too much to drink tonight.

The Duke reads aloud a smut book. Neuvillette is stretched out on his bed, watching the stream on the television hanging on the wall opposite him. He can feel the flush of his face and the tightness in his sleep trousers. Wicked thing. The Duke. And Neuvillette’s cock. It isn’t behaving tonight.

So Neuvillette takes another sip of his wine, thinking that he can trick it into settling down because he’s too tired to fuck his hand.

But it’s tempting. It’s been long enough that he sighs at the thought, hand drifting lower to rest against his clothed cock. Just to sit there. The weight is nice. Focus on The Duke. Yeah, he can do that.

Another sip of wine.

The book The Duke reads is terrible, the sort of fodder geared towards middle-aged women who spend their brunches grousing over their children. But with The Duke's mouth curled around the words, it’s tolerable.

“It isn’t that I doubt my mate. His ovipositor is long and thick, and it will fill me just right. I pull him close for a kiss, relishing his heavy weight against me. My pussy tightens, wet enough to drench the insides of my thighs—”

So, maybe it isn’t tolerable. Neuvillette drags a hand down his face, willing those words to just melt away, focusing on the raspy timber of The Duke's voice instead.

“A rare treat,” drawls The Duke. He’s relaxed on his couch, shirtless, toned abs and built pecs reflecting the ring light that’s tilted towards him. Neuvillette’s eyes drag across his form taking in every delicious inch, every scar that mars it, every dip and curve. “Whilst my beloved mate often shares these less-than-human traits, this one is left for special occasions. ‘Are you sure you aren’t in rut?’ I ask huskily, nipping at his ear. ‘And what of the risk for hatchlings?’ I barely hear his response—a quick, clipped, ‘I’m too old to worry about unprepared eggs’. A pity. My pussy clenches at the thought of having a few fucked deep into me.”

This isn’t the standard fair of what The Duke typically reads loud. His content varies, of course, but eggs—Neuvillette shudders as The Duke says something particularly dirty. “His cock—” The Duke's voice is like sin. “—is good, but his other length, the one meant for eggs, is an entirely different beast. Long and thick, tapered at the edge to ease penetration. It’s hot against my palm as I give it a stroke.”

Neuvillette cannot stand it anymore. Usually, he just watches and there is enough satisfaction in that, eyes tracing over the Duke’s edges before dozing off to the dulcet tones of his voice. Tonight the wine has made Neuvillette bold. Arousal burns through his veins, white-hot and heady. Pleasure coils in his gut, his cock twitches, and fuck, the sight of The Duke just makes it blaze hotter.

That hand he has resting against his cock grinds harder. He’s fully hard and aching, leaking a mess into his trousers. Ridiculous. Neuvillette is better than this but just for one night, he can give into his baser needs. The heel of his palm catches against the tip, raking the soft fabric of his sleep clothes over it. He hisses. His hand would be better. He could fuck it properly, stroke himself until he’s wet and needy and spilling all over his stomach.

The wine. He’s never drinking again, he thinks as he takes another sip.

“‘Like this?’” purrs The Duke. “My thumb slides over the tip of his length, the draconic one, the one that has my pussy clamping from just thinking about being filled. His precome is thick, and viscous, sticking to the pad of my thumb in a long string as I pull it away. I desire to taste it.”

Sinful. Utterly sinful, the way that The Duke reads something so absurd aloud. Neuvillette curses softly, shifting in his bed, lifting his hips just enough to slide his trousers down his thighs. His cock slaps against his belly, dribbling from the tip. He groans, finally getting his hand around it. A quick stroke has him sinking into the sheets, the pillows, the softness of his bed.

“‘Darling,’ I say to my mate, the taste of his come settling into my tongue. ‘I need you to fuck me.’”

Yes, yes, yes. Neuvillette doesn’t listen to the words themselves, just The Duke’s voice as it settles across his bones. He lets it caress his being, his skin. He pumps his cock, eyes closed, imagining that—perhaps—it was the hand of another man. Would the Duke have callused fingers? A tight grip? Would he whisper praise into Neuvillette’s ear as he stroked his cock?

Neuvillette would like to think so. The Duke seems like a pleaser. After all, isn’t that what he does here? Pleases his audience? Neuvillette’s gaze flickers back to the screen because The Duke has paused in his reading.

“Oh,” says the man, leaning up from the couch. “A generous donation from—” He chuckles, and oh, that sound. What Neuvillette would give to hear it, hot and damp, next to his ear. “OneWildNightInSnezhnaya. Such a generous amount. I think we should thank them, chat.”

It is an obscene donation. Neuvillette silently thanks the person for their generous wealth the moment that The Duke stands from the couch. He tilts from side to side and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight trousers to pull at it. “These next?” he muses, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. “You know the rules of course—never much more than this. But…”

The Duke’s hands move to his fly. The buttons are undone slowly, and his trousers drop, inch-by-inch as he turns to show off his ass to the camera. The art of the strip tease is what Neuvillette is appreciative of. The Duke still wears briefs underneath those trousers but he may as well be naked with the way that they cling to his thighs tightly. Little is left to the imagination. Neuvillette’s gaze rakes across the thick length trapped behind that soft cotton and he suddenly needs; needs something more, something out of his reach.

Neuvillette blames it on the alcohol, not his loneliness, or his pickiness. Why date when he can occasionally fuck his hand to a handsome streamer? No muss, no fuss, and the clean-up is easy. He goes to work the next day with little worry, mind clear, and body ready for the long work day.

But The Duke—Neuvillette imagines his hands sweeping over him, catching on the angles of his hips. Those fingers opening him up, spreading his rim wide. The words he’d purr against his ear as he fucks him deeply. Neuvillette would keen at the stretch, gasping in the sheets as The Duke moves within him.

Gods, it’s been a long time. Neuvillette’s hand moves faster on his cock, tugging it from base to tip. Not wet enough. He grunts, pulling away to dig in the drawer of the bedside table to find a mostly full bottle of lube. Pathetic, but not as pathetic as pouring it across his cock and imagining that his hand belongs to another.

“My mate is a needy creature. ‘Yes,’ he cries out as I stroke his length, paying extra attention to the flared head of his cock. ‘Yes, just like that. Sweet girl.’”

Neuvillette lets his fantasy run wild. The Duke, settled over him, pulling over his cock. “Yes,” murmurs Neuvillette, back arching in the bed as he fucks his hand with a rolling thrust of his hips. His brain is fogged by the wine. The room is sluggish and his throat is dry. All he thinks about is the tight grip he has on his dick, and of how The Duke might take care of him.

“My mate’s cock twitches against my palm. I dip closer and kiss the tip, and instantly his hand finds the back of my head to hold it there. ‘Are you going to come?’ I ask.”

He will. He’s so close, heat curling in his gut, coiling tight.

“His breath hitches as my tongue swirls around the tip of his cock. And then the slit, dipping into that larger opening meant to push out eggs. Gods, I want that, to be full, to be bred. He wants that too, judging by the way his hips buck, forcing his length into my mouth.”

Neuvillette’s hand moves faster, and squeezes tighter. His thighs are tense as he arches in the bed, head tipping back as his pleasure begins to mount. Hot, he’s so hot. His head is fuzzed and he needs this, to come, The Duke’s hand on his cock, the praise Neuvillette knows he’d dole out.

“My hand strokes what my mouth doesn’t reach. ‘Good girl’, says my mate, guiding my mouth to move. I’m drunk on the praise, on the taste of his precome on my tongue. ‘Just like that. Yes, yes—’”

Neuvillette comes with a whimper, spilling over his fist and stomach. He jerks himself through it, dick twitching against his palm with overstimulation. He hisses, his pleasure turning sharp and hot, and then mildly uncomfortable. He drops his cock and it falls against his belly with a wet slap. Neuvillette lays there, a blob in his sheets, breathing heavily as the air suddenly turns cold around his heated skin.

Mortification sets in. He drags his clean hand down his face as he comes to the reality that he just masturbated to his favorite streamer. Never has he crossed that line, never has he debased himself to the point fucking his hand to the sound of The Duke’s voice. Keyed himself up, yes. Fucked his hand after the stream is cut? Occasionally. Neuvillette rarely touches himself, to begin with, but never whilst actively listening, watching—and the fantasy of it…

He groans. “Sovereigns, I’m pathetic.”

He’s lonely. He’s drunk. Navia is going to laugh at him the next morning when she sees the circles under his eyes. Then she’ll pity him, pulling out her concealer and clicking her tongue as she sweeps her thumb across the offending skin.

“A bath,” Neuvillette tells himself next. Crisp, clean water calls to him. He hasn’t paid an absurd amount for the nicest hard water filter to not abuse it. He rises from the bed, cringing at the mess he’s made. On the television, The Duke still reads aloud, his sonorous voice moaning softly as the explicit content in his bed picks up its pace.

Right. A bath. To clear his head. Neuvillette is unsteady on his feet, wobbling about in his tipsy haze. No more wine. Never again is easily said, only to be quickly forgotten the next time he feels like this. Worth it? Maybe. Neuvillette will disagree in the morning, but his sore muscles certainly don’t disagree now when he finally settles into the steaming hot water of the bath he draws.

The tub is large enough to submerge himself. Neuvillette’s worry eases at the warmth but the mortification is still firm, like a solid rock in his gut. He’ll never be able to watch The Duke again.

“This is why I don’t do people,” he murmurs once resurfaced. “This is why I keep to myself. Interpersonal relationships are…” Too complicated. Especially for him. Neuvillette already fails to understand the intricacies of friendships, but with his position as a prosecutor, things become awkward fast.

He simmers in the bath until he’s soft and pruny. He rises again, wrapping himself in a soft, fluffy bathrobe. “Self-care,” said Navia when she’d gifted it a few years ago. Self-care indeed. Neuvillette already feels better.

Or maybe it’s because he’s sobered up a smidge.

Neuvillette walks back to the bedroom on sea legs. His brain is still muddled, but he’s better instead of worse for wear. The Duke is still live, this time chatting to those lingering in his chat. “Yes,” he says, lounging on his couch in nothing but those damnable, tight briefs. Neuvillette swallows as he stares. “I do have hobbies, like anyone else. Social Media scrolling is soothing, no? I have a penchant for handsome men on Kameragram.”

What? Neuvillette stills, the covers pulled back, one knee already pressed to the mattress. His head tilts as he glances at the screen.

“I’m not particularly fashionable myself but there’s nothing quite like a man in a well-cut suit. I am a fan.”

Never before has The Duke mentioned his preferences in such detail. He’s talked about enjoying both men and women, yes, and his content is tailored to both, but when asked about himself he always redirects to the chat, and what they enjoy. Tonight he seems chattier, laughing and smiling wide.

“Mmhm, yeah, you understand me, TheSpooniestBard. Muscles, a nice and tight fit, a collar pressed just underneath a sharp jawline.”

The Duke is, inadvertently, describing the entire aesthetic of Neuvillette’s personal Kameragram account. He slides back into bed, settling the comforter over his lap. He sits there dumbly, listening to The Duke ramble on about handsome men in suits, that deep voice of his soothing.

He always checks his phone for last-minute work alerts before turning in for the night. This time, though, Neuvillette opens up Kameragram and assesses himself. He is not unhandsome. His suits are high quality and of the finest fit. Even without his face in the frame, he paints an appealing picture.

“It’s just so pleasing, the thought of peeling it off. What’s hiding underneath? Are they built? Soft? It wouldn’t matter, I’d love it all.”

Neuvillette is still tipsy enough to make dumb choices.

ThirstTrap has an in-app messaging system that Neuvillette has never even thought about using but on this night he navigates to it and drops his Kameragram link accompanied by a very simple message:

>> I see that you like men in suits. Our tastes seem to align. I think that you may like my account in particular. Enjoy.

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