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rae-gar-targaryen · 4 months ago

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darling, how could i fear any hurricane? [qimir/the stranger x force sensitive!reader]

Summary: Neither the backwater planet you’d chosen for yourself, nor the sanctity of your own mind, is safe from the nightly visitations of your dream stranger. Is he real, or just another trick of the mind? And what of the power he promises? Desire, he’d spoken of. Desire, desire, desire…

Pairing: Qimir/The Stranger x Force-Sensitive!reader [my reader is written ambiguously, but as with all of my reader inserts are written with a Latina!reader in mind]

Warnings: 18+ please – fingering, dry humping, the brief mention of choking, Qimir being a seductive motherfucker, relatively minor smut, all things considered. The briefest descriptions of violence; reader has female anatomy.

Word Count: 5.7k of sinful soliloquy and definitely no manipulation. No, you want this power, don’t you??

A/N: Breaking my writing drought with this. I don’t know if it’s any good, and no one asked for it. But I’m glad to be sharing my writing again. Please be gentle!! Also, if you’ve ever read my Mandalorian x princess!reader fic, there’s an easter egg in here for you!

The verdant planet of Vorduun was known for very little – A small, outer-world, far from the shiny Core planets that boast chrome, progress, and bureaucracy. Lush plantlife, a fertile place with brimming riverbanks, and jungles teeming and thrumming to life with flora and fauna at the turn of the seasons. Off the edge of the map. Off the edge of the world. A perfect place to hide.

To lose yourself.

And the night is stifling, to say the least. Of all the Vorduunian summers you’d endured in your self-isolation, this one had to be the worst. The months’ long deluge of spring rains had made for a stiflingly humid summer, the green jungle steaming with sticky heat. If a saving grace was to be found in the swelter, it was that the night skies were unlike everything you’d ever beheld – a far cry from the fluorescent pollution endemic of your years on Courscant.

Tonight's Vorduunian sky is no exception – a clear expanse of rich velvet, stars like diamonds crushed into the smooth folds of the expansive sky. Twinkling and winking richly down at you through the gaping slats of the shack you now called home.

You twist, a serpent in your own threadbare bedsheets, attempting to find comfort in the sticky summer heat of the planet, chasing the elusive promise of coolness as you flip your pillow to the other side with a huff.

Kind of a sick game, if you thought about it. That if you weren’t running from something, you were chasing something else.

At present? Chasing a good night’s rest. Preferably dreamless, if you were honest. Your dreams of late are plagued with all sorts of incomprehensible flashes, feelings of being watched, feverish and hazy. Your subconscious’s foreboding certainty that if you’d only just turn around, you’d be met with a face that was not your own -– the disquieting sense of something, or someone, lurking just around a corner. Sprinting down echoing hallways with promises, greatness, a warrior's oath, all just out of reach, certain that if you’d slowed your pace, whatever was pursuing you might just snatch you, an unseen stranger.

Other nights, the dreams were different – the unflinching and unchanging grin set in a mask of metalloid teeth, baring themselves at you . Of ever-watchful eyes judging, as you forced yourself through training drills. The disapproving shake of your Master’s head, his disappointment palpable and always, always directed at only you . The seizing terror of being dropped into combat with no saber – of being skewered through by an unseen shadow with a red plasma blade. Of walls closing in on you. Of the Knights whom you had once considered your friends turning their backs on you while you fought tooth and nail. Of your lungs filled with your unreleased screams – of terror or frustration, you weren’t sure – pulling you down beneath the surface of your failure until you drowned in the disappointment of others’ unfulfilled expectations. Of hands on an unseen body tinkering with phials of something, producing poisonous concoctions of sickly green that the unseen stranger dripped down your throat, pouring them past your lips with sure, warm fingers pressing on your tongue. You swore you could feel the poison upon your waking, the phantom feeling of liquid shredding your veins with horrific heat, your heart thundering.

Other nights the dreams were different yet, still. Of shadows shedding their inky cloak to reveal hands that caressed. Of hands that held you and wiped your tears. Of thorns falling from vines – leaving what once had pricked and scratched you to now soothe with velvety softness as the vines wound their way around your wrists, tugging you into an unseen embrace with whispers of promises humming in your ears like the tufty wings of insects. And you would go willingly. Of the warm breath of another in your ear, their body warm behind you, distinct in its softness from that of the sunwarmed cliffs the two of you would watch the sunset from, just you and your unseen stranger. Of those same metalloid teeth melting into a radiant smile of brilliant white, beheld in a sharp jaw – the critique of disapproving masters replaced by his balmy, sublime approval.

Of the tease and taste of his cinnamon lips brushing your own, the fluttering fan of lashes along the peaks of your cheekbones. Of warm, wan whispers of want , desire , soothing your ears. Of warm, fine-boned, assured hands atop your own, guiding yours in a sensuous glide along your own skin. Promises of m ore, more, more as silken lips slipped their way along the column of your throat – your hitching gasps met with his rumbling hums of satisfaction that lasted in your ears for the duration of the following day. Of the gentle lapping of water over smooth-rocked shores, a hand grasping yours with a promise of power. Yet again of more, more, more, if you’d just … Well, you weren’t sure.

What you were sure of was that it had been weeks of these dreams. Your exhaustion was tugging at the corners of your reality, manifesting itself into silly mistakes – a slipped knife while cutting your meals, or the prickling feeling of someone watching from the dark corner of your room. At times, you weren’t sure what was real and what was dreamscape. A slow descent into madness, torment that felt justified, somehow –-

This purgatory was clearly your penance for your failure. To atone for the fact that you could never be more than what you are now – a former padawan cast out of a renowned Order, thanks in part to her own passions and propensities, roiling rages, and lilting lust. A warrior stripped of all pomp and credential. A blistering reminder of something never to be, of someone you could never be.

And so here you were. Piteous and exiled in the jungles of Vorduun with no one other than your occasional unseen dream stranger for company. And what of tonight? Had you slept? Were you asleep? The hazy jungle heat made it impossible to tell. When your days consist of the same, tedious routine maintenance to your little corner of jungle, purely isolated, save for irregular treks to the nearest settlement to barter … And when you tossed and turned your nights away in fitful fugue states of half-awake melded with oppressive dreams – well, who was to say what was really real?

The ghost of a touch along your exposed shoulder didn’t merit a response … Until it happened again. Causing you to sit bolt upright in bed, eyes tracking the room for any disturbance – seen or unseen.

That prickle, so like static rippling across your skin couldn’t be the Force. No, no. It was the trickle of sweat down the back of your neck, and nothing else. What reason would you have to feel the Force here, now?

Just another heated night, just another heated dream….

And now, were your eyes deceiving you, or were the shadows in the corner of your room were moving, swirling into shape as a well-toned arm emerges from the darkness, raised in a gesture of … peace? And the rest of him follows, stepping into the muted illumination from your single gaslamp that sputters in the corner of your room, casting his shadow along the opposite wall, sinuous and slinking as he slowly approaches.

You spring from your bed, eyes darting to the loose slat in your floor where you housed your ill-used saber, quickly considering the relative size of your room and how many steps it would take him to reach you, arms outstretched, to snuff the life from you before you could call the blade to your hand .

His eyes track yours, clocking the floorboard, before placing both hands up in front of him now, a plea –

“You don’t need that,” he murmurs, taking a tentative step toward you. And whether it was the room that shrank around you both, or that was just his presence in your space – so unused to anyone but you – you weren’t sure.

“Need what?” Play dumb, and he won't have any reason to harm you, leaving you an opportunity to strike. Your favorite trick, a minor deception for a tactical advantage.

He steps into the dim, flickering light of the gas lamp, a mild smirk blooming along his full lips, the lamplight warming his skin.

“Your Jedi weapon.”

You glance once more between the loose floorboard and the man slowly approaching you, cocking your head as his features became revealed to you, your mind tickling with recognition as you noted the sharp angle of his jaw and the baleful, syrupy darkness of his eyes –

“You,” you breathe. “I know your face.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet yours, searching.

Yes. You had a good memory for faces, and his you had seen a few times before. Your trips to the nearest settlement every tenday for the open-air market to barter what you had cultivated from the land around your ramshackle home for fruit, thread, and other goods you didn’t often come by on your own. You had seen him at a stall selling tinctures and other apothecary-type goods. You’d never approached, of course. Hadn’t had a need for burn creams or toxins. But there was no denying the swooping lock of hair that would curtain over his eyes, the sharp angle of his features. The way his eyes would track the movement of the market, hawkish, despite the seeming ineffectual haze in them…

A minor deception, you now realize. But for what tactical advantage?

“The chemist from the bazaar,” you reply.

His lips quirk at your realization – the bud of the smirk now unfurling into a full smile.

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for, warrior,” he stands before you now, hands still lightly held up in a gesture of peace. “That’s good… A nice surprise ,” his voice taking on an almost-purr of satisfaction.

You pause, lips parting lightly. What could he mean by that?

“Qimir,” he gestures to himself by way of introduction.

Qimir. Likely not his real name. Still, you ponder, an interesting choice. Qimir. Like Chimaera, something ancient and unknowable. A monstrous creature signifying the parable of illusion – the promise of something only too impossible to achieve. You wonder if he knew what his “name” sounded like when he’d picked it.

And you hope your face hasn’t betrayed your whirring thoughts as you continue your assessment, hoping to keep a sweep of neutrality across your features as you address him again.

“If you say so. Business must be slow if you’re here to rob me, poisoner. I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” your eyes flit around the relatively bare bedroom, gesturing with your chin to the equally Spartan main room of your little ramshackle cabin. “Not much here of value.”

He crosses one foot over the other as he takes a step to orbit you, almost swordsmanlike. As though he were preparing to duel. You mirror his step, your back to your bed now, facing your doorway. His body between yours and your exit.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he brings a finger to his chin as if in ponderment. “You’re here, after all. And why would I give you my name, show you my face, if I intended to rob you?”

“Why you do anything means nothing to me,” you bite, “and you’ll have to forgive my manners if I don’t feel like giving you my name. Leave, now , while I let you leave, Qimir.”

His eyes sweep your form, note your weight on the balls of your feet, bracing for a fight. You probably have weapons other than your laser sword stashed away, if he had to guess . He takes a tentative step toward you, a low chuckle escaping him at the fire in your eyes, trying not to smile any wider than he has already, to give away his pleased impression of your fury.

“I know who you are,” you blink at his statement, trying not to let the surprise show on your face. “You don't have anything to fear from me, little Jedi.”

“I am no Jedi,” you snipped, rolling your eyes at the insolence of the man before you. If he cared at all about your rude display, Qimir said nothing.

“I am more than aware of that, too,” he murmured, his voice like silk in your ears as he takes yet another small step toward you, invading your space, close enough to breathe your air, a hair’s breadth from touch.

Too close. You flex your fingers, calling your lightsaber from its hiding place under your loose floorboard into the palm of your hand in a flash, the cool metal meeting your palm like an old friend, a sense of relief. You surge forward into Qimir’s space, pressing the hilt of the saber into his abdomen.

“If you know so much, then you also know you shouldn’t have come,” you snarl. “I don’t know if you didn't take the hint, here at the edge of the world, but I don't take kindly to uninvited guests.”

“You did invite me, little viper,” he insists, his voice never losing its even, dulcet quality.

At your furrowed brow, he gently brings his fingertips to brush the bare skin of your wrist that’s pressing the hilt of your lightsaber into his stomach. A familiar, prickling ripple bursts across your skin, causing goosebumps to stipple your arms. So familiar. So like the feel of lips from your unseen stranger. So like the Force.

The dark eyes that met yours in the low light of your room were familiar for more than just an observation in passing at the market.

“Y-you,” you gasp, the realization causing your chest to seize, to clench your teeth in the wave of seething anger. “You’ve been … in my head … for months …”

He cocks his head at you, watching the emotions process along your face. He had seen your fears and failures, your heart’s greatest desires. He had seen it all …

“The quickest way to your heart,” he reasons. “Through your head. So you’ll have to forgive my intrusion. I wanted to know you.” Sweet words meant to soothe.

You aren’t sure if that makes it any better. Perhaps the reasoning makes it worse.

“So like a poisoner,” you level his gaze with a steely one of your own. “To try to slip through the cracks unseen. But I know the quickest way to your heart.”

“You do?” He seems surprised at your rejoinder. As if he hadn’t expected you to play. To be so quick of wit as you were of reflex.

“Between your fourth and fifth rib,” you hum, your voice taking on an almost-seductive tone – a contradiction to the reminder of you pressing the hilt of the saber into him, precisely where you mean to.

“I appreciate a good threat. Clever,” he smiles, placating. “But there’s no need for that, little warrior. After all… I wouldn't leave you to the dark, not like they did,” he assures, brushing his fingertips against the bare skin of your wrist, so lightly you would’ve thought you’d imagined it. Using the contact to connect to you through the Force once more – your shared memories dancing behind one another’s eyes. Of your fellow Padawans succeeding while your Master only saw failure. Of the dazzlingly white smile of your classmate with the bronze skin and twists in his hair, his yellow lightsaber flashing as you drilled together, his smile fading to frown with the rest of his features as you had used the Force to push him away a bit too hard – rage bubbling to the surface – in direct violation of your training ordinances. Of your departure from Coruscant, no one to bid you goodbye, not even your training partner who had once called himself your friend.

You make to turn your head, to break contact with his dark, glimmering, all-seeing eyes. Like tar pits, drawing you ever deeper. His other hand catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing you back to his gaze, an orbit you cannot escape. Would you even want to?

“And do you believe you would have belonged? The Jedi are deceivers. They deal in abandonment … cloaked in empty platitudes,” he trails his index finger along the curve of your jawline, an almost illusory brush of his skin against yours – the whisper of a touch, as though to illustrate the point. “The wisp of a promise, like spun sugar. Sweet, but false, their promises of righteousness. Of importance.”

Your lips part, catching the barest bit of his thumb as it does so, your eyes now searching his, seeking motive.

“And what do you offer instead? That's what this is, right? An offer?”

He smiles wider now, nodding in the barest acknowledgment. As though you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I … make the intangible tangible.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning …” his hand leaves the curve of your jaw to touch his fingertips to your temple, pressing, rendering a vision to your mind. And what Force magic was this? To make you see beyond your own eye’s sight. Foresight? An illusion? A vision? A memory? A promise or a deception?

Whatever it is, you see it so clearly – an uninhabited plant roaring with ocean as far as your eyeline can perceive. Waves lapping gently along grey-stoned shores. Moss-covered alcoves where you sit with him, your stranger, the sunset warming your skin as he caresses your face, your hair, whispering praises just beyond your mind’s own comprehension into your ear – the tone sinful, syrupy. His arms securing you in the night as you rest, no more dreams of abandonment.

Warmth, endless warmth… as his lips trail the shell of your ear, down your neck, bestowing belief of besotted brushes of lips. Adroit affection aimed right at the heart of you.

“Hmmm … meaning …. Your feelings, your power, your talent all working, to manifest toward something real. Something you want.” His hand leaves your temple and rests on your shoulder, taking advantage of your state of ponderment to gently guide you, ever mindful of the still-unlit lightsaber pressed to his stomach, leading away from your bed to the wall just next to the adjacent doorframe, the patient waltz of a waiting predator. He brings his hand to rest on the wall, next to your head.

“Something I want,” you reply dreamily, coming back to yourself just enough to realize what he’d said, exhaling through your nose in an indignant little huff. “In exchange for … ?”

“Tell me something,” he replies, lithely lilting around your question with one of his own, flexing his fingers where they rest on the wall. “Why are you no Jedi?”

“I … abjured,” you admit, a bit too primly, the lightsaber now feeling like an unbearable weight in your palm at your words, the weight of choices – both your own and those of whom purported to teach you. To guide you to something greater. Was it as he said? Were their promises so meaningless? “Broke my oath,” you suck your lower lip between your teeth, pausing before daring to meet his gaze again. “I couldn’t … suppress how they wanted me to. I didn’t want to fail anymore. I was so tired of failing. So, I … abjured. I was weak.”

Your eyes meet his once more at your admission, yours shining with unshed tears waiting to fall like stars. Shimmering promises to slip down your cheeks, unkept and unchecked. Your fingers fumbled, seemingly of their own accord, unwilling to hold the weight, the threat, of the saber against him any longer. The hilt clattered to the floor, a clanging finality to punctuate your words. And when was the last time you had been so honest, so vulnerable with another?

How … unlike you.

“Not weak,” he cups your cheeks with both hands, fine-boned thumbs tracing the peaks of your cheeks, as though to wipe away your unshed tears. “The same as me. Power searching for its other half. An unwaning, unflickering flame.”

Your unseen stranger, now seen, takes your hands in his, the buzz of the Force still tingling across your skin at his words, at the recognition of his power.

“You asked what I want. You want the same as me, and I the same as you. A companion . A partner. Unlike them, I won't judge you for your feelings. Won’t judge you for your power … You want – I can feel it rippling across your skin,” he closes his eyes, cocking his head, shivering as though to illustrate the point. “... Mmm, and I want, too. We can want together. If you'd let us.”

The flickering light of your room seemed to dim in tandem with his syrupy words, cloying and dripping like honey into golden nettle tea. The swirling honeytar of his eyes appraising you as the Force connection prickled with hazy heat between your bodies and the damnable musk of the jungle air.

You press yourself further into the wall he’d leaned you against, tilting your chin to appraise him in kind, searching for veracity in his words. Something more substantial than the “spun sugar” he’d accused the Jedi of weaving.

As though he could sense your trepidation before it could cross your face, he placed a hand on your hip, the contact searing you through the thin fabric of your tank top.

“They kicked you out because you feel. I'd never do that. I want you to feel … to feel power. To feel what you’re capable of. Of what it can become. Rage. Fear. Loss. Desire. Train with me, you’ll feel it all. I want you to feel it all … to feel me.”

Desire, he had spoken of. The gentle roll of his low voice over the syllables echoing perfectly in your ears. Desire, desire, desire. That desire, so like venom snaking its way through your blood, hot and purposeful. An all-consuming burn through your blood, befitting of a poisoner as he.

“You felt it, didn’t you? When I came in,” he iterates, somewhere south of a plea. “All. That. Power.” The hand not resting on your hip comes to cup your face once more. “I can teach you.”

You had read somewhere once, in the Archives, about creatures on long-abandoned planets with the ability to draw their prey in through vanity. The flash of feathers. Or shiny scales. Big, baleful eyes, perhaps. Only to sink their teeth in once their intended had come too close.

You draw in a breath, searching his pleasing face for any sign of a tell. Of the flicker of eyes that would signify deception. Of hidden fangs beneath his beautiful, full lips. Of anything that would bely his true intentions behind your Force connection. You swept your eyes across broad, defined shoulders, down toned, muscled arms exposed through his sleeveless shift. A warriors’ weapon wrapped in a pleasing package, to be sure. But … with no discernable hint of false suggestion.

You shift your weight once more onto the balls of your feet, away from the wall and into him . Continuing your appraisal as you tilt your head, allowing the scent of his skin – the tang of sweat from the humid jungle air commingling with something sharp and clean – to wash over you.

You invade his space now, leaning into the hand that grips your hip and the other that cradles your head, boldly brushing your lips along his with the barest hint of touch, feeling his lips smile against yours.

You whisper, your lips silken against his, “Tell me, poisoner … You seduce me with lies, is that it? You wish for me to call you Master? Forsake all else to worship at your altar?”

You catch the flash in his eyes as the word “seduce” leaves your lips.

“I haven't lied to you,” his voice is a hum. An attempt to provide reassurance as he couples them with what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His fingers travel from your hip to trail your ribs, a partial embrace.

“Do you consider not telling the entire truth to be a lie?”

“Have I shown you any lies? No. Just dreams. The promise of what could be. What I –,” he pauses, “– we could be. I cannot fabricate the Force, little warrior. Everything you feel tonight is you . It’s me. What more could you want? ”

Your once-steely resolve is crumbling under the weight of his insinuation … "everything you feel tonight” – the honey in his words sweet to your ears, you wonder fleetingly if he'd be even sweeter on your tongue.

And he knew you, didn’t he? By his own admission, he’d seen your faults and flaws for months … your desires. And he had shown you promises, premonitions, predilections… a future of power. And if there is power in two hemispheres – one of sweltering heat, one of blistering ice. Which were you? And which was he?

Together you would surely melt…

“No more rules, little warrior,” he sighs, “just the power of two.” He slides his lips across yours, purposeful, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, nipping once before releasing, admiring the way your expression flickered from defiance to desire before surging forward, pressing you back into the wall as his lips capture yours.

He swallows your gasp, bringing his fingers to wrap loosely around your neck while his other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt.

You break from his kiss with a gasp between swollen, bitten lips. But he gives you no reprieve, his lips trailing to your neck, where he sets about pressing hot-mouthed kisses. Molten lava flooding the column of your throat, chased with the scrape of nipping teeth. Soothe and scrape. Push and pull. Give, give, give, take.

You thread your fingers through the silken hair tucked behind his ears, tugging him from his ministrations on your neck and forcing him to meet your eyes – to see if the blaze of want you felt scorching your skin was reflected in the liquid coal, ready to ignite.

His lips twist into a smirk at your insistent tugging; if he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. His face the perfect picture of pleasure.

“What would we do with it?” You inquire, “This power?”

“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, suddenly scooping you, a brief lift as he crossed the short distance to your bed, seating himself with you on his lap. No concession of dominance; merely placing you precisely where he means to. To allow you to feel him beneath you.

“What would you like to do, little warrior, hm?” His fingers flicked the thin straps of your flimsy sleep shirt, exposing your shoulders, leaning forward to trail his lips along the now-bared expanse of your shoulder, your collar bones, your neck, his eyes glancing up to watch your face as he went. “Make them pay? Take what’s yours?”

His hands feel their way down your form, down your sides, along your hips, the skin of his palms rasping against the smooth expanse of your thighs has his fine-boned fingers make their way beneath the loose fabric of the cropped pants you sleep in, dangerously close to the precipice of your desire , urging you to move. Guiding your hips in a rhythmic glide in his lap.

You gasp at his attentions, at the combination of his promises and the heady feel of his skin along yours, bringing your hands to grip his biceps – desperately seeking a way to anchor yourself.

And if it’s his poison that will bring you to the edge, would you regret it? You were starting to believe you could never regret him , not at the feel of his chest pressed against yours, the toned muscle beneath your fingers. His sharp angles caressing your soft curves, replacing the lonely ache in your bones with the lovely heat of him, both his promises and his attentions.

His mouth was keyed and intentional in its work of you, with pressed kisses like flower petals blooming along the skin of your neck, followed by the scraping thorns of his teeth. Brutish and beautiful, as his fine-boned fingers crept to the inside of your thighs, rubbing along your clothed center, intensifying the ache you felt. He shifts your weight in his lap, causing your legs to spread wider, straddling him lowly as he tugs the offending fabric aside, guiding your hips into a roll over his clothed lap and his growing hardness. Manifesting his delight at the choked gasp you emitted in the form of a teasing little buck of his hips, guiding you down as he guided himself up, delighting in the sharp gasps that met his ears as he continues to sway you to his rhythm.

“Desire isn't a sin, little warrior,” he breathes the words into your mouth, lips a hairs’ breadth apart, the better to swallow your moans. “What we feel feeds our connection to the Force, gives you strength ... If you know how. Let me show you. Touch me.”

It was as though electricity was crackling, popping beneath your fingertips as you took his instruction and began to explore the expanse of his body, slipping your hands beneath his tunic to feel the silken heat of his firm torso, the ache within you mounting at the heady combination of the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips – so long since you’d touched another, been touched – and his hardness between the cleft of your thighs. Smoldering, low-heat burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it his fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him, an infinite loop of power and pleasure.

As you continue to touch him, you could feel it – his connection to the force, strong, volatile, like lightning striking the ocean – crackling and formidable like the man who contained it.

And Qimir – you had long since given up trying to determine if it was, in fact, his real name – rewards you with a gift of his own, the velvet rumble of a groan of pleasure emanating from his throat at your touch. A sound of syrup and satisfaction.

Pleased that you could garner such a reaction from a being as powerful as he, you smile, boldly meeting his lips with a kiss, opening your mouth with a gasp, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth, to taste the zip of power that he had determined in his moths of observation was just you, a torrent of citrus drizzle, bold and sweet.

Reluctantly, he parts his lips from yours, ducking his head to tug the straps of your top down with his teeth, exposing your breasts to the heated air of the room. And if your desire at the repeated rolling of his hips beneath yours wasn’t enough to do you in, you figured this might. Bathing in the celestial feel the press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupt now in the wake of his attention.

While he continues to tease your breasts with tongue and teeth, Qimir guides his other hand along your thighs, slipping his practiced fingers beneath your shorts, delighting in the wetness he was met with, basking in the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch.

And oh, as he slips his fingers inside of you, your eyes roll back, tilting your head to allow Qimir to admire the curving, elegant slope of exposed throat – prey before a predator, gasping at the pleasure he wrought. Breathless. If you thought he was teasing you before, his fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbs as he strokes inside of you. You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow his fingers as they work you, as this crescendo builds.

“Say you’ll be mine, warrior, and you can have it.” he promises. A new oath. One you’d never forsake. For him, you’d never turn, never abjure. Not so long as his touch made stars erupt behind your eyes, not so long as his lips dripped syrup promises down your throat.

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory as he works his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. His thumb rolls repeated brushes over your clit, delighting in the starshine burst as you reached your peak, a broken little moan that sounded suspiciously like the word “master,” passing your lips in a keening sigh.

You regard him through bleary, closing eyes and the warm, citrus haze of your orgasm as he slips his fingers from you, guiding you down to recline in your bed, stroking your hair as he does so, lulling you as a lover would.

“Sleep, warrior,” his velvet voice meets your ears, lyrical and lilting. “I’ll be back for you.”

And like each night before that one, his figure slips from you… as though he was never there. It wasn’t a dream, was it? It was hard to tell after months of this teasing game. After his promises built so much only to guide you to this release.

And in the silvery light of the jungle’s dawn, you awoke with that very question on your lips, met with the sight of your saber placed gently on your little bedside table as opposed to its usual hiding spot. You wake to the sweet afterache of something between your thighs, to the scraped marks of teeth along the expanse of your neck.

And to the promise of something – of a future of power and partnership. If only you’d be so bold as to accept it. As you eyed the saber, you recalled the prickle of his Force power along your skin, increasing with his proximity. And by the time he arrived to meet you again, you knew what your answer would be …

tagging:

@phoenixhalliwell @withahappyrefrain @inklore @spiderispunk @flightlessangelwings @joannasteez @gretagerwigsmuse @kalliravenne @mxgyver @princessphilly @s-u-t @ohmagawd-life @maryannsstrawberry @themultifandompictureshow @kallista-diune @crypt-keeper-soul @monlight-prose @joaquinwhorres @bobfloydsbabe @themarvelousbee @soulores @moonyslove78 @sio-ina-bottle @theradioactivespidergwen @drew-garfi @thegirlwhowritesfics @lady-morrigen @flordeamatista @forever-rogue @aphrogeneias @withmyteeth @superhoeva @pettyprocrastination @mortwig @petcr3

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sagarg889 · 2 years ago

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Diamond Core Drilling Market Key Players, End User, Demand & Consumption from 2023 to 2033

The global diamond core drilling market is expected to surge at a CAGR of 6.3% during the forecast period. The market is valued at US$ 2 billion in 2023, and by 2033, the market is expected to reach a valuation of US$ 3.7 billion.

Increase in the construction activities owing to surge in the population is believed to be the primary driver of the market. This is driven by people moving into cities from villages in search of better opportunities, thereby leading to rapid urbanization as well. Apart from that, there has been an increase in the number of mining activities as well, especially in oil and gas sector.

Apart from that, the governments worldwide are making massive investments to improve the infrastructure. This is visible in the form of offshore drilling projects and setting up of oil rig hubs. There has been an increased investment in the exploratory wells project as well.

Request a Sample Copy of the Report @ https://www.futuremarketinsights.com/reports/sample/rep-gb-10337

The diamond core drilling machines offer robust mechanical capabilities as compared to a lot of other forms of drilling machines. In addition to reducing fractures, these machines also operate at a very high precision. Moreover, these also act as a replacement for chisel, drilling tools, etc. which also shows the multifunctionality of these machines.

In the current times, the investors and end-users are impressed with AI enabled diamond core drilling machines. The ability to work at a very high efficiency, coupled with the feature to differentiate different kinds of metals has grabbed a lot of attention. The ability to ensure that minimum number of workers are employed in this process allows companies to put human capabilities at other aspects. This might increase the demand for diamond core drilling machines during the forecast period.

However, the high cost associated with these machines might challenge the market growth during the forecast period. There are also rising cases of illness associated with the usage of diamond core drilling machines.

Thus, from the insights provided by FMI analysts, it can be inferred that, “surge in the construction activities, introduction of AI enabled drilling machines, and a lot of other factors are expected to surge the sales of diamond core drilling machines during the forecast period.”

Key Takeaways:

The diamond core drilling market is expected to grow at a CAGR of 6.3% during 2023-2033.

The market is valued at US$ 2 billion in 2023.

By 2033, the market is expected to reach a valuation of US$ 3.7 billion.

Asia Pacific is expected to be the largest market during the focus period.

USA diamond core drilling market is expected to grow at a CAGR of 3.1%.

UK market is projected to surge at a CAGR of 7.5%.

China market is anticipated to advance at a CAGR of 10.5%.

Japan market is all set to grow at a CAGR of 5.4%.

South Korea market is expected to grow at a CAGR of 7.6%.

Based on the operation type, the rig operated segment is expected to be the largest segment, and is projected to grow at a CAGR of 6.2%.

Based on the drilling technique, the stitch drilling segment is expected to be the largest segment, and is estimated to grow at a CAGR of 6.9%.

Get More Information on this Report @ https://www.futuremarketinsights.com/reports/diamond-core-drilling-market

Competitive Landscape

The key players operating in the market are focusing on technological upgradation and are making massive investments in R&D. Apart from that, the focus also happens to be revolving around sustainable development. There are also investments being made in the activities pertaining to mergers to acquisitions.

Some of the recent developments in the diamond core drilling market are:

In June 2022, Hilti released a lot of new features for its semi-automatic robot, ‘Jaibot’.

In August 2022, Atlas Copco launched its latest high pressure nitrogen generation skid package that offers enhanced performance.

#Diamond Core Drilling Market

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bcdiamonddrilling · 2 years ago

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Hydraulic diamond sawing involves the use of a diamond-encrusted saw blade spinning on a handheld hydraulically powered machine.

#Hydraulic diamond sawing #diamond sawing #diamond core drilling company #diamond drilling

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imirmarketresearch · 9 months ago

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#Diamond Core Drilling Market trend

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rwac96 · 7 months ago

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Batman Contingencies: Godzilla

Aganememnon Contingency: "King of The Monsters"

There are many things in the world that mankind will never fully grasp, the prime example being Godzilla, going by many names in different cultures that met its kind. He's nicknamed "King of The Monsters", and lives up to that title due to the amount of raw power contained in his body, not to mention the ferocious nature of the Gojiran/Godzilla species. Time and time again, he has eluded the efforts of the JSDF, G-Force, the Earth Defense Force, Apex Industries, scientists with good and ill intentions, and Kaiju/Titan poachers and hunters, proving to be indestructible against almost any weaponry known to man. According to known science, there have been six "Gojirans": The focus of this contingency will be on the Godzilla that hatched at an institute in Kyoto, the third "King of the Monsters" after the second's demise in 1996. Despite this monster not showing hostility towards humanity, his battles against creatures such as Baragon, thwarting the Gigan Miles Invasion, and the Megalon attack have left collateral damage. Plus, the legacy of its father and the Gojiran clones/'cousins' have still declared Godzilla a "walking disaster" by the EDF.

This Godzilla, called "Little Godzilla" and "Godzilla Juinor" in its infancy, was raised in captivity and imprinted on a researcher named Azusa Gojo as a mother figure. Unlike its surrogate father, the third Godzilla is docile and kind towards humans. But, his body still emits high radiation and preys upon marine life. Lastly, the meltdown its parent went through would've resulted in a mass extinction event: Either resulting in a potent explosion unseen since the Big Bang or melting into the depths and destabilizing the Earth's core. These plans, learning from the successes and mistakes of humanity's encounters against Godzilla, would prove helpful to subdue the Kaiju in case he falls under mind control or undergoes a catastrophic meltdown.

Like any Gojiran, he can unleash a powerful heat ray called 'Atomic Breath', this Godzilla unleashes a devastating one that causes massive explosions on contact. He can also unleash a Nuclear Pulse, discharging atomic energy from its dorsal plates. But, unlike its father, it can transfer energy into its fists and claws, enhancing physical attacks. Godzilla is extremely durable, able to tank many forms of conventional weaponry, and withstand attacks from the Gigan Miles' blades and Megalon's drills. One last ability that separates him from the Lagos Island Godzilla is entering his own "Burning State' at will, and to exit out of it, preventing him from suffering his father's fate.

Like any Godzilla, he needs nuclear energy to sustain himself. Due to the nature of his mutation, his body is essentially a walking nuclear plant he has to maintain. Driving himself to the point of exhaustion, he collapses into unconsciousness. Too much, he'll have to expunge it or suffer a nuclear meltdown. In a scenario where he's in a meltdown, cryokinetic missiles, with cadmium shells will lower his internal temperatures. Like with the plans similar to the "Last Hope" Contingency, I'd have to implement the 'Titan Bat' and deploy it in combat. For Godzilla, diamond metallic modifications are in mind for the confrontation.

To end the cycle of violence between the Gojiran, we mustn't give in to our paranoid impulses, ironically coming from me. This Godzilla lacks the mistrust of humanity his forebearers had, as it was humankind who had brought Godzilla into existence. Hopefully, we can both coexist peacefully, even if such a thing is an impossible dream.

#text #text post #fanfic #fanfiction #crossover #crossover au #dc comics #dc universe #kaiju #batman #godzilla: king of the monsters #godzilla #gemstone godzilla #godzilla jr #godzilla junior #batman contingencies #crossover fanfiction #rekugoji

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diamondbladesonline · 13 days ago

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Welcome to Diamond Blades Online: Your Premier Destination for High-Quality Cutting Solutions

In our world of DIY and tradespeople, where there are always projects on the go, Everyone is always looking for the next best thing. The best tool is to have their back cut faster and help them finish the job. Diamond blades are in a league of their own regarding versatility and cutting through some of the most complex stuff known to man. Here at Diamond Blades Online, we have the best diamond-cutting tools. We have everything you need to drill and cut your next project with confidence, whether you decide to DIY or call the professionals.

Understanding Diamond Blades and Their Importance

Diamond blades are designed for durability and accuracy – because of the unique grains and ingredients that make up their very foundations – they are optimal for slicing through some of the most complex materials, such as concrete, stone and tiles. Diamond blades feature sharp diamonds that are allowed not to melt. Still, they are bonded to the available surface to withstand the conditions imposed while that tool is slicing through the hard material – such as concrete. Here is an image depicting the various additives in a diamond-cutting blade. The most common starting material is a metal powder.

This is illustrated in their variety and breadth of use in anything from road repairs and construction to intricate and detailed tile work. Diamond blades are an absolute necessity for any construction work that requires accuracy and care and where minimal damage or degradation to the material is preferred. Diamond Blades Online offers an extensive range of diamond blades to ensure even the most precise projects are completed with the optimal cut every time.

The Versatility of Concrete Core Drill Bits

Whether you purchase Concrete Core Drill Bits Online in Australia or buy one off the shelf from a local store, it’s important to remember just how versatile the concrete core drill can be. Concrete core drill bits are designed to remove a material cylinder, creating a hole like a hole saw. They are used to make holes in concrete during construction, run cables, and make plumbing, electrical, or heating installation holes. Some types of core drills are even used for concrete sampling.

If you are looking for a concrete core drill bit that will get the job done swiftly and efficiently, look at our concrete core drill bits here at Diamond Blades Online. Built to make drilling through high-density concrete look like a piece of cake, they ensure that each hole is clean and accurately drilled. Their durability means they will withstand plenty of use and, therefore, have a long lifetime, making them more cost-efficient for you.

Why Buy Hand Saw Cutting Blades Online in Australia from Us?

Your experience with hand saw cutting blades you bought online in Australia will vary greatly depending on the quality of the blade. Whether you are cutting granite tiles or stainless steel, our hand saws with diamond blades can make your job easier and faster. With a thin kerf that makes a narrow cut and a unique design to adapt to different materials, our blades are made for professionals who do not compromise.

While you could buy a hand saw cutting blade online in Australia from Diamond Blades Online as some physical thing, the closer truth is that you are purchasing a solution that enables you to fulfil your work in the easiest, most precise way. Diamond Blades Online invests in its materials to achieve that, testing the performance of its blades against standards and ensuring high-quality products and high service value.

Commitment to Quality and Customer Satisfaction

At Diamond Blades Online, we want to be your partner during your construction and renovation endeavours to help you choose the right tool for your particular tasks.

Ordering Online with Ease and Confidence

Our user-friendly online store allows you to make an efficient decision when purchasing, whether you Buy Hand Saw Cutting Blades Online in Australia or online concrete core drill bits in Australia. Our advanced filtering options, extensive product description and easy navigation throughout the website make the shopping process simple for all age categories. The secure checkout option lets you confidently introduce your credit card details without stress. Urgent shipping of your tools from our Australian-based warehouse is also a possibility we offer.

Wrapping It Up

No matter what kind of professional contractor you are or what kind of DIY enthusiast, you know that having top-notch tools is crucial for a successful project. At Diamond Blades Online, we fully understand it, so we provide you with the most updated tools for the job and products that deliver precision, efficiency, and durability. With Diamond Blades Online on your side, all your projects are bound to benefit from the best in the market. Whether you need to purchase concrete core drill bits online in Australia or hand-saw cutting blades in Australia, we’ve got the right tools to let you up your game.

#diamond hacksaw blades #concrete core drill bits

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nsilocastillon · 4 months ago

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Name: Nsilo Castillon ( 'en-sil-oh' ) Occupation: Owner of Anemoia Gaming & BloodTeahouse Age: 47 [108] Sexuality: Undisclosed Species: Vampire Clan: Kanemaru, Representative. Hometown: Seattle, Washington. Relationship Status: Widowed. Personality Traits: Authorative, Methodical, Immoral, Abrasive, Sybaritic.

[ misogny tw, war mention tw, chauviny tw, gambling mention tw, ]

BIOGRAPHY

Some are naturally orientated to follow; passive conformity – others aligned to simply be followed; leaders that wear power like a cape for all to gaze and adore. In Castillon’s playbook, that cape’s not just metaphorical. It's a status symbol of how the tug and war of influence lead to asserting control over that very power. Too comfortable at the top, never considering the higher that podium, the further it’ll be to fall.

Though, occasionally, desire overcomes control – a blinding thing that reminds all that it’s so much easier to plummet than it is to climb.

Castillon's far too narcissistic to think like that; only has sight of more.

Born in the middle of a war; a girl that was meant to be a boy. A soldier, an entrepreneur or a spirited doctor. Time teaches prejudice and chauvinism — a child quickly learns a role. No soldier; a wife of one. Not an entrepreneur, but his assistant. Not a doctor, a nurse. It's a preconceived notion that from her moment of birth in 1916. It's expected that by the mid-1930s, she will fit all conformity.

She sits on the porch as a young woman — and serves tea, and coffee to guests. Quietly observant in the age of misogyny.

Nobody notices her. But she notices all the cards in lazy hands; aces, diamonds — hearts, circles the table, whispering and giggling in all the wrong ears. Wondering if having a place at the table is really that difficult.

After all, watch people enough — they become readable.

By the time Nsilo signs the deed in 1942, she's standing in a window office – of course. Castillon has her name embossed on a plaque at the front. Dice is echoing on a craps table down below on the gaming floor, cards shuffled in the hands of her employees; men; women. Widows of both wars. A recession — what would be the great depression slipping away behind them. There's a hundred whispers; a woman, in charge, owner? Women cannot own property, it's —

Yet, Castillon holds such a meticulously organised office that if anyone were brave enough to ever ask how she acquired it – they’d find that there’s something a little darker hidden in the drawers, behind the bookshelves, within the confines of reworked literature that isn’t so pleasant. There’s rumours even that office is the home to the devil; possessed by a demon of sorts that sits like the grim reaper over a desk with a pen in hand that could double as a pistol. It’s not unheard of for Castillon to weaponise such things. Because how else would she achieve it? Not hard work, surely.

She was not a man. Behaving like one was easy. Crazy, that is.

Years passed by, and her upstart years were rocky. Disbelief and fear shook the foundations of everything she'd built. She became accustomed to being the gambling devil; and watched those succumb to their debts and suffer her games.

By the sixties, peace settles. A well-respected – well-rounded woman with a fierce eagerness to succeed; driven to the precipice of business and pleasure. Faux smiles begin to replace genuineness. Time ages her; too many years wasted in youth in inequality. Still, a losing battle, post-wartime. She trusts her employees; they trust her. A despicable balance of terror and respect drilled hard; a no-nonsense approach that never really sees fruition beyond policy reprimand. Castillon – in her comfortable position of power; wearing the cape, often pretends like she hadn’t once been there. And still, even now she's on top, remains to keep one foot outside of it.

Because at her core, she's a woman with an insatiable need to have status; power, and desires a little more than just the ordinary. It cannot be held captive in the walls of her gambling house at every waking hour. Thus, a release is required, and the underbelly of Seattle has always been where it's freed.

Though Castillon would deny it all – she knows the gutterrats and the shady folk a lot more than she knows her employees; can read their poker hands as easily as absorbing words in a book. I’s where that smile is no longer false and those switchblades she carries serve a purpose beyond just the comfort of being present. Power comes in so many forms that Castillon probably doesn’t quite know herself which of the many she wants to pursue if not every kind; to be the kingpin of the underbelly, the one-day have a status that carries throughout every crevasse of the city.

Big aspirations, let’s not kick a woman for dreaming.

But, she’ll do more than kick you for saying as much.

There's little hesitation when she attracts the interest of the true underworld of the city. And something darker than her intentions to take and take and take decide she's got it too good. Lomidze started as a name; a high roller, it ended with blood and debris. It's only when she pulls her collar up in the sharp plans to rebuild that she receives an offer that allows her the time that she lost. Endless time. In exchange for relocating. If she moves her dealings somewhere else; promises and bets that keep Castillon interested; she'll have power that rivals Lomidze. But she has to leave; she's disrupting the gentrification of Seattle.

Vampirism seemed hilarious. Until it wasn't.

A hustler will always be a hustler. She can bloody the suit, clean it, own it, but there is no cleaning the grime that's gathered on her soul. Classier than a scam artist – more respected than a small-time pickpocket, advantageous is an adaption to the era of technology.

When she opens Anemoia in 1962, it's a reset. A skilled cardslinger who understands the decade; she's proactive, after all. A woman with a penchant for winning and a successful roll of any dice handed to her – but, she’ll always insist on using her own, platinum-plated set. At the barside, still a betting woman – borders the threshold of addicted to it, but balances that desire for control a little too well to ever collapse into it completely. There are new hungers she wants to settle; thus, Anemoia adopts itself to serve tea and drinks directly to the gaming tables. They don't need to move an inch, night or day. There are no windows in a casino. And when night comes, the Anemoia teahouse becomes Anemoia bloodhouse.

One foot in, one foot out, works.

Everyone’s ally, simultaneously, nobody’s.

Vain, self-serving and would throw most underneath the moving train if it meant she could further her own ambitions. Castillon's ruthlessness has only been sharpened with age. If it’s not obvious in the way that every fruit is found at the end of a switchblade and eaten like a candy apple. Doesn't let dirt ruin a freshly laundered suit without good reason – then the way a stare is pinned when she bites that fruit, tells of how she will devour. Mind, body, money and soul.

That and how the businesswoman’s verbal filter is off the moment that foot leaves Anemoia's walls. Most of the population becomes a shitpit from then on – amongst other names. Anemoia thrives, and Castillon notices Port Leiry's increasing supernatural populace. Lomidze becomes a name travelling from one mouth to the other. She's innovative, but they're louder about it.

So, like any predator wanting everything. It isn't malice, but to make a point; she could be that too. Kanemaru could be that.

She rolls the dice — she dodges the snake eyes and it lands on hard way.

CONNECTIONS

Ezra Lomidze / Responsible for the Seattle Casino incident ; A Lomidze prowls the walls, hunting and scanning — a boy really, who cannot stand to not get his way (a man, as ever). Castillon gets a window seat to the disarray as Ezra Lomidze loses at cards and throws a boy-sized tantrum. The sight of blood, and guts tidal wave it all; shattering the fragility of Nsilo's power. It's the largest setback since her birth. They call for a boycott of the gaminghouse, that no woman should have ran in such an industry; that it was an inevitability; she cannot handle a man. Lomidze was no man. Nsilo knows that; something more, and less all wrapped in a pathetic excuse of an outburst.

HEADCANONS

Cardslinging hustler.

Refuses or ignores any general chit-chat that starts to dig into her past, anything before Anemoia.

Has about twelve personalities and if there’s something she wants, she’ll switch through those personas to develop trust.

She is likely to insult you on the first meeting if it's in the underbelly and you’re unfamiliar to the usual; within the walls of Anemoia, she’s the gracious Owner who’ll be so happy to help with anything you need. -insert fake warm smile here-

Unhealthy obsession with status; power and seen as this idol of sorts; do we think this is some subconscious desire to want to be wanted, who knows? Tune in and we’ll find out.

Does genuinely carry switchblades around like they’re personal knives and forks, and also, somehow a magically pristine white handkerchiefs at all times.

Doesn’t like to get her hands dirty, dirty, but will, probably be even more pissed she had to if it got to that point.

Kind of thinks she’s hot shit but will also not care if you think otherwise.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

WATCH AND LEARN THE GAME ; a protege (human or vampire) that Castillon favours. She could have turned them, or promises to. Likely an employee at Anemoia; a right hand person, watching over gaming house. Assists the transition nightly from the gamehouse to the teahouse, to the bloodhouse.

KANEMARU BLOODLINGS ; people Castillon has adopted into the clan, and made it more notorious in the criminal activity. Vampires more likely to be opposing the Lomidze's; for funsies, maybe.

ANEMOIA CREATURES ; what it says on the tin, those who frequent the day to game, and gamble and those who stay the night when the service is a little more blood-friendly.

I FEEL A LITTLE MORTAL ; very open, and could be hashed out some but an individual that is either very similar, or has a sway with Nsilo. Either a love interest, or someone growing to be incredibly important. Castillon would have lapses in judgement when with this person, or in decisions regarding them.

VIBES

It’s not the clacking of shoes in Anemoia's walls, but instead the gentle whip of a full-length jacket that alerts all to Castillon's appearance; a presence that emanates control, yet remains entirely too terrifying to offer a suggestive smile as a greeting. Castillon’s dark grey cotton cape is iconic; pockets hidden on the inside that house switchblades, infotech that is probably a bit too restricted for someone of her level but evidently, hers. Everything appears orderly, a smile that’s as falsely welcoming as the grin on a Cheshire cat offers. Behind those hues lies a humour – laughing at her peers; begs the idea that there’s intelligence unmatched in them all; perhaps narcissistic is a trait ignored in the cardshark's playbook.

Neon strobes set alight Castillon's person, in the underbelly of the city is where Castillon thrives. A hustler if there ever was such a definition; an appearance that only the bravest want to challenge to a drink – to a game; gambling of the most illegal degree, with everything beyond paper; flesh and bone is a thrill that seems below her rank – but perhaps that’s why it is so enjoyed. The real smile comes in the shadows of the slums, a genuine humour absent professionalism; gets to play ball with her favourite shitpit in the grimy walls that look a little nicer with bright colours streaming through the rowdier; seedier of places.

An apple is impaled on a switchblade, cloudy white juices slide down the serrated edge of the metal, threaten to make her hands sticky with fruit entrails. She’s biting into it without fear of slicing something open. Eyes watch the game afoot; poker from a distance; calculates her odds before investing in it herself. Always the daring – always the winner, loss sits sour in her stomach.

Castillon's a master of such deceptive qualities – carries an air of importance, a professional in the waking hours of the workplace. Structured and organised is everything she does on paper, delivers everything in prompt time; never late. Yet, outside the walls, in the covers of the more shadier of places, she can really bury deep into the desires that hide in the daylight hours. A happiness – though, she’d never word it like that – only found amongst the less smart of individuals; a hunger that isn’t quenched with documents but instead, confidence in the arts of adaptability. Power is far too good for her and in all forms it comes, Castillon doesn’t like to hand it over, or give it up without a contest.

#about

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tseorphic · 4 months ago

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THE GAMBLE OF SLAUGTHER

excerpt from my series

his solace, his sin, his escape;

original charcaters: iznek mehdin x kiasta iyandika

dark low fantasy, original story

cw: smut, shower sex, cheating (sort of, not really), heartbreak, mentions misogyny and sexism, nipple play, emotional sex

They asked, "do you love him to death?"

I said, "speak of him over my grave and watch how he brings me back to life"

He feels... good.

Water trickles down my spine, lukewarm and indifferent, barely registering against the inferno he has ignited inside me.

Tiles press into the small of my back, cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the heat blooming in my core.

I do not flinch. Not now.

Not when he is like this.

He is a beautiful contradiction, a storm wrapped in a sleepy whisper.

Every movement, deliberate and hurried, speaks volumes.

The way his pale, slender fingers dig into my hips, leaving imprints that will probably bloom into bruises by morning, tells a story of possessiveness.

Not ownership, never ownership with him. It is a desperate plea for anchorage in this chaotic world, a silent "do not let go."

Do not let go?

We are both drowning, just clinging to different pieces of the wreckage.

This, this desperate, raw connection, a fleeting moment of respite before the undertow drags us under again.

I know the drill.

Yet, here I am, arching back against the cold tiles, a whimper escaping my throat as he hits a particularly sweet spot. My nails dig into his toned arms, white crescents against the pale skin.

A silent plea of my own, a desperate "hold me together" even as I know it is a losing battle.

He grunts, a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down my spine. Not with fear, but with a twisted sort of longing.

It is the rawest form of communication we have, a language forged in stolen moments like this.

No empty promises, no declarations of forever. Just the raw truth of our bodies locked in a desperate dance.

There is a vulnerability in this silence, a terrifying vulnerability.

We both know the score.

This Is not a fairytale, there is no happily ever after for broken things like us.

He is a ghost in my life, a recurring dream that leaves me gasping for air when I wake up.

And I am a moth, drawn to the flame again and again, knowing it will only singe my wings.

But right now, in this moment of shared oblivion, the thought fades.

The world shrinks to the press of his body against mine, the frantic rhythm of our breaths, the shared symphony of grunts and moans.

And even as the ache in my heart intensifies, a counterpoint to the feverish pleasure coursing through me, I can not help but think – for a fleeting, fragile moment, I feel almost whole.

Almost.

My fingertips trace constellations on the smooth expanse of his back, a desperate attempt to map a territory I am about to lose.

Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, is a silent plea for an extension, a renegotiation of this cruel deadline.

Tomorrow, a diamond ring will brand him as another's. A symbol of loyalty, a promise whispered under the promise of forever.

He tenses beneath my touch, a flicker of something that might be guilt, might be frustration, crossing his face.

He swats my hand away, a single, dismissive gesture that speaks volumes.

His thrusts become frantic, a desperate attempt to outrun the inevitable.

He slams into me, but there is a distance now, an emotional chasm that even the press of our bodies can not bridge.

I let him.

What is the point of a fight?

He is a moth to a different flame now, a flame that promises warmth, security, love and family.

Everything I can not give him.

I am the dying ember he once sought, a flicker of forbidden excitement now replaced by the comfort of the mundane.

A choked sob escapes my throat, a pathetic counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of water against the shower stall.

Tears sting my eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his throat tightens with each frantic thrust.

Is it pity I see there?

Or maybe a flicker of regret, a fleeting pang for the wild, reckless passion of the forbidden?

It feels more real than ever. Like a dying star, burning brightest right before it collapses in on itself.

A jolt of sharp pain lances through me as he bites my nipple, a searing counterpoint to the blossoming heat blooming in my core.

I gasp, a strangled moan escaping my lips.

Whore.

The word hangs heavy in the air, a judgmental echo from a life I both crave and despise.

Unmarried, unblessed, a scarlet letter burning invisible on my skin.

But Kaizan ... He is a beautiful oblivion, a drug I crave with a desperation that borders on self destruction.

Men.

Society pats them on the back for their conquests, celebrates their insatiable appetites.

Yet, here I am, the only woman to ever grace his bed, the sole recipient of his forbidden desires. A secret both thrilling and isolating.

"Kai- Kaiz- Kaizan," I plead, my voice thick with a desperate mix of pleasure and surrender.

My pleas hang unanswered, lost in the symphony of ragged breaths and the frantic rhythm of our bodies. His grip tightens on my hips, a possessive hold that borders on cruel.

Pain?

There is no room for pain when he is like this, a storm brewing beneath the calm façade.

I feel alive, undeniably alive. Not in the righteous, sanctioned way society dictates, but in a raw, primal way that makes my soul sing a forbidden song.

Is it wrong?

My back throbs with a dull ache, a symphony of pleasure induced pain that stretches along the curve of my spine where it repeatedly met the unforgiving wall.

Each thwack against the cold surface is a tiny betrayal, a reminder of the limitations of this stolen space.

It does not matter.

My breasts, the usual targets of his gentle affection, are now a battlefield. His teeth rake across the sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of sharp nips that sting and spark desire in equal measure.

His tongue, once a soothing caress, now explores with a relentless hunger, mirroring the frantic urgency in his movements.

These are not bruises of shame, these are love letters written in fire, a testament to the raw, unadulterated passion that consumes us.

The pain, yes, the pain.

It is a strange companion in this forbidden dance.

It is a reminder, a grounding force amidst the swirling vortex of pleasure. A masochistic part of me welcomes it, a confirmation that this is real, that I am not just a figment of his imagination, a fleeting fantasy before he returns to his sanctioned life.

My nails dig into the taut muscles of his back, not with malice, but with a desperate need to anchor myself to this fleeting moment.

He hisses, a sharp intake of breath that mingles with his hot gasps against my ear.

His arms, usually secure and steady, now tremble slightly beneath my thighs as he hoists me off the ground, my legs instinctively wrapping around his trim waist.

The erratic rhythm of his thrusts speaks volumes. Gone is the controlled precision of our usual encounters, replaced by a primal urgency that borders on desperation.

Each slam of his hips sends shivers down my spine, a delicious counterpoint to the aching pleasure blossoming within me.

He is reaching, searching for something, some elusive peak that hangs just out of reach.

His mouth abandons my breasts, the heat of his breath now searing the sensitive skin of my neck.

He is frantic, a caged animal finally given a taste of freedom. And I, the unwitting warden, find myself both enthralled and terrified by the power I hold over him.

The knowledge that this freedom is temporary, a stolen moment in the grand scheme of things, adds a bittersweet tinge to the pleasure.

He will leave soon, return to his life of propriety and expectation. But for now, in the confines of this hidden space, I am his everything – his solace, his sin, his escape.

Water droplets cling to my lashes, blurring the world into a kaleidoscope of glistening light.

I squeeze them shut tighter, shutting out everything but the inferno raging within me.

Pleasure, raw and untamed, claws its way up from the epicenter, a tidal wave threatening to drown me in its intensity.

He fuels the fire, a relentless force consuming me from the inside out.

My fingers, slick with sweat and mingled desire, tangle in his wet hair, a desperate anchor in this storm of sensation.

Each thrust ignites new sparks, sending tremors through my body that translate into breathless moans that escape my lips in a feverish torrent.

Our bodies writhe in a tangled mess, slick and wet, a carnal tapestry woven with urgency and raw passion.

"Our death," he once called it.

A morbid joke for a feeling that bursts forth from me like a supernova.

But in his arms, under the relentless assault of his touch, death feels like the furthest thing from it.

Here, in this hidden sanctuary of sin, I transcend the numbness that has become my constant companion.

I am alive, undeniably, exquisitely alive.

The world shrinks to the press of his body against mine, the frantic rhythm of our breaths, the symphony of moans and gasps that fill the air.

He tenses, a tremor running through his body, and I know the end is near.

My own climax mirrors his, a white hot explosion that rips through me, leaving me breathless and trembling in its aftermath.

A wave of sweet oblivion washes over me, momentarily erasing the weight of the world on my shoulders.

As the aftershocks of our shared climax fade, a sense of bittersweet contentment settles in. He will leave soon, melt back into the life he is expected to lead.

And as I open my eyes, the water droplets on my lashes shimmer like tiny diamonds.

The world tilts, a dizzying descent as his grip on my hips loosens. My breath catches, a strangled gasp as the unforgiving tile floor meets my back with a jarring thud.

The air whooshes out of me, a physical manifestation of the emotional free fall I am experiencing.

He does not move away completely, though.

His body presses against mine, a welcome weight in the sudden emptiness.

He is slumped over too, bracing himself against the cold, damp wall. Silence descends, heavy and thick, broken only by the ragged rhythm of our breaths echoing in the tiny confines of the shower stall.

His kisses fall on my skin, featherlight and apologetic. They whisper promises unspoken, apologies for the roughness, the desperation that colored our encounter.

But apologies can not erase the vulnerability I feel now, exposed and spent.

His fingers trace patterns on my back, a slow, meandering exploration that speaks volumes.

It is a return to a familiar tenderness, a reassurance that the storm has passed, leaving behind a bruised but strangely beautiful calm.

He does not only feels good...

He feels right.

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