#dissatisfaction is a plague

[perenians]

take two of this conversation because something about it bothered me. i'm still not satisfied but i'm gonna call it a night

Edér finds Ahria on the deck, staring into the deep black of the ocean, the stars twinkling above her as they sail through the Deadfire. He walks toward her, making his footsteps audible, and leans on the railing beside her.

Ahria's voice cuts through the silence. "Do you think he's yours?"

"Elafa's son," he says, and it isn't a question. Ahria nods an affirmative.

Edér exhales heavily. "I don't know," he says honestly, and glances at her face. Her eyes stay trained on the waves, expression neutral. He clears his throat. "Elafa will, though. Maybe she'll even explain everything if she's in a good mood," he jokes.

"What'll you do if he isn't?" Ahria asks.

Edér shrugs a shoulder. "Leave'em be, I guess. Elafa knew where to find me, but I never did hear from her again. I reckon she's done well enough on her own."

Ahria crosses her arms a little tighter. "And if he is?"

"I don't know," Edér says again. He frowns at the sea, uncertain. "I figure I oughta at least see the kid once if he's my son. Help Elafa out, if I can."

He pauses, and thinks for a second. "...Apologize, maybe."

Ahria makes a noncommittal sound and pushes off of the railing.

"What's she like?" she asks, changing the subject. She finally looks at him, the light of the moon reflecting off her eyes. "Elafa, I mean."

"Well," Edér starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "We used to, uh. Get together, every so often. Told you as much already. She had freckles all over. Red hair, brown eyes, about yea high," he holds up a hand around his chest, "but with the temper of a giant. She knew what she wanted, Elafa Maesy, and she'd tell you exactly what even if you didn't ask." He smiles. "Had no problem tellin' you what you wanted, even."

"She had a Hollowborn baby, last I saw her," he continues. "Helped'em run to New Heomar and haven't heard from her since. And now it turns out she's in the Deadfire, same as us."

A silence hangs between them for a second or two before Ahria speaks up. "Were you—" she starts, and grimaces. "Did you love her?"

"No," Edér replies truthfully, and he's surprised at how quickly the answer comes. "No. Not romantic-like, anyhow. But..." He hesitates. "She was something to me, once."

Ahria hums in acknowledgment and her eyes soften ever so slightly. "You miss her?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "Sometimes I think I might just miss the times before the war. Before the Purges, even." He huffs out a laugh. "I thought things were bad then.”

“And that was before you were ready to hang,” Ahria muses, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Edér snorts. “And before you dragged me out of Gilded Vale."

He sobers up. “Never imagined I'd have to worry about my god rippin' the souls right out of kith and maybe ending the world."

Reminded of their situation, Ahria slumps against him, and Edér catches her. "What are we gonna do?" she asks him, quietly, and Edér wraps an arm around her as he considers her question.

A moment passes before he speaks. "Hel if I know, Watcher. Don't know if there's any stopping a god on a warpath, but if anyone could do it..." he trails off, thinking his meaning clear.

Ahria holds the hand on her arm and squeezes. "...it'd be us," she finishes for him, and Edér hides his smile in her sea-blown hair.

'Us'. He thinks he likes the sound of that.

[belovedcloud]

Video Games

pairing: brothers best friend! leon kennedy x fem! reader

✎ synopsis: you and your brother's best friend don't really get along, especially at night time when all your brother and leon do is bash games. a phone call erupts and your brother is gone - a confession goes south.

✎ notes: fucking hell, it has been so long since i have made any posts. i literally have had no motivation + i kinda fell out with resident evil + leon but i'm back into it for a bit! hopefully anyways, i hope you all like this - quite short and sweet but it has been in my drafts for months.

➤ WC: 2.9K

➤ CW: leon's a bit rude in the beginning but playful, pet names such as princess, baby etc. unprotected sex, fingering, having sex in someone else's bed.

At first, it was harmless name calling and what not. Nothing too serious between the two of you as your brother had introduced you to his best friend. His so called 'brother' he would call him. God knows how much you love hate him for meeting Leon. He was always such a pain in your ass.

Your disputes with him carried on ever since, he always liked to annoy you when he came to stay over in your brothers room. And for what? His whole existence was made to annoy you, you were certain of it. However, it wasn't helpful that he was the cutest boy you have ever seen. Leon's dirty blonde locks that he threw back regularly to get it out of his eyes. His lips that looked so soft - never once did you see him have cracked lips when he was giving you a remark.

His blue eyes was the thing that enchanted you the most. In most cases, harsh eye contact would be shared amongst you two after a session of bickering before either one of you stormed off.

So tonight, you weren't happy that your brother had planned a little sleepover with Leon. At their age you didn't know if it was embarrassing or cute for them to have a sleepover. Nonetheless, it wasn't like you could do anything about it. It was just a fact that you had to get over the situation and avoid Leon like the plague. That would be simple, right?

Hearing the front door slam shut, you could automatically tell who walked in - your feet were uncontrollable as you whisked down the stairs and saw Leon with his duffel bag.

"Are you sleeping over or moving in?" The snarky joke left your lips whilst you watched Leon take off his shoes, a small grunt leaving his mouth hearing your remark.

"Hm, I could move in if I wanted to... although maybe it wouldn't be a good option for the both of us princess." That damn nickname, every time he would get you with that nickname. His lips curled up slightly as he watched your eyes roll back to his response. However, Leon couldn't help but have his eyes travel over you. As much as he wanted to deny it, you were pretty. Very pretty in his eyes. He understood that it would be weird for him to flirt with you, since he was your brother's best friend but he couldn't help himself.

The air was beginning to thicken and with that, Leon made his way past you on the staircase; practically leaping as his feet went up 2 steps at a time. Oh whatever, it wasn't like you planned to see him again tonight.

Or so you thought.

It was those fucking video games that the two of them would bash every night. Peace? Not an option with your brother's screams and Leon's laughter echoing out the whole house. Even noise-cancelling headphones couldn't block them out. It was 1:12 AM.

With dissatisfaction in your step, your feet plod on the floors of your home - down the hallway towards the fated room that was causing the most ruckus known to man. The shimmering door handle was begging you to bust the door open. That's what you did.

"Can you both shut up and turn whatever you're playing down?!" A voice echoed through Leon's ears. It was none other but yours and all he could do in that moment was chuckle - you were cute like this. "Mind knocking next time?" Leon voiced out as your brother nodded to his statement, a teasing tone was laced in the question. Leon's eyes shot down to your bare legs, the hem of your shorts barely peeking as you wore an oversized shirt for comfort.

"Well could you mind turning down the volume? Every time I have to-" Your response was cut short due to a loud ringtone vibrating the room. Glancing down at the side table, your brother's phone was basically bouncing up and down as a random caller ID popped up.

"You still haven't changed that ringtone?" Leon joked, snickering hearing the music play - granting a "shut up!" getting backfired towards him as his best friend left the bedroom to answer the call.

Once your brother left the room, it became a bit awkward. Leon didn't feel like sitting on the floor with a deflated cushion anymore so he opted for the bed that rested against his back. His eyes glanced up to meet yours as he cut the silence short.

"We're all alone now huh?" Leon's small laugh soon turned into a smirk as she patted the empty spot on the bed beside him, wanting you to come closer to him. Or at least come into the room instead of just standing in the doorway. Hearing that teasing tone in his voice alone, you knew he was up to mischief.

"Hell no." You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly against your chest whilst looking at Leon with scrutiny in your eyes. "Oh come on, I don't bite. I swear!" He gave you a cheeky grin, his icy blue eyes shining under the lamp shade. "And besides, you know you want to." Leon added on, shuffling his body weight on the double-sized mattress emphasizing the bleak spot next to him.

It wouldn't hurt to sit next to him would it?

Leon watched intently as you sat down next to him, the way your thighs were squidgy against the sheets whilst you ruffled your shirt slightly. His eyes seemed to be entranced by you alone. How could a girl be so beautiful? Sure, he's seen pretty women before but you - you were different. You made his heartbeat rapid unlike any other girl had ever done. It was weird, crazy and honestly scary.

"What are you looking at?" Your voice reverberated in his ears, snapping him out of his trance. It was becoming obvious to him that he could not convince himself that he didn't like you. "You." A hushed whisper came out of his mouth, it was quick and swift but it was heard by the both of you. Shifting yourself to look at him properly, you could not see his face without his hair strands covering his eyes - averting themselves from you for once.

"Why?" A slight snort came out of your lips, making Leon scoff and shoot his head up. "I don't know and it's pissing me off." Eh? What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Pissing you off? Am I really that weird to look at?” Your voice mocked a sad tone; your eyes peered into his as Leon looked at you. There was no way you found yourself weird to look at, he was sure of it. 

“Beautiful.” Was all that Leon could fathom at that moment; it was all he could see in front of him. His lip trembled as the adjective whispered from deep within him – confusion flooded his body to why he was so emotional in this moment. He saw the way your pupils dilated so slightly, almost a shock horror to him. No words came from you, just tranquillity filled the air; it wasn’t awkward anymore. 

“You’re joking with me, right?” 

“Joking? Why would I joke about that?” 

With that, your hands crumpled the bedsheet that enveloped your body – a wave of longing bouncing between the both of you. This literally couldn’t have been happening at a worse time – you both in your brother’s room with an eerie sexual tension. You had to remind yourself; he’s your brother’s . best . friend. Although, it didn’t seem that Leon cared in this moment, the feeling of his hand approaching yours at a snail like speed. “What are you doing?” The semi-rough touch of his fingertips stopped you in your tracks, your eyes peering down at the scene in front of you. 

Almost in a nervous confession, Leon’s hand encircled your own – his face a tinge of red. “I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to finally realise that I do like you.” You genuinely couldn’t be okay in this situation. A confession from a guy you should supposedly hate yet, your heart yearns for. The lips of yours slightly part, your throat begging to be used to say your side. Shamelessly, a fat smile shone on his face – almost a laugh was about to blow. 

“What the hell are you smiling about?!” You yapped out, stuttering over your words, your head snapping right from his. That goofy grin of his, more or less scrutinising you due to highly strung you were. “You’re just cute, that’s all – you can’t even say anything in this.” A lazy chuckle left him, staring you down from your pretty face, down to your body – his icy blue eyes tracing over your legs all the way down to the socks you were wearing. 

Leon had continued to stare at you, but to pinpoint to where the staring occurred, he was eying your lips. Whatever lip balm you had used tonight still left them soft and plump. 

“Leon, we literally can’t... My brother is literally outside!” His hand spread across your mouth, stopping you from talking and making you look at him again. Leon was pressed up against you, another one of his signature laughs trespassed into the air – a mischievous look in his eyes. “He’s still going on about basketball or something, he won’t notice.” His mumbled whisper tickled your earlobe. Did you hear him correctly, or was he seriously being a dumbass? 

“I- Fine. One kiss.” You were stern in what you allowed in this situation, because there was no way you were going to allow your brother to see not just you, but Leon having sex on HIS bed. “Yes ma’am.” 

He didn’t hesitate; he never did when it came to something he craved to do. Leon’s lips on yours surprised you, they were soft – softer than you would have expected. However, you not disclaiming what type of kiss was allowed did prolong the action made between the both of you. As both of your lips collided, saliva was shared and sweet noises left between you two. Kisses soon turn into touches as your fingers manoeuvre around his  body; his arms pull you into him. The hold on you, possessive. 

“Thought you said one kiss, hm?” A smug smile spread on his face as he watched your lips pant slightly. Your fingertips had stopped moving, leaving themselves on his hardened chest. 

“Shut up.” 

One of Leon’s palms now had tapped his lap, indicating for you to straddle him. With a quick look at the closed door – your body automatically moves. Feeling your thighs straddle his own created more of a hard-on that begged for the tiniest amount of touch. Without struggle, his hands shifted to your waist; granting you permission to rock yourself onto him. Subconsciously, you do just that. Looking at the dingy clock, it was only 1:38 AM. It wasn’t long before your brother would come back. 

“I-” 

“Yeah, yeah I know – I would’ve preferred taking my time with you but seems like we gotta do this fast princess.” 

That same nickname you hated now turned into one that gave you shivers, the rasp in his voice now brings a desire that was unbeknownst to you. Shuddering from his touch, you feel Leon flip you onto the soft pillow his back was once on. He brings himself closer to you, close enough for your foreheads to touch. “Comfy?” His lovestruck eyes peer into yours, making your heart quicken to where all you can respond with is a shaky nod. 

Lifting the hem of your oversized shorts, Leon’s hands grope at your thighs, the edge of shorts teased his fingertips. “Pretty girl.” He had ached for you, he wanted to show you how he could treat you. Those same fingertips had led themselves to the crotch of the shorts; although not noticeable by sight, you had created a damp spot between your legs. 

“Excited? You like the way I talk to you.” His thumb pressed up against your bud, slight taps causing your legs to twitch. “Leon... Stop teasing.” A breathless chuckle left you, attempting to demand for something more than just some rubbing. 

“How about you give me the same treatment you give to those stupid games?” You exasperated out. 

“Hard then.” 

Leon’s gentle movements snapped into one of eagerness, his fingers pulling the crotch of the shorts to the side. “No panties?” He mumbled out, admiring the pretty sight in front of him. Without pausing his quick movements, his fingers slicked themselves with your wetness, rubbing up and down. Rapid breathing supported his fast fingers – the two of them sliding into you. 

Once again, Leon’s hand now plastered your mouth. “Mmph!” was all you could muster as he kissed your forehead. “No noise, or he really will know.” The demand Leon had wanted from you was a large one, his fingers curved inside whilst slowly thrusting in and out of you. He was good, too good when the pads of his fingertips hit that sweet g-spot. Something you could never do when you needed it most. An otherworldly sensation, nonetheless, with the boy you so believed you hated. Your head movements were erratic, signalling it wasn’t long before something drastic would happen. 

“Uh uh.” He murmured, removing his fingers and now only slightly rubbing your clit. Fuck, you were so concentrated on his face and fingers, your eyes hid themselves from the stiff boner making an imprint on his sweatpants. 

“See what you do to me?” Leon groaned quietly, quickly freeing his boxer-covered cock from his sweatpants – ensuring that no wet patch would stain his sweatpants. His pre-cum had already made itself visible on his boxers; he did not want your brother to see it on his pants though. Palming himself slowly, your eyes followed every hand movement he had demonstrated to you, alluring you with each pump that spilled the littlest amount of pre-cum. Completely pornographic. 

Leon’s head shot back to the closed door, before freeing his cock from his boxers. There laid a deep pink tip, glistening from his pre-cum. 

“Please.” Your hands tightening around his arms, begging to be fucked by him. It no longer was wanted but needed. He so selfishly had removed his fingers from inside your pussy, so it was at least right for him to fuck you. Right? 

“Patience baby.” Leon removed his thumb from your aching bud, now shocking it with each slap he made with his dick to your clit. A teasing bastard. “Come onnn.” You tutted, poking at his chest. “So needy.” 

It was easy for him to slide his cock in, the wetness from both you and him elicited a not so quiet moan. Leon’s solution in that was to share kisses with you once again. Sweet little kisses synchronised with both your bodies slapping against one another. Eye to eye, nose to nose, Leon looked at you, “Hard, you wanted it.” 

Third times the charm, his hand now covered your lips. The thrusts connected with loud clapping sounds whilst the bed creaked. No way in hell your brother would not hear this. Leon didn’t care. He was completely mesmerised, your thighs were slick, and his eyes beheld such lust and love. 

“Fuck princess, keep squeezing.” You peered your eyes open, seeing Leon’s head thrown back. The sheer sight already making you tighter than ever imaginable. No words could leave your mouth; you couldn’t talk back at him like you always did. Not at all when all your throat could conjure up was the muffled moans trying to escape the palm of Leon’s grasp on you. Yet; you didn’t mind. 

A deep breath echoed in your ears as Leon whipped his head back to look at you. “Oh, fuck, look at you.” The softness of his voice contrasted the hard slams made into your pussy. His hips snapping up and down – draining him of his late-night energy. 

His other hand removed itself from your waist, providing no support as your body jolted up and down – the oversized shirt now stretching to show a slight sketch of your chest – small movements of your tits bouncing. Leon’s thumb lazily rubbing your overstimulated, puffy clit. “Gonna make me cum, oh fuck, baby...” He hushed out, his thumb moving with the rhythm of his hips pumping. The only thing possible to you was to shudder in pleasure, reaching the point of an ethereal orgasm. 

Both of your bodies untensed, predominantly yours that lay tired as Leon pumped his cum all over your clit. Slapping the tip once again, making a low hum whilst kissing your temple. 

“Was that okay?” He whispered, grabbing the near-empty tissue box on the nightstand. Taking a few tissues in hand to wipe you. A bashful smile fanned out on your lips. “Mhm, just a little tired.” A yawn escaped you mid-sentence, looking at him dizzily. Leon had a gentle smile on his face, “cutie.” 

Footsteps could be heard from downstairs once you both came out of your lustful daze. 

Seems like the risk was worth it.

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! thank u for reading :)

-> masterlist

[chuubian]

Angel of small death

Tags demon Chuuya x fem reader, religious symbolism, cruel Chuuya, loss of virginity, drinking and smoking, no protection, light bondage, is this considered monsterfucking, rough sex, degradation, breeding kink, mirror sex, religious guilt yummm, MDNI

Summary Being a virgin at your age isn’t cute anymore, it’s depressing. You decide to go out and do something about it, but there’s something just a little bit off about the man you met.

A/N hehehe for Valentine's Day I wanted to do something a little bit darker. Chuuya being an angel or demon is always on my mind.

Enough is enough. You have to get this over and done with. No more naively waiting for love, it's time. At this point it was getting embarrassing— being a virgin at 20. Since it didn't happen naturally, you have to take matters into your own hands.

It's agonizing listening to your friends talk about all the things they do and experience. The random hookups, the fruitful relationships, the crazy nights spent just having fun. They actually live life. Why can't you have that? Envy and resentment fills your entire body when they treat it as if it's not a big deal. Your head feels like it's about to explode from bottled up dissatisfaction. There's only one solution.

Growing up evangelical, there was still a sense of dread at the thought of going to a bar. It's a place filled with drinking and sex— filled with sin. Even after leaving the faith, lingering guilt dictates your entire life. Having never been to a bar, you don't know what to expect. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you debate whether you should really wear this. Is it too much?

White lace stockings adorn your thighs. Silk fabric hugs your waist— draping elegantly and accentuating all your best assets. You spent hours agonizing over your hair. It leaves your arms shaking, aching from tedious styling. Glitter is dabbed onto the thin skin of your eyelids, lined with dark charcoal and mascara layered over your eyelashes. This is the best you've ever looked, but self doubt is creeping in. Stalking the dark recesses of your mind. Hunting and butchering any confidence you may have.

Pushing down all your apprehension, you grab your jacket and call a cab. Unfortunately, none of your friends are joining you tonight. If they were, maybe it'd be easier to ignore the giant pit of anxiety forming in the bottom of your stomach. Are you really going to do this? There's still time to stop.

You prepared early. The bottle of tequila in your freezer had been left untouched until this moment. Taking it out, you unsteadily pour yourself a shot. Hopefully this helps your panicking heart— beating away rapidly in your ribcage. Alcohol isn't something you have often. As you throw the drink back, your throat constricts and burns despite it being chilled for several hours, heat pooling in your belly. It tastes bitter and disgusting. Your tummy clenches, attempting to send the drink back up— rejecting it completely.

The taxi is waiting outside when you're done. It takes a few minutes before the tequila affects your cognition, so you get in easily, relaxing into the backseat. It's weird. Being alone, all dressed up. Just to go to a sleazy bar. Tugging at the edges of your clothes— discomfort sinks into your bones. Even your own skin feels foreign. Wrong. And the quietude within the car makes your brain whirl.

The cab arrives quickly. There's a thick cloud of smoke fogging your vision, and plaguing your lungs once you walk inside. It's filled with middle aged, unkempt men. Hardly any women are in sight, and the few that are, have a scowl permanently etched onto their foreheads. You take a seat at the bar, away from any people. It's hard to start up a conversation with anyone.

Nervously, you order yourself a martini. You need something strong. It's salty and horribly bitter, but the drink you had previously— and this one— work together to relax the muscles that were so terribly tense before. Sighing, you look around. Everyone is caught up in their own little world. The determination you had before suddenly vanishes and your only wish is to go home. Despite the warmth blazing through your figure, a cold sweat breaks out over your skin. Shivers seem to attack you, leaving you a pile of terrified bones. You shouldn't have come here. Maybe you were just meant to die a virgin. It's fine, you could live with that. Probably.

“You scared?”

A gruff voice speaks up behind you. You whip your head around. The man is ginger with clearly expensive clothing and an intimidating aura. Something about him makes a shiver run down your spine. Your lips pop open dumbly— forming an ‘O’ shape.

The ginger man's gloved hand comes up to grab your chin, dragging you closer and leaning in— quietly observing every little detail of your face. Although the man is not necessarily large, he’s muscular. Well built. It feels as if he’s towering over you. Like goliath standing over you, squashing any chance of escape or survival.

“Relax, I won't bite… unless you like that.”

Ignoring your instincts screaming at you to run, to run back home and never look back, you feel drawn to the strange man. Something keeps you planted in your stool. His cool minty breath wafts into your face— suffocating you. You take a deep breath, but it does nothing to ease the nerves pulsing beneath your sinew and tissue. He smiles at the sight of your unease.

“I'll get you a drink.”

It's not a question. He wraps an arm around your waist and the intoxicating scent of his cologne smothers you and drowns all your senses. You can't move. The man is strangely cold, and from the corner of your eye you swear you can see a shadow that looks like wings. Maybe it's just your imagination. You shake your head, clearing your mind, and suddenly they're gone.

A disorienting ring echoes through your ears while he orders for you. The rest of the encounter is a blur. Drink after drink appears in front of you, and you down them without a second thought. Your initial apprehension is forgotten as the charming man pulls you closer and closer, until you're almost straddling his lap. You don't seem to notice— or mind— how his hands roam down your waist and teasingly play with the hem of your stockings.

“It’s getting kind of crowded… Why don't we go somewhere more private?”

Veins throbbing with a disgusting mix of alcohol and blood rushing through them, you nod without hesitation. A hollow feeling spreads over your chest and ribcage. Sudden guilt weighs heavy on your shoulders. Are you really doing this?

“To yours?”

It's a question of safety. You may be about to sleep with a man you barely know, but under no circumstances should he know where you live. A wide grin spreads over his features. His teeth are blinding and sharp, like fangs.

“Not exactly.”

He wraps his thin fingers around your wrist, helping you up into your feet. The sudden movement has your head spinning and your stomach churning. God, it feels like you're going to throw up. A silent prayer plays in your mind. Part of you regrets ever even thinking of coming here. This goes against everything you've ever believed in. Against every oath you've ever taken.

The devil themselves must be laughing at you now. Wrapping their slender snake-like tail around your throat and squeezing as hard as they can. You can't protest even if you wanted to. Silently, with shaking legs, you let Chuuya— whose name is the only thing you can truly remember from your conversation— lead you out of the bar and into the cold night air.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn't answer. Did he not hear you? The burnt rubber and tar scent of the street follows you everywhere. Your eyes dart around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. In the shadows, you can faintly make out the silhouette of smiling figures— laughing and mocking you. Alcohol has rendered your legs practically useless as they quiver with every step, the only thing holding your weaker body up is Chuuya’s strong arms.

Your blurred vision watches his handsome stoic appearance. Is it really possible a man like this is interested in you? Streetlights illuminate his face. He almost looks like an angel. Like something to be worshipped. You can finally see his eyes clearly, without the dark veil his hat leaves in the way.

Wheezing, the small amount of air left in your lungs evaporates. They're stunning. Bright, breathtaking blue. Like nothing you had ever seen before.

Your heart almost stops at the sight.

The dark pupil in the middle of his iris is insanely dark. Oddly shaped. Almost elongated. Is that normal? Nothing about him seems real.

Broken, fluorescent neon lights flicker at you— calling out to you, ridiculing you. Every object surrounding you seems to know who you are and what you're up to. You've never done this, and they know. Everyone does. They can tell from the look on your face. You're not meant to be here.

Barely any cars are parked at the motel’s lot. It's completely empty except for a few shady people hanging around and the bored front desk employee. If something were to happen, no one would hear you scream. Maybe that's why he chose this place.

The flight up the stairs to the room feels like a death march. The man's grip does nothing to relieve the nervous, cold thrill that seems to freeze your blood over. If anything he's making it worse. His skin— even through the layers of clothing— feels like ice. Your hairs are standing on end, prickling you painfully.

“Here we are.”

He takes a small key card out of his pocket, quickly unlocking the door and pulling you inside the room.

It's dirty. The walls are covered in what you can only assume is solidified cigarette smoke. It smells faintly of urine and gasoline. Only scarlet sheets and flat pillows are on the bed— no comforter. Mirrors cover the ceiling above the bed and there's red ambient lighting instead of regular bulbs.

Chuuya does not bother locking the room. He opts to lightly urge you deeper into the room, sitting on the bed, helping you onto his lap with your legs on either side of his. Fear grips your heart. It pounds away in your sternum laboriously, struggling to break free of the restraints this man — no— this thing has it in.

“Wait I.. I have to tell you something.”

“Hm?”

Freezing cold gloved hands caress your legs. Goosebumps rise up your thighs and arms. Your hands apprehensively clutch the lapels of his jacket. The blue in his iris has darkened to nearly pitch black— swallowing any radiance into its depths. He's too close. It's oppressive. You're not sure this is something you'll survive. At least, not with your sanity.

“I've never done anything like this…”

“Oh honey…”

Voice dripping with arrogance, a cheap snicker finds its way onto his smug face. He toys with the lace band of your stockings, pulling and then letting the garter strap snap back against your thigh.

“I know. Anyone with eyes can tell.”

Scorching hot shame burns across your face. Your back seems to absorb it all, spreading it through your entire system and dampening your skin with sweat. Chuuya presses your front completely against his, taking off his gloves and revealing his pale, scarred hands. When he grabs your waist again, you tense up. Sharp claws press against your skin, threatening to rip your flesh apart.

What…?

A dumbfounded gasp rips itself from your lungs. Your mind screams at you to run, but your body won't listen. This is payback. Retribution straight from the lord himself for daring to stray from his teachings. You deserve the hell this devil will put you through.

Chuuya can tell you're afraid, but he won't let go so easily. His sharpened talons dig into the fat surrounding your hips.

“No no no… this is what you wanted. You can't leave that soon.”

His rough lips press against the tender skin of your neck, hot tongue dragging over the veins and arteries beneath your skin— flames engulf you as searing, fervent lust takes over your alcohol infused brain. Your mouth goes dry and your fingertips tingle, going numb.

You never realized how much you need this.

Scratches and bite marks will surely cover your entire body by tomorrow, but you don't really pay it much mind. He’s like a ravenous animal, getting a small taste of food for the first time in a millenia. His huge claws shred through the snowy white silk fabric adorning your figure.

“I can't wait. When I see a sweet thing like you, I can't resist.”

Chuuya bites into the supple flesh of your throat harshly with his pointed, needle-like fangs. Your hands rest on his chest, bracing yourself for the sharp pain that washes over your neck. The soft thump of a heart isn't there, just uneasy stillness.

Your bottom lip trembles, futilely trying to hold back the terror and desperate cries of pain asphyxiating you. A low growl rumbles through his chest. He pushes you down onto your back, eyes wide and staring up at him. Chuuya wastes no time in starting to undress. Nimbly, his flexible, clawed fingers undo the tie loosely knotted around his neck. Jagged nails dig into your wrists, holding them above your head and fastening them down with his tie. If you even tried to get out— which you wouldn't dream of doing— he'd overpower you easily. A lowly sinner is reduced to a devotee in the face of temptation.

With your hands out of the way, the thing can finally have his way with you. He pushes the tattered fabric off your frame. A rush of cold air sweeps over your newly exposed skin. It feels weird. Like being put on display to be assessed and lambasted. Your eyes dart around, desperate for any way to fix the predicament you've gotten yourself in, but there's no way out.

Wrists aching and nagging for freedom, your body tenses as Chuuyas talons trace the lump over your esophagus. Threatening to rip your throat out.

“Cute… Are you scared?”

Smirking, he gets a vicious glint in his eyes— It's a bizarre change from his previously lifeless gaze. A snake wraps itself around your neck, trapping any words that threaten to bubble up. He hovers over you and rids himself of all the layers keeping you two apart.

Chuuya’s skin glistens under the cheap motel lights. It looks plastic-y, unnaturally shiny. Your eyes follow the angelic lines of his strong, muscled chest. It left you breathless— lungs wrung dry. Tears well up in your eyes, obscuring your view, but somehow your corneas can make out vague shadows sticking out of his back, right by his shoulder blades.

“Are those-?”

Rough lips cut you off. Your mind is filled in a hazy cloud of exhilaration and thirst. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes— a disgusting combination that you can't help being lured by. You let out a surprised squeak as a forked tongue glides over your bottom lip. Chuuya takes that as an opportunity, taking advantage of your bewilderment, to slip his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. It's like he's trying to devour you whole. As if he wants to possess you.

Without thinking, your hands attempt to reach out for the shadows only to be pulled back over your head by the fabric ensnared around your wrists. He lazily drags his lips away from yours. A shameful, loud smack resonates across the otherwise quiet room. Your eyelids flutter open, immediately noticing the inky black feathers behind him— shiny and strong.

A knot of panic expands in your chest. Little glimpses of memories you thought you'd buried down deep bob back up to the surface. Dreading the eventual Armageddon. Fearing not only for yourself, but your family and friends who could be sent to the deepest circle in hell for the simplest of transgressions. There's a reason for those seemingly arbitrary rules in your congregation. You knew what was at stake, but somehow you managed to convince yourself none of it was real. That it wasn't a big deal if you indulged for once.

“You're staring.”

“A demon...?”

You're speechless. Staring at the spread out wings in front of you, Chuuya sits back up straight, leaning away from you and letting you breathe. They're massive. Large enough to cover you entirely, shielding you from the prying eyes of God. A heavy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach and a wave of nausea flushes over you.

“Oh, look at that.”

Chuuya’s voice is lower. Dark and rough— he's enjoying this. His thumb runs over your puffy bottom lip, toying with it. Toying with you. His other hand travels down over your throat, then down to your chest, pinching your nipple meanly, twisting. He relishes in your choked up whine.

“Don't tell me you don't enjoy that, I know it's a lie.”

“I can’t- You're a demon!”

Cackling, he lets go.

“I know, kind of obvious isn't it? Besides… by the way you’re reacting, you clearly like it.”

“But-”

“Shhh. Be quiet.”

Your mouth snaps shut, teeth clanking together bitterly. Leaning down, his lips close around the little nub, fangs attaching themselves onto it and scraping cruelly. A euphoric sensation courses through you, his name tumbling from your lips uncontrollably as your hands clench, arching up into his touch.

“Fuck… C-Chuuya..!”

Tugging harshly, his teeth scrape over your nipple— making your cunt throb. You should not feel this way at the hands of a monster like him. It's wrong.

But it feels so right.

Goosebumps rise up across your skin. Your eyebrows knit together meanwhile his large hands grip onto your waist, claws stinging. Chuuya’s lips pop as he finally lets up, and you finally resign yourself to your fate. Looking up at the ceiling, your body jolts at the sight of his wings reflected on the mirror. They look heavy— held up by his strong back muscles.

His wings sway gently and glitter under the soft red lights, trapping your bodies underneath. Then, Chuuya flips you over onto your tummy— his coarse lips trailing little kisses down your spine. Every time his skin makes contact with yours, little sparks of arousal bounce over your ribs and out to your limbs. His rapid breath tickled you and it was hard to stay still.

Your hands were stretched far above your head, with your elbows and head resting on the cheap, lumpy pillow. He forces your hips up, with your knees planted firmly on the bed and your face embedded in the abrasive cushion below you. Freezing air conditioning chills you to the bone. You're a lab experiment, a scrap of prey— spread open and ready to be dissected.

“Don't move, angel.”

He pushes your back down, forcing it into a painful arch.

“There you go, stay just like that.”

Pointed talons wander past your vertebrae and down to the supple flesh of your ass, leaving dark red scratches etched onto your skin. Your insides are roaring, begging you to fight back. To leave while you can. But your heart wants otherwise. He's so handsome. His smell surrounds you— it's hypnotizing. And although his touch burns, you can't help craving more. He's like a drug you can't get enough of.

Your body easily obeys, trying its hardest to maintain the unpleasant bend in your spine. A strangled cry forces itself past your lips as your legs shake with the effort to hold their own weight up.

“Are you seriously struggling with something so simple?”

Hefty, cold hands land between your shoulder blades, grinding you into the scratchy sheets. A shiver works itself through you. You arduously unclench all your muscles, sucking in lungfuls of sleazy motel air and Chuuya’s heady scent.

“I–I’m trying…”

“It's not enough. Try harder.”

You hear some shuffling behind you, the bed creaks and the heat from Chuuya’s figure is temporarily gone before you feel him looming over you— his thighs pressed against the backs of yours. He leans down, crushing your body underneath his wings encircling you. Nosing at your throat, he presses his hips against your backside, letting you feel how hard he is.

A calloused hand ruthlessly tangles itself in your hair, pulling. His other hand snakes underneath you, leaving behind flashes of heat. You feel feverish as his hand unexpectedly pinches your inner thigh— delighting in the sound you make— before his fingers part your soaked, messy folds. Your form tenses when a finger easily slips in, embarrassing squelching sounds fill the air as he pumps it into you.

The intrusion feels foreign, not good or bad, just different. You let out a sigh of relief, glad that it's not as painful as you feared. Chuuya's thumb gets to work on your clit, rubbing it in tight little circles. Your body moves as if it's been electrocuted, letting out a garbled moan.

“Chuuya…”

“Feels good huh?”

Another finger joins the first, curling against your sweet spot. It doesn't take long for you to be reduced to a puddle of tears and snot— fat globs of salty teardrops soaking the pillow beneath you. Your lower belly aches, an empty craving spreading and shrouding you. An angelic plea falls from your lips, with his name distorted and muffled.

Your weeping only encourages him more— his pace getting faster and rougher. His claws, despite being sharp enough to cut your ribcage open, don't hurt. Your mind is solely focused on the sensation of his flexible fingers inside your dripping cunt. It's not surprising that a demon would be so well versed in matters of depravity.

Just as the pool of heat in your tummy seems like it's going to erupt, when it feels like your figure is floating— ascending to a new heaven, Chuuya’s movements halt. The blood rushes within your ear canal loudly and your tissue is shuddering underneath your skin. It takes everything in you to hold back your sobs. His surprisingly gentle hand cards through your hair, shushing you sweetly.

“Shhh dont cry, angel. I didn't even hurt you, you should've known I wouldn't let you cum that fast. It's, honestly, all on you.”

He stays like that— with his entire mass weighing you down. Carefully, his fingers withdraw and your body fights to keep him in place, squeezing around nothing. You feel too empty. Now that you've had a taste of the forbidden fruit, you can't fathom a world without it.

There's a pulsing lump in your throat from the built up frustration, drawing a shaky sigh from your belly. Your ears barely manage to pick up the noise of his thick, feathery wings flapping and the low growl that vibrates in his chest. Thankfully the stinging in your eyes has finally stopped at this point, but it's not enough for Chuuya. He needs more.

He doesn't make you wait much longer, pushing into the sloppy mess of your pussy. The air is shoved out of your lungs. Your body tightens, denying him entry, floundering. Every cell of your being stings.

“Fuck.. w-wait..”

Chuuyas hips still. One hand comes up to rest on your thigh, leaving a trail of your arousal cooling on the surface of your skin. His thumb traces gentle circles onto the soft flesh of your hips. The hand in your hair tugs at the locks sternly, turning your entire head to face the side wall.

“Watch.”

The back of your neck strains to angle itself the way he wants— it feels like your head is about to snap off. Your eyes drift over to the mirror veiling the wall. You can see everything from here— the flexing of his muscles, how his wings hang low and heavy, the way his stronger body easily molds and manipulates your own. His figure glows under the cheap lighting, the red hair surrounding his face looks like a crimson halo— the former golden glow now tainted by the depravity he surrounds himself with regularly.

“Chuuya please!”

He doesn't wait for you to relax before completely sheathing himself inside of you, groaning when his pelvis crashes with your backside, forcing your walls to make way for him. It's too sudden. Too big. Is he a fucking monster?? The curve of your spine, your knees, and your wrists all sting— pushed to their limits and more. There's no way you can handle more, but Chuuya does not exactly grant you the freedom of choice.

Your scalp tingles as his grip in your hair tightens. His hips start rocking up into you, forcing you to adjust. You choke on your own spit as he savagely pounds against your sweet spot, spearing you open and holding you down.

“Oh God…”

“Don't call him, he's not here, I am.”

The mirrored image is hard to make out through the wave of tears building in your waterline, but you can faintly make out the image of his flushing skin and aggressive movements. You don't even want to look at yourself. The image of you bent to a demon's will is far too humiliating to take.

“Even your God can't help you now.”

Beads of moisture slide between your bodies, sticking your hair to your overheated forehead. Pitchy wails get trapped in the hollow of your chest. Chuuyas defined muscles overextend themselves as they pick up the pace, slamming his cock into your sensitive cunt without faltering. Every nerve ending in your body is lit on fire, frayed and hyper-sensitive. Through the reflection, you swear you see his eyes go fully dark— like black holes, sucking in any life that they can.

“Agh… f-fuck…”

Unconsciously, your hips roll back against him. There's something so delicious about being split open like this. It hurts like hell. Every single muscle, tendon, ligament, and bone in your figure is going to be screaming at you tomorrow. But through the intense torture youre being put through, your neurons can still find bliss in the afterglow.

There is no pleasure without pain. No light without darkness.

“Fucking slut.”

You let out a mortified, wounded cry wail beneath him, squirming. Eyebrows and nose scrunching, your protests come out in distorted groans. Your hands clench, digging your nails into the palm of your hand as your elbows struggle to stabilize themselves. Every time you attempt to get back up, Chuuya speeds up— brutally whacking his hips into the plush tissue of your ass, fucking you dumb.

The choir of salacious noises between the two of you sound inhuman. Your throat feels like it's being torn open with a knife. Your eyes shut tight, toes curling, as your entire body tenses and shudders. Lava seems to form in your lower tummy, boiling you from the inside out.

“This is all you’re good for, isn't it? Say it”

“Nghh N-no!”

Your brain is spinning, obliged to accept the overloading sensations and transgressions Chuuya is committing against you. Every movement in your body is dulled and slowed— it's like your nervous system would rather focus on the vicious slam of his hips into your cunt, than to help you have any form of mobility.

“Fucking say it.”

Your mouth forms the words before you have a chance to deny them.

“That's all I’m g-good for…”

A puddle forms on the dirty motel sheets made of your arousal, sweat, and your melting figure. Chuuyas arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, wings encapsulating both your bodies and hiding the mirror from view. It's almost romantic how sweetly he holds you.

Almost.

“ ‘m gonna fucking breed you. You're mine.”

The puddle of lava in your tummy gets more and more restless— bubbling angrily and threatening to erupt. With one last ruthless thrust into the spongy little spot inside you, the lava surges out, burning everything around it. Your orgasm seems to go on forever, scorching you but also dunking you in arctic waters. Chuuyas hips still against you, releasing hot spurts of cum into you. You can't really think about what that could mean for you in the future.

The apocalypse feels like it has finally come for you. Destroying everything in its way and leaving the earth a blazing wasteland. Only this time, you aren't worthy of salvation. You will be left alone to the mercy of the devil before you. Revolting bile is pushed against your teeth and you're forced to swallow it back.

Remorseful, your body trembles with effort as you attempt to sit up— to get Chuuya out of you and away from you as soon as possible. Only, it's impossible to move. Chuuya’s chuckle is devious and low, sending a chill through your bones.

“Oh no… I'm not done with you yet, angel.”

[nashusglasses]

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.**.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.**.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.**.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.**.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

(background to this nsfw drabble)

thinking of marriage of convenience AU with jing yuan and general’s daughter!reader from xianzhou yuque. a rogue sect of the disciples of sanctus medicus try to execute a plot to destroy a jade abacus warehouse on the yuque—important machinery is destroyed, two critical injuries reported, one death—and intra-alliance tensions among the populace start to boil over. arrests are made. citizens are scared. general yaoguang knows the cloud knights are smart and resource-savvy enough not to respond to any taunts from angry yuque residents of the luofu, but he’s champing at the bit trying to quell public dissatisfaction on either ship. it’s fu xuan who suggests it in one meeting with jing yuan and yaoguang.

“great relations,” she says, “start with an even greater union.”

you’ve been married for five months. you’re lucky if you see jing yuan more than twice a week, and today he’s holed up in his home office signing off on contracts for the alchemy commission to order new supplies. he’d said good morning when you entered the kitchen for breakfast, and you could only offer a nod before he bade you farewell for the day. a typical conversation. you’re not unhappy, but you are awfully bored. 

your handmaiden, lihua, promised a new harvest from the garden today. she’s back by the time you’re done with your speech lessons (you still struggle to adapt to the local dialect, but jing yuan has always been kind not to fuss about your vowel inflections), and you help her wash and spread the fruits on bamboo-woven trays in the cool heat of the afternoon. 

“does jing yuan have anything to drink on days like this?” you ask lihua.

she hums thoughtfully. “i’m sure he’d appreciate his wife coming to greet him with something sweet. can i show you how to make simple syrup?”

it’s simple enough. you make a pitcher of iced lemonade in no time, and lihua prepares a tray for you to bring a glass to jing yuan’s office. you shake with every step you take. internally, you scold yourself for feeling so anxious — this is your husband. jing yuan, who asked you personally for your allergies and food preferences to curate a menu for your daily consumption for the kitchen staff to follow. jing yuan, who had a room specially built for you in the east wing after you’d told your father how much you’d miss seeing the sunrise from your window. jing yuan, who’d once accidentally walked in on you in the hot springs on his rare day off, and grew as red as an angry tuskpir, leaving with a hasty apology. (you didn’t see him for three weeks after that.)

you steel your resolve, and knock on the door. when he doesn’t answer, you gently creak the door open, jing yuan coming into view as he’s hunched over sheets of paper, hair tied haphazardly with his red ribbon. he holds his pen so rigidly. you wonder if he’s taken a break at all today. 

you tiptoe in, lest you break his focus. “sorry,” you whisper. “i brought this for you.”

jing yuan spares you a single glance, watching you position the glass at the edge of his desk. he does not say a word. 

you think… he might be a little peeved. yes. why would you even think of interrupting him? oh god. his schedule must be packed tight, his rhythm stunted with your unannounced arrival. you immediately open your mouth for an apology, feeling the pinpricks of tears at the thought of disappointing him.

he’s already looking away. his writing is even faster than before. you leave with a bow and nothing else to say.

(jing yuan drinks your lemonade in three gulps after you’ve closed the door behind you. he reminds himself to have a bundle of flowers delivered to your bedroom door by sunrise the next morning. for the rest of his working day, your face, so beautifully concerned, plagues his head.

he wants to know what else makes you cry.)

[meanbossart]

I have another intense ask about bhaalist AU drow...

Would drow be “forced” to procreate? And how would Asatrion take that information? If Astarion is his consort, would he be jealous of concubines? Would this also contribute to his overall dissatisfaction during his time trapped at the bhaal temple? Or Would he be happy that his lover has distractions, so he can have time alone - maybe plotting his escape?

I’m overall curious about how drow and Astarion’s relationship falls apart in your AU

I don't think so! Not that I care about biblically following canon or anything like that, but there was nothing throughout the story that made me think procreation was a requirement in Bhaal's plan. If you take the scrapped ending into consideration, it seems to be more of a punishment first and foremost.

Not to say I don't believe it to be a part of the man-made gospel in some form or another. Sarevok seems fairly invested in this idea of generating bhaalspawn that are pure of blood, and this is an agenda that he subtly pushes onto DU drow throughout their years operating the temple: that said, like it often is, Bhaal is silent on the matter.

There seems to be a lot of conflict within the cult about what Bhaal wants and how he wants it, and I choose to interpret his failure to clarify as part of the Murder God's nature, as well as a fun nod at the (dys)functionality of real-life cults where you have several people claiming to have a direct connection to a god.

But back on topic, there IS the heavily implied Dark Urge To Multiply. A few instances where durge or someone around them suggests that, eventually, having children will be an irresistible biological necessity. There are a few ways to interpret this! But I can't help but notice that this theme is absent in a route where you do willingly become Bhaal's chosen - maybe its a failsafe Bhaal cooked into The Dark Urge in case his child became a weenie? To possess them with the need to spread their seed around until SOMEONE down the family tree stepped up to the role?

This definitely turns out to be the case in DU drow's redemned route, where he is plagued with bouts of breeding-related mania and depressive episodes that come and go as a result of a nest remaining empty, But I hadn't really considered this for his Bhaal-embracing self He definitely harbors an obsession with procreating in that AU - but... I'm not sure that's Bhaal's doing anymore. I think he just wants for there to: A) Be more of him around. B) Create a tangible, undeniable connection between himself and Astarion that cannot be severed.

A theme with DU drow is that he is aggressively monogamous. This remains constant in every possible iteration of him and it's a pillar of the character - he is devout to a partner until the end whether they want him or not, and so, Bhaalist DU drow would be violently opposed to the idea of being sexually involved with anyone besides Astarion. If Sceleritas or members of the temple insisted otherwise, he would balk and them push them off into a Chasm. If Bhaal demanded him do it, he would jerk off into a vial and hand it to whoever he deemed pretty enough to mix up with, and then probably kill the child as soon as it was born, anyway - because it's not right.

DU drow (again, in all iterations) almost believes there to be a magical component to true love that affects a person's life beyond just their choice in long-term partners. Just like he once decided that Orin was his forever-mate, he's now decided him and Astarion are intrinsically linked, that they are stronger together than they will ever be apart again. And It is particularly romantic to him (a matter of ironic fate, really) that the Murder Prince's true love would be undead. In DU drow's mind, and SPECIALLY in his Bhaal-embracing version, this is simply the universe's plan for him, and to divert from it in any way (by, for example, procreating with someone else) would be blasphemous.

Now, obviously him and Astarion can't have biological children for a plethora of reasons. But this is fantasy. Bhaalist DU drow would simply not stop until he found the best way to create someone that could be, spiritually and physically, considered their functional blood-offspring. Through Alchemy, magic, ritual, whatever it may be - as long as it works and works according to his high-standards. I suspect he would have specialists shipped in from wherever they may be in the realms to look into the issue, and probably someone who's sole job is to research the matter, though I'm not sure he would ever be satisfied with the results.

I think Astarion would be utterly checked out of the matter.

[dontsh0vethesun]

a forbidden desire

kinktober 2023 masterlist

stepsister!wanda maximoff x reader

18+: smut; stepcest, somnophilia, fingering, degradation, kinda inferred pervy behaviour

Wanda’s hands had always wandered when it came to you. Her eyes liked to observe you with a lengthy gaze that often made you shrink, so exposed whilst she unabashedly examined you. She’d taken a liking to you all those months ago, her pretty step-sister with merely a wall separating your bedrooms.

You’d not thought much of it when she found immediate comfort in your presence; she didn’t think twice about changing in front of you, nor with helping you try on lingerie. She encouraged you to shop with her, guising her predatory idea under the false pretense of sibling bonding. She didn’t let you know that she’d heard the hitching of your breath when a daring hand touched your waist, nor the goosebumps she could see beneath the harsh dressing room light. 

She kept it all to herself. The times she’d caught you watching her, drinking in her figure when she’d come back from a run. The way she’d seen your tongue lick over your lips while you kept your sights set on her when she’d teasingly come into your room in nothing but a towel after a shower. Wanda knows the effect she has on you and the ideas keep her company at night; with her fingers venturing south in the confines of her bedroom she likes to imagine you’re doing the same thing next door. 

There’s only so much one can take, though.  

There’s only a certain amount of yearning and aching she can bear and so it’s only a matter of time before the secret watching of your sleeping form becomes too little to satisfy her desires. She’s almost annoyed at you with the way you’ve plagued her mind so furiously that you’ve begun to appear in her dreams.

Just now, with her head on your shoulder in front of the television, you’d appeared again. Her thighs squeezed together without her knowledge as scenes of you and she played on in her mind, your body whimpering beneath her whilst her teeth marked each piece of soft skin she could reach. Whispered mewlings of her name made her skin blanch and the heat of her back woke her up into that familiar dissatisfaction she’s used to; the harsh feeling of being thrown into consciousness again.

She so often awakes to the ache between her legs, the heat in her cheeks she can only quell with her own hand. But, this time, there you were. You looked so sweet and peaceful with your breaths even as you slept, your head against a pillow without the knowing of the preying eyes on you. Wanda adored the way you slept, how she knew how easy it’d be to touch you; she let her hand rest on your upper thigh with her fingers daringly creeping upwards and she knew you were none the wiser. 

She kept her stare on you musingly when she cupped your clothed sex in her palm, feeling the radiating heat and the twitch of your hips that you were not privy to. She smirked at the way you shifted at the pressure she pushed against you, unknowingly moving further into her touch. She’d be lying if she claimed to not have influence over what you often wear - she knows you’re eager to please her - so, the underwear that served as the only barrier between her and you was working in her favour and she could see the hardening of your nipples beneath the material of your t-shirt. 

Wanda readjusted her seated position to take you in fully, to see each small change in your slumbered expression as she danced her fingertips across your torso. Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip at the way your chest arched into her as she pinched a pert nipple through the material of your shirt, squeezing at the pillowy flesh just as she’d always fantasised. 

She’d always thought she’d take her time with you the first time but having you here and at her mercy, begging to be touched yet unable to push her away, made that hunger in her become ravenous. She had to take you for herself. 

She took the opportunity to play with you, to tease you with her hand dipping past the waistband of your underwear pushing against you just enough for you to feel it. She nudged at your clit with the heel of her palm, feeling the wetness begin to pool with the soft ruts of your hips chasing the pleasurable feeling. 

Her lips glided over your jaw with her tongue and teeth swiping against you, and she listened to the way your breathing sped up, how you became restless in your seat and you began to stir. 

When your eyes blinked open with tired difficulty you were met with hers looking right at you; it was hard to determine what precisely was happening in your dazed state - the reason why your heart was thumping or why you ached with needy arousal. 

“Wanda? I-”

“Sh, sweet girl,” she breathed against you, pressing a kiss to your neck while her fingers drew circles over your swollen bud. “Just makin’ you feel good, okay?”

You could hear the rasp of hunger in her tone and you could feel it in the rhythm of her fingers toying with your clit, swiping through the slickness of your folds you hadn’t even known was there. 

Svelte fingers inched into you with ease, curling within you whilst the pad of her thumb paid attention to your throbbing clit and her teeth dug into the skin of your breast. The way she was so eager to have you made you dizzy, how she pushed the fabric of your shirt out of her way just so she could flick her tongue across your nipple. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this - that you shouldn’t be enjoying it with such fervour - but that forbidden concept only made it taste much sweeter. 

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to make you cum for so long,” she breathed. “I’ve heard you at night. Fucking yourself like a needy little slut. But, I can fuck you so much better.”

Her breath was burning hot as it tickled the soft flesh of your torso, the kisses, the words and the sublimely perfect feeling of her fingers made you moan. Mumbling out her name with your choked voice breaking. 

“And I know you’ve been wanting me too,” she murmured. “A dirty whore like you just can’t keep her eyes to herself, hm?”

With each sensually uttered sentence, her fingers kept up their pace, burying deep within you with the soaked sounds of your cunt accompanying them. The coil in your stomach tightened and tightened, readying to snap at any second.

“God, Wanda, I’m so close,” you stuttered out. She didn’t hide the cocky smirk that pulled her lips, smug at how easily she’d got you to fall apart. 

“Cum for me,” she stated. She watched on intently as you took her fingers, clawing at the sofa’s cushions beside you with your knuckles paling with the strain. It was even better than she’d thought. The parting of your lips as your body began to shake, the whimpered sounds of your orgasm washing over you as you drenched her fingers. She knew it’d be a pretty sight. 

You didn’t think twice when you took her glistening fingers into your mouth, licking them clean of any remnants of yourself until she pulled them away to replace them with her lips. The kiss was bruising and desperate, as though this had only touched the surface of the deeply harboured cravings you’d both been keeping. 

With her straddling your lap and your hands on her hips just as you’ve wanted them to be, you were all consumed by the woman. Her tongue pushed against yours with control and she hummed into your mouth at the semblance of your taste still lingering. Her pussy ached to be touched and you could tell by the subtle pushing of herself into you; she pulled away to catch her breath and, for a moment, you thought she was going to claim regret. 

But she pulled you to stand with your fingers laced with hers and dragged you behind her to her bedroom.

[scribblestatic]

Heeey back with some more Amputee SY. I think I may write more for Sheepzun soon, too. Eh, I'll figure it out.

Anyway, narratives are paused for now and we're back to summary drabbles :D

Prev: Part 9

---

After all that, Luo Binghe did in fact finalize his divorce with Qiu Haitang. She went with the Cang Qiong group when they left, a new member under Qi Qingqi's tutelage, cursing Shen Jiu's name the whole time and vowing to murder him.

Her vows quieted rather quickly after she began having strange dreams of her brother tormenting her. Despite only experiencing the incidents through dreams, she would wake screaming and proclaiming that her brother wasn't like that.

Those protests also faded, making way, instead, for confusion as to why Shen Jiu never killed her, considering how her punishments in his body occasionally came because of a comment she made. So, she too had been an instrument in Shen Jiu's suffering.

By that point, though, she was already back at what remained of Cang Qiong Sect, burrowing deeply into Xian Shu's female-only population, having gained a temporary but fervent fear of men. And, from the outset of their last attempt, no one of their peak was to contact the Empress of the Merged Realms on any personal level.

He was pretty well firm in his assertion that he wanted next to nothing to do with them for a long, long time, if not for the rest of any of their lives.

At the same time, Cang Qiong Sect's reputation took one hell of a blow. Among demons, well, they were already pretty bad, so it wasn't much worse. No it was the remaining cultivation sects that took the opportunity to voice their dissatisfaction.

Of course, it was a well-kept secret back then that Shen Qingqiu was plagued by frequent qi deviations. The fact he managed to survive them all out of pure will was admirable. But, if his sect siblings knew he had once cultivated the demonic path by force under Wu Yanzi, why hadn't their previous generation or their current one done anything to help cleanse his body and meridians before attempting spiritual cultivation?

Given, it wasn't exactly common practice for a rogue demonic cultivator to try joining a sect, already deep into their devious ways. But the fact Shen Qingqiu had turned a new leaf should have been celebrated, should it not? Instead, his sect didn't give him proper care and let him fester.

The humans who relied on cultivation sects didn't quite allow these details to stop them from calling on Cang Qiong. However, their reputation as a righteous group had not only been smeared, but filthied. As it turned out, despite their talks of righteousness, Cang Qiong Sect was no different than the smaller sects who were more secular and only professed righteousness while plotting and scheming on the inside.

It took Cang Qiong Sect down from it's elevated status. They were now, simply, normal but numerous and large. But normal all the same.

Yue Qingyuan's kind demeanor shifted. He wasn't any less kind than before, but he was, perhaps, less approachable. Without Shen Qingqiu or the ghost of what "he'd done" haunting the sect, he no longer had anyone to apologize for but himself. His mistakes became all the more evident, and his impulsiveness all the more detrimental.

But, as he'd promised to Shen Yuan, he was working on himself to fix that. That included getting help for the binding of his soul and sword, a demonic cultivation tactic he'd used to try to reach Shen Yuan faster, only to hinder himself even longer. Mu Qingfang headed the studies into his recovery...as well as studies into treating qi deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation issues. After all, perhaps as karma, Yue Qingyuan had begun to suffer from them as well as he began to undo the damage he did to himself.

Unlike with Shen Qingqiu, Cang Qiong Sect carefully rallied around him for support.

Perhaps it was because he was the sect leader. Perhaps it was because their own sins had been laid bare. Perhaps it was because they, too, wanted to make amends with themselves.

Whatever the reason, they would deal with it on their own.

...Of course, Shen Yuan was, generally, unaware of these details.

He'd made it a point to ignore anything and everything to do with Cang Qiong Sect for at least the next three years. Unless it was of severe import, of course. As lazy as he was, he would be taking his job as empress seriously.

('...Lazy where?' his attendants wondered, watching as he held two scrolls open and wrote in another with his qi, writing down every detail he knew of what flora and fauna could help reduce deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation despite the fact his problem had been fixed with a different kind of dual cultivation. This was, of course, after he'd finished writing a report about a demon tribe Luo Binghe was supposed to meet with soon, ensuring he was aware of their body language and cultural specificities.)

("Don't tell me the results. I want to know nothing of it," his 'anonymous' letter demanded of Mu Qingfang, the doctor staring at the supplies sent to them, pangs of regret searing through his soul.)

("The Cang Qiong Sect leader seems to be doing well," Xiao Jiao would murmur as she served his morning tea.

"Who asked about him? Pah. Leave those righteous cultivators to themselves."

He still slipped her a few taels for the information.)

Ahem.

Right. Anyway. He genuinely didn't care for correspondence with them, and sought to live his life separately.

For example, rekindling a better relationship with Ning Yingying.

Her confession caused her reputation to take a blow as well, though less so since Shen Yuan himself openly forgave her.

"This lord had been conniving and callous. If anything, she merely learned from the best, did she not?"

With casual jokes like that, he easily saved face for Ning Yingying, and not to long later, she finally went to see him for tea as he'd desired.

Their reunion had been incredibly tearful, the girl apologizing to him on her knees at his seat. Shen Yuan wanted to comfort her and pat her head, but he couldn't do that. While his handling on qi was sophisticated and he could grab and hold things, he couldn't quite mimic the feeling of a hand. So, instead, he asked her to look up at him. When she did, he smiled at her as radiantly as he could.

"This master understands, Ying-er. Please, you aren't a servant, you're a guest. Come, sit, sit."

She did sit, but she just continued crying. He tutted and dabbed a handkerchief at her tears.

He didn't lie and say he hadn't felt betrayed, but he understood and didn't hold it against her. She was just a child, and he had raised her to seek her survival. He hoped that now, with his mind in a better place, he could be someone better and more reliable to her. And she, sobbing, said she would never betray him ever again.

Because of this forgiveness, she and Sha Hualing slowly began reconciling as well.

Slowly. Very, very slowly.

---

With Shen Yuan officially crowned empress, Luo Binghe, who was already chipping away bits of his harem, chipped further, finding more wives to relinquish back to the wild.

After all, he really married them for power and to manage the symptoms of Xin Mo. However, ever since he began speaking and dual cultivating with Shen Yuan, Xin Mo's troublesome nature has waned quite significantly. He also learned to recognize when the sword's malicious nature was pushing thoughts in his mind, Luo Binghe realizing to himself that perhaps Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, was probably experiencing something similar the whole time. The sword's name was "Heart Demon," and Shen Qingqiu's were a constant thorn in his side, to the point of significant and frequent qi deviations.

He and Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, hadn't been so different, huh...

Sometimes, when Shen Yuan felt like talking about narratives and thoughts, he'd speak of the "cycle of abuse." He did it early on when he still thought he wasn't Shen Jiu.

(And, to an extent, he wasn't. He was, but he wasn't. The spells Luo Binghe had tried to use on him to summon the "kind shizun" into his body had all been for naught. Not until he used a spell to reform a broken soul. Shen Jiu had been a shattered, broken man: insane, psychotic, and missing pieces of his souls for reasons unknown.

Perhaps Shen Qingqiu lacked major parts of his hun souls, the remaining po souls existing without a significant part of his humanity. When Shen Yuan expressed that, in his life, he'd been a sickly man unable to grow healthily, he wondered if that was because he was missing some of his po. Perhaps he'd managed to form some of them, but not the others, and vice versa.

Together, in one body, the current Shen Yuan was what Shen Qingqiu could've been. Snappy, sometimes callous, contradictory, full of an undying loyalty, affectionate beyond all reason, and the kindest, most forgiving person Luo Binghe has ever had the pleasure of knowing. That is his wife, his Shizun, his empress.)

Anyway, this cycle of abuse made him think about how similar his story was to Shen Jiu's. Shen Yuan expressed it as well, sighing with regret as Luo Binghe braided his hair into a large plait in preparation for sleep.

"...If only I had realized how similar we really were. Maybe I would've had the mind to treat you better... But, I suppose there's no use in 'woulding' and 'coulding' ourselves to death."

"It's as you say, Shizun."

"Aiyah, who's your shizun? You grew more mature than me."

"This lord firmly doubts that," Binghe hummed, kissing his cheek...and starting to kiss down his neck.

Even without his limbs, Shen Yuan made such a pretty picture. The nape of his neck was enough to arouse.

"Oi, you..."

But he didn't tell him to stop, however. And didn't tell him to stop when he kissed him all over. And didn't tell him to stop, even as he complained, face flushed and staring at his cock, talking about his, as he put it, "ridiculous pillar."

But he never told him to stop, leaning closer to him and pressing what he could of his small, amputated body to him.

And despite being told not to "would" or "could" or "should" himself to the grave, he did think, well, it would be nice if, somehow, some way, Shen Yuan became able to hold onto him. To wrap his arms and legs around his body. To hold him close like he so obviously wanted to, unable to because of Binghe's sins.

...If he could somehow alleviate that point, even a little bit, that would be nice, wouldn't it?

A little "woulding" and "coulding" perhaps wouldn't hurt.

---

It's because of his inquiries that Mobei Jun mentioned he could ask his advisor.

He hadn't mentioned much of him to Shen Yuan, not deeming the man very important. Besides, his beloved wanted nothing to do with Cang Qiong Sect, and that was precisely what the advisor was...somewhat.

He was former peak lord of Cang Qiong who had steadily adopted a strange mixture of a bombastic yet timid demeanor. He'd had a way of sucking up to Mobei Jun with words that led the pureblooded demon to scowl and beat up on him frequently (never with full strength, not really, but enough to make him bleed), but there was a shift in him into someone like himself but also not like himself.

A while back, nearly three years ago now, he and Mobei Jun had been locked in battle with demonic beasts that had left them somewhat vulnerable. During said battle, he used Xin Mo, but his blade had seemed to cut...something. He wasn't sure what. But it was during that time that he was quite suddenly sucked into a portal, causing him to meet and change places with a version of himself that he could now at least admit had been taller, thicker, and tanner than himself.

(He'd gotten thicker now with both fat and muscle, and he no longer straightened his hair, much to Shen Yuan's delight. Despite not having fingers, he quite adored rubbing his cheek against his curls. He also quite liked resting his head on his chest, too, much to Binghe's quiet pride. Ahem. Anyway.)

Once he'd gotten back, he had thrown himself into looking for ways to bring the "nice Shizun" to his world instead, and when that failed, he attempted to summon him in Shen Jiu's body. All the while, Shang Qinghua, who had been at Mobei Jun's side, inching away from the battle when he last saw him... Well, the ice king later reported that, as though having a final, strange change of heart, he threw himself into the fray, even getting himself injured to protect him, something the lying weasel never did before.

From that day on, he'd fully turned into a dormouse, eating his way through bags of melon seeds and seeming to cry about nothing at random times, cycling between whining and silence, and saying those strange words he sometimes did with his full confidence instead of expressing mild confusion when he said them. Once tidy and uptight, smiling with false deference, he fell into disarray, his hair becoming a bit of a mess and wisping all over his head with curls somewhat looser than Binghe's own. In some ways, he became more pathetic than he'd ever been, but in others, he became someone Mobei Jun could genuinely rely on.

After that incident, whenever Luo Binghe heard the man call out to Mobei Jun with, "My king," it actually sounded like he wasn't hiding behind layers of subterfuge and meant whatever emotion came with his cry.

Mobei Jun still beat up on the man, but they were both lighter and had taken a different context now. Instead of genuine irritation and anger, he was, essentially, bullying him to show his affection. However, the dormouse man, being human, apparently still hadn't caught on to the difference. Not that Luo Binghe could blame him, honestly. Having been raised human himself, how was he supposed to tell when beating someone up meant they wanted to court you? Cultural differences.

Regardless, the former peak lord, perhaps forgotten even by his own sect, dwelled quietly in Mobei Jun's domain, running it like a well-oiled machine even when he was absent. The ice demon was, apparently, quietly considering crowning Shang Qinghua after seeing Shen Yuan's crowning ceremony, but Luo Binghe doubted the tired cultivator was wizened to that fact.

Regardless, if Mobei Jun truly thought that the man could possibly do something to assuage his concerns, then he might as well ask. He'd ask Shen Yuan, honestly, but he sort of wanted to keep this idea a secret and surprise him with the success if it worked out the way he'd like. Anyway, he took the lord of the Northern Desert up on his offer.

So, there he was now, staring at Shang Qinghua from the doorway as the small man, bundled in all manner of coats and cloaks to fend off the cold, stared at him with wide, amber eyes that had well-set dark circles under them. He'd been holding a pile of scrolls, though now, a few had dropped to the ground.

"...Ah. J-Junshang. This humble one wasn't, ah, aware you were coming to visit so soon. I mean, my king did say you were coming, but..."

"Hmm."

"Oh, goodness, uhm, please, ah—" He flustered, dropping even more of his scrolls before he gave up, scurrying over to a table and dropping them down haphazardly. He scrambled back and picked up his other scrolls, a wavering smile fighting to stick onto his face. "Come have a seat, come have a seat. Eh hehe. There's no need to stand over there and be a stranger."

Between the time Luo Binghe made his way to the soft chair sitting in front of Shang Qinghua's desk (what a strange thing to do...he'd started putting chairs in front of his working desk like that when his personality started shifting), the man had cleaned up the scrolls, fully closed the curtains around the windows and thrown more wood into the furnace to reduce the loss of heat.

After scrambling around, he slumped into his chair with a sigh, opening a rectangular container out of habit and scooping something that wasn't tobacco into an ornate, clearly gifted pipe. He snapped his fingers, creating a small flame at the tip of his index finger, and lit the contents. An earthy scent hinted with spice and pine began wisping from the end, which Shang Qinghua took a deep huff of before breathing it out in a faded cloud.

"So, ah, how can this one be of assistance, Junshang?"

This was the man who could call Mobei Jun's title from nearly anywhere and immediately summon him, huh.

"This lord was considering a gift for his empress. However, acquiring the materials for it would be difficult. You have much experience from trading, sales, and reviewing materials, so I shall seek your guidance for this matter."

"I'm unsure I can be of any service, but if possible, I'd be happy to oblige."

"Then... What do you know of methods to replace limbs?"

Thankfully, the man was quickwitted, seeming to immediately understand what he was going for. With a hum, he placed the tip of his pipe in his mouth, thinking.

"Junshang likely seeks prosthetics, however, the sort that currently exist can be a bit troublesome. They're rudimentary and may offer less in terms of mobility than one would prefer."

"Is there nothing that can mimic hand movements?"

"Ah...erh, I'm afraid I don't know of prosthetics that can do such fine-tuned work. However, this one is sure a dedicated manufacturer with some financial sponsorship would be able to make something. Though, if we consider how Junfeng* has developed his qi skills...perhaps something made custom for him would be best. That would also be difficult and take a while, but the results would likely be much more satisfactory."

As he settled into deep thought, the mousiness faded to reveal his more shrewd nature. Rodents all had a certain level of it, being herbivorous and desiring survival. In that sense, had he had more tact and grace, perhaps Luo Binghe could somewhat compare him to his A'Yuan.

Still, there was something else Mobei Jun mentioned to him. Just a little whisper of an idea.

"This lord was hoping for something that wouldn't take too long. Perhaps something more natural rather than constructed."

"Hmm?"

"You see, A'Yuan has quite a bit of knowledge regarding the flora and fauna of the three realms, and since the merging, he's been discovering further, previously uncovered creatures and beings. This lord one heard him mention something like a mushroom or seed or something that grows..."

"A mushroom, hm..." He rubbed at the side of his head, trying to think.

"Perhaps, would you know of some sort of plant or organism that can mimic limbs?"

"To mimic limbs... Ah." He breathed in, sucking in more of the smoke from his pipe, and pulled over a scroll that was apparently empty. He opened it, breathing out through the corner of his mouth as he got his inkwell and brush. "I believe I know what you're referring to. The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is more of a mushroom than a plant, but one could use it to grow another body. I can't believe I forgot about it... While this lord doesn't quite remember where it is, it was somewhere in the Bai Lu Forest, I think. If you search there..."

But as he wrote, he suddenly stopped, a frown curling between his brows.

"Ah, but, the merging..."

Right. The merging of the realms disrupted many places. The ecology of the world was altered, and some locations, animals, and plants were no longer available where they once were. Some may have even gone extinct over the last few years.

"If the realms hadn't—ah. Ah, no. Hah. Please don't take that the wrong way, Junshang. This humble one nearly misspoke. The merging of the realms happens every few hundred years. You simply brought about its next cycle. One could consider its occurrence as inevitable as the wind."

He gave off those little laughs of nervousness, sweat budding easily at his brow as he rambled placatingly. Luo Binghe didn't really care, honestly.

Inevitable as it may have been, he did indeed bring it about himself. The loss of lives—human, demon, spiritual, natural, or otherwise—were on his head. The ink of his name was made with the blood of millions.

Eventually, Shang Qinghua lost steam for his useless pandering, sighing and taking another deep breath of his pipe, apparently to calm himself.

"Then, if it's possible that the plant you mentioned is no longer available, do you know of anything else? Something else that could help."

This was where the thing Mobei Jun mentioned could appear. Possibly.

"This humble one doesn't know. Begging your forgiveness," he murmured, gazing up at him.

"Surely you can think of something. I... This lord owes it to his wife. After all I'd done to him."

The man's expression shifted quickly between a wince, a sympathetic grimace, and something thoughtfully soulful. "Erm, well... I mean, this one...isn't sure."

Another push, then.

"Maybe if, for example, the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed changed with the merging of the realms. Would such a thing be possible?"

"Well..."

Shang Qinghua looked off to the side, frowning and sweating, tapping his finger against the desk and the partially-inked scroll. Smoke curled around his head, and the furnace crackled behind Luo Binghe's body.

"Something like that..."

His eyes narrowed further as he thought.

"...Might be possible."

Shang Qinghua blinked.

Then, his expression eased a bit. Not so nervous, but more thoughtful.

"...Something like that...hm."

...This might be it.

Luo Binghe focused, thinking on what to say next.

"...What do you remember of the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed? How could it change?"

"Hmm?" Although his eyebrows rose, the cultivator didn't look up from where he'd started staring at a blank part of the scroll in front of him. "Well... The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is not really a flower. It's a mushroom. Rather, a type of fungus. Plants and fungi are different families. Though, a few of their traits can be a bit similar."

The amber tone of the man's irises brightened at the centers and darkened around the edges. Wisps of smoke from his pipe seemed to shift, somehow. Like they had begun dancing.

A qi Luo Binghe hadn't felt before sifted in the undersides of his conscious awareness of the room.

"Fungi... Right. You can't kill fungus in a way that matters. So, even if the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is gone, its fungal properties would likely allow it to survive. It has a mix of plant and fungal family properties...ah likely a mistake of mine..."

As Shang Qinghua continued murmuring, he began writing again, eyes focused on the scroll in front of him. The light from the fire paled in comparison to the glow from is irises.

"Underneath the ground...the mycelium that make the Sun-Moon fruiting bodies would probably still be there. While they would make the dew flower seeds using spiritual energy...hm. Fungi are adaptable. Plants are, too. Especially the wild ones...

"Fungi typically consume dead matter, while plants create their own food. A body made of Sun-Moon Dew cells wouldn't need to consume much of anything but sunlight and maybe water. Difficult to grow, but once grown, incredibly durable...yeah. So, no, the merging wouldn't kill them."

"...This...plant...fungus you speak of. How did it work?"

"Mm...by absorbing energy. If you prepare a body using it, if the soul leaves, it loses all function. So, it both consumes energy and creates its own. If you were to use the mycelium and feed it with qi, spiritual...or demonic. Why not demonic too? Yeah. Both. Either. Feed the mycelium with blood and qi, and it could create a body. If you attach it to a body missing a part of it...hm.

"...Yeah. That could work. Feed it, and it becomes a replacement for a limb. Maybe even an organ. The mycelium could work like nerves. Attach it to the right parts, and it can grow what's missing. It can't be easy, though, I don't think. It's not easy to grow a Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed into its mature state, so this...hm... What would I call it?"

He leaned back, eyes gazing toward the ceiling.

It felt as though the air went still.

"...Sun-Moon Dew Celium, I suppose. Mimics cells if you can use your qi. Cultivators and demons alike can use it. Perhaps one could make organs for non-cultivators as well, but they'd definitely need medical prowess for it. I'd make it easier to work with, but this is a dog-eat-dog world, isn't it? Nothing's ever so easy."

The smoke danced around Shang Qinghua's body. He breathed out more wisps of it. If Luo Binghe focused enough, he could see a second pair of eyes—large, faded, and, gazing up, just like the man was—hazed over in contemplation.

And then he blinked.

A log shifted behind Luo Binghe in the furnace, and Shang Qinghua startled, his irises back to their normal color.

The imposing qi was gone.

"Ah. Sorry. I, ah...kinda...blanked out?"

"...So you did. But it was insightful."

"This humble one's glad to, erh, help. I think." He sweated, glancing to the sides, like he wasn't sure what he was talking about.

"Right. Then. Where would this lord find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium?"

"Hmm?" He seemed confused for a moment, but then realization spread. "Oh. Oh! Junshang, that's a genius idea! As expected of the Emperor of the Merged Realms!"

Luo Binghe frowned a bit. "What?"

"I can't believe I didn't think of it. How could I forget?"

Shang Qinghua dipped his brush in ink and started writing on the scroll. Luo Binghe could've sworn he'd already written on it.

However, the only writing present there was something he'd started when talking about the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed. Nothing else. None of the words he'd written during his murmuring.

"While the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed's likely gone, the mycelium that formed it may still be there. If you take it and inject in his missing limbs, it'll feed off his qi and blood to form the missing parts on its own! It should work just like automail!"

"'Automail'?"

"Eh? Ah-haha, please excuse my ramblings, Junshang, that means nothing," he laughed nervously, finishing off what he was writing and quickly fanning it to get it to dry. "Junshang should find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium in Bai Lu Forest, or somewhere around it. As he is in charge of Huan Hua Palace's former quarters and holds such power, this lord believes it should be easier for you to find and work with than any prosthetic an engineer could make."

With the ink quickly dried (a type of ink he'd managed to make, apparently), he rolled the scroll up and wrapped it with ribbon, handing it over to him.

"Please make use of this lowly one's knowledge. I hope it works well for Junfeng."

"...This lord thanks you for your insight."

Once Luo Binghe was out the door, he acted as though he closed it. But instead, he peeked through a slight crack in it, watching as the dormouse of a man slumped back into his chair after standing to see him out.

He groaned, rubbing his head.

"Mmh. So tired."

It didn't take him long before he ended up nestling his head in his arms and falling asleep.

"...Mobei Jun."

The ice demon appeared before him from the shadows, his power stronger than ever in his own domain.

"Yes?"

"He's fallen asleep."

"Mmn. He often does after he creates something."

Perhaps the king of the Northern Desert didn't understand the implications. Or, maybe he did, and he simply let things be because the bullied cultivator was quite firmly loyal to him and under his thumb at any given moment.

But speaking something into existence was within the realm of the gods.

Because Luo Binghe had felt it. As soon as Shang Qinghua finished speaking, he felt, in the core of his soul, that this Sun-Moon Dew Celium he suddenly conceptualized truly existed in the world. It felt as real as any flower or mushroom he'd ever seen or eaten, like he'd already touched it despite never having done so.

Was Shang Qinghua some god from the upper realms made flesh? A vessel through which a god of some sort spoke? Was that the reason for his steady change into the person he was now?

"From what I know, it takes prompting from others and desire on his part. Then, he makes things that did not exist. What has he created?"

Ah, if you weren't there to witness its creation, did you not know of it?

How curious. Shang Qinghua certainly faired much better away from Cang Qiong Sect.

And he had to desire its creation, ah? So, it's possible that he wanted to help A'Yuan.

...Hm. Admirable. He would take that into consideration.

"Something that will help with my goal. As promised, you are relieved of your duties for the next week."

"Mmn."

"Also. When you do decide to crown Shang Qinghua, this lord would be honored to attend."

Mobei Jun hummed again, but he had a twinkle in his eye and a puff to his chest that somehow pissed Luo Binghe off a little. What was he doing, looking like he'd won? He could almost read it right off his face: my empress is better than yours.

God powers or not, he wouldn't give up his A'Yuan for anything. After all, he didn't need to be some vessel or something to make miracles happen.

Keep your hibernation-prone dormouse, his phoenix was waiting at home.

---

"...A'Yuan, this lord has a question."

"Mhh-huhhh...?"

"Do you happen to know what 'automail' is?"

Shen Yuan, covered in sweat and dozing off on his chest, suddenly sat up with as much physical power as he could muster, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead.

"Where did you hear that word?"

Luo Binghe grinned instead of answering. See? Shang Qinghua wasn't all that special. His beloved was probably a god, too.

----

I'm extremely baby at learning Chinese, so take my attempt with a big ol canister of salt, but since Junshang (君上) is basically "sovereign above others" and Luanfeng (鸾凤) is like saying "husband and wife," though the feng is literally "male phoenix," and a phoenix is traditionally the symbol of the empress where the dragon is the symbol of the emperor, I went with Junfeng (君凤) to kinda sorta make it like "sovereign phoenix."

Cause, I could've gone with the traditional term for empress, Hou (后), and put a "shang" on it for Houshang, but 1. Hou was rarely, if ever, the first symbol in the word or phrase, and 2. Hou (后) means queen and empress, yes, but it also means behind, rear, or after. And all things considered, I don't think Luo Binghe would want to give Shen Yuan a title saying he's behind him in anyway.

Moreover, considering that Shen Yuan died for the pieces of his soul to rejoin with the other pieces in Shen Jiu, and he went through the fire (Binghe torturing him) and came out renewed, well, the phoenix imagery seemed better. Also, the male phoenix is a symbol of joy, so, again, the language just fit better to me.

So, please excuse my partial bastardization of Chinese. I'm really trying earnestly though.

While called "empress" in English, Shen Yuan's official title in Chinese is Junfeng (unless someone who knows Chinese better comes up with something that fits a lot more haha).

*reread Airplane's adventures and has a rekindled and vibrant love for him all over again*

I couldn't leave him out of this AU. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, I said we were done with the narrative parts. Then I proceeded to write a lot of narrative. When will I stop lying to myself lmao

Parts 1-8: links on Part 9 Part 9 Part 10: here

Read on AO3

[gumbootillustrations]

day 20 - quote

"you are garroth, protector of the innocent, sworn to care and love for those in need"

my take on what should've happened at the end of s1. context and uncensored image below the cut (tw // mild gore (blood splatter))

so uh... yeah. at the end of season 1 of ashes, ashes, garroth kills zane in irene's cathedral.

the setup for this series of events goes wayyyy back, back to the first war of the magi. in ashes, ashes, xavier was a divine warrior, the justiciar - i've talked abt this in a few of my other posts (specifically in this one), but essentially he founds the jury and carves off nine pieces from his relic to form the juror relics, which give the jurors their uh, for lack of a better term, juror powers. however, during the first ru'auni-tu'lan war (about 400ish years before the main story of ashes, ashes takes place), the relics went missing - leaving the jurors as little more than figureheads for a good few centuries.

then, about 20-25 years before aph shows up on the outskirts of phoenix drop, the high priest of o'khasis at the time figures out a way to give the jurors their juror powers without the relics via a blood magick ritual. said ritual is successful, but it upsets the balance of the universe so badly that the primordial gods intervene and sick a plague on o'khasis, killing roughly a quarter of the population and almost including lord garte ro'meave in that statistic (yes, this is the "near-death experience" that is cited as turning him from a kind-of-asshole into a right cunt). during the plague, a toddler-age garroth gets really sick, and goes for a wander throughout the ro'meave residence and ends up in the attic, where he finds a strange, glowing rock that seems to be calling out to him... he remembers bugger all of this, and what he does remember he puts down to a fever dream.

later on down the line, after nicole fakes her death and disappears about three or so years before the start of ashes, ashes, zane begins to show signs of what garte believes to be dissatisfaction with his regime, and in an effort to bring zane back under his control, he forces xavier's relic into his only remaining son. if zane had the spiritual constitution to wield said relic, this would be all fine and well, but because he doesn't, he begins to suffer the effects of relic corruption, which slowly drives him insane until he's the mad, devoted-to-his-interpretation-of-irene-and-her-doctrine-above-all-else, lawful-evil, war-criminal priest that he's introduced to us as during the wedding arc of season one.

then, during the battle for phoenix drop, garroth hands himself and the amulet over to zane in an attempt to save phoenix drop from a battle that he knows they're doomed to lose. and zane turns him into a juror via the ritual - and because garroth has (unknowingly) been holding esmund's relic in him this whole time, everything turns to custard, and garroth is rendered effectively comatose for pretty much the entire confrontation between zane, lillian, and the phoenix drop gang (aph, aaron, laur, and katelyn) - until zane moves to attack and kill aphmau right after she's absorbed irene's relic.

so you know how in starlight we're told that the relics are sentient? and you know how in starlight we're told that the relics have the ability to control the bodies of their hosts?

well uh. esmund's relic reacts to the threat against its matron that it senses. and with garroth essentially catatonic and in no state to fight back against the possession, he stands up, corners zane in a barrier, and rips xavier's relic out of his brother's chest - killing him almost immediately - before collapsing again, leaving the others to drag him out of the cathedral when zoey shows up with the portal. the entire time, zane is screaming at him to snap out of it, to remember who he serves, to remember who his brother is, and all the while the others can only watch on in horror as garroth condemns the one man hes spent the entire season trying to save to death.

garroth doesn't find out that he's killed his only remaining sibling (to his knowledge) until he wakes up two days later.

so yeah. ro'bro angst.

let me know if u have any questions! :3

[oatmealaddiction]

I do think people need to get away from this idea that "things used to be so good," or "I wish for a boring era." Like, I understand the impulse, and I'm not saying the issues we're facing now aren't dire and aren't important, but I can't think of a period of time where everything was fine—and I think a lot of this idea of 'boring' times, just reads as amnesia to me.

There is no era where everything was cool and boring. The era before this was the Iraq War, the era before that The Cold War and the Vietnam War, the era before that World War II, and before that World War I, and before that The Civil War. There is no era where we all had money and houses and paid vacation and education was wonderful and there were no wars and we were all so much more open-minded. Even periods of relative peace and prosperity for the United States were not universally so for other countries. We can acknowledge wage theft and the ways America's wealth inequality has gotten worse, leading to more polarized political views and animosity towards minorities, but we can't do "Make America Great Again" in a liberal way, where we pretend the 1950's were this wonderful time where everyone was rolling in wealth and leisure time. The reason we're stunting right now as a society is because we're all so afraid of the future, we keep trying to escape to some bygone era that never existed, and unfortunately trying to emulate the past halts progress. We can't let dissatisfaction with our current era force us into a state of arrested development where we all sit around and wish we were living as indentured servants on a lord's property dying of the black plague circa 1387. You have to keep working and trying and hoping for better, and thinking of ways tomorrow might be brighter.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Chris Stein at The Guardian:

The US defense secretary, Pete Hegseth, suggested on Wednesday that he would not obey a federal court ruling against the deployments of national guard troops and US marines to Los Angeles, the latest example of the Trump administration’s willingness to ignore judges it disagrees with. The comments before the Senate armed services committee come as Donald Trump faces dozen of lawsuits over his policies, which his administration has responded to by avoiding compliance with orders it dislikes. In response, Democrats have claimed that Trump is sending the country into a constitutional crisis.

California has sued over Trump’s deployment of national guard troops to Los Angeles, and, last week, a federal judge ruled that control of soldiers should return to California’s Democratic governor, Gavin Newsom. An appeals court stayed that ruling and, in arguments on Tuesday, sounded ready to keep the soldiers under Donald Trump’s authority. “I don’t believe district courts should be determining national security policy. When it goes to the supreme court, we’ll see,” Hegseth told the Democratic senator Mazie Hirono. Facing similar questions from another Democrat, Elizabeth Warren, he said: “If the supreme court rules on a topic, we will abide by that.”

Hegseth was confirmed to lead the Pentagon after three Republican senators and all Democrats voted against his appointment, creating a tie vote on a cabinet nomination for only the second time in history. The tie was broken by the vice-president, JD Vance. There were few hints of dissatisfaction among GOP senators at the hearing, which was intended to focus on the Pentagon’s budgetary needs for the forthcoming fiscal year, but Democrats used it to press for more details on the deployment of troops to Los Angeles, as well as the turmoil that has plagued Hegseth’s top aides and the potential for the United States to join Israel’s attack on Iran.

The Democratic senator Elissa Slotkin asked whether troops deployed to southern California were allowed to arrest protesters or shoot them in the legs, as Trump is said to have attempted to order during his first term. “If necessary, in their own self-defense, they could temporarily detain and hand over to [Immigration and Customs Enforcement]. But there’s no arresting going on,” Hegseth said. On Friday, marines temporarily took into custody a US citizen at a federal building in Los Angeles. The secretary laughed when asked whether troops could shoot protesters, before telling Slotkin: “Senator, I’d be careful what you read in books and believing in, except for the Bible.” An exasperated Slotkin replied: “Oh my God.”

Trump has publicly mulled the possibility that the United States might strike Iran. Slotkin asked if the Pentagon had plans for what the US military would do after toppling its government. “We have plans for everything,” Hegseth said, prompting the committee’s Republican chair, Roger Wicker, to note that the secretary was scheduled to answer further questions in a behind-closed-doors session later that afternoon. In addition to an aggressive purge of diversity and equity policies from the military, Hegseth has also ordered that military bases that were renamed under Joe Biden because they honored figures in the Confederacy to revert to their previous names – but officially honoring various US soldiers with the same name.

DUI Hire Pete Hegseth embarrasses himself in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee, says that he would disobey any court ruling against the Trump Regime’s lawless deploying of military in LA.

[reason-with-the-underdog]

kaveh & alhaitham & seeing each other as their mirrors

i love how both kaveh & alhaitham use a mirror analogy for each other, specifically as a way to reconcile with (kaveh) and understand (alhaitham) the way the world works

because there's a huge difference in tone for how their character stories frame the exact same circumstances + analogy

in kaveh's version of the mirror analogy, he's focused on the two sides "that can never be integrated," between which lies the entire world

meanwhile alhaitham is more focused on how a mirror can extend an individual's capacity to view the world beyond which can be seen alone

which is almost a validation of kaveh's belief that "wisdom should be uncovered by many people"

while kaveh's focus on the disparity of the two sides of the mirror is almost like alhaitham's argument that geniuses should acknowledge & own their differences from ordinary people

back again to how they both talk about their shared housing arrangement:

this is yet another showcase of how alhaitham's narrative voice is misleading:

"He is well aware of the dissatisfaction Kaveh might have but it matters not to him"

which sounds like alhaitham is being dismissive of kaveh's feelings

but its bc he knows "Kaveh would be plagued by guilty conscience" more than real discontent with the situation..

meanwhile there's also the irony of kaveh thinking "the most unshakable part of one's past is a friend that will never change"

when alhaitham very much has changed since their akademiya days, but kaveh is refusing to notice (bc then he'll recognise what alhaitham's feelings really are...)

at the time of that character story i think kaveh genuinely felt alone and that he and alhaitham weren't really on good enough terms that alhaitham would do something nice without some expectation of return (why he built mehrak) hence his character development in PoP & hangout

[rippersz]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Fem!Named!Reader x Larissa Weems; (Fluffy, romantic, ships in the night, angst) (8K word count)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Why are you here?

Why are you here if you’re so tired? So exhausted? So bored?

Why are you looking for meaning in a foreign country? And why can’t you find it? Don’t you know passion isn’t found in the street? Don’t you know it doesn’t just exist beneath the light rain and cold wind? Your shaking body won’t get you anywhere but across the cobblestone bridge - and even then, you must trudge. Wade through the distinct desire to fall asleep.

Why are you trying so hard to stay awake?

You have come here for a reason - for an escape - and yet, you are plagued with the same thing that haunted you back home. It is inescapable, this distinct feeling of emotional helplessness. You feel too much or you feel too little. You explode with desire, with sadness, with anger, or you are cool and detached. You cannot find an in between. You cannot find a warm, soothing balance. You walk the line of extremes and get upset when the grey areas cease to exist.

So you run away to France and think that you can find yourself in what? Hm? In the Eiffel? In the lights? In the love? Please. You have not felt love. You have not felt real love. You have not felt anything beyond passion and lust, and even then those feelings were artificial. Forced, almost. You have looked at men and you have seen their shoulders and you have witnessed the bobbing of their throats and the easy fluff of their hair and you have been thoroughly unimpressed. For what exists for you there? What is in their strong arms? What is in their DNA? What lies in them that cannot be discovered elsewhere? Why are you expected to view them and want them?

Why are you expected to love?

So many questions, not many answers. They swirl around inside like the milkiness of an oatmeal bath, opaque and bottomless. They swirl and you watch. Utterly mesmerized. Hypnotized until you feel the distinct desire to fall asleep. Constantly tired, you are. Always so exhausted, dragging your feet along the pavement. Blindly clutching the collar of the black coat that covers your arms and back. Its hood leaves your face bare for the elements. Wind sweeps and rain smacks and you are certain you’ll get sick from walking out so late at night in the cold.

What on Earth came over you? Who could ever be so stupid?

Shivers run the length of your body. You feel like a wet dog thrown out in the street, proving far too difficult for the family to continue dealing with. Too loud and too needy and too caked with mud everytime you walked into the house, so they had no choice but to discard you. It is better, after all, than having a defective animal. No one wants a dog who cannot love. No one wants a dog who cannot be understood. No one wants a stray. And no one-no one-wants a shivering pup walking slowly on unsteady legs. No one wants that. No one wants you.

Except for the sign in the distance, blurry and far away - past the stoplight and across the street. A golden light flickers brightly above an evergreen background, and you can just barely make out, through squinted eyes, the bold gold lettering. ‘Madame: A 1920’s Brasserie’. You can’t help but think that it’s a rather silly name. Madame. Can’t get more French than that. And, it appears, can’t get more authentic. The restaurant stands out in a way that borders on tacky. It is all dark mahogany, golden accents, and small details of matte red and green. The sconces on the walls glow like mini-fires, and you find yourself… drawn. Intrigued. It is inviting and it is late. The windows are dark; the world inside is its own. And you need an escape. A proper one. None of this wandering shit that leads you to nowhere but a random spot with aching feet and the distinct feeling of dissatisfaction. None of this waiting around emptiness.

You are cold and it looks warm and you are just an abandoned dog. How can they expect you to deny yourself some peace?

–

The very moment your boot slides over the threshold, tapping down lightly on a dark wooden floor, your body is changed. A veil of something different flows over your shoulders, draping behind you, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve stepped into another world.

Have you? Or were you just hit by a car in the middle of the road and slipped into the Afterlife?

If that had happened, and you were indeed dead, then the Afterlife was an absolute treat. It seems like a small speakeasy, with a stage at the very back of the restaurant - lit up by a few spotlights and otherwise empty aside from a single microphone stand and a piano. In the dark corner beside it, there’s a cello, a trumpet case, and a deconstructed set of drums. The lights are dimmed so intensely that only the flickers of tabletop candlelight and a few burning wicks by the bar help you squint through hazy darkness. It feels like a dream as smoky hands curl into the air and caress your lungs as you breathe, creating something intoxicating when paired with the heady scent of mixed perfumes. Mixed perfumes that all seem to belong to women. Only women. It’s not crowded but a few souls linger. Couples leaning into each other at their booths, their pupils melting into hearts. Friends sitting lazily at one of the center tables, toasting to something you can’t hear. A group of flirts. A lonely soul or two nursing martinis by the stage. A woman at the bar. The bartender. One server drawing in a notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world. All women. All… dated. Old fashioned. It feels like you’ve stepped into the 1950’s - or something like that. You’ve never been very good with time. But they are different. Wearing dresses with pulled in waists, collars, square necklines, bateau necklines, coats and hats and heels and gloves. Not a phone in sight. Some are in suits, too. Marlene Dietrich type suits. Tipping The Velvet type suits. Very dapper. Very clean. You’re overwhelmed.

Distantly, somewhere, the gentle keys of piano jazz fill the buzzing room - and you feel lightheaded. Dizzy with warmth. The rain purrs against the windows, blowing with the wind trying to get to you. But you have reached safety. Nirvana. And you find yourself itching to shrug out of your coat and disappear into a glass of something tangy and sweet.

“Amaretto sour,” you murmur to the lady behind the bar, sluggishly pushing back the hood from your head.

“Choose somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

The response is immediate. And annoying. You pause, halfway out of your coat, and look from the polished mahogany of the bar’s surface to the amused glint in the bartender’s eyes. There’s a cloth thrown over her shoulder and a dark loose vest sitting tight against her button up. White. Sleeves scrunched by the elbows. A smirk on her lips. Your gaze melts into a glare.

Stop looking at me like that. I’m just a dog. I don’t want whatever smiles you have to offer.

“I don’t know,” you growl, tugging the coat from your body so harshly it nearly tears your arms off.

But she doesn’t seem to mind your irritation, and better yet, she doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes only track the way you throw your coat over the back of your chair and push yourself onto the high-top stool. You reason your anger is probably out of place in such a dreamy world, just like your choice of alcohol, but you’re too tired and cold to bother giving her a smile. And being kind has proven to be more and more exhausting as the days go by. It’s not like she deserves it anyway, being so casual with you. Standing so tall, with such confidence, not even the slightest bit weary or weathered from the long day. You don’t even know what time it is - only that it’s late. Past the twinkling stars kind of late. Way past sunset kind of late. So late that you think the restaurant may be closing but you’re not even sure. No one has left. The women are still happy, buzzed and delighted by the concoctions in their glasses. Still all lonely by the stage. Still knee-deep in the quiet place of Madame.

Still a silly fucking name.

“Bailey’s Colada then,” you drawl, running a hand through your messy curls. “And an extra shot of pineapple juice. I dunno.” You shrug, leaning into your hands as your elbows press into the wood of the bar. They’re cold, covering your eyes. Damp. Tense with the chill from the rain you just escaped. And eager to feel something grounding.

Too bad the bartender is still a bitch.

“I’ll give you one more try.” She thinks she’s so clever, smiling at you like that. She thinks she’s so charming.

You want to rip her happy eyes out.

You want to sleep.

“Just. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Your gaze shoots daggers, piercing her right through the heart between the gaps of your fingers.

If you were any more aware of your surroundings, instead of just appreciative, then you’d notice that the only liquor they serve is the kind produced during the 1950’s. The popular drinks back in the day. True to the time. Devoted to the piece. Overall very good with details. But details are not something you have the energy to notice. And there’s not a damn thing on Earth that can tear you away from the drugged feeling of your eyes slowly drooping. Growing hazy with fatigue. Vision blurring. Body shivering, still dripping small beads of water from your coattails onto the floor. Distantly, you hear the bartender speak.

“Hey- are you okay?”

No, you want to say. No, fucker. Can’t you see I’m not okay? Just get me a damn drink and-

“If you don’t mind my interrupting,” a voice - deep, English, breaks through your haze. “I suggest a Tom Collins.”

Great. And I suggest you shut the Hell up.

“That work for you, princess?”

You want to reach across the bar and strangle her so bad that your cold fingers twitch, but something stops you. No- someone stops you.

“She’s exhausted, Leslie. Leave her be.”

Yeah. Finally a person who has a fucking clue.

You want to speak, and perhaps tell the person to go away, or throw your hands up in the air and yell ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’, but before you can open your mouth, the seat next to you squeaks. It spins around, dragged lightly by a white-gloved hand, before it moves to accompany a figure. A figure with a lot of misplaced confidence and a lot of audacity. A lot of self importance and a lot of gall. A lot of… oh.

You swallow.

A lot of height, as well. A lot of height and a lot of elegance. She slips into the chair with practiced ease, placing her hands in the right places and her heels on the right rungs, tugging the chair to spin around and face- you. You. Of course you. You, who are the odd one out. You, who waltzed in from 2024. You, who are not one of them. You, an abandoned dog and you, who are cosplaying as a content human. Of course the stranger turns to face you. And of course she is beautiful. All pale skin and shining blue eyes and snowy curls pinned extravagantly atop her head. A jawline that is softer than fresh downy pillows and could cut glass if it grows tense. Long arms. Long legs. Red lips. A scar-so faint you have to squint-but a scar nonetheless. You wonder where she got it from. You wonder why you wonder.

“It’s palatable,” the stranger speaks. The tip of her nose moves with her words. It’s cute. She has a very distinct face. Sharp features. Eyes not too hooded but not too wide. They don’t look at you directly, and instead focus on a spot near your hand. On the mahogany, where it’s (thank god) clean.

The bartender turns her back to make the drink and you take that moment, away from her bastard prying eyes, to speak.

“I hope so.” It’s ruder than intended, but doesn’t seem to offend. Those red lips quirk into a smile, and she looks at you- finally- from beneath dark lashes. Her makeup is fresh. Her skin looks warm.

“The Amaretto Sour and Bailey’s Irish Cream only rose to fame in the 1970’s,” her covered fingers run along the smooth wood, “The Mai Tai, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fiz, on the other hand…” She tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder, and flicks her eyes from you to the bar. It’s endearing, annoyingly enough. And you’re sure that for a second, the blush on her cheekbones is a figment of your imagination.

For some reason, you shoot her a wry smile.

“Lemme guess… popular in the 50’s?”

An auburn eyebrow ticks up, splashing feigned surprise across that pretty face.

“How did you know?” Her tone is pitched a bit too high as she gasps. A bit too hysterical. It makes you roll your eyes and look away, taking a moment to glance at the dark floor beneath your feet. You shake your head.

Maybe it’s her beauty. Maybe it’s her humor. Maybe it’s the fact that she understands you’re so tired you could fall asleep right there where you sit.

“Tom Collins,” the bartender steals your attention. The glass is full, sliding across the bar at top speed, and you can barely hope to reach out and catch it before the stranger’s white glove is stopping it from tipping right over the edge. Only a splash of the sweet drink spills onto clean leather. You watch. You get the distinct urge to lean over and lick it clean.

Just like any other mutt. Eager to lap up the scraps. Even when they’re not yours.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up, Leslie? I thought the bar was closed.” Leathered fingers curl around the tall glass, squeaking lightly beneath the strength of her pressure.

“And why would you think that, Larissa?”

Larissa. Name fit for a dream.

The bartender doesn’t look too happy. There’s something acrid in her expression, something that pulls at her lips in a way most unpleasant. She looks sour. Jealous. Of her? No. No, not of her.

Of you?

Yes. Absolutely of you. You can see it in the way her green eyes shift- running from your face to Larissa’s and back again. Upset. Betrayed. Let down. It makes you want to smile. Larissa seems kind. The bitch behind the bar isn’t, you’ve decided. Not fucking kind at all. And you’re happy when Larissa’s pretty red lips stretch into a bright smile. The very lingerings of derision hide in the sweet lines beside her mouth.

“It’s a quarter after midnight, Leslie. And you close at-”

“11:30, yeah I know. Whatever.” And with that shit attitude, Leslie tugs the cloth from her shoulder and walks away; leaving you to your precious company.

Your precious company who takes the glass from the bar and holds it out to you, completely unphased by the cold condensation wetting her glove. It’s later than you thought it was, but you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No. No, you don’t. So you hide your surprise and stare into Larissa’s eyes instead.

“A peace offering?”

Her smile, this time, is genuine. Wide and perfect, showing off those white teeth and the delightful little scrunch of her nose.

“Yes,” and the warmest chuckle rumbles up from her pale throat, “a peace offering.”

You nod and take the glass. It’s very cold, but you don’t feel it. Not when she’s looking at you like that. Watching you raise it in a silent toast and a quiet thanks. Her eyes follow you when you bring it to your lips, when you drink, and when you allow your expression to scrunch up only the tiniest bit. She lets out a loud laugh at the sight of that, and brings a large palm up to cover her open mouth, probably finding her exquisite joy to be too unladylike. You almost tell her to take it away, to allow herself to cackle freely, but it’s not your place. You’re just a dog. And you’re too busy swigging down more ‘zesty lemonade’ to pause and perhaps mention that her bright laugh is something to be marveled at. To be joined in.

You’ve never felt this way.

This way… what is this way? Amusement? No. You’ve felt that before. Happiness? No, because it’s not that. You’ve felt that - a long time ago. Contentment? No. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you want to stay forever. In fact, you kind of want to leave. It suddenly feels too stifling. Too… romantic. Ah. That’s it. Romantic. Looking into those twinkling blue eyes and finding genuine intrigue there. Interest. She is beautiful and you want more. More conversation. More of her voice. Because there she sits, waltzing over to your spot, making your eyes widen, and giving you a drink. One that isn’t too bad either - after getting over the initial tartness that sort of stings your tongue. And she just sort of expects you to be okay with it? To not want more? And more? And more? You are a dog and you want to tell her that.

I am a dog, Larissa. I have learned to be desperate. I have known what it is to want for more. Can you give me more? Just another smile for a sweet stranger?

“I don’t mean to laugh,” her voice is gentle, becoming clearer once she takes her hand away from her mouth, “but your face was- it was…”

“What?” You lick your lips, tilting your head. “What was it like?” And you can’t help but pull another face, exaggerating it, crossing your eyes and frowning, smoldering, and sneering all at the same time. Thank goodness it seems to do the trick as in the next moment, you hear a surprised stuttering laugh fill the air. It makes for the most beautiful harmony with Madame’s soft piano music; lilting and light and gorgeous. A silver lining. A golden undertone. You follow in her beautiful steps and join her in laughing.

“Was it like that?” You grin, taking another sip. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Larissa gasps and nods, pressing a hand to her chest, “Precisely.”

Your combined chuckles eventually fade and silence falls like the rain outside. Softer, now. A light brush against the windows - like the storm decided to calm as soon as Larissa sat down beside you. But that’s a silly thought. Storms don’t bend to the actions of women.

Except, you ponder, watching Larissa pick invisible fuzzies off of her beige coat, they may make exceptions.

“Where are you from?” You say it so quickly you don’t even realize it comes from your own mouth. Just your luck that your inner thoughts betray you.

But Larissa only looks charmed, and possibly grateful for a conversation starter. She straightens up in her spot, giving you her full attention. It is excruciating. It kills the shivering you’ve been indulging in since your outside excursion - and fills you with something just short of… giddy.

“The United Kingdom originally, but Vermont is where I stay now,” she responds, resting her palms along the bar’s edge.

Vermont? Odd.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Long way from Vermont, aren’t you?”

Those red lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. True, you think she says in her head. Very true.

“Indeed,” blue eyes sparkle, “I figured I needed a holiday.” She tilts her head and you know the question is coming. “Are you a long way from home as well?” It’s a wonderful question. A good question. A perfect question, truly. You want to tell her yes but you’re not sure if that’s the truth.

“I-” Well. Abandoned dogs don’t have homes, Larissa. Can’t you see that in me? Can’t you recognize it? Don’t you know?

Apparently not. Her beautiful face is still open and inviting, unshaded by judgment. Unperturbed by your unfamiliarity. You don’t know how to react to that. How to respond to her kindness. Her patience. She is unknowingly opening a can of worms and you are knowingly staring at her, mouth flapping open and closed, trying to conjure up words that don’t sound like I have no home.

“Please don’t feel obligated to answer,” Larissa waves her hand in the air, “I understand it’s quite personal.”

Oh. How sweet you are to a stray.

“No, I just… I’m a little lost right now,” you admit with a sigh, tipping the glass back until you can swallow the rest of the liquor in one smooth gulp. Something shifts in Larissa’s expression while you lose yourself in the feeling of alcohol sitting in your throat. It’s a miniscule difference when you look at her again, but you spot it anyway. Sadness. Melancholy. Understanding. Pity. All scuttling around in the depths of her eyes and the furrow of her brows and the downturn of her lips.

Normally you hate pity. Normally you despise it. Normally you figure it isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it. You’re just a person with no wind and no destination and no path. You’re just a dog overdue. So why do you need pity? Why do you have it? Why do you get so angry at anyone who wants to give it to you? And why is Larissa any different? She’s still a stranger. Just one with a pretty face. And beautiful hair. And the most gorgeous voice…

“Doing a bit of soul searching then?” Her tone is intentionally light.

“Yeah,” the glass makes a small ‘clink’ against the bartop, “I guess so.”

Kind of. Sort of. Yes? And no. Whose soul are you searching for? Which life do you want? Why are you so lost, when they say that everyone has a place on Earth? Where is your place?

Do you have one?

“Why France?”

“Good question,” you shrug, not really knowing the answer yourself. “City of lights, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Larissa nods, drumming her fingers against the wood. “City of love, as well. In case you haven’t heard.”

Yes. She’s right. Very right. You lick your lips and nod along. City of love, indeed. City of love with the way that dress looks on her, for sure. City of love with the way she looks at you, too. City of love with the way she smells. Like vanilla and jasmine. Strong, intense, a cologne that probably costs a million dollars - for a woman that looks like a million dollars. City of love. It’s written in the piano that fills your silences. In the air that breathes between your bodies. In the bubble of privacy that lives on when Leslie disappears from behind the bar with a heavy clang of its trapped door. She throws the cloth onto the wood, shoots one last glare at the two of you from over her shoulder, and fucks off into the dark of the stage area. Probably to pick up some other sad woman that’s just as lost as you.

On any other night, I may be the person she takes home. But right now I’m with Larissa. And that’s where I’m gonna stay.

“Not for her,” you snark, watching Leslie retreat before turning back to your company.

Larissa hums, but her eyes don’t follow the bartender like yours did. Instead, they stay on you. Glued to the side of your face, then to the full of your features when you give her a small disgusted expression. You’re rewarded with a light chuckle. “Yes, except for her,” she clears her throat. “Unfortunately, Leslie has always been…”

“Rude?” You start, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning on your palm, “Annoying? Flirty? Shitty? To name a few,” you roll your eyes, flipping your hand in the air.

Larissa only closes her eyes and snorts. “She has always been… eager? I guess that’s the right word. Eager.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Eager people are desperate people. Desperate people are loose cannons. They’d do anything for- well- anything. And Larissa is not an ‘anything’. Larissa is not a reward. And you are not a desperate, eager person. You are not a loose cannon. You’re just a lost one. A rusted lost contraption that was thrown off of the side of a pirate ship. Silly loose cannon, searching for land. No reward.

“For you?” The disapproval that colors your tone does not seem to surprise Larissa. In fact, it only makes her nod.

“Yes, I’m afraid. Though I can’t imagine why,” those broad shoulders of hers shrug, “I’m not nearly as fascinating as half of the women that grace this bar.”

That’s what you think.

“I beg to differ.” It comes out so confidently you kind of want to punch yourself in the mouth. What the fuck do you mean you beg to differ? What would you like to follow that up with? What would you like to say? Oh no, Larissa. You are WAY more fascinating than the people that ‘grace this bar’. You are WAY more intriguing. Leslie has good taste, sure, but a shit attitude about it. I can imagine why she fancies you. I can imagine why anyone would. Yeah right. You can’t say that. But you’re still curious, so instead of giving her a moment to register and respond, you ask the burning question. “How long have you been on holiday if you’re so sure?” But really the question is: How often do you come here?

The pink in porcelain cheeks has deepened. You’re sure it’s from your comment, but you refuse to allow the buzzing of your heart get any worse. It’s already filling your ears, drowning out the piano, and you yearn for the safety of contentment. The same contentment you didn’t feel before. Is this still romance? Or was this never romance at all?

“About three weeks. An extended stay. Though I must admit, I’m nervous about returning to work. I fear I’ve left it too long,” she frowns, twisting her lips in a way that says ‘But what can you do?’.

“Three weeks! What do you do for work?” If there were some more drink in your mouth, you probably would’ve spat it out by accident. Three weeks? Sort of a long time. A long time to be away from work and a long time to be alone.

Unless she isn’t alone… to which you’d actually like to leave right now if that’s the case.

There's hesitance in her eyes. "I'm... a school principal," she says slowly, looking away. “But I needed it. Prolonged stress isn’t good for me. Or for anyone, really.” Her voice softens, carried away by the music as she glances down at her hands. You get the strange desire to hold them. It pops up first as a soft urge in your mind before barrelling forward and pressing hard against the front wall of your thoughts. Reach out and hold them. Hold them. They are soft. They are the kind of hands that reach out and pet the strays. Feed the strays.

But you’re too scared you’ll bite.

“Preach,” you murmur, unsure of how to continue. What are the duties of a school principal? “But- ya know. Good for you I guess. Are you returning to Vermont soon?”

“My flight leaves at seven tomorrow. I’ll get back at approximately half past five in the morning if I’m lucky.”

“Hm. And if you’re unlucky?”

Another small smile.

“Then I’ll never get back.”

You find that to be quite interesting. She’s not worried about her job in a way that speaks to severe anxiety, but in a way that speaks to nervousness regarding her passion. Regarding the children she has to look after. The parents she has to (no doubt) reassure. The world that she is important in. The oil that runs through the machine. She keeps them going - and she has been gone for three weeks. You’re rather curious about the aftermath, and about the scene she will return to upon arrival, but it’s hopeless and misplaced. You will not see what happens. You will not spot the relief on her face. You will not know how life continues for her. Because she is leaving, this beautiful stranger, and she has a home. And you are a stray dog. Abandoned. Hungry. More, more, more. She does not want. She is satiated. Larissa has lived out her dream here, her relaxation, and now it is time to turn around and face the music. Return home. And be part of the family again.

How does that feel? Family?

“How long do you plan on staying?” She asks, looking just as curious as you feel.

A sigh rattles your bones as you lean your head back and push out your chest, relishing in the pops that run down your spine. Exhaustion is creeping again. You didn’t even notice it was gone.

“Probably… forever?” It’s not the truth.

“That can’t be true.”

“No,” you groan, “it’s not. So I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll leave tomorrow, too. We’ll see, I guess.”

That pretty gaze burns into the side of your face. It is full of questions, even when you’re not meeting it, and you’re suddenly sort of scared to look at her again. Scared that she’ll know everything. Scared that she’ll realize what you really are. Not just lost, but hopeless. No way of being found. Because what will you do and where will you go? Nothing and nothing. That seems to be the answer these days. Nothing.

“Do you have any family you’re traveling with?”

Her voice is soft again. Colored with feeling. What is she feeling? Is it still pity? You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, just to check. No. Yes? No. Maybe. Could be. Or it could be something else. Could be hope. Could be sadness. Could be something better. You can’t clock it, so you return with a question of your own. It stings you to say it- embarrasses you to wonder- but you can’t help yourself. You’re just a dog. You need more.

“Do you have anyone that will be waiting for you at 5 in the morning?”

Her eyebrows twitch for the smallest shade of a second. It’s barely there, but you see it anyway. You see how she frowns and recovers. Maybe that was too far. Maybe that was too blunt. Maybe you should just hold your fucking tongue and stop digging into other people’s business-

“Honestly? No. I’ll probably have to grab a taxi from the airport.”

Oh.

For some reason that’s worse. Worse than if she said yes. Worse than if she started to go on a tirade about a lover waiting for her. Worse than if she mentioned a gaggle of friends or even a coworker. How can she just have- that? That? A taxi? You can’t hide the way your face falls. You just can’t. And you can’t contain the way your heart breaks a little. Crackling like a burning fire, pounding away behind the frailness of your chest. Dropping pieces all over the floor of your innards as you see Larissa get lost staring into space. Probably looking over the different types of liquor bottles as she figures out how best to get a cab from the airport with the least amount of trouble. You kind of want to reach over and shake her shoulders. Take her out of her own head. Insist that it’ll be okay. But of course it’ll be okay - she never said it wouldn’t. She never made any indication that being alone was something she didn’t like.

However, she did walk over to you, didn’t she? And she did sit down next to you. And she was alone at the bar. So maybe the isolation is getting to her. Maybe she needs to go back home. Maybe you need to go with her.

Maybe you need to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have any family,” you respond, figuring it’s only fair. “So it’s just me.”

Larissa gives you a distracted hum before she takes her eyes away from a place over your shoulder and moves them to your face. To your eyelashes and your eyebrows and your cheeks and your nose. You don’t know what she sees. Hopefully not a dog.

“And no prior commitments? No one waiting for you either?” She seems hesitant to ask, but you know it’s just because she doesn’t want to be impolite.

Oh, Larissa. You can’t offend dogs, Larissa. Others can but not you.

“No. No roots, if that’s what you mean.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Do you?”

A long leg goes sliding up to cross over the other and for a second, you’re lost in the smooth length of them. Her calves and thighs are gorgeous. The hem of her dress falls below the knee. A little restricting but classy. She is very beautiful. And slowly, as the night progresses, you’re beginning to fear what will happen when she leaves. Which is silly, because she’s still a stranger. She doesn’t even know your name. And she has a home to return to and you’re doomed for the rest of your life.

“I believe I do, yes.” And that’s enough of an answer for you.

From that sweet point on, you fall into silence.

The ambience of Madame hasn’t shifted in the slightest. The earlier smoke only renewed itself once certain cigarettes ran out - and the piano looped into another song. Probably playing over a speaker system you couldn’t see or a record player somewhere in the dark. No one takes center stage. No one leaves. It’s still empty drinks, empty hearts, empty heads, and full laughter. Easy chatter. Women getting closer. Women holding hands. Women with their palms on each other’s thighs. Women with lipstick marks on their cheeks. Women with perfectly pinned hair, like Larissa’s, are left with loose curls and messy ends - easily destroyed by a wandering hand or a particularly heavy kiss. You refuse to blush at the sight of that when you turn around and make eye contact with a woman at a booth, but your body doesn’t listen. Your body finds it scandalous. Your body finds it exciting.

There are no threats. There are no men. No shouts, no loud drinking, no busy football games, no beer-stained tables and hugs that hit a bit too hard. There’s no gag-worthy cologne and no clumsy feet stepping on the toes of ladies and no drunken asks for a number or company home. There’s only peace. Sweet and fragile, not even broken by the wind and rain that beats and floats against the windows. You wonder when the place closes if it’s already so late.

You wonder why there’s so many women.

“There was no um-” your throat grows hoarse before you clear it, putting a hand up to your mouth while you look at Larissa. She’s waiting patiently for you to continue. “There was no… advertisement? I guess? That said this place was- is it like… a lesbian… bar? Or something?” You sound more and more childish the higher your voice goes but Larissa’s smile is gentle.

“There’s no advertisement needed. Everyone knows Madame in Paris is a place of community acceptance. However, it’s apparently more popular in the Spring. Tourist season and all that.”

“Oh.” Oh.

Larissa’s brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Kind of. Uh…

“No I just- it’s not Spring now?” You frown, lifting your elbow from the bartop and putting your arm in your lap. What does she mean?

“No,” Larissa shakes her head slowly, stopping the light drum of her fingers. “It’s Autumn. November, actually.”

November? But…

“Huh,” you blink, “must be more lost than I thought. Weird.”

The very beginnings of a frown pull at those red lips, giving away her worry; and for some reason, you’re hasty to reassure her.

“But it’s probably just the exhaustion or something,” you huff out a self-deprecating smile, “No biggie. Maybe I’m like- too buzzed to comprehend. Or too hungry. I don’t know,” you gesture to your head, waving off the concern that she was going to show you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Perhaps you need dinner then,” Larissa tilts her head, looking at you from beneath her eyelashes.

In that moment, she’s perhaps the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen. Lit by low candle light. Shadowed by her own form of mystery. You kind of want to lean over and kiss her - which is weird, because her lips are just like any other person’s lips, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. But dogs change sometimes, don’t they? Just like any other creature. Dogs change. And instead of wanting for more, they want for something different.

“Yeah. Perhaps I do.”

Your company takes a moment to look behind you, running her gaze over the interior of the restaurant. You see her blue eyes flit from couple to couple and group to group and crying woman to the next crying woman. You see her nose wrinkle when she spots all of the cigarettes and you see the twitch in her kitten-heeled foot before she’s uncrossing her legs and moving to stand. Every nerve in your body jumps to stand with her. To follow her lead and let her whisk you away. But you don’t know if that’s what she wants - and you don’t want to assume just to be let down. You don’t want her to look at you like ‘What the fuck are you standing up for?’ so you stay in your seat and watch her fix up her coat, straighten her gloves, and grasp the purse on the back of her chair. Everything about her is so elegant. Smooth. Maybe you’re hallucinating and she’s only a dream.

“I know a place nearby. Do you want to join me?”

You look from her hands to her face, caught frozen by the timber of her voice. Do you want to join me?

“Is- are you sure?” Your heart is screaming.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Larissa gives you a small confused smile.

You lick your lips. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Alright. Do you want to tell me on the way?”

No one ever asks. Everyone stopped a long time ago. There’s no need to wonder, to know, when everyone understands that you’ll just disappear sooner or later. Abandoned dog with an abandoned mind. But here she is asking - and it would be rude to ignore her.

“Sure.”

—

The weather is still brisk when you step outside. The rain is not as harsh and the wind not as bad, but the chill is just as strong. It seeps through your coat rather quickly and you have to shove your hands in your pockets to hide the way they shake. Larissa seems to be faring much better, walking along at a steady pace and adding to the clicks your boots leave behind on the pavement. Despite the dreary weather and the dark sky, threatening to break with another downpour at any moment, the streetlamps are beautiful. Guiding you both through the midnight haze and the swiftly settling fog. You feel like a ghost, floating along there by your company’s side, trying to keep yourself from staring up at her. The bar’s seating apparently did her no favors as when she stood up and led the way outside, you nearly tripped over yourself upon noticing the height difference. She is… she is something extraordinary. You wonder why you’re the one there beside her. Maybe Leslie had a better chance. Maybe you’re just a placeholder until she leaves.

“Are you going to make me guess?” She says eventually, pausing mid-stride to look down at you.

There’s only a few inches difference. Maybe a near foot. You’re not sure. You haven’t asked. But you want to. Curious dog.

“Sure,” you shrug, amused by the way she sighs and continues forward. “It’s not that hard.”

“Elizabeth,” she starts.

Cute.

“No.”

“Emily.”

“No.”

“…Erin?”

“No. What’s with all the ‘E’ names?”

“Would you prefer I start at ‘A’?”

“Might make it easier.”

“Nothing will make this easier.”

The walk feels like it goes on for ages the more she speaks. One name after the other after the other. You smile at the ones that are close and snort at the ones that could never suit you. Larissa only rolls her eyes and tries again. It’s silly and fun and lighthearted and you feel something inside you lighten. Though maybe it’s the Tom Collins, finally kicking in after a day of no food and one boozy drink. Larissa doesn’t seem to mind your occasional giggles and huffs - she even joins you, especially when you almost trip over your feet walking along the curb and she has to reach out and tug you back from the street and the ground. Her coat is cold but her body feels warm. There’s a small droplet of rain that hangs off of a strand of white hair behind her ear and you’re desperate to brush it away, but you don’t. You can’t. Can’t gather the energy to reach out. Can’t gather the energy to get your hopes up. So you move away and the game continues.

Down the street, along this turn and that, through rights and lefts and around lamp posts and street lights and intersections and parks. Far far away and all over the place. You walk for so long your legs begin to twinge - and then she says it.

“Jasmine?”

“Nope.”

“Lilith.”

“No.”

You’re waiting for a stoplight to turn red, but Larissa breezes past you. Head held high. Strides long. Back straight. The world does bend for her. And so do you.

As soon as you reach her side, she takes a steadying breath.

“Iris.”

Why your heart decides to take that moment and skip multiple beats is something you’ll never understand. Maybe it’s just the way she says it. The way it tumbles off of her tongue and slides from between her teeth and disappears into the ether. Maybe it’s the look she gives you and the way she stops when you’re a bit too quiet for too long and the corners of your mouth can’t help but quirk up. You’re not proud of her - that would be silly - but she certainly looks proud of herself. If that slowly spreading grin is anything to go by.

“Iris. Is that it?”

You nod and watch as her nose scrunches up with joy and her gloved hands make little muted claps in excitement. You think you can get used to the way she says it. Like it’s something to be cherished - something delicate and soft. Iris. Eye-riss. Iris. Slow and measured. Careful. She wants to take as much caution as she can when she says it. And when she finally goes to resume your walk, she lets out a little hum and glances down at you from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a lovely name.”

Oh, Larissa. You’re killing me here.

“Larissa is nice, too. Very… elegant,” you respond, trying desperately to take the attention off of you. It’s been so long since you last heard a compliment like that, you’re unsure how to react. How to be normal about it. How to stop yourself from circling her body and pulling her close and pushing your head against her chest to listen to her heart. To see if she’s real. Because only fake people pay attention to strays - and she’s too wonderful to be anything aside from a figment of your dear imagination.

“That’s very kind of you, Iris.” Oh say it again. Please god, say it again.

But she doesn’t. And you don’t push it. And you don’t look at her for fear of bursting into flames. And you continue your walk until you come across a park bench and you sit down - drawing her attention and luring her back over to stand while you rest your legs.

“Feels like we’ve been walking forever! Where are you taking me?” You glare at her, all playful looks and pouts.

“To my lair. Are you scared yet?” She shifts on her white heels and you can’t help but give her a small chuckle.

“Me? Scared of you? Yeah, right. In your dreams, blondie.”

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet. I can be quite terrifying when I want to be,” Larissa defends, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

“Yeah. To school children maybe,” you grin, spreading your arms out over the back of the bench to sit comfortably. “But not to me.”

“Hm. Not yet, anyway,” her tone is airy, making you blow air out of your nose with amusement.

“Uh huh.” You pause, close your eyes to bask in the chill that bites at your skin, and then open one to look at her. “How tall are you, anyway?”

She towers over you there - standing beside the wrought-iron arm of the bench while you sit and crane your head back. Outlined in the soft glow of the park lamps, you begin to wonder if Larissa is not an imaginary friend or a ghost but instead an angel. She certainly looks the part. You really wouldn’t be that surprised if huge ivory wings sprout from the defined lines of her shoulder blades.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” Oh, she’s teasing me now. You roll your eyes.

“Since you first stood up.” The truth is always best. And it makes her smile softly.

“Six foot, three.”

Your lips part, falling open before you catch yourself. Six feet and three inches?! Jesus, woman. You swallow around your delighted shock and push yourself off of the bench - bringing yourself to your full height on the backs of your heeled boots.

“There’s no way,” you snark, crossing your arms.

“Oh really?” Those red lips grow into a smirk and never in your life have you wanted to feel something more. Never.

“Yeah. Really.”

And of course that’s how you sign your heart away - for a split second later, there she stands. So close you can smell the old wine on her breath and see the individual lines in her face. It’s only half lit by golden light, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beginning to think your eyes were made for seeing her. And you’re beginning to think your body was made for standing so close. She smells like the rain now. Like the rain and the stars, which twinkle brightly behind her head as you resist the urge to step back and look at her. There is no backing down from this. There is only matching her height head-on, even though that’s impossible. But that’s the joke. So you move to stand on the tips of your toes and get into her personal space and only when you do, do you realize your mistake. She’s even closer. And her blue eyes have gone wide. You see a deep black abyss take over the oceans of her irises and suddenly, you think your name is very inadequate in comparison to the gorgeous cerulean of her gaze. To the way it envelopes you and electrifies you and warms you all at once. She is a vision. She is everything you want to look upon. And her eyes dart between your own, carrying shock and admiration with them. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like romance anymore. This isn’t contentment. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why you want to lean into her and fall.

And you don’t know why she decides to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she says so quickly, so quietly, you think it’s just a whisper of the wind. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Her eyes are still wide, but they’ve been captured by something terrible. Something sad. You open your mouth - to say what? - you don’t know. But she’s taking a few steps back and you close it. Her hair is still perfect, but there’s one strand loose. It flits wildly in front of her ear. A sign of her loss of control, perhaps. A sign that someone got through. She’s not a guarded woman and yet she is. She’s not private and yet she is. You didn’t have the deepest talk of all time and yet you did. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say to get her to stay. So you just say her name.

“Larissa-”

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Iris,” she murmurs, interrupts, clears her throat, and adjusts the purse on her shoulder. Those blue eyes glance around madly, like she’s scared of being caught. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Your flight leaves at seven.” You don’t know why that’s the thing you say. You don’t know what that’s going to do - but before you can even hope to say anything else, she nods and looks at you again. With unwavering strength. With a hint of an apology.

“Yes. It does.” Her lips press together firmly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that whisper, softer than the distant break of your heart, she’s turning around and walking off into the rain.

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Lazily waves my hand around before walking away. - Rip x

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TAGS (please keep in mind Tumblr won't allow me to tag certain accounts): @oddball21 @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @opalthefrog @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @erablaise-blog @bellatrixsbrat @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @lex13cm @sugipla @hasthebaconinhispants @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @eveymay @one-pining-queer @azu-zu @niceminipotato @hopelessly-sapphic @barbarasstar @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @ladylarissaweems @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @h-doodles @zillahofviolets-bayolet @weemssapphic @the-bearr @amateurwritescm

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[eldritch-elrics]

"character whose purpose is to seal an (ancient) evil" is always a trope that makes me go a little crazy, in all its incarnations. like ohhhh what if i was born and raised to contain within my body the evil force plaguing us all and i had to become a completely empty vessel so that it wouldn't corrupt me when it was forced inside my mind. what if i sealed away an ancient god of destruction but then was myself sealed in a crystal outside of spacetime for an eternity because others were afraid my power was too great. what if i was created as a failsafe mechanism to seal away my super-powerful engineered weapon of a sister in case something went wrong but my dissatisfaction with my existence eventually compelled me to break her free and absorb her powers myself. it's the play between power and freedom and objectification and never being able to truly get rid of the thing you're holding back, between being trapped in a cage and being a cage...

[skyheld]

the 'unrest in the alienage' doesn't end with the blight. the elves have a lot to be displeased for. they've suffered the abduction of several women with only a few survivors, a purge, a plague, slavers being allowed into their community, and a blight. they've had an influx of refugees and many burned-down houses. they've likely had difficulty securing food for a while due to the civil war and blight. assuming the warden reveals loghain's part in the deal with the slavers that information likely trickles out to the elves, so if loghain is spared, that's another injustice.

on top of that, the alienage being turned into a bannorn is going to be met with even greater bigotry from humans of the city than before. elves will find it harder to trade, work and even exist outside their own community than ever before. the elves' anger towards humans and dissatisfaction with their lot in life in general is going to rise in turn.

alistair is an untrained, unknown bastard. he's unlikely to inspire that much loyalty as king. he did help uniting the country against the blight, they did see him fight the slavers and defend the alienage during the darkspawn attack on denerim, but he has a lot to prove as a ruler. the same goes for a warden who becomes ruler.

anora is loghain's daughter. moreover, the more she stresses that she ruled the country, not cailan, before his death, the more she makes herself culpable for the state of the alienage. why didn't anora keep her nobles in check? why didn't she instruct the city guards not to allow the abduction of elven women, or stop the purge afterwards? why is there such widespread poverty at all if she's as good a ruler as she says? if the answer is she didn't care about the alienage until she had something to gain from helping it - aka, getting dirt on loghain by exposing his deal with the tevinters - then the elves need not bother with being loyal to her. if the answer is she doesn't have that authority with the nobles, then the elves need to bother even less with being loyal to her.

making shianni bann and the alienage a bannorn is a nice thought, but it comes with complications. the only problem it might immediately fix is that humans can't walk into the alienage as they want because they now guard the gates themselves. they're still as poor and defenseless as before, and instead of paying taxes to some arl up in a palace, they're paying taxes to a woman they see every day walking down the street to the market. shianni is also young and untrained. she gained some popularity when the slaver plot was exposed, but that doesn't make her a ruler. and while some might see her as still a common elf, no one they need to show respect for, others will see her as part of the nobility now and therefor a traitor. suddenly shianni is having tea with the queen and they hate her for it.

so when food scarcity, widespread homelessness and general displeasure gets to a boiling point, shianni is caught in a trap. she can't come down hard on her own people or she'll lose what little support she has (she can't come down hard either way because she doesn't have the military power). she also can't side with them against the nobility, because her power comes from the nobility, and she'll lose it and any potential progress made by her being elevated if she moves against the crown. all she can do is try to calm tempers down on both sides, and that's easier said than done.

it all eventually crashed down when, as referenced in the epilogue slide, a human attempts to kill shianni in broad daylight. when trying to calm tempers down at the alienage gate she's struck by an arrow in her side, coming from a human noble standing back from the crowd. this is what rallies her people to her, though not the way she wanted. while she's carried to her house fighting blood loss and a severe infection, the gates are closed, and any attempts to approach them are met with insults, arrows and improvised grenades.

anora and/or alistair may not have wanted to meet the elves with violence, but there comes a point where they have to. they can't give in to their demands, or they show that they can be swayed by fear. they can't let it continue, or they put both humans and elves at risk, because the humans of the city outnumber the elves and will eventually arm themselves if the city guard doesn't. striking down the rebellion is the only thing they can do. in the aftermath, they send a mage healer to save shianni's life and secretly provide her funds for repairing damaged buildings, which calms things down a little. they also make very sure the soldiers show mercy and restraint and only use as much violence as needed to stop the riot and stay safe themselves. shianni emerges from the ordeal with a higher standing among her people, but the knowledge she's still walking a very fine line between angering her people and angering the crown.

[dnangelic]

dai's always in a weird, difficult to comprehend position because on one hand as a magical girl he generally stands for positivity like love and goodness, but then on the other he's also simultaneously completely empty himself. his insides, his heart is canonically black and hollow (re: dark) and plagued utterly by echoing dissatisfaction and loneliness. but on top of that all, he's young; disillusionment is often a motive for many adult characters who've simply become too jaded to keep up with the world and therefore become apathetic, but daisuke doesn't have the same ragged, given-up weariness just like he's lacking somewhat in the overall maturity to solve the problem of his internal conflicts. similarly the comparison+contrast of 'character seeks to fill their emptiness with entertainment/destruction' vs daisuke's 'seeks to fill his emptiness with love/acceptance/meaning' is the same solid line that generally keeps his morals in place and prevents daisuke (and similarly, dark!) from becoming truly chaotic evil rather than chaotic good, no matter how menacingly they're presented as.

[dorkwing-misc-quests]

It’s ya boi, Dorkwing.

Back in 2023, I began publishing a fic called “Fly with Me.”

It’s a Percy Jackson/Jason Grace future au set 8 years from TOA. There’s also a PJO/MCGA crossover!

The story follows Percy as a 26 y/o bachelor demigod, who’s suffering from vivid dreams of a man named Icarus. On top of that, he’s plagued with dissatisfaction despite his “seemingly” perfect life. He’s isolated himself from his friends and family. Losing everyone in a desire to protect the next generation of demigods.

Jason starts off dead in this fic, but shenanigans ensue.

The story starts off a bit slow but I’m planning on fleshing out the world and diving DEEP into the characters.

Im in the midst of re-writing the old version, but please feel free to check it out.

Fly with Me by Dorkwing_Duuk on Ao3

Rating: Mature

Category: M/M

Tags: MCGA/PJO CROSSOVER | Past Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson | DC Stands for Disregard Canon | Dreams blend into reality | Caution:Flying Cans!She/Her Pronouns For Alex Fierro | Slow Burn | Drama & Romance | Self-Discovery | Jason Grace is Whipped | Percy Jackson is Whipped | AND THEY KISS!!!@!| Fluff and Smut | They are so gay for each other | Angst | Character Development | Percy Jackson Needs a Hug | Aged-Up Percy Jackson Characters | Future Fic | Resurrecting Jason Grace | Made-up magical artifacts | Percy Jackson has self isolating issues | mild depictions of mental illnessHeavy World Building

Language:

English