#every time i think surely this has to be an exaggeration there is another source that shows that actually it was even worse

[cashmere-caveman]

every single failed (ant)arctic explorers biography reads like sir james john was born the seventeenth of 24 children to an english bourgeois family of chronic overachievers.

in his search to find a niche in which to prove himself he stumbled upon the written account of sir douglas alexander (6 knighthood titles) where he describes his failed attempt to chart the canadian coastline that resulted in the death of more than half his party members and several hushed up incidences of murder cannibalism and attempted insubordination. alexanders heroic report of failing to listen to indigenous advice and attempting to manhaul (provisions included 17kg tea per man as necessary ration) across the stupidest possible route against all better judgement inspired the then 13 year old john to sign up to join the navy.

after a steep career during the napoleonic wars mostly thanks to incompetence of his superiors and recognition of his perfect english background he achieved lasting fame for leading the doomed 1853 expedition mostly known for its catastrophic failure. employing methods we now know to be ineffective to the point of actively advancing the starvation of his men and their mental and physical deterioration, he was regarded at the time as a hero of the likes of homeric demigods.

this was further cemented by the racist disbelief of indigenous reports regarding the fate of his crew (eyewitness testimony suggests they were half crazed and engaging in cannibalism, refusing native food even when freely offered to instead maul their comrades) which prompted a reactionary collective apotheosis of his person by the british public.

five years after the last life sign two corpses believed to be him and his personal valet were found clutching letters praising the british empire and expressing their joy to die in the pursuit of total world domination through explorative conquest. modern calculations show that had he used dogsleds (which he decried as unmanly) he would have made his sucessful return back to the anchored ship in under three weeks with enough provisions left for his home journey to excuse a detour to malaysia.

described by contemporary critics as a stubborn, authoritative man with no physical stamina who would collapse unless he got three square meals a day, his status as an icon of the declining british empire manifested in the posthumous erection of no less than 68 statues and monuments to his name. 23 polar landmarks are named after him until this day.

in his personal life he hated the irish, and notably once "adopted" an indigenous girl during his stint as governor of british overseas territories. the girls family was alive the whole time and despite her already having a western name due to colonial influences he renamed her [racist made up name to sound more exotic] when he took her into his household at six months old after stealing her from her parents. once he was recalled to england due to politival infighting wrt management of the territory he left the 13 year old girl behind without a second thought. she would die several years later at age 17 from suicide. after his death his widow comissioned six operas in his memory.

[magicalbats]

When There's Lightning (Cyno x reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 11,102

Warnings: afab!reader, chubby!reader, pining, unrequited feelings, established relationship (with Al-Haitham), possession, noncon, nipple play, biting, scratching, marking, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting

A/N: This is the second to last commission from this batch, and I am so, so happy I got to work on this one. The setting, the scenario I was given, the character. Mwuah. Chefs kiss. I hope everyone else enjoys it too! @frozenfauna you've been one of my greatest friends over the years and it was such an honor to fulfil your vision. Thank you for always offering me your support and advice when I need it most. 🫶🏻

⭐

There’s a heaviness in the crisp morning air, but Cyno can’t tell if it’s real or a figment of his imagination. 

He thinks it could go either way, really, as he stands there with his arms crossed over his chest and watches the spectacle that unfolds before him. It almost makes him sick, almost makes him reconsider the wisdom in even taking on this task in the first place. But in defense of his decision making abilities he knew full and well that the source of the problem was within him, so he couldn’t really blame anyone but himself for his own misery. 

It’s certainly not your fault that the almost iridescent glow of bright early morning sunlight bounces off your cheeks to make you look truly ethereal, and it’s not Al-Haitham’s fault that it makes Cyno want to kiss you so bad. That blasted Al-Haitham. In truth he hadn’t even thought the scribe would make an appearance today let alone linger for as long as he had. He was usually much too strict with his clockwork schedule to deviate much from its well worn path but evidently, for you, he was willing to bend a little. 

And Cyno really couldn’t blame him. 

“Don’t forget to take a break every once and a while when I’m gone, okay? And make sure you eat regularly too.” 

Scoffing a quiet sound, Al-Haitham sedately reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is soft and affectionate, even when his words don’t quite seem to match. “I think I should be the one telling you that. I value my time far too much to lose track of it but you on the other hand …”

“Oh, stop it!” You huff, delivering a quick and lighthearted swat to the meat of his bicep, and Al-Haitham graces you with one of his secretively small smiles. It used to be a rare, nearly unheard of occurrence for the scribe but it’s been making more and more frequent appearances recently. It was pretty clear what the cause of it was. 

“You and I both know I’m not exaggerating. Stick a dusty old slate in front of you and you’ll get lost in it for hours on end if no one intervenes.” 

“Alright look, this isn’t about me right now.” Laughing softly, you nudge even closer to your paramour until the two of you are practically standing right on top of one another. Huddled close, your voices drop to an intimate whisper as you share your final goodbyes. 

Rolling his eyes under the brim of his mantle, Cyno quickly glances away to focus his attention elsewhere. He couldn’t bear to observe another moment of this, but obligation as well as the pretense of needing to appear as if his heart wasn’t twisting itself into knots inside his chest keeps him firmly rooted in place. He would endure it just as he always had and you would remain ever unaware of the turmoil that wages a bloody war within him whenever he stood in your presence. It was torture but it was also the right thing to do. 

He and Al-Haitham were friends, and you’d already made your choice. There was nothing left for him to do but accept it and move on. 

That was far easier said than done though, and Cyno has to try very hard to keep his expression neutral when you finally shuffle over to where he’s standing just off to the side of the city gate. Adjusting the straps of the heavy pack over your shoulders, you give him a bright, eager smile that feels like the sharp jab of a dagger in his gut but he pretends not to notice it just as he has with everything else about this unfortunate situation. 

“Ready to go?” 

“Yep!” You bob your head once, practically dancing on your toes in excitement. Clearly you were looking forward to this trek out into the desert a great deal and Cyno couldn’t conceive dallying even a moment longer knowing just how important this expedition was to you. But if it weren’t for Al-Haitham the two of you would have already long departed and set off without any need for further delay. If it weren’t for Al-Haitham … 

“Do me a favor and try to keep her out of trouble for me, yeah?” The scribe calls over, drawing Cyno’s gaze. 

“Of course. That’s why I’m tagging along, isn’t it? All the preparations have already been made so you’ve got nothing to worry about. By my estimate we should have enough provisions to last about a week out there but I’m sure we’ll be back before then. The el-Bahari temple isn’t that far from Caravan Ribat.” 

Giving a single nod of acknowledgment, Al-Haitham turns his gaze on you. “And did you remember to bring your waterskins?”

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked that question. Yes, habibi, I have my waterskins.” You give a quiet laugh and, seeing his chance, Cyno quickly jumps to take it. 

“Good, and I have a backup in case you need it. I also took the liberty of packing us a lunch for later. I hope you like sand-wiches.” 

A beat of surprised, befuddled silence passes over the still gate before you let out a mildly flustered huff of air. 

“Oh, Cyno …” 

Exhaling a slow breath of his own, Al-Haitham shifts his weight and brings a hand up to brace on his hip. “If he’s comfortable enough to be making jokes then I trust you’re in good hands. Have a safe trip and try not to do anything too reckless. Don’t forget how dangerous the desert can be even with a Matra at your side.” 

“The General Mahamatra.” You correct, shooting Cyno a quick smile. “We’ll be just fine, won’t we?” 

He honestly isn’t so sure about that when he can feel the lump in his throat solidifying into something that threatens to choke him up. But he still nods, hearing himself say, “Yes, there won’t be any problems while I’m with you.” 

He just sorely hoped that was true. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The temple is a cavernous, sprawling monument that seems to stretch on for miles and miles. Among the largest that still remained, it would have taken weeks, possibly even months to explore the whole place and all its secrets. There were innumerable compartments and hidden rooms littered throughout its winding halls and subterranean levels, but luckily most of the hard work had already been done by past researchers of yesteryear. Those enterprising scholars had diligently mapped out every nook and cranny they could access to the point where el-Bahari was largely overlooked by most modern day academics who didn’t see the value in studying something that had already been studied ad nauseum. 

But you were not most academics. 

It was one of the many things Cyno liked about you, and as the two of you step into the spacious antechamber just within the great entrance hall he can feel his admiration for you growing ever stronger. He himself may not have been the most studiously inclined but he’d spent more than his fair share of time around people who were. In fact, he quite enjoyed the more eclectic ones and you are no different in that regard. 

The change in your demeanor is clear as day when you hone in on the hieroglyphics carved into the slate effigy just up ahead and he watches you make a purposeful beeline towards it with a fond twinge. Yours were not the first eyes to alight upon the stone figure by a long shot but it is that unguarded passion which sets you apart from all the rest. It wasn’t fame you were after or even a need for more research funding that had brought you here, and it is likewise what convinced him to play bodyguard in this manner. That, and the fact he couldn’t have in good conscience left your safety in the hands of anyone else. Your heart was in the right place and so was his. 

Sedately trailing in your wake, Cyno comes up behind where you’re knelt to inspect the inscription at the base of the figure. He allows himself only a brief moment of appreciatively glancing over your hunched frame before dragging his attention upward. It is a statue of Hermanubis, he realizes with a mild pang of familiarity. 

“This is impressive work for a temple not dedicated specifically to the grand priest.” He offhandedly comments, earning himself a quick look from you. 

“You’ve never been here before?”

“Only once, and it wasn’t in any capacity that would have allowed me to casually look around. Paleontology isn’t my strong suit so the remains of ruins don’t usually hold much interest for me.”

Blinking in rather open surprise now, you tip your head back to look at him full on. “That’s a bit of a surprise. You’re originally from the desert, aren’t you? I would have thought you’d be more interested in the connection you share with places like this.” 

“I may have been born here but all I’ve really ever known is the city in the rainforest. I’m afraid there isn’t much I even remember about my time spent here.” 

Noising a soft sound of acknowledgment, you start to say something else but then your eyes drift away from him to focus on another part of the dusty antechamber. Thoroughly distracted, you push back up to your feet before shuffling over to regard a mural painted on the adjacent wall. Cyno watches after you for a moment — to make certain you’re safe and the perimeter secured, or so he tells himself — before redirecting his gaze back up at the statue. 

It’s not as if he could really deny the truth in what you’d said. Even if he didn’t remember it much this was still his birthplace and, feeling compelled, he reaches out a hand to press his palm flat to the smooth detail of Hermanubis’ slate leg. 

A zap of static electricity instantly rushes through his skin and he yanks his hand back like he’d been burned. Unease starts to snake through his gut as he hesitantly peers down at his own fingers, half expecting to find them charred to a blackened crisp. The skin is resoundingly unharmed though, as if he’d only imagined that intense electrical surge and nothing more. How odd. 

“Cyno?” 

Snapping out of it with a small jolt, the Mahamatra turns to look over at you through the shadowy, dust mote ridden gloom. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, just … checking in on you.” Your wavering smile quickly stabilizes and grows, spreading across your face with an eagerness that makes his heart race. “I think this is the right place. It’s exactly like the books in the House of Daena described. Now we just need to find that mechanism it mentioned.” 

Shrugging off that disconcerting rush of electricity, Cyno turns from the ancient monument of Hermanubis and wanders in your direction. “A mechanism? Are you looking for a hidden room of some kind?” 

He hadn’t bothered to ask about the details when they meant so little to him in the grand scheme of things. Keeping you safe and hydrated in the arid desert heat had been the top concern at the forefront of his mind up until now, but he was starting to wish he’d at least hedged the topic a little bit. All he knew was that there was something here you’d wanted to study and, given all the foot traffic this particular temple has seen over the last few decades, he hadn’t thought this would turn into a very labor intensive expedition. 

Anxiously adjusting your supplies pack, you glance around the otherwise untouched and silent chamber. Still excited and eager, but perhaps feeling a bit daunted now by the full scope of this undertaking. “According to those books there should be some sort of prayer room dedicated to Hermanubis somewhere in here. A scholar was able to get inside and notate what he saw a few hundred years ago, but once the door closed he couldn’t get it open again. Many people after him tried to no avail before eventually deeming the mechanism broken and everything inside was quickly classified as lost relics.” 

“And you think you can repair it?” Cyno asks, tipping his head to one side inquisitively. 

“I’m going to try.” You optimistically shoot back and it makes the knot in his stomach twist just that little bit tighter. Whether it was his intuition or a sixth sense premonition, Cyno couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. 

It didn’t feel like danger in the strictest definition of the word. There was no one else inside this temple that he could discern, at the very least no one who was alive and breathing. Even as far as regional fauna was concerned the only creatures he’d spotted were the occasional scorpions that skittered across the block-tiled floor. They were likely the only humans within miles of this place. 

But then what was this oppressive, static charged atmosphere hanging in the air? If he hadn’t known any better he’d almost think a thunderstorm was fast approaching with all the destructive force of the gods themselves but it wasn’t the right season for that. There were no monsoons coming in off of the southern coast for at least another few months. So what was it then? 

You’re speaking again, he realizes, rattling off something about a corridor up ahead that should take you where you need to go. At his soft hum of acknowledgement, you start to shuffle further into the ruins but Cyno hangs back long enough to peer up at the statue of Hermanubis again, as if it would give him any of the answers. 

It doesn’t, of course. He isn’t naive or fanciful enough to be disappointed by that, and he just gives his head a slow shake when he feels the spirit dwelling within him start to stir slightly. This was not the time or the place for his control to start slipping. He was going to have to be exceedingly careful moving forward. 

“Are you coming, Cyno?” You call back to him, already halfway across the room. 

Pointedly stamping down his unease, he steps around the broad base of the statue and makes his way after you. In his dominant hand, he idly flexes his grip around the long polearm he carries, hoping the comforting and familiar weight of it would help ground him. He isn’t so sure it works but for your sake he wasn’t about to let his focus slip that easily. There was a job for him to do and he was determined to see it through to the end. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour or so later, you finally find the mechanism. 

It is an odd, curiously constructed device that Cyno, for his part, can make no logical sense of. The apparatus in the center of the tri-pronged base doesn’t look like it should do much of anything after having lain still and dormant for so many centuries, and even at its inception he’s unable to puzzle out what purpose it may have served. But he knows just enough about the ancient technology of King Deshret’s long bygone kingdom that he recognizes it for what it is and understands that it should do something. 

He isn’t quite convinced that it can be repaired though, but he keeps those thoughts to himself as you kneel down and set your glowing lantern aside to get a closer look at the structure. Your brow is knit in concentration as you poke and prod at the thing, feeling along the base of it where it’s securely anchored into the floor. Even though Cyno isn’t a bad hand when it comes to puzzles he knew that the inner workings of technology this old and esoteric was more than a bit beyond his scope. 

So he takes the chance to glance around the room, noting the mural faded from the cruel passage of time on the opposite wall and the air ducts in the ceiling. The two of you had traveled quite deep into the ruins to reach this place and yet there always seemed to be a distant, vague current of oxygen traveling through even the deepest recesses of the monument's bowels. The ancient civilizations that once flourished here were especially adept builders and it was clear that they’d even left behind a very functional ventilation system that supplied most if not the whole entire place with a stuffy, slow moving draft. 

It was much appreciated even if it didn’t do much to dispel all the dust and sand grit hanging in the air, and he slowly turns back around after completing a full circuit survey of the immediate area. You were still fiddling with the mechanism, groping along the side of one of the tall prongs as if in search of a hidden switch of some kind now, and his growing curiosity finally wins out. 

“Are you truly confident you can get it to work again?” 

“Of course I am.” You murmur, distracted by the task at hand as much as the beads of sweat slowly starting to form and roll down your temple. It was a bit stifling in here. “What, don’t I seem like I’m brimming with confidence? I thought you’d have more faith in me.” 

Cyno tries to fight it but he grudgingly allows himself to smile at that, taking consolation in the knowledge that you were much too preoccupied to notice it. “My apologies for bruising your ego then but that’s not quite what I meant. It’s just that your expertise is more in the field of paleontology, isn’t it? I didn't expect you to have so much functional knowledge on the inner workings of a machine, particularly one as old as this.” 

Humming softly under your breath, you carefully follow the prongs up to the top of the apparatus where the center piece is located. “You’re not wrong about that.” You relent. “I’m certainly not Kaveh who can tinker around with just about anything and figure out how it works. I’m also not like Al-Haitham who just has that kind of information on hand for no other reason than he happened to read it in a book once before.” 

A sharp pang shoots through Cyno’s chest at the mention of your lover and he rather stiffly shifts his weight from one foot to the next to conceal it. “Perhaps we should have asked Kaveh to come with us then.” He says, pointedly avoiding saying the same about the scribe. 

“That’s only a last resort if I don’t have any other choice. I wanted to try it myself first. Just to see if I could do it, you know?” 

He lifts a brow. “And you think you can do it because …?” 

“I read a book about it.” 

It’s such a decidedly Al-Haitham answer that Cyno can’t quite stop himself from scoffing, as impressed by the simple gumption of it as he is rueful about the unintentional reminder that you hadn’t picked him. That it wasn’t his personality traits and bad habits rubbing off on you rather than the genius scribe’s. 

But the sound is thoroughly masked when you seem to at last locate what you’re looking for and, with a triumphant exclamation, the mechanism starts to glow a faint, almost iridescent blue. The suddenness of activity is close to startling for as unassuming and benign it is, and Cyno is immediately on high alert with his spear at the ready. 

Nothing happens though. The floor neither gives out in a crumbling mess of debris and stale sand, and neither does the ceiling collapse down on top of the two of you in wrathful vengeance. Everything is just as still and as quiet as it had been seconds before the apparatus abruptly came to life, save the hushed sound of excitement you make as you sit back to admire your handy work. 

“There! Now that that’s taken care of we can move on to step two!” 

Cyno really doesn’t like the tendril of unease that forms in his gut now. “There’s more?” 

“Yes, if the texts were right then there should be a secondary piece of the mechanism that we’ll need to adjust so that the two can connect with one another. That's easier said than done though, of course.” Heaving a quiet sigh, you push up to your feet and wipe your hands off on your pants. “This is the part that stumped all the previous scholars who tried to get inside this room. The positioning needs to be very exact for them to communicate and …” 

“And?” 

Sheepishly, you turn your attention elsewhere. “No one could quite figure out where the second piece is but there was some suspicion that it might be in a part of the temple that suffered a collapse. It’ll take some digging around on our part, I’m afraid.” 

Cyno’s grip on his polearm tightens, making the knuckles creak softly under the force. “Alright. I’ll help you look for it but we’re not splitting up.”

“What? But that’ll take so much longer!” 

“I don’t care.” He hisses, all but biting out his words now. “This place is massive. If you get turned around in here it could take me hours just to find you again, not to mention if something were to go wrong. I came here to protect you and that is what I will do. Either we stay together or we can leave and return to Caravan Ribat right now. Those are your only two options.” 

For a moment you look truly stunned by that declaration. The disbelief is written across your face in broad sweeping brushstrokes, confusion and even a pinch of affront creeping into your startled expression. It’s like you couldn’t believe what he was saying to you and, in all honesty, Cyno is a little surprised at himself too. 

He hadn’t meant to drop the tone of his voice and take on the kind of stern, authoritative command he’d usually only implement with criminals or lower ranked Matra who answered to him. You were neither of those things and he’d never spoken to you like that before. 

Whatever had come over him quickly clears though, the fog rolling back and dissipating from his mind to leave him once again clear headed and in control. Drawing a clipped breath, Cyno readies an apology for his slip but you’re quick to turn away from him, giving him your back now. 

“Fine. I understand the position you’re in so I won’t argue about it but don’t talk to me like that again, Cyno. You may be the Mahamatra but I’m your friend, not one of your subordinates nor a child you get to reprimand.” 

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He softly relents, feeling some mixed up, confusing sentiment welling within his chest which slowly expands with the steadying breath he draws. On one hand there was an undeniable sense of guilt at having forgotten himself like that, for snapping at you when you didn’t deserve it, and that loss of control worries him even for as brief as it had been. But on the other there existed a sort of pride in your ability to not only set your boundaries but also enforce them. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you would deliver a punishing dose of retribution if he slipped up again, and it made him all the more appreciative that it was you who had captured his heart rather than any other. 

You were fierce in your own way and he respected that, even when you simply refuse to acknowledge his apology and instead shuffle off in a direction seemingly picked at random. He’s quick to follow, although he allows you to keep a few paces ahead so as not to intrude on your personal space given your current agitation with him. It could be mended in time, consolations given to soothe the ache given by careless words to vulnerable pride, but your safety was non-negotiable. Cyno would prefer you to be angry with him for decades to come before he ever conceded you to the shadowy underbelly of the great al-Bahari temple. 

The notion that he himself might be the greatest danger you face within the labyrinthine tombs never so much as crosses his mind. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The second half of the mechanism is finally located and, with no small amount of head scratching, you and Cyno at last manage to maneuver it into position. The blue pulsing light from the first could now shine its incandescent beam into the receiving center node via a series of reflective surfaces along the pathway, which his knack for puzzles had helped a great deal with. A distant rumble of inner mechanical workings grinding open can be heard even from far down the long dusty corridor, and the two of you quickly hurry back to the antechamber room where the locked door resided. 

At some point in the last few odd hours, it seemed that you’d forgotten you were supposed to be upset with him for his carelessness and both of you had worked in amicable solidarity with one another, for which he was immensely glad. But to avoid reopening that stinging wound to pride and ego, he’d decided to hold off on trying to apologize for it again until after you’d already made your way out of the ruins together. It wouldn’t do to further escalate an argument you were willing to let rest, after all, and more importantly he still didn’t have the best feeling about the preceding series of events that brought both of you here. There was something strange hanging in the air, like a subtle electrical current so weak all he could pick up from it was the occasional, distant pulse of crackling energy. 

He realizes then, only when you and him reenter the sealed antechamber to find the once tightly shut door now wide open, that he hadn’t felt particularly good about any of this. Even that dewy morning standing in front of the city gates three days prior had carried with it a vague sense of foreboding in retrospect. He’d chalked it up to Al-Haitham’s presence at the time, his own traitorous heart creating rifts where they ought not exist, but these ruins had only further highlighted that something was not right. 

First it had been the statue of Hermanubis and the static shock he’d felt the moment his fingers grazed its smooth surface. The stormy tension in his body had continued to steadily mount after that until he then snapped at you, something he neither thought you deserved or understood the cause of. He wasn’t upset with you, couldn’t imagine being mad enough about anything to lose his cool as he had. 

And now he was watching you make a beeline straight towards the gaping, silent maw of the room's entrance that would take you into a part of the temple that hadn’t seen another living being in almost three hundred years. Only untrampled grounds lay ahead from here on out and Cyno just couldn’t wrap his head around any of it. 

But he follows, hot on your heels and with his spear clutched so tightly in hand that he half expected to feel the slick ooze of blood dripping down his palm at any moment. His heart pounds a wild, trapped animal rhythm against the interior of his ribcage as he quickens his pace only enough to reach the threshold before you do. He doesn’t cross it but rather stops just at the edge of it and peers inside the ancient chamber with the aid of the flickering lantern he holds up in his opposite fist. 

He has but a few seconds to take stock of the new surroundings. The shape of the room is that of an inverted T with the doorway situated along the widest part, and at the far end directly from where he stood was another stately effigy in honor of Hermanubis, the lost great sage. 

You’re coming up behind him then, easily sidestepping and going on ahead to wander further into the gloomy dark and down the perfectly straight aisle. Cyno almost catches himself trying to stop you but he refrains, because he knew it would be futile when you already had your sights set on the goal and because he simply wasn’t confident that he would be able to find his voice. 

The atmosphere in this space isn’t just heavy or oppressive, it’s downright bone crushing. He can scarcely draw a full breath and he wonders how it is that you don’t appear to even notice it, but then he feels the spirit within him shift towards wakefulness. It made a certain amount of sense, of course. If this particular room really was meant to venerate and pay tribute to Hermanubis then it didn’t seem so far-fetched that what was left of him on an immaterial level would react to these surroundings. There was familiarity here, but there was also a sinking, suffocating sense of dread. 

Willing the spirit back into dormancy, Cyno forces himself to move after you and he takes his first step into the chamber of worship. 

He regrets it almost instantaneously when a sharp, debilitating zap of electricity races up his leg into the rest of him and very nearly sends him sprawling on his ass. Staggering a step, he numbly stands there in frozen silence while that jolt of energy courses through every inch of him like a hot livewire. But unlike before, unlike the first time in the great hall just beyond the entrance to this place, it doesn’t fizzle out or dissipate. It just keeps bouncing around inside him, traveling the continuous circuitry of his veins and tendons, every individual ligament and bone until it at last finds the dwelling place of that ancient soul. 

The resulting surge of power feels to him like it rivals that of a lightning strike zeroed in on a metal rod and his body is the conduit that further amplifies it. Cyno draws a sharp, half strangled breath to warn you but his mouth is no longer capable of human speech. The words become jumbled and inarticulate, lodging firmly in his throat where they stay even when he manages to croak out a weak sound of distress into the stagnant air. You're too far ahead of him now though, you don’t hear it when you’re too busy using your own torch to light the handful of wall sconces at the far end of the narrow corridor. 

The flames that flicker to life are weak and irresolute at best, likely having very little oil left in their lamp wells to feed into the wicks for very long. But it’s enough to cast the room in a dull, almost eerie glow for the time being and he can now see that the statue is not the only thing residing on the far side of the room. 

There’s a raised dais situated directly in front of the towering slate figure and surrounding that platform on either side were over a dozen pots of clay, sealed with dried red wax and adorned with long wilted and decayed flower bundles. Further back sit chests of various sizes but all of which were of equal importance, as evidenced by their stately appearances and shapes. Some were painted in fine, vibrant colors with specks of gold worked throughout while others were meticulously hand carved to depict long forgotten scenes of a bygone civilization. And even further than that, beyond the numerous pots and chests and the dried out corsages, there were weapons lining the sides of the walls. Swords and spears, dusty old hunting bows and their decorated quivers, emblazoned shields and even war banners that were moth eaten to the point of being unsalvageable. 

Cyno understands then why you’d wanted to get into this room so badly. Why you’d refused to give up even after spending almost a whole hour on unearthing and then positioning one single mirror just right for it to reflect the incandescent beam the way it needed to. 

In the same breath he also understands, intrinsically and beyond even a shadow of a doubt, that this was no chapel of worship but rather a place of ritual and magick. This was a stage of offerings and sacrifice, an altar to the esoteric and the mystical. 

It was his altar. 

He startles at that sudden thought. 

Some fundamental part of him recognizes that it is not his own mind that had conjured the idea, that it was not his voice that spoke it into his ear with all the silken assurity of simple fact. But even knowing that the only possible explanation was that the fragmented spirit was the one who thought and who said it, he was suddenly having a very hard time differentiating between the two. Where did he end and where did Hermanubis begin? Had they ever been separate entities at all, or had he only imagined that they were? 

Helpless before its great power, Cyno can do nothing but watch as if from a great distance as he drops the lantern in his hand with a dull clatter and his body takes another step forward, and then another. He’s no longer in control of himself but he can’t quite seem to wrestle it back from the Tighnarian sage, or what was left of him. It’s like being trapped inside a prison of his own flesh and blood. He can hear his lungs drawing breath, can even hear you excitedly talking about the contents of the room as he draws nearer, but he can’t make his mouth move the way he wants it to. He also can’t stop his feet from carrying him up onto the dais, his hand coming up to reach for you even when he wills it to stop. 

All at once you seem to notice that something is wrong and he rails against his own skin when you turn to look up at him. It’s like he’s seeing you through a hazy lens, the edges of his vision grainy and wavering as if he were standing in the middle of a dense, encumbering fog, but your face he can see in almost startling clarity. The kissable lips that call and beckon to him even now, the soft quality of your rounded cheeks and, perhaps most clearly of all, the surprise reflected in your widened eyes when you find him standing directly behind you. 

There’s no chance for you to react. He watches himself grab your upper arm and physically drag you away from the statue, towards the center of the raised platform. You squawk in surprise, trying to wrench yourself free and dig your feet into the ground to stop the forward motion but it’s no use. Even if he’d been in his right mind you never would have stood a chance before his far greater strength. You, an academic and a scholar who spent most of her free time in the House of Daena, while he trained day in and day out to hone the tightly packed musculature in his body. 

His looks were deceiving and many a criminal has had to come to terms with that firsthand. Now it seemed to be your turn to realize exactly what he was capable of. This isn’t what Cyno wanted for you but all he can do is watch on, his horror mirroring yours, as he mercilessly shoves you onto the ground. The resulting bodily thump sends shockwaves of anger coursing through his system and he rages, pounding against the invisible barrier that keeps him locked out of his own personhood. You're completely unaware of any of it as you gingerly push up onto your elbows, peering at him through the flickering shadows. 

“Cyno? What are you …”

Trailing off when he extends his hand out to the side, you watch him drop his staff with a seemingly careless gesture. The heavy clatter of his weapon hitting the floor seems to frighten you into action and you twist, clambering on hands and knees to get away from him but it’s much too late for that. He’s too quick, and he descends upon you with a vengeance. 

His hands grab at you, ripping you back by the shoulders to make you sprawl out at his feet. Your shriek of terror goes unheeded and he drops to straddle you, locking his knees around your middle even as you wildly thrash and kick in retaliation. You manage to get one good, solid punch in right on his sternum which nearly succeeds in winding him, a distant note of pride lighting up the back of his mind for a split second, but it’s all for naught. He easily manages to snag your flailing wrists and he leans forward to pin them against the dais with his weight. 

Your struggle only increases, ratcheting up to even greater levels of desperation as you mindlessly buck underneath him in an attempt to dislodge Cyno from his perch. He’s almost reminded of an unbridled wild horse out in the lawless desert, so determined to break free that you’d rather tire yourself to the point of exhaustion than give up. But he more than anyone else knows just how futile it really is. Your chances would have been slim anyway, but with the grand sage controlling his body … 

“Dammit, Cyno, let me go! This - this isn’t funny!” 

A low, rumbling snarl rises in him, vibrating through his chest up into his throat. It’s a truly animalistic sound, one that he’s never heard himself make before, but one that he’s caught Tighnari issue on rare occasions. It’s a growl of warning and threat. A vestigial leftover from when his race was still young at the dawn of the age and a little bit closer to animal than human. Cyno hadn’t even thought his vocal cords would have been capable of making that kind of noise, and he realizes the cause of it with no shortage of existential dread. 

All of your writhing has made his cock stir to life where it’s trapped between your body’s, his skintight pants doing very little to conceal or dissuade the swelling erection. It’s distant and vague, like he was experiencing it through the malleable gauze of a hydro slime, but the excitement pumping through his veins now is unmistakable. It almost disgusts him, almost makes him internally retch, and he quickly renews his frantic efforts to take back control. 

Unconcerned, or perhaps not even noticing the state of its host, the spirit leans further over you so it can shove his nose into the crook of your sweat dampened neck. The deep, savory inhale he’s forced to pull in brings with it a sweet, almost saccharine rush of endorphins and the smell of fertility which dizzyingly overloads his senses at its potency. He’s never experienced anything like it before, had never been able to scent something, let alone someone, on such a deeply primal level as this. It too must be a result of the grand sage’s physiology then. Something his human body wasn’t naturally capable of but which this horrid, stifling place had facilitated with its long dormant excess of power. 

Cyno cries out then, shouting at you to fight it off, when the energy starts to drain from your heaving body. Shuddering faintly underneath him, you reluctantly grow still and try to catch your breath while he noses at you, sniffing over your erratic pulse and behind your ear. The way he almost seems to affectionately nuzzle into your hair makes you swallow hard enough for him to hear the muscles in your throat working but no matter how much he yells you just can’t hear him. Even if you could, he isn’t so sure you would have listened to anything he had to say at this point. 

You didn’t really have any reason to trust him after this. 

“Please,” You gasp, in a voice so small and uncertain it doesn’t quite sound like yours anymore. “Don’t do this to me. Just let me up and - and we can talk. I promise. Al-Haitham - -“

He cuts you off with another low, threatening growl, one that Cyno almost finds himself in agreement with. Even in a situation like this you still couldn’t forget about the brilliant scribe waiting for you back home. It was almost as astounding as it was sickeningly foolish. 

At the same time he realizes just how horrific that thought actually is, and he reels back against himself in shock. Such notions were not his own. He could never think that way about anyone but least of all you. It was the sage, it was Hermanubis manipulating his feelings and twisting them into something they’re not, surely. Cyno may have been suffering in silence out of his love for you but that didn’t mean he’d ever think of you so disparagingly. He’d never — he could never - 

“Cyno, stop it!” 

Your shrill cry breaks through his stupor and he focuses back in on the sensation of running his teeth over your skin, lightly nipping at your throat. The taste of warm, salty skin floods his tastebuds at the first experimental lick and the spirit must find it just as delectable as he does because it quickly does it again. Ignoring your renewed struggle, noticeably weaker now, he simply laps over your pulse for a long moment, enjoying the feeling of blood wildly pounding a violent rhythm underneath the fleshy topmost layer. 

He soon sets his sights on what lies underneath though and his teeth come out to sink into the sensitive juncture of your neck. But what should have been a mere love bite, a surface marking at best, turns out to be something much more animalistic when Cyno feels his canines sink into your vulnerable throat. A sharp, haggard inhale rattles through you as skin breaks and blood wells up to rush inside his mouth. It nearly makes him gag even as his cock gives an eager, excited flex against your lower stomach, instincts that were not his own driving him ever closer to your inevitable ruin at his hands. 

Understandably horrified but helpless to stop it, Cyno watches from somewhere far removed from his own body as he extracts his teeth from the wounds and replaces them with what was supposed to be a soothing tongue. He recognizes it for what it is, even if this was not a behavior natural to him. A mating bond. A mark to claim ownership.

You must understand it too, surely, because you’ve suddenly become very still and quiet, save the hot tracks of tears running down your face. Either that or the blunt trauma to sensitive nerves had shocked you into a semi comatose state, but he doesn’t think that’s what it is. The friend group you’d been welcomed into even long before you’d started dating Al-Haitham was a very close one. Tighnari wasn’t exactly secretive when it came to this unique facet of his race’s culture and all of you had met his mother on more than one occasion. All of you had seen the long healed scar on the side of her neck. They didn’t make any qualms about it when such practices were just a normal part of their lives. 

But neither you nor Cyno were Tighnarians. It shouldn’t have even been possible for his human canines to pierce the skin so smoothly and, far more importantly, it shouldn’t mean the same thing either. It shouldn’t carry with it the same weight and authority as a true mating bond … right? 

He desperately tries to convince himself of that even as he leans back, sitting up to admire his bloody mark on your once pristine throat. The sight of it makes Cyno internally cringe away but there’s no escaping the proof of what he’s done to you when he himself was trapped inside his own mind. He’s a helpless spectator who can only track the motion of his hands when he releases your limp wrists and reaches for the front of your blouse. 

Fisting the soft cotton, all it takes is one solid tug to send the buttons flying and clattering across the dust covered ground. You gingerly tip your face in his direction, wincing slightly when even just that brief movement makes the tendons in your abused neck scream in protest. Flushed and panting, you look up at him as if in a daze and Cyno feels the first real tendril of genuine terror snake through him. You were visibly pale and sickly looking even in the shuddering light from the sconces on the wall, and his gaze nervously flicks towards the bite mark. Had that damned spirit opened up an artery? 

He doesn’t get his answer, of course, watching himself part the destroyed front of your blouse to reveal your heaving breasts to the static charged air. There’s a thin, flimsy brassiere standing in the way but he shreds that easily enough too, ripping it with a sharp jerk that makes your chest bounce free. He feels his mouth start to water at the sight of your bare tits, so round and heavy, the fat little nipples standing up on them perfectly inviting and juicy. It was a near perfect manifestation of what he’d envisioned they would look like, as is the rest of you. 

You’re so soft to behold and grabbable, especially in the middle where your trousers have created a fleshy pudge that begged to be affectionately squeezed. But instead he finds his hand reaching for your chest where he appreciatively palms the curve of one breast to feel the weight of it. You suck in a slow, delayed breath at the contact but it’s already too late for protests. He zeroes in on the stiffened bud with his fingers, pinching it and then tugging at it, and the way your back bows with a low whine makes his cock violently jump in his pants. 

They must be receptive, he realizes, and the spirit must realize it too, for he leans down to capture that fleshy nub in his mouth. The responding shockwave of intense arousal leaves him feeling lightheaded and borderline delirious even as he works over your teat with a harsh, demanding suck. Twitching at the sensation, you shift on top of the dais as if you were beginning to come to, yet your movements were still far too sluggish and weak to truly fight him off. All you succeed in doing is squirming underneath him, softly gasping while he pulls the stiffened nipple towards the back of his throat and vigorously suckles at it as if to draw out a spurt of warm milk. 

Logically Cyno knew you couldn’t possibly be lactating so it didn’t make any sense why he would feel so compelled to drink from your breast. It was, if nothing else, an effort in futility. But either due to the sharp, overwhelmingly potent cocktail of fertile hormones clouding his already compromised judgment or because the fragmented pieces of Hermanubis didn’t understand that you weren’t a Tighnarian female, he’s simply unable to make himself stop. He just keeps sucking and sucking, until he can feel the pulled taut bud of your nipple turning soft and malleable, and you finally rouse yourself enough to seethe at him to stop. 

Hissing like an incensed serpent, you manage to bring your hand up to shove at his head where it’s bent over your chest. At first it doesn’t look like it’s going to do you any good but then, much to Cyno’s shuddering relief, he backs off with one last sloppy wet slurp to your tit. He pushes up to look down at you, admiring the puffed up, darkened bud and the glistening sheen of moisture coating it. His cock leaks at the sight of you sprawled out underneath him like that, flexing against the second skin of his pants as if in demanding search of entry to your body. 

Even for as distant and dulled as it is when he was no longer in control of himself, he’s acutely aware of just how great his need really is. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been quite this hard or quite this sticky with eager precum. It wasn’t just that he wanted you in the simple way any man wants to sink himself into a warm, wet, welcoming body. He needed you to the point that it felt like he really might die if he didn’t follow through on it. 

The inherent fertile lushness of your womanly curves and heavy breasts call to him like a siren's song, and he watches himself reach out to tweak your poor, spit lathered nipple between his fingers. Fleshy and pliable, the engorged nub readily bends to the pressure he exerts and you grimace even as you try to push him away again. In retaliation, he gives your teat a mean little twist and pulls on it, making you squeal and dramatically arch your back to lessen some of the sting. 

It doesn’t work, of course, and by the time he finally releases you the nipple is achingly stretched and fresh tears are coursing down your face in heavy rivulets. There’s something almost humiliating about it, the way he plays with your tit for his own pleasure rather than yours, unconcerned with such trivial matters like how you might feel about it. 

Cyno’s guilt nearly matches his intense arousal, and he cringes in some potent combination of the two when he sedately reaches for your neglected breast next. You realize what he’s doing a split second later and, all but spitting at him, you viciously lash out to scratch at him with your nails. 

“You bastard! Stop!” 

He doesn’t so much as acknowledge the claws you rake down his neck and chest even though he can feel the sting of it through the muddled fog. It hurts, no doubt about that, but his body remains undeterred as he latches onto the cushiony swell of your tit and possessively squeezes, making the meat of it bulge up between his fingers. Starting to recover now after the shock of being bitten and claimed with a mating bond, you come alive under him again and you wildly twist in an attempt to free yourself. You’re cursing him, shrieking so wildly your voice starts to become hoarse, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear it. The external, physical form of him is some immovable, unflinching force that only seems to know how to take, take, take and you have no choice but to give. 

Pinching your chest tight enough to make the nipple bulge up and out, Cyno swoops down to flick his tongue over the stiffened tip. You mewl faintly at the sensation, scrabbling to get your sweat coated hands around his neck so you can shove him off. He doesn’t give you a chance to get your grip in place though, his teeth once again coming out to bite down on your teat, and you abruptly go stock still at the first hint of pressure. Given how easily he’d torn into your neck your fear was well founded, but all he does is lightly grind his jaw back and forth for a moment before tugging on the bud. You seethe at the stretch, idle fingers flexing helplessly against his shoulders. 

“Damn you, Cyno … once I tell Al-Haitham about this you’ll pay! Do you hear me?” You half sob, hiccuping softly on your grief. “You need to stop this before you make it even worse for yourself. I’m willing to protect you if you’ll just listen b - but this bite mark …” 

His ears perking at the name of your lover as much as the empty threats, the Mahamatra watches himself release your straining nipple and sit back to look down at you. Casually, he reaches out to pinch the teat and twist it, making you weakly yowl at the discomfort, but he remains ever unmoved. Your reasoning and bargaining would never reach him as long as he was not the one piloting his own body, and Al-Haitham had no power here in this ancient place of sacrifice. 

Sacrifice. 

Everything comes crashing down on what was left of Cyno’s subconscious mind all at once. That was what had given the spirit within him the boost needed to overpower his consciousness. It was responding to this place and the residual, lingering magick therein, and it probably wouldn’t be quelled back into slumber until after the ritual had been completed. The material offerings were already here, leftovers from centuries spent in seclusion and silence where even the dead did not dare tread, their tithings delivered in sealed clay pots adorned with flowers and dozens of artisan crafted chests. All that was left was a pound of flesh and blood. 

Your flesh and your blood that was already staining the collar of your blouse and drying against the side of your neck. 

What remains of him reels at the tidal rush of understanding that floods into his mind but even enlightenment is not enough for him to wrestle back his control. All he can do is watch in dismay and stomach twisting dread as Hermanubis directs his hands down to your pants. Outright shrieking now, you mindlessly kick and pound your fists against him to no avail. His patience with the buttons quickly wears thin and he resorts to simply grabbing two handfuls of the crotch, ripping it apart at the seams with a violent wrench that jostles you. Gasping for breath, you twist around and try to drag yourself away from him but he just grabs what’s left of your torn trousers and drags you back to the center of the dais. 

Even as you beg and plead for him not to do it, Cyno’s hands once again descend upon the shredded fabric and he rips an even wider hole down the center. He quickly flips you back over then, forcing you to look up at him while he yanks his own pants down and out of the way with a clatter of his golden sash. You fight him every step of the way, just as fierce and unrelenting as he’d known you to be, but you were regretfully outmatched. No amount of struggle on your part deters him when he was not in his right mind or capable of making any conscious decisions, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. 

An intense shudder races up his spine the moment his wet cockhead hits the air, so sticky with oozing precum it almost feels like he’s found release once already. He knows that’s not true though and his back molars ache terribly at the blind surge of sharp tinged arousal that crashes through him as he moves to position himself between your legs. Keeping your lower half pinned and in place with one hand, squeezing the meat of your love handles hard enough to bruise, he sets his sights on your dainty little panties next. But rather than shred them the same as he had your pants, he simply hooks his finger and yanks the laughably thin fabric aside. 

The first glimpse of your sweet, fleshy cunt very nearly bowls him over on the spot and his mind reels in something not unlike disbelief. This part of you is even more lovely and inviting than he’d imagined it to be, when he dared to imagine it at all. Soft, pudgy lips create a tantalizing seam that runs up the centerline of your body, the hair there framing the flushed part so perfectly it seems intentionally made to further torment him. Most surprising of all though is the vague dampness wetting the curls as if you were excited. Like having your nipples pulled and tweaked, and hungrily sucked had turned your own body against you in the worst possible way. He knew you didn’t actually want this, there was no way you could, and yet … and yet —

“Don’t you dare!” Your shrieking suddenly registers in his mind and he internally jolts at the frantic terror in your voice. 

The sight of you spread out underneath him, wet and ready and waiting, so soft and round in all the right places, had momentarily taken him out of the moment. But now he has no choice but to look at you, wide eyed and tear stained, covered in your own blood, sucking in half strangled gasps for air while he stiffly guides himself to your entrance. There’s no stopping it though, he just can’t seem to overpower the great sage no matter how hard he rails against it, and the backs of his eyes start to tingle as soon as his cock presses into that center seam. 

He pushes, using his body weight to sink himself inside the tight clutch between your legs and to keep you obediently in place for him. It’s probably not necessary at this point when you’ve all but exhausted yourself, screwing your eyes shut and seething at the pressure of having your cunt forcibly invaded, but otherwise staying mostly still. You also probably understand that any further struggle could cause you more harm and discomfort when it had already escalated this far. No matter how much you didn’t want it, it was about survival at this point. You were smart enough to see the wisdom in letting him have what he wants in the here and now, so you can exact retribution for his egregious actions later. And he doesn’t doubt that you will. 

But in the moment he’s much too consumed with the wet, gripping warmth of your inner sleeve to think too hard about what might await him once you leave the secluded isolation of this temple. There were sure to be consequences for what he’s done here and rightfully so, a pound of his flesh for yours. Yet that looming possibility doesn’t seem to hold much weight to it when your guts were actively working to suck him in. 

You hate every minute of it and that’s clear as day in your pinched facial expression but your cunt has a mind of its own, and it hungrily accepts his cock with a welcoming wet squelch. Excessive precum mixes and mingles with copious slick to smooth the glide of him into your body, making the penetration easy even when you valiantly try to clench the muscles and keep him out. Against your will, you take him one sinuous inch at a time until he at last settles snug and tight against your labia with nowhere else to go. Internally, his eyes start to roll back at the intense, pulsing warmth of you squeezing around him, but externally he remains as stonily unaffected as ever. Evidently Hermanubis was not nearly as moved by this situation as Cyno was, far more concerned about taking and claiming his offering than enjoying it. 

And he does take it, just as mercilessly and selfishly as he’d bitten into your neck to mark you as if you were little more than one of his long forgotten concubines. Hands braced against the dais now, he leverages himself into a steady rhythmic pace that has your tits energetically bouncing even as you continue to ineffectively push at his chest. You must know that it’s much too late to stop him when he was already driving his cock as far into your guts as it would go but that doesn’t stop you from trying. It also doesn’t stop the tears from streaking down your cheeks or the hushed, hiccuping sobs that his thrusts seem to dislodge from your throat. They’re so threadbare and soft that the quick paced plap plap plap of his hips smacking into you nearly drowns them out. 

Cyno feels sorry for you almost as much as he feels sorry for himself. This was not the way he wanted to have you nor was it the way he thought you deserved to be taken. But the physical compulsion driving his hips forward is almost as powerful as the spirits hold on him, and he can’t stop it. You just felt so good gripping his cock and you looked divine under him even with a wet face and dried blood starting to flake on your neck. It’s no wonder he gives himself over to the pleasure, ill gotten though it may be. Throws himself into it with abandon and he doesn’t try to fight it when he feels his swaying balls draw up in warning. 

Thrusts stuttering at the onset of his orgasm, he doesn’t immediately understand why it feels like you’ve gotten ten times tighter until it abruptly occurs to him that his range of movement has been mysteriously reduced. Where once he’d been able to freely piston into the welcoming cradle between your legs, he now finds he can only move back a small fraction before being forced to shove himself back in again. Confusion marches rampant through his mind and almost succeeds in distracting him from the shuddering release that begins to bear down on him. But then, as if taking mercy on his helpless, foolish host, Hermanubis tips his head down to regard the spot where his body connects with yours. 

He doesn’t quite comprehend what he’s seeing at first and then it clicks. The same semi corporeal energy that created the oversized, monstrous hands to overshadow his own when he was channeling the great sage’s full power had culminated at the base of his shaft and had formed a … a knot. A faintly glowing, impermanent bulge that was effectively working as a plug to keep you tied to him even when he tried to pull out. He couldn’t dislodge it from your stretched open cunt even with his vigorous attempts to complete a fully executed thrust no matter how much effort he put into it. All he could do was slam his hips forward, forward, forward, again and again, bruising your cervix given the dire tinge of your breathless wails, and in the process he only succeeds in bullying that faux knot all the way inside you. 

This is something else that is not a normal part of his physiology and should therefore not mean much of anything to him. Yet somehow, someway, the visual of your raw pussy being forced to take the whole thing, finally stretching wide to accept the fattest part of the rounded girth before weakly trying to close shut around the base, sends him violently careening over the edge with a wounded lurch. 

His movements are even more limited now that he’s got you well and truly plugged but that doesn’t really seem to matter. Narrow hips jumping from the sheer force of his orgasm, Cyno kneels on that dimly lit altar before the ever watchful eyes of Hermanubis’ statue and basks in the mind numbing relief that comes with his cock spraying your insides creamy white. He tries to keep fucking you, driven by the instinctive urge that is not his own to deposit every last drop of his potent seed into your womb, but he only succeeds in working his spend even deeper into your cunt with the tiny little thrusts he can manage. 

Suddenly, and without even a moment's warning, the spirit within him recedes and he’s forced back into his body with a haggard, suffocating gasp. He slams into his own consciousness, his own skin like he’d been shoved off the highest mountain peak in the world and then hit the ground at full speed. 

All at once he’s aware of the thick sheen of sweat coating his entire body, the flushed static coursing through his flesh and bone. His spine dramatically bows towards the ceiling when he sucks in one frantic, heaving breath after another. It’s a violent thing, refitting himself into his own flesh again, filling out all the little nooks and crannies that he’d been forced to vacate. His hands feel weird, his fingers wrong and gangly where they’re splayed out on the surface of the dais. His stomach feels like it’s caving in, turned inside out and then flipped around in some unnatural fashion that seems to him like it hurts. Even his cock felt wrong where it was still wedged deep inside your cunt and weakly pulsing with the last lingering spasms of his release. 

Hair hanging forward, Cyno just stares at you in wide eyed, shell shocked disbelief. Perhaps some naive part of him had hoped it was just a dream, a nightmare, a sickening vision of what might have been if he allowed himself to lose control of the remnants of the great sage. That is not the case though, and the way you vindictively stare up at him through the tears still wetting your lashes thoroughly dispels any doubt about that. He’d not only hurt you, scared you, forced himself on you and taken advantage of you … he’d irreparably shattered any and all of your trust in him. 

There was no coming back from this for either of you. 

Gods, and what about your future! If his seed took and you — 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think to say, croaking out each individual word like he hadn’t used his voice in a few dozen centuries. That didn’t feel too far from the truth, but all you do is turn your head away with a soft sniffle. 

“Save it for someone who cares, Cyno. Get off of me. I want to go home.” 

Home, where you could refuse to ever speak to him again. Where you could seek comfort and peace in your true lover's arms, not his, and figure out what you were going to do moving forward. 

It wasn’t fair to you nor was it something he actually deserved after what he’s put you through, but a tiny, vaguely human voice in the back of his cotton stuffed mind whispers at him that he could always keep you here forever. Make this your new home. Fill you with child after child until his claim on you was so uncontestedly concrete that no one could ever take you away from him, least of all that blasted Al-Haitham. 

This was his temple after all, wasn’t it?

⭐

Crossposted: here

[yayll]

https://www.tumblr.com/yayll/759326311116308480/havent-slept-yet-but-just-as-i-was-about-to?source=share

Hi, this anon again😅 haven't slept yet again...it's 6 am🙃. I just love the idea that Dazai with all his godlike intelligence is the kind of guy to see immediately what troubles or struggles his significant other has with themselves or in general.

If you have trauma he will immediately catch on, self esteem issues? Immediately caught on, mommy or daddy issues? People pleaser? He knows it, and many other things, he will immediately figure it out as you both date.

He'll probably even do little things that you'd think he doesn't understand how much it means to you, like validating you, making sure you always have a specific comfort of yours at hand, you'd think he just does it because he saw that you liked it, but it was because he knew what it would do for you, what it makes you feel.

Dazai sees you and he doesn't just see your traumas and things you struggle with of course, he first sees someone he loves unconditionally. Dazai knows you love him with all your heart especially after knowing about his past.

Dazai will tell if you're sensitive, if you're uncomfortable with loud noises, if you get emotional about a lot of things, if you're lonely around people, if you're masking your real personality around other people, if you've only heard criticism instead of any praise, if you've been undermined and seen as a second choice, Dazai will know.

And he will show you from the moment he picks up on everything, that you're never gonna feel like that again as long as he's there, and he will always be there. He will validate everything you always wanted to be validated. Dazai from the Port to ADA is very much "gun is love, gun is life" to "what is gun, what is this metal thing that can hurt another human being!?" An exaggeration of course but that's how he probably would be even though he's joking, but the second someone tried to mess with you, suddenly every training he had in the Port comes back and he's immediately shown to be this incredibly intimidating and ruthless man to anyone who tries hurt you.

Have a beautiful forever Hun💖🥺 I know you said in the last message you've had a rough time and I genuinely hope you're doing better 🥺💖 a reminder that you're so amazing and you deserve the best, you deserve to be happy and i wish you the uttermost happiness and love and good health, you're still so incredibly young, you have so much time to accomplish everything or anything you want, you're doing well, get some sun, hydrate yourself, sleep the best you can(because I know sometimes we don't always get enough sleep) and eat well💖🥺

I'll leave these emojis for now so you'll know it's me next time😅

- 🥺💖

HELLOOOOO my sweet 🥹💖

i'm so sorry i have such a late reply! i've been working on some writing and also quite literally irl so i'm just trying to catch up. you are amazing and i'm wishing u the best of health and happiness right back :') love is all we rlly have in this world. things are a lot better lately on my end and i hope you've been able to sleep comfortably even if it takes u a while! MWAH.

and also. i just rlly wanted to indulge those lil things you said about dazai because they are sooooooooo true. sooooo fucking valid. GUN IS LOVE GUN IS LIFE TOOK ME OUTTTT LMAO i actually love the way u talk abt dazai's highly intuitive side, it's quite literally what makes him so compelling as is. and in a relationship/partnership? oh it's a goddamn dream. he's like a hawk watching and registering your every mood fluctuation and the cause of it, tryinf to see how he can rectify it immediately. and i also FIRMLY believe he will use any and all past PM training to facilitate ur happiness should he ever need to. he'll be like:

"Hey, take five. You've been at it for hours now and frankly, it's boring watching you work."

"I can't, I'm so behind on reports and I'm helping out with the agency holiday party, I also need to-"

Dazai's eyes narrow, and shakes his head rapidly. Mission accepted, he thinks. He knows what you need, and if you won't cater to your needs, he'll have to just do it himself. He lives to see you at ease, because you deserve the entire world. You will not, under any circumstances, be stressed under his watchful eye... And he also just really wants an excuse to cuddle later without having to hear about dumb things like work. It's a win-win, and you don't have a choice! He sighs, and puts on his little performance.

".. You expect me, the great Osamu Dazai, to simply watch as I witness my favorite detective work themself to the bone?! Absolutely not! I refuse. Come, we're going to the cafe downstairs."

You groan as he pulls you, smiling in reluctance.

"Dazaiiii, i'm serious.. plus, don't you have like, a huge running tab there?"

He flashes you a sly smirk and a wink.

"That's why I have you, silly! Your philanthropic and generous heart is willing to treat me as your penance for being so stubborn. How noble of you. You really shouldn't have."

You roll your eyes, sighing deeply as you zoom out of the agency with him.

"The waitress there wants to kill you, you know."

You mutter under your breath with a playful smile. Dazai gasps dramatically and looks back at you, still holding you by the arm, tighening just a smidge.

"Oh, goodness! I'm quaking. well thank god i'm bringing you, my precious little scapegoat~"

Despite your feigned annoyance, your cheeks redden, and it's hard not to become endeared with how relentless he is in his pursuits to distract you. what a slack off, you want to kiss his stupid face until he shuts up. You might just have to.

"You're the worst, Dazai."

"Mm, what a weird way to say 'I love you.' I'll take it."

this is a silly little thing, but basically overly observant and on the case Dazai he just NEEDS to make you the happiest whether you like it or not!

i love u, mwah :')

-ivy

[puckpocketed]

ok the stick story is this

according to The Hockey Media, who as we know do not actually follow any teams closely so know NOTHING, ovechkin was finally hit by father time. he's finally slowing down. he's a shell of his old self. he has old man syndrome. blah blah blah

as a caps fan, i know that this is false, because our russian machine never break. he's a freak. who btw had like 13 goals disallowed or something crazy like that in the first half of last season but i digress

gee i wonder why ovechkin's goals went down? is it because his longtime center and future hall of famer nicklas backstrom retired in all but name? is it because our other top 6 center in evgeny kuznetsov had by far the worst season of his career (from point a game to not even half a point a game) and then went into the player's assistance program before being traded to the canes and then bolting for the KHL?

actually, as it turns out: no.

i mean probably those were factors, but there was another factor. a factor that many caps fans are very aware of but almost no one reported on for some reason (probably because they were too busy writing about how SiDneY CrOsBy was having SuCh an AmaZiNg season for a 36 year old despite ovechkin literally having just as a good a season the year prior at the *checks notes* age of 36. also this is a reminder that one of those two actually led their team to a playoff berth and it wasn't crosby)

ovechkin is, among other things, an elite shooter. like many elite shooters, he is EXTREMELY picky about his sticks. he has been using the same CCM model for the last 7 seasons...and prior to this season they discontinued it.

the first half of the season (roughly), ovi was constantly trying out new sticks from CCM, from Bauer, whoever. he tried quite a few different sticks. results: 8 goals in 43 games.

then, ovechkin found an independent supplier. apparently (i can't remember where this info came out, maybe 32 thoughts?), these guys have an "ovi pro curve" model based on his old stick with CCM and he bought it and tried it out. curve was identical, and it felt right to him. started using those. results: 23 goals in 36 games.

am i saying that he is going to continue on that pace this coming season? probably not. do i think that the rumors of his demise as a goal scorer are greatly exaggerated and almost surely mistaken? yes. am i optimistic that with some stability in our center depth and stability in stick choice, ovechkin will have a 40 goal season again and possibly break wayne gretzky's all time goals record? YES.

what this means for PLD our beloved failhorse wife: he's not getting some washed up old man former great on his wing. he's getting the greatest fucking goal scorer in the history of the sport. and i, for one, am excited to see what they can do together.

link i thought about this all morning during baking and while i was out!! thank you for the stick explanation and all the sources i LOVE citations i am eating them up like theyre cakes at teatime....! more under the cut but heres what i was thinking about when i read this:

thinking about how,, particular some players get about their equipment, how superstitious, it's crazy to me that a manufacturer can just do all that. if it were me and MYE special stick got discontinued id be suing for damages

i was super interested in what actually changed in the second half of the season because i saw ovechkin was back to scoring basically at-will again, so really thank you for explaining.. the bond between a hockey and their stick is so beaugtiful <3

cr-sby is my babygirl-in-law and i fear i will always be fond of him because of this, so i shall tread carefully here (pens friends look away) it DOES suck that they're not recognising your old man for his achievements while that old man gets hyped. is it like, weird anti-russian sentiment? or a more general anti-caps bias? every team fan space i dip into feels unfairly maligned one way or another - which, yeah! clenching my fist of rage.......

you spin such a tale and im VERY excited to see how next szn shakes out in light of all this and also . grabbing dubois by the scruff of his neck like i will stan either way but PLEASE dont embarrass me in front of my cool new friends kjlasdklasdkl....

thank you so much for stopping by and for the warmest welcome ever <3

[adelaidedrubman]

it’s serving absolute wednesday

i was tagged on this particular wednesday by my dears @nightbloodbix @cassietrn @deputyash @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat to share a wip! (and by folks last week too i think but scrolling through notifs hard so apologies for any double tags for those who just posted and obviously no pressure).

unfortunately have not been able to write much this week due to the Week of it all, so fished up (haha) a hl&s chapter 4 excerpt i have already posted a little bit of before (if you saw it pretend i didn’t).

And she wore the wide, toothy grin of a bear with a fresh caught salmon between her paws as she shucked off her shirt, single auburn brow quirked up as she held it out to him as if offering food to a cub. “Think you can get dressed all by yourself like a big boy, too?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she thrust a hand against his chest to push him back flat against the fence again, shoving the collar over his head herself.  “I’ve got it from here,” he bit out, elbowing her away. “Thank you for all the unrequested manhandling.”

“Funny way of saying ‘emergency medical care,’” she grunted, crossing her arms over her barely covered chest. “And a fine of job of it, too, you could fucking add. You’ll still need to find a real doctor eventually to pluck out the fishing line and super glue everything back together, but I’m sure you can manage a few more weeks of not buying a new boat to afford the co-pay on glorified Elmer’s. So long as you’re up to date on your tetanus shots, everything’ll heal up just fine. I did good stitchwork.” “Go to a real doctor, you say?” he replied, forcing a hint of condescension back into his tone as he poked shaking arms through sleeves. “Does that mean you fancy yourself something of an amateur? A would-be? Perhaps a failed ambition, before you chose to cast your lot amongst trout and speeding tickets?” She flashed him a sweet, dimple framed smile clearly meant to exaggerate the straining of a patience she’d never actually once exercised.  “It means I’m someone who usually has to settle for doing my own first aid,” she chimed brightly, swinging her head away from him. “My fuckin’ condolences. I understand that must be a scary new experience for you.”  “So I shouldn’t use the satellite phone I’ve been hiding this entire time to summon the private jet I keep on retainer to fly me straight to the Mayo Clinic over this?” he hummed, sparing a brief, belated glance to the freshly-tended wound as he pulled the borrowed shirt down over his chest. She wasn’t wrong — she did well enough. The skin had the sheen of thorough cleaning, her stitchwork tight but precise in its binding. There had certainly been far worse done by his own immature hand in its day, faded silken webs of scarring memorializing unsteady job of a sewing needle and thread in the dark of his childhood bedroom forking out and framing the fresh set of stitches.  Mementos she’d also seen, it occurred to him in retrospect as he tugged the hem of the shirt down, stopping just below his navel to leave a small sliver of stomach exposed above his waistband. And perhaps that was the source of her arrogance about her own work — heartless, smug little thing she was.  Yes, he knew the likes of her, knew that every little act of seeming kindness was merely an opportunity to cruelly poke and prod for her own amusement. Right down to the shirt given off her back — still smelling of her, he noted, tilting his head down as he rubbed the fabric of the collar between his fingers to stir up the scent. 

sending tags out to @florbelles @josephslittledeputy @afarcryfrommymain @theresaruggedroad @just-another-wasteland-merc @voidika @captastra @confidentandgood @belorage @blissfulalchemist @shellibisshe @thedeadthree @ladyofedens-blog @miyabilicious @simplegenius042 @henbased @clicheantagonist @firstaidspray @strafethesesinners @nuclearstorms @jackiesarch @v0idbuggy @orionlancasterr @stacispratt @8bitpizzacoupons @strangefable @shallow-gravy @roofgeese @corvosattano + opt in here to be tagged + again, no pressure!

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough, Ch 8

Some hints that Isabella's affection for Catherine may not be all that it seems, starting with this, "Isabella having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste" and then Isabella taking an entire three minutes to abandon her friend to dance.

I love this part:

She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.

This sentiment is so real, it's like assuring the waitress that you aren't at the café alone and your boyfriend is coming. Catherine wants people to know that she has a partner! She's not unselected and unknown. It doesn't matter that she may never see these people again, the disgrace is real.

Then worse (!) she finally sees Mr. Tilney again but she can't dance with him! The horrors! I love how Catherine doesn't fall for the "mistakes sibling for spouse" trope, which continues to happen in fiction to this day, but instantly realizes that Henry is with his sister.

Thorpe finally appears (ug) and he doesn't have any good excuse for keeping Catherine waiting. However, this reminds me of three other men:

of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them

We know that Mr. Rushworth of Mansfield Park also annoyed a woman by talking too much of horses (his "sport" would include this) and dogs:

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the repeated details of his day’s sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on the other Mansfield Park, Ch 12

Also, Sir John and Willoughby are arranging the exchange of some terriers:

Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was the end of it! Sense & Sensibility, Ch 32

Now I'm sure a big part of these quote aligning is just the era and being gentry, them with their fancy horses and fancy dogs, but both Rushworth and Sir John notably can't really talk to women, I think we can easily argue that Thorpe is in the same camp. And inconsiderate Tom Bertram delayed another woman from dancing with concern about horses:

He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom Mansfield Park, Ch 12

The real problem here is that men are putting their concerns above doing a duty or a kindness to a woman. Sir John gets away with his devotion to hunting because he is very kind and accommodating otherwise, but John Thorpe, Mr. Rushworth, and Tom Bertram especially really show their selfishness and self-absorption in these scenes.

ANYWAY, joy of joys, Catherine is introduced to Eleanor Tilney, who seems like 10,000,000% more rational and genuine than Miss Thorpe:

Her manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence.

Catherine does not immediately become friends with Eleanor, but engages in the very small talk that Henry spoofed back in Ch 3.

The faithless "faithful Isabella" reappears, but she's far too absorbed with James to really focus on Catherine, no matter what she claims. Both Catherine and Isabella refuse to dance with their partners more than once, though like Willoughby and Marianne, Isabella and James don't find new partners but instead talk with each other. Poor Catherine barely spends any time with Mr. Tilney as he got bored and danced with someone else.

Now, we know Catherine is already half in love with Henry at this point, but what is he thinking about her? He does seem to have sought her out and he asks her to dance again. This may just be polite, and he certainly feels that nothing is keeping him from finding another partner. I would say he probably enjoyed the first dance and is happy to see her again, but I doubt he's been dreaming of her...

[oktobearfest]

full thoughts on the borderlands movie

yeah the reviews weren't exaggerating this movie is fucking awful. probably one of the worst video game movies in recent memory. pretty much everything about it is horrible. don't know where to begin so i'll just list off my random thoughts about the movie

the visual effects are terrible. this movie visually looks like the VFX team didn't have a budget or didn't have any time to make this movie look even remotely competent. like some of the things in this movie look like a PS2 cutscene. i will say as a positive that claptrap consistently looked great and was thing i thought looked good. that positive is automatically retracted when i learned that the people that worked on claptrap specifically were not credited for their work

i know everyone is saying it but everyone in this is hilariously miscast. kevin hart as roland was ridiculous but honestly he didn't bother me that much in the actual movie. cate blanchett as lilith and jamie lee curtis as tannis were WAY worse. they're both too old for these roles especially given that in the movie tannis is supposed to be like, 30 ish years older than lilith. bitch these two characters don't look that far apart in age??? jack black as claptrap was annoying as fuck. just sounded like he was doing a bad impression of the original VA. another positive is that i thought the guy playing marcus was pretty good. he looked and sounded like the character but he's in like. 2 scenes and then you forget he exists. also i dont see a lot of people talking about this so it may just be me but moxy looked really old for the role as well. she's literally in 1 scene and thats it so it doesn't matter that much but it did stand out to me.

movie is insanely unfunny. nothing else to say. the attempts at "jokes" here were embarrassing

very confused as to who this movie was made for as it doesn't respect the source material in any way but also has a ton of references to the games that non fans would not understand.

not sure if this is true but this movie felt like it was originally rated R but it was trimmed down to be a PG-13 rating. why is a movie based off of a franchise with rated M games PG-13??????

every scene felt super rushed and you never get to know any of these characters or care about them. the writing and character development were very hollow and superficial. i know the borderlands games are not peak fiction when it comes to writing but you still come to like and care about these characters. in this movie, im like damn i dislike all of you lol

this entire movie has "was in development hell for almost 10 years" vibes all over it. it permeates throughout the entire thing. i couldn't stop thinking about how it took almost a decade for this movie to be shit out onto the big screen

w. w. why did they change tiny tina's backstory and why is it 100000000000% pointless.

WHERE ARE MORDECAI AND BRICK. WHERE ARE THEY

[kael-writ]

TW Child Abuse & not believing victims

A Child Called It by Dave Pelzer meant a lot to me as a kid. While my abuse was not as extreme, the psychology of the abuser and the abused was so intimately familiar. I saw my Mom in that woman. Im not saying my Mom was that bad, or was exactly the same, Im saying I saw the same psychological state of being emotionally out of control and twisting it into sadism against a child.

It disturbs me revisiting this book that the author is accused of fraud. And the accusations aren't based on solid evidence, not any that I can find.

The article that started these accusations of lying, in 2002 in the NYT, is behind a paywall and Im honestly not going to the effort of going around it, I am sure the kids today know how to go around paywalls but I don't want to read it and get all upset that badly tbqh. It's by a sportswriter, Pat Jordan, who dabbled in true crime who somehow got to say that for the New York Times but the secondhand sources citing it dont show that Jordan actually provided evidence. They also claim Jordan had a hostility towards therapy. Jordan has his own memoir out where he accuses his own father of being a con artist. So it kinda seems like he is someone who would be hypervigilant to thinking someone is grifting.

The reasons people give for not believing him just read like a laundry list of all the reasons people call all abuse victims liars. Some of his relatives say they think he exaggerated, but still say there was abuse, like a 90 year old grandma who lived in another state and some - not all - of his brothers. The other scapegoated brother confirms the abuse in his own book. Well, that's typical. The other kids were both privileged by the abuser and separated from the rituals of abuse and Dave's life in general, young, brainwashed. Lots of times the "golden child(ren)" deny abuse. They're meant to. The abuser has arranged it that way. They're kids, they're warped by an abuser, they are in denial and feeling guilty. The majority of the abuse of the scapegoat will be entirely in private, as Dave's was.

People point out that the memoir of his childhood going only up to age 12 reads.... like a memoir of childhood memories does... as the.. memories of a child. Like, yea some stuff might have seemed "exaggerated" to him. The amount of time something took, for example, would be really common for a child to misremember. He says in the forward it is meant to capture his childhood memories!

Dave also says openly he changed names. The book is - a book. It's carefully written and edited. It's presented to the reader. It's... a book.

To get attention? Yes! You grew up abused and that was hidden and you want the world to see it! You want to save other kids! That is understandable and not a bad thing. Yes, he is bringing attention to child abuse and to his life. And yes, he's making money from it. He wants to make money from telling his story, it's hard, time and energy consuming work and in this society it's really hard to do anything you can't monetize, frankly, we should all know that by now. The man has a child, a child he devotes himself to giving a completely different life from his, one of love and safety and peace, - god forbid he makes any money from writing a book.

As Dave DETAILS in his book not just very openly but clearly to educate us on how abuse works, abused kids have to learn how to deceive and appease to survive the abuser. To tense part of your body before a punch, to cry when that will help or show no emotion if that will help, to steal food, to lie about injuries.

So could Dave's adult work as a motivational speaker, could his story telling, come off as someone with some skill in some manner of audience manipulation? Sure dude. Everyone does that sometimes, every writer and actor does that when performing. That doesn't mean someone just made up their whole life story.

People say he couldnt have survived all that. Unfortunately, and fortunately, people have survived worse. And again, yea sure, maybe the week he remembers eating nothing he did actually eat a bite somewhere. Maybe the time he got stabbed it wasnt as deep as the book makes it sound, it seemed deeper to a kid. Sure, maybe a couple little details are off.

eta: another claim is that he "doesn't have PTSD" and functions well in life. If you read his follow up work, he does struggle with PTSD, and even if he didn't, not everyone who, say, comes back from war has it, it clearly depends. And the idea that survivors will never function and thrive is false and insulting. Look at Oprah, Maya Angelou, Elie Wiesel ffs. People CAN survive! /eta

The other main claim is "how did she get away with it? Her kid coming to school every day with bruises and dirty clothes and no one did anything?" Yea dude. Especially in the 70s. Yes. Children get murdered by abusers to this day after a CPS failure. And that's when it gets reported at all. The teacher in the afterward who was one of Pelzer's saviors said he didn't even have any understanding of child abuse back then. It hasnt even always been illegal to abuse a kid. To this day, hitting and verbally abusing your kids is largely legal. There's a line, there's been progress (BECAUSE of people like Dave) but a lot of abuse is still legal.

People say he didnt provide enough proof to them of this hidden child abuse from when he was under 12 in the 70s. I dont even know what they expect. The only external proof I have of my own abuse are the times someone else witnessed something, most of the physical stuff was only seen by a fellow sibling occasionally, neighbors heard some yelling, that's about it. but it's not like we had phones and filmed it even in the 90s, it's not like my parents signed a form when they lost their temper. Its not like abusers take the kid to the doctor. The couple times someone called cops or DCFS they didnt do their jobs. There isn't just - collected evidence of all this stuff. That's- beyond unreasonable. At most there might have been some documentation of the child custody proceedings, in the 70s I really don't know if that would be available now.

And something that is striking about these allegations is that on EVERY forum alleging them you start to see abuse victims saying "that's very realistic actually. That's what it's like".

You also don't see the actual proof of fraud. Proof the teacher who wrote the afterward doesnt exist, for example, something like that. That is what you see with actual fraud cases. The person was actually not in the USA on 9/11. Stuff like that. That's proof of fraud.

Does it sound like that's a high bar to clear to call him a fraud? I don't think so, I think an abuse victim (or a person with cancer, or whatever thing that very rarely people lie about but most people arent lying about) should be believed or at the very least not persecuted like this unless you have extremely good evidence. I particularly think a journalist shouldn't make those allegations without doing actual journalism.

When 9/11 survivors and journalists started suspecting fraudulent "victim" Tania Head, they DID RESEARCH. They FOUND PROOF. Hard evidence. She was in Barcelona on 9/11. They didn't just start accusing her without proof. Because that would have been awful. And unlike Dave, she was being a jerk to other survivors, she was not showing mutual support, I dont see anyone so much as claiming Dave didnt support other survivors. Survivors seem to appreciate him, in fact.

Is it possible it's fake? I guess. Is it likely? No, it's not. Is there reasonable evidence of fraud? Not to my knowledge. Im obviously incredibly biased here, and yes I will be so crushed if it turned out to be a fraud, but I would want to see that evidence, Id want to know - if it is actually solid, compelling evidence, not just some redditor's misunderstanding of how abuse works.

In over 20 years, no one has gone and found actual proof that Dave lied. It's still just rumors and speculation burned onto his wikipedia and his legacy. A message to him as a survivor and every survivor watching, that we STILL are not to be believed.

Abuse survivors shouldn't have to live with the stigma of presumed guilt, of never feeling like we can ever just be believed. Coming forward about abuse should not mean you are indefinitely publicly on trial in a state of presumed guilt. You don't have to 100% believe every story you hear. But abusers thrive on the silencing of victims. At some point, if we want abuse to stop being a driving force in society causing so many problems and so much pain, we're gonna have to start believing victims.

[mineofilms]

Political Nightmares, 1/5/2024

So President Biden just gave a speech today (1/5/2024). His first on his bid for his second presidency. It was probably one of the better speeches, as far as quality of the words that were chosen, he has done in recent memory. I certainly cannot remember if/when he actually had a speech worth talking about. At least on my end of it. Like every great villain or liar they mix some truth in with their BS. Here is no exception. While I do happen to agree on ‘some’ of his takes about Trump, I certainly do not believe that by default. That by not voting for Trump is a vote for Biden. No, I think not. Sure, most will live by that mentality of the two-sided-coin. This is just another example of that ‘binary by default’ mentality. That if I am not LEFT then I must be RIGHT by default. Those statements are inherently NOT TRUE. However, by the rules of binary, that is exactly what that means, but when applying that to the real world, it doesn’t work, it never did, but we are to play pretend that it did work; and that we should all consume, obey, procreate based on those assumptions. We have other opinions, but they tend to be ignored due to the rules of the binary mechanisms. While that isn’t necessarily 100% accurate most will follow that logic. It is all they know. Do not expect to get someone that can only think in points understand what a line is when you connect those points. Evolving from one dimension to two dimensions. They will never get it. One will always have to slow it down too much or spend too much time, while dummying it down for them, for them to grasp the concept. The more we push devices in their faces with abbreviated concepts and context to those concepts, the stupider our civilization will become.

While I agree that Trump isn’t the best candidate; we have no one really stepping up either. Sure there are a few names in the hat, but they spend so much of their efforts trashing everything, everyone, in their own party, bickering over favor, over being that person that walks the walk on the hot coals in the pit over just talking about it. One of the things that tends to rile me up about the LEFT is how they tend to frame their words. They say it is Trump/MAGA but what I believe they are really talking about is themselves. During Biden’s speech/trashing of Trump he listed several topics claiming it is the RIGHT/MAGA-sided people that are the cause of this and they are dangerous for freedom. While the reality is this is what the LEFT has been doing for nearing a decade now.

The LEFT keep telling us January 6th was this big attack on American Freedom, but when we see all the video footage we see nothing but non-hostile groups of people walking around that are guilty of trespassing and perhaps disturbing the peace, at best. Yet, somehow, people are getting lengthy punishments for what is largely a non-violent, over-exaggerated trespassing violation. Was there some violence going on? Of course there was, there is always going to be a few people in a group that has their own agenda. The sheer lack of common sense, logic and problem-solving skills demonstrated by the LEFT and their media sources just shows, only in part, why following the LEFT ideology isn’t the best of long-term plans.

Granted the RIGHT isn’t much better. They tend to try to play the same games as the LEFT but the LEFT are much much better at it than the RIGHT. The RIGHT always comes off as Idiotic-Jesus-Karens, hiding behind the Bible and Christianity over trusting in science, common sense, logic and problem-solving skills. If we left the RIGHT to their vices the constitution would be no more and replaced by the Bible. No one wants a theocracy, that is why we do not live in one. As much as I will show respect for those like Ben Shaprio, for his witty and intellectual prowess, the man always comes prepared to debate, but tends to look silly when he tries to combat actual logic with the Sky Daddy logic. It would be difficult and frustrating trying to have philosophical conversations about logic with someone that puts faith above all other knowledge. I have always felt from the beginning between Biden and Trump that both are terrible choices for this country right now. Both talk from a place where they understand nothing from the common person, which makes up most of the people in this country. I certainly do not trust Biden, but that apple of trust does not get handed over to Trump because of that. However, that is how the system currently operates.

Anyone else see/feel like this is NOT the way to move forward in our society?

While Biden gave a great speech, most of what he had to say is about a narrative both sides keep pushing and the bulk of America doesn’t believe is real. Most do not even know what the FK Biden is even talking about; because said narrative doesn’t actually FK’n exist to begin with. Where exactly, and how exactly can we label January 6th an insurrection? When we think of what an insurrection is and they flip over to what actually happened it is very hard for me to see what the LEFT is saying about that day. I am not saying the RIGHT here is right, as in correct. There should have been resources in place so a hoard of people couldn’t push passed security without shots being fired upon the crowd in defense. I am not saying who/what right/wrong here. Only that this country tries to play the moral high-ground in the public eye, but behind closed doors they act like a bunch of kid-touchers that do not wanna get caught touching kids. Granted I am not saying ‘kid-touchers’ literally. Merely that I am using that as an example of doing a terrible terrible wrong to the people of this country and either hide it or place the blame on someone else, like Trump. Trump can undo all the Biden madness and I suppose based on that, that is a good thing, but Trump being the best person for the job? Yeah, I think not. Most of the things Biden was pointing the finger at in his speech that Trump has done (allegedly), is really what Biden’s been doing for three years now. They just removed Biden’s name and inserted Trump’s name. Where most of the people that watch a little or a lot cannot even keep up with the he said/she said BS. Most people cannot even tell the difference anymore it is so goddamn convoluted. At the time of this writing I am probably not going to vote. There isn’t anyone I want to vote for, (again). I come to this conclusion pretty much every time I feel pressured by social media to cast my vote and have a voice, but the voice in which I speak breaks the abnormal normal of what today’s normal is supposed to be; if we continue to listen to these talking heads on the dailydaily. We haven’t even gotten into the Hunter Biden stuff yet that may or may not get the President into trouble about the legalities of his ability to be President moving forward. We are seeing more of Biden’s appointed people being called into courts and in front of committees trying to find out why the border is overrun. Why Hunter Biden is on, or was on, the payroll for foreign nuclear power programs that directly have inappropriate connections to the President. Biden makes statements about violence in our political establishments. Well, what about our colleges full of Presidents in those environments that allow Jews and American-Jews to be harassed and threatened by violence in our colleges? Navigating the current political landscape, (Whoa)ke Cult-Lure, gender-mad and two old idiots running for President feels like choosing between two imperfect options. President Biden's recent speech, while well-delivered, appears to perpetuate narratives that many find disconnected from reality. The binary mentality in politics oversimplifies complex issues, overshadowing nuanced opinions that don't fit neatly into LEFT or RIGHT categories. I question the effectiveness of the modern-day political system and expresses skepticism about casting a vote in its current state.

"Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. A really efficient totalitarian state would be one in which the all-powerful executive of political bosses and their army of managers control a population of slaves who do not have to be coerced, because they love their servitude. One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them. I am I, and I wish I weren't. I like being myself. Myself and nasty. I want to know what passion is. I want to feel something strongly...reality, however utopian, is something from which people feel the need of taking pretty frequent holidays... Great is truth, but still greater, from a practical point of view, is silence about truth. A love of nature keeps no factories busy. But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin. It is natural to believe in God when you're alone-- quite alone, in the night, thinking about death. If one's different, one's bound to be lonely." ― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

tantibus politicis, 1/5/2024 (Latin for political nightmares, 1/5/2024) By David-Angelo Mineo 1/5/2024 1,597 Words

[under-lore]

Where do you think Mt. Ebott is on Earth? Most seem to consider somewhere in the United States or Canada as the most probable answer, though that makes sense considering the majority of the fan base is from their and Toby himself is an american (also Hometown in Deltarune is pretty obviously supposed to invoke the image of Everytown, America).

That said, I'm pretty sure the medieval weapons used by the humans in the intro don't line up with what indigenous Americans had access to.

So maybe somewhere in Europe? Would fit with the vaguely medieval esthetic of thr Underground, and Asgore's theme being a reference to the german King in the Mountain motif.

A very tricky question !

Indeed, Undertale seems to be throwing hints into every direction at once. The name "Frisk" comes from Scandinavia whilst "Chara" exists in Irish and Greek. The narrator references the USDA (US department of agriculture), the underground references medieval Europe and german myths. Etc... the list goes on and there seems to be no easy answer.

Mount Ebbot lookalikes have also been found in most of these countries...

To start off, the kind of sword that we see in the introduction of the game indeed doesn't really fit with what native americans were using before europeans discovered the continent. They mainly used weapons such as bows and arrows, spears or tomahawks... Not this :

It is difficult to judge such a generic sword design, but this type of sword seems to ressemble a lot more those used in Europe from ancient Greece to the end of the medieval age than those used in Asia in this time period.

Its uncertain how long ago monsters were sealed. Bratty and Catty mention it as having been millennia, however, those two are often exaggerating things. That being said, as it is the only proper source we have on the matter, i believe we can assume that the order of magnitude they give must at least be somewhat accurate.

Another thing that may be relevant is the fact that the sound of the bells that play in the final corridor is called "mus_churchbell".

With that on top of the obvious ressemblence with christian church designs in this area, it would seem likely that christianity was already present in the area Undertale takes place in back when monsters were sealed.

In that case, most of Africa and Asia as well as all of the Americas and Oceania would be eliminated, making Europe the biggest candidate by far.

It could also be possible that monsters learned of christianity at a later date via things the humans would have left in the garbage dump. But as monsters only moved out of Home shortly before Chara fell, it would be quite odd for it to have gained much significance underground.

Besides, monsters do not even seem to know about the modern Christmas traditions. Which they would have likely learned about if they only knew of christianity from the dump.

Christmas as a holiday didn't really take off before Charlemagne in the year 800. And it didn't reach its modern form before the 19th century.

As you've pointed out, there is an odd use of the german language in the Undertale OST. One that references german folklore : "Bergentrückung".

This may be a point in favor of Undertale taking place somwhere where german culture has at least a strong influence if not an area where German is spoken.

The narrator knowing what the USDA is and making anime references also seems to imply it being somewhere in the western-aligned world.

Of course, it is likelier to be somewhere that has a lot of mountains as well.

While this one is a bit more of a stretch, a place where a lot of trash per habitant is produced could also be quite fitting due to how much the garbage dump seems to receive.

There is no definitive answer to this question. However, certain areas seem much more likely than others. It would seem to me that somewhere in the Alps would combine the most fitting factors out of any other place on Earth.

Switzerland in particular seems like a very good candidate as it fits every single one of these criteria. Besides, it is also famous for its chocolate ! Which could explain Chara's taste for it if they were swiss.

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 5: Hold On To Whatever Will Get You Through

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: A job well done. A call. Relief. A hand outstretched. 

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: T, nothing much here just some old fashioned yearning. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Cross-posted on AO3

Me or the Thought of Me Masterlist || I Think of You Series Masterlist

You write one last item in your datapad (a heavy blanket or two) and sit down hard on the edge of Mando’s cot. You are tired, but refreshed with the satisfaction of a goal well met. You slept better last night than you had since your first boneless night on the Crest.

In the cargo hold, four crates are lined up and labeled with bits of flimsiplast on all sides. The first is filled with electrical components, wires coiled and parts combined into sections as best as your limited knowledge and datapad can manage. The other crates are similarly organized, items you know Mando needs often placed as accessible as possible. 

The food storage closet, after a long afternoon of frustration over what some of these meals even were, has been cataloged and sorted by how often they’re eaten (favorites well in reach) and by basic contents (some so odd they ended up in the “miscellaneous” box under the prep table). You even looked through the trash and found several of the same packets thrown away (Mando’s favorites) and made note of them.

(he likes the spicy ones)

Your skin is pruny and still damp from your investigation of the ‘fresher, finally discovering the dank smell to be coming from an old filter in the shower drain. A few hand tools, some curses and over-exaggerated gags later, and you already smell the recycled air improving. You were especially proud of that accomplishment, not only for stopping the assault on your nose but that your basic knowledge and winging it were enough to solve the problem.

(not completely useless)

You were finishing up your list of suggested supplies, a final task before you expected Mando back. He wouldn’t spring for everything right away, but it may make him think of more than weapons and foil packets whenever he resupplied. Maybe even allow him to indulge in a few luxuries, even if it just was buying his preferred flavor of ration bar. 

(whether or not you’d be here to see that)

You wish you could have spoken to Mando about this while he was hunting, but the lack of a communicator (the argument less bitter on your tongue) makes it impossible to contact him. You hope you didn’t overstep, or that Mando sees this as a peace offering, but after these last few weeks you aren’t sure about much regarding Mando anymore. 

(nothing left to lose you suppose)

Standing up to stretch, you look around the hold. Maybe next you’ll start cleaning the pervasive oil slicks and grease stains that rub off on your clothes whenever you pass too closely to the walls. You’re tired of needing to scrub your forearms every time you want to lean on any part of the structure. While gathering up some degreaser supplies and rags you liberated from the dirty clothes bin (a project for another day), you hear a crackle come from the cockpit.

This is new. You’d never heard anything come from up there before. It’s faint and short, the noise starting and stopping abruptly. Putting the cleaning supplies down, you mount the ladder and make your way up, caution in your pace and worry etched on your brow.

Once you’re surrounded by transparisteel and the sickly green of the swampland trees outside, you start searching for the source of the noise. It’s not clear, no lights on the console or indication that it even came from the ship. You frown and stare down the array of buttons, but it tells no tales. Shrugging it off to a tired mind, you head to leave when a burst of static sparks the holocomm to life.

There’s no picture with it, which is strange, but you hear deep even breaths and shrubbery being snapped and pushed aside. 

“Mando?” you ask, and a moment later he says your name.

“Maker, you startled me. Could have told me you had a holocomm in here, I wouldn’t have made such a fuss over it.” The words are colored with some sarcasm, but also acknowledgement of the argument and a hand reached out in reconciliation. Mando doesn’t say anything in return, and you wait a long minute with the pit of your stomach slowly dropping out.

(This is it, he’s had time to think and he’s done with you, you’re going back home and you will never see Mando again)

Hot tears gather on your lashes (kriff, all you can do on this ship is cry) before the static breaks back in.

“Can’t hear you if you don’t hit the return signal button,” he says, grunting a bit. You shake your head and laugh, wiping your eyes at the misunderstanding and go to hit the button. He must have gotten the bounty, was returning and wanted to warn you.

“Though I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to talk to me,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave into a breathier register. Your hand hovers over the button, your own breath catching on the curl of your tongue. 

“It hasn’t been easy, having you on the Crest. It’s…an adjustment, and I haven’t been good at those in the past.” You want to roll your eyes but the tiny ember of hope, of understanding in your chest is warming you softly. 

“I’m sorry, and I will try to be better. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a traveling companion who could actually talk back.” You giggle at this, knowing the child’s company can be one-sided at best. “Long time since I cared enough to ask someone to come with me.” His voice is dropping lower, quieter, more introspective. You are hypnotized by the timbre of it, and while you know you should respond you want to know what words he'll spill thinking you’re not listening.

“When I get back I want to talk. Figure out a plan.” The smile that breaks out onto your face threatens more tears to fall. Thank the Maker, the relief is close to euphoria for you.

“I’m better with plans, with rules and expectations. Obviously.” The last word makes you snort, putting your hands on the console and leaning forward to let some relief relax your ever-tense muscles. 

“Because…” Mando says, and here he pauses long enough that static fills your ears. With fear, with promise, with trepidation.

“Because I don’t want you to leave.”

Your mouth goes dry and your head snaps up to the imageless holocomm. 

(He wants you to stay)

(Stars, you want to stay too)

“I’m approaching the Crest. The bounty is out, but stay in the cockpit until I come up.” A pause, then, “I’m sorry, Mesh’la. For everything.”

Your hand moves without thought, clicking on the return signal button. Your voice is stronger than you thought it would be.

“Come back safe Mando.”

Another pause, then a soft, “Of course,” before the signal snaps off.

PREVIOUS || NEXT

[elsecrytt]

Hello. I am 🐱 anon. Here is my request.

Tomorrows my exam the 2nd hardest exam of all. Any I wanna request "Vampire!Mc×Satan"

MC actually has a hobby of drinking blood so one day reader ordered some blood from the donation box and casted a spell on themselves and likely Mammon and levi were arguing loudly so the spell went a tiny tad bit wrong. Unfortunately the bags of blood they ordered somehow were ruined so a call from the donation box came, the staff apologizing. Because of the tiny tad bit wrong spell now Mc's body will constantly hurt if they don't drink blood. Mc endured it for a while.

But Satan noticed it and Mc told Satan. Satan offered his blood. Mc started drinking Satans blood the leaned towards the bed headboard Satan taking this chance to hold mc's waist while mc is on top him and mc just couldn't stop drinking Satan's blood sure it's a bit hot and a bit metalic but it wasn't enough to stop mc from keep going. After almost 30 minutes Mc stopped the spell also wore of and when Mc looked Satan is passed out. Mc later bandages him.

DAMN you've already taken the exam by now but. Hope you did good buddy!!

There's a bunch of details here that feel a bit muddy, but I love the general idea, so let me put a bit of a spin on the setup~

-

Every so often Satan notices you get a bit... withdrawn. You speak a lot less, avoid raising your hand in class, don't make eye contact at all, don't initiate conversations; you're even a bit short and curt in texts, of all things.

At first he wonders if you're simply busy. Or maybe you get moody every now and then. It does seem to happen at random.

The biggest hint he gets is how you hole yourself up after a couple days of brusqueness, how once it happens in the middle of the week and you skip classes at RAD to stay locked in your room.

You won't let anyone in, even him, and Lucifer is uncharacteristically lenient about what should be a serious offense. His other brothers are busy whining every now and then about it, and like hell he's going to ask Lucifer - especially when you won't tell him what's going on yourself.

But he does work out a pattern, over time. Of course he does. It's Satan. Once he starts examining the timeline, things that had been happening around when your little recesses,,, it becomes clear.

And he feels a bit silly for not realizing it sooner. Bloody moon. Of course it would affect a vampire. Really, he's surprised he hadn't come to you asking about it sooner...

But when he approaches you about it, you always seem to find some way out of the conversation. Something to do, somewhere to go, another pressing topic to discuss.

He confronts you about it and you confess - that you don't want to talk about it. it's an uncomfortable subject. The look on your face thoroughly sells it for him...

...but Satan's never been one to leave well enough alone. It's far too obvious to him that you're suffering every time this comes along.

What's wrong? What can he do for you? Can he bring you anything? Are you hurt? Sick? He researches spells, potions, anything he can, all in the face of your stubborn refusal.

It must have something to do with blood... do you need some to drink? But you were always so well-provided-for, Diavolo would never let his precious exchange student starve.

So he researches. He investigates. As is his natural response. He looks up articles, novels even, any kind of media written or produced by actual people like you.

“It’s never the same as drinking from the source. And of course, it doesn’t need to be - any healthy blood, properly stored, CAN sustain a vampire, there’s no question about that.

"I’m not advocating for live blood draining, but the all-bagged philosophy is missing out on a crucial point of our culture and identity, and I think it’s unfair to silence…”

There’s a lot that he’d initially dismissed as the typical rankings of older generations upset by newer, more progressive mentalities taking place.

It sounded exaggerated, no one could NEED blood that much - even Beel wasn’t so picky about his source and eating method - but the more Satan learns, the more convinced he becomes.

You’re holing yourself up because the craving has struck. Bagged blood is no longer sufficient. You want it fresh, hot, and straight from the source.

As soon as the realization strikes him - perhaps as he'd come to it - his feet take him to your room in quick, hurried strides.

That closed door that had remained shut for days. You'd only texted him - or any of the other brothers - in curt, short messages.

Lucifer had instructed them not to trouble you during this time, and harsh shouts greeting any other visitors had dissuaded them; you had enough blood in there for yourself anyways, Lucifer had confirmed.

So Satan doesn't knock. He has a spell that undoes the lock silently, and twists it open as quietly as he can, darting in, closing and locking it behind him as he closes in on you.

You...

You don't look so good. At the same time, you look absolutely delectable.

Sitting with your knees to your chest, hunched over like some kind of beast, shivering, twitching.

There's bloodstains on your sheets - some of them dry, some of them fresher looking. Half-empty and some fully drained bags litter your floor.

You don't look cold. You don't even look weak.

Your fingers dig into your arms, wrapped around your legs, making little divots in your own flesh as your chest rises and falls in short pants.

The glare is expected. The way your pupils dilate, yawning wide black swallowing up your irises in the low light and then narrowing feverishly onto him like he's some sort of prey -

Hnnn. It makes him shiver.

He kneels at your bedside and says your name, only to receive a hiss.

"Do you want my blood?" Both of you know it. "You can have it. I'm right here, I came here to do this for you."

"Shut - " It hurts him to hear - your voice raw and cracked and hoarse, had you been drinking properly? " - UP, Satan. Get out."

He'll have none of that. For your sake, of course - and certainly not his, not because his blood is already flowing downwards, pooling in his gut at the predatory look in his eyes -

"No," Satan tells you, only for you to snarl at him and kick at him.

But he's a demon. He can take it.

After several moments of him getting close enough to feel the warmth of your body, you stay there, face tucked against your knees, ignoring him completely.

But you want it. He knows you have to want it... he just has to break your self-control.

The claws come out. He claws a careful line against his wrist, deep enough to draw just a trickle of blood.

You stiffen immediately. He can see your eyes, open wide and dilating, instantly seeking out the source of the scent.

"Go away," You rasp, drawing back on your mattress.

He reaches out to pet your hair, with the wrist he'd cut, and you scramble back, uncurling - exactly as he'd liked, you're panting now, breathing in the irresistible smell, catching the red that drips down in his forearm.

"Do you want it to go to waste?" His low voice asks you, and it takes everything you have not to dive forward.

You swallow hard - the dryness in your mouth only reminds you how parched you are, how hungry.

How nothing could sate your hunger like this could -

No. No, no. You don't need this. You don't.

Satan's curious. Maybe he even wants to help you. He doesn't know what feeding does to the victim, or to the vampire, when it's done live. You can't do this to him.

And clenches his hand, like the clever little prick he is, causing more blood to trickle out.

You're - you're so hungry. Achingly.

It's empty, like a hole in your stomach, a yearning that hollows you out, your throat is so dry, and the aroma that floods your senses as he waves his meal in your face -

Without your permission, your hands dart out, clutching at his fingers and drawing his blooding wrist towards you.

But he... what if he... if he thinks -

The taste of his blood hits your tongue. It's warm, flowing savory over your tongue like juices running from a fine, tender steak.

It's so good. It's so fucking good.

You'd been starving, ravenous, and it floods your senses, filling your mouth as you wrap your lips around his cut.

Satan can learn his lesson like a big boy. He's a grown up demon. He'll be alright.

He offered... you drink, lap at it more and more, swallowing tiny drops that burst with flavor and make your mouth water even as you draw more from him.

You deserve this. You deserve him. You deserve to have as much of him as you want, taste all that you want.

Satan catches your eyes, looking up at his as your mouth closes over his wrist. Pupils blown wide in want, gaze full of fevered desire as he feels you tense as you stare him down.

There's a heat that blooms on his cheeks. His gaze locked in yours, transfixed, as the throb in his arm grows heavier, until he can feel it in his chest, and lower, lower...

Your lips pursing against his skin as you suck at him, burning hot, that lurid look you give him when you pull away with a pop, that pretty mouth just barely parted; he's never seen anything so beautiful.

How soft those lips had been, how nicely they'd pressed against him, how good they'd feel around his -

Soon, his lips are parted and panting, too.

You drink him in one further moment; his gorgeous features, flushed cheeks, golden hair and pretty, pale skin bobbing over his throat.

And then you strike.

Diving in for his throat, latching on as you launch yourself onto him, uncaring of where or what position you end up in.

Satan catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, shifting you into a straddling position as he turns you both around so he can rest his back against your bedframe and remain upright while you drink.

The pinch of teeth against his neck flares in pain, but the squirm of your tongue distracts him, the sound of your breath heavy, close to his ear, dominating his awareness.

You don't hold anything back. You're so hungry. He tastes so good.

His skin is warm, supple, yielding beneath you, blood pouring so easily right into the empty hole of your stomach.

It tastes good it's so good you drink and drink and it'll never be enough.

This is yours. It's all yours. This soft skin, salty, the pulse that dances with your lips like a kiss, the vibrations through his throat as he moans.

He wants you. He's yours. Satan is all yours yours yours you can have all of him -

"Ah - ahhhh... hnng, were you... that hungry...?"

You purr against him with another heavy swallow. It's leaking out your mouth, sticky, and you want to lap up every drop of it but you're just so hungry, so empty, and it's all you can do to press into his wound to send blood surging through faster.

Savory and delectable, sweetened by the heat of lust, by the aching throb you can feel between his legs against your knee; not a drop, not a drop can go to waste, it belongs to you.

The thought prompts you to bite down even harder, and he moans again. His neck aches in the best way, in the hot, fevered euphoria of being devoured with a passion.

You feel more blood rush into your mouth, and the delicious tremble of his moans, and you eat it all up, like you deserve.

It's like ambrosia on your lips. You'll never give this up.

Satan lays there, compliant, obedient, subject to a strange bliss he'd never known. Light and airy, radiating through his whole body with a delicate tickle, as if his veins were bubbling champagne.

There's no pain at his neck, only the warmth of you against him, nursing like a kitten.

Suckling gently at his neck in time with the pulse of his cock, throbbing distantly between his legs. The lust that soars through him is strong, but sedated, as the pleasure overcomes him in gentle waves.

There's no feeling like it. Has he even cum yet? It feels like a climax in slow motion, the delicious release warming him as you take your fill of him.

He swears he feels you whisper mine against his neck, your fingers curling ownership into his chest, legs locking on either side of him.

This was how hungry you were? How much you needed this?

A pinch against his neck, a hard suck, as you greedily draw another mouthful from him, and another rush of ecstasy radiates through his flesh.

This was how much you need him?

Golden lashes flutter against pink cheeks as he closes his eyes, letting his head rest against your soft hair.

He lets his arms rest around you, weakly; maybe if he does, you'll realize he wants you close, too? That he's yours, that he'd give anything he had to give, if only he knew you wanted it?

A gentle sigh of pure relief, of comfort and bliss, brushes against the bare skin of his neck, and Satan smiles.

You probably know already anyways.

[lucytara]

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt. 

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

--

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

--

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

--

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

--

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

--

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

--

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

--

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

--

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

--

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

--

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

--

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

  Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

--

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

--

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

--

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

[min-jpg]

can i request zhongli , kaeya and xiao with a fem!s/o that comes from an extremely rich family and the boys get kidnapped and held for ransom and then out of nowhere their s/o comes and beats the group of people that kidnapped the boys , gracefully😋😋

Note: we stan a baddie s/o! Anyways, enjoy the drabbles with a word count averaging 0.5k for each character :) I'll make the setting at an abandoned warehouse, classic

---

Kidnapped Genshin Boys x Fem Rich!reader pt.1

Part 2 (Childe, Diluc, Kazuha)

Characters: Kaeya, Xiao, Zhongli

Genre: fluff, established relationship, some woman kicking ass action, (TW: mentions of blood and violence)

---

KAEYA

Your boyfriend would deliberately act like a damsel in distress with no fighting aptitudes. Exaggerating his emotions to fabricate fear, he voluntarily let himself be held hostage, thinking they caught an easy target. Kaeya went along with his abductors' antics because he intends to bring them down once they reach the hideout.

While they were camping in the warehouse, Kaeya was not worried at the slightest. These people were no vision bearers, just mere greedy criminals that do not know who they were messing with.

Kaeya is aware of how affluent you and your family are. He already anticipated something similar to happen one day. Lowly tactics like these do not budge him at all, especially his unyielding loyalty towards you. As if the Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonious would be shaken by something as childish as this.

While he was improvising a plan in his mind, one of the men yelled, "Intruder!"

They all assembled at the source, but glanced at each other in confusion, "Intruder? Where?"

While an altercation sparked between them about the unseen intruder, their attention successfully diverted away from Kaeya. Thus, using the containers and blind spots to your advantage, you sneaked your way towards your boyfriend. While freeing Kaeya from the ropes that bound him to the chair, you giggled as well, "Are you lost, baby boy?"

Your unexpected appearance left him stunned, but it was a pleasant surprise, "Lost in those eyes, baby girl." He smirked back. By the time you finished, the men realized that the intruder was you.

Now that you are actually here, Kaeya's concerns began sprouting because he wanted to ensure your safety first before carrying out his plan since your arrival was not formulated in it.

You fueled his worries when you stepped forward towards the group. You dropped the bag you carried along in front of them, "Here. You wanted the money right? Take it."

"Well, that wasn't so hard." The gung ho group laughed boisterously among themselves, the leader leaning down to pick up the bag. You swung your foot, landing a clean kick on his face which caused him to stumble back. He pressed his nose, blood trickled down, "You-"

You refused to let him finish by sending another vigorous kick, this time at the center of his stomach, causing him to hunch as he grabbed onto his stomach and surpassing his coughs. To finish it off, you plunged your elbow down the back of his head and connected with an uppercut. The force was strong enough to send their leader flying back and never stood up again, completely knocked out.

The rest of the gang blinked. It was not even a fight. You took him down with only a few moves, barely breaking a sweat.

"You guys want some more? Or just take the money and leave us alone." You taunted them. They hustled along, grabbing the bag, and left their leader in the warehouse. Little did they know, the bag was not filled with money, but just some rocks to give it some weight.

Kaeya walked up behind you, clapping his hands, "That was superb, babe. I didn't know you were such a fighter." Needless to say, Kaeya is so proud of you and praised the way you executed your beautiful course of movements. He will also keep in mind to never mess with your temper too much in the future.

XIAO

Your boyfriend could take out all the adversaries he wanted to, driving them to regret that they wished they never premeditate this abduction. Unfortunately, his hands are tied because the group threatened that harm would come your way instead if he did not comply with their demands.

"You just have to sit here until your girlfriend bails you out. I'm sure she has some extra cash to blow to save you."

You did warn Xiao beforehand that similar incidents happened in the past and it is bound to occur again, to which he glazed over as a simple matter since he is confident with his combat experiences. But you did not explain how the incidents were settled. Xiao did not know that you have the capability to defend yourself, so obviously he reluctantly listened to them to protect you.

If they were to resort to hurting anyone, Xiao would rather have them hurt him instead if it meant they could spare you. He will never forgive them or himself if they even attempt to graze a single strand of your hair.

While worrying for your safety, he heard one of the men shouting a yelp, but it got cut off as his body fell, passing out cold on the ground.

The group huddled together, "Who's there?!" Their eyes darted around to search for the one responsible.

While they were bewildered, you jumped down from one of the containers at the warehouse, sending your knee flying directly towards one of the members to knock him down. In a kneeling position to pin the person below in place, you sent a swift strike to his neck, making him faint. As you stood up, the gang and also Xiao all looked at your abrupt appearance with wide eyes.

Glaring at the men in front of you, "Now, if any of you touched my boyfriend, one doctor visit wouldn't suffice." Without giving them any time to react or respond, your palm curled into a fist, dashing forward to begin taking them down one by one with your nimble feet.

Your calculative movements were sharp and precise, leaving no opening for your foes to attack. As the battle proceeded, your hair flowed gracefully behind along with your bold actions. Although Xiao was itching to help, he only managed to stare at you in awe, marveled by your bravery and poise stance that showed no weakness.

Before you both knew it, the fight ended with you emerging victorious.

You ran over to Xiao to free him immediately, "Oh archons! Xiao, are you okay?" Caressing his cheeks, you frantically inspected his face for any external injuries. Those men will face your wrath if they did anything to him.

Xiao was still processing what happened, his pupils fixed at you, lips parting, "That was really... amazing of you." He wanted to tell you that you looked so gorgeous that it made him breathless, but kept his mouth sealed after. For now, he enjoys the sensation of your hands that were used to unleash such fury now stroking his face so lovingly. It is also worth mentioning that Xiao has a new profound respect for your charming side that he never knew of.

ZHONGLI

Your boyfriend maintained a tranquil state of mind when he was kidnaped. Not portraying any signs of retaliation or profound panic, it even caused the group to be unnerved with how silent Zhongli behaved.

While held hostage, the head of the abduction blabbered about how they intend to lure you here, exploiting you through Zhongli's situation for some quick money grab.

Upon hearing that, Zhongli's eyebrows twitched in a displeased manner, "So you'd rather take advantage of someone for money instead of working for it? Don't you have any dignity left?"

"Obviously! If there's an easy way to earn money, who wouldn't want to partake? Someone as sheltered and rich as your girlfriend will never understand. Don't act like you never took money from her." They ridiculed his righteous morales by bringing you in the conversation, implying Zhongli only dated you for your status.

Zhongli leaned back against the chair with an inscrutable demeanor on his face. He knew that surely someone would point out the disparity in social status between you and him. But, if they thought he only valued your wealth and nothing else, then he will have to disappoint them.

"Oh, I'm very lucky to have a wealthy partner. Something you will never understand, yes? That's why you turn to disagreeable schemes such as this." Zhongli stalled time by making mindless talks with the leader.

Not appreciating Zhongli's remark, the leader raised his arm, ready to swing at full force to land a hit, except you obstructed him. Appearing out of thin air, you found your way towards Zhongli and held a tenacious grip on the man's arm from behind before he could potentially scar your boyfriend's precious face.

The group was alarmed by your arrival and the way you constrained their leader's strike. Applying even more force to twist his arm, you contorted his limb. It caused him to arch his back and bawled in pain as he attempted to wriggle his arm out of your grasp. In contrast, you reinforced your strength and kicked the back of his knees.

Once you let go, everyone watched him squirmed in agony on the ground with your grip leaving a red imprint on his arm. Turning your head towards Zhongli, you sent him a cheeky wink, "You're one lucky man indeed."

Now channeling your attention at the group, "Who's next?"

The group charged towards you, assertive that their strengths in numbers will have more odds in winning against you, a woman who stood alone.

Thus, to prove them wrong, not only did you beat their egos to pulps, but also the entire gang. Keeping a composed manner, your limbs carried your movement with great finesse and elegance. You dodged and blocked every incoming attack, never allowing them to get a clean hit on you. Your presence dominated the flow of the battle.

Eventually, only one victor is appointed, that victor being you.

You walked back to Zhongli to untie him. You placed your hand on your hip, huffing your chest to stand proud, "How was that? Not only is your girlfriend rich, but also powerful."

Zhongli nodded in agreement, softly patting your hair as he watched you with affectionate eyes, "That was a remarkable performance to remember down the road. Guess I have a lot of things to learn about you." Although Zhongli is fully competent to defend himself if things went wrong, he found it absolutely charming of you to protect him. You were reckless, but he acknowledges your ability to fight so gracefully.

[robininthelabyrinth]

For your prompts: Mingjue is ace or demi, and somehow between taking over the sect at a very young age and never displaying interest in it, no one ever gave him The Sex Talk. All the aunts and uncles assumed someone else took care of it. Then Huaisang gets to that age. He seems to be very interested in sex. He needs The Sex Talk. Mingjue feels like that should come from him (he's taken care of all the rest pf raising him after all), but he doesn't have the info to do that.

How does Mingjue give him The Sex Talk? Or alternatively, does Huaisang end up already knowing and giving The Talk to his big brother instead?

ao3

“All right,” Nie Mingjue said, sitting down and gesturing for Nie Huaisang to sit down across from him. “I guess we’re going to have to talk about this.”

“I knew this day would come,” Nie Huaisang said, looking unbearably tragic. “I’m going to die of embarrassment before the day is through, da-ge. Won’t you have pity?”

Nie Mingjue knew him too well, though.

“Okay,” he said.

Nie Huaisang frowned at him.

“If it’s too embarrassing to talk about sex, you’re not ready to talk about sex,” Nie Mingjue said with a casual shrug. “We can postpone the conversation to –”

“No! I want to hear about it!” Nie Huaisang scowled at him. “Da-ge, everyone else got the sex talk! You wouldn’t want me to fall behind, would you?”

Nie Mingjue blinked innocently at him. “But Huaisang, you said…”

“Never mind what I said!”

Nie Mingjue tried to maintain his façade of innocent neutrality but quickly cracked in the face of Nie Huaisang’s exasperation; he started laughing.

Nie Huaisang grumbled.

“There’s not much to say,” Nie Mingjue said, wiping his eyes. “And it’s not as if you can’t get by without it, you know. I mean, no one ever gave me the talk.”

Nie Huaisang frowned. “No one? What about A-die? I mean, before…”

“He was busy, and kept postponing it,” Nie Mingjue said, shrugging. “And then he died, and everyone assumed he’d done it already. It’s fine. Everything I needed to learn, I learned from books, and you’re going to do the same.”

“…books.”

“Yep, books.”

Nie Huaisang heaved a sigh. “You’re going to make me learn this incredibly important subject from textbooks? Really, da-ge?”

“I am,” Nie Mingjue said.

“You’re robbing me of a valuable life experience here.”

“I’m so sad for you,” Nie Mingjue said dryly, pulling out a box and spreading out the books he’d obtained just for this purpose. “Now, I know you hate studying, I know you think it’s boring and a waste of time, but I really think in this instance –”

“It’s fine,” Nie Huaisang said quickly. His eyes were fixated on the books in front of him, and for some reason he’d flushed bright red, even though it wasn’t all that hot in the room. “I don’t mind. I’ll study hard, da-ge.”

“I feel like I’ve heard that before once or twice,” Nie Mingjue remarked, then shook his head. “Anyway, I think just one or two –”

“I need all of them.”

Nie Mingjue blinked, sincerely this time. “All of them?” he said, and looked down at the books. “Huaisang, I don’t think you understand. I got a selection so that you could have your pick, but they’re by and large very repetitive; each one more or less describes the same basic acts –”

“I need all of them. For reasons.”

“…all right,” Nie Mingjue said, bemused but generally pleased by Nie Huaisang’s highly unusual enthusiasm for study. “I thought I was robbing you of a valuable life experience?”

“That was before! I didn’t realize the books were going to be spring books,” Nie Huaisang said. He’d grabbed one and flipped it open, staring wide-eyed at one of the illustrations.

“What type of textbook would there be for this subject other than a spring book?” Nie Mingjue asked, wondering – as ever – if he’d missed something. Raising children was hard, and raising Nie Huaisang was harder; everyone agreed. “Anyway, I’m given to understand that the art is a bit exaggerated, especially in terms of proportion, and the accompanying text can use some rather strange metaphors, but fundamentally the acts described appear generally consistent throughout the various sources. For example, if you look at this one, you can see that the woman has –”

“Yes, da-ge, I can see.”

“I’m just pointing it out,” Nie Mingjue said defensively. Nie Huaisang was being especially impossible to understand today. “Anyway, it’s all a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang said. “Very weird. Incredibly weird. You know what, I think I need to think about this privately for a while.”

“I…are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“If you insist.” Nie Mingjue stood up. “If you have any questions –”

“Yes I’ll be sure to ask you please leave now thank you good-bye.”

Nie Mingjue found himself outside the door to Nie Huaisang’s room, not entirely sure how his much smaller younger brother had managed to push him out so effectively. Maybe some of that saber training was actually having an impact, however spaced out and half-hearted Nie Huaisang’s efforts were.

Cheered by the thought, Nie Mingjue headed back to his office, feeling very good about himself: that wasn’t nearly as awkward as all the other people had made it sound. It’d been no problem at all!

Of course, a few months later, he found out that Nie Huaisang had started buying up spring books like he’d developed a mania for it.

“That seems fine,” he said to the disciple who’d reported it. “I mean, it’s a bit strange, yes, but he’s always been fond of hobbies that involve collecting things. Birds, weird rocks…that sort of thing.”

“I’m not sure it’s…exactly the same,” the disciple said carefully. “But if you’re not concerned, Sect Leader, we’ll just leave it be.”

“…I’ll talk with him,” Nie Mingjue decided, mostly because of the weird expression on the disciple’s face, and the disciple looked relieved.

Later that evening, he followed up on his word.

“Huaisang, I heard you’re buying spring books,” he said, and Nie Huaisang nearly choked on his soup.

“You can’t just bring that up over dinner!” he hissed.

“…why not?”

“You just – can’t!”

“I can, and did,” Nie Mingjue said. “Some of the disciples have expressed some concern about it.”

Nie Huaisang’s shoulders went up by his ears defensively. “Is it because I’m buying cutsleeve books as well as regular books?”

“They sell cutsleeve books? Really?” Nie Mingjue said blankly, temporarily distracted. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be enough of a market to make the printing worthwhile. Aren't they supposed to be relatively uncommon? …anyway, no, it’s not about that.”

“…you don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” Nie Mingjue said, puzzled. “I’m glad you’re expanding your horizons.”

“You…are?” Nie Huaisang was blinking rapidly.

“I mean, you’re reading? Reading is good. I’m always happy when you advance your scholarly pursuits,” Nie Mingjue said. “I mean, I’d still like it if you spent a bit more time on your saber…”

“Wait,” Nie Huaisang said hastily, clearly wanting to avoid the subject of his saber training. “If you don’t mind the fact that I’m buying them, or the content, what is the concern?”

“Mostly quantity, I think?” Nie Mingjue hadn’t been able to figure it out either. “You’ve exceeded your allowance twice already, and really, how many books recounting the same exact content can you really need?”

“It’s not quite the same content,” Nie Huaisang said. “There are different…scenarios.”

“Yes, but it all leads to the same place in the end, doesn’t it? Hand, mouth, front, back, inside or outside; you read one, you’ve read them all. Though I guess the cutsleeve ones are different?”

“Not really,” Nie Huaisang admitted. “But maybe take a look anyway? Maybe you’ll like those better…here, come up to my room.”

Nie Huaisang had, apparently, started in on making quite a collection, and from the way he puttered around trying to find the right ones to share, seemed to be in the process of becoming a little connoisseur. It was pretty adorable, actually; Nie Mingjue couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Nie Huaisang so enthusiastic.

“Having two spears involved does seem to make it a bit more awkward,” he concluded after paging through a few. “And obviously you can’t do it from the front in the same way, but other than that the mechanics generally seem the same. I suppose there’s really only so many ways you can twist the human body…”

“How about this one, then?” Nie Huaisang said, offering up a book about mirror grinders sharing a toy between them. “Twice the young ladies involved!”

“That seems even less efficient. If they wanted to be penetrated, why be a mirror grinder instead of finding a man?”

Nie Huaisang seemed somewhat taken aback by the question. “Maybe they just fell in love with another woman first?” he eventually suggested.

That seemed reasonable enough, so Nie Mingjue nodded agreeably. “Makes sense that they’d use a toy, then. Otherwise wouldn't they be stuck with using just mouths and hands? Though I suppose there’s always the eponymous grinding motion, too.”

Nie Huaisang reached over and put his hand in Nie Mingjue’s lap.

“Huaisang! What are you doing?”

“Just checking,” Nie Huaisang said, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re really not…Wait, let me find you some others. Maybe you’ll like these better – they have more scenario involved.”

Truly Nie Huaisang had a wide collection. There were solo stories, coupled stories, stories involved groups of three or more, stories involving people being tied up or doing the tying, one story involving whips and pinching nails that Nie Mingjue initially thought was a torture manual that had gotten mixed in by mistake except for how the receiving party seemed extremely enthusiastic about it. There was even one involving –

“Fish?”

“Tentacles.”

“People want to fuck fish?”

“It’s not – you know what, I don’t know, maybe they do,” Nie Huaisang said, throwing up his hands. “Octopi are a surprisingly popular subject along the coast, and some of the artwork from Dongying features it.”

“You have works from Dongying?” Nie Mingjue asked, impressed. It wasn’t every young man’s hobby that involved international commerce. “You’re really turning into a collector, Huaisang.”

“I’m not – it’s not –” Nie Huaisang grimaced. “You know what, maybe the disciples are right and I should cut down on purchasing so many.”

“Why? If you’re enjoying your new hobby –”

“There’s a difference between being known as the guy who has some good spring books and being known as the guy who collects spring books as a hobby. The latter just sounds pathetic.”

Nie Mingjue wasn’t entirely sure about that.

“Well, it’s up to you,” he said, and started to get up to leave, only to have Nie Huaisang tug on his hand.

“Da-ge, I have a question.”

Nie Mingjue sat back down.

“Have you ever…?” Nie Huaisang nodded at the books.

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, wrinkling his nose a bit at the thought. “It seems like more trouble than it’s worth, really.”

“What about…uh…” He gestured at one in particular. Nie Mingjue leaned over and checked; it was one of the ones featuring a single man touching himself. “Do you…?”

“Oh, sure,” Nie Mingjue said. “Every once in a while. Don't most people? But there’s rather a difference between doing that and having to get up close and personal with someone else’s genitals, isn’t there? We all wipe our own asses after we shit, but that doesn’t mean we do it for other people.” He gave Nie Huaisang a pointed look. “Present company excluded.”

“I was a baby, it doesn’t count,” Nie Huaisang hissed at him. “Never bring it up again.”

Nie Mingjue smirked at him.

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes dramatically. “Da-ge, you’re hopeless. One day you’ll find someone you like enough to try it with!”

“Maybe,” Nie Mingjue said. “Maybe not. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Uh, yes it does! You’re going to have kids, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Nie Mingjue said, hesitating a little. “Huaisang, you’re my heir.”

“I know that! I’m in line until you have kids of your own to inherit…why are you shaking your head?”

“You’re going to inherit after me,” Nie Mingjue said, as gently as he could. “I’m probably not going to have kids, but even if I did, I’d arrange it so that they’d be part of the branch family, not the main line. I want you to inherit.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes were going wide.

No, it was too early to tell him about the saber spirits, Nie Mingjue thought to himself. About their family's horrible temper and his private suspicion that the temper and the qi deviations fed into each other; his conviction that Nie Huaisang would be a better sect leader than him, a better continuation for their line than him, and his determination to make sure that the next generation of Nie sect leaders didn't have to fear a shortened life the way he did. He’d tell him that later, sometime. Today was a good day, there was no point in spoiling it.

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked instead. “I mean, you have such a wide variety here; don’t tell me you’re solely interested in cut-sleeves…?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said. “No, I like – everything.”

“Well, then,” Nie Mingjue said. “There should be no problem, then. If you end up with a woman, have some kids; if you end up with a man, take a concubine. Either way, you’ll get an heir.” He frowned. “Assuming you don’t mind –”

“No, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, and he sounded incredibly long-suffering. “I think I’ll manage to have sex, somehow.”

“Well, I mean, if you’re thinking about actually going ahead and trying it out, that’s a whole different conversation we need to have, as opposed to the talk about what it is. You need to be careful about it –”

“Ugh, da-ge, please, no –”

“I’m not going to lecture! Just don’t overdo it or anything. You don’t want to end up with a thousand bastards like Sect Leader Jin –”

“Gross! No!”

“– or with all sorts of diseases –”

“Da-ge!”

“– or with a reputation for being a dissolute or a –”

“I will only have sex with someone I love,” Nie Huaisang announced. “Or at least mildly care for. A nice clean person who likes me back. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“More or less,” Nie Mingjue said, and glanced down at the books. “Say, Huaisang. You know so much about this. Have you ever…”

“Do you have a question?” Nie Huaisang scooted forward. “Ask away, da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue flicked his forehead. “Not a substantive one. But have you ever thought about making your own? You’re a perfectly good artist, and you’re very imaginative; I’m sure you could come up with some scenarios of your own that might be very interesting.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes were wide. “I could, couldn’t I?” he said, marveling, and then suddenly jumped up and dashed over to grab some paper. “Oh, I could! I could – and that – and – and..!”

Nie Mingjue decided to retreat, smiling proudly to himself.

Reading and writing, he thought happily. They’d probably never get a warrior out of Nie Huaisang, but there might be a scholar in him yet!

[from-a-reckless-writer]

Supercorp - 49 please

Jess has been with her ever since the beginning of time. It might sound like an exaggeration but it really isn't.

Jess was already assigned with her ever since she was the Junior VP of LuthorCorp's Research division back when Lionel was still alive.

And when Lex inevitably drove the whole company into ruin and forced Lena into the limelight as CEO, Jess remained by her side.

So, really, Lena couldn't refuse Jess's resignation letter when it came, finally telling Lena that she wants to expand her horizons. Lena was beyond happy to hear that Jess was interested in going to grad school and finishing her Master's that's been put on hold. At the same time though, she also doesn't know how to let her go. It might sound a little selfish to keep Jess all to herself, but Lena's sure she's going to die the moment, Jess leaves her office.

But of course, Lena let her go, with a hefty final pay and a promise that Jess always has a place with L-Corp.

So truthfully, she doesn't have a problem with Jess leaving, what she does have a problem with, though, is Jess's replacement.

Jess made sure to choose the best of the best from L-Corp's array of eager interns.

Which means Lena has to work with the smartest, kindest, most fucking beautiful intern to ever grace her office.

How inconvenient.

"I'm her boss," she snipes at Sam, for the nth time that night. It's been 6 months of this. Of Kara coming into her office and making Lena's shitty day, less shitty. Of Kara being the most caring person in Lena's life. Of Kara somehow making Lena eat three full meals a day and getting her to sleep on time. Of Kara making her fall and fall, deeper and deeper.

Of Lena trying hard to suppress every little feeling she has when it comes to Kara by whining about it to her friends.

It's been 6 months of this and now it's Christmas and Kara is looking more and more tempting as the evening passes.

"Right, because that hasn't happened before." Sam rolls her eyes. "I haven't seen you look at another woman this way ever, Lena."

"Again," Lena stresses. "I'm her boss. As in, she works for me. She answers calls for me and she arranged this goddamn Christmas party."

"Then fire her," Andrea deadpans, taking a sip from her champagne flute, arm casually wrapped around Sam.

"Mm. I second that idea." Of course, they're ganging up on her. That's their favorite past time--making Lena's love life a source of entertainment.

"Remind me why I'm even talking to the both of you?"

"Because, you've fallen in love for the first time in your life and you don't know what to do because you're emotionally constipated due to family issues and it's Christmas and Kara's standing right there and I'm pretty sure you want to pull her under the mistletoe and we're the only ones who can help," Sam impressively lets out all in one breath.

"I hate you."

"We love you too, Lena," Andrea automatically responds. "Now, go tell Kara she's now unemployed because you want to rail her for the rest of the night."

"You can do it, sweetie. We believe in you." Sam raises her glass in solidarity.

"The both of you should be ashamed of yourselves." Lena glares at the both of them. "Christ, railing..." she murmurs under her breath at the same time she looks up from her drink and into Kara's eyes across the ballroom floor. Kara gives her a small wave, picks up her champagne float as if to toast, Lena raises her drink in turn.

Kara smiles. Lena flushes.

She's going to blame it on the alcohol when Andrea starts to ask.

Kara is on the other side of the ballroom floor, chatting up one of Lena's tech and bioinformatics staff, Wilfred? Winslow?

Whatever his name is, but Kara doesn't seem to be paying any attention, Lena keeps catching her looking at where she is every 5 seconds.

"Lena, for the love of God, stop with the eye-fucking already. If you aren't going to woman up, I'm gonna get Kara over here myself."

Lena knows Sam isn't kidding with her threat. Sam raises her brow in that 'Well, what are you going to do about it?' way that she always does.

"Fire her and get it over with. I heard Cat Grant is hiring."

"Oh my god, you two! Stop it already, I am not going to fire her, and I am not going to break moral code and for the love of God, I DON'T WANT TO RAIL KARA DANVERS, OKAY?!"

She breathes in deep, her heart pounding from her little outburst. Sam's eyes is twice in size and Andrea's lips bitten in an attempt to hold everything in, her left brow twitching.

"What?" Lena grits. "Why are you looking at me like-"

"Ms. Luthor." Somebody taps her on the shoulder and Lena is confronted with the reason why her friends are completely silent all of a sudden.

"Kara," she whispers in horror.

"Uhm." Kara fidgets with the her dress. "I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time? I want to talk with you about something."

Lena clenches and unclenches her fist and tries to rein it in. Fuck, did Kara hear?

"Is it urgent?"

"Uhm yes, sort of," Kara mumbles. And then more nervously, "I promise, it'll be quick!"

"Alright," Lena acquiesces, heart running a mile a minute. She follows Kara and doesn't dare glance back at Sam and Andrea. She doesn't really want to hear what they have to say about the whole turn of events.

Kara leads them out into the empty balcony, National City gleaming brighter than ever before them.

The jazz notes of the holiday serenade from the ballroom fades out and becomes replaced with the soft quiet of the falling snow instead.

"What did you want to talk about, Kara?" Lena dares to ask, goosebumps running along her arm at the cold.

"I, uhm promise me you won't be angry after I tell you?" Kara says, almost a whisper, a plea.

What could be so bad that Kara looks so afraid at the moment?

"I promise, Kara." The words waiting on the tip of her tongue. Eager to give Kara whatever she needs.

"Okay, okay here it goes, okay," Kara mutters under her breath, hands wringing nervously, clearly itching to fiddle with her glasses.

"I want to leave L-Corp."

Lena's heart plummets.

"What?"

Kara steps forward, looks down at the ground and then back to her.

"I- I want to resign. I want to leave L-Corp. I've been thinking about it for a few months now, and I've finally made up my mind. I wanted you to know in advance. I'll be passing a formal letter to HR in January."

Kara's eyes are so blue under the moonlight and her words are chasing each other around in Lena's head. Kara wants to leave. Kara has been thinking about leaving for months.

And here Lena was, expecting her to stick around for forever.

"Why? I thought you were happy at L-Corp? What could possibly be the reason for you to want to leave?"

I thought you were happy with me?

Lena can't help it, the question comes out of her lips without her permission and she can't take it back.

She thought Kara was happy spending time with her, working with her.

But what Kara says next turns Lena's entire world upside down in a heartbeat.

"You," Kara answers.

Everything slows. Time stops and all Lena can see is Kara and only Kara.

"I want to leave. I need to leave. Because of you, Lena. I'm in love with you, Lena."

Lena's first thought is, Fucking hell Andrea and Sam are gonna insufferable after this. Her second being, KARA'S IN LOVE WITH ME, KARA'S IN LOVE WITH ME, KARA'S IN LOVE WI-

"I'm in love with you. And I think you feel something for me too," Kara utters softly.

"And, I also know how much you value L-Corp and how everybody perceives you and I don't want to start something between us, if it would cost you more than it would cost me," Kara tells her reverently, finally closing the gap and taking Lena's shaking hands into hers.

"Oh, God, Kara, I love you too. God, this is crazy, I love you too. I'm so in love with you."

Lena doesn't even feel the cold, all she feels is this crazy, dizzying rush of happiness at finally being able to say what she's been feeling. And to hear it said back to her.

God, is this what it feels like?

Kara is smiling so wide and it takes a moment for Lena to realize that she is, too. She's smiling so hard her cheeks are hurting.

"I really want to kiss you now."

"I really want you to kiss me now, too, Ka-"

She doesn't even get to finish.

Kara presses their lips together and Lena tastes the cinnamon of Kara's lip gloss, because of course, she's the kind of girl who would wear cinnamon chapstick for Christmas.

They're both smiling too hard to kiss properly for the first time.

Lena breaks away for a moment, only to kiss her again for the second time. This time, deeper, more passionate. 6 months of pent-up emotions and want and love.

"To be clear, you love me, you're not going to fire me and you don't want to rail me??"

"I am never going to let Andrea and Sam near you ever again."

prompts list here