#have no idea how to explain but it’s so detailed yet delicate?

[sefynarose]

i want to find either a Chinese or Russian artist to commission a full size double image of Sylus so that i can make it into a body pillow

[targaryenluvs]

RAVAGE

pairing: dark!president!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

summary: he’d won the election, much to your elation. now you’d have to navigate the fame, fortune and status as the first lady of panem. but coriolanus just wanted you all to himself, and he’d do anything to scare you into his arms.

warnings: possessiveness, murder, robbery, bad smut, controlling, tears, babying, kisses, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, kinda subby corio/dom, praise, sense of entitlement? breeding kink, tummy bulge, overstimulation, little bit of aftercare

word count: 2k

a/n: i’m such a bitch for making everyone wait so long for a delicate part two 😌 and i finally have the confidence for smut so heheh - yes i’m using tvd names a lot - corio/coryo use - tried out a new layout 👀

part one of delicate

you couldn’t believe it.

coriolanus snow, president of panem.

all of his hard work has finally paid off and you couldn’t be more happy for him. you wanted to give him a gift but you still had no idea what he would want. it seemed the two of you practically had everything overnight, so a measly gift seemed to be difficult to acquire, one that he liked? even harder.

so you’d decided to go out, the idea of surprising him exciting you so much you’d forgotten to tell coriolanus where you were going to.

so imagine his surprise when his assistant told him you’d left the house, viewing you on the security cameras.

which you had no idea were there.

coriolanus saw it as an act of defiance.

he had to move about this correctly, he couldn’t have you injured, but he needed to scare you back into his arms. to remind you of the horrible place that panem was.

over twelve stores, and nothing. so you’d decided to enlist the help of one of your few friends. “not a single clue of what he’d want?” elena asked as you stabbed at your fries, “nope.” you answered as you placed a fry in your mouth.

“well if he has absolutely everything then his gorgeous wife should be a nice gift after an extremely long day no?” you looked up at her, confused, “what do you mean?” she giggled, “oh god, i forget how you don’t know that much. you, y/n.” at your adorable puppy face she leaned in, “your body.” you jumped back at her words, “i… i’ve never.”

“you’ve never?!” elena slapped her hand over her mouth at your admission, “how? i mean you’re absolutely stunning sweetheart, how hasn’t he yet?” you played with the table cloth in your hands, “i don’t know.” elena twisted her fork around her pasta, “okay has he never made a move, or, have you never noticed the signs?” you took a sip of your wine as you stared back at her, “what signs?” elena sighed, rubbing her temple, “there are signs, moments. the two of you, sitting on the couch and his hand trails higher. his breath quickens at the sight of you in a dress. the little things.”

“and what happens if you notice these signs, act on them?” and this was exactly her expertise, she wiped her face with her napkin before paying the bill. “if i’m going to explain this in detail then we need to go to my house. or a dirtier part of town. my dear girl, i’m taking you to your first ever bar.”

coriolanus has to hold on to his mask of self-restraint, you’d been spotted at a bar, with one of your friends that he despised. but at least his plan could take full effect without a hitch.

your mind had been blown, irrevocably and utterly blown. the way elena had described it all, she made it sound like heaven. but she did tell you about other men, some care for themselves more so than the girl. and you had no clue what type of man corio was in bed.

you’d been so absorbed in your own thoughts you hadn’t noticed the man following you, not until he attacked you. he’d been going after your bag of course, but it was a gift from coriolanus. the man was unrelenting as he shoved you against the cold wall, grimy hands pushing and pulling with you as you tried to regain hold of your purse. “let go!” you cried out before he slammed you into the wall again, loosing grip on the purse coriolanus had just gifted you.

what would he say? it was his gift to you!

you woke up with a throbbing headache and corios hands brushing away strands from your face. “there you are sweet thing. you feeling okay?” you peered up at him, unable to move due to the millions of blankets on you. noticing your struggle he smiled before shifting them off, “better?” you nodded before sitting up with his help.

“corio, i lost the bag you gave me. the bad guy he- i’m so so sorry. please don’t be mad with me i didn’t mean to-“ he laughed, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “you think i care about the bag y/n/n? i could buy you a million bags, better bags. i’m just glad you’re okay. those guys, they won’t bother you again.” all you could do was sob and hug him, pondering the meaning of his words.

AN HOUR AGO

“hey, what the hell man? you said to attack the girl and take the bag!” the man shouted as coriolanus undid his cuffs, adjusted his sleeve, pushing it back on both arms. “i told you to go for the bag, yes. but i specifically remember drilling it into your head not to hurt her. and now she’s lying in bed, has been for the past three house with bruises everywhere. and for that?”

shouts and screams of pain echoed through the abandoned building as coriolanus struck the man with a hammer, over and over and over. the job had one guideline. and this idiot couldn’t get it right.

don’t hurt his delicate girl.

PRESENT

you’d been so absorbed with worrying over the purse and apologising for your tears you hadn’t noticed corios hungry eyes. “i really did like that purse.” he murmured, “oh corio, i should’ve tried harder to keep it. what can i do?” hook, line and sinker. he had you where he wanted and he’d finally get what he deserved.

“let me fuck you. please.” and who were you to say no? your naivety led to him laying you down on the bed, head between your thighs. you’d heard about it from elena, a man pleasuring a woman, but it was a million times better than you could’ve imagined. coriolanus was messy, and desperate. he’d been waiting for so long and god was it worth it.

his heart raced with both excitement and nervousness as he held your thighs in his own hands, tracing up and downwards, feeling the warmth against his own skin. coriolanus couldn't resist the opportunity to tease you. “you wanna cum?” corio mumbled as he continued sucking on your swollen clit, “mhm.” you could hear him laughing at your pathetic excuse of agreeing.

coriolanus wholeheartedly believes you belong to him. the second you were married, and even before, you were his. your submission would prove it, and he would do anything for it. you were his and he was yours. his bold blue eyes ravished you, all of you, “who’s making you feel this good?” your hips squirmed away from him but he just pulled you back, pushing two fingers into you.

corio reveled in your naivety, the way you responded to his touch, the way you whispered dirty words as if it were a sin. and right now, you still couldn’t bring yourself to name what you needed. his pace was brutal as he lapped at your cunt, a third finger curling inside of you as they went in and out. your gasps and cries were music to his ears, he’d been denied this all too long, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ever done it. “cmon, say it.” and you did, over and over again. “it’s you! you, coryo.”

“coryo, ah, your fingers feel so good,” you mewled, tilting your hips more trying to lean into his touch. coryo withdrew his fingers to play with your clit, rubbing circles around your sensitive nub that resulted in you crying out in pleasure.

“such a good girl, getting all wet for me,” you nodded along dumbly, “for you, all you.” you babbled as he kissed you deeply.

coryos hand dragged up and down your folds, “your pussy is soaked, baby. look at that,” you whined at the feeling of him not touching you, your cheeks flushed at the sight of your arousal. coryo pulled his pants down, throwing them away over his shoulder. you hid your head into the pillow as coryo tutted, “you have to look pretty girl, look at the mess you made.” coryo taunted as he rubbed your slick juices all over his dick, trying to humiliate you, get a rise out of you. coryos hand holds onto your neck, tightening as you clutched on with both hands, “please, coryo, i’ll be so good.” he rested his forehead on yours, noses touching.

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” he whispered in your ear, “my beautiful wife, you’d look so good with my baby in you.” the idea of having his baby had you pressing your lips to his as he bit down on your lower lip, making you gasp as your lips part, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring every bit of you he’d ever wished to. his hunger hadn’t fallen, only increased.

“ i need to fuck you,” he panted, you having stolen his breath. coryo teased your folds with the head of his cock, “need to fill up this pretty little pussy of yours,” he pushed into you, warm walls coating his cock as he groaned, “you feel so good.” he moaned into your neck as your hands clutched onto his broad shoulders. he wasn’t sure if he’d last long but then again he didn’t care, it’s not like you knew it was a short time.

the way you clenched down on him was more than enough proof of your virginity. your cries fueled him on as he pinned your hips down into the mattress, rutting against you wildly. “you feel that?” he was everywhere, filling you up. his dick making an appearance through the bulge in your tummy. “uh-huh. too much i can’t-” he stopped you before you could finish by pressing down on it with his palm, “yes you can baby.” you shook your head, “coryo i can’t, you feel too good.” you begin, crying from how good he was making you feel, from how dumb and desperate he was making you.

“m’ gonna fill you up, gonna give you my baby.” he was driving you crazy, his heavy panting, hands on either side of your head, his voice was deep and filled with fire. “yes, yes please inside me.” coryo’s eyes squeezed shut and his brow furrowed you were too much, fuelled on by the idea of a pregnant wife, pregnant you. swollen belly, heavy breasts, relying on him to help you out of bed. his hips stuttered and faltered as he came inside you with a low groan. he didn’t care about pulling out and neither did you as your release came down on you again. “feels so good coryo, thank you.”

he couldn’t help his smile as you continued to thank him for making you feel so good. his ego was sure as hell swelling as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed. his hand caressed your face, kissing you all over, praising you.

“you did so well f’me. proud of you baby.” you grinned up at him as you snuggled into his neck. “only for you coryo.” all for him. “i’ll clean you up okay?” you nodded along as he got out of bed.

coriolanus deemed the night a success, but for some reason he didn’t feel complete. he wanted more. but as he looked up at your sleepy eyes and tired out body he wanted to let you rest. but the idea seemed to slip out of his head once he was levelled with your core again, his release spilling out of you and the warm towel forgotten. he didn’t stop himself when he began to lick at you, his tongue working his way into your entrance as your head shoved at his face.

“coryo, i’m sensitive. coryo please stop.” you attempted to crawl away but his hands dragged you to the edge of the bed, legs around his head. your body fell limp against the sheets as pleasure took over. your hands laced with his hair as you cried out.

it was going to be a long night.

[thebigbiwolf]

Mine, if Only for the Night

Summary:

Based on a prompt given to me by a wonderful anon: Astarion/reader fic where he finds out she's never had a lover 'finish the job' so she doesn't see what all the fuss is about, and he decides to use his skills to ruin her for anyone else and show her what she's been missing out on?

Fic Tags: Porn with feelings, Multiple Orgasms, Overstim, Astarion POV, LOTS of Pining, Vaginal sex of all kinds (jesus), and Reader's First Orgasm lol

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), language

Word Count: 5.1k~

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: I loved this prompt. No notes. This is also maybe a bit of a fix-it fic where Astarion does not dissociate during your first time in the woods because my baby deserves to have a good time.

Thank you Lari @imaginarydromedary for being the best beta ever.

-

Astarion leans his shoulder against a tree, surveying the clearing. 

While the surroundings were still a tad rugged for his tastes, he’d taken it upon himself to arrange a few furs and pillows here and there until it felt acceptably comfortable. 

He peels off his nightshirt, discarding it into the plush grass as he works his jaw, wondering where you might be. 

You should have arrived by now. More than an hour had passed since the distant, jovial music and chatter had faded into nothing, and the tieflings have long since said their goodbyes. The night envelopes him in silence, broken only by the distant murmur of a nearby stream and the usual cricket song.

He’s starting to wonder if perhaps he had misread this entire situation. Maybe he pushed too far - made some sort of error in his assessment of you. 

Or maybe you didn't desire him at all. 

The idea gnaws at him - unsettles him more than he’d ever care to admit.

An uncomfortable weight in his chest. 

He brushes the feeling aside, scoffing to himself.

As if you or anyone else would deny themselves a chance to indulge in his body, especially when offered an immediate out. No unnecessary promises. Not even a cuddle.

As if.

And yet, he can’t seem to shake this uncomfortable doubt.

Step by step, he paces, turning your interaction with him at the party over in his head until he’s exhausted every word - until the grass flattens beneath the soles of his feet. 

How the topic of your disappointing sexual history came up could perhaps be attributed to your shared bottle of wine. He’d nearly choked on the damned drink when you explained to him, in detail, about every encounter, every night you spent satisfying a man’s ego rather than having your needs met, and how you no longer believed there was any real point to sex.

He could hardly believe his beautifully pointed ears.

And while he would normally revel in the opportunity to embarrass someone over being the tragic victim of terrible sex, your case is… different.

You are different.

You stood by his side, even through the disastrous revelation of his condition. More than that, you allowed him to drink from you - a favor he won’t soon forget. 

Part of you even enjoyed it. 

He felt it the moment he put his mouth on you, the very second his fangs breached the delicate skin of your neck. He felt it all: the subtle hitch in your breath, your little twitches of excitement. 

And yet, you asked nothing more of him. 

So, what is a friend to do?

It took some insistence - a bit of reassurance that no , offering to bed you properly was not brought about by a sick sense of obligation, nor was it a way to repay you for your kind deeds - but honestly, for the life of him, he doesn’t understand why this feels so damn important - why there's this incessant urge to bring you the release he knows you so desperately need. 

Perhaps it's the promise of a challenge - one that pokes at his male pride like a petulant child. It goads him, raising an egotistical brow his way, the knowledge that unlike all the other men you’ve wasted your time with, Astarion could get you off with ease.

He’d pull out all the stops, use every trick in his little black book to reduce you to a quivering, obedient mess. He’d take his time with you - have you wet and pliant, begging beneath his fingers before giving you everything those pretty little lips could ever ask for. 

He would ruin you, if you’d allow it.

All you had to do was give him one night. No strings attached.

And yet, here you are, keeping him waiting.

Five, then ten, then 20 minutes pass, and only when he’s about to pack his things - when his growing impatience threatens to twist into a feeling dangerously close to disappointment - does he hear movement behind him.

The rustle of leaves, a snapping twig. 

Astarion turns to find you grappling with a particularly thorny bush - your hair a mess, adorned with small sticks. With a frustrated huff, you kick at the plant, muttering under your breath.

You haven’t noticed him yet, too busy fighting to free your foot - and it suddenly occurs to him that your inferior human eyes had to navigate these woods in the dark. 

That little detail must have evaded him when he made his proposition, but realizing it now, knowing that you weren't simply wasting the night away, wrestling with the decision of whether to leave him waiting and wanting… sets him at ease.

“You should have been a druid.” he teases.

You freeze, head perking up and swiveling towards the sound of his voice.

“I don’t see why the lot of them insist on camping out in the wilderness,” you huff,  “There’s a perfectly fine grove less than a mile from here.” 

You finish prying your boot out from the thicket, nearly toppling over in the process. He almost considers helping you, but watching you struggle like a newborn dear is just too amusing to pass up. He’ll make it up to you soon enough.

Making your way toward the clearing, your eyes gradually adjust to the moonlight. They find his gaze, then wander over the pale expanse of his chest, before quickly darting away to focus on the ensemble of blankets.

“Oh. This is… nice.” You remark, gesturing towards the furs, and at first, Astarion assumes you’re mocking him - turning a nose up at his thoughtful efforts.

But when he turns toward you, preparing to make a less-than-savory comment about gratitude, he is instead met with a genuinely surprised, and somewhat irritating, smile.

Just what sort of lovers have you settled for, thinking that this constitutes ‘nice’?

“And you thought I was going to, what,” he scoffs, “Drag you into the cold woods and have my way with you against a tree?” 

Your face flames at the suggestion, burning bright red at his boldness, but you don’t deny it. 

In fact, his keen ears pick up on the subtle flutter of your heartbeat as soon as the words leave his lips.

That’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“Ah,” he purrs, “I see.”

With that, Astarion closes the distance between you, toned arms sliding beneath the firmness of your thighs to lift you with ease. A surprised squeak leaves your mouth as your ankles instinctively lock around his waist.

He takes a few steps forward until the dull edges of bark press into your shoulders.

“Is this what you want?” He punctuates his words with the firm press of his clothed cock against your core, already hardening with interest. It’s almost maddening - how responsive you are, already squirming in his arms when he’s hardly touched you.

His grip tightens on your rear, nails digging into your soft skin.

“Answer me, dear,” he growls, “I want to hear you say it.”

It’s a lie, of sorts. He doesn’t want to hear it - he needs to. Needs you to beg for him, as ridiculous as it feels. 

He’s had more lovers than he could count, heard their sweet cries like a symphony of praise, but they fell on deaf, pointed ears compared to this - to your ragged breaths.

“ Say it .”

“ Please , Astarion. I want this -”

As soon as the words leave you, his lips are on yours, hungry and demanding. He sets you down, one hand leaving your thighs to grab at your jaw and tilting it just so - steering your face into a more accessible angle, the tip of his nose finding its place against your flushed cheek.

His other hand snakes its way to the back of your head, twining the soft strands of hair between his fingers, tightening them in his fist and pulling .

The sudden sting elicits a whine, stolen from your parted lips, and he takes the opportunity to run his tongue along the seam, dipping into the inviting heat of your mouth. Notes of cheap, flat wine still linger on your tongue, but he quickly finds he doesn’t mind the taste - barely notices it at all when you're opening up for him so eagerly.

He long expected himself to turn off - to hide behind his practiced movements, allowing his body to do the work for him - to wake up sometime after you’d found your pleasure in him.

But here he remains - his script thrown to the wind while your little sounds of approval hang in the air between you, driving him with a hunger that is wholly unfamiliar. 

He wants this, but that realization will come later, when he’s gathering his clothes with the heat of the morning sun at his back, wondering why the idea of leaving you there in the plush grass settles like lead in his stomach. 

It’ll wait for him there, hidden behind layers of denial and fear, then follow like a hound biting at his heels for months on end until he makes peace with it - until he chokes on his own tears in the safety of your arms where you’ll welcome him, along with all of his complications.

But for now, he kisses a line down your shoulder, feeling more alive and present with every swipe of his tongue against your collar bone. You sigh, and he pays special attention to the thin skin there, warm and jumping in time with your pulse.

Astarion's deft fingers skillfully unhook the buttons of your shirt with practiced ease. He tears away the offending fabric, and a low growl burns its way out his throat as the last two buttons pop off, landing somewhere in the dirt beside him. You’ll have something to say about that later, he’s sure.

When the morning comes, he’ll notice you searching for them and offer to sew in new ones - more suitable ones, in whichever color you’d prefer. When he hands the shirt back to you just a few hours later, now embroidered and finer than even before his careless blunder, your impressed smile will awaken a fondness in him that will linger naggingly in the corners of his mind for the foreseeable future. 

He’ll ruminate on that later, when his mouth isn’t descending on your breasts, and his hands aren’t palming at your newly exposed skin.

Falling to his knees, he works at the laces of your trousers. Then, when the troublesome strings are finally undone, his eyes meet yours, holding your gaze as he peels the cloth slowly down the length of your thighs. He takes his time with it, dragging the fabric over your knees and trailing the blunt edge of his nails back up to the curve of your hips, watching intently as the skin prickles beneath his touch.

You wiggle, restless and flushed bright red from your neck to your ears, suddenly avoiding his stare. 

It’s a strange, uncharacteristic shyness—until he puts two and two together when he runs his finger over the white lace of your smalls and finds them positively soaked .

“Is this all for me?” he teases, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

His thumb presses knowingly into the wet fabric, petting the skin beneath with practiced pressure. 

You don’t answer - you can’t - with your head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, too busy rocking mindlessly into his touch. 

Well, that certainly won’t do.

A hard slap lands on the inside of your thigh, jolting you to attention. The responding hitch in your breath goes straight to his cock.

“I asked you a question, darling. Is this all for me?”

“I - agh , yes.”

“ Very good,” he purrs, satisfied, “Now, spread these for me.” 

You obey, parting your legs and giving him more space to work with. He tugs at your pants, quickly ridding you of them, then goes back to work kneading lazy, unhurried circles into the thin, sticky, wet fabric. It clings to your skin so perfectly, outlining your form for him as if you were wearing nothing at all.

You're panting above him now - small, rushed breaths suspended in the charged air. The muscles of your thighs twitch with each pass of his thumb over your clit.

And again, you’re not looking at him - head turned to the side and whispering curses quietly to yourself.

Another slap to your thigh, then - the same one, because he’s cruel - now marked with the vivid red imprint of his hand.

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

When your eyes meet his again, they’re hooded and glossy, filled with a familiar haze. 

Lust .

He’s got you now.

Pulling the now thoroughly ruined garment to the side, Astarion rewards you by dragging a finger through your folds, watching your arousal drip down his wrist. It practically drools out of you, coating the rest of his digits, slickening his palm as he presses one into your entrance. 

Your hands instinctively fly to his hair, settling atop the tousled, white strands, and your body takes him in greedily . 

Astarion smiles to himself. 

This feels… good - being so in control, pulling little pleasured sounds from your lips. His pride swells as he adds another finger. You buckle forward, letting out a strangled groan, losing yourself to the feeling of being stretched - being prepped for him and every inch of cock he has to give you, sitting impatiently hard and neglected in his trousers.

He pumps in and out of you, slowly at first, but it only takes a few short moments before your impatient squirming turns into a mindless, needy grind. Each small thrust forward has your body taking him deeper, clenching him tighter until he can feel you throbbing around his fingers.

There’s a level of self indulgence here that he would deny if questioned - perhaps even under oath - but the wholly unnecessary way he pauses to tear the fabric of your smallclothes would quickly betray him. 

Your squeak of surprise is all he hears before the press of your thighs deafens him - and if he was naive enough to believe that your blood was the most enticing thing he’s tasted in the last two centuries, it pales in comparison to the mess you’ve made for him. 

An anguished hum escapes him as he drags his tongue through your folds - so hoarse and strained with disbelief, it almost sounds more animal than man.

He drinks you in, letting up for only as long as it takes to press tender, soothing kisses into your clit, sucking gently at the nub before dipping his tongue back into your hole for seconds, thirds -

This is madness . How someone could pass up this opportunity is far beyond him. Your fist in his hair, surrounded by your pulse as it thrums within the warm, pillowy skin of your thighs, the way you chase your release, rocking into his mouth and coating his chin with your slick, is everything . 

It is everything.

In the cornered haze of his mind, he almost regrets his promises. Had he known it would be like this, that you’d be the first and only memorable partner he’s had in the last two centuries, he may have reconsidered. 

Hells, he should have reconsidered the moment his tongue slipped into your mouth and you had the gall to taste that fucking sweet - to be that damned responsive . 

How is he supposed to play this off as if it changes nothing - as if this means nothing at all?

“Shit, Astarion -”

Pesky details. He’ll have to sort those out later.

“I’m - I think I’m close -” 

Astarion is a smart man - smart enough to know that the best course of action here, when you’re on the precipice of coming apart, is to simply redouble his efforts and continue on as he has been. No special trick up his sleeve, no overly indulgent stylized movements, just sucking as gently and generously as you need. He applies the same steady, circular pressure of his tongue, curls his fingers and fucks you with them in a steady, calculated rythm, until -

The moment you fall apart will be forever burned into his mind. 

He will remember it all: the twitching of your thighs, the tight pinch of your brows, the sound of your cries as your hips stutter in his strong hold. He’ll remember the way he moans, earnestly, as he laps you through it, eager to extend your high for as long as your body allows him. And he will surely remember the thrill that runs up the length of his spine at the sight of you losing yourself at his hand.

But most of all, he will remember the moment immediately after - when your movements slow, and your tight grip loosens from his hair; when your warm hand falls to the side of his face, the soft pads of your fingertips rubbing gentle circles into the shell of his pointed ear. 

You may not have even noticed the small gesture, too blissed out and trembling, but when the two of you look back on this moment years from now, Astarion will laugh at how blind he was - how he should have seen the spark of fondness in your eyes as you fought to catch your breath, the kindling that was twisting in his chest at the sight of your flushed skin, and the fire that would grow there until it nearly consumed him. 

He should have known that this was the start of something greater.

But at this moment, all he knows is the sudden, inexplicable urge to keep you here tonight - to prove himself worthy of coming back, should you ever have an itch that needs scratching. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next night, or any other time you’d see fit. 

Astarion places a final kiss on the junction of your hip, right where the skin is thinnest above the bone, then leans back to fully appreciate his work. 

You are breathless , chest heaving from sheer exertion.

“That was…”

You huff out a laugh as you try to find the right words.

“Perfect?” he raises an eyebrow at you, grin tugging at the corner of his lips, “I know. Like I said, I’m quite good at this.”

He wipes at the clear slick on his chin and shamelessly licks his hand clean, sucking your mess off his fingers with a playful pop.

Your face flushes with embarrassment - the pretty color now matching the puffy, reddened skin of your sex. 

“Do you want more?” he asks, as if his cock isn’t threatening to leak a dark patch into his trousers, “We don’t have to, of course, but -”

“Yes.”

Astarion’s smiles are normally calculated - purposeful, and poised to perfection, but the one that finds its way to his face at your eagerness is as real as the ache beginning to bloom in his knees.

“Come here, then,” he says, dragging his weight back to the blankets. He doesn’t even have the time to readjust the decorative pillows before you’re clamoring on top of him, covering his neck with impatient kisses and helping him remove his clothes. 

“Eager, are we?” he teases, but he’s met with no response. Your mouth is too busy sucking bruises into the pale, hard planes of his chest, hands working diligently at the laces of his pants. 

The moment his legs and cock are free, Astarion wastes no time wrapping his arms around your midsection and seating you perfectly on his hips, the searing heat of your slit molds around him, dragging up and down as you grind against his length. 

There’s urgency in the air - in the way your mouth finds his own. It buzzes and hums, growing with every pass of your hips, prickling like burrs beneath his skin. He’s as much a victim of it as you are -here in this little corner of the wilderness - to the strange and unrecognizable pull. 

This desire to touch you.

With one hand anchoring the back of your neck, he takes his length with the other, notching himself at your entrance - an invitation you eagerly accept.

You sink down, enveloping him in suffocating heat . 

The grunt that escapes him is entirely involuntary - the honesty behind it bleeding out between his teeth, escaping with a hiss. 

“Shit,” he huffs under his breath, willing his brain to focus on anything other than how you mold so perfectly to him. It’s almost like you were made for this - for him - and the notion itself is almost enough to toss him right over the edge.

It’s hard enough to believe he’s present with you, here in this moment, rather than falling into oblivion and allowing the act to pass him by.

But to be enjoying it this much? 

Sheer disbelief.

Your hips move experimentally, sighing with relief as you take the rest of him down to the hilt. His grip on the nape of your neck tightens, nails digging small grooves into the base of your scalp. The slow rock of your hips as you adjust to his size would surely be enough to finish him, were he any ordinary man - were he not determined to brand this night into your mind for the rest of whatever time you have left on this earth - tadpoles be damned.

It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to be like this, melding so beautifully around his length. But he has appearances to maintain, and spilling into you now would surely ruin his carefully crafted reputation, so he steals what’s left of his composure and continues on. 

Astarion stares at where your bodies meet, bringing a practiced thumb back to your perfect little nub and pressing . The delicious pressure has your forehead falling to his shoulder.

“Can I - agh, ” you pause as he cruelly begins to rub your clit, much too slow to actually finish the job, but just enough to feel you clench around him. He continues like that for a few seconds, savoring the way you grip, release, and start to dribble down from where he’s rooted so deeply inside.

“Can you what, my dear?”

“Can I move, please?” 

“Hm,” he sighs with feigned indifference, “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

His hands guide you into a comfortable rhythm, stroking your walls and filling every inch of your greedy cunt as it swallows him up - back and forth, rocking into him until you’re good and split open.

You ride him until your legs begin to fail you - until he has to grab your waist to keep you steady as he fucks up into you in earnest. The hard, wet slap of his damp skin against yours mixes with your strained, desperate moans. He pounds you like he’s sating some sort of hunger - fucks you with so much force that your slick forms a thick white ring of cream at the base of his cock. 

His thumb rubs expert circles into your clit with firm, gentle pressure, until he feels that telltale fluttering of your walls around him, and your blunt nails are digging into where his shoulders meet his chest. 

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he grunts, and the question is met only with an affirmative whine. “Good. This time, I want to feel it.”

His hands move to your rear, squeezing and kneading - pulling and pushing your hips to grind himself even deeper into you until your body gives up its orgasm.

It drags you under like a raging current. 

You wail pitifully against his shoulder - the suffocating grip of your sex working to milk him dry, gushing around him and soaking his thick cock as he relentlessly fucks you through it.

It's almost enough to end him, it truly is, but Astarion is nothing if not thorough, and G ods be damned if you leave this clearing tomorrow morning without your cunt permanently molded to his shape - without this encounter seared into your very being.

His arms wrap around you, pulling your chest tight against his own and turning you over until your back meets the soft furs - his hips rolling into yours as the waves of white-hot pleasure pulse through you. 

There will be many more where that came from. When you eventually crawl back to his tent with a shy gaze and offer him another taste of your neck, pretending it was simply a coincidence that you waited until the dead of night to seek him out, when the rest of your merry little troup were fast asleep in their bedrolls. Couldn’t stay away? He’ll joke, pretending as though his heart doesn’t stir at the sight of you.

He’ll bed you again, and again, and again. Whenever and wherever you should ask: on his desk - tomes shoved carelessly to the ground, between the cracked stone walls of a cave while the others ready their gear, tangled within the sheets of the first real bed you happen to find. He’ll fuck you in those stolen moments with a willing mouth and hands and cock, however many times it takes for him to realize this does mean something to him - even if he isn’t quite sure what that something is . 

And you, being the perfect thing you are, will be patient, and give him the space he needs to figure that out.

“One more,” he whispers hot against your cheek, “I think we can get one more out of you.” 

“This is insane. How are you so - gods, ” he’s got just the right angle now, dragging languidly in and out of your thoroughly fucked hole. 

He’s done quite a number on you already, and you’ll likely need a day to recover the strength in your legs. The others will surely mock you for it, but perhaps you’ll manage to blame it on the hangover?

“Astarion, I - I don’t think I can do another -”

“You can,” he says with the confidence of a man who’s done this before - one who knows the limits of a woman’s body and exactly how to push them. “And you’re going to stay right here, wrapped beautifully around my cock, until you give me what I want.” 

He drives the point home with a sudden, hard thrust, and the rush of it has you keening in surprise, hands flying to his back and heels digging in for purchase. 

In fairness, he’s hardly given you a chance to come down from the last climax, but you sought him out tonight. You knew what you were getting into, no less than a mouse offering itself to a cat. He’ll toy with you until he’s had his fill - the first man in your life to ever make you come apart. Not just once or twice, but three times once he’s through with you.

And while the third takes a bit more work, as expected, he quickly realizes you appreciate a decent amount of force, so he feverishly pounds into you - pinning your wrists at your sides to prevent too much useless, unnecessary squirming. 

Astarion thinks could get addicted to this level of control if he isn’t careful - his brave, unwavering, diplomatic leader held captive beneath him as he wrings every last bit of pleasure from your body, drunk on his cock and fucked out well past the point of any decorum. 

The way you moan for him now would put some prostitutes to shame - eyes glazed over and thoughts entirely wiped of anything other than being split open and thoroughly used. 

It reminds him of why he’s here. The thankless months you’ve spent worrying yourself over every vagrant’s problems are now practically a thing of the past. And after tonight, you’ll surely be ruined for any other man, securing himself in your good graces. A win, win, all around.

Your orgasm almost sneaks past him, too caught up in his own musings to notice, but the subtle rush of slickness and the resounding sound of your body sucking him in even deeper gives it away. Your head rolls to the side as you choke back a sob, tears forming the corners of your eyes as your exhausted cunt barely manages to scrounge up the effort to squeeze him, and that’s when he finally decides you’ve had enough.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

“Inside? Agh - Inside, please, ” 

Oh.

An unexpected answer, but not an unwelcome one.

And so, he does.

For the first time in his memory, he comes entirely apart. 

With a few more strokes, he spills inside of you, and the sheer impact of it takes him by surprise.

Hissing between his gritted teeth and buried in your warmth he floods you to the brim, floods every inch of your cunt until his come has no more room to fill. The spend clings to his cock with every stroke, drooling out of you and tracing a cloudy white line through the valley of your rear before soaking into the blankets beneath.

Astarion heaves like a man with functioning lungs, groans from the sudden, noticeable soreness in his limbs, and actually, truly laughs at the absurdity of it all.

Just how long had the two of you been at this? Over an hour, surely?

He’s about to ask you - maybe try his hand at a bit of pillow talk for the first time in his life - but when he looks back at your face, he finds that you’re barely conscious, just on the precipice of passing out from exhaustion.

He pulls out of you, trying his best not to grunt through the overstimulating drag of your skin against his.

Astarion could count on one hand how many memorable encounters he’s had since the beginning of his servitude, and even less when considering how many he enjoyed. 

Well, enjoyed would be a very generous descriptor. More so, how many he was able to stomach until the end. And while his anatomy was capable of producing results despite his head being elsewhere, this was… different.

You are different - that much was clear from the beginning, since the moment you forgave him for pulling a knife on you and, for whatever reason, trusted him enough to allow him to stay with you, despite it being an objectively stupid thing to do.

He’ll tell you as much, when he finally confesses his feelings for you. That had it not been for your endless patience and your unfathomable kindness, he may have never learned to love at all.

But he wont have the words, let alone the maturity , to articulate that for quite some time.

For now, here you are, snoring softly beneath him. 

And here he is, with the beginnings of a strange, unrecognizable tingling in his chest.  

What ever will he do with you?

[drsugarsweet]

Holding On To Smoke

Haunted Armor!Polnareff x Reader

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Synopsis: Through a stroke of good fortune, you have been placed in charge of an antique home. The former owners only asked that you kept the relics inside, and you agreed. If only they had mentioned that some of the relics aren't as lifeless as they initially seemed...

TW: Implied character death (not reader’s) Note: reader is GN, no pronouns aside from 'you' are used.

Masterlist ☆。*。☆。

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A/N: Polnareff is SUCH a sad grieving beast, this only felt appropriate for him.

The home that you've come to enjoy for so many months is old, much older than you. It's full of items you're scared to touch for fear of shattering their delicate nature, of spiderwebs that look too beautiful to break and rooms that you haven't even stepped foot into. There simply isn't enough time or motivation for you to cover all of that ground, and yet…

And yet you notice small oddities that you can't fully explain away. There's odd clanking in the halls that sounds far too consistent to be the pipes. After all, they only rattle when you draw water from them. The rooms you frequent are miraculously free of dust even though you haven't had the time to drag out the duster and rags yourself. It’s hard to chalk up the cold and pointed breezes as a simple draft, and you swear you’ve seen something glowing out of the corner of your eye more than once - only to disappear when you actually look at it.

Oh, and you can’t ignore the massive elephant in the room.

More specifically, the massive suit of armor.

Upon first entering the house, it looked like an odd decoration but hardly one you could complain about. Old houses have weird decorations, right? It made you feel like you were walking into a murder mystery set but your attention was so set on moving in that you didn’t think much of it. It looked regal and mysterious enough to make you ponder over its relevance though. The original owners never mentioned it, did they? There’s no plaque to reveal who may have donned it, who it may have shielded or when. You shrug and decide you’ll research it at a later date.

That later date keeps getting pushed further and further back however. The mysterious old house has its fair share of secrets to keep you distracted - a library packed with dusty old books, a kitchen full of secret panels, not to mention the many, many nooks and crannies you weren’t told of. The only times you ponder about the armor again is when you pass its dulled surfaces in the hallway. It isn’t until you finally decide that a heavy cleaning of the home is in order lest your lungs fill with dust bunnies that the armor finally has your full attention.

How does one clean a suit of armor? You’re not sure. I’s not like it’s been in any books that you’ve read before. A wet rag should at least help with removing the dirt and dust, and you assume that the kind of polish used on metal surfaces in your kitchen could work. It’s a large suit and you know you’ll have your work cut out for you, but something draws you in despite the eeriness of the relic. It feels strange. It feels… Melancholic , somehow. Maybe you’re too wrapped up in the idea that this once belonged to someone, that someone could have lived, breathed, died in those iron plates. Maybe it’s the way the chestplate and helmet have engravings of broken hearts on them that tug at your own heartstrings. Whatever the reason, you feel like it’s your obligation to give this old thing one last hurrah in the way of cleaning it up.

As the rag glides across the faded surface and carries away the countless layers of grime, you start to see the former glory restored. The armor truly does look uncared for, though you aren’t surprised given the state of the house. It only spurs you on as more of that gleaming silver comes to light. There’s so many small details to pay heed to; engravings of hearts and chariots must be carefully detailed, and the sections of overlapping plates require a special amount of focus. At the very least there isn’t any corruption or rusting. It takes hours to clean with the occasional break for refreshments in-between, but pulling away from the now clear (albeit dull) suit sends a wave of relief through you. The low evening sunlight streaking through the stained glass windows of the foyer reflects in a beautiful kaleidoscope on the iron. For just a breath, a brief moment… You could almost swear that the suit of armor is glowing.

The moment passes as the clouds of kicked up dust finally force you to sneeze, and when you look at the armor again the glow is gone. It must have been a trick of the light. With that, you nod and set aside the polish to be done the next day. Perhaps the sheer amount of time or the curiosity that you’ve poured into the armor play a role in why you suddenly feel a sense of longing and connection towards the suit, almost as though you’re leaving an old friend. It’s odd, but you shrug the thoughts away and retire to your room for the evening. The next day will surely be brighter.

Downstairs, the darkness of the dusk is broken by a soft glow.

Weeks pass after your restoration of the armor. The oddities start as subtle movements at first. A hand shifts slightly or the helmet seems to perk in the direction of your favorite armchair; the dust settled around the suit’s base is disturbed, or is it just your imagination? As the house becomes cleaner in more miniscule ways, even that starts to make you wonder if it’s all in your head. You only start to think something is up when you come home from work to find the armor set at the foot of the stairs to the second floor, its gauntlets set against the scabbard of its rapier. It’s not like the suit froze when you entered - you’re sure you would’ve heard the clanking, and it’s just a suit, right? If you weren’t constantly swamped with work you’d almost be afraid of the potential haunting. You know it isn’t some mischievous intruder breaking in just to mess with you; the doors and windows are always the same as they were, and it’s not like anything is missing. There aren’t handbooks on how to deal with haunted houses like this and so you stand in the house’s entranceway, eyes glued to the relic posed mere feet away.

It feels like an eternity that you wait with bated breath for something to happen. When it does, there is no loud scream or rush of metal and pain; no ghastly beasts lunge for your throat, and as you stand gaping like a fish out of water, you realize that the movement of the armor is almost unnoticeable at first glance.

The visor of the helmet minutely tilts towards you and you know for a fact that gauntleted fingers twitch at the scabbard’s handle. The gig is up. You take one step back, and the armor jerks to face you further. Another step, and the helmet is facing you fully, its hand never leaving the hilt of the razor sharp rapier. The door is closed and solid against your back and you’re certain that this is where you will die.

The clanging of metal grows closer and closer with each step of the suit of armor. Even behind your eyelids - when did they close? - you can’t miss the icy blue glow painting the backs of your eyelids in dim light. Your eyes peel open just enough to witness the armor come to a still before you in its pale glowing glory. The finger guards on the scabbard have lifted away and now the suit stands before you motionless yet again, its gauntlets stiffly held at its side. The icy terror that initially held you in its grasp melts into mute confusion and unease. Why isn’t it attacking you? What could you have done to inspire this thing’s movement? Or…

Has it always been on the move?

Your racing thoughts are interrupted by another sudden jump from the suit of armor, but this one catches you even more off-guard. In one quick and jerky movement, the suit tumbles down onto one iron poleyn, its other knee bent as it bows its helmet before you. You have no idea what to say, what to do as the massive suit freezes yet again. There’s a moving set of armor in front of you. Holy shit , there’s haunted armor in your house.

For a minute, the two of you stay there in frozen time. The armor doesn’t move but it glows and pulsates with faint blue light. You don’t move aside from the slowing rise and fall of your chest. There’s a tension so palpable in the air that it surely could be cut through like butter with a hot knife, but you have no idea what to do or say to your unexpected housemate.

The first noise to break the room isn’t from you. It starts out so quietly that the rush of blood in your ears drowns it out. Slowly and drenched in uncertainty, a noise no louder than a whisper seems to fill the room. There’s a pause, and then the noise again, and again, growing louder with each confused blink it draws from you. The moment that it grows loud enough to register properly to your ears is the moment that you realize that it’s a voice echoing around you. The voice is hoarse and strangely hollow, but it sounds almost like a man. It echoes again from the suit of armor and you realize that it is speaking to you .

“Please… Give me an order.”

The stunned silence plaguing your voice is hard to break. Break it you do, but only because the tide of questions thrashing against your skull threatens to consume you.

“Who are you?”

Perhaps the right question would be who it - he - was. You begin to regret not looking up the source of the armor sooner. The voice goes silent and the glow swirls in a mesmerizing miasma of dull silver and ice. Whatever haunts this armor seems to form the strongest beneath its chestplate and helmet, and for the briefest of moments you wonder what you would see beneath the visor. As though it can sense your innate curiosity amidst the waves of confusion and fear, the being raises its helmet a fraction as though it were looking at you. The feeling of eyes becomes strong and yet oh so familiar.

“I am Jean Pierre Polnareff. You have laid claim to this land. I pledge my loyalty to you, to protect you and honor your every word.” The helmet drops again and the regal being donned in iron waits ever so patiently for your words. With its hand on its scabbard and that plasmic echo fading in and out like a heartbeat, it truly bears the visage of a noble warrior. 

Okay, what the hell are you supposed to do about this? 

There’s a fucking ghost knight in your house.

After a very rational and intense moment of thinking on the matter, you do the only thing that sounds right when confronted with such a ghostly specter. It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t made a move to harm you. You reach behind you, feeling around until you can grab the doorknob to the front entrance. You throw open the heavy door before hauling ass into the chilly night air, refusing to look back once lest the point of a rapier be the last thing you see.

You’ll find a hotel or stay with a friend for now. There’s no way in hell that you’re going back to your house, no way that you’re reenacting some stupid horror movie scene.

You go back to the house two days later.

Maybe it’s the twinge of pain in your shoulder and neck from sleeping on an uncomfortable futon. Maybe it’s the reminiscing that you’ve had time to do on the whole matter. You’ve never felt unsafe in the house; melancholy, sure, pensive if you stood in the right spot. You never felt afraid though, so why is the memory of the one that called himself Polnareff lingering in your mind?

The old home looms over you as the gray skies threaten to douse you in rain. Despite the being that you know lurks inside, the building itself doesn’t feel ominous. It feels like a rundown old manor and you can’t come up with a good reason to avoid going in any longer. The stone steps are slick beneath your shoes and with a mighty groan, the door swings forward into the foyer.

You aren’t really sure what you expected. Images of torn tapestries and broken mirrors came to your mind at first, like a raging beast rampaging in a bout of anger. The light of the day floods the foyer, and you breathe a sigh of relief to see that there is no such damage. As a matter of fact… There is no sign of the suit of armor at all. It isn’t at its base in the middle of the foyer. You know you should be on high alert, but the lack of surprises lulls you ever so slightly.

It feels silly to call out for another person in your own house, so you decide to take your chances and look around instead.

The den is free of the suit. You find yourself oddly disappointed.

The kitchen likewise lacks any spectral beings, and so too does the rest of the first story.

The memory of the first time that you saw the armor moving towards the staircase comes to mind, and your eyes travel up and along the mahogany banister towards the silent second story. If there were anywhere that your unassuming houseguest would be, you have a strong suspicion of its intended destination.

The doors to the library creak open as you peer inside and to your unexpected relief, a flash of iron catches your eyes. You push further in to be greeted by the broad, shining form of the suit of armor. Its helmet has tilted slightly back as though to acknowledge you but it has not moved. That glow remains but it is more dull than last time, the colors barely touching the dusty books and desk it stands in front of. That acknowledgment is all that you need and you take a deep breath of the stale air.

“I’m… Sorry. Sorry for how I acted last time. I wasn’t expecting you and I was scared, so I ran.” It’s an apology you never felt that you would make, but it feels wrong to leave things as they were. This thing has likely been here longer than you have been alive; the aura of sadness and mournful longing around it tinges your heart in a way you never expected.

The armor turns to look at you further with a set of clangs and you catch a glimpse of what its broad form was hiding. You haven’t had time to get a good look at the library beneath all of the blankets of dust, but the crest hanging on the wall is one you don’t recognize. The symbols of hearts and horse-drawn chariots bear a striking resemblance to the engravings on the knight’s armor. You startle as you realize that the very same insignia was on the paperwork that you signed to properly take ownership of this house.

The suit turns fully to face you and you swallow down your nerves. This could either go really well or really poorly based on how good you are at offending ghosts.

Its visor tilts to one side, then the other. It takes a step forward, and this time you stay where you are willingly rather than freezing in fear. Another step is taken. Another. By the time that your distorted face is reflected in the large breastplate of the armor, you realize just how cold the room has gotten around you. That visor leans down to look at you and you look up into it as icy tendrils of mist curl from beneath the edges. When the gauntlets reach up and towards you, it’s a miracle that you don’t feel fear. All that you feel is the strong wave of melancholy that you first felt upon stepping into this house, and you wonder just what this soul has suffered to exude such strong feelings of sadness.

The gauntlets do not reach for you, though they do briefly cradle your own hands in chilled metal before continuing upwards. The guarded fingers come to rest at the edges of the visor. Tendrils of ghostly energy curl at the iron knuckles, and it freezes like that. It’s as though it’s waiting for your order. With a flashback to the last meeting, you blink away crystals of iced tears that you didn’t even realize had appeared and answer its unspoken question.

“Show me your face. I want to see the knight of this house.”

You aren’t sure what to expect. There are no rules that could have prepared you, no pictures or carvings or films. The glide of the visor up and into the iron helmet is silent as it reflects the light. Whoever this man was, he is nothing like you expect, and that’s a pity because he is refined and elegant and somber in the way that only a lost soul can be.

Your hand shakes as you reach towards the visor. Crystals of ice gather on your fingertips as your eyes roam over the misty face of the man that once was. Sad eyes like faded seaglass stand out amidst shadows of sharp cheekbones and shroud-like silver hair that dances like spider silk in the wind. He speaks of tragedy and heartbreak without saying a word, and the brush of your fingers on the frigid iron of his helmet finally breaks what fear remains in your heart. 

“You’ll protect me?” The words are barely a whisper, but you don’t have it in you to speak any louder.

The ghost - Polnareff - nods. Somber as he may be, you swear that the corner of his lips turns up for just a moment. That air of melancholy lifts ever so slightly from your heart, the glow of the being before you so much more vivid than before.

“I swear to you, as is my purpose. You’ll never be alone.”

[gaoau]

He Loves Me Not

Tasting sweet, tasting bitter. Is it his smile or their feelings?

pairing — Itadori Yuji x gn!reader word count — 1.7k

A humming microwave makes up for the playlist Yuuji forgot to set on loop. Hours of music faded into the chorus of crickets, but silence fails to find a proper place between them. [Name] swings their legs as they sit on the counter, stacks of dirty bowls and utensils pushed against the kitchen wall to make space for themself. Their heels bump occasionally against the cabinets and Yuuji chuckles every time they flinch. They worry about being quiet in the dead of the night while he hollers at the top of his lungs whenever he goes on a tangent.

He rambles about his new friends and adventures, twisting details a regular civilian like [Name] isn't meant to hear. He speaks of the paranormal as though he experiences it on a daily basis, as if it were common to lay his sight upon creatures unknown to most humans, those of which teem with rage and agony in the shape of curses. Demon dogs made from shadows, triple the amount of eyes that are needed, millennia-old fingers that don't taste very good at all. [Name] tries to hold in their laughter, but it breaks through their pursed lips in a flurry of cackles.

Yuuji chuckles softly at the sight of their incredulity—it's okay for them not to believe him, they don't need to know how much deeper the world of evil runs. A smile settles on his face as he enjoys the peace [Name] brings into the atmosphere. They're gazing right into those curved lips and the glimmer in his eyes shining against the kitchen's lighting. There's a throb in their chest when Yuuji rubs the back of his neck abashedly, admitting quietly that his tale reeks of fiction. He makes up stories for their entertainment on a Sunday night, knowing full well tomorrow he'll be barely awake through the day.

It's the way his charming grin sets off butterflies in [Name]'s stomach that makes them worry—is it butterflies? Worms? Food poisoning? Flower petals? It's probably flower petals; those petals they pluck off each blooming bud in a childish game of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not. Flowers pink like his tangled hair, frail like his delicate lashes, bright like the spark in his eyes, silky like the touch of his fingers. Yuuji travels onto a different anecdote full of adrenaline and excitement as they stare at him intently. They listen carefully to every word he has to say, wondering just how it is that he can speak so freely.

He has nothing to conceal, yet they do. Out of fear, out of respect, out of love—they don't know. When the words battle to surface and spill, they hurry to stuff petals of every color into their mouth and down their throat. The chant they repeat tells them that Yuuji loves them, but it's a type of love different from theirs. They know that. And it fucking sucks. Cowardly feelings and a boiling confession threaten to burst out every time he so much as locks eyes with them. I'm in love with you, a sentence they can't pronounce because the petals take up the space needed to form syllables.

"I can't really explain it in simple terms, but just imagine it's like pressure, right?" Yuuji starts a new idea, a new story, a new tale that he doesn't know where it ends. [Name] nods along to whatever words he spills, absorbing every sound so sweet coming in the shape of his voice. "So you have this plushie—really, really cute, by the way—and you're watching a movie, but you gotta apply pressure to the plushie for it to not attack you. If you go below a certain amount of pressure, the thing will pounce on you and destroy you. But you're invested in the movie, right?"

[Name] hums, "Basically, you're multitasking for dear life."

"Yeah!" He snaps his fingers with teeming enthusiasm in revelation to the accurate term he had been looking for.

Laughter bubbles in [Name]'s chest, bursting forth with bouncing shoulders and an arrangement of flower petals that taste like nothing at all. They cover their mouth with their hand as they manage to say between giggles, "What's so hard about multitasking?"

"It's really hard! Especially when the movie's so good. Man, I really struggled, I got my ass beat!" There's a specific ringing in the chirp of his chortles, entrancing and mesmerizing that [Name] wishes they could keep safe for all eternity. Recorded tracks and daily voice messages aren't nearly enough, for those may stay in the depth of their phone, but the day Yuuji stops laughing and his glimmer dies off, nothing will ever bring back those lost memories of his happiness. He shows off all of his teeth in an enchanting beam, one which could effortlessly light up a cursed city on its own.

The microwave finishes with a beeping so unbearably deafening, making [Name] startle and jolt at their seat on the counter—it's the dead of the night and the slightest of sounds could wake up the entire neighborhood. Yuuji chuckles to himself as he pries the door open to allow a harmonious scent of vanilla to waft into the air and envelop the kitchen. He hisses at the pain on his fingertips when the scorching ceramic comes into contact with his skin. Two mugs filled with steaming pastries; [Name]'s idea and the sole reason Yuuji came over so late at night, easy enough for the both of them to whip up in a second and chat the sleep away.

Their invitation drifted into the sky in the shape of a hey i wanna try mugcakes you down? yet a faint echo behind it whispered you transferred schools and i miss you please come see me. The cake is sweet, fluffy, smooth, savory, possibly the best dessert they've ever tasted, but next to Yuuji, nothing tastes like much at all. It really fucking sucks. The feelings, the emotions, the adoration; they hold onto a string of love with a grip so poor, they can't guess whether the string will snap first or they'll simply let go. When he isn't looking, [Name] mixes a petal with their cake in an attempt to stimulate their tongue with a dash of bitterness. A soft texture so cruel, sticking to the back of their throat. Still, it tastes like nothing at all.

"This is fine…" a mumble tumbles from their lips. Then again, is it fine? Their eyes stray to gaze at Yuuji and the way he's wolfing down every last bit of pastry in his mug despite how much it burns. A smile manifests without them even trying. Of course it's fine; of course it sucks. He's everything they could have ever wanted, but how can they even express such a concept when he's content with the way things are?

[Name] gives themself a moment. It sucks, but it's fine to be his friend. Laughter and moments and jokes stacked together in a mug. Sweet and bitter and tasteless.

A Summer breeze, billowing curtains, lo-fi beats played on repeat, and a mattress dirty with age. What once had been settled resurfaces again in a wave of doubt; gritted teeth and balled fists. He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not has become an unhealthy habit where they hope the amount of petals they swallow might dictate corresponded feelings. They've destroyed countless flowers of a thousand different hues to reach the same result. [Name] tilts their head back to catch his attention. He feels them shift on his leg and finds their gaze with an inquiring hum.

It's just a flower, a random one that caught their eye and they decided to steal on a whim before heading back home. It's just a flower, one that looks white and frail, but when they rise it against the sunlight, bits of yellow shine through, and [Name] squints at it to catch specks of green. Yuuji argues he sees blue somewhere in it, but they come up with a new theory that he's probably colorblind. It's just a flower anyway; it tastes as bitter as every other one they've eaten, yet it has no taste at all, and it might just be the taste of their concealed adoration for him burning on their tongue.

They hesitate, but they start, "Listen, I, uh… I really, really think—I mean, I kinda, um… How do I say this? I…" Although they start, they never finish. Is it cowardice or wisdom? A fear of things changing for the worse, or the knowledge that everything is fine the way it is?

"You good, man?" he asks in a voice so soft, concern wrapping around every syllable. That's where his brows dip and his lips flatten and his eyes are just so hypnotic they don't want this to ever stop. Running in circles, they realize one more time that this is fine.

"I couldn't be better."

"So what is it?"

"I just wanna be your friend for as long as I can. How does forever sound to you? For the rest of your life?"

"Sounds great! I couldn't think of a better friend." He grins so widely, so warmly, so friendly. He's so lovely, right at their fingertips.

"Even better than the Fushiguro you talk about?"

"Absolutely!"

It's the fondest of breaths that he lets out, tasting almost like molten chocolate running down and swirling in an infinite loop of time. [Name]'s happy to be able to call someone like Yuuji their friend—they're happy to simply be able to say his name and receive a response. Every time they speak, the syllables that form overpower the previous bitterness of choking flower petals; it tastes so sweet that they can't remember why they scrunched up their face in disgust in the first place.

[Name] won't ruin this. The existing conflict only dwells within them and they accept the reality of never holding Yuuji where he can reciprocate their love. It's easier to avoid it than to destroy something so beautiful they've built up between the two of them without trying. They'll clog up their own throat with tasteless petals and tear love up into pieces as they destroy flower buds one by one instead. They won't speak what doesn't need to be spoken.

Yuuji knows a lie when he sees it.

—あごす (agosu) • 2021

[nrdmssgs]

The dropouts (part 4)

Masterlist

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I you are here I Part 5 I Part 6

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, action, slow burn.

Pairing: Olga 'Zhar' Samoilova (OC) x Nikto

Summary: Some things you teach Chimeras, other things - they teach you.

TWs: This whole series will be revolving around a person living with an acute dissociative disorder. Swearing.

AN: I am very happy to welcome my dear Phayvanh "Nak" Sotsvahn She belongs to @vasyandii who helped me make this chapter happen.

This seemed like a good idea until Nikto actually turned it into reality. It was quiet in his head while he planned the class and arranged his visit to the Chimera base, the voices didn't awake even on his way there…

But now as he's sitting in a room gradually filling with Chimera soldiers, reading a list of names again and again, skipping a few crossed out ones, they come to life.

“What if she comes?”

“She's going to ruin everything.”

“If she dares, I will ruin her.”

“No, you won't. Too soft. Weak.”

“Let us get closer to her. Let us look. Touch. Break.”

“Vsye v poryadke?*” Nikto flinches, noticing a short figure beside his chair. He raises his eyes on a young woman. 

To Nikto she looks slight, almost delicate. But an air of determination, he can almost taste around her, seems at odds with her youthful appearance. He feels a pang of something akin to sorrow mixed with fury. She looks almost too young to be here, too young to have been thrust into the harsh realities of war.

Forcing himself to look away, he returns to the list in his hand and finds a name that might suit her.

“Ty Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, da?*” He tries his best to not butcher the unfamiliar name.

The woman freezes for a moment, her body tenses, posture grows defensive. She reaches out, pulls the sheet of paper out of his hands and writes ‘П-А-Й-В-А-Н’ next to her name.

“Ne pytaisya po-anliyski chitat`. Vot tak nado.*” She hands the paper back.

Nikto thanks her awkwardly. Chimeras seem to know more about him, at least they all figured out what language is his native even before he opened his mouth.

“Think the mask will keep you from losing your face?”

“Her name is crossed out, but she will come just to laugh at us.”

“At least this way she might notice us.”

“Shut up,” he hisses, seemingly quiet, but all the noises die in the class in the very same moment. 

Soldiers look at him with the silent intensity, and the last bits of confidence leave Nikto. He knows how to command, how to force in the worst case scenario, but this is new. Here he has to tell his story, not missing a single detail, and make sure they remember him well. He might have started this all just to meet Zhar again, but Nikto is damn serious about this training. If it helps to make their lives longer, if it helps her in any way…

“I'm Nikto. I will teach you some major survival tactics in prolonged tortures. We will have this evening and tomorrow to get things done.” He decides to skip the embarrassing part where he explains, that the ‘shut up’ wasn't meant for the auditorium. 

Phayvanh opens a notebook with such a mundane expression, as if they hear such lectures on a daily basis. Next to her sits Krueger with his arms crossed on the chest. At the base, he abandons his tactical net, so nothing masks his crooked smirk, when he raises a hand and asks without waiting.

“What makes you the expert?”

Nikto stops roaming through his notes and looks up. His gaze seems to make even Krueger uncomfortable, so he clarifies the question.

“Each of us here has some experience in… interrogations. Some more, others - less. What gets you to be the guy before the white board.”

Nikto huffs. “My story is not that fun to hear.”

Or to tell.

“Come on, man. This is not a Sunday book club with little tea cups and cucumber sandwiches.”  Phayvanh punches Krueger under the desk, but he goes on. “Show off, brag, shine a little, friend. How much they held you? A week? Two?”

Niktos eyes harden. Something told him, this might end this way, yet, he hoped, it wouldn't. He tells himself, it's not about his vulnerability - it's about the stakes, he will be talking about, as his fingers reach the first strap of his mask. The stakes they will have to be ready to make after these classes. He takes the last look at the room and makes sure once again, she is nowhere around. 

With slow, deliberate movements, Nikto unfastens the mask. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls it away, revealing the full extent of his injuries.

There are no shocked gasps heard - only a lone whistle and someones muffled ‘fuck’ reaching his ears. Because what he shows them is not just a few scratches - it is a battlefield and a grave. His skin is heavily scarred and burnt, twisted in unnatural ways. Half of his left ear is missing, and his cheek bears deep, jagged lines. His face is enough to make some people run in fear. Not from him, but from the amount of pain one can survive. “The living will envy the dead” - that's what his face is about.

“Two thousand forty-one hour. Eighty-five days.” His tone is flat, calm even. It's not his place to share his pain - only his expertise. 

***

Their class goes surprisingly well. Chimera soldiers are catching every word leaving his mouth and ask smart questions, that sometimes leave Nikto himself wondering if there is a right answer to them. Although he hasn't that much of a theory teaching experience, his first try at it feels nice, kind of empowering even.

Nikto lets the feeling sink in after everybody else leave the room. Usually his guts would tell him otherwise, but right now sitting here in peace without half of his gear and completely unarmed feels ok. For some weird reason, nothing seems to be able to bother him. 

He fixes the straps of his mask, making sure it sits firmly again, and leaves to an already empty hall. Distant echoes of chatter and ambient noises barely reach this place. Without any thought behind it, Nikto just turns left and walks to see if this road leads him anywhere but an endless row of closed doors. He isn't trying to be nosey - just wants to give his legs a stretch.

To his relief, there is in fact one door open wide. It must their gymnasium - a dimly lit hall, the fading daylight casting long shadows across the room. The faint sound of punching and the rhythmic thuds of kicks echoes softly, punctuating the otherwise still air. In the far corner, illuminated by a solitary overhead light, Zhar is training with fierce determination.

Nikto doesn't know much about art, doesn't really care about all these museums, pictures, statues. He is as far from this world as it is possible. He thought, his knife collection is the nearest thing to art, he ever saw. But right now this changes forever deep in his mind. Because he sees art.

She moves with a fluid grace, each punch and kick precise and powerful. Despite not so young age, her form is impeccable, her movements a blend of strength and agility. The dummy in front of her bears the brunt of her relentless assault, swaying with each impact.

“How is this possible?”

“How is she possible?”

Nikto ignores awakening voices and watches, captivated by the raw power and beauty of her movements. He had seen many soldiers train, but there is something different about her - something that set her apart. And Nikto feels that just one more minutes needs to pass, and he will understand, what's the secret behind her movements.

“Stop ogling my lieutenant.” Nikto quickly turns back and meets Nikolais smirk. “Stop ogling my lieutenant and go talk to her.”

Before Nikto has time to react - Chimeras leader pushes him forward.

“I was looking for where you guys eat. Just the wrong door,” grumbles Nikto quietly. 

“Mhm, of course,” hisses Nikolai and giving him a final push adds louder “Olya, look who came to visit you!”

Dammit. So much for trying to not be a creep.

“Is it my little-” She turns back to them and a wide bright smile on her face weakens. “Oh. Hi.”

He still mentally disputes on turning back and leaving, but Olga steps away from the dummy and reaches out to him, so Nikto comes closer not wanting to make her wait awkwardly for a handshake.

“Nice having you here. Sorry for skipping your class, my last meeting ended way too late.” A touch of her fingers against his exposed skin echoes down his spine. Nikto tries to shake the feeling off with a joke.

“Nah, this won't be on the test anyways.”

She chuckles. Nikto saw her ‘work smile’ and he genuinely hated it. Too plastic, too fake for his tastes. But this is completely different - Olga somehow makes the whole room brighter and more safe. A subtle ornament or crinkles at the corners of her eyes, two soft dimples, the way she throws her head slightly back - this all feels precious, important. He drinks in the sight of her as she returns to the dummy.

“I want to work on one last thing here and then I'll go show you our common room, ok?”

She wants him to stay here? She will feel safe?

“No objections, lt.” Nikto leans against the wall watching her readjusting the dummy.

Zhar loosens a few fastenings around the dummies base and tries to move the main construction up, but it remains steady. She grunts and tries again, but nothing changes.

“Andrei, mat` tvoyu, ne nachinai!*” Nikto flinches at these words and looks at Olga.

Not entirely sure if he even got what she said, Zhar adds embarrassedly ‘I was talking to the dummy, we call him Andrei. This thing’s seen better days’.

“Then we happen to share a name.”

Nikto approaches and tries to help her readjust an old cranky construction, but the outcome is the same. "How about you train on me instead?" he suggests. "I'm taller, and I can take a hit."

“I don't enjoy the concept of treating a fellow soldier like a punching doll.” Olga frowns and shakes her head.

“Nah, you won't even notice the difference. Same name, same attitude. Besides, it's not like you can hurt me," he adds with a short chuckle. This last phrase may have been uncalled-for, because the lieutenant moves away from him a couple of steps and takes a fighting stance.

“My rear hook is getting worse lately. Need to work on it.” Zhar takes a deep breath, centering herself. “But I'm not beating a guy who doesn't defend himself. Thought, you remembered it after the first time we met.”

Ouch. So she does bite back when provoked. 

Nikto raises his hands slightly, ready to block if needed. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, his tone seemingly flat despite the voices forming a good dozen of less neutral reactions.

Her eyes lock onto him, determination flaring anew. She begins with a series of high punches, aiming for his shoulder level. He blocks and parries, his movements fluid and controlled. She quickly adjusts her stance, her confidence growing as she finds her rhythm.

Her kicks come faster now, more precise. Yet Nikto notices the slightest pause in the middle of her rear hooks, just as she claimed. 

“You’ve got quite a punch,” he notices. “Keep going, don’t hold back. A bit faster so that I can't catch you in the middle of it.”

She pushes herself harder, her strikes becoming more aggressive, but there's still this little slowdown in the middle of her blow. And Nikto uses his reaction to demonstrate it. He meets her hand in the midflight and pulls her forward, causing Olga to lose her stance and improvise. She opts for another blow, Nikto feels that he's lacking time to keep pulling her and evade the punch at the same time, but still highers the other hand to defend himself.

It all happens so fast, he doesn't realize at first, what exactly he's done. His hand slides forward, and she hisses, when his wrist grazes against her head. He lowers his hand, but for some reason she follows it, falling on her knees before him. 

Nikto freezes in certainty for a moment and descends after her. Zhar reaches out to his hand and tries to pull it slowly away, and he finally sees it. The massive clasp on the sleeve of his suit got tangled in her hair, causing pain with every movement.

He curses and immediately starts untangling it.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think, fu-”

“The hell are you sorry about?” Olga cuts him off, and he notices that there is no fear or pain in her face expression - only calm satisfaction. “I came unprepared - I had it coming. Good fight, soldier.”

As he helps her to untangle the last strands of hair and stand up, it slowly gets to him: while he is here - she treats him as one of her own, and that includes celebrating his victories, even those that might feel undeserved. This is a strange feeling, but he likes it: to not just be here, but to belong, stay a part of something, she pours her heart into. 

***

It's not every day that Chimeras second in command walks in the common room with a sweet smile and without someone torturing her on the phone. Even on a more rare occasion does she stay in the dining area and not just grab whatever is left to eat and retreats back to her office. So while everybody tries to not be too obvious with their interest - they still can't hold back occasional long gazes. At some point, Krueger even suggest that he goes to join Zhar and their guest instructor, but Phayvanh grips his shoulder and pulls him back.

“You sit here and don't spoil anything.” Naks voice is cold and commanding.

***

After the dinner, Zhar leads Nikto through the living section of the base. Sometimes she excuses for the state of wall paint or an old door. ‘We are moving soon, so we didn't do any renovations here lately,’ she tells as if Nikto came here to inspect the state of their spaces.

“I figured, you would like a room with more privacy. No shared bathrooms, a more quiet part of the building, and so on. Due to the…” she draws a circle in the air in front of her face and Nikto guesses that she is talking about his mask. 

Usually this detail only causes annoying questions. But with her everything is different. No jokes, no unpleasant attention - just an attempt to help.

“Thank you,” he exhales as Olga unlocks the door.

At first glance, Nikto realizes that this is someone's room. Papers on the desk, a jacket hanging on the back of a chair, something large and shapeless lying in the far corner of the bed - it turns out to be a shark plushie, all this suggests that someone already lives here.

"Will the tenant mind?" He freezes on the threshold, looking at her with disbelief.

“This is my room,” she answers innocently.

“But what about...” Nikto points at the bed.

"Oh no, there was only one bed, what should they do!” Zhar sighs in an exaggerated, theatrical manner and cracks laughing. “Don't worry - I'm not going to sleep today anyway. I'm leaving in the night, need to pay a visit to our new base. Until then - I have a ton of work waiting for me in my office anyway.”

“But-”

“Nikto, enough ‘buts’. Our free rooms serve as storages now, I can't materialize an extra bed for you out of thin air, and I'm not letting our guest sleep on a floor.” She pats his shoulder and pushes him deeper in the room. “If you need anything - my office is three doors down the hall.”

She doesn't leave him any time to react, closing the door.

*Vsye v poryadke? - (here and further Russian) Everything's alright?

*Ty Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, da? - Youre Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, yes?

*Ne pytaisya po-anliyski chitat`. Vot tak nado. - Dont try to read it as if was in English. Heres the way to pronounce it

*Andrei, mat` tvoyu, ne nachinai! - Andrei, for fucks sake, don't start this now!

[guilty-pleasures21]

Chapter 4 - the picnic

Part A

Part B

Part C

Warnings: none.

----------------------------------------------------------

     She wandered down the street, huddled in the rattiest cloak she could find. This was such a bad idea: she’d known it the entire time she’d been digging through her cupboards for the cloak, the entire time she’d waited until everyone had returned home for their afternoon nap, the entire time she’d snuck down the alleyways behind the slowly deteriorating neighbourhoods as she headed towards her goal. And yet, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from continuing with her plan. She glanced around furtively, her senses on high alert in the dangerous-looking area she’d managed to find her way back to. But she still failed to notice the man standing in front of her until she bumped right into him. Gwen gasped and jumped back on alarm, clutching her cloak tight around her as if it would offer her some form of protection.

     “Hello, young miss. Might you be in need of some help?”

     Her heart slowed its rapid pace when she found the familiar friendly features of the man she had met the day before. Miles raised an eyebrow at her terrified expression and Gwen's stomach tightened at the knowing smirk on his face. 

     “Um, yes, actually … I … I seem to have misplaced my … my mother’s bracelet during my last trip here,” she explained. “I … It means a lot to me.” 

     She looked up at him, her eyes wide with desperation and sorrow, and Miles felt himself melt at the sight - against his better judgement. He shouldn’t help her - shouldn’t try to keep her there for any longer than she’d already been. It was too dangerous for her, after all, given how very obviously middle-class she was. But unfortunately, he found himself nodding his head and walking beside her as they scoured the ground.

     “So … Miles …” Gwen began carefully, trying to find a way to discreetly drop her bracelet on the ground. “What do you do? When you’re not rescuing damsels in distress, of course.”

     He barked out a laugh at her joke and Gwen smiled at the sound, delighted to have been able to make him laugh. “I take whatever odd job I can find, but … I've been thinking of … apprenticing … for a carpenter.”       

     Why would he say that? Why would he share such personal details about him with this stranger; details he’d never even shared with his closest friend? Maybe because she was a stranger? Someone who didn’t know enough about him to tell him what a ridiculous idea it was? Miles turned away and winced as he waited for her to laugh in his face at the very idea.

     “That sounds great!” Gwen replied unexpectedly. “Have you got a shop in mind?”

     Hesitated at her, stunned by her excitement. Then the corners of his lips curled in response to her genuine enthusiasm.

     “Yes, actually!” he admitted. “He makes the most beautiful doors! They’re the first thing you see when you approach someone’s house, so-” He paused, embarrassed by his sudden passion. What the hell was he doing talking about doors to this beautiful young woman?! Of course she didn’t want to hear about doors! He turned away from her, lowering his head and avoiding her gaze.

     “Uh, sorry, I … I tend to get a little carried away when … when it comes to … this sort of thing,” he apologised. Then, “oh! Is this it?” 

     He bent over to pick up a delicate silver bracelet and Gwen let out an exaggerated gasp of relief. “Oh, goodness! Yes! Thank you! Thank you so much, Miles, I can’t … How can I ever repay you?”

     She grinned as she accepted the bracelet and Miles felt his stomach do a flip as she fluttered her lashes up at him. Honestly, her smile was reward enough for him. He froze, caught off guard by the sudden thought, then he took a step back from her. “Uh, no payment required, Miss!”

     He cast his gaze down and shuffled awkwardly in position, trying to figure out what to say to her. Finally, he looked up and opened his mouth at the same time that Gwen did. “Oh! Please! You go first.”

     “Oh! No! You can go first.”

     “I insist.”

     Gwen hung her head, trying to hide the blush that had crawled up her pale cheeks. She brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, then she peeked up at him again shyly. “I was just going to say that … I should probably … be going now, but … I hope … that is … maybe … we might … see each other? Again?”

     Miles swallowed hard at the suggestion, suddenly getting nervous at the implication that she wanted to see him again. Because nothing would ever come of it. 

     “Uh, maybe,” he replied noncommittally. He pushed aside his disappointment for the moment and gestured down the alley. “Do you need help getting back to your carriage?”

     “Oh! Uh … I … I took a taxi, actually.” She bit her lip, waiting for him to chastise her about travelling the dangerous streets on her own. And as expected, Miles gave her a horrified look.

     “I would strongly advise you to not do that again, Miss Gwen.”

     Gwen shot him an exasperated look as she began walking down the narrow path. “I told you to call me Gwen, Mister Miles.” 

     Miles cringed at how weird it sounds. “Right. Gwen.”

     They continued in companionable silence to the end of the street and Miles waited until Gwen’s carriage was out of sight before he turned to head back home. But it was at that moment that someone jumped out at him, taking him by surprise. 

     “Hey, bruv! What are you doing with the Commissioner's daughter?” Miles relaxed when he heard the familiar sound of his friend’s voice. Then he tensed up again when he realised what he’d just said. 

     “The Commissioner’s daughter?!” he repeated incredulously. Zachary grinned as he slung and arm around Miles’s shoulders. 

     “You think she can get us into the palace?” he asked. Miles glared at him. 

     “Shove off, Zack,” he told him, pushing his friend to the side. Zack snickered at his characteristic righteousness and easily caught up to him as they made their way back home. 

     “Come on. Your uncle would be mighty pleased to know that you’re finally getting involved in the movement,” he pointed out. Miles grimaced uneasily. 

     “I am involved in the movement,” he argued weakly, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he thought of the plans his uncle had discussed at the last meeting. “I just … I don’t think we need to take it that fa-”

     “Oh! And what?” Zack stopped in his tracks, his carefree demeanour taking a sudden unanticipated turn. “You think the Queen is going to give us the time of day otherwise?”

     Miles held his gaze as the both of them stared at each other, neither wanting to be the first to back down. Finally, Zack sighed and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Come on. I’m not gonna fight you, bruv. Let’s just make sure we make it back in time for supper, yeah?”

Continue

[knightsteapot]

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ TALKING ABOUT WANDERER

Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche... And finally Wanderer, this character has been around since the very beginning, but not until the release of Inazuma we could comprehend more about him. Once I finished Sumeru's Archon quest I found myself so so curious that, of course, I had to do a small and very unprofessional research.

Everything I'll point out here is based on his voice lines, story and illustrations, everything I consider canon and a small portion of my own assumptions. Of course this is my opinion, I can be wrong. THIS IS AN ANALYSIS OF HIS ANATOMICAL STRUCTURE AND FUNCTIONS.

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ DOTTORE AND HIS FASCINATION FOR KUNI

I couldn't quite understand why Dottore was so fascinated for Kuni, I even dare to say he was obsessed... I don't condone his actions (that man is crazy, sorry Dottore fuckers, he is.) But I understand the reason, Wanderer is such a wonderful and perfect divine creation. A delicate, almost fragile appearance yet unimaginable resistance and strength.

Dottore's experiments are, canonicaly, brutal, cruel, painful, he did things far from our imagination and still Kuni survived. From this I'll point out the first things:

Wanderer has pain and touch receptors but an extremely high pain and weather conditions endurance. That's why the experiments were performed without any issue.

His low HP line gives an idea about it : "I'm used to this"

This means he can get hurt, he can be in pain and understand when his body is at it's limit, but as a puppet he's not fragile. In a more positive note: he can feel your touch, your warmth.

His skeleton contains divine objects, it must be similar to a human's because his appearance is humanoid, however, since he doesn't have normal bones he is probably heavy, at least heavier than someone his size.

His skeleton has joints, they don't need to be Daka's bell but pretty similar, however, his skin covers everything, that's why he can be perceived as a normal human and his movements are natural.

Remember the puppet strings and the liquid inside? Well, Wanderer must have some sort of liquid that gives him energy. In general, not in his boss form.

Despite the creative description and the "he's being manipulated" obvious hints, the last part makes me think of what happens when a human has a significant blood loss. Kuni might not have blood, but something similar runs inside him, providing the energy he needs to function without water, food or sleep. Positive note: he can blush, yes, I'm taking this chibi as canon. If not blood or some similar fluid, then no rosy cheeks!

His brain is incredibly human-like. I'll explain further in a second part (there's too much to talk about his precious brain qjdhjdja) but for now let's focus on trauma caused by Dottore. Wanderer is a deeply wounded individual, he has different traumas and a natural answer for each one (I'll explain later)

What you can read in his voice lines is his natural answer after being traumatized, but how the heck a puppet, a mere puppet can be traumatized? In order to create trauma you need two things: adrenaline and an amygdala in your brain, which is the part in charge of your traumas, fears. It helps you to be protected, to run away from danger. I'm not saying Kuni has an amygdala, he's not human but hey, people, he must have a complex brain with enough capacity to process traumatic events and create fear, then a violent/aggressive answer that can be manifested in words or actions.

Okay, I'll leave this here. If I see positive answers I'll write the second part, I still have more to say about psychology in terms of his trauma, his basic functions, how I think he works, some details about his body and why Kuni is more human than he thinks. I hope you've enjoyed this analysis, I'm so so so biased hahaha.

[blackswan446]

CORRUPTED || ten.

𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 ✩✩✩

for an autumn day, it was unseasonably warm. it felt more like a beautiful mid-spring afternoon. the landscape didn't match the temperature; the fall air brought a burst of new color to the normally-green tree leaves, to paint one last vibrant picture before they would plunge to the ground and succumb to the harsh conditions of winter.

you sat on the edge of the fountain, making sure not to let you or your bag fall into the pool of water and coins below. although the mall was crowded, you could've sat for hours and just watched the world go by. all these people, they all had their own lives, their own friends and enemies, successes and heartbreaks, yet all you would ever know them as is random people from the mall, and all they would ever know you as is the girl who was sitting on the fountain.

you were broken from your philosophical moment by someone taking a seat next to you on the cool marble bricks. that person was hoseok, clad in his fashionable streetwear, styled hair, and...holding flowers?

you must have been visibly confused, because the first thing he did, rather than greet you, was explain the bundle of flowers in his hand. "don't get the wrong idea, i passed a shop on the way here. i thought you'd like them, that's all." he said, holding out the small bouquet to you. you smiled, and took them slowly. "thank you..what kind of flowers are they? did the owner tell you?"

he nodded. "gardenias. apparently this is the last bunch the shop was selling, i think the growing season for them is over." he explained, looking proud of himself and his good deed. you held the velvety petals of the delicate white flowers between your fingertips, and you didn't need to lean closer to smell their sweet fragrance. you smiled fondly at the small posy, and looked back to hoseok. "thank you, i love them." you said gratefully, not bothering to hide your cheesy smile. he beamed at your appreciation and his heart swelled with pride.

'looks like my research paid off. who knew flowers could have so many meanings?'

✩✩✩

it was a few hours later, and you were walking side by side with hoseok in the shopping mall. you cradled the elegant bundle of gardenias gently in one elbow, and the other was holding a few shopping bags. hoseok was carrying a few of his own, plus a to-go cup of iced coffee. "i'm glad we were able to go out today." he said, "you know. before the holiday rush."

you nodded your head in agreement. "yeah, i am too. this place will be packed a month from now. all the stores will be empty, too." you complained, shuddering at the thought of returning here and fighting with the old ladies over the last candle and swimming through a sea of middle schoolers, all looking for their mothers.

"we only have a few more stores to hit, right? my feet are tired." he whined. "hey, i want to get my holiday shopping done early. you can't rush me. i only have to get something for my aunt, my father, and yoongi."

hoseok cringed internally at the mention of his name. "yoongi, huh? what are you going to get him?" he inquired. you shrugged your shoulders. "oh, i don't know yet. he's so hard to shop for. i have to make sure i get him something good, though, because he'll already be mad that i'm out today." you stated.

hoseok felt his heart sink as you mentioned that detail. "how come?" he gritted, trying to keep his cool as he fought the little red devil on his shoulder, screaming in his ear for him to do something, to say something. you sighed. "i don't know. i think it's because we're getting into flu season, and he doesn't want me to get sick." you said. hoseok nodded stiffly. "good to know he cares so much." he fumed, careful not to let his response come out sarcastic.

you nodded and sighed again. "yeah, it is. even if he's strict, i'm glad to have him." you said contentedly.

✩✩✩

after a long day of shopping, joking, and talking, you were finally walking through the deserted parking lot to your car. "god, how long were we here?" hoseok joked, looking around the desolate plot of concrete. "six hours, maybe?" you said, thinking back to what time you had gotten here and when you had last looked at the clock on your phone. "i'm exhausted."

he nodded tiredly. "what are you doing after this?" he questioned, the both of you stopping when you reached your cars. you thought for a moment, considering your dinner options and the commute home. "i'm probably going to go to bed. i'm exhausted." you repeated, thinking of the fluffy pillow and cozy comforter waiting for you at home. "sleeping already? but it's only six o'clock." hoseok said, surprised.

"i know, but i haven't really been sleeping well these days. i always wake up more tired than the night before." you admitted, remembering also the sleepless nights and when you would jolt awake randomly. "i see." he said, nodding his head. "well, i hope-"

hoseok stopped talking, watching as the light around the two of you dimmed. the golden rays of the sun were suddenly gone. looking up, the both of you saw the reason for the abrupt darkness: a huge, grey cloud, that had moved through the sky and covered the sun, killing the bright light that came with it.

"what the hell?" you blurted, wondering where in the world that cloud had come from. "i didn't see that when we came outside." hoseok said, his tone sounding bewildered and a little scared. you shook your head. "i don't like this parking lot when it's this dark or empty. it makes me feel like something bad is going to happen. i'm leaving." you said, flinging open your drivers side door and jumping in.

hoseok, who found your superstitions amusing, laughed as you shoved the key in the car's ignition. he tapped on your window, and made a cheesy 'call me' gesture to you through the glass. you rolled your eyes and laughed, clipping your seatbelt into place and driving out of your spot. hoseok waved you goodbye, and it wasn't until you were gone that the smile fell from his face and he got into his own car.

✩✩✩

as he laid in bed that night, his thoughts were fighting with one another, darkness imposing itself into the corners of his mind and seeping into his brain. he look a deep breath, and laid still for a moment, before lunging off of the mattress and flying to his desk. he rifled through the drawers, desperately trying to find the paper he needed. finally, his fingers brushed over the smooth envelope he had been searching for. taking it out of the drawer slowly, he lifted the flap and removed the sheet inside.

he read over the unsent letter, rereading some sentences over and over. there was a lot more where this had come from, as he had been writing them for well over a year now. however, with the recent influx of emotions he had been feeling the past few months, and his internal battle between good and evil, the volume of letters written had shot up.

his feelings terrified him to the core, and these letters served as reality checks, as something to ground him and point him back in the direction of happiness and peace. were they the honest to god truth?...

he liked to think so.

whether or not these letters were an honest record of his emotions wasn't important. what was important, was the fact that these letters contained the right answers, and also proved to both you and himself that he knew what the right answers were. they were like reminders for him, whenever his mind started to stray away from what was right, he could reread them and get himself back on track.

he had to make sure he didn't act out, because if he said one wrong word, did one wrong action, gave one little indication that this darkness even existed,

you would run

so fast

and so far

and you wouldn't

give it

a second thought.

✩✩✩ 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃

[drill-teeth-art]

Since you think about cassetticons, and Frenzy and Rumble specifically, a lot; do you also consider their relations with Soundwave, not just between the two? Related, are there any Soundwave ideas and headcanons you'd like to share, perhaps? = 3

I don't post that much of my writing very often other than summaries of my plot ideas and headcanons, but I actually have been writing about a cassettes and Soundwave origin story just in my spare time for fun! I'll put an excerpt from that under the cut with some other headcanons! But in summary, my headcanon is that Soundwave met the cassettes it carries over time on Cybertron before the war.

First it met Ratbat, who is older than it and an appraiser of spare parts and vintage gadgets. Ratbat took a liking to it and decided to stick with it on its personal quest to find some other cassettes to work with too. Then they met Rumble and Frenzy in a stretch of wasteland separating the duo's old work site from large Cybertronian cities. The two had been crossing the wastes in search of a Cybertronian legend of a cassette home city that would be safe and welcoming to them. During their journey, they had the displeasure of working with a handful of scummy carriers who screwed them over, so they were extremely skeptical of Soundwave at first. But it was the first carrier they met to already have a cassette, so they decided to give it a chance. Soundwave was very surprised when they first leapt into battle to protect it as Ratbat kept it out of the way for emergency repairs. But it had been patient and compassionate as they grew to trust it, so they protected it. Down the road, it met Ravage and Laserbeak and Buzzsaw. I'm still ironing out headcanon details on Soundwave meeting those three, but they also boil down to Soundwave just being an all-star carrier who is sweet to its cassettes.

The Arrival: Soundwave + Cassettes Fan Origin Story (excerpt) content warnings: mentioned betrayal by unnamed carrier, mention of injury and repair, (if there are other content warnings I should add for this excerpt, feel free to let me know)

Ratbat descended towards a small, makeshift camp a ways outside of town and set them down gently before touching down on the ground beside them. They both wobbled a bit on their treads, so Ratbat took them each by a hand. “Come on. Soundwave will get you each a generous portion of energon and look you over for repair,” Ratbat said and approached the tent. Rumble wrenched his hand free and grumbled a bit. “Repair?!” “Yes,” Ratbat turned his head to face Rumble and looked at him quizzically. “You both look battered. You should at least let Soundwave check your vital systems.” Frenzy whined a bit. “Can’t you do it?” “Yeah. I don’t want any carrier’s, good for nothing, articulated servos poking around my hardware, got it?” Rumble hissed. Ratbat understood their anxiety. He knew it wasn’t about Soundwave. They hadn’t even met Soundwave yet. They seemed to have been brutally betrayed by their last carrier, so he figured they wouldn’t be too keen on a new one. But they did need repairs. “I can only do so much as I’m not a repair specialist. Soundwave is excellent at cassette repair, so I think you should let it give you a look. I promise, if you say to stop something, it will. And I’ll stay there with you the whole time.” The two cassettes still looked skeptical. “It repaired my reels recently,” Ratbat told them. Reel repair was a very delicate process. The cassettes knew that very well. They only had their reels repaired once or twice at their old job site, and they hadn’t let a single carrier do it for them. Ratbat nodded when they looked at him with surprise. “Yes. One of my tape reels slipped out of place when I was blasted out of the sky by some trigger happy jerk,” he explained and the two cringed at the thought, knowing how much that hurt. “But Soundwave put it right back in place. Not a bit of damage to my other hardwave. See?” He opened up a panel on his chest plate for them to see. They leaned in a bit. His reels were neatly in place, and Frenzy pointed a bit where a few small parts had been replaced since the replacement parts were a lighter color than the rest. Ratbat nodded again and closed up his chest panel. “That must’ve taken a few cycles…” Rumble said, surprised at the skilled repair job. “Indeed,” Ratbat replied, smiling softly. “But Soundwave cares very much. And as you can tell, it took the time and effort to do the repair just right. So I assure you, if you allow it to do your repairs, it will not harm you.” The two cassettes looked at each other and nodded a bit. “Where’s this Soundwave bot? We wanna meet it,” Rumble asked. “Just through here. In the tent,” Ratbat gently took Rumble’s hand and led both cassettes inside the large tent. Rumble and Frenzy were surprised to see Soundwave right inside. It probably was close enough to have heard the whole conversation, and the cassettes weren’t sure if it had tuned it out or not. When they entered, it turned its head some to face them. They flinched a bit. It was the biggest carrier they’d ever seen. “As I told you over our frequency, these are the bots who were at the auction house. They need some energon and probably repair as well,” Ratbat nodded at Soundwave. Rumble was about to protest that they didn’t need anything from any bot, but he felt his fuel tank grumble and kept his mouth shut. Soundwave nodded at Ratbat and then took out and offered Frenzy and Rumble each a full, big cube of rich energon, something they’d never even seen before. Rumble accepted the offered energon excitedly. He figured he should be more skeptical of the fuel, but he was too low on energy and tired to care. Frenzy grabbed his arm to make him wait for a second, holding their cube in their other arm. He paused as they dipped their finger into their cube to test for hazardous materials. They waited for a few seconds and pulled their finger out. They nodded at Rumble, signaling that it was clear to drink, and they both started to eagerly drink the energon.

End Excerpt

I realized I hardly got into my Soundwave specific headcanons. Mostly focused on the relationships in this answer, but I hope you enjoy :D Thank you for the ask!

[hopepaigeturner]

Villainous Benophie AU: Part 3

Inspired by @orangepeelshortbreadcookies; BRILLIANT Villainous Viscount AU (read on AO3 here). So all creds go to her!

And while she has done a beautiful fic about Benophie in this universe, Thieves of Dusk (10% RECOMMEND A READ. Read on AO3 here). But we’ve been chatting about my own ideas for Benophie. So, with her blessing here’s the next part of my version.

Check out Part 2 here.

It is almost three months since that night when he spots the silver dress again. It weaves around masked people at a secret auction. And once more she takes Benedict’s breath away. He follows her like a shadow, as she herself lingers in the shadows seemingly eavesdropping on the guests before ending her night with an impressive round at the tables. She plays a delicate game of winning and losing her eyes more shrewd and her skills flawless—she has learnt since that first night. Benedict does not want to consider how.

When she finally retires he corners her and finally they are face to face. And all the little evidences of time's fingerprint's come to the fore; how the silver of the dress is worn with little stitches and patches skilfully covered; her hair is shorter, her face wan and her figure slimmer—very slim. So slim it makes his hands curl into fists.

They pick up that delicate dance of conversation before his ire causes it to crack and demand answers from her. And he uses his whole height, his whole demeanour, the hidden darkness that he can unleash in one look. (Years later when he knows of it all, not just the depths of his heart but the depths of Sophie's pain, the memory of this night will haunt him). And although there is a slight tremor in her fingers she explains.

She has been staying at a rundown boarding house within the slums, and on nights when it is unbearable she seeks shelter with a modiste friend of hers. She has spent the last months travelling from club to club to ensure that her cardsharp reputation does not spread until she is adept enough to cover her tracks. And when she is not trading chips for cash, she is trading secrets for much larger sums for the infamous gossip sheet—Lady Whistledown. Among such hunts she pieced together who he was.

She does not talk about that moonlight night, not even when he asks in veiled words (in a moment of rashness that feels like something much more dangerous) whether she has been able to have another cigarette without thinking of his lips.

One word.

No.

And Benedict inspects her for any discrepancy in the perfect mask that cloaks her body similar to the silver one on her face. Yet there, in her eye he spots it. A look that sparks something inside of him, (he dismisses the little voice that whispers hope—hope doesn’t exists in the world, only opportunity).

He knows that look, he has glanced and studied it in the mirror every morning. She wants to play the game. And Benedict will more than happily oblige—after all he is the master of games.

Cardsharp against cardsharp. Force of will against force of will. Heart against heart. Game on.

The conversation spins again as she refuses to be his mistress—he does not worry for there are many different ways to win the game. So, he spins her into a corner, playing on the explicit details that mark her privileged upbringing. He knows she can bare a life of dirt—but that doesn’t mean she would not jump at the chance for a life with cleaner hands. And so he offers her a beautifully wrapped proposition:

Do not be a mistress be a governess. Three meals, a roof over her head and three young charges to care for during the day, leaving the nights open for her more clandestine ventures.

Finally, he adds an extra bow: full protection under the Bridgerton name. As safe a barricade as those surrounding Buckingham Palace—perhaps more so.

Sophie stays silent, those beguiling eyes calculating moves. Yet, as he expected, she is not so proud as to forfeit her safety for a victory. So, she concedes and agrees to take the position.

He insists on accompanying her home at which point she finally takes off her mask.

Benedict is struck by the fizzing sensation once more as he takes in the soft curve of her face, and the true colour of her eyes—brown, brown like the deepest wood in the forest. The places rumoured that only fae frequent.

As she shuts the door behind her she finally tells him her name.

Sophie.

The carriage rolls away.

He must have her. He is not worthy of her, fairies and beautiful maidens do not fall in love with those who have washed reams of blood down the drain or take dark delight in ruthless vengeance. She will never love a man like him—love? (When did he start thinking of such superfluous things? Like that whispering voice he crushes it under his fist). He needs her in whatever capacity he can grasp.

NEXT

[serickswrites]

Hi Serick! Hope everything is going good to you <3

Uh, so, am I allowed to ask for two things in an ask? 😳😳 Because I came here to humbly request a part 3 for Once and for All, but I also had this idea for another story:

Whumpee is super injured, terribly weak (probably from fighting back when they were kidnapped) and whumper is now tenderly treating their wounds so they can stay alive. But, of course, while they do that, they're calmly explaining in full detail just how much they plan to hurt poor whumpee when they recover a bit.

Uh that's it, if you don't like getting multiple requests at once let me know and sorry haha. Have a nice day/night!

-Blue

Absolutely you can ask for multiple things in an ask (it just might take multiple posts to answer them and I have no means of tagging you sadly). I love asks and prompts! It helps me so much!!

Once and For All III should have come out two days ago now (I think, it's hard to tell), but I know when you asked it, it wasn't out yet. It has four more parts after that, so I hope you enjoy them!

As for your second request, this is great! I hope you like it!

Warnings: torture, cuts, wounds, knives, blood, broken bones, infection, caretaking performed by whumper

Whumpee flinched away from Whumper's touch. Whumper had been beating them for days. Hitting them. Punching them. Kicking them. Cutting on them with a small knife. A big knife. A dull knife. And a very sharp knife. Whumpee could not handle any more.

"Please," they begged. "Please, no more."

"Oh, Whumpee, I'm not going to hurt you." Whumper said as they sat down and dipped a cloth in a bowl of water. "I'm going to heal you."

Whumpee watched Whumper with fear-filled eyes as Whumper pressed the warm cloth to a clearly infected cut on Whumpee's chest. Whumpee hissed as the wound ignited with pain.

"I bet that hurts." Whumper held the cloth there as they probed Whumpee's wrist.

Whumpee yanked their wrist from Whumper's hand as Whumper pressed down on the broken bone. "No!"

"I won't break it again. I just want to see how I need to set it." Whumper held out their hand again as they removed the cloth from Whumpee's chest and pressed a dry piece of gauze to the wound.

Reluctantly, Whumpee lowered their wrist. "Th-Th-Thank you."

"Such manners. I knew I liked you." Whumper worked slowly. Inventorying each wound and treating each wound with delicate, tender care. "You really deserve the happy ending, Whumpee."

"I-I-I do?" Whumpee couldn't believe this was happening. How Whumper could go from torturing them to helping them was beyond Whumpee's comprehension.

"Yeah, you do. You're not going to get it of course. But it's a nice thought."

Whumpee's eyes filled with tears. "I'm nnnnottt?"

Whumper grinned as they ruffled Whumpee's hair. "Course not, you silly goose. I am your ending. Once you heal up a bit more, I'm going to beat you within in an inch of your life. I'm going to vivisect you while you are awake. And when you are begging me, begging me to end it," Whumper leaned in close to whisper into Whumpee's ear, "I'm going to carve out your still beating heart and hold it as I watch the life drain from your eyes."

Whumpee began to sob in earnest. "Oh, don't cry, Whumpee. That won't be for a long while yet. Your wounds need to heal. You and I will get to know each other quite well before the time comes. Don't you worry."

[talldarkandroguesome]

27th of Second Seed, Morndas

Well, I cannot say that I am surprised in anyway, but the circus mysteriously disappeared the morning after we had attended. Apparently many people who attended found themselves light on coin and other valuable items and when the Ordinators went to question them, they only found the matted down vegetation in the shapes of their various tents.

Tel was moderately upset about it and seemed to feel responsible for not turning the thief I had caught in. I think after so much congratulations to me, they felt worse about not having simply allowed me to do whatever it was I was going to do to them.

As I had said previously, I was not about to waste my time on a pickpocket. Really those of the upper crust who lost items only have themselves to blame. Did they not have their items enchanted? Did they honestly assume that Nords would be too stupid to attempt such distraction techniques and so allowed themselves to go in without any protection whatsoever?

Do I feel bad for some that may have been of lesser means, certainly! They did not deserve that. Honestly, this is why I hate the Thieves Guild so much, they do not teach any common decency.

The Breton siblings continue to tout themselves as the great intellects who have finally solved the issue of low pregnancy issues amongst mer. I cannot tell if they are simply trying to amass as much fame and fortune before people discover their ruse, or if they truly believe that which they espouse.

As long as it keeps them out of my home, I do not much care. I hear that they are being summoned before the Grand Council to give a talk on their methods. Mother has kept silent on her opinions on this matter. She cannot be seen to be against their ideas and have voted for its use during the House Council meeting, though I suspect that she was more interested in keeping more eyes upon me.

I received a letter from Fennorian today. It was rather sad news. Devastating, really.

It seems that Count Ravenwatch has passed. I will not recount the details here, I have the letter if I should wish to remember them. Still, it was hard news to swallow, even if it explains the long absence of our communication.

News of his death makes me realize that I had thought of him in some ways as a sort of mentor. Well, not quite so intimate, though he was certainly a confidant. Verandis was very candid with me and when I solicited his advice, he gave it rather freely. I can only imagine how difficult the politics of High Rock must be right now. Such a precarious position that the Ravenwatch must find themselves in. Verandis was such an accomplished politician and able to assuage the fears of leaders around him. I can hardly see Gwendis or Adusa-Daro able to provide as much assurance. Adusa-Daro seems the most natural choice as leader of their house, but I wonder if the Covenant would allow a Khajiit, let alone a vampire Khajiit to have such power within their ranks.

I know Fennorian has elected not to step into that role. I fear he is the one most capable of being the political face of the house, yet his fear of losing control has seen him abstaining.

In my response to him I have sent an offer of a place of safety, should the political situation become too delicate there. It is perhaps overstepping my position as a Widow, but I owe the Ravenwatch much. There is much to be gained from an alliance if it were to come to it, though I know most of that house must curse the names of all Daedra given that they are bound to Coldharbour upon their passing.

Oh gods! Poor Verandis!

I wonder, would there be a way to free him, given that the Mages Guild still has a portal to that plane?

I must stop. I have more than enough to deal with in my own immediate vicinity, I need to not rush off to solve someone else's problems when mine loom so large before me.

Still, I would very much like to go and visit the Ravenwatch. Perhaps I can find an excuse to bring Sildras to High Rock. Perhaps as a family trip before Tel's pregnancy proceeds too far. I have no idea what the impact of teleportation might do on a child in womb.

So very much to consider.

[fancyshooting]

i know it's been a month since i sent that ask, but imo gets painfully more obvious (almost hysterical) the farther into the game. she does it when there's anything significant, usually to show knowledge of something others dont know about

- when she encounters Ocelot, she's holding one of the guns used to play russian roulette with Sokolov, to which he reacts by pointing fingers (the torture cutscene, he's seen doing it again, and the Boss doesn't stop him, meaning they planned it out again)

- when she encounters Snake in disguise, and again after walking away from him being tortured (Ocelot just so happens to be outside, watching/waiting)

- during the torture scene (probably the most obvious part, most likely because it's all planned out), you see her raise one at:

1. first sight at Ocelot (they have a plan and clearly working together)

2. when Tatyana walks in (still raised)

3. "I planted it on him to keep track of his movements" (subsequently, Ocelot takes note of the suspicious evidence)

4. "If they knew where he was going to be, they wouldn't have gotten themselves slaughtered" (that was their purpose)

5. after she shoots Snake in the leg (she notes Tatyana after use, as she hadn't yet changed expression from her crying)

- before the fight with Volgin:

1. "Boss, take this someplace safe" (with Ocelot in the end)

2. "The C3's been stolen. He must be planning some sort of sabotage" (the C3 had been planted everywhere already)

3. when Tatyana leaves (plans on using her again after)

- during the Boss' speech, you see her raise one at:

1. "I didn't raise you and shape you into the man you are today just so we could face each other in battle" (the fight)

2. "The Philosophers must be reunited" (explains the history of the Philosophers, credits show the formation of the Patriots as well as Ocelot's message)

we do take for granted how much we already know about the game, but these facts are not obvious at first and just sound like gibberish. and i do believe it's a bit of a reach but it is an interesting detail that seems to correlate with something.

for Ocelot, while it happens more often, the meaning is more nuanced. there are two types of pointing fingers: he waves only the index when he's being sarcastic/pointing out the obvious, and he waves three fingers at something he already knows something certain about, and usually signifies something will happen or a success.

as you'll know when you read this, I'm the worst for late replies so don't worry about that. I'm glad you came back ^_^

when I eventually watched these cutscenes, I had your message handy for reference like a little companion guide. covert communication and body language: vol 1 by the most esteemed a. nonymous

chapter 1: 🤨

the boss' eyebrow raise is something I did NOT notice (too distracted by ocelot going ⬭_0) until you pointed it out. it's such a subtle movement but if you watch for it, you see that she does it a looooot. at first glance it seems unremarkable, just an individual quirk, but it is interesting that she does it at the points you've mentioned...

you might think you're overanalysing but some animator chose to show that movement at the same time as those specific lines. we know how much kojima loves his details, so it very well could be the result of deliberate direction. there's a massive amount of work in these games, so what seems like a stretch actually be intentional (if not then whatever it's still fun). there's strong evidence suggesting ocelot and the boss were working closely together and the pattern you've pointed out fits nicely with that idea since she gives that signal around him more than once

during their mission, circumstances change frequently so it would be useful to have a discreet way to communicate in an urgent/delicate situation. raising one eyebrow is so simple and natural it could easily go unnoticed, especially by volgin who's not very perceptive

chapter 2: 👉👉

I agree that it's a lot more difficult to ascribe meaning to ocelot's gestures because he's constantly gesticulating when he talks. if you play mgs3d you are at severe risk of him jabbing you in the face with every flourish. sometimes he'll switch rapidly from one gesture to another, or his fingers won't be flexed, or he'll use his open palm, or he'll use both hands instead of one. there's too much variation in his gestures to give each of them a specific meaning. his double handed gesture, the one kojima calls the "guts pose," is performed five times: (unless I missed any, excluding the hidden r1 moments) before he kills all those kgb guys, before he fights snake, after he threatens tatyana with the crossbow, before he goes to FIND THOSE BOMBS and during the WIG fight. I was thinking it could it be sort of a "good luck" gesture...?

kgb: "good luck escaping me. you've belittled me and I'm outnumbered but you won't survive this"

battle: "good luck beating me without cqc. I am the most formidable gunfighter spetsnaz has ever seen. with this crevice between I will surely win"

tatyana: "tch. good luck keeping that flimsy act up when you continue to make basic mistakes that give you away. your non-regulation boots are scuffed, you smell funny and you're never here. bitch"

c3: "good luck against the supercharged 6'7 sadist who wants you dead haha... I'm on your side btw"

WIG: "good luck besting me now that I know your style and have learned enough cqc to put up a fight"

luck is something that he has on his mind throughout the game so it would mean he's being quite smug and sardonic in almost every instance... like good luck - you'll need it. it could possibly also be his way of marking someone out for defeat/death. this is more likely because kojima has said that when ocelot does the gesture to snake at groznyj grad, it's to say "do it," as in "kill volgin," which would apply to the other instances too

the "guts pose" is meant to be a taunt/display of bravado - gutsy and self-assured. in the WIG, ocelot is learning as he goes. he makes the gesture for the last time then immediately mimics snake's cqc stance. he finally stops posturing and makes a serious effort to learn from snake. he reigns in his ego and adopts the stance he initially mocked. his reaction to a fighting stance he didn't recognise and hadn't been taught was immediate derision, showing just how rigid his thoughts/behaviour were before snake's guidance. his unit fake laughed for nothing!!

ty for the ask!! I really enjoyed hearing your thoughts :) here is a rare photograph from 1964 taken seconds before disaster:

[phoebosacerales]

I saw this tik tok and I wanted to know your thoughts on it. What do you think? https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRnBUCfj/

I'm on his side on the last of the last part: "It's a good reminder that ancient humans were'nt dumb, that's a colonization lie, and to not discount something just because you don't know why it works". But he doesn't really follow his own advice fully. Trying to make Astrology make sense from a "scientific standpoint" is really silly, anachronistic and an abomination. The lack of respect for Astrology is still there even if he's "trying to make sense of it". Modern science is just three hundred years old and Astrology has been around since time immemorial and its methods, philosophy and techniques are not supposed to bend themselves to fit in modern science.

Coincidentally, I was watching a lecture from a tarot teacher from my astro school today, and I don't really like tarot that much, but the theme was skepticism. He was talking about how skepticism is always saved for traditional/ancestral knowledge, even though scientist will always prove themselves to be as much biased, mistaken, simply wrong and acting in bad faith as much as we who work with traditional knowledge are. Even that research about kids in baseball that the tik tok guy is talking about is a little suspicious if it actually goes the way he's telling. How does the astrological explanation make less sense than that conclusion from that research? Kids are not all growing and developing the same way, you can't just say that this was happening just because the kids were 1 year older. But anyway, I haven't read it, so... But oh my god, why isn't everybody skeptical of both explanations??

But taking a step back from this tiktok... It's really amusing to me to see scientists talk shit about shit that they really don't know about. Most of them conflate explaining and detailing the world to infinity with explaining the why of things, they think because science explains mechanics it explains existence. Most will never question themselves or this idea because they don't even think about it. It's been the law since the Enlightenment movement and they don't have a strong opposition, so they function as if the scientific method has been a result of a long history of mistakes made by the dumb ancients and now they've arrived at the furthest point in an evolution of knowledge. That's not how History works. They'll never think about this if they keep othering other kinds of knowledge as simply irrational and never coming into contact with them. While trying to sound well researched they always prove the point that they're deeply prejudiced and know as much as everyone else, they're just human, or visor-using horses. And also that they don't know much about science or epistemological disccusion either, which is expected. Husserl and Feyerabend fought the loneliest battle and haven't yet been recognized.

They love to erase history as well, they'd hate to tell you that Newton was an astrologer, or that Galileo predicted his imprisonment by reading his own birth chart. They rather use him as their martir and act like if he was still around he'd be an astrology skeptic on youtube. The scientific method has always been used to enforce hegemonic power, they've always been wrong in countless occasions and ways, a lot of fields in science are not even tested by their own methods, but they're just very well accepted pseudosciences because they work to keep someone's pocket full and to keep hegemonic discourse (like psychiatry and some psychologies that are said to be more 'scientific' for example).

It's a delicate moment right now, when we have to defend science, vaccines and all, but you know, the more that academia distance themselves from other kinds of knowledge and try to hold on to their monopoly of power to dictate truth the more they're going to sound dumb af, the more they're going to be doubted, the more we're going to see a crisis in faith in science. Because they can't prove to have the biggest dick like they think they can, no type of knowledge is going to prove the other wrong, different methods stay in their own lanes.

[cloudbattrolls]

It's Too Cliché

Crista Condyl | A Remote Beach | Present Night

Crista brooded over their coffee cup. Well. They sulked, more like, but let them have this. They deserved it. They needed it.

The wizard leaned back in the old but comfortable recliner. They were currently in a little rentable beach cottage they liked to return to when they could, since it was often empty. 

If it wasn’t when they got there, they could activate their ward on the place that made whoever was there pack their things and get going in a hurry, manifesting an illusion of whatever problem with the hive would get them going fastest by using their subconscious fears as a base. 

The little wooden building wasn’t the nicest place - hence why it was often empty - and yet another draft came whistling through the poorly insulated walls, but a few wards for warmth and protection made it safe and comfortable enough. They couldn’t do too much - didn’t want to attract attention from any other passing magic users, even if the chance was low. 

Or worse and much more likely, undead. 

Ghosts were easily kept out, but a horde of zombies was a slightly bigger issue.

They sighed, taking a sip of the hot beverage, just having poured it from the place’s coffeemaker. The blend was good, at least; they’d bought it with money from their last job. Nice and smooth, with tones of hazelnut.

Often they liked tea, but right now? Right now was a coffee moment, for sure and absolute certain. The heels of their lavender boots drummed against the floor as they considered their situation.

Two! Two crazy…attachments!

As if one wasn’t enough. At least the first one could just be put down to Catill being unfairly gorgeous and talented. Who wouldn’t be a bit smitten with a woman that impressive and a little frightening to boot?

But there was no way to explain away Kormut as anything but. That. 

Pale feelings. 

Ugh.

A blueblood! A ruddy blueblood of all things! Didn’t that cap it all. Granted, he was hardly typical…but still. He’d far outlive them. They could hardly go out together without getting looks for what a ridiculous caste gap there was.

Even thinking about that was crazy! Kormut probably didn’t see them that way at all. What a silly thought. They’d look so stupid if they told him how they felt.

‘Oh hello, Kormut dear, I’ve fallen in pale with you. Want to go out for dinner? Presuming we can get you to a restaurant without major injury or the food all spoiling on arrival.’

He’d be nice about it, but probably confused, trying to let them down gently. Ughhh, so awkward! 

Catill…

She’d made that little world for them, hadn’t she? Such a beautiful place…so well done, so well lit and that gorgeous sky, the detail on those lanterns…had she really meant it as…?

If she had - oh gods, what were they supposed to do? Try to impress her again? What if it failed? What if they were assuming too much?

Well. If they had, they’d just…laugh it off! That’s right. Everything could be laughed off. Haha, whoops, I thought you might be flush-flirting! With me! Haha, that’s sure a funny mistake I made, oopsie daisy, my bad. Please don’t rot my brain.

But if they were right…

Catill. Gathering mushrooms. Casting a spell. Moonlight shining pink and green on her white hair. That tiny little curled part of her horns that seemed so delicate. The way her face looked when she teased them…they wanted a closer view of that expression.

Crista coughed on their drink, hot brown liquid dousing the back of their throat and arcing back into their warm cream mug patterned with daisies.

Women, perpetually their undoing. 

Well, in for beetle, in for a caeger. Even if they were imagining things, might as well have fun, right? Plus, they had an idea…

They finished off their coffee and decided to retire for the night, but they knew what they’d do next evening, right after breakfast.

—

“Oh, boo.” They complained, down on their hands and knees among the beach’s rocks and tide pools, the damp sand clinging to their bare skin and clothes. “There has to be some somewhere! Right? Surely everyone didn’t take it all already…”

They squinted through their glasses, which were after all supposed to help with their farsightedness, and which they suspected might need a prescription update sometime, since they had neglected it for…almost a sweep. 

Of course, it couldn’t be anywhere that used an imperial database. That was the bother of it, and of so many other things. 

Oh, sure, they had fake IDs and the like, they could fog a mind or two…but you never knew what sort of mind readers, empaths, or nullifiers such a place might have on staff. They had a good read on magical energy, but their own psi being so weak, they weren’t much good at sniffing out how powerful someone else might be on that way.

“What are you looking for, fellow?”

They looked up, ears flicking in alarm as they startled from the sudden voice.

Oh, that was a tall oliveblood. 

They didn’t know greens got that gangly - well, gangly wasn’t the right word, this person was stouter and curvier than that. 

They had a nice voice, too, fairly deep and mellow, and their hair was…red, huh. Dyed, clearly, they could see the black roots, but red nonetheless. 

They also wore sunglasses, even though it was a cloudy night.

Well, whatever. Some people had things to hide, other trolls just liked the aesthetic, silly as it looked.

“Sea glass, seen any?” Crista saw no reason to lie; this person didn’t seem aggressive. 

Not yet, anyway. 

“Hmm, no, sorry.” They genuinely sounded a bit apologetic. “What do you need it for?”

“Uh.” They paused. “I want to make a sort of…miniature fountain thing…for a friend. I thought pieces of it would be good decoration, nice for lights to shine through.”

The midblood put a hand - with red claw polish - to their mouth as they laughed delightedly.

“Sweet thing to do! I’ll help you look if you do me a favor; you haven’t seen any trolls with jade pins around here, have you? Ones shaped like crowns?”

Crista shuddered. “Absolutely not, and if I had I’d scarper. Don’t ever want to tangle with those…people.” The rust said, with the clear impression that they would have happily used a different and far more negative noun.

“Smart! Now this one’s stranger, but bear with me; how about mannequins? Any clothes mannequins in places they shouldn’t be?”

Crista startled. “Thought that was just some urban legend rubbish. You’re telling me it’s true?”

“Not sure yet.” The tall troll said casually. “So you haven’t?”

“I’ve seen one from a distance in the woods one time…I thought it was just a prank.” They admitted.

“Maybe so.” Replied the olive amicably. “Either way, thanks. So where do you want me to look?”

“Uh.” Crista was surprised the olive was holding up their end of the deal, and blinked a few times. 

“Er, over at the other end of the beach would be helpful, I haven’t looked down there yet. Um, thanks.” They added as they gestured with a pointer finger, somewhat awkward but sincere.

“It’s nothing.” Said the green, laughing again as they turned and walked the other way down the strip of sand. 

Crista realized the troll hadn’t given their name, but well, they hadn’t given theirs either. Not that the carefree midblood seemed too fussed either way.

They kept looking, but only found a few small pieces, and sighed. At least they’d picked up a half-dozen nice shells, too…they brushed the sand off their hands and stuck them into the cold sea for a few moments, then shook them off.

The olive came back with - with - heavens, how had they possibly found that much? Sea glass of multiple colors glimmered in their hands, easily over a dozen pieces of it. 

“Wh -“ Crista sputtered, honestly a little jealous, adjusting their glasses to make sure they were seeing correctly. “How? Are you psychic? What’s your secret?”

The midblood laughed again. “Nothing very dramatic, I promise.” 

They handed it over, the smooth pieces pouring out of their darker-skinned hands into Crista’s pale ones as the maroon blinked in disbelief. The wizard put them in their sylladex with the others, noting that the other troll hadn’t answered their question. 

Definitely a strange one…but they supposed they shouldn’t question someone who had helped them for the low price of answering two questions.

The olive nodded cheerfully, then turned and began to walk away. Crista watched them go…then called out.

“Wait, I…what IS your name?”

“Djimin.” Said the troll easily. 

“Thank you, Djimin.”

They tipped their head with a fond smile, and then walked away further, vanishing from the maroon’s sight.

Crista looked up at the moons, the pink one a mere sliver, the green one soft and gibbous. 

Moonlight on white hair. Moonlight on water. Moonlight streaming through glass, as if it were a current unto its own, particle and wave and liquid all at once.

They hoped their idea would be enough.

—

Keeping the water starry had stumped them for a hot minute, but what did any wizard worth their salt do? Cheat. 

In this case, enchant the water to draw a reflection from water on whatever part of the planet was currently experiencing nighttime.

Said water flowed from a pot Catill herself had made from the clay they’d found and shared with her, looping up and back down into it in an infinite spiral. 

When she’d given it to them, it had been the first time their face had warmed because of the yellowblood…

Ack! So sappy. Why did she do this to them? 

Well. That wasn’t exactly a mystery…she was everything a witch should be. Powerful. Ruthless. Imperious. 

Beautiful.

Kind to them. Even though she was so much stronger. 

Crista looked at their own rippling reflection in the water. Not bad. Not amazing, either. So-so, but it was amazing what a little confidence and some magical talent did for you…

Among ordinary trolls. For her, it would require more.

They swallowed a sip of ordinary water from a glass, then prepared to speak the final spell to complete the piece they had planned. It didn’t do to go dry-mouthed in the middle of an incantation.

Everything was laid out on the worn wooden table in front of them, the old brown thing a bit rotted and worn by the sweeps and salt air. But it still held, and would for a while longer.

They looked at the page they had written it on, at the sea glass carefully placed in the appropriate sections of a magical array. Their maroon eyes wandered over the shells they had gathered, and the crystallized mana they had borrowed - from Catill - to aid in this spell and make sure they wouldn’t pass out after casting it.

Crista had even cleansed themself with saltwater beforehand, and said a quiet prayer to the spirits they hoped were listening.

One night they’d hear them again. Right?

“O éiríonn uiscí agus fite fuaite le chéile, ag éirí mar ghloine go scarann ​​tú arís…”

Gaelige. Of all the languages they knew - though many only in bits and pieces - it felt right for this spell. These were the words of making.

Words through which magic flowed, pouring through reality to mingle with the mundane and elevate it to so much more.

As they spoke, the simple clay container unfolded into a miniature fountain. It became three-tiered, decorated with small leaping cats and perching parrots, the baked earth turning a rich golden yellow.

The sea glass all melded together and adhered to it in decorative engravings in its many shimmering blues and greens, delicately accenting the animals’ eyes, along with the tips of their fur and feathers. The shell covered the edges of the tiers, in soft pearlescent and striped-brown hues.

The water itself could turn to starry glass with a simple command, capturing the constellation that its water reflected at the time. Yet it could also be returned to the flow and become its native shape again.

If someone who so happened to be skilled with light shined their power through the liquid…

It would radiate like a galaxy.

Crista breathed heavily, sweating with effort despite their preparations. Oh…that had taken…

They sat down heavily on the old recliner again. They could stay awake, but only barely.

Perhaps Catill would have to wait a little longer, just a bit…but what a present they’d have for her.

Something made by - and at its best with - both their talents.

Magic was better when shared, after all.