#infinitesimal-grey

[kurokawaia]

❛ I'VE GOT YOU ❜

Uchiha Itachi X Fem!Reader

WC; 1.8k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW :: x fem reader, oral -> female recieving, reader is feeling a lil sad and itachi makes her feel better, ofc don't do this irl (if smo is feeling down the solution is sex, bc no it is not, this is purely fictional)

˚ ༘ * 𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯 :: (filled request) hii hope you’re well! can i request itachi x fem or gn reader comfort sex? i need him so bad rn it’s not even funny - ANON

m.list | naruto/boruto m.list | uchiha m.list

You get home to your apartment and you see your man in the kitchen, seems like he just came to see you because he was still donned in his Akatsuki cloak.

"Itachi," you whispered.

"It's late," his voice was soft, concern laced in his words, he must have realised that you had come home from work later than usual.

You didn't have a good day, not at all.

You sink into the couch, your body against the plushness of the cushions. You feel the couch shift as he sits beside you, his cloak discarded to only grey pants and a shirt underneath. For a moment, there was no speaking. He didn't push, didn't ask what was wrong. He just knew when to give you space.

You tried to steady your breathing, but when he sat down beside you, you let it go. Your shoulders shook and a choked sob escaped before you could stop it. Your cheeks streamed with tears as the weight of the day crashed on you all at once.

Itachi leaned in closer without a word. His hand reached out and lay against your back, reassuring in its touch. Warm fingers mapped slow, comforting circles across your back as he let you cry.

"You don't have to explain," he said softly-barely more than a whisper above silent. "I'm here."

His words snapped something in you, and then you knew you had turned into him, burying your face in his chest. His shirt felt cool against your skin, while his body was warm. You clung to him, your hands clutching the material of his shirt, as your sobs wet the cloth. He held you tightly, yet tenderly, never once drawing away.

"You're allowed to feel this," Itachi whispered some time later, his lips brushing against the top of your head. "You don't have to be strong all the time."

His arms wrapped more closely around you, his fingers threading softly through your hair. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart beating now to the same speeed as yours. He pressed his chin against the top of your head.

After a few minutes of this, your sobs finally died down and left you with deep exhaustion. You just remained there, tucked against him, not wanting to move yet.

"Itachi." you whispered, your head rising just slightly so you could look up at him. His eyes met yours, deep, dark eyes that always seemed to understand you in ways no one else did.

His hand brushed against your cheek, wiping away one errant tear with the pad of his thumb. He leaves his hand there long enough that your breathing hitches a bit, a warmth starting to build in your chest. His fingers trace along your jawline-soft, unhurried.

You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes for a moment as one let the sensation wash over him. The light caress of his fingertips danced down your back; a soft shiver overspread you, and opening your eyes again, you found him watching you, his gaze steady yet deeper with something that quickened the beat of your heart.

His forehead finally came to rest against yours. His breathing grazed your lips, and your heart was racing with the thought of how much closer the distance between them was getting. His hand tracing around your cheek a moment before now made its way down to rest on your neck. His thumb lightly brushed over the sensitive pulse point of your neck. The simple touch sent shivers across your skin, and you swallowed hard while trying to steady your breathing.

"Itachi...", you whispered lowly.

His hand on your neck tightened infinitesimally, his other arm wrapping around your waist as he tugged you closer to him-you felt the firm warmth of his body through his shirt.

"Itachi," you said again, but with a lot more purpose this time as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you looked up at him, searching eyes for what came next. There was something magnetic in the way he looked at you; his silence a great deal more than any words.

He leaned in toward me, his lips barely touching mine-light as a whisper-but to his nerves, it was a raging fire. It seemed he waited, tested the waters gave one the chance to retreat if so wished-but I did not. That light teasing touch from his lips had sent a surge of heat through me, and before I knew it, I leaned the rest of the way in, closing the gap completely.

The kiss was slow, deliberate. His lips danced against yours, leaving you out of breath, his hand on your neck guiding you with ease. It was as if the world melted away and, in its place, there was only the two of you.

His heart rate showed in the clutch of fingers that closed on your waist, pulling you closer still until no space existed between bodies. A soft moan escaped your throat, his kiss deepening, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you with a languorous sensual intensity. You gasped against him, your hands shifting from his cloak onto his chest-hard muscle beneath his shirt. His lips left yours, trailing down your jawline, down toward your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "Itachi..." His name fell from your lips again this time more breathless, more needy as you leaned to the side, granting him further access. He required no further encouragement. His mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck, kissing and nibbling lightly, sending waves of pleasure across your body. His hands slid lower, coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking over the skin just beneath your shirt. The light touch was enough to set your senses alight, and you arched into him, your body responding to every one of his movements. "You're beautiful," he murmured against your skin, low and husky, the words sending a thrill through you. His lips moved back up to capture yours once more in a kiss that was hotter, more urgent this time. His body pressed against yours in a way that left no doubt about where this moment could lead. "Is this okay?" he asked softly, voice low a hum, eyes searching yours for confirmation. His thumb brushed over your lower lip. You nodded, breathless, lips swollen. "Yes, Itachi... And with that, his lips were back on yours again, and the world faded to black once more as you let go, completely, into his arms. "I'll take care of you, don't worry, you want me to, darling?" he asks.

"Please," you whimper as his teeth graze your neck before he strips the clothes off of your body. 

And now, your legs over his shoulders and your head thrown back against the plushy pillow beneath your head on the couch. There was also a smaller pillow propped underneath your hips, Itachi said that it would make it more comfy for you and it did. He always worried about your pleasure and comfort.

"I-Tachi," you whimper out as his nose bumps against your clit.

"Are you okay?" he asks, worried about how much your voice was whimpering at the small amount of contact with your most sensitive area.

You squirm under the hold Itachi's hand on your thighs, back subtly arching into his face, wanting to indulge further in his touch.

"Yeah," you say breathlessly.

"You'll be alright, my love," Itachi reassures, placing soft and fluttery kisses on your stomach.

You shiver underneath the simple gestures, awaiting when he puts his tongue and fingers to use.

"'M know, Itachi," you replied, your fingers interlacing with his long black hair which was now free from his hairtie. 

Itachi descends once more to your most sensitive area, your soaked cunt. "Tell me if it's too much."

"You never hurt me, 'tachi," you said while a shaky breath leaves your mouth.

A whimper leaves your mouth when he places a kiss on your clit and your thighs clench around his head. You attempt to arch away from the overwhelming sensation but Itachi's grip keeps you in place.

"L-Love," you moan out.

"I know, darling," Itachi reassures. "It's okay, I'm here, tell me if it's too much."

Once more, Itachi's nose brushes up against your delicate clit, and your grip on his hair tightened. A satisfied sigh seeps through him into your folds as a mewl from your full lips.

"Are you okay?" he asks before licking a long stripe up your folds and you moan, your back arching and your cunt pressing further into his face which he relished in.

You whimpered before answering, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, "Yeah, 'm am, Itachi."

He loves you so intensely it hurts, and your response makes his heart sing. His tongue climbs up from your wet hole to your clit while you let out a moan. Your thighs tighten around his head as a result of his constriction, and as you grind down on his face, a moan echoes through your clit. Your lips were filled with chants of his name, and he relished every moment of it.

"Itachi, f-feels s' good," you moan, tears welling in your lash line, he was making you feel so good.

"You're okay?" Itachi asks.

When you feel a thick finger push past your closing walls, you furiously nod your head, your eyes expand, and you cry with delight. It felt so fantastic that you never want it to finish, even though you thought you would break because he was so huge.

His finger pressed up against that soft spot inside your walls. Itachi was slow with his pace as he curled his fingers every time he entered your cunt, along with sucking and licking at your puffy, sensitive clit.

"You're being so good, you're doing so well," Itachi moans against you, refusing to rut his hips into the mattress, this was your pleasure, not his own.

A moan arouses from you and your hips grind themselves onto his face. He let you for once have some sort of control over the situation, and he decided that if you came quicker he'll let you do it more often. "That's it," he praised.

His motions become more rapid and needy as you cry his name through broken letters, and the one hold he held on your leg tightens. Your stomach coil tightened, and your fingers wrapped around his locks to stop him from moving and make him sigh deeper into your folds.

The only thing the groans did was push you over the edge, and when he placed his tongue firmly against your clit, a quiet scream from your lips. Your stomach coil unwound, soaking his face completely.

He slowly removed his fingers from your drenched pussy, your cum spilling out from your puffy folds. Before rising his head, he places a kiss on your clit and your mewl softly in overstimulation.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks worried, kissing away the pleasure-caused tears streaming down your cheeks and the side of your face. "Do you feel better."

You were so tired just after that one orgasm and Itachi seemed to notice and he lifted you from the couch so that you were able to rest on him, snuggling up against him on the couch now. "Thank you, Itachi."

"Anything for you."

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

m.list | naruto/boruto m.list | uchiha m.list

[xreaderwrites]

Grey Areas

Summary: Cheating Death is so much harder when she claws her way out of the dirt.

Tags: scheming, complex feelings, pining, Teen is Billy Maximoff, to be continued

Words: 1k+ | AO3

A/N: a story is a-brewing but the story must marinate…gestate even

A hand bursts from the ground and you shove Billy between yourself and Agatha. He doesn’t protest, his eyes stuck  on the woman clawing her way out of the dirt as he yells about reanimation.

It’s worse. Instead of the spell going horribly wrong it’s gone horribly right, with the best Green Witch they could have possibly gotten. Death herself.

You swallow harshly and pull Teen back with you (and he is Teen now. No other name shall be uttered with Death so close). He’s in such a grey area that both sides can be made. He was never technically alive, not in the way the people Death take are, so him coming back doesn’t break any rules and yet it is his soul that is here on this plane, something she very much deals with. 

Both sides can be made but you are much weaker than she is. You won’t stand a chance.

Agatha screaming and clawing for Death sends your stomach plummeting. It’s good that they won’t be teaming up against you together, your chances of success in that situation are so infinitesimally small, but now you’re fighting on three fronts.

This isn’t the first time you’ve regretted Teen finding your work but this is the first time you’ve hated yourself for it. To have him die so young during his second chance of life…Wanda will never forgive you. In this life or the next.

Agatha storms off and it isn’t long before Rio skips after her.

Teen calling your name makes you realise how harshly you’re clinging to him.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly.

Your gaze stays firmly locked on the two witches ahead. Rio sends you a knowing smile mid-twirl. 

It makes you sick. Instead of bringing Wanda back, you’ll be protecting the boy she lost her mind trying to save.

“I’m fine,” you give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and, ignoring the looks the other three are giving you, you follow Rio up the Witches Road.

Jen and Alice start up behind you and what would’ve been a fun conversation about liking scary women is made easy to ignore with Teen beside you.

“Do you know her?” he asks cautiously. 

He knows how touchy you can be with your past. You have to push the guilt away to concentrate on the question. You’ve to be so careful with everything you say for so long one would think it would be easier by now.

“I know of her, yes,” you allow. “She’s extremely powerful. A good catch for the Road.”

“But?” Teen pushes.

“But…” how to put it, “Her connections to others can be weak, or at least slow to build. Not a quality you want when facing the trials.” Your eyes slide to Agatha, “But that isn’t exactly a new danger. We couldn’t trust Sharon to get us out of a bind, either.”

A frown creases Teen’s face.

“But she was so nice.”

You cast him a long look. Does he really not know she wasn’t a witch? It’s so hard to tell.

“She was incredibly weak, power-wise, and her knowledge was extremely limited. We couldn’t trust her to help us because she wouldn’t have been able to. It’s nothing against her.”

This seems to ease him as his body relaxes and his usual smile begins to poke through, dampened by seeing death so closely. 

It’s your turn to frown. You wish you had known him before the sigil. Then you’d be able to know how much of his naivety is real. He’s a sixteen year old witch and he broke his mother’s curse. That isn’t a small thing. He shouldn’t be this powerful and yet have so little knowledge of what the world is capable of.

You don’t even know what he’s looking for at the end of the Road.

Your frown deepens as you watch Rio shadow Agatha.

It’s no use telling Teen to keep his distance. He’s been glued to Agatha’s side and Rio seems intent on subtly doing the same. Not to mention being on the Road means distance from one another is deadly. This whole situation is frustrating to say the least. But what were you really expecting when traversing the Witches Road?

He gives you a look and you manage to nod your head without rolling your eyes. He scampers ahead to Agatha’s side.

Rio was a few step behind her but she allows a gap to grow as Teen passes her.

You sigh to yourself and catch up to Rio. Matching her pace, you allow the distance between you and Teen to grow before speaking. 

“Interested in a trade?” you ask her. 

Her sharp grin has the hair on your arms rising.

“Do you have anything interesting?”

No, that’s why you’re on the road. It’s too late to offer a life for a life and Wanda would never forgive you if you went to the lengths needed to bring her back whole. Lengths that have only ever been rumoured.

You ask the question anyway to get to the one you want to ask most.

“My life?”

“You know the rules.”

“Yes, but if something much more…powerful than myself attempted to bring her back, would you stop it?”

Her calculating gaze is more terrifying than her crazy grin.

“The Road gives you what you’re missing,” is her only response.

It’s not the straight answer you were hoping for but it’s also not a yes. Which means your plan isn’t completely fucked. 

“While I have you here,” you say before she flutters off back into Agatha’s orbit, “I would like to make it very clear that any delusions I had of revenge or…roadblocks regarding Agatha have been thoroughly discarded with your arrival.”

Rio flashes a smile that is pure threat. 

“Smart girl.”

It’s easy to ignore the effect she has on you when are currently so aware that the threat extends to Wanda too.

You also want to tell Death about Wanda not being a threat to Agatha but you can’t. It may be true now, but who knows what will happen to Teen between now and when you see her? Your best will mean nothing to the Road. Your life probably will too.

[ninibeingdelulu]

heyy can you write something about how would be the first kiss of Levi with one of his scout? i can’t really picture the scene. and can you write something about his first physical contact with her like their first time hugging in a detailed way cause i can’t really see him doing it, thank you so much

Physical contact with him ft. levi ackerman

a/n: im sorry it took so much time, hope you enjoy<3 i changed the story a little, but normally it’s the same.

How your relationship with Levi improves.

At first, Levi is strictly professional with you, treating you just like any other fresh scout recruit under his elite command. He's brusque, aloof and demands perfection in your training drills.

But you can't help being entranced by the captain's fluid, almost hypnotic skill in combat. The way he wields those dual blades is pure lethal elegance in motion.

You find yourself shamelessly staring more than once, only to be met with a withering glare from Levi's steel grey eyes.

Slowly though, he seems to begrudgingly respect your unwavering determination and rapid skill progression under his tutelage.

Levi's piercing gaze lingers fractionally whenever you execute a complicated maneuver flawlessly.

After one sparring bout where you finally managed to disarm him for a split second, the tiniest smirk played at the corner of Levi's lips amidst the sheen of sweat glistening on his chiseled features up close.

Your heart stopped at the brief spark of unmistakable approval flickering in those subdued eyes.

You realize in that crystalline moment of adrenaline just how intoxicatingly attractive Levi is to you.

Not just because of his impressive prowess, but his intensely focused determination and strength of will shining from the shadowed depths.

Before you can spiral further down that dangerous trail of thought, Levi's boot connects squarely with your chest, dropping you hard onto your back with a grunt. "Don't get cocky," is his only terse remark, though his gaze flicks away almost...shyly?

Things remain professionally tense between you two after that spark of mutual acknowledgment.

Until one day, you take a brutal hit while defending Levi's flank out in the field against a horde of Titans.

You're barely conscious, choking on your own blood after being flung against a tree trunk. Then Levi's steel cables are zipping overhead, and his boots slam into the earth directly before your fading vision.

You're vaguely aware of his familiar voice shouting for backup as he hoists you protectively against his broad chest, eyes darting with uncharacteristic panic now.

His trademark bravado has melted completely.

Due to your injuries, Levi spends painstaking days by your bedside while you recover in the infirmary wing.

All prior formalities have been abandoned - he won't leave your side, cradling your hand in his calloused fingers until your eyes finally flutter open.

The way his typically harsh gaze softens infinitesimally tells you everything you need to know - Levi doesn't fear losing subordinates, he fears losing you specifically.

Before either can overthink, he's tugging your face to his desperately and finally fitting your gasping mouths together like twin puzzle pieces.

His kiss is hard, needy and searing with all the unresolved passion Levi's spent weeks fighting internally. It buckles your knees anew as his warm breath mingles with your own in a ragged gasp.

But his iron grip around your waist keeps you anchored flush against the rock-solid planes of his body.

You're the only one privileged enough to peel back the hardened exterior and witness Levi's intensely guarded tenderness, though.

When it's just the two of you cuddled on his tiny cot, his mask slips away with each stroke of your fingers through his raven tresses, each heated caress and murmured reassurance exchanged reverently.

[adsosfraser]

Hello!! 👹👹👹

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss

enjoy catching fire divergence with our everlark babies <3 👹

"I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks." I find my own eyelashes nearly tangled up with his. I'm so caught up in tracing the curve of the light dazzling through the infinitesimal strands that I don't notice our noses are nearly touching until I feel the bridge of his press up against me. Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks into my eyes so suddenly I almost jolt out of my skin. But I hold firm in where I'm sat, curious to see him and feel him again this close. His eyes are as perfect and crisply clear as those late spring days, unburdened by the typical grey rain clouds that come with the occasional spring showers. He's about to say something when I push myself forward, greedy and impulsive in my pursuit. Our nest up in my room is cozy and snug, like our cave that shielded us from the outside world of impending death. I press my lips against his, reaching my hand to the nape of his neck for something to hold. I feel safe and warm, like Peeta is his own personal sun and his lips are spreading life into mine. When I feel that thing again, that want for more, I pull back, my cheeks burning with embarrassment at my selfish act. The sleep syrup has long passed through my system. My actions are from a mind not imbued with sedatives and the like. Peeta looks as if he's trying to contain his confusion, joy, and dismay all at once. He licks his lips, flicking his gaze down to my own before staring back up at me. "You know, that's the first time we've ever kissed without cameras zeroed in on our every move." He's allowing me an out, a way to explain myself or brush the kiss off entirely with a quip. I squeeze his hand in mine, bringing it up to brush a kiss against it. I offer a small smile, uncertain still. ""Yeah." I agree. "Our whole relationship has been tainted by he Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change.""

this was such a quick turn around I'm so proud of myself like I really wrote this within minutes of getting the ask 🐿️

thanks for sending in the prompt @atelierlili 🩷

from this ask game

[inubaki]

Prideful Opposition

Fall from Grace

——-

@rainforestakiie’s written section. Helped me to develop fully develop the idea.

Adam felt undeniably diminutive, a mere wisp of his former self. He was far smaller than he had ever been in his Edenic days and, naturally, infinitesimally tiny compared to his celestial form. He barely grazed the shoulder of his angelic self—how utterly disheartening! His new form seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. Although he was uncertain of the full extent of his new body's powers, his present concern was more with its appearance.

His face was heart-shaped, softly feminine, with a nose that curved gracefully like a bird’s beak but lacked its sharpness. His lips were plump and tender, featuring a subtle, secretive dimple at one corner. His skin was the colour of delicate ash on fresh snow, milky-white and sprinkled with grey freckles that cascaded down his cheeks, neck, shoulders, and back. These freckles meandered down to the lush, pastel green and blue fluff that framed his thighs and extended to his dainty, delicate hooves. Though he lacked the long, arrow-like tail of Lucifer, his tail resembled a delicate spring of blue feathers, starting close to his backside and arching upward like a plume worthy of Hera.

His hips were rounded and plush, akin to the fanciful Barbies Adam had once seen the young Winners chatter about. His arms were slender and cushioned with tender flesh, his fingers long and delicate, tipped with the same blue and green hues as if bruised. His hair was a cascade of soft brown tufts, interspersed with genuine blue and green feathers that sprouted from the sides of his head, two of them curving like horns. Resting serenely between them was a sweet, sinuous snake, coiling gently and floating above his head like an ethereal halo.

Adam's cheeks were rounder than he had ever imagined, blushing with a faint pink tint. He winced, pinching his right cheek and hissing in surprise. It was far more sensitive than he remembered and disturbingly reminiscent of Lucifer! His wings were long and plush, cascading down his back and sweeping along the ground behind him. He inspected them with curiosity; they weren’t gold but a mesmerising gradient of green and blue, interwoven with hints of orange.

He wondered if he could lift them—and if they could lift him. With a determined squint and an arched back, he watched as his wings began to unfurl, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. They didn’t resemble typical wings but rather the majestic plumes of a peacock, stretching around him and fluttering softly. The eyes embedded in the feathers shimmered in gold, purple, and orange, framed by gentle greens and blues, echoing the feathers sprouting from his hair.

Adam's eyes widened in shock as he gazed at his reflection.

“What the fuck am I?” he exclaimed, his voice echoing with disbelief.

A soft gasp fluttered from behind him, drawing his attention. Adam turned slowly, his gaze squinting against the soft, shadowed light of the hotel room.

There, standing in the doorway, was Lucifer, eyes wide and mouth agape in astonishment. “You’re… beautiful,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of awe and admiration.

Adam's heart sank.

Fuck!

He’s even shorter than fucking Lucifer?! The pint-sized King of Hell?! How did this fucking happen?!

——

@adamsapple-angst-week-2025

[mattywrites]

It's so easy to give up, to give in to your worst impulses, just letting yourself rot. The decay sets in quicker than you realise. Our mindset grows gangrenous. Thoughts corrupt quicker than flesh does. There's those days, moments that linger like acrid smoke from someone's cheap, shitty cigarettes, where it feels like it's never going to end. A void appears in your mind. A blackhole, all our hope lies too close to the event horizon, and we get the pleasure of seeing it all slowly sucked inwards into nothingness, blinking out of existence entirely. Giving up feels like the only thing to do sometimes. The world we live in grim and endlessly oppressive. Some days it feels like hell is too nice a word, lacking the true articulation of what this place really is. The truth is, you can work through it, work past it, and find something beyond what you think is possible. Even when you've released your grip, no longer holding on for dear life, and you feel yourself ready to phase out of reality entirely. I can tell you there's hope even at this seemingly definitive point. We can manifest the darkest future possible, or, no matter the true effort it takes, we can manifest something better. It starts with some kernel of positivity, the last glowing ember of some tiny, infinitesimal thing of beauty from our past. We are such a disgustingly nostalgic species. Our past can be a haven. If it's what brings you into tomorrow, walking, no matter the total and utter dejection, if you can walk into tomorrow with breath your in lungs, it is a victory. Carry that ember within you. Foster the warmth it provides no matter the cast of the day or the overbearing density of grey clouds. You have it within you to march on, with purpose, with hope. Do not despair or cower before mortality or the prospect of tomorrow. Find inspiration in the sheer possibility of anything at all.

[dancingontheblades]

We are together all the time, but I miss being together. Two weeks into their new life as athletes and partners, Yuuri and Viktor are confronted with the unrelenting truth that some things need to change lest they spiral out of control...

Yawning, Yuuri forced himself to focus as Viktor glided through the rink, spinning, jumping, and twizzling with the grace of an angel. Not beholding the beauty of Viktor’s skating felt like the greatest disrespect Yuuri could pay his partner and idol, but it was impossible to do so when Yuuri felt like he was sleepwalking.

I must focus, he reprimanded himself as he shivered in his grey hoodie that smelled wonderfully of summer meadows. He pinched the bridge of his nose. I can’t help Viktor if I’m inattentive.

The music stopped, then Viktor glided over to him.

“How was I?”

“Um, good,” Yuuri replied. When it came to Viktor, this was never a lie.

“Hum, I had the feeling that the jump combination was out of sync with the music and that it took me a split-second too long to jump the triple toe.”

“It can’t have been more off than that,” Yuuri said. “At least, I didn’t notice anything.”

“All right,” Viktor said. “Please watch out for it next time.”

Yuuri nodded, vowing to himself that he would focus.

“What about the flying camel? The butterfly entry still feels a bit too forceful.”

Yuuri had no memory of how Viktor had executed the entry. Had he done the spin at all? “The entry is much softer than it was last week,” he said. “But I will watch out for it as well.”

“Okay. I need to hit every note, Yuuri. Tell me even if anything is infinitesimally off.”

“I will,” Yuuri promised.

“Thank you, Yuuri.” Viktor kissed Yuuri’s hand and glided back to the middle of the rink. Yuuri restarted the song and tucked his hands back into the long sleeves of his hoodie.

Their brief interaction had done enough to keep Yuuri alert for the first half of the routine. That changed rapidly when Viktor exited the step sequence. Yuuri stifled a yawn. The glare that the lights created on the ice shot daggers through his eyeballs. The flying camel, he thought. Watch out for the flying camel!

Suddenly, Viktor was already spinning, one leg parallel to the ice. Yuuri could not remember how he had gotten there.

Focus! Viktor relies on you!

He blinked. The glare was even harder to bear. Yuuri closed his eyes, huddling inside his hoodie, which finally felt cosy, and blinked them open again. If I close my eyes for only one second when the music pauses… Yuuri rested his chin on his arms on the barrier. Watching is so exhausting. One second is all the rest I need. After all, he will only return next season.

“Yuuri.”

Hands shook him gently.

“Yuuri!”

*~*~*~*

Read Chapter 9 of From St. Petersburg with Love here! - Yes, you've got that right! My YOI post-canon fanfic just got a new title!

Cover illustration done by cosmiclion

Finding a fitting title has never been as much a pain in the ass as with this story! It's been 3.5 years since I wrote it and I've already changed it twice since I started posting, which sets a new precedent. This one finally feels write (we will see about that in a couple of months).

I want to thank my cat and my beta for giving me their second opinion on this matter! <3

[rockingrobin69]

ruffians, and so on

“Oh,” Harry said, again, and then, “oh. It’s a—”

Tiny, fluffy thing in Malfoy’s arms. It hissed when Harry came closer to inspect, and Malfoy grinned like it was the cleverest creature in the world. He muttered a sorry that he evidently didn’t mean, stuffing his smiling face into the fluffy bundle.

“She’s quite possessive,” his voice came out muffled. Harry didn’t growl, but it was a near thing.

“Yeah? Well,” swallowing the silly rant about being possessive and teach it a thing or two, about how Malfoy was his first and only then this little—little—kitten’s. “She’s a cat,” he spat eventually.

“Very astute,” Malfoy laughed, that crackly sound that still made Harry’s chest go all, all, fizzy and warm like bad lemonade. “I can see why you never became an Auror after all.”

“Hmm?” already lost his concentration. The white little thing was climbing up Malfoy’s chest, wrapping itself around his neck and Harry, er, wanted, erm, far better control than what he currently—that was his spot, and she had to go. “She has to go,” he said, stupidly.

“What?”

Harry blinked. “I mean,” but he had no idea what he meant. “Shouldn’t you take her to a, dunno, vet or something?”

“Darling,” still laughing, but he sent a hand out for Harry to grab, only a little hysterically. “Come here.”

As if he were pulled by a spell, a string, already breathless and taking in tiny little pants of Malfoy’s appley scent. Malfoy brought Harry’s hand to his lips, gave it a kiss. Then, with a mischievous eyebrow, lowered it to the lump of fur clinging to him.

“See? She’s entirely sweet,” as Harry’s hand trembled, still too scared to—“Go on. It’s fine.”

With only half a growl, Harry nodded, closed his eyes. The little kitten was… soft, and strangely warm. Like this, Malfoy was very close too, and Harry could put his head on his shoulder and—oh, there she was again. Nose to nose, she really was quite… sweet.

“Hello,” Harry whispered. The kitten gave him a green-eyed stare.

“What do you think we should call her?” Malfoy’s voice was so gentle.

“I—I don’t know.” Felt like a big responsibility, and also too soft, and Harry pulled himself back up and tried for a step back, only to be taken by the hips. One of Malfoy’s hands found the back of his head.

His eyes were grey as always, and just as fond. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know you’re not exactly mister creativity here. As far as I can recall, you never even named your broom.”

“Didn’t know you were meant to,” Harry grumbled. “Besides, I don’t think Icarus was such a good name.”

“I was being ironic,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, pouted a bit in the way that always made Harry kiss him.

“Well, you’re not naming the cat.” Sticking his tongue out, only a little melted.

“Because I’m sure you’ll find something very original.”

“Hey, Hedwig was a good name!”

“I was referring,” Malfoy tilted his head the tiniest bit closer, “to a certain teenage organisation you led. Never mind. If you want to name the cat, I’ll entrust this very important mission to you. Provided I receive my fair payment.”

Grinning, helpless, “Yeah? What’s that, exactly?”

“I believe a kiss is in order?”

Oh, Harry’s been dying for one for far too long to object. Leaning in that infinitesimal amount of space separating them, taking that deep, sweet breath, his lips already touching Malfoy’s when—

“OW!” Malfoy tore back, eyes huge and incredulous. “What in Merlin’s fuck, little cat? Why the claws?”

His frustration allowed Harry’s belly to calm, allowed him to actually laugh. “You said it yourself,” with a cheeky pinch of Malfoy’s nose. “She’s a possessive little bugger.”

“Very poor form,” Malfoy wasn’t paying attention to him, eyes only for the kitten now, and his voice infuriatingly gentling. Harry, with a huff, found himself still smiling.

“I guess I can understand. I wouldn’t let anyone else kiss you if I were hanging on your neck.”

“Yes, my point exactly. I’d expect such crass behaviour from him, but we are Malfoys, young lady! I’d appreciate it if you showed proper decorum to the high standard expected of you.” With a blink, looking at the ball of fluff currently yawning in his hands, “Or—well, or not. I suppose you can do as you wish, damn you.” Looking up at Harry: “Potter, I think I might spoil our cat rotten.”

Harry wasn’t jealous. “Yeah,” he managed, stiffly, “yeah, I reckon you will.”

“Don’t give me that look. As though I don’t have every intention of spoiling you rotten too.”

“Oh,” Harry said. His mouth was twitching.

“Oh,” Malfoy mocked, “oh, he says, like I hadn’t made it perfectly clear. Truly, I am surrounded by a troop of ridiculous ruffians and—yes, you included, little cat. Don’t think I forgot. And just because you have the most adorable little beans does not mean—what’s the point. It absolutely does mean it.” Turning back to Harry, “Well? Are you coming?”

“Hmm? Coming where?”

“To get dinner? Harry? You did hear me, right? You weren’t just staring at the cat the whole time.”

Flushing, “Of course not.”

“Right,” Malfoy’s eyebrow quirked.

“Right.”

The cat made a tiny sound, not a meow. It’ll get the hang of it soon.

(For flufftober day 28. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[gingersnaptaff]

💙 d/g/a bc im obsessed with them

Oh my GOD, Kit, I'm *incoherent screaming* about them constantly so here u go.

Arthur/Gwyn/Dylan - drunken kiss / tipsy

Uisge-beatha scorched my throat, inflamed my blood, and left an oddly satisfying tingling fire in its wake, that loosened both my tongue and my limbs. I stretched out on the large bed, my hands trailing over the silks and furs, feeling as liquid as quicksilver. The fire burned low in the grate, daubing tiny flecks of sunset across the tapestry clad walls.

I hummed, my eyes flickering shut. The uisge-beatha unwound the tension that knotted up the rod of my spine and the beam of my shoulders, and I sunk into the bed, revelling in the coolness of the sheets and the lingering perfume of my lovers.

And, if I cracked one bleary eye open, I'd see them seated in front of the fire, conversing.

Arthur, his shaggy dark hair now flecked with grey, sat in the chair nearest the fire. He wasn't old by any means - only thirty-five to my thirty-three and Dylan's… well, Dylan's infinitesimal lifespan - but the stress of kingship had turned him prematurely grey. Uthyr had never greyed, not even when he'd gone half-mad in the face of Arthur's loss, and I wondered if Arthur found himself mystified as to why. Why had his father not been dogged by the curse of ageing?

And why did he so suffer with it?

His crow's feet crinkled up as he smiled at something Dylan said. Leaning across so as to better hear him, Arthur's cheeks grew flushed from both heat and alcohol, matching the faded red of his tunic. He'd unfastened the laces at the neck, exposing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, and the scattering of dark fuzz on his upper chest, as well as the gleaming gold torc he always wore, even when his counsellors beseeched him not to. A garrulous grin softened the harsh lines of his jaw and cheekbones, while the fire's soft glow suffused his skin, casting his eyes to a captivating bloodstone.

I huffed a sigh and held up my left hand to examine my engagement ring. Yes, the bloodstone did match his gaze. My wedding ring winked above it, scratched with age, and I buffed it with my nightgown a little, my mind hazy.

Arthur laughed. “And then I told him - I told him I'd be honoured to sing an englyn if only he sang first! He fled!”

“The audacity!” Dylan boisterously replied, his blue eyes limpid. His sandy curls gleamed gold, so like his younger twin’s, although they were rather mussed from constantly dragging his fingers through them, and he scratched the stubble that peppered his chin as he patiently waited for Arthur to finish his recollections. The scars on his arms that were once salmon-pink tributaries in his youth had faded to a pale silver-white, while his lithe build had filled out a little from battle.

I leaned on my side to watch them. Their voices grew in intensity and pitch. Their hands sliced through the air in order to illustrate their points more effectively. Dylan howled with laughter when Arthur succeeded in slopping half his ale - never uisge-beatha with him, even though Gwalchmai had gifted it to him after he'd defeated the Saxons at Badon - over both his tunic and trews.

I couldn't help but laugh at his despairing groan: “They hate me.”

“I don't think it's the gods that hate you, but yourself. You need to stop drinking, husband,” I japed.

He shot me a dirty look which did little to quell that laughter bubbling in my chest. My amusement only deepened when Dylan burst into raucous giggles.

“You tŵpsyn!” He crowed joyously. “And you call yourself a king?”

Arthur pouted. Even now, when I am clad in shackles and not silk, I still can recall the slight downturn of his full lips and the dulling of the sheen in his eyes. “King of drink!” he yelled in fierce agreement, pumping a fist in the air.

The change in his demeanour made me laugh. Here was this normally composed and austere leader reverting to the all-too-eager commander's lad of his summer years.

Had his duty - his destiny! - changed him? Mellowed his brass brashness into an iron self-restraint that only drink and ditties could discard? Or had it always been there, swaddled beneath crimson silk and a youth’s gadfly-like impetuosity?

I did not know.

The gods would not make me privy to those matters anymore than Arthur would. We never discussed our lives before I’d been fostered by Manawydan, Rhiannon, Cigfa, and Pryderi, nor how he'd been treated by Emrys.

We had no need to.

Neither of us wished to retread such pain-filled events.

But - I couldn't dwell on that! I'd retch otherwise! And, gods! That fire-drink was strong! To this day, I can still taste it. When I dream, it ravages my tongue. Oh, Gwalch’s gift possessed a vehement kick, like a disgruntled horse’s.

Dylan too seemed to feel its effects. Odd, considering, although I supposed he was doing it to fit in. As if he wouldn't. As if he even entertained the idea that either Arthur or I would be bothered by such nigglesome things!

He shared our bed. He needn't have been petrified of our reactions to his godliness. Was it not his son, our Llacheu, who was Arthur's Etifedd, and the bearer of his own godly aura?

Oh, Dylan… Cariad. Fy nghalon.

I miss him.

His eyes watered with tears, just as mine are now. Hacking out a particularly nasty cough, he frantically gestured to the samian jug that sat on the table next to them. The firelight bounced off it, glazing it to ruby, as Arthur quickly poured him a cup of water.

“Drink,” he ordered, pressing it into our beloved’s hands.

Dylan gulped it down just rapidly as Arthur had poured it. An eminently satisfied sigh followed and he smacked his lips together. “Tell me then,” he said, a hand propped beneath his chin, “about how you bested Melwas. I love that.”

“You do, do you?” Arthur’s voice was honeyed. He took a rather dainty sip of his ale and nodded sagaciously when Dylan hummed in assent. “Alright then.”

“Tylwyth Teg are never benevolent unless it suits them and he's no different. He was a scourge in Yrechwydd with everything that went on with Morfudd, and he's all the more so now. He had the gall to try and pluck Amr from my arms!”

Stiffening in his seat, Dylan's eyes widened.

I sat upright, almost tumbling off the bed. “He what?!” Uisge-beatha sloshed over the side of my cup, coating my hand in it. The sour inferno of it made me grimace.

Arthur nodded, his lips thin. I suspected from the look on his face that it had been his idea to take his newly-born bastard son into the woods in the first place. Indeg would not have counseled him so, not when she lay in bed recovering, her body pushed past its breaking point. Blood and roses had perfumed her chambers, a thick, nauseous cloud when I had attended to her alongside the midwife.

It had not been the easiest of births. How Amr had survived I did not know, but I thanked Modron he had.

“But you recovered him,” Dylan pointed out.

Arthur's face crumpled in self-loathing. “I vexed him,” he countered, his voice oddly devoid of emotion. “It isn't the same.”

“Still to do as you did was no small feat,” I said, staring directly at him.

A raw sob broke the silence. Hunched over, and with tears sparking in his eyes and down his cheeks, the fire highlighted his frailty. His hands shook as he wiped his eyes and gave a bitter laugh. “I tricked him with a babe made of leaves, Gwyn. He'll have grown wise to the ruse by now.”

“You don't know that for certain. It's Melwas. He's far more self-aggrandising than any man or… ysbridion I've yet to meet. He could even give Gwydion a run for his money.”

At that Arthur shook his head. Discomfort rolled off him in waves. Gone was the rashness of youth, that which had caused us all so much irritation and pain. Now he ruled over the domain of caution with startling alacrity, as if it were the borders of Cymru. It tempered his worst aspects and bolstered the air of reality that clung to him like the spicy fug of oud. “He’ll come back,” he murmured as he scratched his jaw. His coronation ring blazed on his finger, a bloody comet. “He always does.”

Dylan leaned over and squeezed his knee. “Cariad, you're being rather downhearted tonight. Do you need us to convince you otherwise?”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “No,” he took another gulp of his ale and then a deep, rattling breath. There was a moment of silence as he wiped his runny nose and then: “Cerridwen’s tits, I stink!”

Through my tears I saw Dylan bite his lip to keep from adding his laughs to mine. Mischief made the spindrift gold of his aura ripple with grey.

In that moment, he chose to tug Arthur towards him - forgetting that they were on separate seats - only for my husband to pitch forward and, with a startled yelp like that of a bitchhound’s, crash to the floor in a most inelegant heap.

“Dylan!” came his indignant squall. Ale now saturated the floor. The room reeked of it. “Y - You - You -” He broke off, wheezing with uncontrollable laughter, the fire limning him in bronze.

“Gwyn,” Dylan cackled loudly. “Arthur fell.”

I couldn't help it. I howled. Clutching my sides until they ached, I rocked back and forth on the bed, uncontainable bursts of hysterical laughter leaving my lips. “D - Did he? I didn't notice.”

Dylan’s grin became toothy as he leaned down to assist Arthur in standing - only for him to shakily yelp, “o - oh!” and slide off his seat and on top of my husband. Merry giggles drowned out the crackle of the fire, as well as the hooting of the owls outside, and it took all my effort not to join in.

One of us had to maintain decorum - what little remained.

“Gods,” I moaned, mock-indignantly, pinching the bridge of my nose, once I’d calmed. “You two… You smell like an entire bar just doused you.”

For a moment, they only glanced at each other, and I did not think they'd even heard my comment, until both men suddenly stirred from their astonished fugue and met my eye.

Utterly unbothered by all that had occurred - and quite content to remain sprawled atop Arthur - Dylan breezily commented, “Could be worse!”

“What could be worse than my dashing husband and my lovely wave god slumped across the floor like a duo of drunkards?”

“May I remind you, gwraig bach,” Arthur began as he pushed himself upright once Dylan had chambered off him, the positively awful indignity he'd suffered stirring him. “That I was not the one who drank so much braggod during Calan Mai that I tripped over my own feet and plummeted into the Afon Usk. I'd thought we'd have to trawl for you, you were so weighed down!”

“What a catch,” Dylan sniggered.

My mouth dropped open in the face of this rebuke. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I dared not look either of them in the eye.

“You're lucky I rescued you-”

“No,” Dylan’s voice was sharp. “I did! You were so blasted you couldn't even swim. You kept on stumbling over your boots! Bedwyr and Cai had to take you to your chambers cuz you kept sing-”

“Alright! Let's not contest things, annwyl. Besides, I would've saved you if I could, Gwyn.”

“If you hadn't been composing seventy-five new awdlau?” I shot back, feeling a little smug by the way his eyes bulged and his face slackened. “Cai told me you were. Why do you think I insisted on separate chambers? I'd only have ‘A lover, fire-hearted and blood-haired,’ in my head endlessly.”

“That was for you! Do you dare spurn my poetry?”

“I love it, Cariad. You know I do,” I soothed. “Does my lord need convincing?”

His expression was the same as Cafall’s after I had the temerity to deny him a treat. Big, brown eyes shone in the darkness and, I reflected, I did not know if Arthur was aping his hound or if his hound aped the master. Half the time I was convinced he loved that dog more than he did me.

“Ah, so you do then.”

He raised his chin in playful defiance. “Never.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Never?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Arthur…” I wheedled.

“Poor, poor Y Brenhines Mawr,” He consoled. “How can I redress the rest wrong done to you?”

Staring at him stonily, my eyes narrowed. “You can start by kissing me, Arthur ap Uthyr. Cruelty doesn't become you.”

“I didn't think we’d ever, ever affect our dear queen like this,” Arthur said with a monarch’s nonchalance, a cheeky glimmer in his eye.

“First time for everything,” I managed to heave out.

Dylan chuckled softly from the floor, watching as I took my final swig of uisge-beatha. Immediately this was a terrible decision for, once it hit the back of my throat, I gagged a little.

“Queen of Beauty, that's our Gwyn,” Arthur sarcastically said, laughing as Dylan slapped his shoulder before he stood up, crossed the room, and sat down on the bed.

“Are you alright?”

At once, I relaxed into him. His hands rubbed soothing circles on the small of my back as I heaved out noisy breaths. Scarcely able to speak, all I could do was nod frantically and hope that was enough.

“Silly,” he chided softly, his breath tepid on my cheek. “Gwalchmai’s instructions said sip, not glug.”

“Can we soothe you?”

“I - I thought I was supposed to be ascertaining whether you both needed tending!” I croaked.

Dylan chucked. “Kisses count as tending.”

“That old adage,” I sighed wistfully as I remembered the night of our first kiss. Uisge-beatha had scalded my fingers then too, although not as much as Dylan’s kisses, while he’d briefly become a conduit for Pryderi’s love poetry.

That had served as his confession and now…

I surged forward, my blood singing.

Our lips met in a sloppy frantic kiss. He tasted of fire, of salt, of something so irrevocably his that I could never name it. His hands teasingly traced my curves, etching out the soft curve of my spine, my shoulder, the gentle sweep of my clavicle.

I whined, nipping at his bottom lip, busing myself with grabbing his messy curls and tugging him forward so I could better touch him.

With a laugh he consented, melting into me. The sea embraced my senses. I embraced him.

My core pulsed. Fire scorched my veins. His tongue swiped against my lower lip. Saliva coated my chin.

The scars on his arms, those once salmon-coloured tributaries, had faded into silver, a leaden reminder of that abuse Gofannon had inflicted upon him. Reverently, I kissed them all.

He moaned softly. One of his hands cupped my breast and I couldn't help but be jolted by its coolness. His thumb brushed over my nipple and a choked moan left my lips.

“Look at you,” he murmured laughingly as he drew away, his breath ghosting over my lips. “You're always so beautiful.”

I huffed. My lips tingled madly. “Is this the way you treat all those who try to tend -”

He nodded. A shit-eating grin lit up his face. “You love me, Gwynnie.”

I bumped my forehead against his. “To my eternal dismay.”

He giggled softly. I could feel the hardness of him brush against me as he pushed me back into the mattress before he gestured for Arthur to stand.

“I think, after everything, our king deserves a little sweetness today. Would you've wallowed here but yourself, your majesty, if we hadn't heard your weeping?”

Arthur blinked up at him. Slowly, resignedly, he nodded.

“Poor, poor, y ddraig goch.” Dylan crooned. “Come here. Come, join us.”

Once he'd managed to push himself upright, Arthur stood in one swift, graceful movement, and diverted himself from his sodden tunic.

Wrinkling his nose at the yeasty stench that now imbued the fabric, he tossed it away into one of the room's darkened corners. The fire highlighted the scars that criss-crossed his shoulders, the sword slashes clawed across his pectorals, as well as the fuzzy dark hair that speckled his chest.

The raft of bandages around his midsection were, thankfully, spotlessly white. Morgan Tud had most ably patched him up after his run-in with Melwas. Thank the gods he had not bled out on our bedroom floor before the physician had come. The maids would not have taken kindly to that.

And neither would Emr-

No. I dared not think about him. He did not deserve to blight that night. Not after all he'd inflicted upon us. Even now - and were I not bound hither by shackles and cell - I'd break every bone in his meddling skeleton’s hands if I had the misfortune to lay eyes upon it.

Let him haunt Ochren!

Ah, Carter, I am sorry. My… emotions. They better me.

Arthur’s voice jolted me out of my examinations of him. “Like what you see?”

Dylan’s hands tightened around my waist as he nuzzled my neck. My hands flew to my burning cheeks. “I was just checking your wounds hadn't suppurated.”

“You should come closer,” he purred, beckoning me with a finger. “So you can assess me properly.”

My mouth dried. All thoughts evaporated from my head. Musk and linnet oil scented the too warm air and I could do little more than splutter out a half-hearted protest.

Far more elegantly than I thought it would ever be possible for an inebriated fellow to be, he strode towards me, never breaking eye contact. Those dark pools glimmered with a feral intensity, a covetousness that stole my breath.

Every nerve ending tingled. I swallowed, barely managing to choke out, “Arthur…”

“Hmm?” He reached down, tugging me to him. “You're awfully red, Gwyn.”

A shocked gasp left my lips, “You brute!”

“When you're done with him,” Dylan’s baritone was rich in my ears. My heart quickened in my chest. “You can tend to me again.”

“Oh? Why?”

“The room is spinning, Gwynnie.”

Unable to keep the inordinately fond smile off my face, I tried to chastise him thusly: “Well, that's your fault for being so rash with your drink,” but all that dribbled out of my mouth was a selection of half-mumbled syllables my tongue could barely control.

All the while, Arthur’s hands roamed over my back, my curves, my thighs. Greedy kisses followed, dropped to the hollow of my throat, my neck, the curve of my bare shoulder. His hands tugged at the hem of my gown so that it rose up. A palm branded my thigh.

Suddenly, I was intimately aware of myself. Of my body’s cravings. Arousal tanged the air.

Arthur’s hand went higher, brushing the sensitive skin of my core. I squealed at the unexpected contact, bucking my hips.

“Oh-”

His eyes were half-lidded. I would’ve mistaken them for drowsiness if his lips were not currently scorching a path down my throat. A mewl tore from my throat as I unintentionally ground down into the sheets in a futile effort to assuage the multitude of sensations that gripped me, but all that succeeded in doing was smearing arousal over them.

When he drew away Arthur shot me a lazy smirk before he bared his neck to me. I nibbled there, gently sucking his sensitive skin until a throaty moan left his lips, and full-body shudder rippled through him before my lips skittered over his throat and back up to his cheek just as Dylan leaned over and kissed him.

Arthur yielded easily. He always did to Dylan. Clinging to him with all of his might, his body trembled in the throes of ecstasy. Dylan puppeted him in a dominant dance, his blue eyes gleaming with unspoken delight at having our king melt beneath him.

I marvelled at the change.

He had been content to watch and wait his turn, but now, just as he had done with me, he bore his neck up to his lord, gladly letting him stake his claim.

Soft, sharp, sighs bounced off the walls. A thrill shot through me at seeing Arthur so undone, his skin littered with bite marks, his lips puffy and bruised from kisses. A dopey sigh left his lips, one that made him seem prophecy-headed.

Finally, I kissed him, far more softly than the kiss Dylan had bestowed upon him.

When I drew away I thought he'd cry.

“Thank you,” he gasped. Tears beaded on his lash line. Then he deeply cradled my head in his hands and kissed me again, slow and soft, setting every nerve ending alight.

Not to be left out, Dylan, pressed teasing kisses to the back of my neck, until a soft groan left my lips and I shuddered beneath their hands.

All too willingly, I let them take me apart.

[purplealmonds]

Unearthing more of the Karakasa's terrifying powers ☂️🌊💀

In this above scene, Kusu himself says that this withered corpse is a mononoke's doing. What are the implications of this?

Potential spoilers and plot predictions below the cut!

Based on the corpse's outfit and fingernail color, I am fairly sure that Mugiya, the short Yahei-coded senior maid, is gonna be the first real casualty of the Karakasa.

Or at the very least, someone who's very close to her will die, given the color coordination. But the identity of this corpse is not the point of this analysis!

The point is - this is a manifestation of the Karakasa's power. It is ritualistically fed things that are important to the ooku's women, until they are hollowed husks of their former selves:

But even after this, these women still one more "precious" thing they have yet to feed to the waters: their beauty and desirability. These are also the only aspects of the women that Tenshi values.

When the Karakasa was finished with its first unfortunate victim, all that was left of her was a withered corpse. Ugly. Undesirable. Stripped of these aspects, a women would be utterly useless in the eyes of the ooku.

If the Karakasa was birthed from the women's grudges, perhaps its actions is a form of retaliation against the ooku. These women are upset that they have to abandon vital parts of themselves for the sake of one man, Tenshi, who might notice them. Given the vast majority of them are lowly maids, the chances of that happening are infinitesimally low.

In the latest trailer, the ooku is hosting a big festival, one that even commoners are allowed to participate in.

If I were to hazard a guess, it is a ceremony in which Tenshi chooses a woman to bed with to conceive his heir.

The women in the grey ponchos are Tenshi's favored candidates. Save for Fuki, who's a commoner, they all likely came from aristocratic backgrounds. With Fuki in the midst, perhaps there was hope amongst the maids that a person of their lowly status had a chance to be noticed. Heck, even the newest maid, Asa is (very briefly) spotted wearing that poncho!

But then Fuki was chosen and that hope was irreparably shattered.

The catalyst, perhaps, is their collective realizations that all their sacrifices were all for nothing. They wallow in their despair while the masses celebrate.

But soon, that despair turns into rage. So the first casualties of the Karakasa's wrath are one of the enforcers of this pointless ritual:

Indeed, Awashima, Utayama's subordinate, is implied to be the Karakasa's next victim:

Next up on the hit list is Utayama, whose downfall being plotted by both human and now supernatural entities alike. Did you notice that despite her otherwise youthful appearance, her hands are almost as withered as the corpse's?

After these authority figures are deposed, what can the Karakasa do with this boiling anger? As the manifestation of these women's jealous grudges, it becomes greedy. It wants more.

It turns to the women, destroying the parts of themselves that Tenshi finds valuable - a twisted act of rebellion to "free" the women from the ooku's grasp.

Then, ever hungry for more, it turns to innocent bystanders. If the women of the ooku have to lose everything they hold dear, so does everybody else who idly let this happen.

In summary, in addition to manifesting as a terrifying force of nature, the Karakasa wishes to consume the life force - the thing that is universally precious - out of everyone.

[anteroom-of-death]

Yayo

Synopsis: Gideon Shepherd wastes a life or two over a girl.

A/N: thanks to @lex144 for inspiring me to not give up. Will be a 2 parter/prequel. Dark fic time. Sorry for no publishing of all .... burn out. Listen to the unreleased version of Lana del Rey while reading.

How many times must he repeat the same life, the same lie, over and over again? How many times could he go through the exact same suffering and the exact same thwarting of evils in this world?

Gideon, in his sixties, again, having a cup of tea in an inconspicuous tea shop, mused. He’d just stopped a plane crash he had stopped dozens, if not hundreds of times. He was losing count. Losing control.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he was locked back up, dressed in red with those detectives again. Bargaining with the girl, Lucy. Trying to make her understand her son and him. Each time it seemed a tad more futile.

He tied the bag’s string around his finger like he’d done with that red one in that room. Repetitive and simple as always. Perhaps even a nervous tic.

He’d always die, just before total lucidity. It was annoying. And it just added more into his already over-crammed skull. He felt bursting at the seams. Almost like he had multiple brains.

Preposterous!

He admitted that in this particular cycle he’d been a little more neglectful of his needs. More rash. Less calculated…It was getting worse each time. More world-saving. Less keeping himself intact to save it.

He had to change all of this. Maybe take a breather. He’d still stick to his schedule from thousand lives past. This time, it would be difficult, just infinitesimal.

He even had been to this little tea shop every single time. Exactly the same day, the same time. He had observed people casually. Not much to do with anything…

Everyone was safe by his calculations.

The slouched-over nervous girl was going to accidentally water board herself with her drink in a few seconds.

On cue, her little iced coffee spilled. She sighed, seemingly looked up, as if beckoning a favor from God. She grabbed a napkin and went to wipe herself and the ground up.

In an echo of so many times previously, “Nothing comes easy, does it?” She muttered and slouched into her knees. She started to scrub a particular big stain in the making on her floral skirt with her spit.

It was probably incoherent to anyone who didn’t hear it or know to hear it time and time again.

She eventually pulled herself off the ground, her hip cracked. The slit in the side rode up, accidentally flashing the grey panties she wore…

Suddenly he felt like focusing in on her.

Maybe next cycle he’d offer to help her.

For now he got up and offered her his napkin. A small smile spread on his face.

“I have a spare coat in my boot…you can cover it up, keep it.” He offered another shiny object.

He didn’t know what exactly started coming over him. It was carnal, primal. Effervescent even. She obviously suffered from some self-confidence issues. Despite her bold outfit choices. Her large earrings clanked against her necklaces. Skittish. Unsure.

It made him incredibly hard.

He hadn’t allowed himself any pleasure, just the continuous pursuit of justice. In his own way. The only way that was dramaturgically correct he felt. He had to be the one to make it happen. The cops were as much as complicit as sometimes perpetrators.

“Go to the toilets and freshen up, yeah?” He instructed her plainly. The pit of the toll of all his dark deeds starting fray him like the trim of her denim jacket that seemed slightly too small.

He forced himself out to the car and popped the boot. He grabbed the aforementioned coat.

He walked back into the shop just she exited the loo.

She sniffled and saw the coat. It was black, utilitarian. Nothing special.

“Thanks.” The smile was weak, she still was obviously reeling from her previous remark of nothing coming easy. However, it was genuine. She was thankful and seemed placated by the action.

“I’ll…get another coffee.” She remarked as she tied the thing around her waist.

He couldn’t help but notice it hung sensually around her hips. Accented the torso and her tits in a weird way. How would it be to bite them? Mar them with his teeth?

“Why don’t you join me?” He offered.

“I can’t.” She frowned, a line developing in her still somewhat-young forehead that didn’t go away when her face relaxed moments earlier. It was fully etched in.

How lovely was it that such a nervous wreck had somehow made it this far in life? To see such a line. Pity it was there in the first place.

Such a contradiction…

She got her new coffee.

He still felt incredibly urged to take her and hide her away. Stop her from herself and her own nervous nature.

The proverbial butterfly was stepped on, who knew what was in store now…

Next cycle, he remarked to himself as he got into his car and drove off. He had to complete this. Make the Lucy woman understand. Die, come back. Same shot, different day…

His cock still remained at attention. The depraved thoughts still rung in his thoughts.

×××××

Here he was, back at the tea shop. She was walking in. Here was his chance!

He’d fantasized about this chance for decades now. Ever since the first rush of teenage hormones rushed into his body. Again.

She walked in, her tote bag swinging.

Only one chance. He could blow it, hypothetically. But this opportunity was literally once in a lifetime. No matter how many he’d been allowed. (Or cursed with depending on current emotions and outlook…)

He knew the pitfalls of approaching a woman and making oneself known. It came off predatory. Not that he wasn’t predating her, in more than one sense of rationale, or definition. Was there any good, wholesome way to approach her and her grey panties? He’d killed enough rapists to merit knowing what they liked.

And yet, here he was entering his era of perversion.

He firmly believed he had to liberate her from herself. Somehow.

Never one for true romance, even in the first time he seemingly entered the cycle, he lingered unsure.

He got up and made a show of asking for extra napkins.

One word, one small line would disrupt this. She’d not spill her drink, and he’d garner an actual chance with her.

“Those are some lovely necklaces.” He tried for a bit off a soft entrance.

She touched the tangled mass of gold on her neck, “Oh! Thanks!” Her left hand went to fiddle with some of the pendants on a few of them. The free thumb rested on one of those comically-large hoops.

She placed her order and went down to fight for her life to find her pocketbook.

“No worries,” Gideon assured, “I’ve got it.” The fiver, easily produced from his jacket pocket.

“Oh?” She flashed a befuddled, nervous half-grin at him. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

She shook her head. “Thanks so much!”

He felt moved to go back to his seat. He didn’t know exactly what to do to go from here.

Something told him to just toss her in the boot and drive off. Or perhaps, to lure in promising safe travels to wherever she was headed.

The darkness rubbed off so easily.

The toll of a billion lifetimes.

He remembered some parable of a little bird and a rock. Something about a boy saying something about it being ‘One hell of a bird…’

He sucked on the options. They all weighed heavy on his heart and his conscience.

He ultimately chose the less devious of them all.

Just asking.

He saw her go to pick up her drink. Would she spill it? He half-wished to see. See of the actions interrupted the truth of time. Such a small gesture maybe would provide her a sense of calm? Could it? Would it?

He started to rise yet again from his seat, and she spilled it anyways.

A flash of grey panties, a mutter again about nothing being easy for her, her spine twisting into a serpentine knot. Her lovely skirt and top stained.

He offered her a clutch of napkins. Then repeated last life’s offers.

“Are you my guardian angel? Or something?” She asked. “First paying for my latte, now this?”

Fate must have been sick to give her him if she thought he was an angel. Even in a semi-facetious manner. Sure, he was on the side of angels, in a sense. However he was far from celestial. Mortal, frequently.

He went out, produce the jacket. Came back. She tied it.

He offered to pay for her replacement- “On caveat you join me, an old man for a bit of a chat on a slow day.” He went for the genteel route.

She involuntarily shook herself, her eyes blinking rapidly.

She looked at her phone’s clock.

“Sure. Why not? Only five minutes, yeah?”

She sat at his table and they chatted. Her name was (y/n), she was (insert your age, reader) and she was between jobs. The drink went much easier down now that she was sat. Gravity and natural klutziness weren’t fighting her here.

The way she placed her elbows on the table further accentuated her heaving chest. Despite her current state, she seemed to breathe a little harder than Gideon suspected someone should.

Maybe her baseline anxiety messed around with her rhythms.

Gideon gave her the most basic and innocent of responses. Just enough information to tantalize. Keep it light, keep it friendly, he chided himself over and over again…

She glanced over at her phone and saw the time…she excused herself and left. Thanking him for everything.

She even brushed both of his cheeks with a small, friendly, definitely foreign kiss on each.

The door bashed her on her way out and she tripped on her way over the bus stop across the street. She put in her headphones and leaned against the pole marking it.

He felt them burn in response. His cock stayed as hard as rosewood.

He regretted not getting her number.

Or he could follow her discreetly. Put in what he learned from men worse than him by a thousand-fold into practice. Keep her somewhere safe, where she couldn’t be harmed by anyone, let alone herself.

Yes, that would be fine. He would just be looking after her best interests? Correct?

Correct.

He waited a moment and trailed his way to his car.

The bus pulled up, she went in. He turned his car on. A simple game of cat and mouse. If the cat were ever so interested in the mouse’s uninterrupted survival…

Or perhaps, did he not want her to meet a darker end at anyone else’s hand but his? His thoughts kept delving deeper. Were these dark, frankly barbarous images his fantasies regarding this (Y/N)? Or just fears?

He did notice from their brief conversation that she did have some scar tissue around her wrists. So even if he did very into these mental images, it would probably be for her betterment. They were obviously self-inflicted.

He felt himself grow more and more irrational. There was something burning in his chest. An itch that maybe he’d scratch just this life. Then the next, go about, offer her the basic kindness of the jacket and go.

If he was doomed to repeat every sinful day of every sinful life, what was one slip up? He’d done so well before.

He was trying so hard.

Yes, why not?

[miladydewintcr]

Alright, my inbox seems to have eaten this ask, and I can't remember for the life of me who sent it. I'm so sorry, if you recognise the prompt, please let me know? And I'll happily edit this post to tag you in it!

But for @thedasweekend

"If you die, I'll kill you." for Sigrun/Velanna

Some angsty hurt/comfort, set during Veilguard.

Rating: T Ship: Sigrun/Velanna Word-count: 613

This was it. The greatest battle of their lives. Sigrun had fought so many battles, now, that felt as though they should be the biggest. She’d think to herself, well, it can’t possibly be any worse than this one.

There was a double blight. Denerim was on fire. It couldn’t possibly be any worse than this one, surely.

The Queen was giving some great speech, and Sigrun was sure it was very inspiring. But her attention was focused on the woman beside her, watching her out of the corner of her eye as she wrapped one arm around herself and held her staff so tightly it shook.

“Hey,” she whispered, looking up at her, shooting her a small smile. “What do you have to be nervous about?”

Velanna eyed her sceptically. “The darkspawn?” she said bluntly. “The double blight? The reports from the north of two awakened archdemons, led by two of my peoples’ gods?”

“Is that all?”

She rolled her eyes, bumping her hip against Sigrun’s shoulder. “I suppose,” she said dryly, “when you put it like that.”

Still, she was nervous, and Sigrun knew that nothing she could say would be enough to ease her suffering completely. She had every right to be nervous, and it broke her heart. “You haven’t died yet, remember,” she tried. “Plenty of things have tried it with you, and you have a flawless track record, so far, with surviving.”

“It only takes one thing to break that.”

“But who says that one thing will be today?” Sigrun reached out to wrap her hands around Velanna’s, stilling the trembling of her staff. “These darkspawn haven’t seen you in a fight. I have. They don’t know what’s coming for them.”

Velanna’s lips lifted slightly. In anyone else, it wouldn’t mean much; but in Velanna, Sigrun knew this for the victory it was. “You are so capable,” she continued. “You’re the most powerful mage I know.” A scoff, at this. “And you’re smart, sharp as a whip. You could run circles around every one of those darkspawn, I’m sure of it.”

“The darkspawn are hardly known for their intellect.”

“Love, I am trying to compliment you.”

“I know.” That tiny smile returned. “It’s working. I’m feeling better.”

“Good. Because I hadn’t even gotten yet to how stunning you are. On the battlefield- whew!” She pulled one hand from Velanna’s to fan herself, and beamed up at her as that tiny smile grew an infinitesimal amount.

“I am sure the darkspawn will appreciate my good looks as I tear them to shreds.”

“Don’t say such a sexy thing right before we head into battle, I beg,” Sigrun teased. “How can you expect me to concentrate now?”

“It’s your fault for complimenting me. You’ve inflated my ego.” She was making jokes, which was a tremendously good sign. It meant Sigrun was succeeding.

She kept her hands on hers, wrapped around her staff, as she turned to watch the last refrain of Queen Anora’s rousing speech. When the crowd of Grey Wardens around them cheered, she cheered, too. And as they rushed towards the city gates, she turned towards Velanna again. A stolen moment, in the wake of the greatest battle of their lives.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” she said seriously, quickly, in the rush of it all. “If you die, I’ll kill you.”

Velanna laughed, the sound something bright and joyous amongst the screaming agony, the clattering of metal that had already begun to ring out nearby. “Together?” she said, removing Sigrun’s hand from around her staff, intertwining their fingers.

Sigrun reached for her dagger with her free hand, looked up at her, and nodded. “To the end.”

[inubaki]

Collar (Prideful Au)

Adam felt undeniably diminutive, a mere wisp of his former self. He was far smaller than he had ever been in his Edenic days and, naturally, infinitesimally tiny compared to his celestial form. He barely grazed the shoulder of his angelic self—how utterly disheartening! His new form seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. Although he was uncertain of the full extent of his new body's powers, his present concern was more with its appearance.

His face was heart-shaped, softly feminine, with a nose that curved gracefully like a bird’s beak but lacked its sharpness. His lips were plump and tender, featuring a subtle, secretive dimple at one corner. His skin was the colour of delicate ash on fresh snow, milky-white and sprinkled with grey freckles that cascaded down his cheeks, neck, shoulders, and back. These freckles meandered down to the lush, pastel green and blue fluff that framed his thighs and extended to his dainty, delicate hooves. Though he lacked the long, arrow-like tail of Lucifer, his tail resembled a delicate spring of blue feathers, starting close to his backside and arching upward like a plume worthy of Hera.

His hips were rounded and plush, akin to the fanciful Barbies Adam had once seen the young Winners chatter about. His arms were slender and cushioned with tender flesh, his fingers long and delicate, tipped with the same blue and green hues as if bruised. His hair was a cascade of soft brown tufts, interspersed with genuine blue and green feathers that sprouted from the sides of his head, two of them curving like horns. Resting serenely between them was a sweet, sinuous snake, coiling gently and floating above his head like an ethereal halo.

Adam's cheeks were rounder than he had ever imagined, blushing with a faint pink tint. He winced, pinching his right cheek and hissing in surprise. It was far more sensitive than he remembered and disturbingly reminiscent of Lucifer! His wings were long and plush, cascading down his back and sweeping along the ground behind him. He inspected them with curiosity; they weren’t gold but a mesmerising gradient of green and blue, interwoven with hints of orange.

He wondered if he could lift them—and if they could lift him. With a determined squint and an arched back, he watched as his wings began to unfurl, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. They didn’t resemble typical wings but rather the majestic plumes of a peacock, stretching around him and fluttering softly. The eyes embedded in the feathers shimmered in gold, purple, and orange, framed by gentle greens and blues, echoing the feathers sprouting from his hair.

Adam's eyes widened in shock as he gazed at his reflection.

“What the fuck am I?” he exclaimed, his voice echoing with disbelief.

A soft gasp fluttered from behind him, drawing his attention. Adam turned slowly, his gaze squinting against the soft, shadowed light of the hotel room.

There, standing in the doorway, was Lucifer, eyes wide and mouth agape in astonishment. “You’re… beautiful,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of awe and admiration.

Adam's heart sank.

Fuck!

He’s even shorter than fucking Lucifer?! The pint-sized King of Hell?! How did this fucking happen?!

———

The concept idea was what if Adam’s sinner punishment was to look like Lucifer.

The face of everything he thought as evil and through him excused his own horrid deeds. All that he took pride in and suffered through vanity is stripped away. Leaving a shorter, more ‘ delicate’, even feminine version of himself. He retains his wings but they barely hold the strength to lift himself. His halo becomes a snake, one he later names after constantly trying to chase off. (Though being separated, gives him migraines.). Adam keeps those hips though! Cause damn boy!

-this is mainly a repost of an older post from a older account of mine. This section is written by @rainforestakiie

@cakerybakery also took this concept and evolved it to something beyond all expectation! From the Dust Anew gives me life.

Hopefully, life would settle enough for me to make something good next time.

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #26 manipulation

Chapters 1+2 here on AO3

+++++

White Pony Tattoo - Part Six (manipulation)

Sherlock fetched a tissue paper and wiped the spilt tea off the coffee table. Since it was low, Sherlock had to bend down a lot and John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s inked chest under the tight grey dress-shirt.

Is he doing this intentionally or was that just coincidence? John wondered.

The black lines were going down far and also covered Sherlock’s pectorals. John really would have liked to see more, trying to figure out what kind of tattoo it was but the moment passed quickly and Sherlock had already sat down in the chair opposite John’s.

Smiling nicely, Sherlock quipped. “Nearly choked, have you? Just like I said, I’m dangerously attractive.”

John huffed. “You’re also dangerously seductive and not even subtle about it, you know?”

“Thanks, I know I’m hot. People tell me all the time.”

“You’re not humble either.”

“Why should I when I know it’s true and I’m right?” Sherlock raised a questioning eye brow.

John huffed again. Counting on his fingers, he summed up. “Okay, so you don’t deal in apologies or intuition. You don’t do humbleness or boring designs and you’re convinced that your opinion is the only valid one. Anything else I should know?”

John looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes. Something electric sparked in the space between them when Sherlock stared right back into John’s.

“I’m not shagging clients until their tattoo is healed and our business relationship has come to an end.”

John coughed, then shook his head in exasperation. “You are a menace.”

“Nothing new,” Sherlock grinned, “also, you like it.”

“Yeah, apparently, I do.” John broke eye contact and felt the loss of Sherlock’s attention immedeately like tiny stabs to his heart. Suddenly, doubt filled the wounds like toxic glue.

Is he actually interested in me or is this flirting just a game? Am I only another conquest on his list of successfully seduced people, manipulating me to behave like a star-struck idiot and laughing about it? Is he a cat toying with the mouse? I’m not someone’s mouse. Not to Mary or him or anybody else ever again.

“What about you?” John’s voice came out harsh and accusatory. “Seducing and shagging a lot of ex-clients then? Lots of one-night stands, boxes to tick on the list?”

“No. Not at all.”

There was an infinitesimal twitch of Sherlock’s mouth. He tilted his head, furrrowed his brows and quizzically watched the expression on John’s face. “Tell me, John, what did your ex-wife do to make you so suspicious?”

John snorted. “She let me think she loved me back. But she only wanted to keep me as a back-up in case her affair didn’t work out. She had moved on but lied to me for months about it.”

“Who was it? The postman or the milkman?”

“Neither.” Despite John’s gloomy mood, he had to chuckle at this ridiculous assumption.

“Yoga teacher, tax accountant, bed shop assistant?”

“Are you trying to cheer me up?”

“Yes, and considering the wonky smile on your face it’s already working.”

“It was our dentist.”

Sherlock spluttered. “Well, that’s truely embarrassing.”

They looked at each other and the toxic waste in John’s heart fully drained when he chimed into Sherlock’s infectious laughter.

++++++

tagging some people @totallysilvergirl @peageetibbs @lisbeth-kk  @raina-at @calaisreno

[mattywrites]

I'm all pent up. The catharsis of the weights only extends so far. Some days you just see fucking red. This weather isn't helping, there's a distinct gloom being cast over the landscape, the sky's grey, the mood's grey, like the gentle falling ash from some distant nuclear event. Maybe some of the frustration is sexual, in which case, the only remedy is to bury your fingers into the thicket of someone's soft hair as you're pressed up against them in some agonised, martial embrace. Two human beings exchanged in the combat of lust and false procreation. I am trying to be good, to be a better man, but my well of testosterone is extreme, and sometimes our vision is focused to a pinpoint. You want to hunt and bag your limit. Human meat. Notches on a bedframe. Funny, I have a base but no bedframe, guess I'm one of those minimalists (at heart) that they make shitty but relatable memes about. What a fucking cliché. This still doesn't change the need for human companionship—beyond just the bare minimum of intimacy fucking entails (that autocorrected to entrails)—but to have someone next to you in the dead of the night. They're warm, they're human, and despite everything—despite the fact that you are unabashedly, unashamedly male—they care. They run their soft, callous-free fingers up and down your arm, like spiders made of pure silk, and you feel for the briefest stretch of time like maybe you're worth something after all. All that rage and violence inherent to you is nothing in comparison to the feel of someone's fingers on you, fingers that caress, rather than simply touch. You can always tell when someone truly cares about you simply by the manner in which they trace their fingertips along your bare skin. Call it wishful thinking—some may label it as manifestation—but just the thought of that goes some infinitesimally small way to soothing the beast. May hands that press into my flesh and hold me tight be the hands of someone earnest in their intentions and noble in their love. I shall dream of this and perhaps in those dreams I shall be free from the bloody chains implicit—inherent—to all of us that carry a weight.

[ariadne-mouse]

The Anachronist please! 😯

Hi there! :)

The Anachronist is an oldie but a goodie, a WIP that I started in 2021 and wrote a tidy 13k centered on that oh-so captivating feature of Aeor: stasis bubbles. However my momentum fizzled out as I got pulled into other projects. I'm including it in this meme because my motivation to finish it has been given a boost by the current Aeor arc! Nothing like seeing the source concept again to get the wheels turning.

Here's an excerpt under the cut:

“Hello, my friend,” Essek greeted quietly as he approached, smiling at the familiar joke. “How is your day?”

Inside the sphere, the Aeorian mage did not reply.  He never did, of course, but once Essek had begun talking to him many months ago, he’d found it difficult to stop.

“I almost made it past the temple yesterday,” Essek reported, floating cross-legged above the cracked stones of the street, leaning his cheek tiredly on his hand. “I’ve been hoping to find another arcane canon to protect the outpost.  But those ice basilisks are very frustrating.  And there are three of them now, and I am low on healing potions.  As a calculated risk, it did not… what is the Common phrase?  Pen out.”

He paused, imagining what the mage might answer.  It was a harmless game, if an undignified one.  It didn't matter: no one was here to see it.  No one was here to see Shadowhand Essek Thelyss, secret traitor to the Dynasty, having a pretend conversation with a relic preserved in arcane amber.

“Yes, I thought it best to stay back, as well.  But now that I am here, I don’t suppose you will finally tell me where you are running off to, or what you are casting?” 

Silence.

Essek sighed. “I thought not.  You do enjoy your mysteries.”

Idly, Essek mimicked the somatic shape of the wizard’s hands, as he had many times before.  What could this gesture correspond to?  What shapes and movements came before or after?  The wizard’s mouth was slightly open - the beginning of a verbal component?  What was he saying?

His current guess was still something in the realm of transmutation, but he didn’t know what.  There was too little information, and Essek was not a transmutation specialist.  

Stirred to movement by his thoughts, Essek got up and took a slow turn around the dome.  He trailed his hand across its glassy surface and left iridescent swirls of energy in his wake, like eddies in a stream. Looking down, he noted once again the stark transition between the dark grey ruin outside the dome and the smooth, painted street within it.  On the inside there were even some small flowers peeking through gaps in the stone, their leaves an exotic green, their white and yellow button faces a cheerful, childish imitation of the sun that would have been overhead.  

Essek hypothesized that the reason the spheres in this sector glowed so brightly was due to Aeorian sunlight captured within - its energy reflecting off the street, the people, any objects or plants - and trapped in that infinitesimal instant, forever.  They reminded Essek of decorative trinkets that were popular in the Dynasty: daylight flowers preserved in a blob of resin or glass. Ranging from the size of a plum to a melon depending on the wealth of the owner, they were illuminated from within by an enchantment, a symbol of the Luxon giving life to the earth.

This frozen Aeorian mage was like Essek’s very own preserved flower.  Not for religious vanity, but a symbol of learning, and innovation, and the collaboration that must have been flourishing in a city run by magic users.   A symbol of a world Essek would never be able to have.

Not the warmongering - there was plenty about Aeor he would not want to replicate - but a society of thinkers and creators and experimenters, unshackled from austerity and tradition?  To sit across from this man and talk openly of sacrilege?  Of progress?

“Well, I suppose sacrilege didn’t work out so well for you either, considering what happened here,” Essek concedes aloud. “But I can imagine your heyday, no?  The few books I have recovered speak of so much learning, so many projects - you can’t blame me for being wishful.  The last collaboration I tried… did not go so well for me, as you know.”  He bared his teeth in a bitter laugh.

The Aeorian mage listened to his words in silence and absolute stillness, just like he had all of Essek’s confessions.  Theft of the beacons, betrayal of his people, lying to the small band of adventurers who eventually became his friends… all of it, spoken into the dusty silence of the Praesidis ward, to ears that could not hear him. 

The perfect audience.