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ooogaboogabeepbop · 11 months ago

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The Ball

(Image is NOT mine, it’s from Kate Kotova’s YouTube Community.)

Astarion x F!reader

Word count: A LOOOTTT

First time writing so please give any constructive criticism. Tell me if Astarion is out of character or whatnot. Here I wanted him to be pretty frustrated so he’s rougher than usual. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.

Summary: You were getting ready for a ball until Astarion randomly fucks you into oblivion.

Warnings: use of gross words, cervix fucking, VERY rough sex, extreme discomfort, neediness, blood, ruined makeup, anger, cnc, pain, tears, ripping of clothing, weird inconsistent pov, scent, breeding kink, cringe writing, past trauma, voyerism, harsh choking, lots of eye rolling, short sentences, regret

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The edge of the drawer dug into your ribs harshly and the pain was becoming intolerable. Your palms flat against the waxed wood, pushing against the weight behind you. You winced when the figure behind pressed harder into you, being far from comfortable. It was like talking to a brick wall when you opened your mouth to speak. He was stuck in a deep trance involving your scent, and the unsteady beating of your heart. All he could hear was the hammering of the pulse and you smelled and looked absolutely amazing. Beyond amazing. Astounding. The way your dress fitted you perfectly. Breasts threaten to burst out of the dress, almost overflowing from the top. Your cleavage being the most prominent part of your whole get up, other than the accessories. The dress was white with laces on the rim surrounding your breasts, and on the end of your clothing as well. The outfit shimmered and was made to stand out from the others in the ball. The jewelry was what really stole the show though, dangle earrings, waist chain over the fancy fabric, bracelet, and a pearled necklace. You were adorned head to toe, your beauty would stun the crowd. Yet Astarion has you here, secured in his grip. It’s like he didn’t want anyone to see you in such a glamorous outfit. Someone could steal you away. It has been a while since Astarion initiated such intimate touching. With his view on sex tainted, you withheld from being inappropriate in any way. Worried about scaring him away, or reminding him of anything unpleasant. You stuck to loving words and affections that he so eagerly accepted and appreciated. The man was madly in love, and you, yourself. You showered him in so much care that it perplexed him. He only imagined or dreamed of being looked out for during years of hell, and never thought that it would actually come to fruition.

His nose and lips firmly pressed against your neck, providing soft kisses here and there. Cold breath sends shivers through your body. It was like a chilly winter breeze, making your hair stand. The kisses were sloppy, leaving small trails of saliva up and down your throat. You had an expensive perfume on, a bitter flavor to the tongue that he did not seem to mind. Too engrossed in this moment to care, wanting to feel and taste more. Maybe he liked the combination of the perfume and the flavor of your skin. Grabbing the arm that was locked around your waist, you squeeze, giving him a small warning to stop. The ball had already started, he promised to take you out dancing and flaunt your beauty to everyone there and show that you were his. It appears he regretted this decision. You were excited to sway and spin, to be close to him and your companions. You longed to see the others and the others wanted to see you too. You wanted to see the lights and the decorations. To see just how fancy the place was.

“I want to greet everyone.” You say, with his arms still locked around you. You tried excusing yourself to not remind him of ugly recollections. Trying not to have him cringe in disgust at any possible moment. Even with all of his confessions, he still held 200 years of secrets and uncomfortable experience that he was not willing to share. His coldness migrated behind your ear, hearing his sharp inhale. Very touchy this evening. What has him so worked up? Was he okay?

“They will see you soon enough, my love. Be patient.” He assured whilst rubbing his face against you, groaning, trying to lock in all of your musk mixed with perfume. He was ravenous. Mouth agape. A strong hand traced your left arm all the way up to your shoulder, and flipped the few wisps of your hair to the other side. Kisses now traced your jaw. Lips dry and chapped, moisture gone from the smooches. You could see the white curls come into view. Body flush against yours like a mold. Pale hands gripping your waist harshly and angling them to have the curve of your ass on his groin. “You look like an absolute treat tonight.” You could feel how each roughened finger dug deep to the point of almost hurting. Oh how you loved this. You missed his touch. Whether it be soft or hard, you still managed to enjoy yourself. Every movement made warmth course through you. Unexpectedly, he pricked your skin with one singular fang and licked the sweet red bead that came out with a sigh. Driving him crazy. Cool tongue teasing the sharp pain.

You grabbed the curls and ripped his lips off you.

“How about you be patient?” Your grip was firm, hurting his sensitive scalp. He hissed and even dared to flashed his fangs at you.

“You are hurting me.” You say bitterly. He presses less of his weight against you, letting you finally breathe better. But still being sandwiched between him and the drawer caused a sting.

“Still hurting me…”

He reluctantly pulls back, not much, but enough to keep the edge of the drawer from biting at your skin.

“I am starving—“ Words nothing but a whisper.

“I can tell.”

“Well be a dear, and give me just one bite?” He asked with honeyed words and puppy eyes.

“It’s never just one bite with you, Star.”

His hands roamed your body through your white dress, pawing at your breast, then down in between your thighs. The dress being an annoying obstacle.

“Oh how I missed you.” He sighs. You giggle at his words while you twirl a strand in your finger. It has not been long at all. He was quite literally in the other room while you did your makeup. And before that, both of you organized and planned your outfits for the day of the party together. You look over your shoulder with a smirk and a raised brow.

“Star, I was simply getting ready for the ball. I won’t take much longer.” You take a glimpse at his attire. All white, matching yours. The turtle neck, the colors, the swirls and patterns of his suit were all beautiful. Just like him. The shoulder pads that pronounced his shoulders. And his broad chest. You wanted to run your hands up and down his muscular figure but he firmly held you locked in place. He leaned into you again, though not as hard as before, your back arching to accommodate his body. Grinding on your bum. Noticing just how steel hard he was, your knees shook and your heels almost gave out.

“One bite? It won’t take long, love.” The man was hungry despite being fed the day before.

“Yes.” He immediately dives in and pierces your jugular. Fangs cause a sharp sting that makes you flinch. He will feed, then the two of you can finally go to the ball. Not wanting to suck you dry, he took shallow gulps. A moan rumbled from his chest and it vibrated through you. Astarion looked so hot with his composure uncharacteristically broken. The blood dribbling from the puncture being the sweetest he's ever savored. It was like some form of drug. Astarion’s favorite medicine. Faint whines of his satisfaction adding to the wetness below. You could see his brows knit together in concentration from the corner of your eye. Savoring you. He continued to rub your cunt through your dress while your hips circled to increase the pace that was set. He was too distracted to notice the teasingly slow speed of his fingers. Or maybe not. Perhaps he was deliberately trying to drive you insane. The friction of your panties and dress mixed with his talented digits made your clit throb. Your hand pushed his down, trying to create more traction to satisfy your need. Your hips still managed to gyrate even under his hold, rubbing right up on his erection. You moved faster against him, earning a whine from your vampire's throat. The hard rod pressed to your bum had you yearning for more. He kept moaning. Large pale hands traveled up to the very start of your dress and roughly pulled down, ripping the clothing and bra with it. The initial sound of the rippage filling the room with its sheer force. You shrieked as your tits suddenly jumped out of its confinements. Bouncing from its vicious release. Soft and supple skin, round and pretty nipples. Your outfit is in complete tatters.

“Astarion!” You shouted. Visibly upset. Such a beautiful dress put to waste. You waited months for this dress to be tailored, for its patterns and shimmers to be suited into it. So happy to try it on, so happy the way it hugged your curves when you got your hands on it. You attempted to turn to scold the ever living shit out of him but he held you in place with his strength. “Ugh!” You leered down at the irreversible mess and felt your face grow hot with rage. Then you looked into the mirror at the sight. Your nipples out in the open. How you wished to see him behind you, to see the dark and lustful red eyes looking deep into yours. What's gotten him so wild? Shifting his gaze towards your tits through the mirror, he moaned at the view of you. Quickly moving his palms onto your plump flesh; his big hands dwarfing both mounds. Astarion squeezed and played to his heart's desire and all you did was watch. Pliant skin caving and yielding. You were angry, livid, exasperated but… when was the last time he’s sought you out to touch you so sensually? When was the last time he felt okay with pleasure? You would put your anger aside, albeit begrudgingly, for this rare occasion. You were gonna give him hell afterwards though. Have him pay for the dress AGAIN and some complaining. It felt amazing, having him play, grope, and gently dig his fingers in. Savoring you. Passionately massaging them. You were upset. So upset. But you loved the touch. He was disorganized and chaotic which was so uncommon of him. Eventually, once you’ve calmed, your hands combine with his large ones, joining in on the fun. Then you realized something. The door to the room was open. Your head swirled to its direction and you were able to hear the distant chatter. Terror took a hold of you.

“Star. Stop. They will see.” Your concerns meant nothing to him though even when you pushed. He was too lost in you to even care. A huff was his only response. His fangs soon left you and he raised his head to nip at your ear. The blood from the wound seeped into your pearled necklace.

“I am being serious.” He grabbed your face, the skin indenting in his strong grip, and turned it enough to give you a searing kiss. The smooch was slippery from the gloss and the lipstick stained him, mixing with the blood he took from you. You sighed at the way his lips pressed upon yours. He parted his lips and snaked his tongue in your mouth, drawing an obscene moan as you unhinged your jaw for him. The blend of lipstick, gloss, blood, and the perfume he kissed off was rather tart. You opened your eyes and looked into the mirror. You looked so lewd. Both of you panted into the kiss. His left hand still played with your breast. His right hand grabbed yours and placed it flat against the wood, fingers interlocking. Astarion abandoned your mouth and licked long strides up your neck, cleaning the remaining blood then proceeded to give more pecks to it.

“What is this all about, Star?”

“I simply crave you little love. Is that so bad?”

“You ruined my dress. It was so glamorous…I waited months for this you damned bastard.”

“I’ll have another one made, my treasure.” He did not seem phased by your anger. The glam clothing was being pulled and balled up, enough to show your plush thighs. Wearing stockings and lingerie underneath. You half expected to fuck, just not so early.

“My, my. What’s this all about, dear?” He repeated your question from earlier as nimble fingers ran along the stockings. You blushed deeply at his words. Hands fixed on your butt. Delicately rubbing.

“Astarion, the door. Least close the door.” He pushed your face against the drawer, and raised the rest of your dress, showing your pretty ass. The fabric laid right above your hips. He slapped it hard. Another one came after that with full force. The sting was so intense tears began to form. No, you were not going to cry with how much effort you put into your makeup. He grumbled at your request.

“Not a chance. Where else will I get my warmth from? Karlach? Lae’zel?” He tsked. Red marks adorned your bum now from the manhandling. Blood rushing and heating the stinging flesh.

The warmth radiating onto his icy palms pleased him as it made a nice contrast. “You know, It gets quite cold being undead, darling.” Pouting as he feigned sadness.

“I will still be here once you come back. It's just mere feets away! Plus I'm sure Karlach wouldn't mind sharing her never ending heat.”

“Ah, but that would be no fun. Truthfully, the possible thrill of being caught excites me to no end…and I believe it does the very same to you too, darling.” He said, slipping the panties to the side to expose you. “I can tell just by your heartbeat.” He murmured. You purred when his rough thumb slithered up and down your wet slit. You sway your waist to taunt his desire. Without warning, he soon rooted two digits deep inside to prepare you to fuck hard. The sudden intrusion caused you to bite your lip. He grazed and memorized each ridge of your soggy cunt, especially the spongy part. You grinded in tandem to his fingers but it wasn’t enough.

“Then please, hurry up.” you whimper. He hummed.

“Since you asked nicely.” He caressed the bud halfheartedly. Swiftly he lost interest then pulled his fingers out. You could hear the belt buckle and his pants unfasten.

He slid all the way into your gummy walls with a loud hiss. You felt incredibly full, so stretched out and already worn from his dick. Cunt squeezing and contracting, trying to adjust to the fullness. You were so overwhelmed that it made you dizzy. Your pussy ravenously swallowed his thick dick which was not helping with your lightheadedness. The tip of his cock snuggling your cervix, causing your knees to weaken.Good thing he was holding you up. There was an impossibly deep, deep want inside your walls that set you ablaze. The feeling so intense your legs wobbled more. The desire was gut wrenching, so powerful and desperately needed his cock. He was fully sheathed but it was not enough. You needed him to move, drag and stroke himself along slick walls. Your clit throbbed. Placing your fingers onto the bundle of nerves you spun quick circles that briefly had your eyes roll. You couldn’t wait anymore and began to throw yourself back on him, forcing a garbled moan out of him. Both of you needed to get this over with fast. Cursing yourself for falling into your own desires as easily as he did. All he had to do was close the door but no. He loves risks and this situation made his dick painfully hard for him. What is pleasure without a little pain? You imagined him saying. He observed you like a hawk, watching you fuck yourself. Hearing him gulp then heave faster. His mouth was open, curls misplaced (from his usual hairdo), and brows knitted together again… A deafening laughter came from the halls when you began to panic. You stopped to peer at the cracked open door. He tightly grabbed onto your waist and pressed his thumbs into your back dimples, treating them as thumb holders. The first thrust was hard. You were caught off guard when your body lunged forward, causing objects to fall from the desk you leaned on. The laughing paused. Then the next one was even harder. He barely even started and tears began to sting in your eyes. His hair now falling towards his face, ruining his perfect pomade. Each movement he made, his locks swiftly followed. You felt the way his cock hauled to and fro. He knew how tight and warm you were but it always left him in shambles. Your walls clenched, subduing his bulging veins, and molding his dick on each thrust. He wanted to cum. He wanted to be deeper. He wanted to be one with you. Anxiety was through the roof but, thankfully, the people accompanying the halls continued with their conversation. All your attention was on the door where all the sounds originated from. The pace changed as you tried to listen for any footsteps.

Then all of a sudden he trembled and went stiff. He placed his chest against you for leverage. Lowering his head, listening how each breath was a struggle for him. You could see his wet curls in your peripheral vision. You turned your head to look.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You asked with genuine fear in your heart. Endless questions began to flood in your head. What if he didn’t want it? What if he regretted this decision? What if a bad memory was prompted? Was he disgusted by the thoughts of long ago?

“I’m close.” He choked out, “I need you to come first.” You found yourself relieved that he wasn’t uncomfortable. He was far from it. He withheld his own pleasure though, choosing to serve you before anything else. Being used to lifelong servitude and to pleasing others, it was only natural to him. This was going to change eventually. Astarion was walking on a thin line and quickly losing his balance. It took all his will and power just not to cum deep in your womb. He was right on the edge, so close all he needed was a push. You whined and wiggled your hips.

“Do not move.” He ordered, cock violently twitching inside you and mouth pulled into a snarl.

“Just cum!” You could see his head shake from the corner of your vision, “please!” You lifted your face from the drawer and held onto the wood the best you could. Your hips snapped back into him. He threw his head back and groaned loudly as if it pained him.

“Please, please, please, please!” You continued to beg. He was seconds from bursting just from your pleading. Your manicured nails drove deep marks on the drawer and the mirror began to shake back and forth. Your rapid breath fogged up the reflection in front of you and blocked the view. You kept going faster. Your earrings swayed back and forth with all the movement, along with your long necklace that was repeatedly bumping against your breasts. His whole body weight was on you now, ceasing your thrusts, and he placed himself deep inside. The drawer was back to painfully jabbing at you and it kept you from breathing properly. And whatever air trapped in your lungs was forced out of you when he rammed into you one last time. His cockhead glued to your cervix when he blew his fat load into you. His eyes went wide. Hair completely down. He looked like he was dying and ascending at the same time then damn near screamed.

He leaned back to give your aching bones some rest with a sweaty forehead against your shoulder. He was groaning even past his orgasm. You reached up to caress him.

“My star. I really wanted to go to the ball.” You sigh. He held onto your breasts again and pinched your nipples. “Are you not done?” Your makeup was ruined and so was your dress. You didn’t even get to cum either. But that was okay, as long as he relished in himself for once.

“Not quite. I’m sorry, darling. I’m sure there’s a spare dress.” He lifted his head and applied soft kisses to your cheeks

“Star, I really liked this dress.”

“I am sorry, my treasure.”

“This occasion was important to me.”

“I’m sorry…” It’s not often he would apologize. “Please, one more…” He sounded so weak and shattered. His head against your back just huffing and puffing. He held onto your waist, lovingly running with thick fingers down your exposed skin. Your skin was squishy compared to his rough finger pads. He was still hard and deep within you, his tip still cuddling your cervix. Another sigh escaped your lips, and you felt your clit throb again. Still unsatisfied. Your eyebrows arched upwards at the sensation. He wanted more and so did you. He felt so good just being seated inside you with his cum seeping out of you, most likely staining his pants and traveling down his balls. You could feel the stretch his thick dick provided to your abused walls. The same familiar feeling of want was still coiled up within, you needed release so badly. You wanted him to fuck it out of you. You bit your lip and looked into the mirror. Pretending to see his own reflection standing behind you. The thought of it made you clamp down on him and you both moaned. You turned your head and looked into his cat-like eyes. His broken voice did not match the way he was glaring at you. Seeming possessive.

Astarion pressed your back against his chest and your lips instinctively pressed on his jaw when he did so. When he pulled out, you could feel his cum spill between your thighs. Must’ve been very pent up. He moved his hand up towards the torn dress that was clinging to your hips, and tried to pass it down your legs, but the waist chain kept it from doing so. He ripped the pearled chain, and the beads fell onto the floor with the dress itself. The torn material was a tripping hazard that pooled around your feet. You didn’t even try to express your anger since he wouldn’t have acknowledged it. The only clothing you had on was the lace panties, the stockings, the jewelry, and your high heels. The vampire behind you was still completely clothed. You could still sense his icy coolness even through the layers of his attire. Your slim hand went down to begin playing with your clit.

His arm wrapped around your waist as the other slid his dick back inside you. Your pussy welcomed him hungrily. Your other hand grabbed onto his strong forearm as he began his thrusts. You kissed his jaw and cheeks, staining them a nice red with the remaining pigment you had on your lips. Astarion shut his eyes for a brief moment, cherishing in your care. He felt overwhelmed with love and lust. He had no idea how to express it. You were the best thing that’s happened to him. Finally someone who would put him first. Providing him soft affection and kind words even when he thought he didn’t deserve it. Being treated so kindly angered him in a way. The way you kissed him was so gentle compared to the way he was fucking you. Astarion felt guilty for rutting into you so harshly, but he couldn’t contain what he was feeling. Whatever that feeling was.

He looked down to watch as you played with yourself. Seeing your hand movements down between your breasts. Each thrust had them bounce. Your mascara ran down your flushed cheeks as your lipstick smeared against your chin and nose. Your eyeshadow and liner was smudged as well. It was all a mess and he loved it. He loved this. He loved you. Something so beautiful ravaged by him. Astarion kept going and wouldn’t stop; he couldn't. Not with the way your walls eagerly swallowed him. How it would squeeze down on him everytime he pulled back, asking him not to leave. You were velvety, tight, and wet. Feeling every ridge and every flutter. Felt your legs shake and wobble. He sensed how you would progressively compress on him the closer you got. Barely even able to shove himself fully into you. The tip kept hitting that perfect spot, the spot that had your eyes rolling and he kept striking and beating it devastatingly fast. You stopped kissing him, having a hard time breathing through the vicious motions. You can’t think. Everything was a blur and you felt dizzy. Your pretty nails dug into his forearm without a care in the world. The sound of your hips meeting was far too loud, anyone with ears would be able to listen. You tried your best to stay quiet, but the hits Astarion kept giving was blowing your cover. The slapping was loud, the way the desk rumbled was loud, the way the mirror shook was loud and each time it trembled it would hit the wall. You hoped the music was deafening enough to muffle everything while he was giving you a throrough fuck. Completely surrendering yourself to him. Taking him so well. Your hair was all over your face now, whisps sticking to sweat, to tears, and to gloss. The edge of the drawer was pinching the hand that was between your legs and it hurt, squishing your arm. Astarion began to lean forwards now which made it even worse making your nails dig deeper into his sleeved arm to brace yourself. He was never this rough before. One hand came up and moved your hair out of the way to smooch you.

“Good pet.” He whispered rasply. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. He bended further into you. Not only did the drawer now hurt your arm but it went back to crushing your ribs. You were on your tippy toes from the positioning and positive that your heels were breaking. Your fingers rubbed quick circles on your clit while he plowed through you, which had a sob escape you. You’ve been trying to keep quiet. Despite the other ruckus the both of you have been doing, the last thing you wanted was someone hearing you delighting yourself in such a publicly debauched way. He himself wasn’t holding back though. Anyone would be able to hear him panting. You were doing this to him. It all felt so wrong but it only further encouraged the throbbing in your core. He let a long, pained groan go while baring his teeth. The sharp fangs gleamed in the light as he slowly glided his tongue over them. He was frustrated and wanted this to last longer.

“Gonna cum again?” You tease.

“Yes.” His eyes were wide now as he slammed in. He looked crazed. Like a rabid animal chasing his own high. White silver hair framing his sculpted features. Red orbs peering through the strands. He was actually enjoying himself. Actually enjoying sex without the weight of his past bearing down on him. That realization made you gush. Eyes rolling as you felt his (previous) cum and wetness drip down your ankles.

“Yeah?” You coo.

“Yes.”

“Then do it. Fuck your child into me. Do it. Fuck me.” You said through gritted teeth. You didn’t mean for it to sound like a command and it made your heart drop the second those words left your mouth. You could only hope at the moment that he was okay with it. You were going to apologize until he jerked your hair back and forced your face upwards. Unleashing something primal the second you finished that sentence. He wanted you to bear his child even if it was an impossible feat. Astarion hates kids but the thought drove him mad and he was willing to give you everything you desired. He kept pulling until you were able to look into his red eyes. Towering over you. You could see just how deranged he appeared. Consumed by passion. The insatiable hunger that radiated off his cold body was intoxicating. Your back was impossibly arched now and you felt like you were gonna snap in half. Even more so whenever he bucked his hips. The severe pain on your arm made you abandon your needy clit.

“Yeah? Like that, darling? Huh? Just like that?” You couldn’t say a word. Not one. The ache in your ribs, back, scalp and neck was intolerable but you needed him to cum. To not care about anything else but his own pleasure. You could feel his dick pummeling through your guts and mistreating your cervix. Somehow you were still reaching your high.

“This is what you want? Huh? Yes? No? Tell me.” He spoke but it didn’t mean anything. All words lost their meaning. Astarion was fucking your brains out. The heels broke under his ministrations. He was wrecking everything. Your vision went blurry from the tears, they kept spilling and wouldn’t stop. You were going to cum crying. You were gonna cum just like this.

“So cockdumb you can’t even answer me?” The eye contact was driving you both crazy. The view he had was so fucking hot you wouldn’t believe it. His cum stained balls smacking your clit with each hit. You grounded your cunt against him just to grind your clit against his balls and you rolled your hips for more. Finally your bundle of nerves was getting the attention it deserved. Your mouth was open, spilling silent cries when your eyes moved to the back of your head. No longer able to stare into his blown pupils. He gruffed in anger and grabbed you by the throat instead of your hair.

“Look at me.” He told you as his hand squeezed ruthlessly. You listened. “There you go, my sweet little treat. You’re taking me so well.” Astarion smiled down at you villainously, teeth white and shiny. Silver hair all over the place. Eyes manic. He was fucking mental. Juices flowed down as you came, If his pants were not ruined before, it was ruined now. You came looking deep into his soul, violently trembling and jolting in snapped heels. You needed to scream but couldn't because of the choking. Mouth opened and closed for air. The tear soaked makeup slightly burned when it slipped into your eyes. Veins pulsing the best it could despite the blockade Astarion’s ivory hands gave. Your head was hurting and thumping and your palms laid on what was in front for any form of support. Once again your nails worked itself into the wooden drawer leaving behind more horrible marks in its wake.

Astarion fucked your beaten pussy past your orgasm. Back being all sorts of blown out. Your walls were milking his dick and balls, begging for his seed to flood your womb and hoping to knock you up. It made him grip your throat even tighter. Your Adam’s apple tried bobbing up and down to swallow up any breath you could seek. In his point of view your face was a light scarlet because of the lack of oxygen, with a vein protruding from your forehead. Him mistreating you, and you letting him sent shivers up his spine. He let go once your vision almost faded and blurred, then brutally drove his fangs into your neck. You gasped for air when he unclasped, somewhat because of the sudden pain and mostly because of the choking. Having large amounts of air fill your lungs helped you regain vision. The mirror was no longer foggy and you could get a good view of the situation. You were in tatters. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Embarrassment creeped in with just how fucked out and shameless you seemed. Is this what you really looked like? Or was the mirror playing tricks? Is this what Astarion has been seeing this whole time? How depraved and disgusting. He loved the view though. Your jewelry, tits, and locks kept moving with the thrusts. But with the aggressive and speedy drinking, your sight would blur up in no time. And with your desperate breathing, the mirror would soon fog up again. The tang in your blood was sweeter than before and his fangs pushed further in to drain you better. Astarion was properly feeding this time and didn’t hold back in greedily sucking you up. Every muscle was sore and you were surely going to pass out. Then the taste of euphoria in your blood made him burst. Abruptly grabbing onto your breast, his yell was muffled since his teeth were still latched. He jerked with each rope of cum he shot into you. The tip probing and nuzzling your spent cervix. You let out a long moan when he started filling you to the brim a second time.

“Fuck. I'm sorry…” Astarion wiped your tears away when he came to his senses. Heavy pants mixing together. Your body was in horrible pain and limp but you felt joy in bringing him pleasure. He nuzzled you while skimming his fingers on the dark bruises kindly. “I’m so sorry darling. I don’t know what possessed me. I’ll make it up to you… what do you want to eat? I’ll bring food to you.” The marks on your neck began to show and he felt intense regret. How could he lose himself like this? How could he treat you this way? To someone he loved and appreciated so vastly? “Please forgive me, my love.” He said, fear in his trembling voice. He fucked up badly.

“Gods…” he whispered. You slumped onto the desk. Astarion was going to be hellbent on compensating you for the harm he had done.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Then it’s okay.”

“No. It is not okay. I am truly sorry. Do not try to validate my actions. I am so sorry about the ball, darling.”

“Yeah, you’re an asshole for tearing my dress and for breaking your promise to take me dancing.” You admitted as he embraced you. “But you can make it up to me by buying me a new dress. AND by giving me lots of cuddles. If you’re up for it.” You offer.

“Of course, my treasure, how could I say no?”

#astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #smut #astarion x reader smut #astarion smut

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wafflepatterns · 1 month ago

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New sewing pattern <Kikyo> 3-in-1 Jacket

A new item is just released from Waffle Patterns. Meet the 3-in-1 Jacket <Kikyo> sewing pattern. This is a set of 3 items; an outdoor style jacket + zip-in/zip-out removable hood + zip-in/zip-out removable liner. Convenient and fun utility item for your trip, outdoor activity or daily use for all seasons!

You can make only an unlined utility jacket or a full set of items.

-Jacket The jacket is unlined with a zipper+button opening. There are a lot of functional pockets. Please mix and combine the pocket designs as your usage.

The waist pockets have 2 kinds of hand-warmer layer designs. One is easy to sew patch type, and one is a welt type. The chest pocket designs are 2 types, too; flap+patch or zipper type.

My personal favourite is the zipper pocket on the chest and the sleeve pocket. I find they are very handy. I always put important things here like keyholders.

There are other functional details like a back belt, sleeve pleats, or shoulder tabs. You can skip some details.

The fit is loose-regular for room of the removable liner.

-Removable Liner The liner is zip-in / zip-out type. You can attach it to the shell at the front facing with zippers supported by small buttons and elastic loops.

It has a pocket and you can use as an inside pocket.

Of course, you can skip the liner. But it is very fun to add! And pretty easy to sew compared to the shell.

Btw, it is not really impossible to wear this liner as a jacket, especially if you make both inside and out clean. But the front area of the fitting goes off, so I do not recommend it officially.

-Removable Hood The zip-in / zip-out removable hood is lined and has a front button opening. You can attach it to the shell at the neckline on the collar by a zipper. The zipper is attached to the inside of the hood, so the hood layer comes outside of the garment. I found it is functional because when it rains, the rainwater should not sit between the layer of the Collar and hood. It has a string, but you can skip this.

Please make your creative style by mixing your favourite details!

<Shell> The pattern is drafted for woven fabrics. Light to medium weight durable but not too stiff woven jacket fabrics are recommended. like denim, gabardine, twill, canvas, etc.

Please consider the fabric with some body because it has to support the removable liner.

If your fabric is very thick/stiff, please consider using other lighter fabrics partly to avoid the thick layers, like pocket flaps or layered pocket parts.

Please choose a suitable one for your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples.

<Lining for shell> The hood and the pocket bags use lining fabric. Normal lining fabrics like plain cotton or acetate will work, but functional ones like quilted or faux fur will be fun, too.

<Removable liner> The liner constructed from; -Lining fabric(outside) -Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear)

-Lining fabric(outside) Light weight lining fabric with a smooth texture will work like plain cotton or acetate etc.

-Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear) Consider fabric like thin quilt, light weight fleece, flannel, or light faux fur, etc.

I recommend avoiding too heavy fabrics which cannot be supported by the shell. I made one with boiled wool. It is very warm but a bit heavy. A thick quilt may be too much volume. If you want to go with a volumy liner, maybe going 1-2 size up is a better idea.

For flannel and fleece versions, I used slippery fabric for the sleeve parts of the inside liner for comfort, but maybe no need to do that depending on your intention. If you use thick or fluffy fabric and worry about comfort about this part, please remember slippery fabrics are a safer choice.

<Sample fabrics in the photos> Here is a fabric list I used for the samples. I could not get all the shops which I bought from because some are too old or from wholesalers.

- Brick orange x plaid Shell ; cotton mixed twill Liner (thermal inside) ; wool mixed flannel Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- Yellow sample Shell ; light weight water repellent outdoor fabric (from kniphal.nl) I think it is not for garments originally, but not very thick so it still worked. Liner (thermal inside) ; thin pre-quilted (thin insulation like under 80g backed with satin) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- khaki sample Shell ; cotton mixed twill (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (thermal inside) ; light fleece (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

The fabric choice all depends on your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples as much as possible. Also researching store bought jackets will help your ideas.

<Size>

The fitting is loose-regular. I made just size for the yellow and khaki, but the orange one is one size smaller because the liner is thinner. I strongly recommend making a muslin for perfect fit. Some of my testers made 1 size larger with a mid-weight liner. If you use very fluffy volumy liner or want to wear thick sweater underneath, maybe considering 1-2 size larger is a good idea.

-Zipper for attaching the liner I used general width (about 28mm) plastic teeth zippers. Because 2 zipper tapes come on the R-side facing(see the 1st photo), wide type zippers are not suitable.

-Zipper for attaching the hood This part is curved, so should be flexible. I used plastic teeth type and have no problem. Maybe some coil types are more flexible. But, I avoided coil type because I broke them often for some reason (maybe only me?)

Also, this jacket comes with many zipper tapes, I prefer plastic type because of the light weight.

-Other I attached the tabs on the pocket flaps. Those are pieces of folded twill tape(keperband).

<Other>

-Because the jacket is unlined, I finished the most seams with flat fell seam. If you do this, maybe it is better to add extra 2-3mm to the seam allowance. Some parts are not suitable for flat fell finish like bulky parts or armholes. I used bias tapes for armholes, and serger for bulky parts(like front yoke with flap).

-If you do not like visible zipper tapes, you can add twill tape or folded strips of shell fabric over the zipper tape.

-Some store bought jackets with a zip-on hood use a placket over the zipper. I think it is suitable if your fabric is thin. (I tried one and find too bulky)

********************* The sewing pattern includes 18 pages of instructions and all the sewing processes are described with detailed illustrations. The pattern files are available for both home printers (A4 or US letter) and copyshop(A0 format).

You can check other photos of this model on my Flickr page.

The 3-in-1 Jacket -Kikyo- (size 32 - 54) PDF sewing pattern is available here. Also in the Etsy shop.

Special discount price until 14th Oct. 2024 (CEST) with other popular patterns. No discount code is needed! The sale page is here.

***** Special offer for Paper pattern and free shipping Paper pattern + PDF option is available limited time. *The paper includes only the pattern, please print out the instruction by yourself or read it with your tablet or PC. The PDF + Paper listing page is here.

Enjoy your sewing!

(Japanese post here 日本語ポストはこちら).

**********************

follow me! Instagram /// Facebook /// Shop /// Pinterest /// Newsletter

#sewing #sewing patterns #wafflepatterns #diy fashion #sewing pattern #other tip #jacket #outdoor jacket

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hypothermic-dream · 3 months ago

Text

In the void where shadows whisper,

Where light refracts through fractured faith,

A silent dialogue—dissonant, distant—

Emerges between the echo of a god

And the ghost of a penitent heart.

Did I, in my spirals of doubt,

Unravel the threads of our covenant,

Or was it You, who, in the stillness,

Withdrew the breath of divinity,

Leaving me to suffocate

In the vacuum of Your absence?

Is this chasm a construct of my feeble mind,

Or an abyss You carved in cold indifference?

In my fervor, did I cast You aside,

A shadow burned into memory’s ash,

Or did You, with the precision of eternity,

Erase Yourself from my soul?

Was it my hand that trembled,

As I tore the veil of sacred communion,

Or did You shroud Yourself in the mist,

A distant star collapsing inward,

Swallowed by the gravity of Your own silence?

I wander through the labyrinth of my thoughts,

Tracing the contours of abandonment,

Each step a question, each breath a doubt—

Have I become the architect of my forsaking,

Or are You the silence that dwells

In the void of my unanswered cries?

In this dance of solitude and longing,

I am both the seeker and the lost,

Forever bound to the question that remains—

Have I forsaken You, my God,

Or have You, in Your infinite quiet,

Forsaken me?

It was I who first turned away—

A seed of doubt sown in the garden,

A whisper that became a storm.

From Adam’s trembling hand, I took

The fruit of knowing, bitter sweet,

And with each bite, I forged the chain,

A link of sin that binds me still,

Pulling me further from Your grace.

With every transgression, I carved the path,

A winding road of shadowed steps,

Leading me deeper into the night,

Where Your voice grows faint,

And my guilt resounds, endless, loud.

It is not You who has forsaken me,

But I who drift, a soul adrift—

The weight of sin heavy in my chest,

A burden I cannot shed,

For it is the mark of my own making.

In my pride, I built the wall,

Brick by brick of willful acts,

Each one a stone cast in defiance,

Until the chasm yawned wide,

And I stood alone, on the edge of despair.

I am the sinner, truly lost,

Wandering far from Your light—

It was I who severed the bond,

Since that first betrayal,

And with each sin, I grow more distant,

From the mercy I once knew.

III

And now, in the cavernous abyss of my own making,

Where the echoes of my sins resound,

I stand naked before the truth—

I am not worthy of Your mercy,

For I have woven my existence

From the threads of indulgence and deceit.

I bartered eternity for the fleeting taste of sin,

Each act a blasphemy, a betrayal carved in flesh.

In my hedonistic descent, I forsook You,

Turned my back on the light, craving the shadows,

Where the pleasures of the flesh

Promised escape from the void within.

Yet the void remains, and I am its architect—

A being who chose the abyss over salvation,

Who sought solace in the very darkness I now curse.

I reveled in the hypocrisy of my desires,

Condemned in word what I worshipped in deed,

A human beast, all too eager to abandon the divine

For the filthy comforts of my own corruption.

I am no penitent pilgrim on a path to redemption,

But a hollow vessel, brimming with deceit,

A mask of piety shrouding the rot beneath—

The truth of my nature, hypocritical, vile,

A mockery of the faith I once claimed to hold.

Hell was not merely created for souls like mine,

It is the inevitable consequence of my existence—

A furnace stoked by the very sins I cherish,

Each flame a reflection of the lust I harbored,

The lies I whispered, the betrayals I enacted.

And in that inferno, I will not merely burn,

But be purified in the agony of my own making.

Let the flames consume this wretched husk,

For I am beyond redemption, beyond grace—

A soul who forfeited its place in the light

For the fleeting ecstasies of the forbidden,

A creature unworthy of the mercy

I so arrogantly spurned.

I deserve to be devoured by the fire,

To feel the searing kiss

Though I am poised at the precipice of the inferno,

And my sins mark me for eternal damnation,

I still reach into the abyss for the hope of Your mercy.

This damned world has sculpted me from innocence

Into a creature marred by darkness and despair,

The test was crueler than I ever imagined,

For it is not the world alone but the very essence of my soul

That was twisted and broken by its trials.

Yet, despite the corruption, my true self remains—

A fragment of Your divine essence,

An innocent child, lost in this earthly purgatory.

The sins that plague me are but the scars of a test too harsh,

A testament to the world’s capacity to distort the pure.

In my weakness, I am crushed under the weight of temptation,

A vessel shattered by the very darkness I sought to escape.

I was a child of light, meant for celestial realms,

Yet this damned existence twisted me into a wretched form,

The world’s relentless trials, more than mere tests,

Unveiled the fragility of my being,

Reducing my spirit to a vessel of sin and hypocrisy.

This essence, born of Your divine spark,

Now wanders lost, marred by the very darkness

That was meant to be a mere shadow of its true self.

In the face of my wretchedness,

I am a mere echo of what I was meant to be,

Crushed beneath the weight of my own failings,

A creature caught between the celestial and the infernal.

Before the enormity of my failings, I am but a speck—

A soul yearning for the light of Your forgiveness,

For Your mercy is my last hope against the encroaching void.

I beseech You to see beyond the facade of sin,

To find within me the remnant of the child You created,

The soul destined for Your heavenly grace,

And grant me redemption in the face of my despair.

For in Your infinite mercy, I seek the light

That can heal even the most fractured spirit.

#dark academia #poetry #literature

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nevesmose · 3 months ago

Text

Very unserious mirror universe of the doll AU expanding on a lil idea from a convo with @chemos-factories - Fulgrim is a normal dude apart from being a huge nerd obsessed with plate armour (bed covered in knight stuffies, suit of armour dakimakura, has made himself a chainmail weighted blanket, cosplays every possible armour-wearing character) who one day gets his dream job as a preservation specialist at the Royal Armouries in Leeds.

(And you know what, he also lives in the exact same flat I used to, in one of those brick buildings on the left. Write what you know etc etc.)

Anyway he's introduced to the exhibit storage areas all glowing with happiness and sets to work on some task or another, enjoying finally being there but at the same time still very nervous so having to use every technique he has not to fall back into the self-sabotaging patterns of overthinking and perfectionism that have hurt him so many times in the past.

During a stressful moment he takes a break from his work intending to get some fresh air or a tea/coffee or something, but accidentally takes a wrong turning and ends up walking into a foreboding darkened storeroom with a single looming figure in the centre.

He turns on the light which brightens the room just enough for him to see that it's the tallest, ruggedest suit of plate armour he's ever seen perfectly set up for display. Most of the plates are dull grey hammered steel except for the armour's hands and lower arms which are silver-plated and covered in elaborate Renaissance engravings/decor.

He's so enraptured by the need to feel the delicate, intricately-constructed fingers of the gauntlets against his own hands that he completely ignores the numerous Haunted artefact!! Do not touch!! Containment only!! Never ever for public viewing!! notices all around it.

For some reason impossible to put into words he can feel the calming influence of the armour, as though its stoic protectiveness is being somehow shared with him.

And then one night, after spending far too many lunch breaks mooning over the silver-handed armour, he's suddenly awoken by a mysterious yet deafening CRASH CRASH CRASH of steel plates in the darkness just outside his bedroom...

#feverish passionate visor-clattering and codpiece-polishing ensues #haunted armour that would treat you right #“and i shall leave my mail chausses on Sir Knight”#(helmet vibrates off and rolls under a table)

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naughtynoodle056 · 14 days ago

Note

oh wtf did they mean by that like .. your characters are obviously Black - you could post just the lineart and it'd be obvious??

okay first of all I LAUGHED when I read this ask because I literally feel the exact same way, but allow me to take you and the rest of my followers on this journey that has made me decide I'm a villain now. Buckle up, this post will be lengthy xD.

Person (not artist) confused my OC Shay (the girl right next to Leo) for my OC Xander (the boy on the far left). I got really frustrated because I chose Shay to sit next to Leo in this piece SPECIFICALLY to drive home the contrast in weight and that even though Shay is in a baggyish hoodie, you can still tell she's slim compared to Leo.

I asked if I was just going crazy or if these people mixing them up werre either 1) visually impaired somehow or looked at this for 0.2 seconds because these are obviously not the same person?? an IRL said that Xander and Shay looked too similarly because of their hair and body type and SKIN TONE and I was like. First of all, 2000s emo kids often had similar hair, that's kind of the fucking point here. Second of all, Shay is obviously shorter and skinny and Xander is CLEARLY on the chubbier sie, so what the fuck are you yapping about? and FInally. SKIN COLOR??? SKIN COLOR??????

Here is this same exact piece but with the lighting effects turned off. Just loud and wrong as fuck

So aforementioned artist offers their constructive criticism that was this

and like no offense but the longer I thought about it the more pissed off I got because first of all,

I LITERALLY DO????? and second of all and the reason I'm evil now is that they don't. RECENTLY they actually drew a black person, but it was still a frustratingly ambiguously black person.

Like what does this even mean bro my art style is like ALL SHAPES?? Like I'm really glad you said what you said in this ask because you're so right, you CAN tell my characters are black or otherwise POC just by the lineart. You cannot do that with the artist that gave that criticism. and then they doubled down when people called them out on how wack of a criticism it was and that they were wrong. I won't be naming them by name publicly because like I said before, I will look like the smaller bitter artist that can't take criticism from this BIG POPULAR WELL MEANING artist, but it felt like they were throwing stones from a glass house at a BRICK ONE.

I was also told my art "has a lot of potential" which is the polite way of saying "your art is mid", generally speaking lmaO.

At the end of the day, it felt like they were making huge sweeping judgements of my art and offering criticsm that was like?? unwarranted and felt more like them outting themselves as never giving my art more than just a passing glance because I dont draw 800+lb fatties constantly. Which is fine, you don't have to look at my art. But don't fucking give me criticism that not only doesn't apply to me, but you don't even follow yourself. Its kind of like if an abled bodied artist who NEVER draws anyone with visible disabilities told a visibly disabled artist that DOES draw a myriad of disabled folks in a loving way that they aren't doing enough and then doubling down with "All criticism is fair critism".

I don't think I'm the best artist in the world or in this kink community, but I know one thing for sure. I'm one of the most consistent at drawing black people in a way that's obvious and with lots of love, so don't you EVER fucking imply I don't do enough while your black people just look like color pallete swaps. Don't come for me on that regard if you have never drawn afro textured hair. And no, I WON'T just roll over and accept that "most feedists favor white or pale eastern asain people". I'd rather die a niche artist who actually gives a shit about representation than to just grovel to people that would not respect me because of my race.

#noodle answers #discourse #long post #SORRY this got so long lol oopsies

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ravencincaide · 11 months ago

Text

Oh Sweet Memory of Mine

Summary: Dazai basks in your bright smile even if tomorrow you won’t remember a thing. OR a walking red flag will always be a walking red flag- even when he tries to be sweet.

Pairing: fem!Reader x Dazai Osamu

Inspired by Sweetober prompt 14: (Back) scratching

Warnings: Dark content inside including things like; cursing, blood, biting and fighting, early onset of memory degenerative disease, a walking red flag with very light hints at intimacy and abuse,

Enjoy ?

___________________________________________________________

The flowers were as ridiculous as his behaviour.

A huge rather unorganized bunch consisting of carnations, roses, tulips and lilies– pretty much any and every flowering blossom he could get his hands on at this time of year. They were accompanied with some nameless greenery awkwardly stuffed in between. Dazai was beginning to regret buying said greenery- the stems were hard and awkward to carry, the shrubs almost painfully digging into his bandaged fingers. And while he didn’t mind the pain- relished in it- he was adamant not to let you get pricked by them.

Still you insisted each bouquet was not complete without some filler leaves to guide the eye or a branch to give it more asymmetrical volume. No, rationally Dazai knew it was best he bought the shrubs directly instead of having to run out to the store to get them. Even if at that moment he wasn’t particularly fond of them.

Looking from the outside however, that was impossible to tell. If anything, Dazai appeared almost happy; a skip in his step then a playful twirl as he sidestepped a flirtatious butterfly of the night. Then paused, took her hand and brought it to his lips, giving it a kiss of apology. “ You’re so gorgeous today. But not now unfortunately- another time maybe, Belladonna” he winked then off on his way he was, not stopping once until he reached a gated community on the very outskirts of the city.

The walls were high: an almost unscalable construction of sanded down brick and barbed wire on top. The entrance was also the only exit, a large anglo saxon metallic gate with both an old fashioned knocking mechanism and modern keycode with intercom. Balancing the box of wine on his knee and gripping onto the flowers with his other hand, Dazai put in the code. The sound of electricity buzzing echoed before a click could be heard. Hopping on one foot he leaned his weight into the left side of the gate, making it swing open with surprising ease. He caught himself from stumbling, eyes whining for a brief second. Then he chuckled and shook his head at himself. Of course they would finally oil the hinges after six months of complaints- and not a day too soon.

Turning his back to the gate Dazai drew in a deep breath, his nose stinging with familiar dust and grime of Yokohama from ten years ago. The smell of food stalls, traders and alcohol reached his senses. He could hear the yelling; orders called out in a ramen stand, men laughing at the others' jokes, merchants pushing over-priced tinkets onto naive customers and women bargaining with each other over the cost of overripe fruit. The only thing missing were children: homeless brats pickpocketing passers by or vandalizing houses. Despite how big of an issue this used to be, at that very moment, there wasn’t a single kid in sight.

It was almost amazing how they managed to replicate the Yokohama of ten years ago. Down to the chipped paint on buildings and gravel filled holes in the ground.

Feeling eyes on him, Dazai turned his head to the right, in the direction of a set of benches where half a dozen men sat, dressed in worn out suit pants, white shirts and with the matching suit coat thrown haphazardly over their shoulders. A distance away from them was a small stall serving local sake. The man from said stall had his attention on Dazai. Dazai flashed a smile at the man, as if to say that he was fine and didn’t need the man's help. The man in turn rolled his eyes and turned back to his duties: watching this group of young men on the benches throwing rocks and dealing cards as if it were dead serious poker. Then as one of the men won, the others started yelling at him: their hands darting to the inside of their coat pockets- typical mannerism of someone reaching for a gun.

“ You dare cheat the port mafia? That’s it I’ve got you red handed now and I’m bringing you in!” the man yelled. The temper quickly rose in the group. Surely a fight would break out at any second.

“Port Mafia?!” The cheater questioned before he smirked and nodded, looking at ease “ Ahh yes Nakahara-san is such a good executive.”

“ The very best!” The others agreed in unison before settling back down and beginning to deal the cards and rocks again. Acting as if nothing had happened- back to silently studying the other men in the circle. Reading their body language and clues about one another.

Information gathering at its finest.

Turning his back to them, Dazai barely made it two steps before he heard the man yell again;“ You dare cheat the port mafia? That’s it I’ve got you red handed now and I’m bringing you in!”

This time however he did not spare them a second glance. No, his feet began carrying him further inside this replica of the once familiar city. His body knowing where to take him without his mind needing to think- after all he had walked that same road more times than he could count. Past the Port Mafia base, round the corner from the old ADA office and then to the obscured apartment complex at the very edge, inches away from the park. Through that park was the Yokohama river- a perfect place for sunny dates and late night swims.

It was a shame the wall cut off this place half way through the park- he would have liked to see the government replicating an entire river. Seeing them panicking and scratching their heads in fear as the engineers and economists screamed at one another from the opposite sides of the room simply because one sheet of seemingly meaningless paper was covered in faulty edits.

Edits that Dazai may or may not have been responsible for.

Coming up to the apartment door, Dazai balanced his purchased gifts with the help of his leg while he dug in his pocket for a set of keys. Pulling out an old fashioned, worn down tag with the large key attached to it, he pushed it into the lock of the door. He turned it once, twice and then when it wouldn’t turn anymore he pulled it out and swung the door opened.

“ My dear, I’m home~” Dazai yelled out, dancing inside and kicking the door shut behind himself. The smell of herbal tea and freshly baked cookies filled his senses. The familiar smell made his grin wider, yet somehow the smile did not quite reach his eyes anymore.

“ Oh love, you’re already home?”

He followed the sound of your voice to the kitchen where you stood above the newly baked treats, with a cute little white apron om. Your shaking hands gripped a piping bag full of cream frosting. It seems you were trying to outline the baked out snowflake cookies to make them more festive. The sight made him chuckle slightly as he set down his gifts on the floor before he waved the huge bouquet of flowers back and forth. “ Tada! I thought it’s been a while since you arranged some, right Y/N?”

“ Oh my love you got me flowers! “ You exclaimed, clasping your hands together in glee, after having tossed your current project to the side. The bag of frosting found its way back into the bowl with the rest of the fluffy mixture from which it came- but just barely. But you didn’t care about it one bit. “ Dazai, they’re beautiful” you exclaimed, reaching out to take the bouquet from him. You buried your face in it, inhaling deeply the fresh sweet smell before looking back up at your lover. “ Help me arrange them?”

Dazai chuckled a little and reached his hand out, his thumb and finger wiping off the bright orange specks of pollen off the tip of your nose. You giggled sheepishly at him, your heart soaring from happiness. Dazai moved over and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder. “ hmm in a moment” he hummed his nose buried in the crook of your neck.

You laughed again before laying the flowers out beside your baked goods. You studied each and every blossom, leaf and branch Dazai gifted you with. Your mind begins to envision one- no two different designs you could create. You were so engrossed in the task you almost missed Dazai’s hands playing with the edge of your shirt. Almost.

“ H-hey Dazai?” You stuttered your face a dark tomato red. One of your hands reached up and grasped his hand in your own, interlocking your fingers together so he’d stop trying to undress you. Still his long fingers reached for your skin, his nails scratching at your clothes, your waist, your stomach and your back. Anywhere those long appendages could reach. His lips were more passionate on your neck, making you shiver under him. Your body grew warm with desire. The way his lips lingered over your pulse, his hot tongue on your skin– it drove you a little mad. You felt nervous and perhaps a little embarrassed; it was not even noon yet and all the windows in your apartment were wide opened and- you cut your trail of thought off as you felt him lick at your skin more desperately now.

You shivered again, biting your lip to prevent a needy moan from escaping. As he nipped at your neck, you blushed a darker shade of red. “D-Dazai,--” you swallowed and gripped his hand tighter “ I– ehh we should put the flowers in water before–” you gasped, your eyes widening

The desire and burning need was replaced by icy dread as you heard a quiet pop; the soft skin giving away to his sharp fangs.

Your cry broke the silence of the apartment; a blood curling scream as your mind registered what was happening. What your so-called lover was. A blood-sucking beast! A goddamn vampire of all things. The very thing you hated the most in this damned world. Before you could say anything Dazai shifted, his free hand reaching up and clasping over your lips muffling your cries. Your struggles- a pitiful attempt at fighting back against him- were easily fought off.

Dazai pushed you forward-- one knee wedged between your legs, while his weight pushed you up against the counter; one hand over your mouth, one hand clasping your interlocked fingers in his own. Not letting go no matter how much you pulled, trashed or tugged. Your non dominant hand was free and you did your best to pry him off your neck. But it was completely futile.

He was stronger- as a man and as a beast.

The sound of gulping filled the room. An eager sucking sound that drained your very lifeforce right out of you. You bit at the hand on your mouth- expecting him to pull it away from you. Instead Dazai moaned against your neck, his knee pressing harder between your legs. You felt burning in your eyes as tears ran down your face. Your heart tearing itself apart at the knowledge that the man you loved more than life itself was nothing but a blood sucking demon.

The very definition of an abomination!

Once more you tried to struggle- to resist and fight back. You bit harder at his hand on your face and felt him tighten it- bruising you- a warning to behave or he’d snap your jaw in half. You could feel the ache in your face and had no doubt that he’d do it without blinking an eye. It made you freeze in fear and betrayal. How could the man you love do this to you?

You felt weak; weaker and weaker for every clunk he took until you no longer had the energy to fight back. You slumped against him, dark dots playing in your vision. Was he going to kill you?

No.

Dazai detached himself from your neck and licked at the wound like a dog. It made you shiver again- this time in disgust rather than affection and desire. His hand dropped away from your face and landed on your waist, squeezing tightly. “ See Y/N it wasn't so bad, now was it?” he purred with an all too pleased smirk.

“ I fucking hate you, you bastard” you hissed as you felt the room sway. His knee between your legs being the only thing keeping you up.

“ Sure you do my love, sure you do” Dazai taunted before he let go of your hand and moved his knee back quickly. You stumbled, your legs giving out from you. Before you could crash to the floor completely he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and under your knees, picking you up bridal style. His eyes staring down at your own, watching with boredom, as your expression slowly changes; the emotions of hate, betrayal and anger dulled away into a blank expression.

Then he began carrying out of the kitchen, going exceptionally slow.

After a few moments he felt you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder, a drained expression on your face, your voice hazy with sleep: “ Oh my love, you got me flowers.”

Dazai hummed and pressed a kiss to your cheek, leaving a dark red bloody print of his lips on your pale skin. He continued moving towards your bedroom. Some days it broke him that your mind was too damaged to make new memories- forever stuck in that same last safe moment you experienced ten years ago. Other days however it came in handy.

After all, no matter what he did to you, you would always forget all about it by morning.

#bsd x reader #bsd dazai #vampire dazai #Dazai osamu #Dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #Dazai x you #Sweetober #memory degeneration #hurt

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myreia · 1 month ago

Text

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 29: Evaporate

the evening of aureia's return to garlemald leaves her uncertain and restless. thancred x wol. endwalker. mild/contextless spoilers. written for ffxivwrite2024. free day—prompt drawn from a random word generator. rated: explicit tags: hurt/comfort, cuddling, spooning, gentle sex 2010 words ao3 link

The windows rattle, the house creaks, and Aureia cannot sleep.

She cracks her eyes open, staring blankly at the opposite wall as she huddles beneath the blankets. A deep blue-green stares back at her, pressing against the glass, the colour punctuated with flickers of light from sentries moving about in the distance. And something else. The misty reddish glow of a tower so far in the distance it should be negligible, and yet it devours the horizon. There are no shutters on the windows to block it out; they must have been ripped off and used for firewood some time ago. No matter. The windows are strong and their glass thick, thick enough to seal them in and keep out the snow and wind.

And yet she still feels cold. Raw to the bone. It doesn’t matter the number of blankets, or the layers of clothing she went to bed in.

It is impossible to stave off Garlemald’s hungering cold.

She rolls onto her side and wraps her arms around herself, tucking her knees into her chest. This house is old, constructed from wood and brick and stone and mortar. A remnant of the past that resisted the transition to concrete and metal and wires, with only a few nods to the magitek that ran the nation.

A farmer’s home, in a farmer’s village. Unimportant, irrelevant—and exceedingly normal. Laterum, it was once called. She has visited it once before, when passing through on her way to the capital with her parents and brother. She may have even visited this very house. She and Kallias must have been… what, fourteen? The townspeople kept their distance at first, wary of non-Garleans like so many in the capital region. They were strange visitors, after all—an Elezen and a Hyur with Imperial ranks displayed proudly on their shoulders, and their two children already in uniform. Her mother was brusque, clear in her directions, her father was distant. Her twin smiled and sat by the pond, enjoying the sun on his face and helping the village’s small children to fish.

Was that the way of it? Or did she make that up to soften the blow of everything that came after?

Elgara is dead now, but Ariv and Kallias are here somewhere. Gods know what happened to them. Corrupted and tempered, like the rest of this shattered nation. An Imperial engineer and a military operative would have been at the centre of it. How does she even begin to ask the survivors, should they even exist? Can she even bring herself to?

The Alliance calls this town Camp Broken Glass now, and she has not bothered to correct them. Why should its history matter now? Its people are long gone. There is no one left to care. But she will remember. As will Lucia and Maxima.

“Aur.”

Thancred’s voice is low and muffled, as if speaking into his pillow. She feels him behind her, his weight pressing deep into their mattress, the bed creaking with his slightest movement. His hand snakes over her and slips into hers. Fingers stiff and cold, like hers, yet she can feel warmth pulsing within them.

“Are you awake?” he murmurs.

In answer, she squeezes his hand.

“Are you all right?”

She opens her mouth, watching her breath rise in the darkness. “I don’t know,” she says at last.

He squeezes back. “Sleep has failed to grab me, too,” he continues. An attempt to distract her or comfort her. Or perhaps both. “Shall we light the hearth?”

Embers glow from the fireplace, the meager logs reduced to crumbling ash. She could light it in an instant with fire-aspected aether if they had more fuel. But that would mean one of them would have to leave to fetch it…

When she doesn’t answer, Thancred rolls over and sits up, dragging the blankets with him. She grunts in protest and grips his arm, her fingers catching on the threads of thick wool overshirt he wore to bed. She can barely feel him beneath the layers.

He pauses. “A light, then?” he asks. The lamps have burnt out as well, leaving behind a faint trace of ceruleum in the air.

Her breath catches in her throat. “No, thank you.” Another memory emerges from the depths of her mind. The scent of ceruleum pressing against her, so thick it coats her mouth and tongue. Red and blue light criss-crossing before her, so bright she sees it even with her eyes shut. The constant hum of machinery, so distant and yet so loud it shakes the floor. The thud of a hundred feet, so constant it never ends. Cold. Steel. Hard. Sleep eluded her in the barracks, the first night and every night after. “…come back to bed?”

A request. Small and private.

The bed creaks. He lies back down, tucking the covers around them, and rolls onto his side. Her breath slows, a sense of calm washing over her as he wraps his arms around her. He presses against her, holding her tight, his face buried in her shoulder, his legs entangled with hers. He’s warm, much warmer than her, and despite their thick clothing she is certain she can feel the beat of his heart thumping against her back.

“I hate it here,” she says after a moment. “I wish we were…”

Home. The word evaporates. She is reaching for something of the present while too close to the boundary of the past. She can’t voice it while this close to the capital.

He shifts behind her, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close. She can feel him breathing, slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest constant and soothing, a reminder of the here and now. His breath warms the back of her neck. “The first night is somehow so often the worst,” he says quietly. “I admit, I am worried for you. Being here. Facing… that.”

He does not need to put a name to the tower. Leaving it unnamed keeps it at a distance. Blocks it out.

“I’ll be all right,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“You’re certain?”

“I have you here with me.” She brushes the back of his hand with her fingers and burrows against him, bundled against him. The palm of his hand rests against her lower stomach, brushing the line of bare skin where her tunic has pulled up. “I need a night. Perhaps two. Eventually, I will be able to sleep.”

He sweeps loose hair back from her face and kisses the top of her head. His thigh presses against hers. “But not now?”

“Not now.”

They lie in silence for a time, listening to the howl of the wind and the creak of the house. A disturbance below shakes the building as the front door slams closed. Distant voices murmur, one familiar, others unknown. Lucia must be overseeing the change in the watch, relieving one set of sentries of their duties and sending out the next. Knowing her, she has kept to Ishgardian form and it must be half a bell past midnight.

Aureia brushes fingers against his. “Thancred?” she asks quietly. “Are you going to sleep?”

He slips his hand further beneath her tunic. “I do not think so,” he replies. He shifts, the bed creaking again, his hips rising slightly even as he holds her. A question unvoiced, lingering between them. “It is far too cold for that.”

She takes his hand and draws it higher. He rasps, low and eager, his voice muffled against her neck as she leads him to her breast, inviting him to touch. He cups her, the pads of his fingers gentle even as he runs the pad of his thumb across her nipple. She swallows a gasp, the strength of her need taking her by surprise. Not a desire for sex, exactly. A desire to be touched. To be held. To let the present sweep away the past, if only for a moment, and chase away the cold.

Let it go. Let it evaporate. Vanish into nothingness as surely as their breath in the cold of this room.

His ministrations are slow, attentive, responding to her small, softened sighs. He caresses her breasts, his hips rocking against hers as he coaxes a quiet groan from her. Her heart pounds, her breath uneven, warmth flooding between her thighs. She turns further onto her side and rolls her hips slowly, achingly, grinding against him.

A faint growl murmurs in her ear, his own desire stirred.

He kisses her, trailing down her jaw and throat nestle against her collarbone. His leg tangles with hers, his hips moving slowly in response to her movements. He squeezes her breast and a pleasurable shiver rolls down her spine. A little moan escapes her and she trembles, this time not from the cold. Chuckling huskily, he kisses her again, his mouth gentle and warm against her throat, and dips a hand between her legs.

She bites her lower lip, muffling a moan.

A featherlight stroke across her clit has her trembling and shaking, warmth flooding her from head to toe. She rolls her hips once more, bucking against his hand, chasing the friction. He sighs, his breath whispering across her skin, and caresses her with gentle, languid touches. She relaxes, tension flooding from her, and she tugs on her leggings, pulling them down.

A hard length presses against her rear. He places a hand against her hip, pulling her back, and her legs fall apart easily for him.

His cock slips through the silky wet heat, nudging against her entrance. Her heart flutters, anticipation coiling deep within, yearning for the moment. Yearning for release.

He circles a finger across her clit, the pleasure lulling her into relaxation, the last of her anxiety fleeing. His hand slips from her breast and presses against her abdomen right below her navel, holding her tight. A silent reminder to breathe. A reminder to let go. She inhales a breath and turns her face into her pillow.

She exhales.

He thrusts, entering her slowly, the blistering, stretching ache paradoxically gentle. He murmurs, his voice so low she can barely hear despite his proximity, instructing her to breathe again. To relax. To let it all go. The pain she has in moments like this never quite goes away; some days it is navigable with ease, others her body simply refuses to do what she wishes it to do. He is adept at traversing it now, perhaps more aware of it than she is. A necessity tonight in this moment that has crept up on them.

He slips fully inside her now, filling her. She falls against him, her back pressed against his chest, cradled in his arms, the pleasure an aching build. Her mind fuzzes, her vision hazy in the dark, the window and its distant lights trivial to her now, and she closes her eyes, shutting out everything but him.

They move. They breathe. They sigh. The blankets weigh heavily upon them, enveloping them in their warmth. Their clothing pulls and tugs, twisting about them with their movements. The heat beneath is far from the heady elation of first time sex, nor the charged moments when they have come crashing back together after time apart. It is slow and unhurried, no need to reach a staggering end.

No need to reach an end at all.

It is some time before they still. They lie in each other’s arms, listening, moving, breathing as one, following wherever this slow build leads them. She opens her eyes, clutching his arm where it wraps around her, a trembling sigh escaping her lips as she passes the fleeting cusp of something she cannot fully reach. He kisses her brow, holding her tight, a content murmur rumbling in the back of his throat he thrusts one last time. He pulls free, still shaking from his release, and leans his head against her shoulder, the warmth between them a tender comfort.

She breathes.

He breathes.

At last they can sleep.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2024 #writing tag #myreiawrites2024 #wolcred #aureia malathar #thancred waters #endwalker

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pareidoliaonthemove · 11 months ago

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@astranite, ah, yes, ‘Runaway’! I can generally turn off my ‘train-brain’ for any train episodes – unless of course our hero or villain is train surfing, traps the opposition on a carriage, and kicks at the coupler to separate the carriage from the engine, and speeds off into the sunset to await round 2. Then the entire neighbourhood has to endure me yelling general abuse, and "Couplers don’t work like that!"

While mag-levs are strictly outside my area of expertise, they do share a lot of infrastructure details and safety features with current diesel-electric, and electric trains, and when you take those into consideration, well, let’s just say the set up shown on screen is, um, lacking.

Brains, John and Virgil should all be having very strong words with the Japanese Rail Network.

First point is: why on god’s green earth are they testing a new locomotive design on a live line?! Especially one that operates passenger services? Even if it is a locomotive undergoing a post-overhaul mainline test, there should have at least been a qualified mechanic on board to test-ride it’s performance. Away from passenger trains.

Second problem: and speaking of the track, it’s all one track, one rail, so how do trains going on opposite directions pass each other? At the very least there should be what’s called ‘crossing loops’: a short section of track that forks off and then runs parallel to the main line, before rejoining it. One train goes into the loop, and pulls up, while the other train passes on the main line. If the crossing loop is long enough the train might not need to stop – this type of setup is more common in the United States than it is in Australia – we get to stop and stretch our legs.

Many crossing loops in my area are being upgraded to include catch points. These are a set of points (which is the junction where a train can change tracks, they can also be called ‘switches’, but the standard term here is ‘points’, so that’s what I’m sticking with) linked to the points on the mainline which are intended to prevent a train rejoining the main line without permission from the controller. Instead, the lead engine will be directed off the tracks to loose forward momentum in a specially constructed section of ballast (rocks, preferably granite, about the size of your fist). A mag-lev train would be able to be shunted to a de-energised section of track, and allowed to shed its momentum safely there. (There should be friction locks that deploy when power is lost, like in an elevator car – ‘it would be like hitting a brick wall’, eh, not so much, Brains.)

Third Problem: And this is the biggie! All modern locomotives have a safety system in place designed to prevent the driver falling asleep on the job. In Australia it is currently called the “Driver Vigilance System”, or ‘vigi’. Its job is to safely stop the train before it is stopped, should the driver fall asleep or be … otherwise incapacitated.

The technology has gone through a few iterations, the oldest being the ‘Dead Man’s Switch’, a footplate that drivers had to hold down while the train was in motion. Unfortunately, due to the fact that drivers can be on a train for up to 12 hours, and it required a degree of force to hold down, drivers were prone to wedging the footplate down with their lunch box, or an emergency flag. Sadly, the system was shown to be entirely ineffective on 31 January 2003 when the driver of the Tangara G7 passenger train suffered a heart attack enroute and slumped with his weight on the deadman’s switch, allowing the passenger train to enter a curve rated for 60km/h at 117km/h. It derailed, killing seven (including the driver), and injuring 40 people. It is commonly referred to as the Waterfall Train Disaster.

The current system has a light illuminated for 10sec, which then flashes for 7 sec, then a 5 sec high pitched beeping, if the ‘vigi’ button is not pressed in that time, the train brakes will deploy automatically, while simultaneously putting in an emergency call to the network controller. If the train crew doesn’t respond to the controller answering the call, emergency procedures are brought into play, and emergency services are sent to the train’s GPS location. (And if you weren’t incapacitated, you would wish you were.)

All the hapless engineer in ‘Runaway’ would have had to do was … not press the button.

And the thing that makes me laugh? John being able to reset the points the ‘instant’ that the passenger train clears the points. For safety’s sake, points are locked in position until the system detects the rail traffic has cleared a set point at a safe distance, and even then, there is ‘time out’ period between clearance, and points unlocking, and then a 120 second ‘time out’ between the points registering as being locked into position, and the signal clearing.

But hey, technology changes. Maybe they ‘improved’ the points system? Although their cyber security is seriously lacking ….

But it looks good on screen, and I don't suppose the series' target demographic really has a whole lot of practical experience in rail operations.

#trains in fiction #thunderbirds are go #season 1 episode 7 #runaway #and that doesn't even consider john's murderous code baby

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theredhavendelegate · 8 months ago

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Iss. 5:

The Unknown Rot, Redhaven's New Illness!

Part One

Another supernatural tragedy struck Redhaven as local painter Eustace Simmons passed this week due to an unusual disease. The Redhaven Delegate has secured, with permission from the family, a report on the circumstances of his passing and the source of his strange illness.

It seems that the new world we find ourselves in does not abide by all the same rules as the previous one did, including the rules of life and death... ---

Eustace Simmons, stubbled face crumpled with effort, grunts along the evening sidewalk. Another man hangs from his shoulder by one arm, the other slung loosely across the neck of a woman with her dark, greying hair tied into a bun.

Eustace and the woman carry their charge along for another minute or so then slow to a stop, setting the man on the ground and propping him against an unlit barbershop.

Eustace leans hard against his knees and huffs, coughing out, “Did he gain weight d’ya think, Minerva?”

The woman finishes coughing herself and then cackles disdainfully. “Its all water-weight, or booze-weight, I guess. Too much for one evening, methinks. It’ll be a few more blocks yet anyway, so catch your breath.”

Eustace grimaces and raises a brow. “A few more blocks? He lives right down at the end of Linden, doesn’t he?”

Minerva rubs the back of her neck and shrugs, gesturing vaguely toward an upcoming street corner as she replies, “You didn’t stop by George’s place before going to the pub, but they closed off Linden Street this morning to take down a few of the damaged buildings. We’ll have to go around.”

The man groans and begins to protest, but his companion hushes him. “Just relax, we’ll be there before you know it. I’m not cutting through any constructions site, either. I’d throw my back out! Now, help Georgie up again, he’s starting to drool.”

Eustace does, though his brown eyes remain half shut in annoyance the whole time. “Throw your back out,” he mutters, “As if that weren’t what we were already doing.”

Minerva doesn’t respond as the two continue to carry their friend down the road.

They pass the construction site, previously humming but now silent and desolate. One formerly filled building lot is now an empty foundation, a repository for rubble, mostly brick and wood. Several other lots are cordoned off and waiting. They carry on another block and then turn down an alley by the light of the gas lamps, the moonless, starless skies overhead.

Between breaths, Eustace mutters, “Do you…hear…that…Minnie?”

She doesn’t answer but a figure emerges from up ahead.

They are covered in layers of dirty, torn clothing, hood and all, and they reek even at a distance. Their gait is uneven, unsure, and they stumble against a wall to hold themselves up.

As Eustace and Minerva draw close and start to pass, the figure groans, “H-help…me…please…”

Eustace responds almost right away, taking a careful breath first. “Sorry, we really have to get our friend home. There’s a clinic down the street though, the way we came. The doctor is a live-in so you should[TWO DASHES]”

Eustace is cut off as the figure darts upright. Their hood flies back to reveal a sickly, pale visage, sunken cheeks and eyes, their face and neck covered in open sores, purple bruises, and unhealed cuts.

Before either Eustace or Minerva can shout or dodge, the person lunges towards Eustace and takes hold of him by the arm. They grab his right hand and yank on it with desperate ferocity. They bite into his hand, deep, and Eustace kicks them several times until they thrash away.

Eustace stares at the gangly figure, arms held up defensively, primed for another attack, but the assailant slinks off into the shadows again, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“Is your hand alright?” Minerva asks, breaking Eustace out of his focus. She is half lent against a wall, barely holding George up under his armpits.

Eustace glances down at his bloody hand and then winces, looking away and paling.

“I’ll take that as a no?” A low, gruff voice emits from George now, he’s eyes have just cracked open.

The drunk sobers up slightly and lifts himself to his own unsteady feet as Minerva wipes her hands off on her skirt. He speaks, though his speech is slightly rounded, sanded off at the corners. “Whaddid ya do to piss that guy off, eh? Grumpy bastard, he was.”

Eustace presses his hand tightly between the folds of his overcoat, barely staunching the flow of blood at the cost of a sharp spike in pain. He responds through gritted teeth, “Don’t know, they just came at me. Damn.” His face pales again and he groans, “Minnie, can you get George home now that he’s walking? I need to get back to my place before I…uh…” Eustace’s head grows light and his vision flashes with darkness, but he shakes off the sensation. “…before I pass out.” He finishes curtly.

George steps in an uncertain circle, then nods. Minerva withdraws a baton from her coat, just a metal stick a half-foot long, and nods as well. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the pub again, right?” she asks, voice shaking just a hair.

Eustace grins, though it shows as more of a grimace, and he answers, “Of course, you two are the only people I can stand to be around these days besides Millie. See you in the morning, good night.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

---

Eustace sets a stack of off-white dishes into a kitchen sink, bread crumbs and coffee stains inside and atop them. He rinses his hands off with plain water, taking care around the right one, which is wrapped in partially soiled gauze.

He wipes his face with a dish towel as well, evacuating the remnants of his breakfast from his motley stubble.

He finally makes his way out of the kitchen and into a side room, a painting space into which falls the dull, whitish rays of the sunless dawn. There is an incomplete painting propped upon an easel, a collection of brushes and pigments, and an unusual still life arranged before them.

The center of the scene is a disused typewriter surrounded with carefully stacked notepads and writing instruments, arranged not for practically but for visual appeal. The pads, pencils, pens, and quills form patterns that subtly lead the eye around the table, to the typewriter, then back out for another lap.

He opens a few of the pigments and takes up a brush in his right hand, then begins to work.

The first few strokes are simple, easy, then his hand begins to rebel, attacking him with flares of pain that make him grit his teeth. Sweat beads up on his brow, errant strokes demand patient correction, more time, more pigment, thicker layers, dip, dip, stroke, flare, grit, sweat, dip, dip, dip.

Eustace throws his brush across the room and the gauze comes loose on his hand. A fleck of dark, rotten blood flies from it and lands on his canvas. He stares at the spot.

There is a knock a the door, genial, confident. Eustace chokes once, then clears his throat and calls out, “I’ll be right there.” He lumbers to the kitchen and removes his still-soiled dishes from the basin, then washes his hand fully. Black-red something comes away, thicker than blood, though the pain isn’t as bad as Eustace expects. He ruins a towel drying his hand, packs cotton around the wound, and wraps it up with fresh gauze.

A voice calls through the front door, slightly muffled but high and calm, “I can go if it’s a bad time.”

Eustace’s heart jumps and he turns hard on his heel toward the voice. “No, no, not at all!” He powers over and opens the door with his left hand to reveal a pleasant young woman, almost his spitting image though with much longer hair. “Millie, dear, it’s great to see you! Come in, please! I could put on some coffee or something if you like, tea maybe?”

The young woman smiles smugly and enters, “Oh, the royal treatment? This is a much warmer welcome than I’m used to.” She sits down at a small round table as her host fills a kettle. jovially, she continues, “And you’re going with Millie now, not Mildred? What’s gotten into to you?”

Eustace answers casually, though his tone is flecked with worry. “Well, I’m just a bit shaken up lately is all. It’s just quite nice to have something to take my mind off of things.”

Millie raises a brow and asks, “Shaken? What’s that for, is the painting difficult? You aren’t already running out of supplies, are you?”

Eustace sets the kettle on the stove and turns around, raising his bandaged hand into the air. “It’s just this. I was attacked on the way home from the bar the other night. Strangest thing, the fellow bit me on my good hand. I’ll be fine though, it just needs time to heal.”

Millie raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, but doesn’t question it. “Well, Harvey gave me a day, so I thought I’d swing by to see your latest project if you don’t mind. I take it you aren’t done?”

Eustace tuts and pours coffee into a small cup with a floral pattern. “Not quite, I’d be done today, but it seems unlikely now. Technically it was supposed to be a surprise for you, but I don’t mind sharing.”

“Oh no, I love a surprise so don’t spoil it! We’ll just chat then, I’m in no rush.”

And they do for a little while. Eustace’s focus goes in and out and Millie flashes him an odd look here and there, but the subject matter remains light. Eustace grumbles about the pain in his hand, the prices at the pub, George’s drinking habits, and Millie matches with comments about her coworkers and how strange the sky is to look at, day or night.

“Are you going to report it?” Millie asks abruptly.

Eustace spaces for a moment, then responds, “Report what? Oh, the attack?”

Millie nods.

“To who, the police? They’ll just turn it over to the confederates, and the confederates don’t work for locals like us.” Eustace grumbles.

Millie shrugs and says, “Well, at least have your hand checked. I’m sure the clinic by George’s will take a look.”

Eustace nods and the two sit in silence for a minute or two. Millie finishes her second cup of coffee and rises. “I think that’ll do it then. I have a few errands to run but it was nice catching up.” She flashes another smile, this one warmer, and sets her cup in the sink. “Tell George and Minnie I said hi, and…dad?”

Eustace raises an eyebrow.

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Of course,” Eustace answers with practiced, dry composure.

He rises a moment later and shows her politely to the door.

When she’s gone, he returns to his studio and takes up his brush again, this time switch-handed. The effort feels wasted. The strokes are even less confident then they were in his right hand, and the corrections even more demanding. Dip, dip, stroke, dip, wait, wait, glance, dip, stroke, curse, grumble, stroke, wait, wait…

Eustace sets down the brush and turns away. It’s dark outside already. The light coming in the window is the yellow flickering of the gas lamps. Eustace glances back to the clock above the doorway. “The pub is already closed? How did I miss so much time? Hmm, I hope Minnie and George aren’t worried too much.” “I suppose if they were,” he thinks, “then they’ll swing by”

Time seems to melt again as Eustace heads to his bedroom. The night carries on but sleep doesn’t come, just more pain in his hand and a growing headache. He turns and throws his bedding on the floor. He’s beginning to sweat and his stomach rumbles ferociously. He rises and mutters, “Breakfast, I only had breakfast today.”

He stumbles to the kitchen and digs through the pantry, bumping his knees, elbows, and knuckles on every available surface. He pulls out bread, crackers, vegetables, canned fruit, and despite the continued growling in his stomach, the hunger in his throat; the sight of them elicits disgust.

He pushes the goods away, drops them on the floor and discards them to-and-fro, until he finally gets to the fridge. It’s a small appliance, one that sits just at counter height with a large radiator on top. He opens it up. Inside sits an uncooked chicken breast among other things.

His stomach growls again and the pain in his hand flares up ferociously. Something about the pale meat, partly thawed for tomorrow’s dinner, is hypnotizing. The gentle, gelatinous pink, the fatty streaks of white, all glistening and soft, demanding to be--

Eustace is leaning over the sink. “How did I…” He stares into the basin. His hands are slightly slimy, especially on the fingertips. There is a taste lingering in his mouth as well, just faintly there, sweet and savory. He washes his hands and then checks the fridge again.

The chicken is gone.

Eustace feels as though he should want to retch, but he feels comfortable, full and satisfied. The pain in his hand has eased tremendously as well and his headache has fled.

“Something…something is very wrong with me. I need…I need to go somewhere…” he mutters. “Where though? The clinics aren’t open at this hour, and what would they even do?”

Eustace flexes his right hand and a mild pain jolts through it and up his arm. He peels back the bandage slightly. The wound still hasn’t healed at all, and neither have any of the little bumps or bruises he’s suffered over the course of the day. His mind flashes back to the alley, to the wounded person who bit him.

Quietly, Eustace heads into his studio and takes a notepad, not one from the still life but a spare one, and begins to write:

“Millie or whoever is reading this, I’ve come down with something terrible and am searching for help now. Please take care of the house until I’m back, and if I don’t come back, the house and everything in it should go to Millie Simmons.”

He signs his name beneath in a clean, cordial hand, then tears the note out.

Eustace walks back into the kitchen and sets the note on the round table, takes his coat from a hook by the door, and grabs a rarely used cane.

He feels ill at ease, something is lurking within him, behind him. He considers running from it but steels himself instead.

He opens the door and disappears into the moonless streets of Redhaven.

---

The story doesn’t end there, but further investigation is ongoing at this time. The Redhaven Delegate will have the complete picture soon, so if you want to know what happens next, make sure to pick up the next issue as soon as it comes out.

As always, The Redhaven Delegate stands with The People, and for The Truth, no matter how strange. - Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief, TRD

---

First

#trd #the redhaven delegate #writing #writeblr #unreality #short story #series #violence #biting #described gore #meat #cw meat #blood #horror #TRD: Eustace Simmons #TRD: George Bailley #TRD: Minerva Flint #TRD: Millie Simmons

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illumins · 11 months ago

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𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕻𝖆𝖈𝖙·.༄࿔ 𝐤. 𝐭𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠

༺✺༻

✦𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: low fantasy, short, fanfic.

✦𝐩𝐨𝐯: omniscient | third pov

✦𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dead bodies, description of corpse.

𔘓⁩ ᵗⁱᵖʲᵃʳ

༺✺༻

Taehyung leaned back against the plush velvet of the vintage train's seat, the warm rumble of the engine beneath him creating a soothing rhythm. The carriage was a masterpiece of Victorian opulence, a haven of polished mahogany, intricately patterned carpets, and crystal chandeliers that bathed the space in a soft, golden glow. The walls were adorned with oil paintings depicting scenes of arcane lore and historic battles between mages and humans, a constant reminder of the delicate balance that governed their world.

Seated across from Taehyung was Professor Atticus Fair, a distinguished figure whose salt-and-pepper beard framed a face lined with wisdom and experience. Atticus, a renowned scholar of magical history and ethics, had long been an advocate for the integration of dark mages into society. His attire mirrored the grandeur of the train carriage, wearing a tailored charcoal suit adorned with subtle silver embroidery that hinted at ancient symbols of arcane power. His vest was adorned with a pocket watch that gleamed in the ambient light, a relic of a time when punctuality was paramount.

As for Taehyung, he was attired in a suit of deep indigo, the fabric expertly cut to accentuate his lean frame. His attire held a touch of modernity, the lines of the suit reflecting a fusion of traditional tailoring and the more experimental designs favored by the younger generation. A silver chain peeked from his pocket, securing a small vial filled with shimmering iridescent powder—a potent substance used in certain advanced spells.

His sharp, distinguished features were accentuated by the flickering light of the lamp above, casting deep shadows that danced across the lines etched into his face. As the train hurtled through the landscape, Taehyung and Professor Atticus delved into the topic at hand. The professor's gravelly voice carried the weight of experience, each word a carefully chosen brick in the construction of their discourse.

“The politics of our world are built upon a precarious balance, Taehyung,” the Professor mused, his fingers steepled in front of him. "The dark mages, with their formidable powers, walk a fine line between obedience and rebellion. It is the duty of the ruling class to maintain that equilibrium.”

Taehyung nodded, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape outside the window—a panorama of sprawling cities with towering spires and billowing chimneys. The Professor continued, his eyes momentarily fixated on the city lights.

“The Council of Arcane Affairs, established by the Accord of the Elders, holds the reins of power. Dark mages are permitted to exist only under their watchful gaze. But tell me, Taehyung, what happens when those in power begin to waver, when the delicate balance tips?”

Taehyung's gaze flickered with a subtle intensity, the play of shadows on his chiseled features giving him an air of mystery. “Chaos ensues, Professor. It's a delicate dance, and one misstep could plunge us all into the abyss.”

As Taehyung opened his mouth to voice his query, a sudden, eerie shift descended upon the train. Shadows lengthened, swallowing the warm glow of the gas lamps and shrouding the carriage in an oppressive darkness. The clatter of the wheels against the tracks grew muffled, drowned out by the collective intake of breath and the rustling of fabric as passengers shifted uneasily in their seats.

The once lively hum of conversation fell into a hushed silence, broken only by anxious whispers that rippled through the air like a nervous breeze. Some passengers gasped, others whimpered, and a few, gripped by fear, erupted into panicked exclamations, demanding to know what was happening.

Taehyung felt a surge of urgency, his muscles tensing in readiness to rise and investigate, but the firm grip of Professor Atticus's hand on his wrist arrested his movement. He glanced at the professor, whose steady gaze implored him to remain still, a silent command underscored by the subtle tilt of his head.

Reluctantly, Taehyung sank back into his seat, his expression shifting from curiosity to a strict mask of alertness. His throat tightened, a reflexive gulp betraying the tension that coiled within him. His eyes, usually warm and expressive, now scanned the dimly lit carriage for any sign of danger, his senses heightened as he tried to discern the source of the encroaching darkness.

“Sit tight,” the Professor murmured, his voice low but resolute. “Let's observe first, understand the nature of this disturbance.”

Around them, the fear of the unknown simmered, morphing into various reactions. Some passengers became more agitated, their voices rising in a crescendo of questions and demands for answers. Others clutched at talismans and charms, seeking solace in superstition. Shadows danced on the walls, twisting and contorting in eerie shapes that seemed almost sentient in their movement.

The sudden yell pierced through the tension like a lightning bolt, distorting into a guttural growl that reverberated within the carriage, followed by a heavy thud that jolted everyone into a frenzy of panicked screams. Taehyung shot a glance at Professor Atticus, an irritated yet alarmed look flashing in his eyes. Without waiting for permission, he rose from his seat, determination etched on his features as he maneuvered through the chaos toward the source of the commotion.

Navigating through the dimly lit carriage, Taehyung's senses were on high alert. People scrambled, their cries intertwining with the unsettling darkness that engulfed the space. Finally reaching the front-middle section, he found a cluster of terrified passengers, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear.

“She's dead!” someone screamed, their voice laced with horror. The passengers erupted into a frenzy, their voices a discordant chorus of terror. Taehyung pushed through the crowd, his gaze narrowing as he caught sight of the lifeless figure sprawled on the floor.

In the dim light, Taehyung discerned a streak of embers below the lifeless eyes, a haunting glow that sent shivers down his spine. Without hesitation, he reached for a lantern on one of the nearby tables, fingers deftly tracing an incantation along its rim. The spell was swift, a whisper of magic conjuring a flickering flame atop the candle within the lantern, illuminating the grim scene with an ethereal glow.

With the lantern illuminating the scene, the grisly truth came into focus. The victim lay motionless, eyes now hollow, black ashen sockets that seemed to absorb the feeble light around them. The mouth, once wide and agape in terror, now held a silent scream frozen in the pallor of death.

The streaks of ember and fading fire beneath the eyes painted a sinister tableau. Taehyung's breath caught in his throat as he surveyed the eerie remnants of magic that clung to the lifeless form. The air crackled with an unknown energy, and the acrid scent of burnt remnants lingered, as if the very essence of the victim had been consumed by an insatiable flame.

As the lantern's glow flickered over the lifeless figure, Taehyung sensed Professor Atticus's presence behind him. He turned slightly, catching the glint in the older man's eyes as he murmured, “Angels…” The word hung in the air like a cryptic melody, and Taehyung's curiosity flared. It was a peculiar response, one that hinted at a knowledge deeper than the surface of the magical realm.

Before Taehyung could press for an explanation, a renewed cry echoed through the carriage, mirroring the previous disturbance. The urgency in the voices was unmistakable, and the professor's gaze shifted from Taehyung to the source of the commotion. Another unsettling growl resonated, low and menacing, as if some malevolent force lurked in the shadows.

The cries of terror multiplied, echoing through the compartments like a ghastly symphony of fear. Bodies fell, accompanied by the sounds of panicked voices and desperate pleas. Taehyung's eyes widened in alarm as he witnessed the swift descent into pandemonium.

The once tranquil luxury of the vintage train had transformed into a theater of horror. People writhed in agony, falling to the ground as if pulled by unseen malevolent hands. Fear painted stark portraits on their faces, their voices carrying a chilling urgency that mingled with the train's relentless rhythm.

Taehyung's eyes darted rapidly from one corner to the other, his senses attuned to the unfolding drama. Bodies fell, and the air crackled with the frenzied energy of the unknown. His hand tightened around the lantern, the warm glow casting dancing shadows on the carved walls of the carriage.

Professor Atticus's expression remained inscrutable, his gaze unwavering, and Taehyung felt a ripple of uncertainty. In the dim light, the professor's lips parted, as if about to share some profound revelation. Yet, the chaos intensified, drowning out any possibility of dialogue.

Amidst the tumult, Taehyung decided to act. His instincts propelled him forward, navigating through the panicked passengers toward the epicenter of the disturbance. The train seemed to hurtle faster, its wheels a relentless percussion beneath the cacophony of screams.

As Taehyung reached the next carriage, the scene mirrored the horror he had left behind. People stumbled and fell, their faces etched with terror. The air buzzed with the same malevolent energy, and Taehyung's eyes widened as he discerned the telltale signs of dark magic at play.

A chorus of panicked voices echoed through the steel corridors, each scream intertwining with the next. Taehyung's mind raced, the urgency of the situation demanding his full attention.

Taehyung moved through the carriages, his mind racing as he recited the fundamental rules of magic under his breath. “The first rule: what is taken can be returned in equal measure…” Each rule echoed in his thoughts as he delved deeper into the labyrinth of compartments. "The second rule: Energy can't be created or destroyed…" His steps quickened, urgency driving him forward. "The third rule: Magic obeys balance…" He scanned the faces of passengers, seeking any signs of a mage in distress.

“Fourth rule: Whatever is done to one will be mirrored on its user…” This particular tenet echoed in his mind, the implication clear. Whoever was casting such powerful magic would suffer its repercussions.

Yet, despite his urgent search, Taehyung couldn't pinpoint the source. His eyes scanned every corner of the carriages, seeking any sign of a mage suffering the repercussions of their own magic. Frustration gnawed at him as the chaos continued unabated, the elusive caster of the spell remaining elusive.

As he entered another carriage, the professor's voice cut through the chaos. “Taehyung!” The older man weaved through the terrified passengers, his hand reaching out to grab Taehyung's shoulder. Startled, Taehyung turned, his eyes ablaze with determination.

“What?” Taehyung snapped, his voice edged with urgency. “We need to find them, or more will die!”

The professor's hands tightened on Taehyung's shoulders, a touch filled with a desperate plea. “Listen to me, Taehyung,” he implored, his voice strained. “You won't find them because it's not a dark caster. It's an Angel.”

Taehyung's brows furrowed in confusion. “An Angel? What do you mean?”

“Yes, an Angel. They don't follow the rules of magic as we know them. It's not a dark mage casting these spells. You won't find them through the echoes of pain. They're beyond that, working on a different plane. We need to rethink our approach.”

As the chaos surged around them, Taehyung made a conscious effort to steady his breath. “What can we do, then?” he asked the professor, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency.

Professor Atticus's brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “We have to attune our frequencies to sense Angels. It's akin to when mages attune their frequency to communicate with the dead. We need to shift our perception, align our senses to a different realm.”

Taehyung absorbed the professor's words, the notion of attuning frequencies beyond the scope of conventional magic both intriguing and daunting. Atticus wasted no time in explaining the process, guiding Taehyung through a series of mental exercises meant to adjust his perception.

“Focus on your senses, Taehyung," Atticus instructed. "It's not about seeing or hearing. It's about feeling, reaching out with your awareness. Concentrate on the shift in energies around you.”

He guided Taehyung through the process, a method that required a delicate manipulation of one's magical senses. “Focus,” the professor urged. “In the threads of life and magic, you'll notice a thin thread, almost imperceptible at first, with an unfamiliar glow. Once you learn to spot it, it becomes easier to distinguish amidst the larger threads.”

Taehyung closed his eyes, focusing on the fabric of existence around him. At first, it was a struggle, the sea of threads blurring together. But slowly, a glimmer caught his attention—a faint, almost ethereal thread with an otherworldly hue.

His eyes snapped open, widening in realization. “It's here,” he murmured, whipping around to search the carriage. The professor's voice cut through the urgency, his tone heavy with the weight of their predicament.

“The High Council and I haven't found a way to stop them,” Atticus explained, frustration tinged with resignation. “How do you stop something that isn't bound by law?”

Taehyung's mind raced, thoughts colliding as he pondered the professor's words. An idea sparked within him, a dangerous notion that took root as Atticus spoke. But he held his plan close, veiling it in the secrecy of his thoughts.

Without a word, Taehyung walked away from the professor, following the faintly glowing thread. It led him to the far left corner of the carriage, where he found a young woman in a black dress. Her long wavy locks lay calmly as she rested her hands on her legs, an image of serene composure. Oddly, a white cloth was wrapped around her eyes, shrouding them in mystery.

Taehyung hesitated, his senses alert. The glow from the thread seemed to emanate from her, and as he observed her serene countenance, a chilling realization settled in—he had found the Angel.

With a hesitancy that clashed against his urgency, Taehyung extended his hand toward the young woman in the black dress, his fingers trembling slightly before finally clasping hers. A chill swept through him as their skin connected, a sensation akin to icy needles pricking his flesh. The touch was unsettlingly cold, sending a shiver down his spine, but he tightened his grip, steeling himself against the discomfort.

Focusing his will, Taehyung began the incantation in a low, steady voice, his words resonating within the confines of the carriage. The air hummed with the potency of magic as he sought to bind himself to the Angel. Latin words spilled from his lips, each syllable charged with intention and purpose.

“Anima mea coniunge te tibi,” he uttered, the words echoing against the chaos surrounding them. His eyes bore into the cloth-covered gaze of the Angel as he continued the spell, a swirling maelstrom of ancient language and raw power.

As the spell unfurled, weaving tendrils of binding magic between them, the Angel's calm facade fractured. With swift, ethereal grace, she rose from her seat, her hand snaking around Taehyung's throat, cold and unforgiving. He felt the vice-like grip constricting his airway, the sensation of her touch seeping into his very essence.

But Taehyung remained resolute, his voice unwavering as he continued the incantation. Pain, both visceral and transcendent, surged through him as their souls began to merge. It was a tumultuous union, a clash of opposing forces seeking to entwine in a forbidden dance.

The merging of their essences was a cacophony of sensations—pain searing through his veins, an electrifying thrill coursing down his spine. It was as if his very being was on the precipice of transformation. The world around him dimmed, his focus solely on the binding spell and the merging of their souls.

Amidst the chaos, Taehyung heard whispers—a symphony of voices that weren't his own, fragments of ancient tongues and celestial murmurs. It was a chorus of existence, a collision of two disparate entities tethering themselves to each other in a realm beyond comprehension.

The agony intensified, a crescendo of pain and exhilaration that threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, amidst the chaos of their merging souls, a strange harmony emerged—a strange understanding, an unspoken connection between two beings on opposite ends of existence.

The culmination of the binding spell was a tumultuous whirlwind of sensations. As Taehyung uttered the final words, “Libera me,” the air crackled with residual energy, and a profound stillness settled over the carriage. He knew, in that moment, that the binding had been successful.

With a sense of finality, Taehyung released the Angel's hand, only to find her grip around his throat relenting. Desperation etched across his features, he gasped for breath, his hand reaching to rub the soreness that lingered in the wake of the ethereal struggle.

“Stop,” he croaked, the word barely audible as he struggled to regain control of his body. His vocal cords protested, a harsh rasp escaping his lips. Undeterred, he shifted to mental communication, focusing his thoughts on the Angel. ‘Let go.’

A hesitation lingered in the ephemeral connection they now shared, and slowly, the Angel loosened her grip. Taehyung felt the constriction around his throat ease, the pressure relenting as if a vice slowly releasing its hold. He gulped for air, the pain subsiding as he focused on restoring his own breath.

As the echoes of their struggle faded, Taehyung became aware of the continued chaos surrounding him—the screams, the cries, the remnants of fear that clung to the air. He turned to see Professor Atticus staring at him in horror, the older man's eyes wide with disbelief at the uncharted path Taehyung had ventured upon.

Taehyung met the professor's gaze, his expression a mix of exhaustion and determination. “Stop,” he commanded the Angel once more, this time with an air of authority. The chaos seemed to heed his words, the screams tapering off into an eerie silence.

The aftermath of the magical turmoil was palpable. Passengers, frozen in various states of panic, stared wide-eyed at the scene that unfolded before them. The Angel, now released from her ethereal assault, sat calmly in her seat, the white cloth still concealing her eyes. Taehyung's eyes flickered between the Professor and the Angel, uncertainty lingering in the air.

With a steadying breath, Taehyung addressed the professor, “We need to understand her motives, Professor. There must be a reason for these disturbances.”

The professor approached them, his gaze shifting between Taehyung and the Angel. His eyes, once filled with shock, now harbored a mixture of concern and reproach. Taehyung met his mentor's gaze, the weight of their unspoken conversation lingering in the air.

“What have you done?” Professor Atticus asked, his voice a measured blend of disappointment and caution.

“I did what was necessary,” Taehyung retorted, his tone firm.

“Taehyung,” the professor began, his voice measured but tinged with a grave tone, “you've broken one of the fundamental rules set by the Elders.”

Taehyung sighed, closing his eyes. “The binding spell—”

“Yes,” the professor interjected, “the rule explicitly states that the binding spell cannot be cast. Not under any circumstance.”

Taehyung's gaze flickered between the professor and the veiled Angel, a surge of frustration and determination building within him. “But this was different, Professor. You saw what happened. The threat she posed—”

“The Elders won't see it that way,” Atticus interrupted, his tone unwavering. “There are protocols, Taehyung. Lines we cannot cross, even in the face of danger.”

“But I acted to protect,” Taehyung protested, his voice tinged with urgency. “Surely they'll understand the circumstances.”

The professor's expression remained somber. “You'll have to defend your actions, Taehyung. Explain why you breached the rules they've set. It's a line that's been crossed, regardless of the intent.”

A sense of dismay settled over Taehyung, the weight of the situation pressing down upon him. He had acted on instinct, driven by the urgency of the moment, and yet now faced the consequences of his impulsive decision. The tension in the carriage hung thick, an unspoken rift between the laws of magic and the instinct for survival.

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harmonyhealinghub · 4 months ago

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Words Have Weight: Deepening Our Relationship with Language Shaina Tranquilino July 30, 2024

In an age where communication happens at the speed of light and words are often wielded without much forethought, it is crucial to remember the profound impact our language has on ourselves and others. Words are more than mere vehicles for conveying information; they are powerful tools that shape our reality, influence our emotions, and define our relationships. As we become more conscious of the weight our words carry, we deepen our relationship with language and, consequently, with each other.

The Power of Words

Words have the power to build or destroy, to heal or hurt. A kind word can uplift someone’s spirit, while a harsh word can leave a lasting scar. Research in psychology has shown that positive affirmations can boost self-esteem and improve mental health, whereas negative language can contribute to stress and anxiety. Understanding this, we begin to see that every word we choose is a brick in the edifice of our interactions and relationships.

Conscious Communication

Becoming conscious of our language means paying attention to the words we use and the intentions behind them. It involves a mindfulness practice where we think before we speak, ensuring that our words align with our values and the message we want to convey. This is not about self-censorship or speaking less, but about speaking better. It's about choosing words that reflect empathy, respect, and understanding.

The Ripple Effect

Our words do not exist in a vacuum; they have a ripple effect. When we speak kindly, we not only affect the person we are speaking to but also those who witness the interaction. This ripple effect can create a more positive environment, encouraging others to also engage in conscious communication. On the other hand, negative or careless words can perpetuate a cycle of negativity and misunderstanding.

Practical Steps to Mindful Speech

Pause Before Speaking: Take a moment to consider the impact of your words before you say them. This brief pause can prevent many misunderstandings and hurt feelings.

Choose Positive Words: Whenever possible, frame your words positively. Instead of focusing on what someone did wrong, highlight what they did right and suggest improvements.

Listen Actively: Mindful communication is not just about speaking; it’s also about listening. Pay full attention to the speaker, validate their feelings, and respond thoughtfully.

Reflect on Your Language: Regularly reflect on your language. Are there words or phrases you use that are harmful or unnecessary? Replace them with more constructive alternatives.

Express Gratitude and Appreciation: Make it a habit to express gratitude and appreciation. These positive affirmations strengthen relationships and foster a supportive environment.

Words and Self-Talk

Conscious communication also extends to how we talk to ourselves. Our internal dialogue can be our greatest ally or our worst enemy. By being mindful of our self-talk, we can cultivate a healthier mindset. Replace self-criticism with self-compassion, and recognize the power of encouraging and affirming words to yourself.

Building Deeper Connections

When we become more mindful of our words, we not only improve our communication but also deepen our connections with others. People are more likely to open up and engage meaningfully when they feel heard and respected. This creates a foundation of trust and mutual respect, essential for any healthy relationship.

Words have weight, and the more conscious we become of this, the more we can use language to build a better world. By choosing our words thoughtfully, we can create positive ripple effects, foster deeper connections, and cultivate a more empathetic and understanding society. Let us embark on this journey of mindful communication, recognizing the power we hold in our words, and using them to uplift and inspire.

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kaira-diaries · 1 year ago

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Pistol:

Note: one shot is also available on Wattpad under my account Kairadiaries for those who prefer it. Also, there will be multiple parts to this one shot so bear with me !!

Warning: violence / death / blood / gun use & language

Pairing: Javi x f!character

Summary: You are the daughter of Pablo Escobar's business partner, and your life takes an uncomfortable turn when you're thrown into your first task.

••••

Pablo was evident in his tone as he held a pistol to your father's head. You should have seen it coming when Papa refused the drug lord's offer. The rules in this world were simple: saying no was something you just didn't do. The fright had set in when your father's eyes had watered. He knew that his daughter was the next best thing when he was reluctant to serve his boss, and he'd kept up his ends of constructed deals for years until now. It wasted no time driving you conflicted in trying to spell out the type of father he was. Isn't a parent meant to throw themselves in front of a bus to keep their child alive? You'd sure think so. Your Papa knew you wanted no part in this game of illegal activities, and it left your relationship upside-down.

The fright surfaced from an unknown depth in your gut. It wasn't from the threat on your father's life or the uncharacteristic alarm on his wilting features. Your Papa didn't fear much; when he did, it was for a damn good reason or because he had done something absurd. You concluded that was the cause of his fear, the realization that he'd refused the most powerful drug lord in the country, and now the weight of the task was thrown on your skinny shoulders. Now, that is the reason for your own fear. Your first task. From what you learned in the mansion, they weren't called missions; that sounded too... civil, especially when Pablo's overall objective is anything but civilized.

All eyes were on you as you stood with your arms by your side, your back drenched in sweat from the Colombian heat. The smell of cigarettes and liquor poisoned your nostrils. Pablo had asked for your response, cocking the silver gun in his palm, earning a flinch from your father in return. You only nodded, your back stiff like iron and your mouth too sand-dry to compose words. The man was terrifying. It drew more attention than you had hoped, enabling Pablo to tread across the corridor floor. His men swiftly moved out of his way and watched as he leaned in.

"You will not fail." He ordered, his mustache danced as his demand left his lips. You leaned back as his breath invaded your surroundings while his eyes skated across your figure. For an odd reason, you felt this task was the most important. It felt like a one-chance-only ordeal. You fail; it's over. You nodded once more as your drug lord whispered a promise of death on you and your father if you were to fall.

You didn't want this, but it wasn't up to you, so you did what you were told. The task was "simple": get close to the renowned Javier Pena, the DEA's most critical agent, find intel, and report back.

Flung out of a taxi with a pair of apartment keys and a rugged suitcase, you found yourself on the streets of Bogota. The lights were bright as you took in the surrounding buildings. The addresses nailed into the bricked foundations didn't correspond to the keychain you pulled from your pocket, and you started on your journey into the crowded city streets.

You've never walked this far before; living in Pablo's mansion meant chauffeurs and free rides across the beautiful Colombian countryside, among other things. You had to admit that living a life you wanted nothing to do with had perks. Bending over to regrip the hold on your suitcase, people parted for you, and men whistled your way. You excused it as the ache in your legs grew but overlooked it as quickly as you saw the salsa dancing across the street. It would have been a dancer if you could have been anything in this world. You even took lessons when you were just a girl and were at the top of the echelon. You crossed the street, approaching the crowd, smiling at the beautiful lady in red with wonderous joy on her face. Her partner spins her flawlessly on cue with the music. He was handsome, with brown eyes, brown hair, and pleasant tan skin, everything you find enchanting. His smile was ravishing under the lights. You could have sworn it was love at first sight, though you've never experienced such a distinguishing thing. Love at first sight? Unexplored. Your heart leaped until you recalled why you were here, and you forced your legs to move as you passed the crowd and continued to look for the apartment.

An hour passed until you found the apartment; it was a peaceful street with quiet road and foot traffic. The sun had set, allowing a cool breeze to blow through your chocolate brown locks. The stars lit the sky and reflected in your eyes as you took in the atmosphere. The sounds of the trees swaying, the bugs croaking, and laughter ringing through the distance. It was a calming aura, and you made your way up the stairs, holding the railing to keep your weary legs from crumpling. Shutting the main door behind you, a poorly lit hallway welcomes you. The light above flickered every few seconds, supported by the warm glow of a lamp from down the hall. You located your door virtually a juncture later. The second door from the entrance, apartment number two, sat waiting for you. The number was hammered into the paint-chipped door, and you skated your fingers across the cold material. The hard key slipped into the door knob, and you slid into the apartment. It was adequate. A step down from the mansion, but you'd perform your magic and make it a hospitable home. At a quick glance, you already knew what could be accomplished with it.

Unpacking was a chore, though you were wonderfully surprised that your drug lord picked out stunning garments. In exploring the apartment, you found the kitchen stocked with all types of food, but your hand twitched, seeing a note in one of the drawers. It read...

Javier is in apartment one; his schedule is 8:30-5. Meet him, talk to him, fuck him, force your way into his life for all I care. Find intel, get him to lean on you, and report back.

You will not fail.

Pablo.

His parting words sent an electric chill down your spine, and you relied on the sink behind you to keep you from plunging. You were beautiful but no good at flirtation. What scared you most was receiving no interest. You wouldn't know what to do if that happened.

You jerked the worry from your figure and settled on venturing out for dinner. With a sweater in hand and your keys in the other, you shut your apartment door behind you, ignorant of the presence beside you.

"You're a new face." A velvety voice called. Your chin drew in the direction of a man with brown eyes and brown hair with pleasant tan skin. You blinked, the only sign of surprise you allowed as you remembered him from earlier. The loverboy looked happier than ever in the arms of the woman in red. It was a bittersweet feeling, and your heart drooped with sadness. This is the man you must trick. His golden key fit snugly in the door marked by the number one, and his smile remained secure. You cleared your throat.

"Just moved in, actually." You returned the grin and introduced yourself. He did the same, his large hand engulfing yours in a shake. The ring on his middle finger countered the warmth of his skin. "What a beautiful ring," you praised. He retracted his hand, fidgeting with the golden iron, his eyes scrutinizing it. "Heirloom," he shrugged. You broke from a trance you didn't comprehend, stepping back and gripping your bag that swung on your arm. "Um," you began, biting your cheek, earning an amused chuckle. You were still determining where to go with this exchange. "I was just on my way to get some dinner, but I'm not too sure where I should go. Any suggestions?"

He grins, "yeah," he says, popping his gum between his sparkling teeth, and shakes his brown-haired head. "I know a place." He stares down at his watch to read the time, though you can't help but notice the faint singular scar that just showed below his hairline. It was a peculiar shape. Javier peeked back at you, nodding his head toward the door. "I'll lead the way." You'd turn a man down to protect your life in a normal situation. Your Papa always said to never trust a soul; You guess that's why you're here in the first place.

You blink back to reality. Javier holds the apartment complex door for you, allowing you to go first, and shuts it behind him. Walking down the steps, you didn't realize the trek to the restaurant would be spent in mere silence, but when you came upon the sweet cantina, the smell of food brought you to life. Walking behind Javier to the table, you couldn't restrain yourself from observing how the jeans fit his behind; the denim hugged him perfectly as he paired it with a black leather jacket, red shirt, and brown boots. It was intriguing. As you sat down, other women across the restaurant appeared to consider the same as they gaped and gossiped with each other. Javier offered a flirtatious wink and settled into his seat.

"Do you get that a lot?" You asked. He shook his jacket off, revealing tan solid arms. "More than you know." You searched for jest in his voice, then realized he was entirely serious. Before things got too awkward, the waitress approached your table, offering specials and suggestions for the night. You settled for one of the steak specials. Javier went for the chicken.

"So, what brings you to one of the most dangerous cities in Colombia?" You nearly bite your cheek, thinking up an answer. "Family baggage," you respond. His brow raises, asking for more. "My husband was abusive. I ran from America to Colombia looking for my father." Your drinks arrive and are placed directly in front of the two of you. Your mouth watered at the sight of yours. Taking a generous sip, you continue, "Safe to say, I found him. He took me in and gave me a safe place to heal and just...take a breath." You took a deep breath. You weren't lying, at least not regarding your baggage. You sat back with your legs crossed as Javier took it in. "I'm sorry." He replied. You shrugged your shoulders.

"What about you?" You asked, beginning to move in the direction of getting intel. He clicks his tongue, "I'm here for work. Was transferred over from the States. Other than that, I just eat, sleep, and fuck." You nearly choked on your drink as your teeth clashed against the rim of the glass. Javier just raised his glass, making a toast with a feline smirk. "Why were you transferred to Colombia?" He set his drink down on the table, studying how the water droppings ran down the cold body of the glass. "Things got bad here." He released a long breath, "I wasn't really needed in the States." You shook your head, understanding. "What is it you do?" You pushed; he glimpsed up at you, those brown eyes searching for falsehood. You batted your lashes, projecting innocence. "I work in the drug enforcement agency." He leaned forward, his shoulders purchasing the table. His lips had just parted when your plates of food arrived. You wondered what he planned to say, but you raised a brow at how he thanked the waitress. It must have been how the pet name Sugar rubbed you erroneously.

You hadn't wasted any time digging into your food. You groaned with satisfaction from the spiced potatoes that excited your tongue. The cumin and pepper invited you to stack more onto your fork, and the smell of steak traveled deliciously through the air. It was a meal you've eaten countless times in Pablo's mansion, though this time it felt different. You found yourself savoring the food, savoring the atmosphere you were in. It was disencumbered by the stench of death that had hovered over your shoulder. You could still remember the screams of pain that echoed through the halls as you laid your head on your silk pillow every night.

"So," He said, taking a bite of chicken. "What's your profession then?" You chewed on your upper lip, thinking. "I own a bookstore." You replied. It wasn't true, but gosh, was it your dream? You earned a warm smile from Javier, and he swallowed his mouthful of food. It was a dashing smile, accompanied by his amiable dimples that could weaken anyone in the knees. His eyes hadn't broken away from yours, and you could feel the heat in your cheeks grow. You felt awkward. No one had ever looked at you like that. Being your father's daughter was enough to scare any man away. It was comical to consider the effect Javier already had on you. You only just encountered him an hour ago, and sitting here now, you had almost forgotten your objective and why you were here. You broke the contact, looking down at your lap. You had a job and wouldn't allow your fantasies to get the best of you.

The two of you finished your dinners and exchanged small talk before your waitress returned to leave the check. Javier snatched it before you even thought, though you insisted on covering the tip. He smirked, giving in to your pleas, and the two of you slid out of the booth. It felt like a long walk home. The feeling of being watched never left your side. You were aware of the fact that Pablo had his men watching. The haunted feeling was enough to know. You did your best to school your features as you walked beside Javier. What nearly turned your stomach was that his face revealed he knew something was wrong, too. You should have known; he's a DEA agent. He's built with instincts as strong as a bloodhound. Turning the corner, the two of you found yourselves out front of your apartment complex; you stumbled when you found Javier at the bottom of the staircase. Your brow rose, "Aren't you coming in?"

He shook his head, "Nah, I've got some work to do." He scanned his surroundings once more. "Sleep well, I'll see you around." He finished his goodbye with your name, took his truck keys from his back pocket, and disappeared around the corner. You read your watch. It was too late to be doing any kind of work. You had to follow him out of pure curiosity and to collect potential intel, and that's what you found yourself doing when your legs began to move, carrying you swiftly down the stairs and in the direction of the DEA agent.

Turning the corner led you onto a street of darkness. There was a lack of street lights; the further you went, the less you could see. The thought of turning back was plaguing your mind until your eyes spotted a leather jacket. Jumping behind the nearest brick wall of a corner shop, you leaned out, focusing down the street. There, he was in front of what seemed to be a brothel with another man, but you couldn't make out his features and had to get closer. You shifted back behind the wall. You were afraid. There was too much on the line to be caught.

You couldn't risk jeopardizing a potential relationship between you and Javier. The thought made your back spineless as you closed your eyes and took deep breaths. This hardly seemed fair. You have nearly no field experience. Your job was to be seen, not heard, and you liked it. You didn't particularly want to be involved with criminal activity directly; this life requires responsibilities too big to handle with an extensive price. You rubbed your sweaty palms against your jeans and ran a hand through your hair. You could do this. You had to do this. Fluttering your lashes, you brought yourself to peek into the corner again. The two men had their backs turned towards you. Now was your chance, and you got moving. Keeping your eyes on them, there was a newsstand, empty but able to keep you hidden from sight. You sped up, crouching and listening to the men's conversation.

You got bits and pieces, but there was mention of a raid led by the Colonel, who you assumed to be the one standing directly beside Javier. He had a handsome backside, covered in a nude color from head to toe. His hair was black and cut in precise detail. They spoke of Pablo's location and that the Colonel would lead his men. You took note of the area of the raid, putting it in the back of your head for later, and got out of there as quickly as possible. With this information, you could alert Pablo, and he could pull his men before the DEA arrived, giving them another dead end and the loss of another reliable source.

Arriving back at the complex, you relished in the relief of the street lights above. You felt safe and headed inside, shutting the door behind you. Hopping on the couch, you pulled some ice cream from the freezer. It was your favorite flavor, no doubt an influence from your father. Maybe even an apology. Fuck any type of apology he'd try to make. When you moved to Colombia and learned of his profession, you asked for a chance at a simple life. Jake sure as hell never gave you one. You rubbed the faded proof on the skin of your arm. It was a scar, a knife wound. At least, you had thought. Being young, you felt that blacking out from alcohol was a successful experience of the reckless twenties. Believe it or not, you wanted that. You liked it with your best friends. You figured that the last shred of innocent youth had died when you blacked out and woke on the floor of your living room wearing nothing but bruises and freshly made scars. You hadn't thought of blacking out the same. Your husband only sat in the chair across from you, complaining about how long you had to regain consciousness.

So yeah, you wanted peace.

The choice was taken from you. Without your father, you'd be on the streets of Colombia, innocent to criminals, bored of the everyday routine. It was either this life or ending up on the roads, and deciding to run would have been for nothing.

Apologies mean nothing to you these days.

You grabbed the remote, turning the TV on to a soap opera, quickly disturbed by a knock at the door. You groaned, just kicking your feet up on the couch. Standing up, you threw the door open and looked down, finding a boy. Pablo's boy. A messenger. "Xolo?" Your brow rose as the boy smiled. Opening the door wider, you allowed him to come in.

"How about some ice cream for you long journey? It's cookie dough?" He jumped up and down, sitting at your kitchen island. Xolo was a parculiar boy. He was reticent and only said what needed to be said. Guess that's why Pablo likes him so much. You gave him the pint and let him sit and watch TV. He might work for Pablo, but he's still just a boy, and you've always treated him as such.

Sitting at the table, you encrypted your message, just as you were taught by your father, and sealed it safely. Xolo shook your shoulder a moment later, and you shifted in your chair, offering the intel and a hug. "Get back safe, okay?" You said, pulling back and pinching his chin. Your heart indeed went out to the boy. Pablo had done awful things to his parents once he'd seen potential in Xolo and wanted to use it. You knew then that Pablo would stop at nothing to get what he wants. Nothing will get in his way, not even family.

It had been a couple of days after Xolo journeyed back to Pablo's. You received a call last night from him with praise and satisfaction for your intel. Pablo hadn't shared what he'd do with it, but perhaps you'd soon hear in the news.

Rolling out of bed, you stalked to the kitchen for some breakfast but paused with one foot in the living room. You stared around briefly, thinking of ways to freshen up the apartment. It's then you got the idea. Flowers always brighten a room; if you'll live here for a while, why not make it a cozy home.

You hop in the shower quickly after some breakfast and wash up for the day. You'd ultimately decide on a denim skirt with a tight, long-sleeve v-neck. You were going to the nearest flower shop with some makeup and a light scarf. You had a map in hand to direct you, and usually, you'd be embarrassed, but a bouquet sounded too sweet even to care what others thought.

Walking through the crowd, you noted how the streets were filled. Families, hand in hand, were around everywhere you looked. The pure joy in their eyes was so beautiful that you could have sat on the nearest bench to watch. You continued to walk, though, as a bitter taste in your mouth presented itself. Working for the man who planned to fill these streets with a fatal drug was a hard pill to swallow. Making a right turn, you found the corner flower shop, small and empty, with baskets of flowers decorating the outside. Your neck carried your head from left to right to adore the decorations. It was appealing and welcoming. The sweet smell already filled your nostrils as you pushed the door open. Your brown shoes carried you across the store; the floor creaked with every step until you found a bouquet to your liking. Babies' breath and pink dahlias bloomed, tickling your skin as you select the cluster. You knew it'd look lovely in your favorite vase adorning the dining table. Swinging your bag to the front of your waist, you pulled your planner from the black leather to mark your to-do list. It was something you began to grow fond of. You found comfort in the consistency and organization that distracted you from the unpredictable.

The cashier took you in head to toe as you turned to her. Little did you know, she read you correctly as a homely girl.

With the bouquet placed gently on the counter, you pulled out your wallet.

"This is our least popular bouquet." She examined it and picked it up for wrapping. "In my opinion, it's our most beautiful. It ought to be popular." She offered the warmest smile. You clicked your tongue, "Not many people look past the red rose." She nodded. You examined her in-depth for a moment. Considering the fine lines that populated her face, you smiled and handed her your cash.

Though, before she could take it, she paused, and the screams echoing down the street were enough to tell you why.

You pivoted, scurrying across the floor to stare out the window, and what you found shook you to the core. Your jaw slowly fell, parting your lips as you saw that kaki-wearing man bloodied in the middle of the street. His expression revealed shock and anger as he fell to the ground, riddled with bullets.

That's when the realization kicked in, and you stepped back from the glass window into a pair of hands that gripped your shoulders. "Oh dear, don't look at that." She spun you around, pulling you behind the counter into the door of her office. You nearly fell into the chair, realizing what you've done.

The intel you gave Xolo massacred that man.

His blood is on your hands; you sold him out; you killed him.

"These things always happen, dearie." She poured you a glass of water. Handing it to you, she continued, "But to those who aren't used to it, well." She offered a sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. It suggested this town expected nothing less.

Your trembling hand took the glass, and you muttered a thank you, left with a pit at the bottom of your stomach.

#pedro pascal #lovers #fanfic #slow burn #betrayal #narcos #agent peña #agent murphy #javier peña #friends to lovers #enemies to lovers

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