#or being at a certain weight and wanting to maintain it because they like the weight they're at

[blubushie]

does t actually make U gain weight or is that false

Yes and no.

Testosterone actually makes it much easier to LOSE weight. With high testosterone you burn fat and calories faster, and you have a faster metabolism.

The issue is that people low in testosterone go on T and aren't prepared for how hungry T makes you. T increases your appetite but it specifically is increasing your appetite for PROTEIN because you're building muscle. People don't know this, so instead they eat junk food or food high in carbs, which puts more fat on them (and often leaves them still feeling hungry because their nutritional requirements aren't being met).

Really it's about self-discipline (not just eating whenever you're hungry—this goes especially if you have bad eating habits/eat when bored already, since T will make you more hungry more often) and proper diet (if you get hungry, try eating some protein instead of junk food or something high in carbs).

If you're going on T and eat the exact same amount of food on the same diet as you ate before T, and when you get hunger cravings you just eat lean protein, you are practically guaranteed to lose weight.

Really, a well-balanced diet with supplemental protein is the way to go. It's best to keep in mind that if you're eating at a steady caloric intake for longer than 4 weeks but you're still having hunger cravings, it's not because you're hungry for food in general, but instead because there's something specific that's missing out of your diet. Try eating more vegetables, or more fruits, or more lean protein, or more nuts for a few days, and see if that helps resolve anything. Also try not to eat processed foods, they're the death of you.

Also, if you're intending to bulk (see: put on more muscle) you will get very intense hunger cravings during and after workouts. Those are actually protein cravings. Eat more lean protein. YOU CANNOT BUILD MUSCLE WITHOUT PROTEIN.

Chookas!

[formulawolff]

the (not so subtle) art of a crush - t.w.

pairing: female driver!reader x toto wolff

word count: 777

warnings: toto being down bad, some teasing, sexual innuendos, one-sided yearning, yadayadayada

a/n: this was a request made by an anon (i believe!) this is also sort of a spin-off of fanboy behavior, which i absolutely adored writing. i think yearning (and well.. down bad) toto is my favorite toto to write! i hope y'all enjoy! <3

"and tell me," the driver's accent is crisp as he licks his lips, "why do you need help creating an instagram account again?"

"nothing major," a figure shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread in his wrinkled white polo, "i just want to stay in the loop. that's all."

"toto," a new voice chimes in, "you have never once mentioned wanting an instagram, or any social media really, until now. what is going on?"

"nothing major," toto wolff exhales, rolling his eyes, "you all have it, so why can't i?"

"because you're ancient?" lewis hamilton scoffs, arching a brow, "you're probably going to need a step-by-step tutorial on how to navigate the platform."

"i think i can figure that one out myself you know," toto hisses, jaw clenching as his drivers stare blankly, "if five year-olds can do it, i can do it."

"let me see your phone," george russell extends an arm, waving his fingers, "i'll get your account set up."

"i-i," the team principal stammers, heat billowing into his cheeks, "i-i don't know if i necessarily need help with that."

"are you blushing?" lewis purses his lips, a devious smirk forming as the dots connect, "mate, do you have something in there that you don't want us to see?"

only approximately one hundred and two screenshots of a certain williams driver. three or four videos. all of which were screen recordings from various interviews.

his cherished clips. ones he watched every night before he drifted off.

all of which were not tucked away into the hidden folder of his camera roll.

speaking of which, he may have to figure out how to do that. with three kids, an ex-wife, and two nosy drivers, his phone was an easy target. he probably needed to set up a passcode as well.

the lengths he was going to over a crush. a fucking crush.

well, was it a really a crush?

or more like an infatuation?

that was a question for another time. he had two drivers in his office at the moment, circling around him like vultures, eager to pick him apart.

"nothing of your interest," toto retorts, in a vain attempt to maintain his composure, "nothing, really."

"got someone's nudes in there?" lewis coos, tilting his head, "or even worse, a sex tape?"

"lewis," george brings a hand to his temple, "what on earth is wrong with you?"

"what, mate?" lewis throws his hands in the air, "i'm just giving him shit."

"shit he clearly does not want," george mutters, "toto, if you need help setting up an account, just facetime me. don't try to text me. it's much easier to explain over a call than written directions."

"or he can just go on wikihow," lewis offers, "they have guides on just about everything."

oh, really?

did they have a guide on how to navigate the unbearable weight of yearning for a woman thirty years your junior? a woman on a rival team? a crush so bad that it was beginning to snake its way into every aspect of your life? consume your every waking thought?

a crush so intense that you had already spoken to members of the williams crew?

his next target was james, whom he was planning on meeting and speaking with after the next press conference. that was in about a week's time, at third grand prix of the season.

fuck, this was embarrassing, really.

but he wanted more.

actually, he needed more.

he craved it.

he needed to gather all of the possible information and intel as he could. her likes and dislikes. her favorite foods and the ones that were so vile they made her throw up. what kept her up at night. what music she preferred to listen to on race day. what drinks she indulged in. what animals she loved. what made her so unbelievably pissed off she couldn't think straight.

he wanted to catch a glimpse inside of her mind.

all of the things that could possibly buzz around inside of that beautiful head.

really, he just wanted to learn what she was composed of.

her childhood memories, the ones she spoke of with that sweet fondness in her voice. the delicate aspects of her life that she cherished, beaming from ear to ear. the things she feared. how she expressed her love. the people she adored.

everything.

he wanted to know it all.

and following her instagram account, along with her various other socials would prove to be the first step in accessing that plethora of information.

at least it was a step in the right direction.

even if his drivers were giving him hell for it.

✩₊˚.⋆��⋆⁺₊✧ taglist ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

@noooway555 @s-awturn @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @lokideservesahug @fore45fore @eattothebeatt @statuewoman @sarah10r-blog @lavenderandlace @racecardilfs @bblouifford @irishmanwhore @jhobi18 @roseandtulips @simply-the-best23

[mauvecherie-writes]

destinado al deseo: l.hamilton | series

ru’s 💌: Now those closest to me know I’ve been sitting on this since January without devulging too much information because I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to post it because I’ve been in my academic era. As my year is beginning to wrap up and I’m left with more time on my hands, I feel like this is the perfect time to finally share this with you guys! I’m so excited ahhh! I hope you love it as much as I love writing this 🩷

status: ongoing [coming soon]

tropes and tags: NSFW 18+, MDNI, acquaintances to lovers, billionaire romance, BDSM slow burn, Dom/Sub dynamic, angst, mentions of child neglect, narcissistic and enabling parents, sibling rivalry, explicit sexual scenes. [CHAPTERS WILL HAVE SPECIFIC TAGS/WARNINGS]

DISCLAIMER: this story is a piece of pure fiction. outside of the likeness to Lewis Hamilton’s physical appearance and certain aspects of his professional career and business - EVERYTHING HERE IS FAKE.

destinado al deseo : destined for desire.

Nothing on the London Real Estate market moved without Soleil Beverly knowing about it. She built her empire from the ground up and climbing up the property ladder until she was at the top.

Maintaining her throne with what feels like the weight of the world on her shoulders was too much to bear but she did it. And she did it well.

Which left her with no time for anything else …

Especially intimate relationships.

Hence why, everyone from her parents to her close friends trying to set her up with every man of the upper echelon. Date after date, she shut them down - giving every reason under the sun as to why she can’t give them a chance after the first date.

Fed up and promising her best friend one more date (which goes horribly as expected), Soleil ends up being saved by someone she never expected. Even more so, she wasn’t prepared for the unpredictable journey that night would spark ..

Soleil: [ s oh - l AI ]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒:

0.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines-library @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @cocobutterqwueen @bluesole16 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @samiwzx @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @perfecttrashface @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel @sageispunk @2serenity0 @gemii-n-tay @aluapla

[rdr2gifs]

''the morning light, when it comes to me, it was there but I could not see''

Arthur’s life was profoundly shaped by his self-hatred, lack of self-worth and disbelief in the existence of kindness in a seemingly dark and cruel world.

I strongly disagree with the statement that Arthur only became a ‘’better’’ man after being diagnosed with tb. His struggle with his true/inner self is apparent as early as chapter one. ‘’You are not who you think you are, sir… which is lucky’’

He has lived a rough life, raised by criminals and surrounded by violence ever since he was born. It was installed in him early that his value lied within being a violent enforcer and he has lived this life since, knowing nothing else. As a highly aware person, Arthur's actions weight heavy on his soul. He accepts that his actions have consequences. He knows that a person who has caused so much suffering is not meant to have happiness in life. His way of life has caused him to believe that he is not worthy of love or redemption. He doesn’t want to believe that a person like him could be capable of any good. (a thing to note here is that imo, Arthur’s actions near his death weren’t attempts at redemption but rather a strong desire to do right and possibly be his true self.) This is why he keeps living as he does as it’s the only thing he’s ever known, it’s the thing that brings him profit, praise from the person he looks up to and he is already damned so he might as well continue living this life anyway.

The internal problem Arthur faces is that this violent, cruel way of life doesn’t align with what I’d call his true self/ideals. He is torn between the harsh reality he has known and an unconscious yearning for righteousness/love. To be able to carry on with his actions he must enforce certain ideals within himself, such as: I am bad, ugly, nasty, ignorant, mean etc. He also decides to see the dark side of reality, telling himself that the world is a grim dark place and this is just as things were meant to be. This is why he feels so uncomfortable being complimented for his good deeds, because a bad rotten person like him should not be able to do good. It breaks the image he has built for himself and he doesn’t want that happening. This can be seen a lot during the ‘’Money Lending and Other Sins’’ missions where he is unusually mean (even for his standards) to each of the debtors. Imo, he acts this way because he must truly convince himself of being a terrible man to be able to carry out a job which revolts him so badly. In the last debt collecting mission with J. John Weathers, it can be seen in his face/expressions how much he is struggling to put on a tough, uncaring, heartless act. He needs to maintain a ruthless persona to survive in the world he knows. He must convince himself of his own cruelty.

''Forgive me, but that's the problem. You don't know you.''

Contrary to Arthur’s beliefs, he is a naturally kind-hearted person who is unconsciously drawn towards kindness. And yes, even before he was diagnosed with tb. This can be seen in the people he respects the most and, in his willingness to help strangers (notice how he often does unnecessary acts of service for total strangers such as: carrying their things, holding out hands etc. even though they had already troubled him). Despite the life he has lived, Arthur does not enjoy violence, he does not enjoy hurting people. He doesn’t want to dominate over others. He thinks mostly about others and not about himself. This fact alone is very telling of his character.

He writes about Charles, a man who he truly respects: ‘’He’s a better man than me. He does not need to think to be good. It comes naturally to him, like right is deep within as opposed to this conflict between GOOD↔EVIL that rages within me.’’ A man who is not struggling with his inner self would not have written this. To me this clearly implies an inner desire to be a better man. He writes about his mentors: ‘’I love Dutch like a father, but in many ways, I love Hosea even more. He’s kind and fair and like a human being. Dutch is something else.’’ Clearly showing a preference for Hosea who is of a more gentle nature and shows genuine kindness. Unsurprisingly, these are the people who see through his dumb/though act and encourage him to drop it.

When he comes across Brother Dorkins for the first time, he writes: ‘’(he)was one of those innocent people who make you feel better about human beings and about yourself a little. Must be odd to see all that goodness in the world. Place always seemed dark and brutal to me.’’ Expressing how he does not see goodness in the world, implying lack of good examples/kindness/good experiences in his life. Yet, the monk leaves an impression and imo, this encounter (seeing genuine goodness) disrupts Arthur’s perception of what the world truly is. ‘’Just as evil begat evil your whole life long, so good may begat good’’ (what strengthens my belief in this, is the following, symbolic scene of Arthur realising the consequences of his actions right after picking up a crucifix. He was aware of them before sure, but is unable to truly ignore them now having seen it right in front of his eyes). If only Arthur was presented with more examples of goodness in his life.

''You have it in you... I can tell!''

His desire to do as much good as possible after realising he won’t live long is instant. This would not be the mindset of someone who did not already possess kindness in his heart. ‘’Know glory and forget about shame.’’ Arthur’s shame and self-loathing caused by his previous actions were what was holding him back from allowing kindness into his life. Knowing that he has limited time left has not made him into someone he wasn’t before. The diagnosis was a catalyst, allowing him to embrace that love/goodness truly does exist and accelerate the process of chipping away from the persona he has made for himself. This was a newfound understanding for him as in the past he was rejecting any notion of kindess. In himself and perhaps the whole existence of it. ‘’You keep hidden all that matters, even from yourself.’’

After being diagnosed, he writes: ‘’What kind of a man have I been? What kind of a man am I? What world is this we live in? A land of fury or a place of love? Am I being prepared for eternal damnation? Am I past any kind of saving? Is that all fairytales? Man ain’t got much good in him. I ain’t got no good in me… I don’t think and yet I see goodness. I see it. If not in me, in good folk. In Abigail and her love for Jack. In that silly monk. In Downes, I guess. Begging not for himself but for the poor, even though he was near starving himself. Maybe I don’t want salvation. Part of me has always longed for death.’’ This entry perfectly shows how deep Arthur’s self-loathing goes and just how much it has damaged him. As his journal allows a look into his true feelings, he truly does not see a single good thing about himself. He knew for a long time that the way he lives is detestable but he could not let go of it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it’s all that he has ever known. He didn’t believe in anything else. This sudden acceptance of goodness has allowed him to see clearly, which was obscured from him before, and for the first time, enabled him to act free of past regrets for what is right.

⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪

Arthur’s redemption is not about becoming a good man. It is about finding the strength to change and recognise your true self despite a lifetime of self-loathing and breaking free from destructive beliefs of the past.

In Arthurian legends a stag is a symbol of the unending quest of spiritual knowledge/enligtenment

[hisui-dreamer]

ode to the cunning octopus

Pairing: Azul Ashengrotto x gn!reader

Synopsis: it didn't matter how he saw himself, because you would always be by his side to remind him how wonderful he is

Tags: drabble, fluff, slightly poetic hehe, reader is a simp for azul

Word count: 645

Notes: very belated happy birthday to azul!! to make up for being late i wrote a bit more than usual hehe. (azul you can't blame me i was working on assignments)

Masterlist

Your lover possesses an undeniable charm that seems to effortlessly captivate all who cross his path. With a disarming smile and magnetic charisma, he effortlessly draws others in, captivating them like moths to a flame. His sharp wit, eloquent words, and calculated gestures make a lasting impression. But perhaps his most impressive skill lies in his negotiation tactics. A brilliant negotiator, he knows exactly when to push and when to pull, when to offer a compromise and when to stand firm. His ability to read people and anticipate their moves gives him a distinct advantage at the bargaining table, and the sight of him at work never ceases to amaze you.

Your lover is a paragon of hard work and dedication. Whether he's tirelessly managing the bustling affairs of the Mostro Lounge or buried deep in his studies, striving to maintain top grades, his commitment knows no bounds. His days are filled with a whirlwind of activity, yet he tackles each challenge with a grace and efficiency that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Despite the demands of his responsibilities, he never falters, always pushing himself to new heights of excellence. It's this relentless drive and work ethic that sets him apart, earning him the respect and admiration of all who know him.

Your lover takes great delight in showering you with the spoils of his hard-earned wealth. With each lavish gift and luxurious comfort he bestows upon you, his eyes gleam with satisfaction, fueled by the desire to see the radiant smile spread across your face. Yet it's the simple pleasures he relishes the most—wrapping you in the soft embrace of your favourite blanket, watching as contentment floods your features, knowing that in that moment, his efforts have brought you joy beyond measure. For him, the truest wealth lies not in the riches he accumulates, but in the happiness he brings to you, his angelfish.

Your lover is meticulously careful with his diet and weight, determined to maintain a certain image of himself. He meticulously counts calories, carefully monitoring his intake and meticulously planning his meals to ensure they align with his health goals. Yet, despite his disciplined approach, there are moments when you catch a glimpse of his longing for the indulgent pleasures he denies himself. In those moments, you can't help but want to spoil him, to see the joy light up his face as he savors the flavors he so often denies himself. So every once in a while, you find subtle ways to indulge his cravings, knowing that a little bit of indulgence can bring a smile to his face and a warmth to your heart.

Your lover possesses a comforting presence like no other. Whenever exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you, you know you can seek solace as you snuggle into his trench coat. And without hesitation, he drops everything to tend to your needs, his touch gentle and soothing, his words a balm to your weary soul. There's an ease in his presence when he’s with you, a tranquility that washes over him as soon as you wrap your arms around him. It's as if the weight of the world lifts from his shoulders, replaced by the warmth of your touch and the gentleness of your love. As you hold him close, feeling his heartbeat steady against yours, you know that in your arms is where he truly belongs, finding solace and contentment in your embrace.

Your lover is a man of contradictions, a paradox wrapped in an enigma. But beneath the layers of complexity lies a heart of gold, a love that burns fiercely and unconditionally. And as you gaze into his eyes, you know that no matter the trials that lie ahead, you will always stand by his side, for better or for worse, until the end of time.

Your lover, is none other than Azul Ashengrotto.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[recycledraccoon]

Senior Year Au

Former Rat Grinders all spend the rest of Junior year and all of summer break in therapy, both individually and as a group. It's a lot of work, but they're coming back together in the aftermath in a healthier more sustainable way. (The empty places among them leave them feeling a mix of complicated emotions.)

Mary Ann still maintains her relationship (???) with Gorgug. (They're not asking many questions because Mary Ann gives few answers.) Lucy is good friends now with The Bad Kids, but Kristen especially. Even Ruben is on decent terms for the most part.

Ivy and Oisin had it much harder. They don't remember everything, but they remember enough to make the weight of it heavy on their shoulders, Oisin especially for the large part he and his magic had played.

Ivy had never been one to blatantly apologize. She's always been a bit catty, though never like that before. Still, before the school year ends she (very politely) asks Mazey for a moment of her time.

Mazey, a much kinder person, agrees and they step aside somewhere a little more private. (For however brief a time it was, Mazey did feel what the rage from that shatter star felt like. It's a large factor in her giving Ivy this chance.)

Ivy, as much as it visibly pained her to say the actual word sorry initially, does genuinely apologize. She's blut about it, and doesn't shy away in the least from the acknowledgement of how fucked up the things she said were.

They talk for a bit, and while it's hard to imagine they may ever be friends, both girls leave the conversation feeling closure on the topic.

Mazey ends up talking to Fabian about it, so of course the Bad Kids know.

Oisin talks briefly with Fabian Seacaster one day, extending an apology for the damages to him home, and passes along information so Oisin can ensure financial compensation is had.

The apology to Fabian is appreciated, but talking about it later the Bad Kids hone in on the fact that Oisin hasn't spoken to Adaine even once, to apologize for the taunt he's sent her or for-

Adaine abruptly says she doesn't want to talk about it, and ignores the fact that he exists entirely.

Oisin doesn't talk to them once the rest of Junior Year, even tho the rest of his team does. The Bad Kids think him a coward, and while Oisin would agree with them, the Rat Grinders look at each other with tight lips.

.

.

.

Oisin struggles greatly with his actions. He had been, essentially, Kipperlily's right hand. His magic had allowed Kipperlily access into, and away from, the Bad Kids Last Stand where she had killed Buddy. (They do not know where he is, but they've sworn to each other to find him.) His magic had laid the trap in Seacaster Manor, his summoning calling the Nightmare King Storm and his relatives who swarmed a house-boat filled with innocents.

Jawbone does help them get an actual accredited therapist, which is something Oisin feels great relief about, as it makes it easier to talk about some aspects of his time under the shatter-star.

.

.

Like the fact that prior to all this, he did have a very genuine crush on Adaine Abernant.

.

.

.

How couldn't he? She was beautiful yes, stunningly so, but more importantly she was smarter than a whip and a phenomenal wizard, unafraid to get her hands dirty. Even as short, scrawny dragonborn with glasses that felt too big for his snout at the time, he'd held the girl in very high esteem.

Oh he'd never ever dare to talk to her, for all that his friends may have once tried to encourage it during freshman year. He'd known even then that the elven girl was far out of his league.

While he wasn't a true dragon, Oisin's family had strong blood ties still, and the bleed over was still strong. Strength was important to them, and fighting the other was the first step in courtships between Dragons for a large variety of reasons. He'd been so scrawny, and a untested young wizard to boot, that he couldn't fathom ever being strong enough to match up to a girl like her. He's certainly endured enough scrutiny for his lack of battle prowess at home.

So no, Oisin hadn't thought that he would ever be a good match for such a girl, but he could hoard tender feelings about her in his chest, and nobody could do or say anything about it. At most he would endure some playful teasing at the time but he'd always reassure his friends it was alright.

"Not every unrequited love is bitter." Oisin told them once, smiling softly as he pulled his eyes away from where Adaine was walking to join her friends for lunch further out in the quad. "Statistically, high school romances don't work out. This is just...an equation that doesn't result in a positive answer. No use being angry at the numbers, the math won't change." He says.

Lucy had frowned, "Life isn't a math question Oisin."

"Yes it is," Oisin's responded, "it's just one of the unsolvable ones." His grin turned into a yelp when Ivy had dragged him down to try to noogie him, and they had all laughed and left the topic alone.

.

.

.

When he had first been raged out, he hadn't felt bitter. He felt strong and powerful and didn't need the distractions. But when Adaine had spotted him at the party to talk, after he'd grown tall and bulked out from the hours pumping iron to burn off the excess anger-

She only noticed him when he'd already been on his way to hell. That's when he started feeling bitter.

.

.

.

Oisin has so many complicated emotions and guilts eating away at him. He desperately wants to apologize to Adaine Abernant, to lay his heart bare so she may deliver his due judgement and strike true.

But more than anything, he needs to sort himself out first. He would not risk apologizing, not when his heart still ached, not when anyone could possibly notice and decide his apology was motivated by selfish wants instead of true remorse.

So Oisin does not speak to any of them the rest of that year or over the summer, even as the others will tag along with Lucy and Mary Ann sometimes to join the Bad Kids for an afternoon. He goes to therapy, reads self books, and painstakingly does his best to bleed the love for Adaine Abernant out of his heart. He knew the statistics when he fell in love, he'd have to do this one day or another.

Finally, first day of Senior Year, Oisin follows his party to where the remaining Bad Kids are.

He's spotted immediately, he knows because Riz Gukgak goes tense and starts furiously whispering, the Bad Kids exchange hushed words Oisin is too far to hear, but Adaine Abernant meets his gaze for a long moment.

Then she turns and leaves.

Oisin isn't surprised, but he does watch her leave for perhaps longer than he should have, before quickening his steps to catch up with the others.

The Bad Kids, as alright as they are with the others, glare at Oisin. Ivy beside him is tense, but bumping his tail against the back of her calves is his way of telling her this is alright.

He gives brief apologies, for the storm and those of his family who had attacked them all on his request.

Then, he quietly asks them to pass on a message to Adaine.

"I would like to apologize to her but-" He clears his throat under the pressure of the glares he's receiving. "If she doesn't want to hear it I understand completely."

Oisin doesn't give much time for a response, dipping his head and giving a quick goodbye as he prepared to go find his locker before classes.

"Oisin-" Lucy calls as he starts stepping away from the group.

"It's alright," Oisin murmers, thinking back to a warm fall day in the quad during freshman year. "I already knew the outcome of this equation."

"Life's not a fucking math problem, love." Ivy says, arms crossed defensively. Nobody else talks, and Oisin can feel the glares of the Bad Kids burning into his scales.

"Yes it is," he reminds them. "It's just a messy, unsolvable one." Oisin's smile is soft and tired. It is the smile of a man who's been resigned to his fate his whole life.

He'd always knew he'd never been or would ever be worth even a moment of the beautiful, amazing Elven Oracle's time.

He'd run the math, and it was no use being mad at numbers that wouldn't change.

Oisin turned and left.

[mokokone]

A/n: I initially wrote this because I'm excited for the Mononoke movie (2024), and seeing that there aren't many Medicine Seller x Reader fanfics out there, I decided to contribute and dedicate my Tumblr to the case. I'm a big fan of this series, and Kusuriuri deserves more love, so enjoy!♡

His Wife! [The Medicine Seller x Fem!Reader]

It was the middle of the day with the weather being surprisingly bliss, despite the downpour a few nights before.

The smell of the wildflowers and forest in the air combined with the warmth of the sun's rays was enough to make the Medicine Seller considered laying down for a quick doze in the soft grass.

However, he had to continue on and get the nearest village before sundown.

The wooden clogs of his geta sauntered along the dirt path. Thankfully, the path leading towards the village was nothing but a leisurely stroll, which he wanted to take the time to enjoy before reaching his destination.

No need to rush. It seems like a good time as any to squeeze in a leisurely walk.

The thicket of bamboo on either side of the path made for some good shade, while still maintaining a warm brightness that he wanted so bad to bask in.

How peaceful, the Medicine Seller thought to himself whilst enjoying the gentle chirping of birds in the branches above, singing about and communicating with others of their kin.

It would sure be nice to live out in the countryside and be able to enjoy peaceful evenings like this, without the loud hustle and bustle that large and over populated areas would bring.

Briefly, it led his mind to the love-inducing assumption that he might consider living in the country if he ever decided to move there with his w─

"Otto, please wait for me!”

The female voice shook the aforementioned man out of his daydream as Kusuriuri halted in his steps.

Was he even walking fast?

A mix of jasmine, lemon, and tea leaves quickly enveloped his senses, and a telltale feeling of warmth spread throughout his body—which had his heart drumming within his ribcage.

Slowly, blue eyes glanced back just as a young maiden with (s/c) colored skin hastened after him. She had (short/medium/long) (h/c) hair and beautiful (e/c) eyes. She wore a (f/c) yukata designed with floral patterns and she appeared to be the same age as Kayo-chan.

Kusuriuri watched as a look of delight washed over her upon seeing that he did stop and wait for her and a flustered smile crossed her lips as she picked up the pace to get to him.

Normally, he would've ignore her and kept on walking—only with the intent to tease her, which he knew would irritated her to no end.

A sly smile grazed his painted lips as the young woman finally caught up to him. Kusuriuri hadn't even noticed the extra prep in his step and had forgotten he didn't have the weight on his back from carrying his kusuri-bako (medicine box), since a certain someone wanted to carry it for him.

Hmm, perhaps he was walking fast?

"Do you want me to carry it?" He asks, gesturing towards the large wooden box on her back, which contained his wares.

"No, I'm good. Thank you, Otto," she beams him a loving smile.

Ah yes, Otto, meaning "husband" is what she likes to calls him─since he's just a humble medicine peddler and had no specific name, which is why he goes by Kusuriuri. 

Normally, he would've chided her about the honorific, but it has become a constant reminder that he's indeed her husband.

Regardless, he would occasionally call her Okusan (wife), a clear sign of his public affection, whereas she would call him "goshujin-sama" during their most private and intimate moments.

Her name's (Y/n), and she is his wife. Kusuriuri found himself in a situation where he had no one to blame but himself for this illicit arrangement through en-musubi, which means "binding of fates". It was all due to the omamori he had gifted her, a small token that unknowingly sealed their destinies together.

For the young woman, she understood. Had known from the start when she'd first laid eyes on the Medicine Seller, that she was going to be part of his life. Despite the dangers of traveling with him to rid the world of deadly and troublesome Mononoke, she was still willing. She felt a connection with him that transcended words, a bond that made her feel like she belonged by his side, no matter what challenges they may face together.

And besides, traveling alone and fighting evil mononoke alone must get very tiresome.

“My love, if you're tired, then perhaps we should stop and rest?"

It's such a lovely day out, so why not enjoy it.

The sun is shining brightly in the clear blue sky, casting a warm glow over everything it touches. The gentle breeze rustles through the leaves, creating a soothing melody that seems to lull one into a state of peaceful relaxation

However, despite the temptation to take a load off, (Y/n) persists.

"It's okay, don't worry. Besides we're almost to the village." She says.

Always the one to carry on, I see? Kusuriuri muses, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Very well," he nods. "Let us carry on," He says and continued on the path to the village, this time keeping a steady pace so his wife could walk beside him.

Momentarily, the feeling of walking beside her husband wasn’t enough for (Y/n) as she hesitantly glanced down at his free hand that wasn't tucked inside his kimono. It was mere inches apart from her own and the desire to hold it was overwhelming.

“Do you wish to hold my hand?”

(Y/n) almost felt her heart leap when she looked up and saw Kusuriuri's intense stare pinned her.

Silly wife had been caught by her eponymous husband.

Kusuriuri watched in adoration as a cute blush colored her cheeks as she shyly averted her gaze at the dusty trail. A swarm of butterflies immediately assaulted the young woman's stomach at that.

They had done things much more lewd things other than holding hands, but for some reason, the mere question served to fluster the (h/c) haired girl.

The first time she felt flustered was when he had agreed to be her husband, but to have the simplest and most innocent of questions be the catalyst to making her heart pound was silly.

Slowly, (Y/n) reached out and slid her hand into her lover's palm. His hand felt rough in hers, no doubt from always mixing herbs to make incense, wielding his Tama sword, and casting tailsman. Despite the slight feel of his long, painted nails, she couldn’t deny the fact that it made her feel safe.

Kusuriuri may have come off as erratic and weird, but his touch was warm and comforting—like a warm fire during a bone-chilling winter's day.

And so, their walk was spent in relative silence, the only interruption being the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze and the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.

As they crested the final hill, their destination came into view. Their hands remained intertwined, (Y/n) finding comfort in the warmth of her lover's touch, while he gently squeezed her hand in reassurance.

She found herself unconsciously leaning into him, her head resting against his shoulder, being ever-grateful for moments like this when they could simply enjoy each other's company in peaceful companionship.

So in love she is. To be next to her husband.

Her beloved Medicine Seller.

Her truth!

The silence between them was thick, but not awkward. It was relaxing, like a small solace in the chaotic world that they lived in.

Kusuriuri shamelessly ogled his young wife. His eyes ran over her distinctly delicate features: the slight upward tilt of her eyes, the high arches of her cheek bones, her cute nose, and those kissable-soft lips of hers.

"Okusan?"

"Yes Otto?"

"Do you still find me interesting?" He asked her.

"Of course I do. You'll always be interesting and I'll never grow bored of you."

Her answer and loving smile was enough to knock the wind out of him. It was so radiant in itself that he felt himself returning her expression with a milder one of his own.

And it was at that moment that he realized just how much he actually enjoys her.

His lovely wife.

[seokka0o]

ᴅᴏᴍᴇsᴛɪᴄ

Park Wonbin ♡ Afab!Reader

Content : Smut, unprotected sex (use protection sweets) , soft Wonbin (he's so baby ) ,marking, making out, Pet names.

Not fully proofread

Author: This has been in my drafts for a while now and i think I don't know how to write anymore 😭 omg please tell me if you like it, I'll appreciate 💗

From books, games to guitar, every journey to bed was a trail of what is part of the weekend at Wonbin's house.  Low music, low light, you're partially on top of him, sleepy eyes on the television, your hand under his t-shirt, making a slow caress that caused a few slight spasms in Wonbin, but nothing that you could notice too much.  It would be freezing cold outside, but inside you felt cozy; Wonbin would stroke your hair sometimes to remind you that he was still awake despite focusing on the movie you were watching on television.  You liked that feeling of belonging, his breathing was regulated and you started to feel more sleepy as the movie became quieter, which caught Wonbin's attention because you never seemed too still, including the hand that held him. He caressed you under your t-shirt, you no longer moved it, making him feel a certain lack of your touch.

 “Huh, what is this?”  Wonbin turns around, making you fall completely onto the mattress, so you are facing each other and you wake up from your daydreams with a pout on your lips.

 “Bin…” you mumbled, moving closer to snuggle, being welcomed by him in angry knots, sticking back to the bodies.

 “You said you wanted to see, love, why are you going to sleep?”  He moves you in his arms and lets you snuggle, bringing your face to the crook of his neck.

 “Because you're comfortable, it was good that way” you sighed and hugged his torso, keeping him as close to you as possible.

 “I thought the idea was for us to watch something together.”  He responded, keeping a caress over your hair, which made your skin crawl silently, you smiled, feeling a little suffocated and went up to look at your boyfriend, smiling at him.

 “I’m sorry” you whispered and Wonbin shook his head, leaving a seal on your forehead.

 “Cute” he replied, leaving a kiss on the tip of her nose and finally on your lips.  You smiled simply, returning it, following him when he started to walk away.

 “Baby…” you whispered to him and he responded with a smile, placing his lips on yours again.

 Regardless of what he does, wonbin will always have a very subtle flavor of delicateness, he likes slow kisses, as he does at that moment, simple caress on your face which he held to pull, his lips scraping against yours making small contacts, seals that went deepening and becoming a heated kiss.  Your fingers pressing down on his shirt and pulling him closer, you were wanting him to do more, and he does the job very well as he invades your mouth with his tongue in advance, you both moan softly with the contact, the hot, accelerated breaths, you were losing yourself in him just as he was losing himself in you.

Your hands returned under his shirt, with the affection they had before, feeling his abdomen contract and relax with the weight of his breath, his tongues curling so calmly, as if he wasn't going anywhere and in fact he wasn't going.  Wonbin maintained firm contact, his fingers going to the strands on the back of your neck, alternating between returning to your face, leaving a simple caress for your hot face, for the growing heat on your skin and the need to have Wonbin close to you completely.  You felt your little drowsiness leave so quickly, you grumbled several times until you had his attention on you, undesirably he was separating his lips in a confused way, his lips starting to become slightly swollen, the heat of that room that until now was little so cold and comfortable.

 “You weren’t sleepy, were you?”  He teased, stroking your face, laughing at your confused expression.  You rolled your eyes and passed the tease on to him by gently running your nails across the skin of his abdomen.

 “It’s not like I can, you’ll do anything to keep me paying attention to you, Bin.”  you whimpered, moving closer to place a seal on his jaw and then catching a glimpse of him smiling so pleased with that.

 “You’re right about that.”  He laughed softly, moving his hand down to your hip, pulling you towards him.  Maybe you weren't so used to it, or too used to that intimate thing, when he took your lips again you knew it was for real, Wonbin just continued from where he was too unprecedented, scraped his lips against yours and invaded your mouth with the tongue again, you receive everything promptly, without regret, feeling your body immerse in contact with him.  His hand, which caressed your hip, quickly made a few more good grips on your flesh, through the gap in the raised t-shirt , and you held on to him when you felt his almost violent grip, contrasting with the way he kisses you, the way he delicately pulled your tongue and came up, with you mumbling and removing your hand from under his t-shirt to hold the hem.

 Wonbin separated for a moment in a snap, he looked at you with almond-shaped eyes and smiled, kissing from your jaw to your neck, wet and installed kisses, you feeling your body suffocated and in need of his touch. Won Bin took advantage of the moment to leave a mark on your skin, sucking and nibbling until it turned red and so far so good, it seemed that he was actually desperate for that type of contact, you weren't the type to fuck all the time, you wasted too much time in that exchange of affection always so intense.

“Bin…” you mumbled in his direction, moving your fingers up to the other’s hair, returning to caress.  Wonbin sighed softly at the touch with the feeling of his skin crawling, his hand slid under the blanket, with the right aim he entered your clothes without thinking twice.  Obviously you should have caught the nuances sooner, but it was engaging to the point that you didn't notice, trembling, already so confused by the way he circulates his fingers over your intimacy, even over your underwear, slow and precise, his fingers applied the necessary pressure, while you slowly close your eyes, absorbing the sensation that was him circling around your bud.

 you meowed disoriented, while his lips made thin lines across your neck and chest.  Sometimes leaving some good marks to remind you to never be caught off guard by Wonbin again.  When he got tired , his finger slipped inside the underwear, slid across the wet area with his fingers and circled your button delicately, just making simple gestures and without rushing.  You moaned with your body contracting and rotated your hips around him, wanting to receive more contact than that.

 “shh, love…no rush” it seemed easy for him to say, as the dice played a tender game that sounded like torture, the index finger pressing against your entrance and being pushed inside, wonbin’s finger practically swallowed by your pussy .  

“So desperate” Without responding, you moaned a little louder and pulled the air in hard, with your body and ecstasy, you clung to his hair in a more intentional affection, sometimes with simple pulls to try to neutralize the sensation of your body in a rush to the limit.

Wonbin smiled against your skin when he heard your mewls growing sporadically and already understanding that you were more than ready to receive him, he removed his fingers from inside you and drank your juice like a hungry man he was.

 “Take off your clothes, sweet” he asked subtly, whispering in your ear, making your skin crawl and you automatically responded to his sweet request, getting rid of your pajamas and then turning to your boyfriend who got a very specific glow in his eyes, he was more than happy with the whole unhealthy situation you put yourself in with minimal attention.

 While you were in the process of getting rid of everything properly, Wonbin reached into his own pants, feeling his stiff member a little sore.  With a simple grumble he masturbated a little by pulling it out immediately afterwards, feeling a simple relief run through his body but not for too long, the pre-cum slid down the glans and he used it to slide a little over the head of his dick.  With that he approached you and slid across your vulva, a back and forth movement that elicited low, involuntary moans from you.  You kept your body very close to his and then Wonbin fit and entered, you moaned in pain from the first contact and grunted soon after.

 Wonbin held you by the torso in a firm hug and looked at you, laughing softly he left a few kisses on your lips, waiting for a signal and as soon as his hips started to move and look for more.  Wonbin then understood the message and started to move, getting in slowly.

 The sensation was not harsh.  Wonbin would never be able to take too drastic actions so his hips slid in a subtle, seductive way.  Your insides were on fire and that soft laziness falling into the air began to cause you to moan helplessly - in your eyes - your hands slid across Wonbin's shoulders in a hug and pulled him to fall above you;  he obeyed promptly.  He laid his head on the curve of his neck again and felt your fragrance suffocate his face, he placed delicate, wet kisses on your skin and began to mark him mercilessly one more time,  always reminding you to keep an eye on the movements he made when he had to thrust.

 “Mhm please, continue” you said gently into your boyfriend’s ear and he moaned in response, slowly becoming delirious, your walls pressing and pushing him. Wonbin didn’t seem quite ready to keep the slow pace, but he struggled over your order.  On the other hand, he smiled when he noticed how cunning you looked, slightly moving the bodies apart so that his hand went up inside your  t-shirt and touched your rigid nipple, squeezing it between his fingers and twisting it to send goosebumps all over your  body.

 This time the moan ran louder throughout the room, your eyes sliding to the back of your head and then you began to feel the pressure of Wonbin's slow fuck.  Your barrel twisting and contracting, in a wisp of air you asked:

“Bin…ha…harder” the sentence was cut off, unsustainable due to the absurd heat you felt under the covers.  Wonbin received that like a song he likes so much, leaving the position he was in he stood up straight and rested his hands on your hips, in a numb sequence he quickened his pace and his cock began to hit your entrance, going deep .  Dark hair falling over his face, he was beautiful even like that, his face slightly flushed, his thin lips shiny with saliva, his face half covered, wonbin was grunting and moaning so silently and slyly that you couldn't help but follow along.  Your own fingers sliding to your clit and you began to circle, feeling the effects of tension, your insides contracting, you closed your eyes as if you were about to lose your strength, you felt your body reach its limit suddenly and you went down to take it to the thread of feeling.  Wonbin didn't stop either, resulting in constant acceleration.

 “Baby… I’m coming… I’m close-” the limited time, the low and not very firm voice was not enough to highlight his promiscuous sounds, wonbin came, his body tense he slowed down and kept the deep but lasting thrusts.  You felt his cock reach inside you and fill you and the painful moan sliding up his body, panting, his hot sweaty body, but with a subtle smile on his lips.

[inner-viper]

Sex life before having children vs. after having children (Mini Ver.)

Hello, WILL BE DOING LIVE TAROT READINGS ON TIKTOK AT 6pm EST TODAY (4/3/2024). PLEASE JOIN IF INTERESTED

@innerviper on TIKTOK

Will be answering free yes/no for the beginning. You can check out the prices on here! https://innerviper.com/products/live-tiktok-readings

Trigger Warnings for all piles.

Pile 1

This pile has heavy energy in their sex life prior to having children. It’s like your sex life will go through tremendous changes. There is a dark energy in this pile, you may be inclined to darker sexual kinks. You both enjoy having fun with playing with pushing it, it’s a bit complicated because it doesn’t seem like you believe it’s extreme but to others it is. Anyways, the focus on your sex life is to explore heavy burdens that you may have once held onto. This pile could roleplay CNC.

Overall, you both look for answers in each other. This tends to happen when you have sex with them, you both enjoy exploring the different aspects of each other. There will be moments where you both are angry with each other and will take it out on each other but then makeup. There is a lot of arguing and make-up sex. Some people in this pile can have depression and you have sex to relieve yourself from past heartbreaks. Lastly, there seems to be a strong theme of letting yourself be lost in someone that you may not enjoy being with.

Now for when you have children, there will be a contrast in the connection. It seems like it becomes more deeply connected because of your relationship with your children and partner. There is this general energy of wanting to have fun but seriously passionate sex, it will start to become more “vanilla” because of time constraints, it will be difficult at first when you both have children. Overall, your sex life is not bad just difficult to maintain.

Pile 2

Prior to having sex you will be having a lot of steamy adventures that are kind of risky. It’s like you both like the thrill of it all and how the excitement rules you both up. There will be a few times where you want to feel like there is a strong shift in dynamics. Some days you guys will feel like being softer rather than rough.

Overall, there is something’s that you both will keep secret because of how taboo it is to delve into certain things. You both will share a lot of similar kinks and interests in general. Sex does seem to be an important part of this connection for the both of you. You both may have even discussed of potential threesomes, and fantasies that you will want to make come true.

Now for when you children, the shift is stark because you guys started to settle down. There seems to be a sense of missing some of the risks you guys took but because you have children, it has become more difficult to maintain that. You both will continue to have an amazing sex life though, it’s like you both manage to find some time to be together.

Overall, your sex life has not diminished but it will have its ups and downs. Some months you both will not be able to maintain long sessions because of work, and children. You both take your responsibilities seriously and you both don’t get lost in sex at all. Although, in the beginning of the relationship it may have been an obsession or hyper fixation. I am seeing graphs that go up and down!

Pile 3

Carrying many things will be hard to make this relationship begin in their sex life. It’s like either one of you carry some weight regarding your sexuality. I feel like you both will take things slow and let things flow naturally. There is a sense of not wanting to emotionally connect but connections emotionally. There is a conflict in feelings and of the mind. Your sex life is important to the both of you but there is troubles in the beginning.

It seems to progress positively but slowly. When you both have sex, its like two people coming into one. There will be an act of self exploration, you both will venture into things that you may have been interested in but shy away because of stigma surrounding it. There could be shame surrounding you at times, but the more you grow older and confident in yourself, is when it starts to calm down.

Now after you have children, your sex life will be on pause until you feel like you are ready to get active. This may happen for months but I am sensing that you have limited energy and you try to conserve it. It’s like your children took away all of your remaining energy. It will be difficult to get back on track, but with the right support and with the help of those around you. It will become better and you will focus on building a relationship with yourself again. It’s important to not get lost in someone else.

There will be a time where you will have the resources to not worry. It’s not like you are alone in this relationship. When you both manage to take care of things, your sex life becomes cute? Honestly, it’s like having your first time again but even better than before. You both will not be afraid to express yourselves and will take control to keep the spark alive in the bedroom. Overall, it will be amazing and a beautiful journey.

[jinkicake]

Stuck in the Middle

You’re stuck between him and a hard place.

Childe, Ayato, Thoma, Tighnari x Reader

A/N: im not going to post much this weekend but i hope to post more leading up to valentines day!!! @stellakito, im sorry but I didn’t have it in me to write for zhongli this week but i will try again soon! 

SEMI-SMUTTY

WC - 2k

~~~

Childe

“If you don’t let me out of here, Childe, I swear to every Archon-” 

The rest of your threat is muffled under a large gloved hand. Your efforts to squirm out of this compromising position, being sandwiched between Childe and a wall, are futile due to the Harbinger’s strength. It annoys you to no end, his muscular body pressed against your backside pisses you off to no end.

“Now don’t swear in vain, sweetheart,” His laugh is quiet and light, almost like a whisper that only the two of you can hear. “I promise to let you out when they leave.”

“When who leaves?” You try to wrack your brain for anything but, you can’t think of anything Childe would want. While working as a hostess inside the Xinyue Kisok, you’ve had the unfortunate pleasure to meet the Harbinger on multiple occasions. Now, it’s like you can’t get rid of him at all. 

There isn’t a single guest you can think of that he would want to spy on today, if that’s the reason he’s even here. 

“Director, please don’t swallow your crystal shrimp in one bite-”

“If I choke then you can save me with the adeptal powers I know you have, Zhongli!”

You glance back at Childe and roll your eyes. Perhaps if he’s looking for information about the Wangsheng Funeral Parol then he’s lucky but, you don’t think that’s the case. 

“Are we stuck here because you made an error in your judgment?” You harshly whisper at him, nearly wanting to bite him when he leans forward to rest his chin on your shoulder. 

“You could say that,” He grins and, because of it, you don’t believe him in the slightest. You’ll let him get his worthless information and he’ll leave some mora in your pocket, that’s how this always goes. 

In the forefront of your mind, you hope that these two clients finish their meals quickly and leave.

“Don’t be so tense, girlie,” Childe’s low voice in your ear makes it hard to maintain your regular breath. “what’s got you so nervous?” You can only watch as his hands that were once pinned to the wall migrate to your hips. The moment he squeezes your sides, your breath hitches in your throat. “Calm down, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Much to your own disbelief, you nod almost immediately and too obediently for your own tastes. Childe knows exactly how to get what he wants using that voice and you hate it. His dangerously light tone always has a way with you and is the sole reason he is able to convince you time and time again to let him listen in on private dinners. 

“Hmm, look at that, you’re listening so well.” His laughter returns once again as his hand dips across your hipbone to rest on your inner thigh. The smooth stroke of his fingers, up and down, gliding over the fabric of your skirt makes you start to tremble. “I think I’ll give you an additional reward today for your good behavior.”

Kamisato Ayato

“Oh, hello dearest,” It’s hard to take Ayato seriously as he stares down at you. His gaze holds a certain fondness, tenderness that makes you believe you hung all the stars in his night sky. Your husband is truly a sweet man. 

He’s also one of the most insufferable people you’ve ever met on this planet. 

But, your heart is still heavy and full of love for him. 

“What are you doing here?” You’re lucky that the sun is just setting and there is still light in the room. If not, you wouldn’t have been able to see the ridiculous appearance of your husband hiding under your covers. He’s bracing his weight with his forearms placed on either side of your head but, he’s still close enough that you can feel his body heat transferring through your clothes. “Who are you hiding from?”

That was the better question to ask, you can tell by the small quirk of his lips. 

Ayato sighs and the noise sounds full of guilt. 

“It’s Itto, my dear, he’s in the courtyard demanding another battle with the poor onikabuto.” He genuinely seems worn out. “This is the third time in the last five days he has come by and I just don’t have the heart to push him away.”

“Well, at least he won’t come looking for you in my room,” You smile and gently pat Ayato’s cheek. “so you may leave my comfy bed now.” Your suggestion nearly makes the man scowl.

“Why would I do that? I would be a fool to leave now when you look so,” Ayato pauses and chooses his next word carefully, you would be the fool to not notice how he is dragging his eyes down your body. “relaxed.” 

His cool hand finds your bare thigh in no time at all and he immediately begins to stroke your soft skin with the pads of his fingertips. 

“That’s not going to work on me tonight,” You roll your eyes now and try to ignore how he lowers his large body over yours now, his face now resting against your throat. Ayato presses gentle kisses against your neck, heavy peck after heavy peck. The sensitivity makes your thighs twitch. 

“And why is that?” He murmurs and the sound makes you clench your fingers tighter around the book in your hands. 

“Because I’m trying to read!” It’s getting harder and harder to focus on the scenes now, you can barely follow along with the dialogue. The image painted in your head of the chapter is almost gone. 

“I’m so sorry,” Your husband coos but you can tell he doesn’t feel bad in the least, not when he’s getting to feel you up like this. If he could choose, Ayato would spend the rest of his life between your plush thighs. They’re all he can ever think about. “let me prove to you how much better I am than that light novel. You’ll let me, won’t you, dear?”

The scene painted in your head is now gone. The book is now long gone and thrown onto the floor somewhere outside of your warm duvet. You would never pass up Ayato’s touch, never. 

Thoma

Divine Raiden Shogun who rules over Inzauma, please make this stop-

Thoma can barely breathe, he can’t think or focus. His entire body is nearly trembling and it does not help, in the least, that you’re squirming above him in his lap. The housekeeper knows that if he opens his eyes again then he’ll see you, frustrated frown and all, as you try to figure out a way out of the wooden box you both got stuffed in. 

“Was this really their best idea to ambush and capture a group of Nobushi and treasure hoarders?” You sound irritated and Thoma knows that with your temper, you will not last long in such a tight space. He deeply regrets taking this commission.

If your image of him changes in any way due to this unforeseen circumstance, he might just cry. 

“Thoma, how long until we get there? We’ve been traveling for fifteen minutes already!” Given that the two of you were just loaded onto a cart to be delivered to the treasure hoard camp on the other side of the island, Thoma knows you’ll be stuck here for at least another hour or two. “Are you sleeping? Wake up,” At the quick jolt of your core against his throbbing length stuffed tightly into his boxers, Thoma sits up and lurches due to the pain. Your thighs tightening around his waist is not helping the situation at all and in no time, he’s sure something regrettable is going to happen soon.

“(Y/N), please-” Thoma braces himself by putting his soft hands on the tops of your thighs and he nearly passes out at the feeling of your soft skin revealed under your short kimono. His fingers dully dig into your flesh and he leans back against the wooden box slightly. “Forgive me but, I’m just a man.” 

“What are you talking about?” From the way your eyes at narrowing at him, you’re no doubt annoyed by this. Thoma gulps down the rest of his nerves before continuing. 

“I-I’m so sorry but, I can’t help it. We are in such close proximity in a very tight space, it’s entirely my fault but please don’t think any less of me-”

His words cut off with a moan as you purposely roll your lightly clothed core against his baggy pants. 

“If you’re talking about that then I’ve been aware of your big problem since,” You take a moment to count your fingers and Thoma’s thighs almost start to quiver. “like a minute after we got shoved into this box.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” The housekeeper can’t think of anything to do but apologize. Over and over he will do so until he has your forgiveness. “don’t think much of it. It’s a small problem.”

For a reason he doesn’t understand, your lips curl up at his humbleness. 

“Thoma,” You coo and lean forward so that your face is mere inches away from his own. The blonde stares down at your lips and does not attempt to hide it in the slightest. “this problem is anything but small.”

Tighnari 

“How could this have happened? This is it for us, isn’t it?”

“Calm down.” Tighnari roughly snaps you out of your panic and his voice, filled with irritation, does little to slow your rapidly beating heart. It’s only been a handful of minutes since the two of you got sandwiched between two very large and very heavy bookshelves. 

“I’m never studying with you again!” You have half a mind to push the books out and try to crawl through the space of the shelf but, you know that not even a child could fit through there.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t try to close the bookshelves on me then we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Beneath his gloves, Tighnari clutches the wood of the strong shelves. “What were you thinking? And how could you have gotten stuck too?!”

“I didn’t think it would close so quickly!” You whine and can only wish that you were stuck on the opposite end of the bookcase instead of pressed up against your (one-sided) academic rival. 

Tighnari considers it to be a simple rivalry, not at all academic. 

“Cyno should be here soon since he invited us out to dinner. We just need to wait until then.” The student says this so matter-of-factly that it makes you roll your eyes. Why did Cyno have to invite him of all people to join you for a meal?

“What should we do until then?” You can’t hide your curiosity and perhaps if you could have seen Tighnari’s face, you would have noticed the hidden glint in his eyes. The way he’s staring at you so heavily, his pent-up frustration in his chest starting to get the better of him. He can’t stand you.

“You can think for once about what you did.”

“What I did?” You shriek and the sound pierces Tighnari’s sensitive ears. He flinches, wincing in pain before doubling over and leaning heavier against you. His hands now brace his weight against the shelves as he tries to get the ringing out of his ears. 

“Must you be so loud?” He grits his teeth in frustration, breath now fanning against the crook of your neck. “Your voice hurts.” 

The painful moan that leaves his lips causes your own ears to perk up. You’re fully aware of him now and begin to shift on the tips of your toes. The action is brief but, it’s powerful enough to make the man behind you hiss. 

“Stop moving,” Tighnari snaps but, you find it hard to take him seriously. Listening to him is nearly impossible to do as you press your thighs together in search of relief. 

Maybe if you could just push him a little further-

Much to your delight, all it takes is a simple roll of your hips to make his restraint snap. Almost like a knee-jerking reaction, the instant he feels the pressure from your backside, Tighnari grabs your hips and pins you still. He holds you in place as his own hips begin to rock on their own accord, it’s as if his restraint vanished into thin fucking air. 

Hmm, it’s not like you could do anything about it. 

[scarybabe]

After 300, what’s your next goal?

no more goals 🥳🥳🥳

I’m a very goal oriented person so it made the most sense at the time to make big goals for my weight gain, but after having weight gain/loss goals díctate my whole life for literally over 7 years, I can’t wait to just exist without weighing myself and hoping for a certain number.

First time I gained weight, by the time I hit 185 I was SO burnt out (it took a lot of effort and I did not have a feeder) I went straight to weight loss, and even though my goals started pretty modest they spiraled out and became a source of constant strife for me. even though I was able to maintain a low weight for ~3 years, it was never enough.

Truthfully I DO feel “enough” at my current size. If I could snap my fingers and gain 50-100 lbs I would in a heartbeat but I’m exhausted of weighing myself, being frustrated at my body for resisting change, and punishing myself for not being able to make my body bend to my will. In that aspect, goal-oriented weight gain occupies a similar mental space as when I struggled with a restrictive ED despite being totally happy with my current body shape and size.

I’m SO close to 300 lbs and I love my body, I’m happy with my appearance but I want to improve my physical strength and focus on my happiness/sustainability of this lifestyle versus pushing myself (often to the point of feeling physically sick) to see a number on the scale that is honestly arbitrary because at my weight, big fluctuations are normal (hello 💩??).

7 YEARS IS A LONG TIME to constantly be trying to change my size/shape and not be able to just exist without affirming myself on a scale. Can’t wait to just be chill and happy with my body the way it is for the first time in what feels like forever and continue to enjoy my kink. I can’t help but envy other popular feedees who don’t have weight gain goals and are just along for the ride - while I don’t have any regrets I feel like if I had gone that route I would be way happier and less stressed.

[notanothermacdennisblog]

i gotta talk about frank v russia cuz i was rewatching it again and whoever said it was a fever dream of an episode is so right, there's just so many implications to dissect i didn't catch them all at first.

the beginning of the episode sets up dennis's motivation to pass the effort of helping everyone around him onto someone else... by him putting an enormous amount of effort into finding normal dates and teaching mac and dee to be normal enough to hold onto normal people (i can't imagine how this would keep mac and dee from bothering him tho cuz they'd just come back to him asking for more relationship help, dating a normal person doesn't make relationship issues go away). the enthusiasm he shows when checking in with them after the dates shows this amount of effort was worth it to him. one could argue it's because deep down he cares about their growth, he mistakenly thinks this will get them to leave him alone, or that he's attracted to the thrill of the ruse. mayb it's some combination of all three, but given that he could have always just ignored them or left, to me his hard on for control and deception points to the latter for the most part.

which further explains his flimsy justification of catfishing mac just to "get him out of the apartment." like if that was his sole goal there's a million other ways to accomplish that. ways that don't include: creating a profile guaranteed to get mac to match with him, chatting long enough to establish an emotional bond (altho that's not the hard part when mac falls for anybody who shows him a modicum of affection), and buying and sending him remote controlled anal beads as some sort of complicated signal system when simply texting "meet me at the motel" would suffice.

we're talking about a man who started a cult just to get mac to stop eating his thin mints. who drugged mac with diet pills, convincing him they were "size pills" just because he was unhappy with mac's weight gain. the exploitation of mac's body dysmorphia serves not only as a means of keeping his self esteem in check so he's more easily pliable ("you've been looking so sexy, so this... this is disappointing, at least to me" in ass kickers united; "mac did you gain some weight?" at the end of the gang makes paddy's great again), but also to mold him into an idealized physique that he's attracted to, and the unnecessary inclusion of anal beads in this ploy is the logical conclusion of obsessing over mac's appearance.

it was never just about getting the apartment to himself, or even just seizing an opportunity to manipulate, even if those both played a role. there's just no heterosexual explanation for the full extent of what this episode is implying.

so it still seems odd that dennis would want to sabotage a system that was working in his favor logistically and emotionally, essentially giving up the thrill (and safety) of inhabiting another man's skin in order to admit things he could never feel secure enough to admit even to himself. was johnny becoming too difficult to maintain? maybe dennis was motivated to pass mac onto someone else because he was running into a wall trying to figure out how to keep mac interested while avoiding the obvious issue of meeting in person. an effort to self sabotage when things started to get too close for comfort, when he could feel a certain loss of control.

the "johnny doesn't love you, he doesn't even like you" was enough to send me reeling that it was too easy for me to pass over all of this the first time, what a red herring. there's not another man as toxically obsessed w his roommate/work husband in crime/life terry mac as dennis is, while also being so self-deluded he has to make up half-assed excuses just to convince himself this is normal behavior.

[leviheichouwu]

think of me fondly (levi x reader)

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Gender-neutral!Reader Summary: Levi's having trouble adjusting to his missing fingers for a certain task. You offer him a hand. (Literally.)

Also posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51864445

Levi’s apartment is completely dark when you let yourself in. You can’t hear anything from his bedroom and no light is peeking out from under the door, but Levi doesn’t nap often, so you knock gently before opening the door and stepping in. “Levi?”

Levi, eyes squeezed tightly shut and hand moving quickly under his blankets, doesn’t notice your quiet voice or entry.

Holy shit.

A mouthwatering flush has spread down his neck to his bare chest, and some of his dark hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. Though you look away after a few frozen seconds, the image is seared into your brain. Warmth coils low in your belly.

What do you do? If you shut the door and knock louder, you won’t be able to pretend you hadn’t seen anything once you make eye contact with him. You’re a terrible actor. But that would be better than him seeing you standing there like a pervert, face averted but blushing furiously.

With the arousal slowing your thought process, you decide too late. Levi’s eyes flicker open, and in your periphery, his whole body freezes.

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air for a few heartbeats.

Your tongue feels abnormally clumsy as you rush to apologize. “Levi, I’m so sorry, I was careless and didn’t wait before opening the door and I can just go, I’ve been intruding so often—”

“Oi.”

You peek up from under your lashes at him. He’s glaring at his hands.

“Don’t you dare disappear on me. I can’t—I knew you were coming, but I lost track of time. Can’t get off with these shitty injuries.”

“Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to you. Though you’re plenty open with each other, the two of you don’t talk about sex or romance; he doesn’t seem like the type to be interested in anyone, so you’ve always avoided the topic in fear of heartbreak.

You mean to tease him to restore your usual dynamic as friends, but what comes out of your mouth instead is mortifying. “Would you want any help with that?”

What the absolute fuck was that?

He gapes at you. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No,” you grimace. You definitely don’t want to make your feelings known, but he’s in an incredibly vulnerable position, and you prioritize his feelings over your own pride, so: “I’m being serious. I like you a lot.”

Levi’s quiet for a moment, then smiles faintly. “Come here, then.”

Giddy disbelief bubbles up in you, and you can’t dispel the huge grin on your face as you hop onto the bed. Maintaining eye contact, you slowly reach up to cradle his jaw and lean in. Your eyes flutter shut, and your lips meet so gently it makes your heart ache.

“Does this mean you like me too?” you murmur.

Levi nods solemnly.

In response, you kiss him again. You tentatively run the tip of your tongue against his bottom lip, and he releases a quiet, breathy moan. It emboldens you to lick in further, past his soft lips to touch his tongue. The two of you sigh simultaneously, and you shift closer to him. His body heat is delicious, as is his mouth. You can’t get enough. Desperation smolders in your chest, and Levi must feel similarly, because he caresses your hip, then grasps it to pull you closer. Your hand lands on his chest to balance yourself, so you can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. It fills you with a gooey warmth, and you smile against his lips.

At the feeling of your smile, Levi whines and thrusts his hips up minutely. You rest your weight against Levi, sliding your hand down his perfect chest and flat stomach before hovering your fingers over his cock.

Levi tilts his head back and pants, eyes heavy-lidded. “Touch me,” he pleads.

You shove down the covers and look down both your bodies to watch your fingers gently wrap around his shaft. He gasps and arches up.

You squeeze, and he groans. You drag a finger through his slit, gathering up pre-come, and watch him as you slip your finger into your mouth to taste. Levi makes a small noise at the back of his throat and impatiently tugs at your wrist.

Obligingly, you lick your palm and move your hand back down. You spread the pre-come that’s been steadily leaking from his slit to lubricate a firm stroke from base to tip, and he moans lowly at the contact. You begin to pick up your pace, relishing the silky feel of him. An unbearable heat is gathering in your core as you pant into each other’s mouths.

It feels like only a minute has passed when he tenses up and pushes you back.

“Wait,” he says, voice strained. “I’m already close.”

You press your thighs together. “God, that's hot,” you breathe. “Can I…?” You move down the bed. From here you notice Levi’s chest rise and fall more rapidly. His pupils are blown as you hold his cock to your lips, the steel blue of his irises barely visible.

“God, yes.”

You circle your fingers around the base of his cock and lave at the head, admiring how it glistens in the dim light coming from the window.

“Fuck,” Levi moans.

You take him into your mouth until he touches your throat, bob your head once, twice, and—

“Shit! Wait!”

You look up at him and suck, not slowing down.

“Oi!” Levi tugs at your hair desperately. “I’m going to—”

Before he can finish his sentence, he releases a guttural groan and curls into himself. His cock pulses against your tongue and bitter warmth spills into your mouth. Levi shakes and gasps as he comes apart, gripping your hair. You watch the pleasure contort those beautiful features before his face smooths out and he falls back onto the bed, breathing heavily.

Once he catches his breath and looks down at you, you swallow. He flops his head back and groans, hiding his red face in his arm. Then, something seems to occur to him, and he sits up to glare at you.

“Don’t make fun of me for how fast that was. It’s been a while.”

“It was hot!” you protest.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to come in your mouth. Disgusting,” he says.

It certainly doesn’t look like he’s disgusted. In fact, he looks rather pleased.

You lie down next to him, replacing the covers, and kiss his cheek. It turns a lovely pink at the affection. Levi turns his back to you and shuffles backward and, following his cue, you turn onto your side as well and wrap an arm around him. You press your face into the junction between his neck and shoulder and inhale. Contentment settles in your bones.

“That actually was kind of embarrassing for you. Also, you couldn’t have used your other hand or something?”

“You think I haven’t tried? Just shut up and cuddle me, asshole.”

[kingsandbastardz]

Tumblr ate the anon ask I was responding to so I'm gonna paraphrase it here:

what do mean llh gave di feisheng to fang duobing? the letter totally said something else

Yes, it did - but I didn't feel I could comment too deeply on it when it's been retranslated and people who are far more literate than I am have analyzed the contents already. -- The letter itself seems pretty straight forward.

However, what I wanted to focus on was analyzing unspoken social dynamics - so I'm gonna get in depth into my reasoning for my interpretation. And admittedly in previous posts I was playing fast and glib with my responses (they were just insomnia-fueled thoughts I typed real fast) so I wasn't really in depth or anything. Anyway~~~ That means it's time for me to get long winded.

So! First thing - this is the scene: The letter was written from Li Xiangyi and addressed in its entirety to Di Feisheng. However, when it was delivered the fisherman asked for both DFS and FDB. It was then read outloud by either the fisherman or FDB -- I assume read out loud, and loudly, because DFS never left his position by the rocks and emoted his distress at the contents. That means everyone there also was privy to the letter contents.

The letter itself is straight forward. It's addressed from LXY telling DFS that he regretfully can't make the duel and that he respects him both as a martial artist and as a person, and if he wishes, he can go to FDB who has inherited his skills and shows great promise, etc.

The thing IS - I firmly believe that this is not a message meant just for DFS.

Both LLH and DFS code switch between their non-leader selves vs Li-Menzhu and Di-Mengzhu. It's easiest to see based on what they're wearing. Li Xiangyi when he's dressed in the Sigu Sect uniform. Or the Styx flower hand-off scene where he calls him Di-mengzhu (not Lao Di or A-Fei or whatever else) likely as a reaction to his official regalia/red uniform which means DFS was showing up in an official capacity. Both of them know very well the importance of a certain.... how to say.... drama? They're both leaders and they were also very performative in their roles as leaders. They both expected that massive peanut gallery that showed up to witness the fight - the one filled with members of various sects, including Sigu Sect leadership -- because dfs was likely the one announcing it.

Imo - aside from the need to express the full weight of what he felt, part of the reason LLH was so formal in his letter is expectation that there would be other people there - influential people. The very people DFS and FDB would have to deal with in the future alone. FDB would be ok but he's largely unknown to the rest of jianghu and therefore his story is still malleable. DFS is known, but infamous and his narrative is as much of a trap as LXY's was. And now he no longer has the benefit of a sect to act as a buffer.

LLH's last act as LXY was not to save Yun Biqiu but to carve a new path open in the world for DFS and FDB:

Expresses that he bears deep emotion and the greatest and deepest respect for DFS despite a reputation of them being enemies

Informs everyone that DFS is not seeking dominion or 'the throne' but rather, is going the fighter-scholar path of studying and testing martial skill -- aka, this is message from one sect leader to all the others present. Spread the word, this man is NOT gunning for your power. None of you have reason to take him down.

Establishes FDB as his one and only successor - while also stating clearly it's entirely up to FDB to decide whether to continue down this path or not

Creates a pathway for DFS and FDB to maintain their connection with each other - and in fact lets everyone else know that there is a pre-established, legacy relationship between DFS and LLH that FDB will be inheriting.

Gently asks DFS to keep an eye on FDB's development - iterating that if dfs is the one asking, then FDB may make the decision to continue to train - aka help him see his full potential whatever his decision is.

At the same time, he silently wishes FDB to maintain connections with/keep an eye on DFS. In another reply I kinda went on about this: imagine a scenario where your friend's mom pulls both of you in front of her. And the whole time is telling your friend that they need to do, expectations, a list of goals, etc. The entire time she's only focused on your friend - but there is this silent implication that you, as the witness, is expected to act a reminder or even an enforcer if your friend isn't listening. If things go wrong, you're expected to go in there and help them to do the thing they were asked to do. This is the unspoken message I'm getting for FDB. Even though his name wasn't mentioned in the letter, it was explicitly delivered to both him and dfs. He's standing right there while an imaginary LLH talks to DFS. So if after all this, dfs disappears without another word = fdb can feel emboldened to go after him, knocking on doors until he answers. Should he decide to do so.

Entreaty - "These are LXY's (my) last wishes. Please respect my memory after my death."

Conclusion: LLH's last actions were to create a space where both DFS and FDB can make their own decision on their path in the world, without the weight of all those other people in jianghu influencing them.

Note: I also believe that on dfs' side, his clothing choices point toward his plans to publicly step down and leave the martial path with Li Lianhua. But llh sucker-punched him and left him standing on some rocks like a widow waiting for her husband who's lost at sea. They were technically on the same page, but it somehow went wrong because... well. Unfortunately that's DFS' narrative. He never quite reaches his goal without the hero either hindering or helping him. The entire drama was LLH being that karma busting fulcrum for him. But now, should he wish it, it'll be FDB's turn to step up and do the same.

[lilfriezatyrant]

Deer Nighttime Peace 🌙🌟

Several weeks have passed since you landed in hell. Although you wanted to understand the real reason why you ended up in such a place at all, although you are still human and cannot remember whether you actually died... this mental quest is becoming more and more forgotten with each passing hour.

The more time you spend with one of the strongest regents, the less important this thought becomes.

Alastor, he was the being who gave you refuge in this hotel.

Your safe haven. Protected from the other demons outside the building.

Your protection is also maintained by a pact made by the elegant scarlet demon in deer form.

"If you continue to entertain me well, you will stand in my favor."

Actually a very fragile offer, at least for your part in this convenant. After all, it also means that if you no longer bring him that certain amusement, there's no place for you here anymore.

But would that really be the case? After all, the other demons here, who are also guests and hosts have grown so fond of you and they seem to like you too!

Even the tall grumpy black owl cat, who shunned you at first, secretly enjoys your frequent little caresses on his ears. A cat's purr, however quiet it may be, still sends out vibrations that you can clearly feel under the palm of your hand.

There is almost never an evening when you don't end the day with Alastor. Whether it's just with a cup of tea or one or more glasses of whiskey before you are led back to your room by his shadow or, if the tiredness or the alcohol effect has been too great, even personally by him.

On this night, however, it should be an unusual event...

Your hand grips more of the pillow you are lying on, while your other hand grips a soft surface...it feels even softer than the pillow...you clutch the outline a little tighter...it feels furry. Yet you don't exert any great force, as if you want to feel every detail, every hair.

You sleepily open one eye and only now realize that there is some weight on your chest. You just can't make anything out in the darkness.

Perhaps you were half asleep when you brought the little radio back to bed that Alastor gave you as a gift?

But...the device doesn't feel so fluffy. No, not at all. It should feel metallic, hard and a bit warm...right? Only the warmth of the fur shares a commonality with the little vintage medium...

As you carefully slide your petite hand over it, you now feel something of a hard material and it emanates coolness in contrast to the previous texture. You feel your way upwards and the material ends in a sharp point, but even in your sleepiness you remain careful not to hurt yourself.

Suddenly your eyes widen as you hear a noise. A strange noise, it sounded like a hoot of an owl...? Why would there be a forest dweller here when you're in your room in a hotel? Right In the middle of hell?

But your confusion is now turning into fear. Panic, to be precise, because right in front of you huge, monstrous eyes glowing in an eerie red flickering. The ebony pupils amidst the bright red, deformed into dials that rotate clockwise every second.

Your hand instinctively loosens and although you want to sit up, startled, you are prevented from doing so by the weight on your body.

"Waking up so early?" bright yellow teeth glare out of the darkness. A hellish, distorted grin so unholy, that reaches up to the two scarlet saucers.

"Unusual for you, little doe."

Your heartbeat, which you could still hear pounding so clearly in your body, vibrates along with the static radio sound lacing the voice.

Your own voice almost catches in your throat as you try to name the now familiar creature that caused you such panic before.

"Al-Alastor...!"

The eldritch eyes now swing counterclockwise and return to normal size, his chin perched now right on your collarbone, his eyes, still seeming so huge now due to the lack of distance, focusing only on you.

"Yes, why! Did you expect someone else?" The voice seems amused and cheerful, and you can even hear the audience laughing in the background. It's an amplification that he likes to use to make fun of something, which even you notice after a short time.

And yet... as close as the radio demon is to you right now, he has never been so close to you.

Your face blushes more and you only give a non-verbal, slight shake of your head in response. Right now you are completely overwhelmed as to what is actually going on...is this just a dream?

You slowly look around yourself in the darkness to avoid the demon's hypnotic gaze and the faint sounds of animals and the leaves blowing in the wind through the trees...you must be in his room. In the personal realm of this overlord.

"Your heartbeat...what a harmonious rhythm it makes...lovely." He props his cheek with one hand while he briefly tugs playfully at your pajama with the index finger of his other hand before tapping the spot above your heart in unison.

In response, you only let out an embarrassed giggle and you recognize the outline of Alastor better now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness and your surroundings and he is indeed actually lying on top of you with his weight.

It doesn't feel oppressive, but it's still impossible to get away from him.

The question is...do you even want to?

"You should go back to sleep, my dear. After all, you have to get up very early in the morning to listen to my first broadcast, don't you?" His asking is more of a rhetorical question, since you take it for granted. You've never missed one of his broadcasts before.

His finger continues to tap gently to the sound of your pounding heart, but slower and calmer. In a way, you feel safe with him, this...protective gentleman. Whenever you have left the hotel, he has always been with you and nothing has ever happened to you...even his shadow seems to feel comfortable in your presence and strokes now your hair for a brief moment.

"Hmm..." the radio demon seems to muse, stopping the contact of his finger and rubbing his chin instead, before finally resting his head fully on your chest again.

"I could create a melody based on your delicious heart beat, what do you think?" his voice sounds static, with a recognizable, smug undertone.

Your face remains red, but with a slight, very sincere smile.

"That would be very flattering, Mr. Alastor."

The noble patron morphs his grin into a much wider and crooked one. He seems more than delighted with the answer, nestling his head more against the pajama, now listening with one ear to your once again uncontrolled tune of your heart.

"Then it's a done deal! Very good!" The cheerful echo in his voice is clearly audible, but his next sentence makes you now puzzled.

"You may continue, you know?." He purrs these words and they sound honest. Unfiltered. They are not in the usual voice that sounds through a radio.

But what does he mean...?

Before you could ask your question, a cool breath grips your palm and Alastor's shadowy image directs your hand to his head.

It is the first touch you have experienced with him, which he allows and tolerates. At that precise moment, time stands still for you and every quiet ambient noise is completely muted.

It was his ears and hair that you felt in your sleepy state. His inconspicuous antlers that you felt towards... the warmth and closeness emanated from him...

You silently thank the shadow with a smile before you start stroking its very soft texture again. Your ministrations remain delicate and almost reverent, as you don't want to ruffle any of his hair. Your eyes slowly close and you can hear a very soft static purring sound that goes through your body like a gentle wave.

It feels so real, it can't be a dream.

[scribbleseas]

Straight Laced, Chapter XI: To Be A Perfect Heroine…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

EXTRA TW: MENTIONS OF suicide (just in terms of the Swan Lake storyline!) And again this is a reminder to read the general trigger warnings. This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! It’s been a long time coming for this chapter. I hope this one can finally answer some of the questions you’ve all been having…in more ways than one <3. I hope you find somewhere comfy to read this and get a snack because this baby is over 10,000 words. More than 18 pages, 11-sized font on my Google Docs. Some of these scenes I’ve had in my mind for 2 years!! Hope you love this one.

Happy Reading,

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 11, 1895

The Royal Opera House’s Backstage, Your Dressing Room

Just as you warned the stubborn Earl, his insistence to speak with you made you late. If you wanted your makeup to be flawless for the final performance, you couldn’t stretch for your usual 30 minutes. And you did want your makeup to be flawless. It wasn’t an option, under Natasha’s leadership.

At least your pre-performance routine was just as ingrained into your subconscious as the show itself was. Every step you took to ready yourself helped you submerge deeper into Odette, a desperate attempt to comprehend the last two days of your turbulent life. Starting with your stage makeup, you spread rosewater across your face to rid it of debris. Natasha used to handle this routine for you, but Ciel asked you to start taking care of your own makeup, purchased by him. It was a precaution he insisted upon, given that Amelié died from a poison that invaded through the skin.

You made careful eye contact with your reflection in your vanity mirror, noting your bitten lips and tired eyes. You sighed, eyes darting to the clip of stationary attached to the corner of the glass. Ciel’s home number was still adhered there, the Earl adamantly refusing to remove it in the event of an emergency.

You pressed your face into a towel, drying it. The familiar smell of rosewater alerted your senses; awaiting the stage was like electricity crackling through your veins, despite your melancholy. Still, your mind was rightfully conflicted, overdrawn.

William Wood was not the killer you had been chasing all this time. Ciel suspected that Natasha was. Gwen had apparently lied to you to harm your relationship. But even still, Ciel once warned you that he was a liar. A manipulator who tended to work people like the game pieces his company manufactured. Only the best were so difficult to decode:

“I care about you more than you know, Y/n.” Ciel always sounded so at ease, so sure. You felt that he always had a perfect arrangement of words sitting on the tip of his tongue, to falsely promise, to serenade. To lie.

“You do not,” you had insisted, ignoring the earnestness in his sapphire eye. It couldn’t be real. You felt a flare of stubbornness in your chest, urging you to shove him away.

“I do.” He refused to blink. Adamant in spite of the weight that his accusation had.

Natasha Wood was one of the only people in your life that believed in you. He didn’t know her like you did.

Before Natasha, you had your mother… Until she died about four years into your studies at the Paris Opera School of Dance. You were nine years old. On top of your enrollment, she couldn’t afford the medication that the doctor’s prescribed for her cough. It had only grown more severe week by week, until she was coughing up blood and her lips tinged with blue. Your father only gave your mother so much money to encourage her to keep their rendezvous— and you, of course —a secret.

“Waste this money on my end of life care? When my shining star of a daughter has her whole life ahead of her? I will not do it,” your mother always insisted. You remembered how her cold hand felt against yours, it was iron, despite being clammy with oncoming death.

After she died, the dance school allowed you to continue studying there, your talent promising enough to be worth fostering. By the time you were fifteen (or fourteen, was it?) you were old enough to make the school a profit through its dance foyer to make up for your free education.

You’d never forget the final rasp of her breath.

Following the curve of your cheekbones, you highlighted your face with a soft shade of pink. The spotlight tended to wash out ballerina’s features. Now, you stared back at Odette, the White Swan. Y/n Y/l/n was the star hidden beneath, but no matter how seasoned a prima ballerina you were, not even you could shove the complete extent of your worries far beneath your costume.

You remembered the shock that pounded at your chest when Violet told you about William quite well, how most of her allegations were true. You thought you knew the owner of the opera house. Could you have been so misdirected by your mentor, too?

Until the second Ciel stopped you from entering the carriage, you had a practiced apology for Natasha waiting on your lips. You were supposed to be so sorry for not telling her about her husband’s infidelity and crimes, for your means of investigating her husband being so intimate. For imprisoning him without her knowledge.

Now? You felt as if you were prosecuting your older sister. Her every word, her every glance. Once it was in search of approval, now, it was for…bloodlust? You couldn’t see it. Natasha could hardly walk without assistance—how could she kill anyone?

Why would she hurt anyone? What motivation would Natasha have? Killing her own cast members? For her husband’s violence against them? It was unfathomable. No version of an explanation would stop bile from creeping its way up your throat–each new explanation that came to your mind was only more vile than the last.

Though, you had to ponder: why would Ciel make such a claim if he was not sure? Your mutual need to solve the case was one of the first feelings you had in common. You should have put aside your pride and joined Ciel to interrogate William, or at the very least, listened to the Earl’s concerns. He had something he needed to tell you, but you simply wouldn’t hear it, too occupied with your own hurt.

It was too late for regret, you supposed. You could only meet him after the show and hope for the best.

Mechanically, you rolled your performance tights up your legs, carefully inspecting them for pulls or tears in your body-length mirror. Satisfied, you slid on your ivory pointe shoes, ensuring they were straight laced and spotless, free of grime. Lastly, you stepped into one of your Odette tutus, this corset flaring into a feathered shirt with gold detailing lining the neckline and bodice. It only felt right to wear for your last Swan Lake performance— it was the first iteration of the costume you wore after inheriting the role from Janet.

Janet’s lifeless face flashed in your mind, painting over that fond opening night memory with a new coat of guilt. The young woman had been a beautiful dancer, and a nice person who provided for her family. And her sick mother’s prescription, you made yourself flinch, dry mouth relieved when you took a drink of Sauternes. You poured yourself half a glass, the previously unopened wine bottle a precaution you tucked in the back or your wardrobe for emergencies. If this evening didn’t qualify itself as an emergency, you weren’t sure what would have.

Perfectly on time, your dressing room door flew open, never following a knock. Approximately 30 minutes before the curtain ascended, Natasha always made sure to lace your bodice for you, always finding fault when another cast member did so. The director pushed the door open with the bottom of her cane, her cool seagreen eyes scanning your makeup, dragging down your figure.

Looking for notes to make, you noticed.

“It is good to see you, Y/n,” Natasha said, her expression unchanging from stormy indifference. You couldn’t place when the director had lost her supportive smile, the warm, yet authoritative way she would request for more—for better—and when a frigid insistence stiffened that inspiring patience. When did fear settle in your stomach instead of admiration? “I was worried about attendance today, after Maisie. Quite a tragedy—she was talented.��

The apology you practiced died on your lips, killed by your surprise and uncertainty. Until now, Natasha never addressed any company losses— she attributed them as disappearances from a ballerina being unable to handle the pressures of the industry. You had assumed she didn’t know better because the press was restricted from covering the mysterious company deaths, the Queen fearing public panic, according to Ciel’s acquaintance in the press. After Maisie Stannard died near the steps of the British Museum’s gala, the press had no choice but to cover the incident.

Therefore, Natasha had no choice but to address it with her employees. It was a loss to the company, now well-known by the rest of the country.

That being said, she certainly wouldn’t reveal that William was currently pacing the confines of a holding cell. All the public knew was that Maisie Stannard was killed—no one knew of any of the other company deaths. William’s arrest was only knowledge of Ciel’s (and his accomplices, of course), the State, and Natasha’s. You couldn’t imagine what the director told the rest of the company in order to explain William’s prolonged, sudden absence—especially after he’d only been back from France for about a week prior to you and Ciel arresting him.

Ciel suspected Natasha of shooting Maisie. Of poisoning Amelié, forcing Janet off of the Tower Bridge–you didn’t even know the gruesome details from Eliza’s body, when they found it. Your guilt for suspecting the currently lacing your feathered corset in her usual meticulous way was so consuming, you forced yourself to think of Violet’s distressed cries to remind yourself of who you were being cautious for. You had to solve this for the victims, their loved ones, preventing any more murders. You had to justify yourself—it was a serial killer investigation, after all.

You would have to touch base with Ciel.

“I cannot imagine who could have done this to her,” you mumbled evasively, finishing off your wine glass with a flourish. You welcomed the selection’s competing tastes of acid and sweet butterscotch, and tried not to lament over the untouched cigar in your drawer. The smoke would have done better to soothe your nerves, but arriving late had limited you.

“A young, beautiful woman, a ballerina who was married to a successful man,” Natasha mused purposefully, “you would be surprised, Y/n. Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. As Odette, should you not know that? The perfect heroine always does.”

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. You were unsure of what to make of Natasha’s words.

Ciel once told you that you needed to make your target speak in an investigation. They already had their agenda—evading you—and sometimes, what they refused to say was more telling than what they did.

Natasha had to be aware of your role in her husband’s arrest; that to some degree, you were an accessory to the Queen’s Guard Dog’s investigation. She was gauging you— whether or not that was in defense of her crimes, as Ciel would have suspected, or looking to get a sense of what Ciel made of Maisie’s death. After all, they’d arrested William, in part, because they believed he was the killer. Was she attempting to learn if they had their suspicions turned elsewhere? If she was their suspect, she would want to know if her cover was still intact.

You needed to control yourself, put on the facade of a sad, yet trusting employee. Blissfully unaware and shallow—the purse dog of a wealthy Earl. Limited, materialistic, uncaring. Almost as if you were reprising the woman you were prior to starting this investigation. In your own way, you could be the perfect heroine.

“I do, of course,” you answered, double-checking the measured bow that Natasha pulled the lace into, each cross section between the eyelets matching perfectly. The director was nothing if not precise, now turning to fasten your headpiece’s clips into your hair, already twisted into a braided ballerina bun. “Odette is too trusting, putting her future in the whims of a man who only just met her,” you admitted, the words making you feel like a hypocrite.

“Speaking on the subject—unexpected ugliness—I want to apologize. I heard about Mr. Wood’s —” you started, deciding that the smartest way to protect yourself from Natasha’s probing was to behave exactly as you had initially planned to. Apologizing would convey the submissive guilt the director would have expected from you. In doing so, you would assure her that there was nothing amiss between you, shielding the fact that Ciel had cautioned you in the first place.

“Twenty minutes to Act One, I expect my company members to be focused on the show. Especially my principal dancer,” Natasha’s piercing eyes flashed, her words dipped in ice, no matter how she tried to inject warmth back into her face. She looked older than she did three months ago, her worry lines more prominent in her fair skin. Exhaustion showed itself in deep bags beneath her impatient stare.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy has the highest jumps, the widest turns. She is the embodiment of grace and poise. I would much prefer you to be spending your spare time on a barre rehearsing instead of surveying my personal affairs. You will be able to continue being my prima ballerina, yes?” She pulled her lips into a wry smile, an expression that was close to pity.

You didn’t expect Natasha to engage with you about her husband’s arrest, but you wanted to watch her. Decode how she decided to evade you, seeing that she didn’t so much as let the words escape your mouth.

Not to mention, you weren’t surprised that Natasha chose to demean your talent. She knew your dedication to managing her opinion of you well, having fostered your need to please alongside the rest of the company’s. All of this to say: Natasha chose to turn the focus of the conversation back to you, denying your disguised request to discuss William.

“Yes,” you repeated, forcing your gaze to fall downcast and self-consciously hesitate to return to meet her eyes. “I do appreciate this opportunity, Natasha,” you added pathetically, watching the director’s warm authoritarianism resettle in her face confidently, reinforced by your obsequious behavior. Her thin lips managed a smile. You had reassured her, and that in of itself, worried you. It proved she was hiding something. “You won’t hear anything more of it from me.”

“Focus is a crucial asset for ballerinas,” Nastasha assured you too brightly given her stormy entrance. She gestured to her cane with her chin—it leaned on your vanity behind you, since she needed both hands to tie your costume and affix your headpiece. You obediently handed the medical accessory to her, more than familiar with the director’s gestures.

“Remember to stop by Polly’s office after tonight’s performance. She wishes to triple check your measurements for a spare Sugar Plum costume. We were hoping to have these appointments finished after practice yesterday evening, but with you here now, I would like it complete,” Natasha said, plucking a stray hair of yours off your shoulder and letting it fall to the floor.

“Of course. I will see her immediately after the performance,” you answered simply, biting back your frustration at her dig. Natasha was subliminally critiquing your decreased amount of time at the opera house. Before Ciel roped you into his investigation, you spent most of your time in the opera house’s studio, fiercely guarding your promotion by rehearsing as much as you could manage. Now, you attended your mandatory rehearsals and classes, but nothing more. Instead, you opted to rehearse in the safety of the dance studio Ciel had Sebastian create for you.

“Do give tonight everything you have, Y/n,” Natasha pressed her weight back into her cane, giving you a final once over before she opened your door, preparing to leave. Each night, Natasha helped you with the finishing details of your costume and circulated through the rest of the company to solve any last-minute issues. “The end of this run also sets the tone for the beginning of Nutcracker season.”

“I will never give a performance that I cannot be proud of,” you replied truthfully, painting on an Odile-inspired devil-may-care smile for Natasha. “Allow me to remind you why you chose me for this role.”

“You know what I like to hear,” she answered, casting a wink at you from over her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could, Antoine, the dancer performing as Prince Seigfried, interjected with a clear question on his face. Knowing better than to wait for Natasha, you showed yourself to the backstage wings.

In the chaos that took place backstage, you always focused on the excited chatter of the audience and the pre-performance orchestral music from the other side of the curtain to fuel your adrenaline. You could feel their energy, it radiated in waves. For the next three hours, you were Odette, Queen of the Swans, and Odile, the deceptive daughter of sorcerer Von Rothbart.

You could meet their hardships with the same honesty and emotion you faced your own, and step off the stage to put a real end to this investigation.

That was what set you apart as a professional.

Two Hours Later

The Royal Opera House’s Main Stage

This was the final scene of the show. The Lakeside, Odette’s last stand.

You were poised in the air, the music growing severe as Von Rothbart carried you, pulling Odette out of Prince Siegfried’s protective arms. Until this second, your characters had been entangled with one another, dancing intimately in forgiveness. The music had been soft, portraying a delicate, damaged love slowly on the mend as Siegfried pleaded with Odette, guilty of falling for Odile’s ruse at the ball.

Now, the dark stage flickered, illusions creating the look of lightning and crashing drums replicated rolling thunder.

You entered this scene with a heavy premonition in the pit of your stomach, and you allowed yourself to wear that alarm on your face like an accessory to better portray the story. You were just as distressed as your character, the innocent White Swan. Moments ago, she returned to the lake, heartbroken because Prince Siegfried professed his love to the wrong woman. He had been fooled, but the curse still forced Odette back into her swan form, leaving her to mourn her humanity with the rest of the cursed swans. In spite of her forgiveness, the damage had already been done.

The curse may never be lifted. They could never successfully be in love. It could never be—a sentiment that was familiar to you. Even so, it stung like a fresh wound, never seeming to dull night by night.

The lovers shared a brief dance, only to be torn apart by the sorcerer. Now, the prince reached, his fingers only managing to graze hers longingly. Your eyes followed the missed touch, your head jerking upwards as if you were further panicked by the failed attempt.

Now you were caught between both dancers, each hand held by opposite forces. Love and death, Prince Siegfried and Von Rothbart. At this point in the performance, Odette was dancing on the line between her life and death, breaking the curse and succeeding through love or not breaking the curse and succeeding through death.

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made, you couldn’t keep yourself from thinking over your old mentor’s words. You always thought of Natasha when you danced.

The woman was everything you wanted to be: a self-starter in spite of her immigrant status, a brilliant talent, thoughtful, confident. She had landed a marriage that had appeared loving and fair, and she was still a dancer, in spirit.

The foreboding melancholy settling on your shoulders, your Odette was more skittish than she normally was. She was rather unsteady as the two men guided and pulled her every which way, one trying to hold, one trying to capture. You allowed yourself to feel weightless: it was the best means for Odette’s dancing to look just as induced upon her as it was in the moment. You even allowed your head to fall lazily in line with your neck with every turn, constructing the facade of a woman succumbing to her curse, tired of begging for a way out of the cursed life that held her hostage.

For a moment, you let the tension leave your body, draping lifelessly over Von Rothbart’s supporting clutches. The sorcerer had successfully pulled the White Swan out of her prince’s hand. Odette was exerted within her life. She knew that her curse was permanent, and yet, she craved her self-determination. Her right to love. The right to live as she wanted to, everlastingly.

The perfect heroine? Were there truly always sacrifices to be made? You wondered, flicking your wrists and positioning your fingers as your Odette confidently broke free from the sorcerer’s grip and stepped up the short stairway. Without another second, she threw herself into the lake. The orchestra played dynamically, the swell of music portraying the death of Von Rothbart, the antagonist collapsing and dying from Odette’s sacrifice.

Their deaths left the prince to follow Odette, preferring to die and reunite with her in spirit rather than live without her. The cast of swans—the rest of the company—remained on stage, watching in equal parts awe and horror. Both you and Antoine, the prince’s dancer, jumped into a stage opening that the stagehands kept lined with mattresses to make the short fall as safe as it could be as the group had a final intricate dance number. You realized that this would be your last time getting back to your feet after making that show-stopping jump.

Now, you were made of energy as the both of you ran back behind stage to the wings to make your final entrance for the season. You could never see the audience under the blinding stage lights, but you could always feel it. The opera house always held its breath, the silences between Tchaikovsky’s masterful creations were always punctuated with quiet sniffles from the audience.

Swan Lake was a tragic love story, after all. You would know—you felt well-acquainted with the idea of tragic love. Falling head over pointe for a stone cold, callous Earl without ever meaning to. In fact, while trying not to in the midst of a murder investigation. The very investigation that you felt you were on the precipice of closing.

Would your story end like Odette’s? you wondered. A young woman making her final stand in the face of heartbreak.

You supposed, this performance was nothing more than a storyline. A fable. Nothing to build silly premonitions over, in spite of the danger of your situation.

After your music cue, the spirits of Odette and Prince Siegfried stepped back out onto the lit stage, hand in hand. You shared one last jeté, jumping across the stage in perfect sync, before the audience to show that their plan had succeeded, ending the show in each other’s embrace in the afterlife.

To signify the official end of the story, the stage lights faded out to allow the company to arrange itself for final bows alongside another passionate swell of Swan Lake’s theme from the orchestra. You and Antoine remained still until the stage was completely black, unwilling to ruin the intimacy your characters created for the audience. Lovers who couldn’t bear to be without one another.

Only when the lights flickered back on, the both of you faced the audience to accept their cheering with gracious smiles, wiping away the bittersweet beauty your characters evoked. The rest of the company quickly filed in around you, mechanically dropping into a curtsy on the same note. The minor characters took turns bowing next, including Wolfgang, the prince’s tutor; the Queen Mother, and the four little swans. In order of prevalence, the main characters swept into bows.

Following Von Rothbart and Prince Siegfried, you took five measured steps in front of the rest of the cast and swept yourself into a deep curtsy. The spotlight burned your skin, the hair pins that kept your headpiece fastened dug into your scalp, and your feet throbbed in your pointe shoes. Sweat rolled down your neck and your lungs felt as if there was fire in them, given how hard your chest heaved, but you were elated, nonetheless. A cheering audience was nothing short of a drug. All of these people were here to see you and your company dance. It was an honor, almost enough for you to ignore the disappointed sting in your heart that Ciel would never see you perform in these roles.

Still, stared into the crowd, beaming. You survived. Only now, another confrontation awaited you. One much more dangerous than a bit of acting.

You never thought you would find yourself cutting off a standing ovation on a closing night of a show. This moment, hearing the appreciation and wonderment you gave to legions of people was supposed to be one of the most euphoric parts of your career. Knowing that the hours of labor, exhaustion, and hunger could culminate into a moment this fulfilling. You had just closed a run of Swan Lake as London’s foremost company’s only principal dancer—by all definitions of the word, you were at your prime as a dancer.

But that didn’t matter to you as much, not at this moment. Instead, you righted yourself from your curtsy, blew the faceless audience a kiss, and exited the stage.

You had an investigation to solve, at last. This fitting would be the last step, you were as certain as Odette, though you hoped your ending might be more merciful.

In your haste, you didn’t bother to stop by your dressing room—there was no need.

Polly would have to make her rounds to collect all Swan Lake costumes, anyway, and by going to her office in this ensemble, you saved her the trouble of looking for one of your corsets. Besides, the last you wanted was Natasha in your dressing room to help you unlace it and there was no reason to waste time walking to the other side of the backstage wing. Especially since there was no possibility of Ciel arriving at the ballet tonight.

Entering Polly’s office helped settle your jumbled nerves, at least for a moment. The space never changed; the aging woman was extremely particular with where she kept all of her tools and materials. Each one had its own exact space in her workstation, and nothing was ever a centimeter out of place. As always, the costuming director’s frail shoulders were hunched as she counted silently to herself, measuring a piece of scarlett fabric. She counted to herself, meticulous eyes narrowing before she cut the piece off the rest of the fabric roll with sharp scissors.

“Hello, Miss Y/n,” she greeted you warmly. Her back was to you, but she always knew her visitor before she turned. “Are you well?”

Without this woman, there would simply be no ballet. In two weeks, she had five variations of Odette and Odile costumes for you each, all perfectly tailored to your dimensions. You imagined that the woman could give Sebastian a challenge in terms of clothing creation and tailoring—she was an institution at this ballet. Typically, no one could manage a lie past her.

You couldn’t settle on how to respond, the silence causing her to turn, standing from her short seat. Polly was short enough to have you looking down at her, somewhat.

“How are you?” you tried for a weary smile, knowing it was thin and unconvincing.

“You look like Natasha, when she was your age,” the woman commented, eying you skeptically. She gestured towards her full-length tri-mirror, and you obeyed, knowing the routine for confirming your wardrobe measurements well. You had to strip from your costume, and Polly took careful measurements of your body, well aware that these corsets had to forcefully enforce a ballerina’s trained body.

You felt yourself redden, uncomfortable with the comment. Until now, Natasha was all you wanted to be.

“All lovesick, is all I mean. Don’t you think William put her through it too? All men do it,” Polly said sagely, helping you unlace the tight knots Natasha twisted your corset into. “Especially with beautiful women like you, who haven’t lived here very long,” she chided, hanging the corset on a wire hanger for you.

“Lovesick?” Your mouth felt dry. Of course you were. You were just as confused about your feelings towards Ciel Phantomhive as you were about your thoughts on the true killer. It might’ve been Natasha. There was a chance, and the thought of such a reality took the air out of your lungs. “I am not,” you tried for another smile, laughing weakly. You always smiled. You always laughed. It was supposed to work.

But with Polly, it didn’t. Your weak smile flickered off, unencouraged by the costume director. Of course—she worked there longer than Natasha did. 18 years, you once heard. 18 years of handling fittings like these for stars on the rise, stars about to implode. Stars in the process of doing just that, leaving disappointment and heartbreak in their wake. An ache for what could have been. You suspected that without Polly’s comforting nature, the company would lose ballerinas much more often due to Natasha’s unfailingly brutal honesty.

In response to Polly’s raised, skeptical eyebrows and set line her mouth fell in, you sighed. Still, her eyes sparkled as if she was amused by something in you. That look made you think of Ciel.

You unfastented your head piece self consciously, “I think it may be Natasha, actually,” you ventured, using one of Ciel’s tactics, at the thought of him. “Share an insecurity, it will create a false sense of intimacy, and they might overspeak. People who feel comfortable with you are more likely to make a mistake.”

“I feel concerned about her,” you made a show of admitting, like you were guilty of mentioning her.

Polly also allowed you to undo your pointe shoes, giving you a spare pair of soft socks for your bare feet. They ached, as they always did after performances—sometimes they throbbed in protest to carrying your weight. At least the clean, soft material was more welcoming than the wood of Polly’s step riser would have been. You stepped up, only clad in your undergarments, but you didn’t mind with Polly.

“I thought she was certainly…spread too thin, but I thought she’s been quite well lately,” Polly answered ponderously. She wrapped her small measuring tape around your waist, pulling it in to match its perimeter. You tried not to think about what you ate that day—there were many more important concerns at stake. Polly knew Natasha better than anyone else, perhaps she knew something you did not. “She wanted me to keep this between her and myself, but I think that more of us oughta know the good news: she started massage and manipulation therapy for her hip.”

Massage and manipulation therapy? That was a practice where doctors had injured individuals strategically stretch and work their healed limbs after a long injury put them out of use. Only, you didn’t know Natasha’s injury was healed enough to qualify her for it—you were under the impression that the director could hardly stand without her cane, much less withstand massage and manipulation therapy. Her mobility was supposed to be almost entirely extinct.

“What use would Natasha have for therapy? I believe she cannot walk or stand without help,” you mused.

“Oh, no, dear,” Polly shook her head, writing your waist measurement on a notebook. She put the pad of paper back down before you could catch the number she wrote down. “She can walk and stand without a cane, and that is all. No running, no dancing, none of that, after what happened. The cane only helps her manage. Now she’s going three times a week to rebuild strength, she told me.”

“What exactly happened? Do you know?” You risked the question, your intuition begging you to press forward. You felt your palms grow sweaty with anticipation. This was what you were missing, you were convinced. One of your biggest uncertainties regarding Ciel’s theory was: how could Natasha manage to kill all of these people without being caught on top of mobility challenges? You tried not to seem too desperate to know, scanning over your curious expression in the length mirror. Polly was measuring the widest point of your hips.

“I tell you this as a warning, only. As something to learn from,” Polly insisted, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You gave her a resolute nod, taking an uneasy breath in. Natasha rarely spoke about her injury, its exact name, the incident that caused it. You assumed she considered it to be a weakness—a failure of hers.

“It was a complex hip labral tear. From over practicing,” Polly told you, noting down your measurement. She continued to repeat the process for the rest of your body. “She was the principal dancer in Sleeping Beauty, recently married to Will. Here all night, all day, few breaks. She was scared, I think, to lose the life she found,” she recalled, painting a fond picture of a dancer not unlike you. Hungry for her spotlight. A moment of appreciation. Wanting to love and be loved by everyone and more.

“But she wouldn’t hear anything about stopping—even after the doctors told her to take the rest of the Sleeping Beauty season on break. She refused,” Polly said, shaking her head. “And then, she tore her hip, ruining her range of motion. They told her if she tried to do anything more than walk, the damage could leave her in a wheelchair.”

A wheelchair. Your blood ran cold, chastened. Natasha was less than five years older than you; not even 30 years old yet. Technically, she would have had half a dozen more years as a ballerina, if she had been more careful.

Still, Natasha’s injury came in her prime. You couldn’t imagine the pain of being in the midst of your breakout role, only to have to stop for an unknown period of time. The thought of having to willingly surrender the euphoria of curtsying to a cheering crowd made your chest hurt. Natasha probably felt as if her life was ending. Dancing was the only part of your life that kept you alive, at least.

“But now, I suppose, she’s rested long enough to start getting help again. And as long as it’s helping her, I don’t mind holding down the costuming fort, so to speak,” Polly chuckled, wrapping her measuring tape around your shoulders. She always liked to ramble when she worked, and you didn’t expect it to work in your favor. You couldn’t believe you didn’t think to speak with Polly sooner.

“And she has three appointments in a week?” You asked, swallowing in spite of your dry mouth and throat. You thought of the calendar you saw at the Yard’s headquarters with Sebastian and Ciel. Where you noticed a pattern. The very pattern that you and Ciel had believed to implicate William.

Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. All days where the full cast and crew were at the most occupied with full-Nutcracker rehearsals. These were supposed to be nights where Natasha stayed at the Opera House late to handle costume construction with Polly, influencing every step from the sketches to the final clothing ensemble. Nothing went on The Royal Opera House’s stage without her approval, making her take the time to stay late so frequently.

Unless she wasn’t truly with Polly. William would otherwise have no way of knowing where his wife was if she wasn’t at home—he wouldn’t care to verify where she was, so long as he was confident she wouldn’t be looking for him. The only person in the Opera House after hours was Polly, making only her word Natasha’s alibi.

“Yes! He seems like a smart man, Doctor Wallace. She started seeing him in August,” Polly answered, blissfully unaware.

Unless she was truly pursuing physical therapy— which you doubted this timing — she successfully convinced Polly to maintain this lie for her. Telling the whole company that Natasha was assisting her these nights when she was either on a futile mission to restore her leg or killing her employees.

“So she has not stayed late with you since August?” You could have sworn your heart stopped, in that moment.

“She usually stops in one night a week, at some point. But otherwise, it’s just me. And that’s alright with me, dear, I promise,” Polly misinterpreted your indignation as frustration on her behalf. “More hours is more pay,” she gave you another laugh and wrote down another measurement, blind to your distress.

You felt Natasha’s lies crash down upon another like a house of cards. You gasped, feeling your heartbeat raise in alarm. The world seemed to stall for a moment, hesitating alongside you as your chest tightened with just as much rage as it did surprise. You could’ve sworn your reflection in the three-way mirror was shades lighter in panic.

“Polly, I need to leave,” you said urgently. Still in your undergarments, you pulled a robe off of a hook in the wall, tying it around your waist as you walked. You ignored the costuming director’s protests, her asking if everything was alright. You couldn’t falsely assure her. Not when you felt the sky falling down.

“I have something I need to do now. We can finish another time,” you could hardly recognize your serious tone, it was non-negotiable and about the angriest you’ve heard yourself. Tears brimmed your eyes.

You had to finish this. You couldn’t leave her office without finishing this. No one else was going to die in the hands of this woman.

In fact, you hadn’t thought through your destination until you found your knuckles rapping intently against Natasha’s office door, only several doors down from Polly’s. Technically, the space was William’s office, but he rarely used the space, causing Natasha to commandeer it for her own purposes. You were pleased she did—it wasn’t close to your dressing room, making the private space even more of an oasis free from criticism.

“Natasha! I need you. This is Y/n,” you said, knowing the director was there. She never remained in the foyer long. After she finalized patrons’ payment and ensured that each one was satisfied, she retreated into her office to analyze that performance’s sales revenue. She would stay until she finished adding those numbers to the opera house’s monthly financial records.

“You can—” she started from the other side of the door, but you were wiping your eyes, twisting the knob, and entering before she finished giving you permission. Startled, the director regarded you with irritation hardening her angular features. “Come in… You know to knock, please,” she reminded you, intentionally finishing the statement you interrupted. “Now what might I do for you?”

Being face to face with Natasha made the encounter feel all the more petrified. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It was almost as if you forgot how to put your incensed words into English. You had so many accusations, so many questions to aim at the woman, you couldn’t decide where to start.

“I only… wanted to thank you. Again. For this opportunity,” you said, starting off the safest way you could think of, yet probe her as subtly as you could dare. “I would not be at this point in my career without you.”

Natasha tilted her head, setting her fountain pen down on her desk. You watched her wrestle with her response: acknowledging your gratitude, subtly poisoning your confidence regarding your career, wanting to gauge if you were investigating her, despite your efforts before the show. Of course. She had to be careful around Ciel Phantomhive’s partner.

“Y/n, you have to remember that you find yourself opportunities. Life is not kind to those who wait for opportunity. That is especially important for you to remember with Lord Phantomhive at your side, now. Never allow yourself to rely on anyone,” Natasha said, fulfilling your prediction and criticizing you. How did it take you so long to notice this pattern in your director?

“These rich men...they are never forever,” she snorted bitterly, taking an uncharacteristic drink out of a wine glass. You never saw Natasha drink. “They use you. And lie,” she continued, hesitating before fixing her posture and rising from her office chair. Natasha picked up her cane and used it to help support her as she walked to her cabinet and picked an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Though we should commemorate the end of this season,” Natasha told you with a new degree of stiff friendliness in her voice. She poured some of the dark wine into a clean wineglass for you, offering the drink to you. “You worked hard to make yourself worthy of Odette and Odile. On top of this drama that Phantomhive dragged you into,” she said his name like a curse.

“I appreciate that, Natasha,” You accepted the glass, but you didn’t take a drink, wary of the wine’s contents. “I did work tirelessly, and–”

“And you do handle the scrutiny well,” your director continued, interrupting you. “Better than I ever did.” She only could have been referencing the disdain she faced for marrying William Wood, though he wasn’t a noble like Ciel, he was from an incredibly wealthy family. You doubted British elite society would ever treat a foreign ballerina kindly, much less five years ago.

You were silent, unsure of what to say. In just minutes, Natasha managed to gain control of the conversation, grabbling the upperhand from you. It was effortless for her. The woman was the very picture of composure. You couldn’t help but wonder if she considered herself to be the perfect heroine from her own description.

Was Natasha manipulating you now, too?

“I try my best to ignore them. They do not and will never know me, so I should not concern myself over what they believe,” you replied noncommittally, forcing yourself not to break eye contact with your director. The air was tense. You felt as if she could see straight through you, and right into the real reason you were there.

Natasha hummed begrudgingly, “it is big of you to know that, and so young. Not too long ago, I would have done anything to live your life.” Her smile unsettled you, and at this point, you trusted yourself more than you did her.

“Why don’t we toast?” the director asked, picking up her glass in one hand and again, using her cane to help her walk to you. “To your career. Your partner. Your success.”

“Fine,” you agreed hesitantly, tapping your wineglass against hers. You watched Natsha take a short sip of wine, but you couldn’t force yourself to do the same. There was no way for you to know it was safe.

Naturally, Natasha had been monitoring your hesitation, her smile—which started out thin enough for you to feel suspicious—wavered. “Is there something wrong?”

Your eyes darted to the office door behind you. Suddenly, you deeply regretted your impulsivity. You might have been out of your depth, confronting her without a plan or any support. This was what Ciel had feared when you were arguing with him about your plan to trap William: a situation where you were in danger with no easy way out.

“No! No, of course not,” you said unconvincingly, painfully aware of the symptoms of a long day beginning to encroach on you, as well. Your feet still throbbed, despite being in Polly’s soft socks, made specifically for aching feet. Your eyelids were heavy which was no surprise, since you hadn’t had proper sleep in days. Especially not last night— how could you have slept after Maisie? “I simply…do not feel much like drinking.”

“You? Not wanting a drink?” Natasha replied incredulously. “Come on. Have a toast with me. Why are you being so uptight with me, now? You do trust me, don’t you? I am your director,” Her long nails tapped on her glass, her face molding into hurt.

It was one sip. What was one sip? The wine bottle was already open—it seemed to be the only open selection in the cabinet. How would she only poison yours?

You paused, realization dawning on you. She was manipulating you.

You wondered if Natasha guided you into that line of thinking as she so often did, pointing out when a corset appeared tight on you to motivate you to eat less, asking you when the last time you considered cutting your hair was to inspire you to cut it. Telling you to enjoy Ciel as a subscriber as if sex work was your choice. All you ever wanted to do was dance.

“Are you the one killing us, Natasha?” The question slipped out between your lips before you could stop it. Tears welled in your eyes, and you couldn’t keep the tremor out of your voice. You stared down at the wine in your hand, a tear streamed down your cheek and made a ripple in the blood-red liquor. Your face felt hot.

“What are you asking me?” Natasha’s questioning laugh was hollow. She finished off her drink and left the empty glass on the desk. She was being clear: this was your last opportunity to drop the question.

“Did you kill the missing ballerinas? I mean they’re dying in other companies too, but m-mostly…this one,” forming words felt impossible. You didn’t know how you were controlling your tone so well.

She laughed again, tones of disbelief making the sound sound rough and condescending. Her eyes were ablaze with rage and disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you, you accuse me of murder?” Her knuckles were white, fingers tight around both the cane and the glass in her hand. “I have half a mind to kick you out of my company right now for this insult!”

This was the only way, you braced yourself. You thought of the victims you were avenging, not of the danger that stood in front of you. And if you died, you were fairly certain Natasha had no way to evade the consequences. There was a backstage full of company members. You trapped her.

Still, you need to commit to guiding her rage. Natasha was too logical for a mistake. Her emotions needed to overtake her.

“I’m not sure why I just asked that, I’m so sorry,” you lied, “we can just forget about this,” you suggested, backing up towards the door. Your hand reached from behind you to blindly search for the doorknob, only for Natasha to put all of her effort in swinging her cane in the slim space between your fingertips and the doorknob.

You scrambled away from the swing—and from the doorknob, unfortunately. In your fumbling, you dropped your wineglass on the floor. The glass shattered on the floor, its contents spilling in a burgundy pool around the fragments. Only in socks, you stumbled on the spilled liquid, making it easy for the director to usher you away from the door. You struggled to stand back up, feeling the full impacts of your performance and the miserable way you treated your body, compiling and attacking you with just as much vengeance as your director did.

You were decently certain that all you had to eat that day was a quick slice of quiche and some fruit. That fuel ran out well before your performance’s intermission and was nothing but a distant memory to your body, now.

“No,” Natasha’s face was devoid of all kindness. In looking into her cold eyes, you had no doubt that she was a murderer. Not anymore. “You asked for honesty. How is this for honest?” She locked the door, continuing to back you further into the wall by the cabinet she took the wine out of, driving you away from the exit and further into the office. Silent tears fell down your face, but you refused to let her see you sob.

“I liked you, Y/n. I thought we were kindred spirits in a world of weak, spineless, nobodies, who want to try to become dancers when they cannot even stand up straight,” Natasha snapped. She didn’t bother using her cane to walk, merely holding it like a weapon. But she cast it aside once she had you against the wall—not unlike the submissive position her husband forced you into in your own dressing room.

You were approximately the same height—if anything, Natasha had a centimeter or two on you. She still had a bad leg, even though she could clearly walk, but clearly, she had a deep wealth of lethal knowledge.

“I never would have thought you would be one of them,” she continued, casting her cane aside for a pocket knife that she fished out of her skirts. You were strangely calm, despite the panicked, rapid pace your breath came and the hot tears that still spilled down your face. “But if it’s you or me, I will always choose me.”

That wine had to be poisoned. You thanked your instincts.

“You have made that outstandingly clear, Natasha,” you retorted. “You even managed to put yourself before your own interests by screwing yourself out of a career!” you yelled back at her, channeling your rage. Every time she snapped at you, each time she disparaged your dancing, the way your body looked, each time she prepared you for a new patron. “And now what’s left of you is nothing but a bitter woman past her prime. And that is your fault. But y-you take out your f-failure on us!”

“And you? You’re an ungrateful bitch,” Natasha hissed back at you, sliding a thin pocket knife against your throat, causing you to cry out. So close to her, you could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her pupils were dilated.

You needed to find help. Soon, if you wanted to live. Continuing to taunt Natasha in her office would surely end in your death. While such a sacrifice would surely be enough to convict her, you hoped to see it through. You, in your own way, were the perfect heroine. You knew there was a sacrifice to be made, but if you could help it, you hoped to live.

Swan Lake was only a story, after all.

“And you plan to try to kill me in here?” you asked, gasping as she pressed the blade deeper into your skin. You could feel the painful sting across your nerves, down to your fingertips and as pressure against your windpipe. “H-How will you… get away with it?”

“Shut up,” Natasha laughed again, catching on to your efforts to disregulate her. Painfully smart, she was.

You tried to speak again, but Natasha pressed the blade harder to discourage you. You were at a loss, having allowed yourself to get here by storming in with no plan. Fueled by nothing besides rage, betrayal, and regret.

She looked pleased, content with the way she had managed to turn your attack on her into your demise.

Until there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Wood? Is Y/n in there with you? I have been looking for her— I must escort her home.”

You would know that voice anywhere, anytime. No matter what. It made goosebumps erupt on your arms. Ciel had come to the opera house in search of you, despite your best efforts to push him away. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself that he was lying and he didn’t care for you, or anyone, save for himself. The accusation felt shallow, now that a real narcissist had you at knifepoint.

“Ci—!” You started, only for Natasha to shove her hand against your mouth before, forcing her to let go of the collar of Polly’s robe, which she had balled in her first to keep your neck close to her weapon. You had both of your hands to fight her knife hand, trying to pry the small weapon out of her thin—frustratingly strong—fingers. Your arms shook with effort.

“No, Lord Phantomhive, she is not here!” Natasha called over her shoulder, allowing you to use one of your hands to push her face further away, hoping her body would follow her head. You had no combat experience, limited to knowing choreographed fighting on stage. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” She mumbled in your ear, hardly having stumbled from your efforts.

The doorknob rattled as Ciel likely realized it was locked.

You had to get her off of you. Well aware that your arms were locked in a stalemate with her knife, you brought your knee up and dug it into her stomach, causing her to curse, holding her stomach in surprise. You used her surprise to push her away and take steps towards the door as quickly as you could manage, only for Natasha to catch your wrist and pull you back.

“Ciel, please!” A sob that had been building in your chest ripped out of you as Natasha pushed you back into the wall, only this time, you were poised on the wall next to the door.

“Y/n!” It sounded like Ciel kicked the door. “On behalf of Her Majesty, let me in there this instant, Natasha!”

“Get him to leave, or I will kill you. Here,” Natasha whispered, taking hold of your chin to force you to look into her eyes. This was the face that 11 ballerinas saw before they died. Natasha’s bloody hatred of you looked just like William’s, irate and predatory. You had no doubt that the woman would kill you.

“Y/n, do what you must to get her off of you! You can handle her!” You heard Ciel call to you, now that he was decently sure that you were with Natasha—against your will. “I need to break this door open. I don’t care if it’s your bloody director’s office—”

“Why are you doing this to us, Natasha?” You whimpered, repeating the question when she refused to answer. You felt blood bleed down your neck where she pressed the blade, but you couldn’t stop asking. You deserved to know. It didn’t feel as if she was pressing hard enough to kill you—you suspected she wanted leverage over Ciel.

“Why are you hurting us?” you demanded. “Why, why, why?”

“Because I should still be the prima ballerina of this company! Like the rest of you ungrateful whores! My husband should want me in the way he wants the lot of you! I should have my applause! My life back! Give it back!” Natasha yelled, slamming your back against the wall by your shoulder. Black spots danced in your eyes, from your exhaustion. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

“I want my life back! You don’t deserve my life! I’m brilliant. Bloody brilliant. The lot of you—you’re nothing, but me? Me? I am a real ballerina. You all are nothing, useless little rodents you all are! In spite of my best efforts to teach, you all can never just learn!” tears raced down Natasha’s face, as well.

Her words, her tears, ignited a fresh anger in you. You worked most hours out of the day for this woman’s approval, only for her to feel this much contempt—no, resentment, towards you. She tore you down at every step, masquerading it as support. And blamed you for her vitriol. From an injury she brought upon herself.

“I took nothing from you,” you rasped, “none of us ever did. We all worshiped you. And you kill us for it. You. Are. Deranged.” you said strongly, in spite of your pain. You used the rest of your strength to curl your hand into a fist and push it forward, aiming for her nose to stun her. Ciel, for emergency’s sake, took the time to show you how to throw a proper punch. You made certain your thumb was untucked and….

Immediately, your hand erupted in pain, starting in your knuckles and expanding outward. You felt her face yielding to the force more vividly than you thought you ever could, the sound making a dull thud. Clearly, however, Natasha was in more pain, the shock causing her to drop her knife.

Natasha swore in, presumably Russian, and doubled over. She held her face, recoiling with pain. You caught blood dripping down her lips, coming from her nose. Her face immediately swelled.

Before she could recover, you unlocked the door, revealing a panicked Ciel. He seemed to be bracing himself to kick it down, his left leg braced into the ground while he was aiming to drive his right heel into the bit of wood next to the lock. Of course, he knew how to kick a door down. You couldn’t keep yourself from laughing at how absurdly good the Earl was at everything.

You felt delirious, looking at Ciel with your director behind you, bleeding. Because you punched her. Because she was the serial killer you had been looking for all this time. The seriousness on Ciel’s face made your smile crumple, re-recognizing the importance of what had just occurred. You hadn’t stopped crying at all, your face was soaked with tears as much as it was with sweat.

There was some of your own blood smeared on your chin and cheeks from Natasha’s hands—you could smell the iron, you could see Ciel’s gaze investigating the stains to ensure they weren’t open wounds. He had already sized up the cut on your throat the moment he righted himself and pulled you into him, away from the director.

Immediately, you were safe in Ciel’s warmth, shuddering as he put his wool jacket over your shoulders. He was speaking to you, but you could barely bring yourself to register his words. Ready to collapse, your head heavy and gloomy. You hadn’t noticed you were shivering, and yet, he did. Ciel let you hide your face in his neck, the height difference between you was always minimal.

Sebastian stepped inside from behind Ciel, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sebastian,” Ciel snapped, knowing the butler was behind him without turning around. He had his stare fixated on Natasha as some company members moved to restrain her, despite her cursing and thrashing. Ciel had made a scene in demanding the door be opened, and Natasha must have been loud enough for onlookers to hear. “Take care of this. I don’t want there to be a media scene. Find us in Y/n’s dressing room when you’re finished.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian replied. “Very well done, Miss Y/l/n,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. He put his hand on his heart and bowed to Ciel, but this was the first instance he bowed to his master with you standing next to him.

You could have been persuaded that you imagined it.

“Ciel…” you spoke as he guided you away from the rest of the company, the arriving officers, and Natasha as she protested her arrest. You felt weak. Almost empty for idolizing a woman who hurt you and so many others. Who thought so little of so many who thought she was the template to success.

Natasha and William hurt you all, and without Ciel, you never would have come to know that. And he had warned you. But you didn’t listen, when you needed to.

“Thank you for coming here, anyway. I appreciate that you would…come. After everything,” you said, the apology was difficult for you to say, but needed. “I cannot know why you would be so kind to me, but you saved my life again.”

Ciel took your arm in his, more than aware that you were exhausted. “What do you mean you cannot know why I would be so kind to you?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at you. “I thought I was clear earlier today: I want to be with you. And I should apologize, too, honestly.”

“Mutual forgiveness and we can have another talk, later?” you requested, settling into your chair. Ciel locked your dressing room door behind the both of you for privacy’s sake. He pulled out your First Aid kit from under your vanity to start caring for your neck.

“Mutual forgiveness,” he agreed, settling down next to you.