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skellymom · 5 months ago

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"Vagabonds" Chapter 19

"HEART OF THE MATTER"

Ongoing fanfic Hunter x Reader/Fem Reader/OC

Hunter meets a smuggler Nomaadi Star Woman with a powerful force sensitive teen who changes the trajectory of CF-99's lives...as they ALL try to escape from The Empire together.

To read Chapter 18 - "THE FORCE"

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/759480275949486080/vagabonds-chapter-18-the-force?source=share

Word Count: 1.9K

Background: Hunter has a heart to heart convo with LOVE. LOVE has a heart to heart covo with Mad. Sweet and emotional with a reveal (No fear dear reader: Things WILL pick up in Chapter 20!)

For anyone new to this series: "LOVE" is the nonbinary/genderfluid neurodivergent/nonverbal Force sensitive kid of the main OC of this series "Mad". For more background on LOVE, check out the introduction and past chapters leading up to this one. LOVE'S father is also mentioned in past chapters in a flashback...giving a clue as to how and why LOVE has the power they do!

Warning: Commentary of body issues, age, relationships. Mention of body parts.

(Credit: Cool dividers by @4ngelic-wh1spers @plum98 @strangergraphics-archive)

Mad emerged from the refresher, toweled off, then playfully tossed it over Tiggy. Tig rolled around inside the towel, drying her fur, then took it between her teeth and shook it. The towel slapped the sides of her head. She’d drop it, growl, bite and shake it again.

From the back of her wardrobe, Mad pulled out a black linen maxi dress. A patchwork of small multicolored fabric swatches was sewn all over it randomly. Remnants of fabric snipped from the clothing of Nomaadi family and friends. People who helped Mad escape Dathomir, deliver LOVE, and occasionally assist Mad to raise them during the rare moments the Nomaadi could gather together. Some still alive...some...had perished long ago. For the Nomaadi this was their portable family album. There was a bittersweet melancholy attached to this garment. A nostalgia so deep with this dress Mad could NEVER part with it.

She hadn’t worn it since being pregnant with LOVE and a few months after their birth...before losing some of the baby weight.

Mad glanced up and caught the vision of her naked self in the mirror.

Her breasts were getting heavier with the start of milk production...and tender. Before that they weren’t as perky as they had been in Mad’s 20’s or 30’s... now hovering just shy of 50.

She had a mature woman’s body before this “medical condition.” A spare tire around her lower midsection, just under the belly button. Leftover from carrying LOVE that never went away. And shiny stretchmarks from the original pregnancy weight loss.

There were some varicose and spider veins on Mad’s legs, mostly covered by extensive tattoos. But still visible. The occasional scar from fights, near misses, scrapes, and falls while evading enemies peppered her body.

Mad sighed. She wore a rough roadmap of life...with more to come.

Memories of Hunter worshipping every inch of her body came flooding back. The extra, marred flesh didn’t seem to bother him at all. Sure, he had plenty of scars...from battle. Those scarred parts of his anatomy were seen as glorification of enduring a war and surviving. No sense of shame came with them.

Motherhood on the other hand...not generally seen that way.

The softening of the body, especially as an older woman...aging. Mad sighed. Most societies in the galaxy tended to view this as a woman past her prime, less valued, sometimes invisible, mostly a vessel to produce a younger, more useful being and nothing else.

Would Hunter STILL find her attractive? And see past the outer meat sack to the spirit of the person within? Would he still want to hang around after whatever Mad carried within her grew to fruition and left it. Maul surely didn’t.

Men usually became suddenly fickle when the body exceeded certain...parameters of “established” body standards...

Would her body still be in full working order after all of this was over? Would she lose her independence? What would happen to LOVE if Mad was rendered incapable? Surely the Nomaadi would help care for her...

...IF there were any of her people left after the Empire scoured and colonized the galaxy...

She suddenly grew VERY wary and tired. Tiggy whined pitifully, as though she could read Mad’s thoughts.

Mad sighed and took the dress off the hangar, pulling it over her head, and let it settle over her body.

It felt comfortable. Like home. Smoothed out and covered the lumps, bumps, scars, mars...

Forgiving and embracing like a well-worn lover.

Mad ignored the wet towel on the floor and crawled into bed, hiding under the covers. She didn’t want to think about ANYTHING else for awhile. Just wanting to exist in this warm peaceful place.

Tiggy leapt up and snuggled in next to her.

Hunter rifled through his pockets, pulling out items as he thew his clothes into the washer.

The Marauder had a tiny machine, only large enough for the Batcher’s thin blacks. But the Beldame had a full-sized washer/dryer with a folding counter in one of the ships alcoves. Perfect for washing civilian clothing the Batchers had acquired since leaving the Empire.

LOVE quietly drifted by in the shadows behind him, having grabbed snacks for Omega and Sil. If it had been anyone else, they would have silently drifted by in levitation with no one the wiser...

But this was Hunter.

“That’s an interesting skill you have.” He mused as he closed the lid and watched the clothes agitate in the washer window.

LOVE stopped and levitated in place, shocked that Hunter could sense them.

“You HAD to know I would eventually figure it out.” Clothes agitating...” Do you eavesdrop on everyone often?”

NO! They Force Spoke.

“Guess I have to believe you” Hunter turned to stare into LOVE’S eyes. He leaned against the wall next to the washer and put his hand on his hip.

No pressure...

We live on this ship constantly...usually with lots of other people. Privacy is hard to find...but...SOMETIMES...every once in a while...I do it for safety reasons.

“Oh?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.

I DON’T want to know other people's PERSONAL business...eww. But...I worry about Mom. She’s been with me my whole life. More than anyone else...

LOVE trailed off and Hunter guessed this comment was telling about how little this teen’s father was present in their life.

“What are you worried about?” Hunter softened his look and tone.

I... don’t want to lose her... LOVE clutched the bags of snacks against their chest, a panicked look upon their face. I’m scared.

Hunter understood this completely. He had seen Omega worry as a small child. So many situations where she would stress about things she had little to no control over.

“Ever tell your mother about this?” Hunter offered.

No... LOVE stared at the floor

“Listen...I know I’m NOT your father...” Hunter fidgeted a bit. He wasn’t sure if he was drifting into dangerous territory with Mad’s teen.

But you COULD be! LOVE glanced up hopefully at Hunter.

Hunter was pleasantly surprised to find himself smiling a bit. He initially expected LOVE to be defensive and argumentative. However, he remembered Mad’s explanation of the Nomaadi. Family is not specific for them. It was NOT necessarily comprised of a closed group of familiar blood individuals. ANYONE could be adopted into the galaxy-wide ever-growing community of the Nomaadi family experience.

You ONLY had to be genuine and committed to belong.

“Don’t you think she should know?” Hunter advocated.

LOVE heavily considered his words.

“Talk to her, LOVE. She NEEDS to hear from you right now. She needs your support.” Hunter urged. “I think you need hers too.”

I... don’t want to be a burden. Mom has enough to worry about.

“You aren’t. Would NEVER think that.” Hunter emoted “She loves you so much.”

LOVE nodded and turned to levitate away towards Mad’s stateroom. Then stopped and glanced over their shoulder.

Hunter?

“Yeah?”

I mean it...you COULD be my father.

“Heh...thanks Kid. That means A LOT coming from you.” Hunter beamed.

Mom? LOVE reached out with The Force while standing outside of Mad’s stateroom door.

Come in. The door slid open to reveal Mad curled up in bed with Tiggy leaning against her.

Mad had rolled over to greet Love...as they WALKED into the room...

LOVE barely EVER walked anywhere. Usually, levitating was the default to avoid the tactile feeling of anything against their feet, hands, body. They even shunned touch from everyone around them, including loved ones. LOVE slowly wandered into the room, looking small, lost...a bit unsure.

Hey? Mad probed LOVE’S mind gently. Speaking in the intimate way they both have since LOVE'S birth. What’s bothering you?

LOVE slowly crawled onto the bed then asked a question Mad hadn’t heard since LOVE was a toddler...

Can I hug you?

Oh...OF COURSE! With outstretched arms, Mad beckoning her child.

LOVE slid in and embraced Mad, gently closing Tiggy in between them. The dog rolled onto her back and let all four legs dangle down like a person resting on the mattress. A contented groan escaped her snout.

Mad warmly wrapped her arms around LOVE, closed her eyes, and drank in the sensation of how her child felt in her arms. It had been SO LONG since she felt this. Mad held back strong emotional tears.

It felt WONDERFUL!

Mad waited patiently for LOVE to speak.

Finally... I’m...scared.

You heard the conversation earlier, didn’t you? With your “Force Ears?”

LOVE nodded silently.

I know you can do that. Don’t always know when you do it...

Not often. Promise.

Hmm. Hunter and I were going to tell you, Omega and Sil soon. We just needed to process...EVERYTHING.

Hunter told me to come clean and talk to you. Sooner than later.

He did, did he? Mad grinned

Can we adopt him? And Omega...and their brothers?

I’ll think about it. Mad smirked, then sighed. About the... Mad motioned to her very swollen belly. Symbiont...or WHATEVER is in THERE...I think I’m going to live. Don’t think the doctor...intentionally...implanted anything evil or dangerous. But I wasn’t prepared for what Hunter had to say. We're going to get this straightened away tomorrow at the extraction point. I CAN’T wait though...it’s sitting on my bladder! Sorry...

Mad extracted herself from Love, Tiggy, and the bed quickly. Got up and hurried to the bathroom.

LOVE waited for Mad’s return and glanced down at Tiggy, who continued to lay on her back.

You KNOW something. You sense it. That’s why you’re cuddling with Mom so much.

Tiggy glanced up at LOVE, wagging her tail in the affirmative.

What do YOU know that we don’t???

Tiggy smiled in the way dogs do, still wagging her tail, but giving up NONE of her secrets.

Mad returned to her bed and snuggled in with LOVE. They lay there for quite a while, each in their own headspace and silent.

Hey... Mad whispered with the Force.

Huh? LOVE murmured back.

I love you with everything I’ve got. And, I’ve NEVER regretted having you. No matter what happens...don’t you EVER forget it. Mad squeezed LOVE.

LOVE was extremely touched and emotionally unable to speak...even with the Force. However, Mad could FEEL the depth of their emotions. No words needed to be spoken; the feelings were enough.

Eventually, both LOVE and Mad drifted off to sleep...with Tiggy sandwiched between them.

While Mad slept....

LOVE dreamed.

A shapeless, formless darkness. Nothing concerning or terrifying. On the contrary, a peaceful, watery darkness...with the constant sound of a warm heartbeat. There were others with them in the darkness. Small forms fluttering around LOVE. Sliding by and acknowledging their presence like it was as natural as belonging to this place. This watery, salty home...like the dark, warm depths of an ocean. They communicated wordlessly, soundlessly in kinship. No malice or otherness. They belonged here for the time being, while LOVE was just visiting temporarily. They accepted LOVE occupying space among them in these depths. Swimming up to them in greeting. Regarding LOVE with interest...

LOVE startled awake with their head resting against Mad’s swollen belly. During the nap, LOVE had slid down and curled around their mother. Mad continued to snore softly.

LOVE glanced down at Tiggy. My brothers and sisters are in there...you were trying to tell us...

Tiggy wiggled in excitement.

...and Hunter’s their daddy.

Tiggy rolled over and licked LOVE’S face enthusiastically.

LOVE was elated...but then realized that they COULDN’T part with these babies. For SO many years Mad and LOVE ferried people...mostly children across the galaxy to safe houses and families on other planets. Some living with other Nomaadi when there were no other viable options. They were unable to keep any of them in their daily lives.

But THESE children...they personally BELONGED to THEM.

LOVE gently woke Mad up and gave her the news.

I...DON’T understand. HOW? Mad rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Tech might know. He’ll explain the logical part. I can do the rest. LOVE offered.

LOVE got up from the bed and levitated out of the stateroom to find the rest of the crew.

To read Chapter 20 - "DIFFICULT CHOICES":

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/761407251706707968/vagabonds-chapter-20?source=share

Please let me know if you wanted to be added to my taglist or removed! Thanks so much for your support!!!

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feuerwizard · 5 months ago

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@proelio-procusi asked: "∗ 4o: sender traces one of receiver’s [scars / bruises] ." // 100 nonverbal prompts;; open

Eadwulf's fingers traced gently over the faded scars that criss-crossed Caleb's forearms like a roadmap of pain and survival. The flickering firelight from the hearth danced across Caleb's pale, freckled skin, casting the raised lines of scar tissue into sharp relief.

Caleb gazed into the glowing embers, transfixed by the shifting patterns of light, as Eadwulf mapped each mark with an almost reverent touch. Callused fingers, so used to gripping a sword or casting somatics, now caressed with the lightest pressure, as if memorizing every ridge. He did not mind Eadwulf touching him like so, it felt familiar. Comforting. "They are the same as yours… minus the tattoos, of course."

#☼*・ﾟ Friends — ↳ proelio-procusi #☼*・ﾟ Interaction — ↳ eadwulf grieve #☼*・ﾟ Verse — ↳ professor widogast (post campaign)#( tender scar tracing )

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gay-otlc · 1 day ago

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I grew up without a roadmap to myself. Nobody taught me how to be a butch; I didn't even hear the word until I was twenty years old. I first became something I had no name for in solitude and only later discovered the word for what I was, and realized there were others like me. So now I am writing myself down, sketching directions so that I can be found, or followed. If the word for you is butch, then remember this word. It will be used against you. If you the word for you is butch, remember your history is one of strength and survival, and it is largely silent. Do not hide this word under your tongue. Do not whisper it or sweep it under the basement stairs. Let it fill up your chest and widen your shoulders. Wear it like a sleeve tattoo, like a medal of valor. Learn for recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or your sisters. Both are just words that mean family.

"A Butch Roadmap" by Ivan E. Coyote, from Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme

#butch #persistence: all ways butch and femme #godddd. I'm gonna post about this book a lot bc a lot of these lines are fucking hitting #but this one especially #s reads #<- making this a tag since i'm hoping to read more. and i will be posting about it since I'm incapable of shutting up

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hand-written-dreams · 1 month ago

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CRIMSON SHADE

Chapter 20

Between Darkness and Light

Things fall apart

And time breaks your heart

I wasn't there, but I know

She was your girl.

- ( song of this chapter is "wildflower'' by Billie Eilish.)

It starts raining heavily, the downpour drumming against her car roof as she debates whether to stick to her evening plans or just head home, cancelling the meeting with her boss and the manager. But she's already here. Backing out now would seem more trouble than it's worth.

At the gate, the guards don't stop her. One of them steps forward, takes her car keys without hesitation, and gestures toward the main building. "Sir is expecting you," he says.

Aman must have passed on the message.

The first time, she stepped into the house, it was cloaked in darkness, every corner shadowed in foreboding. That night, she had gone straight to his bedroom, desperation her only guide. Retrieving the evidence had consumed her, pushing her to act in ways she wouldn't normally dare.

This time, the house feels alive. It's bathed in soft, warm light, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness she remembers. A sleek staircase of glass and polished steel ascends to the first floor. Soft, concealed lighting beneath the steps casts a faint, ethereal glow as if inviting her upward. Each step feels deliberate, almost reverent, as she ascends.

At the top, she pauses. The first floor is a stretch of glass, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the downpour outside. Rain streaks the panes, blurring the world beyond into a dreamlike haze.

To her right, across from the bedroom she once trespassed, lies a sitting area with plush cream sofas and cushions lying around.

Beyond it, an open kitchen comes into view. A pot simmers quietly on the stove, releasing the faint aroma of spices that lingers in the air. The aroma weaves with the earthy freshness of rain and something that's a favourite of hers........the fragrance of red roses.

Her eyes wander to the open veranda, searching for the source of the sweet fragrance. Rows of rose plants catch her attention, their red blooms standing out brightly against the dark, cloudy sky. The vivid crimson of the petals stands in stark contrast to the brooding grey clouds, each flower seeming to defy the approaching tempest with its quiet, resilient beauty.

She doesn't know what she expects his space to be like. Not that she's ever thought about it before. Perhaps something akin to a cave, dark, cold, and unwelcoming. Or maybe a dungeon, barren and oppressive.

But this?

This feels surreal, almost unsettling. This is anything but the lair of a predator like him.

But nothing prepares her for the scene unfolding in front of her.

There he stands, with his back to her, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, his skin glistening faintly as if he's just come out of the shower. Her breath catches as her gaze roams over him. She blinks, tries to look away, but her treacherous eyes linger...

Gaping,

Ogling,

Drinking in every detail.

Her eyes trace the scars decorating his back like a grim roadmap of pain... Raised flesh and mottled lines. Her gaze wanders over the scars crisscrossing his back, and then it freezes.

An eagle.

The tattoo spreads across his shoulder blades, its wings outstretched in a fierce, powerful arc. The feathers are drawn with such precision they almost look real, and the beak curved in a deadly, defiant screech.

The eagle seems to come alive with the ripple of his muscles, the wings shifting as if preparing to take flight as he reaches down to pat the head of a massive grey beast.

A dog, she realizes, though it looks more like a wolf, its sheer size making her pause. What breed is it?

The thought barely crosses her mind when he stills.

And so does she.

He turns, his caramel-browns locking onto hers, freezing her in place. Her breath hitches, her pulse thundering in her ears. His torso is as imposing as his back. A star-shaped tattoo is etched into his right pectoral.

His abs are completely bare to her gaze, a trail of hair disappearing into the edge of the towel. Her eyes absorbs it all without breaking eye contact. She fights to mask the strange sensation twisting inside her, but his steady stare tells her she's failing. Miserablely.

His gaze flickers, catching her lingering look, and something shifts in his eyes, a sharp, knowing edge. His eyes are darkest brown, the faint dilation of his pupils betraying him. It hits her then, whatever this is, it's affecting him just as much. His body is taut, every muscle tense and tightly restrained. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, those involuntary physical reactions betray him.

And for some reason, that knowledge steadies her, making her feel a little less alone in her struggle against her body's out-of-control maddening responses.

It also makes her pulse race faster.

And she's nervous.

Utterly, devastatingly nervous.

So, she does what she always does when her nerves get the better of her.

Loses her brain-to-mouth filter.

"Don't you have a shirt?" The words tumble out before she can stop them. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear. "Though, you know, it's your house. You can absolutely lounge around in a towel while...wearing no pants. I do that sometimes..." She trails off, mortified. "It's almost therapeutic," she adds, as if that somehow salvages her dignity.

His brow arches. "You're early," he says, his tone laced with both accusation and casual justification for his current state of undress.

"Yeah, I couldn't miss the sight of these pretty assets you're flaunting around as if you weren't expecting me," she quips, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah," he drawls, a faint amusement flickering across his face, "as long as you think they're pretty."

The heat rushes to her face, blooming from her cheeks all the way to her roots. But, she feigns bored expression, "I've seen better."

She reminds herself she is irritated at him. He has been avoiding her. But her irritation threatens to evaporate under the distracting heat of his towel-clad, nearly naked body. She grits her teeth, willing the annoyance to return because she wants to be annoyed with him. She needs that irritation against the maddening effect he seems to have on her.

But her gaze lingers too long on his bare chest, and she knows she's losing the battle. But, she won't let him win that easily.

He has sauntered into her space like he owned it. He made himself at home in her room like he had some unspoken right.

Fine, she thinks. It's time to return the favour. "I came to see Aman. Where is he, anyway?" she asks, shrugging off her jacket and carefully draping it over the back of the sofa. Her purse follows, placed neatly in the corner. Her eyes sweep over the space...everything in its place, spotless. Too neat for a man living alone.

She feels his gaze on her. Heavy, unexplained..So, her eyes find their way back to his.

"Why are you trying to get my manager killed? The man has been very useful to me." His voice drops just enough to send a shiver down her spine. Her breath hitches, but she squares her shoulders meeting his eyes head-on.

He moves to the kitchen, pulling open a sleek cupboard to retrieve a bottle of red wine. Without sparing her a glance, he pours a little too much into a crystal glass, the rich crimson liquid catching the light.

"Well, you didn't offer me any tea or coffee either." She kicks off her sandals and makes herself comfortable on a kitchen stool, leaning her elbows on the countertop. "Seems like we both lack manners....and, yes, I'd like one too, thank you very much." She says, eyeing the wine in his hand.

His shoulders tense, the movement so subtle she almost misses it, before he eases back into his usual mask of indifference. "I don't remember offering."

"I know." She slips the black hair band from her ponytail, letting her hair cascade freely over her shoulders and sliding the band onto her wrist. "Which was rude, by the way, but I'm kind so you're forgiven."

He turns to face her, leaning lazily against the counter. "I'm relieved to hear that," he replies, his tone dry but his gaze sharp, burning, simmering, assessing.

She ignores the touch of his stare as it sweeps from the loose curls of her hair down to the cute red and white polka dot halter top she wears to her bare feet. Her toenails are painted with sparkly red.

"The last time I was here I didn't meet this handsome fella over there."

The handsome fella in question growls low in its throat, the sound rumbling through the room. She freezes, her pulse spiking with unease. She has no experience with dogs, especially not ones this size, but she forces a nervous smile and slowly walks towards it. She lifts her hand as she's seen in countless movies, hoping the gesture will work.

The dog sniffs her outstretched hand cautiously, its massive head lowering to inspect her. Then, to her surprise, it nudges her palm before rubbing against it, its tail wagging enthusiastically. Relief floods her, and an unconscious smile breaks across her face as she scratches behind the enormous dog's ears, marvelling at how soft its fur is.

"You are so sweet. What's your name?" She asks the dog as if it could answer her.

"He isn't sweet," the towel-clad man grits out instead.

From the corner of her eye, she notices him watching her with an odd expression, a mix of surprise and something she can't quite place.

"It's Ryuk," a voice contributes and she looks back. It's Aman, he's standing by the stairs. "I gave him to this man. He was so fucking lonely." Aman moves further into the space and adds, "The man doesn't date, doesn't even bring girls home. So, I figured it was time for him to embrace being a dog daddy,"

If looks could kill, Aman would already be a dead man. "Nobody asked, Mathur. But thanks for that life-changing information. Let me know when you plan to mind your own business."

"Well, I asked," she quips, more to irritate him than to in defence of her new friend. And, If looks could kill, she'd be joining Aman six feet under as well.

Aman purses her lips and excuses himself, heading downstairs for his laptop.

"Hi, Ryuk. Nice to meet you," she says, testing the name on her tongue. "It's such a unique name. What does it mean?"

He rubs the back of his neck, stiff and uncertain. She can't tell if he's embarrassed or annoyed, but before he can answer, Ryuk decides to claim her. The enormous dog gently pushes her down onto the sofa, sprawling across her lap, a warm, fluffy mass of grey, white and black fur.

"He doesn't see many guests around here," he says curtly, his brows crinkling together. His eyes are still on her. "It's a very unusual behaviour for him."

"It's okay," she says, her hands sinking into Ryuk's thick coat as he settles in, completely ignoring her personal space. "I don't mind."

"I do."

The cold, hard edge in his tone makes her pause, her fingers stilling against Ryuk's fur.

"Ryuk. Up. To the corner."

The dog's ears perk up, but instead of complying immediately, it lets out a reluctant whine, the sound almost pitiful in its protest.

"NOW."

At the final command, Ryuk rises slowly, casting one last look of pure betrayal at her before padding obediently to his corner. The insufferable asshole turns too, heading to his room.

Dejected, she rises from the sofa, muttering profanities under her breath in languages she assumes no one else understands, one of them being her native tongue she rarely uses.

"অসভ্য ইতর একটা," she mumbles, uncultured jerk.

But the so-called jerk spins around so abruptly that she nearly crashes into him. Her hand flies to his chest for balance, her breath hitching as the proximity makes her chest rise and fall against his.

"I understand Bengali," he grits out. Her heart rate picks up but she straightens her spine.

It's ok. She has more weapons in her arsenal. What else was there to do when one had no friends and no life? Learn languages, of course. And, she knows more than one. And, she'll curse him in every language she knows.

"Rompi palle, stronzo," she shoots back. Pain in the ass.

His eyes narrow, just for a fraction of a second, then replaced by something sharper, darker. She doesn't know if it's anger or amusement, or a lethal blend of both, but she refuses to let her knees buckle under the weight of his gaze.

He leans closer, his tone dangerously low. "Italian too." Her fingers curl in his bare chest. The heat of his skin sips into her pores. His tongue darts out, moistening his lower lip and her eyes find that action disgustingly fascinating.

"Trou du cul insupportable," her voice trembles. Insufferable asshole. French rolls off her tongue effortlessly, but her breaths come faster, not from anger, not from exertion.

His lips curve into a slow smirk that only stokes the fire simmering beneath her skin. He leans closer, his breath ghosting over her ear as he murmers, "Esli ty ne ostanovish'sya seychas, ya znayu sotni zloveshchikh sposobov zatknut' etot tvoy chertovski krasivyy rot."

The rasp of his voice clings to the syllables, sensual and dangerously intimate, like the whisper of an old lover.

Damn, the bastard knows Russian, and she doesn't. But, she doesn't need to know Russian to understand that whatever he said is dripping with dark intent.

She narrows her eyes. "What does that mean?"

His lips twitch, but his gaze is anything but playful. "Don't play with fire, little bird. You'll get burned." His tone is maddeningly calm but there's a bite to his words that dances along her skin, leaving her hating him all the more, for his audacity, for his mastery of languages, and for making her feel so unbalanced. And also for lying to her.

The subject of all of her profanities steps back. His withdrawal is as abrupt as his presence has been. Consuming.

"Is that a challenge?" she fires back, stepping away as well, forcing herself to create distance. Her skin feels electrified, as if his heat lingers in the space between them. She brushes past him toward the wine glass he abandoned on the counter. "Just remember...I don't always play fair," she says, forcing confidence into her tone.

Her hand curls around the glass, lifting it to her lips, and she takes a long sip, holding his gaze over the rim, her lips touching the same place his touched mere minutes ago. The rich tang of the wine settles on her tongue, warming her insides, but it does little to quiet the chaos within her.

His eyes darken as he watches her, his attention fixed on the delicate curve of her lips against the glass. A small, rebellious part of her enjoys the power in that moment, the way his focus is wholly on her.

"What's cooking?" Aman's voice floats through her mind haze, cheerful and oblivious, as he declares his presence. Standing by the kitchen counter, he lifts the lid of the pot and peers inside. "Hmm...chicken. Smells good."

The infuriating man watches her for a moment longer enough to make her stomach flip. Then he finally turns sparing her one last glance and retreats to his room, but not before throwing over his shoulder, "Join us for dinner, Miss Gupta. We'll talk then."

She watches his back as he disappears, leaving her standing there, flustered and unsure. It's clear that she has little say in the matter, dinner with them is not a choice. It's a summons.

Surreal.

That's the only word she can use to describe this moment.

Arnav Singh Raizada, the man she's tried to kill just a few weeks prior. The man who, at every possible chance, reminds her that he'll kill her the moment her purpose is served.

And now, the same man is serving her dinner. That he has cooked.

It's only rice and chicken.

Still.

The simplicity of the meal should have been grounding, ordinary even. But it isn't. Not with him.

Her mind, traitorous as always, wandered where it shouldn't. The man himself was a five-course feast, all sharp edges and simmering danger, his presence commanding the space effortlessly. If he were a meal he'd be the kind you'd savor and lose yourself in, only to realize too late how much trouble you were in. And if she let herself indulge, he could even be dessert.

She nearly choked on that thought.

What was wrong with her these days Where the hell that came from? How could she possibly entertain such ridiculous thoughts in his presence?

The three of them settle at the small kitchen table. Her gaze flickers between Aman, who seems at ease, his chatter filling up the silence, and the man across from her, who now wears a grey v-neck t-shirt and black trousers. It's unnerving seeing him without a tie.

He picks up his fork and cutlery. She scoffs. Who eats rice with a fork when everyone else is eating with their hands? The insufferable asshole, that's who.

She takes her first bite. The taste hits her, a perfect blend of spices, tender chicken, and fluffy rice. It catches her off guard.

It's disarming. It's confusing.

She tries to focus on the food, but her mind betrays her, tugging her back to the utterly confusing man. How could someone so lethal, someone who ends people's lives on a daily basis with such chilling ease, create something so... comforting?

Each bite feels like a betrayal she hasn't chosen, and yet, she can't stop herself from eating. Her mind screams at her to remember who he is, what he is capable of, and why she should be cautious. But her heart, foolish and rebellious, tightens, pulling her into a direction her mind doesn't want her heart to be.

Conversation flows. They discuss the matter she is here for. All the shipment data Khushi had painstakingly transferred to the CBI had been exploited by a corrupt officer within the agency. He has been collecting all the trafficked victims instead of setting them free and trying to open his own trafficking network. His base of operations was an illegal, independently-run casino, and his communications were routed through an untraceable cellphone.

But Khushi has been able to trace him by an adjacent network, trying to dismiss his plan and rescue the poor souls. She wants Mr.Raizada to help her with her plan. The plan is to count cards only well enough to get caught and then attach an external bug onto the casino computer when the manager pulls her into his office to warn her off from cheating.

"What if he gives you a bullet instead of a warning?"

Why did he always have to be the voice of reason? The voice that made her stomach churn with doubts she didn't want to entertain. He can't go, neither as Mr.Raizada nor as the Ghost without setting off warning signs. She can contribute in two ways: she can count cards really well, and she is totally going with him or without.

"I am going regardless. I won't stop until I save the children.....and you will be out there if something like this happened, won't you?" She tries to give him her most convincing stare.

He doesn't look entirely convinced though, his jaw tightening as if holding back a dozen arguments. His eyes flicker over her, weighing the risk and the recklessness. But he doesn't say anything further.

Time slips away unnoticed until the sound of a guard's voice calling from downstairs, "Sir, it seems like the downpour has submerged the city. The roads are blocked due to fallen trees. The traffic is stuck...also, water entered in mam's car engine. It's not starting."

She looks at the guard with a vengeance, who dared to bring such news, her stomach twisting into a tight knot. Teeth pressing into her lower lip.

He looks at her, his gaze unwavering for a few moments, then says, "Looks like, Miss Gupta, you're staying here."

Her heart skips a beat, the words striking like a bell in her chest. No, this cannot be happening.

"Text your father and tell him you've checked into a hotel," he adds, the tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion.

She blinks, fighting the instinct to bristle. Here he is, bossing her around, telling her what to do.

"It's okay. I'll call an Uber," she says, standing up abruptly, ready to collect her things.

"Sit down." It's a direct order. "You won't find an Uber in this weather."

Her eyes flare up, but her body betrays her, aching to obey. Something about that voice, unyielding, immovable, makes her falter. She decides to wait full three seconds before she complies, but after the first two, she has a sudden and distinct feeling that she won't make it to three.

Against her better judgment, she lowers herself back into the chair, arms crossing defiantly over her chest. This is ridiculous.

"Then let me borrow a car if yours."

"It's not safe driving in this weather."

Her eyes narrow. Is he really concerned about my safety now? "You don't have to worry about my safety?"

"I'm worried about my car."

The glaring game continues, but she doesn't back down. She's not one to be ordered around, especially not by him.

"You can stay at my place, if you are uncomfortable here," Aman interjects, trying to diffuse the tension. "I'll stay here. My place is just two yards away, and I've got plenty of guest rooms."

"No," the infuriating man says flatly, not even sparing Aman a glance. His gaze never leaves hers. "She stays here."

The hell she will!

"No," she retorts, determined to hold her ground. "I won't stay."

"Why? Afraid you'll lose self-control and pounce on me at night?"

"What?!" she sputters, choking on her own saliva, her face burning.

Aman at the same time literally chokes on the water he's drinking and starts coughing violently. She shoots daggers at both of them.

"Then what's the problem with staying here?" The merciless human continues smoothly, victory written in every line of his irritatingly handsome face.

She opens her mouth to argue but finds herself at a loss. Damn him. She gives him a withering look. But the more she glares at him the more smug his face looks.

The sheer audacity of this man, his smirk daring her to push further. She isn't one to back down from a fight, but this man....He's insufferable. Infuriating. And yet...

"I don't have sleepwear," she mutters finally, the excuse sounding pathetic even to her own ears.

"That can be arranged."

And just like that, the argument is over. Shoulders slumping, she glares at him, already plotting how to make him pay. For now, though, it looks like she's staying.

The first rumble shakes the sky, and her chest tightens. Her fingers grip the edges of the blanket, knuckles turning white as lightning tore through the darkness, illuminating the room in brief, jagged flashes. The world outside roars, but it's the storm inside her that terrifies her more.

The memories claw their way out of the locked corners of her mind, dragging her back to that night. The muffled thunder, the weight of hands that didn't lessen, the way her screams were swallowed by the storm. She couldn't tell where the pounding in her chest ended and the sky's fury began.

She wants to move, to run, to hide, but she's frozen, just like back then. Her body knows the script by heart, tense muscles, shallow breaths, the silent plea for it all to stop. And yet, another part of her, fractured but still fighting, whispers that she isn't that helpless little girl anymore.

She snaps her eyes open, grasping. She tries to switch the bedside lamp.

No power.

She is alone.

Alone in the bed,

Alone in the room,

And, perhaps, in her life.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The room starts to shrink around her. Swallowing against the ache that seems lodged in her throat, she slides off the bed in the darkened room. Her steps are slow, tentative, as if the weight in her chest might break her. She opens the door, the creak almost swallowed by the rain's symphony, and steps into the living area, shadows pooling around her feet.

She sits in front of the glass wall, drawing her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around them as if they could hold her together. Each breath feels like a battle, shallow and uneven, but she fights to keep it quiet. She doesn't want to alert him, doesn't want him to see her like this, shaken, fractured, barely holding on.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

She clenches her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she forces her breathing steady. He won't see it. He can't see it. The cracks, the fractures the jagged edges inside her that has been shaped and reshaped by years of indifference and control.

Breath.

In.

Out.

She hasn't felt like this in years. This creeping, suffocating hand of panic claws at her throat, squeezing her chest, stealing her air. The room seems to close in, the walls pressing tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, grounding herself against the pain, refusing to let it spill over. Not here. Not in his presence.

Thunder in darkness is her undoing.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Lightning split the sky outside, its brilliance seeping into the room, highlighting the emptiness around her. Darkness closed in again, mingling with the echoes of light. The world seemed to shrink, folding in on itself, narrowing to just her and the storm.

The oversized hoodie and trousers she wore hung loosely on her frame. They weren't his anymore, they were just remnants of his younger days. They didn't carry his scent. No hint of sandalwood, cloves, or leather. Only the sterile, smell of laundry detergent clung to the fabric.

And somehow she missed it.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

The soft fur of Ryuk brushed against her leg. His presence, warm and grounding, was a silent reassurance, a steady hand in the midst of her unravelling. He seemed to feel it, her helplessness, and leaned against her, his silent support anchoring her. His huge furry body wraps around her.

In.

Out.

She felt it, a shift in the air. The weight of his gaze. She doesn't need to look to know he is there. But unlike the storm that suffocates, his presence eases the tightness in her chest. Beneath his gaze, it's somehow easier to breathe.

He's darker than any of the darkness she's ever known. Consuming, impenetrable, and unyielding. And maybe that's why she feels safe around him. Because in his presence, her shadows pale in comparison, rendered powerless against his.

She feels him move. He doesn't make a sound, his steps completely silent on the floor, but somehow, she just knows he's getting closer.

She stays still, resting her chin on her knees, refusing to look up. Her gaze remains fixed on the raindrops trailing down the glass, their path chaotic, unpredictable.

In her periphery, she caught sight of his feet, then his form as he lowered himself to the floor. He sat a foot away.

They sit in silence with only her swallow gasps in between.

"In Chicago, when it rained, my mother used to sit by the window. She loved the rain. She often talked about how much she missed the rain of here. She'd say it was good for the plants... especially her roses. Roses were her favourite."

The softly spoken words in that husky, rough voice of his, lingers in the air, teething her.

The words stunts her though, not just because he's shared something so personal, but because of the unmistakable love woven into his tone. A love so deep it takes her by surprise.

She's never imagined he can feel that way for anyone, let alone express it. That realization hits her harder than his words. Also the realization that there's a massive layer of ice beneath the surface. What she sees only the tip.

"Do you know the story of the Erythraean Rose?" And the flat tone is back. Her irritation rises. His voice is dry as if he finds her panic attack lacklustre, boring.

His attitude stirs a flicker of annoyance in her, but it vanishes as her chest tightens, air catching in her lungs. A strangled gasp escapes before she can stop it.

"Look at me." Another order.

She blinked, her brows knitting in confusion. With no fight left in her, she complies, tilting her head as tears blur her vision.

"A long time ago, in the realm of gods and mortals, there was a rose, a white one. It was said to hold the soul of a goddess, pure and serene. Mortals worshipped it, believing it brought peace wherever it grew. Do you know what happened to her?"

His voice caresses her as she inhales slowly focusing on the fire of his caramel-browns.

"Answer me."

"No." She speaks through clenched teeth.

"The Fury, Alecto, hated it. He despised how it's worshipped by everyone. So one night, he descended on the grove where the rose bloomed. He brought with him thunder, lightning, rain, everything he could muster. He wanted to destroy it."

Her lips parts slightly, her gaze fixes on him fully. "Did he?"

"The rose was torn apart, its petals shredded, its stem battered. It bled, but the lightning strikes hardened its stem, shaping thorns sharp enough to pierce even the gods. Its white petals, stained with its own blood, turned crimson. When Alecto tried to pluck it, the thorns lashed out, killing Alectro on the spot."

She imagines the rose. Beautiful in it's crimson glory, strong, unbreakable. The question bubbles up from the depth of her.

"But did the rose survive?"

His gaze roams over her face, trailing down the tear-streaked paths to the blood on her bottom lip. His eyes darken and he turns away.

"It did. It became sacred," he says simply. "Zeus himself declared it a reminder to gods and mortals alike.. that even the purest soul, when forged in storms, can become indestructible."

The knot in her chest loosens. Her breathing steadies. The tremor in her veins transforms into a low simmering warmth.

She looks at him, really looks at him. She has never thought much about the scars men carry in their world, how deep they run, how many stories they hide, until now.

Her mind recalls the faint line of scar etched into his skin, and something shifts inside her. In a world driven by power and violence, she knows the price women pay, pain, exploitation, humiliation. But what about men like him?

The questions circle her mind, relentless and heavy. Are the scars on his skin marks of strength, or reminders of a price he didn't choose to pay? Is that why so many men in their world wear detachment like an armor, shutting out the pain? Is that why her father turned so cold, so distant, a lifetime of pain forced into indifference?

Is this why the man beside her always tries so hard to wear an unreadable mask? She might hate him, but she respects his strength. And his body, she realizes, is more than just a weapon. It is a culmination of stories, stories of his survival, of things he endured that she can't even fathom in this ugly, unfair world.

An unspoken truce settles between them. She knows it may vanish the moment the sun rises, a fragile ceasefire neither may never acknowledge in the light of day. This fleeting, stolen moment, hidden in the darkness, is one she will remember but never speak of.

She will remember it because, at this moment, something inside her shifts. Shifts entirely. Because, somehow, the man who despises her more than anything, the man who once claimed her death, has done something no one else ever has.

In this moment, the enemy has done the unimaginable.

Without even realizing it, he's given her a glimpse of life.

In this silence, he's done what no one has ever attempted, made her feel a little less alone.

The moment may end when the light returns, but for now, in this shadowed pause, something inexplicable stirs within her. Something that even her hatred of him cannot suppress.

And with that shift, comes a unusual awareness. She feels a heavy melancholy set on him, and she wants to lift it off him no matter how heavy it is.

"That's the most awful made-up story I've ever heard," she says in a shaky voice.

But it has worked. Her chest isn't constricting anymore. The world isn't spinning.

"Why aren't you asleep?" She whispers in the dark.

He only shrugs in response.

"I should have known," she mumbles faintly.

"Known what?"

"That Lucifer never sleeps."

He chuckles. It creates a pleasantly warm sound amidst the storm both inside and outside.

The wet roses in his veranda spattered on the glass wall with the force of the wind. She looks at his rose tattoo in the faint light.

The burning rose.

Was he present with his mom when it happened? Is the burn marks on his palm because of that?

His mother, after all, died of setting herself on fire by leaving only a suicide note and lots of heartbreak behind.

She doesn't ask him that. She knows what it feels like when someone finds a sore spot and keeps poking at it. She doesn't want to do that. She also knows how it feels to get ignored. So she doesn't ignore him as well. So she says. "You cook a mean chicken. I'm jealous, I can't cook anything. I want to try though, one day," she says with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

"My mother loved to cook. She used to force me to help her."

Her eyes are an open book. She bet he can read her thoroughly. She envies him at his moment, for mustering the art of concealing better than her.

But he isn't very good at concealing the emotions from his voice. The shift in his tone is subtle, but she catches it. The mention of his mother feels heavy, and she doesn't like the way it settles between them. She needs to steer the conversation away, quickly.

"Do you have any board games?" she asks, her voice brighter, feigning enthusiasm. "I'm bored."

He studies her for a moment as if deciding whether to call her bluff, but eventually, he responds, "There supposed to be a Scrabble board somewhere. I am not going to search for it in this darkness."

Suddenly the house light lit up. The power has returned. "Now the darkness has gone away." She comments smirking mischievously.

He just gives her a dry look. So she roams her eyes around and finds the objects in question lying under the shelf of the centre table.

She rambles on as she sets up the broad. "I can't imagine you playing Scrabble."

"I didn't. Payal and Akash used to play."

"Are they together?"

He is awful at playing scrabble. They sit side by side, and she has drawn the letters for him as well when he refuses to participate. He just looks ahead while locking his hands around his knees. The faint light from the table lamp in the corner provides a warm, golden glow.

"It's complicated."

"How come Akash didn't want to be the heir?"

"He has his reasons."

"Did you blackmail him to back out?"

"You don't have any high opinions of me, do you?" His lips quirk upward in a half-smile, almost mocking.

"I would have thought otherwise if you weren't trying to destroy the mafia from within. What's your reason?" She leans back slightly, studying him carefully.

"World domination, power, control. Maybe I want to rule them all." He shrugs as if the answer is simple, but his eyes gleam with something darker.

"That would be believable if you didn't eliminate people who benefit your family."

"Like who?" His voice is cold, clipped.

"Dhruv Rao."

"I didn't know you liked him." He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't. But why did you kill him?"

"We had a deal. He didn't fulfil his end of the bargain," he replies nonchalantly.

"Why cut his hand?"

She feels his eyes burning her skin. Blazing, scorching, searing.

"I don't like it when people touch what's mine."

"And the tongue?" Her voice trembles.

"Kitten is an awful nickname to be ever uttered by anyone."

Her heart shutters as his words sink in. Her hand trembles as she sets the first letter on the board. Her throat tightens, but she takes a shaky breath.

"Ummm...Let's make it interesting. When a word is made on the board. We'll play rock-paper-scissors, and whoever wins gets to ask the other questions according to that word, and the other has to answer."

"What are we, ten?"

"You don't have a single fun bone in you, do you? Just humour me." She tilts her head, her lips curving into a playful grin.

The word she makes is "Habit."

She bumps his knuckles with her fist. "Ready?"

He looks at her hand like it carries the most dangerous strain of Coronavirus. "I'm not doing that."

"Okay, I'll ask anyway." She taps her chin with her index finger, pretending to deliberate as she takes in the space around them.

"I am not going to answer."

She huffs. You're so stubborn Mr. Grumpy-pants.

"Can I have another ten minutes of truth at least?"

His caramel browns are simmering in the dark, with a hint of amusement, and she knows her wish has been granted, so she starts, "I'll go easy in you. Don't worry...umm..What bad habit do you have?"

He keeps looking at her. And besides pinning her on flat surfaces, this one seems like his other hobby.

She almost loses hope and dejected, starts to place the Scrabble pieces to form random words.

"I grow addiction real quick," he says, his voice low and calm.

"What are you addicted to? Alcohol... no...umm...drugs...no...women?" She arches an eyebrow, her tone teasing but with an underlying curiosity. "You're addicted to killing? Is that it?"

The corner of his eyes crinkle, the subtle shift making his caramel brown gaze even more magnificent, more addicting.

It seems like she has an addictive personality, too. His caramel-browns are her new addiction. She shakes her head as if to shake the thought.

"Most people with addictive personalities give in to whatever they want. You don't give in, do you?" she muses, her voice thoughtful, but her eyes sharp as she watches him closely.

"Never."

"Because then it'll win and you don't like to lose," she says, the words coming to her like a eureka moment. "That's why you like control so much."

He doesn't respond immediately, but his gaze sharpens, his posture still as if he's silently weighing her words.

"What do you do when something happens that's out of your control?" she presses, leaning in slightly, watching him with an intensity that matches his own.

"That's when I start to obsess over it."

"Until?"

"Until I get it out of my system."

"Hmm." She tilts her head, considering this. She has noticed something earlier. His house is too clean. Squeaky clean. Either he has the best housekeeper in the world, or he's got some OCD tendencies. The way he stacks the plates after cleaning, it's most likely the latter. She helped in cleaning them, though.

She cautiously starts, "You have OCD, don't you?" She can't resist asking it, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Do you kiss?"

"I don't kiss and tell, little bird." his lips curl into a infuriating lying gorgeous smirk.

"Why so secretive? Don't you know sharing is caring?" She leans in, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"If that's your motto, then tell me, did you kiss Shyam?" he asks, leaning forward, his voice taking on a darker tone.

Ewww....What the fuck, Raizada. I'll kill you.

She gives him a dry look. If it had been anyone else, they would have shriveled under its weight, retreating into their shell by now. But not him. Never him.

"I'll tell you, but then you have to tell me how many women you've slept with."

"I prefer to sleep alone. I didn't remember sleeping when I was with any woman." The smug bastard smirks again as if to taunt her.

She gives him a hard look, "You know what I mean."

"You wanna know how many women I've fucked, or is it too vulgar for your virgin ears?" His voice is low, almost teasing, but with an sardonic edge to it.

"I am not virgin," she blurts out, slapping her hand over her mouth. Damn her mouth. Her cheeks flush, embarrassment creeping up her neck.

He watches her intently, his gaze piercing. "Was it consensual?"

"Why do you think that it isn't?" She tries to brush it off, but something in his tone cuts through her defences.

He shrugs nonchalantly but his eyes still studying her, "You were spiraling Just a few minutes ago." His voice drops to a dangerously soft murmur yet it remains deceptively casual. "You strike me as someone who bottles things up until it becomes too much."

"HAH!! you're one to talk. Pot, meet kettle. Kettle, hi, I'm pot." She says it with exaggerated animation. "First of all, it's none of your business. And second, fuck off."

"I don't like kissing on the lips. I don't see any need for that and my female body count is definitely lower than my other body count." His response is flat, no explanation, just the statement hanging in the air.

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. Huh, now he's sharing. That's a dirty trick, Raizada. Now she has to share.

"It was consensual." She says it matter-of-factly, willing to end this conversation.

He just nods, giving nothing away. She can't read his face. She closes the board with a soft thud and joins him in watching the rain, the silence wrapping around them.

"Why did you drag me into all these killings?" she murmurs, knowing full well he won't answer.

"And here I thought you enjoyed my company." He chuckles softly.

"Huh, dream on."

"What do you want to do when you're away from here?" His voice sounds so soothing mixed with the pitter-patter of the rain outside.

"Umm... I don't know. Probably travel, visit new places. But for that, I need money. Now I have some. I can manage for a few years. I need to get a job first. My degrees will be pointless, right? I mostly want to be normal. Go to the mall... go to a club. I've never been to a club or experienced college life. Be in a normal relationship with someone who likes me, like likes me, you know what I mean?"

"Hmm..." The silence joins them in their rain-watching activities. But the silence is pleasant this time. Almost welcomed.

And that's how the vulture and the little bird spent the rest of the night, watching the rain.

In the dark.

Sitting side by side.

The one-foot distance closes down to inches, and then to nothing at all when her head gently rests on his shoulder. Her breaths even out, her exhaustion pulling her into sleep, cocooned by his sandalwood, cloves, and leather with the warmth of the soft, fluffy breast curled around her.

Author's note:

The author is kind of sick. But she will try to update soon. Next chapter is kinda spicy. So, whoever is spice intolerant, prepare yourself.

@arshifiesta @featheredclover @phuljari @jalebi-weds-bluetooth @chutkiandchotte @9artsdragon @chaiandtakkar

#arnav singh raizada #ipkknd #khushi kumari gupta #arnav and khushi #arshi #13 years of ipkknd #arshi fanfic #crimson_shade #ipk 13th anniversary fiesta

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fllagellant · 6 months ago

Note

a last kiss before one goes away OR sharing a kiss in a heavy downpour of rain OR stolen kisses while hiding away from a crowd forrr wyll & giilvas :333c

3/3 WE FINALLY WON !! :33

For ‘ stolen kisses while hiding away from a crowd ‘

“-This is your fault, just so you don’t forget.”

“You don’t sound too mad about that.”

Giilvas noses along his jaw, and Wyll can feel the smug look on his face. He can feel the huff of an exhale against this skin, the loudest the other would bother daring to laugh.

There was a muffled yell from somewhere, not closeby, definitely closeby. For two men hiding in an alley, it was closeby. For two men hiding in an alley because one of them got into a fistfight, it was closeby. For two men who were hiding from a drunken crowd, looking to- at best- drive them from the city, it was definitely closeby.

But, for The Golden Rose, it was far enough away. Far enough away to let eyelids drop, slip shut. Lips traced jaw, traced the dip of twisting scars, felt the way Wyll tenses and rubs his molars together- bad habit. Following a roadmap he had gotten to know oh so well, inch by inch by inch. Pressing firm kisses along the curve, lips trying to mimic something soft-

The Blade of Frontiers, trying with a sort of desperation to keep up this I’m disappointed act, exhales sharp through his nose. Giilvas pauses, drags himself to not quite standing straight (risk a kiss at the corner of his mouth, press like promise). Mismatched eyes (Night sky, shooting star) look from moonlit street, to lips, to Wyll’s eyes (Foggy morning, noon eclipse) and he tilts his head. Like he needs to look at this situation from another angle, just slightly skewed in the rightwrong direction.

This time, the drunken holler is… almost understandable. And that’s almost a compliment. Coloured with the self-righteous fury of getting knocked on your ass, after deciding to keep playing with fire (provoking the man thrice your size) and crying once it burned. They don’t hear any bootfalls, yet.

Giilvas hopes they’ll walk themselves in a circle and give up- or pass out. One of the two.

Wyll hopes that someone will step in and get them going back home- or that they pass out. One of the two.

“I am unbelievably disappointed in you.” Wyll risks to say, his voice swallowed in the dimness of the alley. “You need to show more restraint, you know that?” Fingers trace the edges of Giilvas’ cloak, ink black, nondescript. Blending into the background. Giilvas seems to stiffen, focusing on Wyll’s tone… for it wasn’t quite firm enough to be punishing.

Something else, something tempting.

Follow the path, the worn edges of loved cloth guiding hands up to collarbone, barely hidden under a performer's garb. He’s warm. Like candle flame under his fingertips, dancing across his almost skin. “You came to perform, not to pick fights. Not to let drink get under your skin.” Giilvas is suddenly aware of the brush of stone wall behind his back. The alley reminding him of how little space he has, he can’t dart into the street (Hunting men still hunting, hiding men still hiding.)

A hand lingers on the side of his neck, tattoo ink under skin suddenly feeling- suddenly aware- golden scripture being traced over again, and again. Like it would rub off, stain Wyll’s fingertips the colour of polished metal and golden coin.

His arteries thrum underneath, just barely deeper. Is his blood stained golden?

Wyll presses finger against pulse point, he feels the way Giilvas’ heart finally picks up from a way of adrenaline and a dizzying sort of realisation that he is not the one leading, not anymore.

He blinks, like he might bring this image into focus if he flutters his lashes enough times. Like it might change, become something slightly skewed, another angle. “You should practice patience, you know. It’ll repay you in plenty.” Foggy morning, noon eclipse eyes gaze up, daring. Searing.

A yell of find the bastards! covers the tentative question of a sound that Giilvas makes. It sticks in his throat, unable to crawl out and ask- face to face- unable to push- face to face- unable to demand- face to face-

There was a bead of sweat on The Golden Rose’s forehead, keenly aware (against his will) about how close the drunkards had stumbled along. Keenly aware, (fully cognitive) of how The Blade of Frontiers is trying to goad him (He’s doing so well. So terribly well.)

(A crowd is a living being with one mind, one perception, and many voices. It tires slowly, but this one, this one is starting to get close to dispersal. Had the quarry really vanished? How many places can they be hiding? Alleys blur into passing smears of shadow and dirty cobble, they aren’t in the first one, three, five- So they’ve gone somewhere else; Where?)

Neither of them pay mind to the sound of clambering footsteps, as Wyll finally tilts his head back (smile playing on his lips, he hasn’t been disappointed this entire time) and fingers drag along the underside of Giilvas’ jaw, pulling like promise.

“… This is a start.”

“You’re gonna kill me, one day-“

He’s already leaning back in, he’s already cutting off his own words. Curled, surrounding, kissing spelling out thank you and just one more and I love you, I love you, I love you. Wyll is grinning into every tilt and motion, and Giilvas can’t help but feel like he’s the one who truly won between them.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #giilvas #wyll ravengard #willow trees #WE DID IT !!!#three more left …. I think . :3

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gaym0m · 2 years ago

Text

Something people find very interesting about me and my likes, is that I find jawline, necks and collarbones very very very attractive. Like literally makes my knees week and my— ya know.

Anyway, because if this I’m so sad no one has done this so imma do it.

Not smut. Like at all, but definitely suggestive. I don’t think I could write coherent smut.

Just Ellie for now since I owe her one.

One more not before I start, the way you can see her whole neck AND the drool im—

Okay okay sorry. Back to the one shot.

Warnings: mentions of Jay, of course suggestive stuff. Uhhh I dunno Beth being a little shit lol.

Soft lips gently pressed along the knuckles the tattoo artist, the kids with their auntie meant you two had all the time and space in the world to enjoy of each other, mind, body and soul.

Emphasis on body.

Ellie couldn’t help but chuckle at you’re actions, the kiss on certain body parts she wasn’t sure had ever been kissed. At first she found it cheesy, but after months of dating she didn’t know if she could be without it.

Just like she was no longer sure if she could live without the gentle kisses you would place on her cheekbones, or even her jaw.

She wasn’t sure she could live without your arms squeezing her waist or how you would nuzzle again the area where she shoulder and neck meet.

Ellie didn’t know what she would do without your playful kisses that started on her lips and lead down her jaw to her chest.

Or the ones that started at her knuckles and followed up her tattooed arms till giggles bursted from her lips. (Although she’s sure you had gotten that one from the Addams family).

Jay was a lot of things, he was a good husband while it lasted and a great dad but he could never compare to the next door neighbor that stepped in when she crumbled.

He would never compare to you, the one that immediately had everyone (even Beth and herself) wrapped around your finger with your kind nature and over all loving attitude towards the family.

Her ex would also never compare to you, from the way you sensually ran your fingers through her hair. The gentle tug when you wanted to break a long kiss just to aim for her jaw.

Then from her jaw, to her neck and her collarbones.

She didn’t understand your fascination with that area, but she appreciated the restraint you showed the first few times when she still had her ‘no marking’ rule. (She wasn’t ready to explain to the kids that the much you get neighbor who helped them and babysat them every once in a while was also her. . . Lover?).

Eventually they figured it out, from shy smiles and “hidden” kisses when you two were too caught up in eachother to see that Bridge had entered the kitchen for a soda. . . Poor kid didn’t get a soda but she was happy her mom seemed happy.

Of course, Ellie sometimes still got a little (not really) upset when you’d loose control. Then again those were also the more fun she had on bad days.

Those were the nights when your teeth grazed her jaw, her neck, her chest. The nights where she almost couldn’t look down at you, her body too strung up in pure white pleasure that her head was stuck thrown back.

Sometimes those where nights where she was stressed out, and you took every second to appreciate every inch of her. Your jaw sore, same as your arm but that didn’t stop you. Nothing really did stop you until Ellie unraveled beneath your touch, with a silent mantra of your name and twitching legs.

Other nights, you had a rough day. Of course you would never take it out on her, but she would still notice. And she would tell you a story of a day filled with struggles for her, because while she wasn’t a fan of lying, she knew just how relax you felt after you carried her to the edge and back.

Those nights where slightly different, with you hands gripping her hips enough to leave pretty bruises (which she sometimes wanted to outline and tattoo on herself). The same nights where you’d leave a few more marks while laying out a roadmap of the love and adoration you held for her.

Those nights, her fingers were sore from gripping the bed or at your hair while she remembered to cut her nails next time as she felt the skin of your back warm up after she raked her fingers down the soft skin.

Every night was a pleasurable ride with you, but those nights left her legs weak even the day after. And marks which lasted more than a few days.

Those were the nights that would cause her to flush as red as her hair when remembering.

She could still remember the smirk on Beth’s face the day after one of those nights, they were meeting up for lunch after Beth dropped off the kids at school. Ellie’s legs were still slightly trembling and her voice still hoarse.

“Not. A. Word. Betty-Boo.”

“Hey I wasn’t the one getting ra—“

“I said not a word!”

“Okay okay! I would ask how it was but clearly it was good.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes I’m aware.”

As much as the teasing annoyed her, she did find it slightly amusing just how much of a mess you made her (and her pants).

#beth bixler #beth evil dead rise #ellie evil dead rise #beth evil dead #ellie bixler #ellie evil dead rise x reader #ellie bixler x reader #maggot mommy

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slasheru · 1 year ago

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Slasher U Update Roadmap: End of 2023!

Holy crap, it's been a hell of year, hasn't it?! Slasher U Act 1 came out at the end of April 2023 and there's been SO MUCH that's changed!

Things that were added in post-launch Slasher U Act 1 updates:

Sawyer's entire romance arc, storyline, and hookup/makeout games

Outfits

Bartending

The ability to talk to Dark Tate post-coitally

Butterflies and crows (fighting crows used to crash your game)

The entire good UI

Characters including Cliff, Stitcherella, Jennykind, Paisleigh, Tanya, and I'm pretty sure Kennedy was a very early addition, too

And that's not counting the tweaks, fixes, and content! In the interest of continuing to Ship of Theseus this game into the best dating sim ever (no biggie, right?), I have the following updates planned before the end of 2023 for Act 1!

Accessibility settings: A way to opt out of minigames with a random roll based on your personality stats (different stat per minigame as appropriate!)

Refining the places you can get personality points in Act 1

Customization: Cane accessories! These will run on a different band than outfits so you can mix and match them/equip them alongside outfits!

Finance: I made everything in the game on the pricey/"realistic" side and the money you get from gigs relatively low because A) college and B) i kind of thought it would both be funny/reflective of shitty college jobs AND a nice incentive to grind some minigames but. I think the economy needs a bit of a fix, right? ;) (in the meantime, try typing InfiniteMoneyVent with the caps correct in the Cheat Codes menu when you're in-game! Your wallet will be a little fuller!)

There are 27 major bugs left in the list for me to tackle as of now, most of them are routine but there are 3 or 4 harder ones to tackle (naming save files is being a beeeetch specifically because afaik Wolf wipes any additional system string variables even if you specify a larger variable count list? My engine just is like "naw actually I'm not saving that"?)

Prior Planned Quality of Life Stuff: Either a way to name your save files OR a way to make your character name appear under your save file (this used to happen but there was a bug where all names would default to your last used character name)

WHITE WHALE HOLY GRAIL I'm still trying to fix the text box bug! This actually isn't borked in the vanilla version of the WRPG engine but I can't fucking figure out how to fix it with the way I've set up the UI (I think? I THINK?!). This is realistically the last bug to get fixed due to my own ineptitude, so I'm hoping to A) make autosaves automatically turned on and B) making Data 1's save slot unusable so it's reserved for autosaves!

There's ALSO a couple content updates for Act 1 still (nothing major, except for, uh, ONE MAJOR THING, haha):

The Truth or Dare minigame/scenario is now going to be included in the Act 1 game, but take place after the Act 2 bumper (post-murder-attempt)

This is already in there but the preamble for Dark Tate's continuing storyline, and Laila's Act 2, activates after the murder attempt

I'll be adding Hex, Juno, and Sawyer's Act 2 lead-ins, plus regular Tate's lead-in, as I work on Act 2

Resolving the storylines (or, if you're being a Chaotic Evil type of player, ruining everyone's life) with story choices/quests for non-dateables: Act 2 will include more Sawyer/Horsemike story, and personal quests for Melyssa, Professor Plutonium, and partially Veronika/Archibald (theirs will continue into Act 3)

Maybe I'll let you fight crows again. MAYBE.

I'm ALSO working on Act 2, which has a lot of new features (notably permanent cosmetic upgrades like a piercing system and tattoos) as well as new content (obvi lmao), but I really want to find a way to offer early access passes to folks who didn't make it to the Crowdfundr (maybe via Patreon)?

Here are some Act 2 features that I'm excited to include/are already being worked on (you'll recognize a lot of these from fanvotes!)

Piercing/Tattoo Parlor

Headless Horsemike one-off hookup minigame

Tate's movie date (yes it's scripted and implemented, it'll be in the next Act 2 update lol. I KNOW I KNOW :D )

Being able to run the speakeasy/sex dungeon as a little moneymaking game in and of itself (well. More for the speakeasy. The sex dungeon is mostly for sex. You're welcome, Sawyer Enjoyers)

Being able to gift outfits to dateables

I'm personally super hype for Tate's storyline (which also involves some other students?? ooo????) and how that's going to mechanically shake out, PLUS, tattoos. Oh my god. TATTOOS GUYS. Plus, the piercing system works like IRL-style - you have to get pierced, then buy jewelry for your piercing if you want to replace your starter/healer gear! I'm a big fan of body mods IRL and having a more realistic piercing/tattoo system was important to me!

Can't wait for next year AND to bring y'all more Slasher U!!!!!!!!! Making video games is literally my favorite thing to do in the whole wide world and I can't imagine doing anything else with my life :')))) (one day I'll be able to do this FULL-full time instead of on top of reviewing medical documents and drawing IP comics for Big Corpo)

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE BEST FUCKIN' 6 MONTHS OF GAME DEV I COULD EVER FUCKING ASK FOR!!!!!!!!!! You guys rule :')))))))))))

xoxooxoxoxoxox, Professor Plutonium

#slasher u #roadmap #indie games #indie dev #this is a general roadmap but knowing me you should PROB expect more random content to drop at any given time haha #<33333 #dating sims #queer dating sims

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diligaf420 · 6 days ago

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Raven

The dive bar pulsed with the guttural growl of Swedish death metal. Raven, as always, was a stark, captivating anomaly in the dimly lit, sweat-soaked space. Her skin, pale as alabaster, shimmered faintly under the strobing lights, a canvas for the elaborate black ink that snaked across her arms, chest, and legs. The big white face of her Panerai gleamed on her left wrist, a bold punctuation mark against the dark tapestry of tattoos. Tonight, the wristwatch fetish was particularly acute, the weight of the expensive timepiece a grounding anchor in her ever-shifting kaleidoscope of desires.

She nursed a tequila and soda, smoky eyes scanning the crowd. They landed on a woman perched at the end of the bar, radiating a quiet intensity. Plump, with the smooth, warm skin of a perfectly ripe peach, and dark hair pulled back emphasizing high cheekbones and intelligent dark eyes. A sleek Tag Heuer smartwatch adorned her wrist, a stark contrast to Raven's flamboyant Panerai, yet strangely complementary. Their gazes met, held. An unspoken current, potent and undeniably sexual, crackled between them.

The woman, whose name Raven learned was Lena, had a voice like warm honey, tinged with a slight, almost undetectable accent. Soon, they were nestled in a booth, the heavy metal a thrumming soundtrack to their escalating intimacy. Lines appeared on the sticky table, snorted with practiced ease. Joints were passed, tequila shots slammed back. The air thickened with a heady mix of smoke, sweat, and illicit desire. Conversation flowed, a rapid current of shared cynicism, dark humor, and blatant lust. Within an hour, they were entangled in the booth, clothes discarded in a messy heap, the dive bar atmosphere fading into a blur of sensation – tongues, fingers, bodies slick with sweat and spilled tequila. Lesbian sex, unapologetic and raw, fueled by recklessness and mutual hunger.

The dive bar closed, spitting them out into the cool night air. The motel room was predictably sterile, smelling faintly of disinfectant and stale cigarettes, but Raven and Lena, buzzing with drugs and adrenaline, barely noticed. More lines were laid out, greedily consumed. It was in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom that Lena’s gaze snagged on the thick, raised scar that bisected Raven's chest, a brutal red line against the pale skin. From there, her eyes travelled to the angry, faded tracks on Raven’s legs, a roadmap of stolen veins.

“Jesus, Raven,” Lena breathed, tracing the chest scar with a hesitant fingertip. “What happened?”

Raven shrugged, a casual dismissal that belied the gravity of the story. “Heart attack. Massive one. Triple bypass. Twenty-five years old.”

Lena’s eyes widened. “Twenty-five? You’re… you’re thirty now?”

“Yeah,” Raven said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Miracle, right?” She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “They said I shouldn’t even be here.”

The revelation hung in the air, a sudden weight in the drug-fueled lightness of their encounter. But the unspoken tension soon morphed into something else, something darker and more compelling. Later, back in the dim motel room light, the scars became part of their exploration. Lena, fascinated and a little awed, ran her fingers over the chest scar, tracing its jagged edges, then down to the leg scars, the pale, puckered skin a stark contrast to the tattooed canvas surrounding them. Kinky sex followed, tinged with a new, unsettling edge. Lena’s touch was reverent, almost worshipping, as she explored the topography of Raven’s damaged body. Belly shots of tequila, lines of cocaine on the bedside table, the soundtrack of heavy breathing and whispered obscenities.

Eventually, the frenetic energy began to dissipate. They lay side-by-side, the silence between them comfortable, intimate. For hours, they just talked, a slow unraveling of layers. Raven, surprisingly, opened up, not about the pain or fear of the heart attack, but about the defiance, the reckless abandon that had become her life's mantra after cheating death. Lena listened, her dark eyes absorbing every word, her hand tracing lazy circles on Raven’s tattooed arm. They masturbated each other gently, a tender counterpoint to the earlier ferocity, the shared intimacy deepening with each touch, each sigh.

Then, it hit. A dull throb in Raven’s chest, a slow, insidious tightening. It grew, expanding like a dark cloud, radiating outwards – a heavy ache across her chest, down her left arm, creeping into her back and neck. Waves of nausea washed over her, a cold sweat prickling her skin. Breathlessness choked her. Angina. It had been a while, but the familiar terror returned with brutal force.

Panic flickered in her eyes, quickly masked by a practiced detachment. She reached for her purse, fumbling for the nitroglycerin patches. Lena, instantly alert, was at her side.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Lena’s voice was sharp with concern.

“Angina,” Raven managed, her voice tight. She ripped open the foil packet, slapped a patch onto her chest. “Aspirin. Water.”

Lena moved with surprising efficiency, fetching aspirin from Raven's bag, pouring a glass of water. Raven chewed the aspirin, swallowed the water, the metallic taste bitter on her tongue. Lena dampened a washcloth with cold water, gently pressing it to Raven’s forehead. The cool touch was a small comfort. “Shower?” Lena suggested, her voice calm and steady.

The cool shower was a brief respite, the water sluicing over her skin, washing away the sweat and fear, if only for a moment. When they stepped out onto the motel balcony, the night air was blessedly cool, a stark contrast to the stifling room. Lena wrapped a towel around Raven, her concern palpable.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her hand resting lightly on Raven’s arm, her fingers tracing the edge of a tattoo.

Raven leaned against the railing, breathing deeply, the nitroglycerin slowly working its magic. The chest pain was receding, replaced by a dull ache, a lingering reminder. “Yeah,” she said, her voice still a little shaky. “I’m okay. Just… a reminder.”

Lena didn’t press, didn't pry. She just stood beside Raven, her presence a quiet reassurance. After a few minutes, Raven turned to her, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Triple vessel disease. Coronary arteries clogged. Heart attack at twenty-five. Almost died. Now… this.” She gestured to her chest, to herself.

Lena’s eyes were dark and intense, fixed on Raven’s face. “It’s… incredible,” she murmured, her voice low, almost reverent. “You’re incredible.”

Back in the motel room, the mood shifted again, subtly, profoundly. The sex that followed was different. Gentle, attentive, but still laced with a raw, undeniable kink. Lena touched Raven’s scars with even more reverence now, her fingers tracing the stories etched onto her skin. They talked more, this time about Raven’s heart, about the constant awareness of its fragility, the shadow that always hovered.

And then, Lena confessed something unexpected, something that mirrored the darkness simmering beneath Raven’s hedonistic surface. “I… I’m fascinated by it,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Your heart. The fact that it’s… diseased. Vulnerable. It’s… incredibly hot.”

Raven stared at her, a slow understanding dawning in her blue eyes. Cardiophilia. A fetish she had never consciously considered, but one that suddenly made a strange, unsettling sense. Her own self-destructive tendencies, her flirtation with death, her body marked by near-fatal failure… it was erotic, in a twisted, perverse way. And Lena saw it. Lena got it.

“You… you like it?” Raven asked, her voice husky.

Lena nodded, her eyes shining with a dark intensity. “More than like. It’s… intoxicating. You’re… you’re walking around with a ticking time bomb inside you. And you’re so… defiant. It’s maddeningly sexy.”

Raven felt a thrill, a jolt of something akin to excitement, and something darker, something that resonated deep within her own self-destructive core. She ran her hand over her soft, fat belly, the muffin top Lena had called sexy earlier, now imbued with a new, morbid significance. She glanced down at her Panerai, the heavy weight on her wrist a reminder of time, of mortality. "My diseased heart," she murmured, the words tasting strange and thrilling on her tongue.

Lena leaned in, her breath hot on Raven’s neck. “Tell me about the angina,” she whispered, her fingers playing with the strap of the Panerai. “Tell me how it felt. The pain… the fear…”

Raven shuddered, not from fear, but from a new, intoxicating rush. She talked, her voice low and husky, describing the crushing chest pain, the nausea, the breathlessness, the brush with oblivion. Lena listened, her eyes wide, her breath hitching, her body pressed close. And as Raven spoke, as she relived the terror of the angina attack, she felt a strange, unfamiliar stirring within her, a dark, twisted arousal. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was something else, something… exciting.

Lena’s hand moved to Raven's chest, tracing the nitroglycerin patch, then lower, cupping her soft belly. “I want it,” Lena whispered, her voice thick with desire. “I want to feel it. I want to be there when it happens again.”

Raven’s eyes widened. “You want… you want me to have another heart attack?”

Lena’s gaze was unwavering, intense. “Not a heart attack. But… the angina. The pain. The closeness to death. It turns me on, Raven. It turns me on like nothing else.”

A slow smile spread across Raven’s face, a dangerous, exhilarating smile. She had found a new edge, a new depth to her hedonism, a new darkness to explore. And in Lena, she had found a partner who not only understood, but craved the same twisted thrill. The air in the motel room crackled with a shared, depraved excitement. The cardiologist would have been horrified. But in that moment, in the dim, smoke-filled motel room, with the weight of the Panerai on her wrist and the scars on her body whispering tales of mortality, Raven had found a new kind of love, a love born in the shadow of death, fueled by kinky desire and the dark eroticism of a diseased heart. And Lena, her new love, wanted her own cardiovascular disease. The thought, grotesque and exhilarating, sent a tremor of dark pleasure through Raven. This was just the beginning.

Just a story I wrote. Lots more similar and thinking about the sequel to this one.

If anyone is interested please let me know.

#dark cardiophilia

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