#the affinity bridge

[grandisknight]

afternoon treatment | zayne

summary: Zayne follows the "doctor's orders" in order to feel better.

tags: suggestive, established relationship, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), soft zayne, medical kink, 'doctor' kink, kissing, medical procedures (auscultation), medical inaccuracies (in a sense), chest mention, straddling

wc: 2.2k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: relax time affinity 80 with zayne and that one liner he has. that's it, that's the tweet.

Afternoons at Akso Hospital were always the busiest, from routine check-ups to meetings alike. Staff and accompanying patients hustled through the halls and hushed rooms—there was always something happening, and the cardiac surgery department was no different.

Yet, today seemed to offer Zayne some grace and time to reside in the chilled comforts of his workspace. The morning surgery went well, and his next procedure wouldn’t be for another hour or two. 

Therefore, he’s rewarded himself with a simple diagnosis report. The file was lighter in subject, easier to digest in comparison to what was usually on his plate. In his mind, this was a well-fitted solution to kill some time before returning to sterile scrubs and tense operating rooms.

Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks over their exterior when a soft series of familiar knocks reach his door.

“It’s open,” he calls out, rectangular reflection returning to the onscreen data. Without missing a beat and sparing another glance, he adds on, “Weren’t you supposed to visit a No-Hunt Zone today?”

“Finished my observations earlier than expected,” you chirped, pushing the door to a close and striding towards his busy desk. 

Recent reports of Metaflux fluctuations had consumed your bright morning with Herte Knaves running amok. Nothing out of the ordinary from your usual line of work, easily dealt with in a couple of bulleted blows. Their dispersing remains flecked the air in a quiet flurry that reminded you of snowflakes—naturally, your feet led you to the pristine floors of Akso soon thereafter.

Curiously, you sidestep to shadow his focused form, gaze altering between the wall of text and precise clicks of his keys. “Thought you were on break, but it seems like you’re working,” you mumble, in awe of his steady pace. “As always, Dr. Zayne.”

He speaks with an obvious, “Well, I am at work. The call is coming from inside the house.”

“Zayne,” you punctuate. His sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, and you cross your arms in turn. “You know what I mean.”

A faint chuckle passes under his breath. “You’re accusing me as if I’m in the wrong.”

He was not, actually—far from it. That goes without saying when you were in the middle of his office, imposing during said work time. But you’ve been in his graces for nearly a year now, and know well enough that it was only around this time in the afternoons would he be able to catch a breather.

You shake your head, putting on your best voice before coming to your defense. “No, but the doctor’s orders require you to take a break.”

This catches his attention, fingers slowing their clicks and chair swiveling to face you head on. Slight confusion quirks his brow, mirroring your folded arms in observation. “And pray tell, who would that be? Last time I checked, only one of us is a certified surgeon in this room.”

Your eyes instinctively dart to his stationed badge, credentials on full display against his chest pocket. He had you beat there, at the very least.

“You may hold a degree for medical hearts,” you start, taking a step into the space of his parted knees and tapping your chest. 

“But I hold the degree to your heart.” Your finger redirects to the meeting point of his neckline, resting above the aforementioned muscle.

“Is that so?” The corners of his lips lift, amused by your display and newfound authority. “I was unaware of such a professional. Surely, I would’ve remembered seeing someone as dedicated as you during my studies.” 

He takes the chance to brush away a strand of hair hugging your cheek, neatly tucking it behind your ear. Gentle appreciation fills his comment of, “Would’ve made them much more enjoyable, too.”

“That’s besides the point.” You wave him off, though it doesn’t fan away the heat blushing your ears, sensing his underlying meaning. 

Returning to your self-presumed role, you nod. “As your dedicated and completely legitimate doctor, I believe you’re showing concerning symptoms.”

Zayne hums, withdrawing his hand. “I’m afraid your assessment is lost on me. What exactly are these symptoms?”

“Well, my patient seems to love working overtime. This can cause unnecessary stress to the body and mind, for one.” 

You lift one knee to bracket his, the other following in suit—Zayne adapts rather quickly, leaning back to give you space as you carefully straddle his waist. His arms naturally circle around you, hands hovering your tailbone to keep you steady.

Neatly settled on top, you continue with your mild lecture of reported observations. “Even though he should be using the precious time in-between work to give himself a well-deserved break, he does the exact opposite.” 

“He is on a break,” Zayne says to his defense. “It’s barely considered heavy work.”

“Doing any kind of work during down-time does not count, mister,” you chide.

You gently tussle his bangs, pushing them to the side and revealing his forehead. Smoothing over the skin above his brow, your eyes searched his expression before noting a shadow of fatigue beneath his lashes. He really was working himself to the bone, even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

“A dire symptom of a workaholic is when his skin is faring worse than usual,” you exaggerate. “Your eye bags are so prominent they could be checked in at the airport.”

“It’s not that bad,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling at your touch. They flutter to a close when your hand slides to cup his face, thumb brushing the high of his cheekbone in gentle care. “The lighting just makes it seem worse for wear. I’m fine.”

“I beg to differ.” You slowly trail downwards, caressing the side of his neck with a pursed lip. 

His pulse point thrummed nicely against your fingers, and a curious press elicited a low sigh from him. Unexpected, though the sound was music to your ears and had butterflies rampant in your stomach. A part of you wanted to hear more of the gravelly timbre that rarely made an appearance—you knew what needed to be done.

Picking up where you left off, more of your self-declared medical ramblings followed. “See here? Another symptom, such a fast pace surely isn’t for the faint of heart. Your apical pulse,” to which your fingertips lightly drag themselves towards, “can’t lie to me.”

Zayne is breathless by the time he formulates a response in sincerity. “How can we go about a treatment plan, then? It seems pretty serious.”

A slowed, purposeful pronunciation follows soon thereafter. “Doc-tor.”

Your heart skipped not one, but two beats—dangerous, surely, but it fell short in the face of Zayne’s steadfast compliance. He peers up at you, factually smitten and framed softly by the office lights blending the contours of his face. You raise your other hand to hold his fine face between them. Admiring, in awe of all that he was.

“There’s only one known treatment option, I’ll have you know.” Unable to hide your smile, you quickly add, “Might require mouth to mouth if things go south.”

Zayne’s pools of hazel flick to your upturned lips, before meeting your mischievous stare with a hint of his own.

“Is this truly scientifically proven, or did you come all this way just to kiss me?”

“Yes,” was all you offered to his question, before placing an airy kiss to his cupid’s bow. 

A second found its way to the bridge of his nose, laid over the slight ridge you adore before another rested between his raised brows. His eyes flutter to a close when your lips gently pressed to his temple, stilling at the contact. Slowly, you leave a trail of love across his cheeks, pausing once you meet the corner of his mouth.

Your thumb brushes against his lower lip, smiling at the way he parts them so readily for you. His chin tilts in the direction of your touch, mouthing the chase. A flush of pink sinked into his skin, a perfect peach for you to sink your teeth into.

“Tell me,” you say softly. Your fingers curl underneath his chin, observing the lidded gaze that follows. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

A tender exhale pushes past those very lips. “Right here,” he quietly admits. Closing the distance until you were only a breath away, his eyes focused on the plush of your mouth. “Please, Doctor.”

The union was gentle and warm, a kiss so kind that the same sentiment blossomed in your chest. Traces of a sweetened coffee picked from the hospital’s cafeteria and warm amber from his collar consumed your senses.

Zayne held you closer, chest to his and enveloping in a tender embrace. His hands traced the curve of your back, following your spine to gently cradle your head. Just to keep you this close, he was restless—realizing that he needed this more than he thought. The smile that cracks through another kiss is a testament to it, sealed with a deep breath of contentment.

It was perfect, a moment in time where your thundering heartbeats were equally matched. The world was nothing but a witness to the seconds spent in meaningful lip-locking.

“Mmph,” you groan unceremoniously. 

Something firm brushed against your brow, pulling you out of the sweet trance. The culprit looked back at you in its silver rimmed and glass glory, sliding down the bridge of Zayne’s nose.

“Hm?” He leans back, noticing your discomfort. “What’s the matter?” 

You contemplate on telling him, partially distracted by the puff of his lower lip. It has a sheen of your affection, and you were sure you looked no different in his eyes.

“Your glasses are falling,” you admit. You reach for the frames, intending on pushing them back to the high of his nose.

Zayne pauses your wrist then, a warm mirth in his gaze. “These are in the way, are they not?” He guides your hand, allowing the glasses to depart from his face and settling it on his desk. 

With or without the specs, he truly was handsome—the kind of beauty modeled in Greek busts, from the contours of his cheeks to the sharp angle of his brow bone. You’d have to thank his parents the next time you see them.

He sneaks in a kiss, no longer obscured by the barrier and face perfectly pressed to yours. “My Doctor seems to be distracted,” he comments, taking in your wandering gaze. A cool hand graces the crowd of your head, patting softly. “What are you planning this time?”

His touches brought you out of your daydreaming, and you nod. Hands settling on the curves of his shoulders, you slide them upwards with a murmur of, “I should check your apical pulse again.”

Your eyes wander to the space behind him, a stethoscope only a grab away. With some effort, you spare a hand to reach for it, rising from the chair to a degree. 

Zayne noticeably stiffens at his newfound view—your chest in his face wasn’t something on his agenda for today. The breath in his throat hitches, recognizing your fragrance. Comforting and pleasant, a piece of home warmly enhanced by your skin.

By the time you successfully have the medical device in hand, you nearly drop it at the feeling of his nose digging into your chest. 

“Zayne? You’re—mmh?!” His hands find their way to your midsection, holding you still as he inhales deeply. You only hear him hum between muffled fabric, and your mind dizzies at the heatwave the mere sound sends to your core.

He pulls back with a soft sigh, the peach of his skin notably deepened to a soft rouge. Zayne guides you back to sit proper in his lap, reaching for the stethoscope in your surprised hand. Carefully, he places the ear tips into place for you and brushes your hair back in the process. Nonchalant, as if he didn’t spend the last waking moments happily buried in your chest.

“If you’re checking my pulse for me, I hope you’ve read the hospital’s code of conduct.” He drops his hands then, patiently awaiting your auscultation. In the reflection of his coy stare, you find that your own blush is faring far, far worse than his.

“Right, right. I did, trust me,” you say in confidence.

You, in fact, did no such thing. But memory of past appointments guides your hand over his heart, chest piece sliding around to count the beats. Not a single count was missed, all perfectly in place and accounted for.

Though, the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat drumming. It didn’t help that his eyes were entirely focused on you, pointed with affection and observation alike.

“Well?” Zayne hums. “How does it sound?”

“You have a heart, and it’s beating alright.” Your conclusion was far from exemplary, but at least it was the truth.

“That’s a relief,” he laughs quietly. He gently removes the stethoscope, setting it aside. “Realistically, this isn’t how an auscultation works.”

“My methods are just special, that’s all.” You shrug, lightly patting the space that protects the aforementioned organ. “But you seem to be feeling better, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Mhm.” Zayne presses a kiss to your nose, and offers his gratitude. “Thank you, Doctor. I don’t know what I would do without your care.”

[sunderwight]

SV fic where Shen Yuan's status as a body-snatching entity is revealed before the Immortal Alliance Conference can happen.

Maybe the system suffers a glitch while some unforeseen side quest is active, and suddenly Shen Yuan's status is revealed and some of the other peak lords he's with seize the opportunity to exorcise his spirit and put Shen Jiu back in his place.

Shen Yuan has mixed feelings about this development, needless to say. On the one hand, it's kind of not actually that bad? He got caught out like a week away from the IAC and the necessary Abyss plotline, so at least like this, he's managed to give Luo Binghe a slightly better time on Qing Jing for the past few years and equip him more capably to survive the Abyss, but he also doesn't have to personally throw him down there. That's the silver lining.

On the other hand, everything else about this situation sucks! He got attached to his life as Shen Qingqiu, dammit! And now he's been revealed and branded as some kind of horrible demonic spirit thing, and he was rather painfully expelled (even though he wasn't even there willingly in the first place), and so he's been reduced to some a kind of sparkly ghost light hovering on the fringes of existence, highly susceptible to being harmed if any more righteous cultivators get it in their heads to disperse him!

Which is better than just being catapulted back into his rotting corpse in the other world, but not by as big of a margin as he'd like.

Basically, in terms of his ability to influence the world Shen Yuan has been downgraded back to "read only" status. He finds that he can manifest himself in places that he's already been, or around people he has a particular affinity towards, but they can't perceive him and he can't communicate or even do much more than some minor poltergeist type activity. Which he is cautious about anyway, because if he gets caught around Shen Jiu, Shen Jiu is going to disperse him with extra prejudice.

Unfortunately, nearly everything Shen Yuan cares about is in Shen Jiu's orbit.

So he can only watch, metaphorically gritting his teeth as the newly-restored Shen Qingqiu kicks Luo Binghe out of the bamboo house, burns all the bridges that Shen Yuan painstakingly rebuilt for him, refuses point blank to let Liu Qingge help with Without-a-Cure, resumes and even begins taking more frequent trips to the nearest brothels, and neglects his duties to turn into a paranoid wreck as if he half-expects Shen Yuan to steal his body back from him the next time he lets his guard down. Corporal punishment spikes back up on Qing Jing Peak.

Shen Yuan is surprised to hear the whispers of dissent, even so. A spirit possessing a righteous cultivator is a pretty damning incident, and there's no way that he could come out of it smelling like roses. And yet, even though his -- Shen Qingqiu's disciples know enough to be circumspect about saying anything of the sort, there are still murmurs and rumblings about how things used to run, not too long ago.

Ming Fan quiets any such talk as soon as he hears it. Ning Yingying scarcely seems to know how to respond to the situation, except to sometimes plaintively insist that she hadn't even noticed much change between Shen Qingqiu's at all. But Luo Binghe...

Well.

Whenever there are mutterings, it often seems as though Binghe is there. Nodding. Whispering. Carefully putting forth suggestions that others barely seem to recognize as suggestions. Shen Yuan only notices because he knows what Binghe's capable of when he decides to be manipulative, and even he finds himself wondering if it's not just a coincidence, something he's imagining, because Luo Binghe hasn't even blackened through his Abyss arc yet.

Even so, there he is, musing carefully on how strange it was that he's heard that Hong Jing hadn't identified any untoward presence in Shen Qingqiu before, how Shizun had never done anything bad to the peak despite all the claims that he'd supposedly been possessed by a malicious entity for years, and wasn't this new Shen Qingqiu acting much more suspicious? Much more malicious? Isn't is the new Shizun who jumps at shadows and talks to people who aren't there, and seems so uneasy in his own skin?

If one had to guess which version was an unstable monster possessing a human's body, and which was the righteous and noble peak lord... ah, well. It's just surprising, isn't it? Luo Binghe would of course never suggest that this new Shen Qingqiu was in actuality the being that had stolen someone else's place. He's surely never second guess the judgment of the peak lords, who claim to have let an interloper among them for YEARS in total ignorance. It's just something to think about.

Alas for Binghe, though a lot of the peak seems inclined to agree with him, he can't win over enough to inspire anything worse than discontent. The "new" Shen Qingqiu does behave a lot more like the one that most of the Qing Jing knew prior to his qi deviation, after all, and it's no mystery why Luo Binghe -- spurned former favorite, now back to being at the bottom of the pecking order -- would be unhappy with the change. Shen Yuan appreciates that this is at least doing a good job of setting up Luo Binghe's altered opinion on his shizun, and he's touched that he made a good enough impression for Binghe to be mad about the sudden regression, but he wishes he could tell Binghe that there's simply nothing to be done about it. That is the real Shen Qingqiu, and Binghe ought to concern himself more with the upcoming conference!

At least, despite being kicked out of the bamboo house, Luo Binghe managed to farm enough good opinion with some of the other disciples during his tenure as Favorite that he doesn't go back to sleeping in the woodshed. Without Shen Qingqiu expressly demanding it, no one would dare, just in case Luo Binghe might regain his status one day. There seems to be an awareness that "evil" Shizun would have made them run laps, but "good" Shizun would now probably whip them half to death in a fit of temper. No one wants to take chances.

Finally, the Immortal Alliance Conference rolls around. Shen Yuan can only watch and cheer Binghe on as best as he's able to, even knowing the probable outcome. And Binghe does so well! He fights bravely but also smartly. When Shen Qingqiu arrives, Binghe doesn't lose an ounce of his caution, though he does still nobly defend his master even though the good feelings between them have dried up. He correctly identifies Without-a-Cure's flare up and silently helps compensate for Shen Jiu's weakness, and sticks by him even though the Original Goods is hardly appreciative.

When the Abyss opens up, and Luo Binghe's demonic seal is broken, Shen Qingqiu seems almost relieved to have this information brought to light. He accuses Luo Binghe not only of orchestrating the invasion of demons at the conference, but of arranging fro Shen Jiu to be replaced too.

"Of course, for a demon like you, summoning some wicked force into this master's body would be easy!" he spits.

Luo Binghe looks bowled over by the accusation. But rather than defending himself, he latches onto it as if it might be some kind of lifeline.

"For a demon like this one... it would be possible?" he echoes.

Shen Jiu hurls more accusations. Of course it is. Luo Binghe is not just any demon, but the most powerful, dangerous, and destructive sort there is. Little is beyond the scope of a Heavenly Demon's power, or wretchedness. Luo Binghe must have uncovered his heritage and seen a convenient means of ridding himself of an inconvenient master. Wherever that horrid spirit is now, it's probably just waiting for the next chance to leap back in at Luo Binghe's call!

"Shizun's spirit... that spirit from before, it still exists?" Luo Binghe catches.

"As if you don't know. Beast. Even the sect leader could not destroy your minion completely," Shen Jiu sneers.

"And it would be within my abilities to put it back in your body. Instead of you."

"You won't get the chance."

Shen Jiu stabs Luo Binghe before throwing him into the Abyss. Binghe fights back, but he seems reluctant to injure his shizun, even now.

Shen Yuan supposes that such reluctance won't survive the Abyss. Still, it's emotional for him. That such a little kindness could cause Luo Binghe to hesitate, even at this point, it really speaks to the resilience of hope in Binghe's heart.

Shen Yuan's little ghost light almost follows him down. But the Abyss would be too dangerous for him, even as he is now. He'd be a little mote of spiritual energy, easily gobbled up by any number of creatures in that place, if he wasn't just swept up by the chaotic ambient energies themselves. So he can only stay behind and think some very colorful swear words in Shen Jiu's general direction, until the rift closes and leaves no trace of Luo Binghe behind, except for the shards of Zheng Yang.

The shards are left behind. Shen Yuan finds that he has a little bit of spiritual storage space. Just enough to maybe fit all of them, so he goes and painstakingly uses his limited powers to lift up each piece and drop it in. It takes him hours and hours, but luckily the clean-up of the whole disaster is something that will take months. No one seems inclined to go reclaim Luo Binghe's shattered blade or risk getting too close to the remnants of the rift, even closed. So, Shen Yuan manages.

The next few years prove difficult. Shen Yuan finds that it's hard to retain his presence in the world. His little spirit has dampened considerably, and few things seem to perk him back up. He has more troubles following anyone who isn't Shen Jiu now that Binghe is in the Abyss, and Shen Jiu is depressing as hell to spend time around. He's rotten with kids, sucks at teaching, he has no friends, his health is deteriorating, and Shen Yuan has no interest in seeing what he gets up to in the brothels.

But Binghe is definitely coming back, and Shen Yuan wants to see him again.

His patience is rewarded the first time he finds his consciousness drifting, only to snap back to awareness in a place that's not Qing Jing Peak. He instead finds that he's in an unfamiliar patch of wilderness along a river, watching as Luo Binghe fights a small pack of demonic beasts.

It's definitely not the Endless Abyss. Has it been five years already...? Shen Yuan hadn't thought so, but then again, he's not the best at keeping track of time in this state.

Luo Binghe defeats the beasts, but they land more hits and wound him worse than Shen Yuan would have anticipated. The wounds aren't healing as quick as they should either. Was Binghe poisoned? Or is this a remnant of Shen Yuan's own poor teaching, the clumsiness in sword practice he never totally managed to correct leading somehow to this?

He gets it when Qin Wanyue and several other Huan Hua cultivators show up, however, and Luo Binghe manages to play the righteous cultivator who just survived a harrowing battle role to the hilt. It takes him very little effort to get the Huan Hua disciples to take him back with them and help "patch him up", and soon enough Shen Yuan has front row seats to watch as Binghe ingratiates himself with the sect.

Mostly, Shen Yuan is just relieved to confirm that Binghe did indeed survive, and glad that he's out of the horrible Abyss and in a place where he can rest and eat decent meals and be fawned over by his well-deserved admirers. Though Luo Binghe seems colder even than Shen Yuan expected, especially in some places where a bit of charm would serve him better. He declines outright to address the Palace Master as "shizun", even though he accepts the offer to stay as a guest disciple at Huan Hua Palace, and he is abrupt and aloof towards both Qin Wanyue and the Little Palace Mistress, despite their obvious interest in him.

Binghe doesn't seem to sleep as soundly as he should either. At night he often brings out a dream stone, which Shen Yuan recognizes as an amplification tool from the novel, but it seems that whatever Binghe is trying to search for with it is beyond his reach. Sometimes Shen Yuan imagines he can hear his disciple's voice calling Shizun at night. But always, Binghe is asleep, and there's no one in Huan Hua Palace he has deigned to address like that anyway. It's a trick of his own imagination, missing the days when Luo Binghe could call out and he himself could answer.

Things go mostly according to the plot, with a few disruptions here and there. Luo Binghe seems to be lagging behind on the romantic subplots, but rushing ahead on the vendetta against his old teacher. The Trial of Shen Qingqiu takes place at Jinlan City, with demon instigators who work for Luo Binghe accusing the peak lord of colluding with demons and setting him up to seem like he was involved in the sower attack. Shen Yuan knows, from watching Binghe, that the sower thing was mostly taking advantage of an existing situation to frame Shen Qingqiu. Binghe himself didn't have anything to do with Jinlan's suffering, but is obviously not above using it to his advantage.

Combined with Qiu Haitang's testimony, Shen Qingqiu is arrested and locked up where Luo Binghe can torture and dismember him at will.

However, Binghe... doesn't do that?

Instead he swiftly relocates Shen Qingqiu to a prison in the demon realms, and seems to abandon his concerns with Huan Hua Palace and the righteous cultivation sects altogether. He just leaves them to fight it out amongst themselves, as if he's got no concern with who comes out on top, and in the meanwhile he keeps Shen Qingqiu locked up but surprisingly well-treated?

Despite Shen Qingqiu's obvious terror and vitriol towards him, Luo Binghe forces him to eat nutritious meals, and attends to his health problems, and makes no move to injure him at all. He has nothing good to say to Shen Jiu, but he doesn't hurt him. Yet there is something distinctly weird about the whole dynamic, not at all like someone who has decided to keep a prisoner under ethical conditions for moral reasons or something like that.

Shen Yuan's not sure what to make of it.

In the end, Shen Jiu himself illuminates the situation.

It happens after Shen Jiu has rejected food. Luo Binghe tuts and asks if Shen Jiu suspects it would be poisoned. Shen Jiu sneers at him.

"I know it isn't," he says. "You wouldn't poison this body. I know what you're after."

"Oh? Wise Master Shen figured out this much?" Binghe replies, dry as the fucking desert.

"You're keeping me in this condition because you want to put that thing back in my body!" Shen Jiu accuses.

It takes Shen Yuan a moment to realize that Shen Jiu is referring to him. That he thinks Luo Binghe is keeping him fit and healthy for Shen Yuan's sake.

Wouldn't that be going too far just for some old teacher who was nice?! Yes, he knows that he made an impact on Luo Binghe, but it wasn't hard! Shen Jiu set the bar at the earth's crust, clearing it hardly required the kind of effort or devotion that would inspire an entire elaborate scheme purely on Shen Yuan's behalf!

He can't believe it.

But, Binghe doesn't deny it.

In fact he smiles, his expression somehow conveying that Shen Jiu guessed perfectly correct, but also that there's no good it can do him. Binghe has never looked so much like a piece of PIDW fanart before, with some dark and potent rage simmering just beneath the veneer of his placid smile.

"Shizun should not be referred to so impolitely," Luo Binghe counters. "If anyone in this room is a thing, it is this usurper in front of me."

"Usurper?! In my own body? You're mad."

Binghe tuts.

Master Shen should understand that his claim is contested. After all, if one woman gives birth to a child but then casts it into a river to die, but another fishes the babe out and cradles it to her breast -- which woman deserves to be called that child's mother? Just because Shen Jiu was born into that body, doesn't mean he deserves it more than anyone else.

But even if he did, Luo Binghe wouldn't care. He would kill to get his Shizun back. This isn't really so different from that, is it? And there is no love lost between him and Shen Jiu to make him hesitate. If his Shizun disagrees, he may disciple Binghe as he sees fit once he returns.

Shen Jiu points out that Luo Binghe's machinations have ruined his reputation. Even if he gets that creature to possess his body again, there's no way that they could infiltrate Cang Qiong Sect a second time.

But Binghe waves off his concerns. He clearly has thought of this, and has plans for it, but is also not about to be stupid enough to monologue any more at Shen Jiu. Once he leaves, Shen Yuan lingers for a little while, and notices that Shen Jiu actually seems genuinely concerned about what might happen to the sect if Luo Binghe succeeds and gets Shen Yuan put back on Qing Jing Peak.

Of course, Shen Yuan knows he wouldn't actually do anything to harm Cang Qiong, but Shen Jiu doesn't. This is the first time Shen Yuan has seen him actually reveal shades of what might be called a noble impulse.

It's not much, but... sigh.

The thing is, Shen Yuan doesn't really want to steal anybody's body! No one consulted with him the first time it happened! And they sure aren't consulting with him now, either, although to be fair they can't. But he might just have enough ability as a little ghost light to stave off some of this whole process, and he's got to decide if he wants to try. Or if he'll let Binghe have his way, and succeed in pushing Shen Jiu back out and giving Shen Yuan his life again.

Because Binghe will definitely succeed if he really does try. That's how the world works.

And if he did... that might be the only way for Shen Yuan to get his life as Shen Qingqiu back. Which he does want, desperately! He misses it. He misses it both in the general sense of having a body at all, but also in the particular sense of all the things he managed to attain as Qing Jing Peak Lord. As Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Jiu, also, makes a very tempting sacrifice in all this. Shen Yuan frankly hates his guts. Maybe it could have been different, but the fact that Shen Yuan worked so hard to try and make that life better, only for Shen Jiu to just go right back to being an intractable asshole who, frankly, should never be in charge of children ever, rankles! He went right back to mistreating Luo Binghe as well, and threw him into the Abyss, and if Binghe's plan was to violently kill him again as revenge for that then Shen Yuan wouldn't fault him. He didn't fault him the first time. He wasn't going to fault him even when it seemed like he would be the one Binghe was destined to rip apart in justified vengeance.

This is different, though. Shen Yuan wants to fight for the life he longs to be living, especially now when the axe of the Abyss is no longer hanging over him.

But is he willing to actually become the thing everyone else decided he was in order to get it? A body-snatching, malicious spirit?

Shen Jiu is horribly unsuited to his life as Shen Qingqiu. But, it is still his life. Shen Yuan really just managed to borrow it for a while.

Deep down he knows that, even if he would like to ignore it.

So when Binghe finally sets up the ceremony, and Shen Yuan's soul is called back into Shen Qingqiu's body, he hesitates. Shen Jiu is poised like a snarling, wounded animal within the confines of his own body. Even the gentlest tap would knock him back out again. Shen Yuan gets the sense that the system is also there, just waiting and even eager for him to do it. Take back the body, resume whatever quests or directives are waiting for him there.

Shen Yuan, even as fragile as his own spirit is, could crush Shen Jiu's battered soul to dust.

Instead he withdraws.

Binghe tries the ritual again, and again, and each time Shen Yuan feels stronger. But it doesn't matter, because he doesn't want to be an evil body-stealing parasite! He wishes he could just tell Binghe to stop wasting valuable resources on this, especially when Binghe could be focusing on other, more important things! Like building up happy relationships or consolidating his rule of the demon realms or establishing an actual strong foothold in the human world, or something!

Somehow, Shen Jiu figures this out before Luo Binghe does. Of course, he conveys the information in the worst way possible, snidely wondering what Luo Binghe did to alienate "that creature" he's trying so hard to resurrect so badly that it will refuse even the open, glowing invitation he keeps writing for it!

Excuse you, you miserable old man, Shen Yuan isn't avoiding Binghe! He is facing a very difficult moral dilemma and handling it LIKE A CHAMP! Fuck you!

Unfortunately, even though Shen Jiu has decided that Luo Binghe and Shen Yuan were in cahoots about the first body snatch, Luo Binghe knows that they weren't. He also doesn't know that his old Shizun knew full well that he was a Heavenly Demon the whole time. So now he has a lot of doubts to wrestle with, especially give that, despite the consensus of the rest of the world, Luo Binghe is not convinced that Shen Yuan actually is some kind of demonic spirit.

Maybe he's a good spirit that has rejected Binghe for his wretched blood?

But Shizun always said that things like that didn't matter!

So... maybe it's not his blood. Maybe Binghe's actions are what has caused Shizun to forsake him. All the terrible things he did to survive the Abyss, and the machinations afterwards, framing Shen Qingqiu and imprisoning him, setting himself up as a demonic ruler... all of that.

Binghe entreats his Shizun to forgive him. Or even if he won't forgive him, to still come back. Binghe will... stay away, if that's what Shizun wants. Just so long as Shizun is alive, is somewhere in the world, safe and happy, then... then...

He can't quite get through lying to claim that it would be enough. But it would be better than the current situation, so he tries.

Shen Yuan, luckily, has been juiced up enough from all the failed summoning rituals that later that night, he finally recognizes the little whisper-calls as echoes of Luo Binghe's dreams. And he's strong enough to follow the invitations! He goes to visit Binghe in his dreams, and reassures him that he's not trying to reject him at all. He's very proud of Binghe, and wants him to be happy and successful. Binghe could rule the world and Shizun would just cheer him on!

It's just that Shen Yuan never willingly possessed Shen Qingqiu in the first place. He misses his life, but given the choice, he doesn't want to be that kind of entity.

So, new plan -- if Shen Yuan won't take a body off of an undeserving asshole, then Binghe will make him a new body! Luckily, Shen Yuan knows a way to grow one. They "borrow" some genetic materials from Shen Jiu to aid the process, and then Luo Binghe, surprisingly indifferent about the whole thing, cuts Shen Jiu loose at the border.

Shen Yuan is surprised. Binghe really doesn't care about that? Turns out no, not so much. Shen Jiu is awful, but he's nothing to Binghe in the long run. (Also it's a long shot but if nothing else does work Binghe might have to force Shen Yuan to take Shen Qingqiu's body back, though of course he's not about to say so, and anyway Shen Jiu is still going to have a hell of a time waiting for him back in the cultivation world. Luo Binghe wishes him luck and every pleasure of trying to clear his ruined name, living a life on the lamb with an insidious poison constantly eating away at him, or the full enjoyment of a second visit to the water prison, whichever ends up happening.)

With the help of Luo Binghe's blood parasites, the Sun and Moon Dew whatever mushroom body grows in record time. A summoning ritual isn't even required, Shen Yuan just scoots right in as soon as the body is ready and blinks his eyes open to see his anxious disciple's face peering back at him.

Happily ever after!

[ulyuxe]

Books read in 2024: THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS by Ursula K. Le Guin

But it was from the difference between us, not from the affinities and likenesses, but from the difference, that that love came: and it was itself the bridge, the only bridge, across what divided us.

[emilys-bangs]

The last thing you reblogged gave me an idea !

Touch starved Emily who is friends with you but would never dare ask you for unnecessary hugs etc., you two are close but she doesn’t want to cross that bridge since she definitely likes you a lot more than just a friend and also she’s scared of being so open and vulnerable that she admits she needs a hug and a cuddle.

You two are on a case once again, end up rooming together and there’s only one bed. You both don't really mind and go to sleep, each one on their respective side of the bed - except when you wake up in the middle of the night, Emily is cuddled around you, having subconsciously seeked your touch while she’s asleep.

You can decide how to go from there if this idea is any good to you, no worries if not and I hope you have a great week 😘😘

midas touch | e.p

Tags: touch starved Emily, room sharing, bed sharing, fluff, a ridiculous amount of yearning

Word count: 2.5k

Tysm for requesting, I hope you have a great week as well! I sincerely thank that one post about touch starved Emily that made us all go insane <3

You’d have to be blind not to notice Emily’s affinity for touch.

It’s something you’ve picked up on after a mere week in the BAU, and honestly, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like she craves touch, physically needs the added comfort of hands wrapping around elbows, arms slung across shoulders and casual side-hugs. In the more lax confines of Rossi’s living room or o’keefe’s, it’s not unusual to see her wrapped around somebody, or at least closely sharing what’s meant to be personal space. 

At work, however, it’s different; a bit more subtle, but still palpably flowing with love—the way she sneaks behind Garcia’s chair and wraps her arms around her neck in hello, Emily’s cheek pressing against the analyst’s. How she runs her fingers through Spencer’s messy curls, and how—despite his protests—he lets her, almost imperceptibly leaning into her hand before she pulls away. Her hip is frequently attached to JJ’s, their temples touching as she slides her palm into the back pocket of JJ’s jeans. Rossi is given paternal kisses on the cheek, Morgan dragged around with his hand in hers, their fingers interlocking in a weave of pale and dark. Even Hotch gets his fair share of physical affection from her, though more subtle but no less loving; a tugging at his belt loops, a nimble fixing of his tie, the brush of her fingers along his elbow.

Everyone gets a piece of Emily’s attention. 

Everyone except you.

It upsets you in ways you can’t fully explain—at least not without admitting to yourself that you’re falling deeply and helplessly in love with her. None of it remotely makes sense; despite her very deliberately withholding her touch from you, she’s been nothing but lovely, always having your back and gently correcting you when you slip up. 

But still, when an overbooked hotel forces Hotch to relay the unfortunate news of doubling up and she turns to you, surprise renders you silent. 

“Me and you?” Emily asks, paying no mind to JJ next to her.

You speak through your dry throat, “Um—yeah, sure.”

Hotch places the key in your hand, glad to have one pair down. You dig it into the flesh of your palm.

“I’ll take that one, thank you.” Rossi plucks a key from Hotch’s hand and turns away, leisurely walking to the elevator as protests rise behind him.

Hotch shakes his head, exasperated. You almost feel sorry for him. “Morgan?” He says, looking at him. Morgan nods, which leaves JJ with Reid.

Reid looks pleased; JJ less so, but she doesn’t protest as she takes the key from Hotch.

“Aww, good luck, pretty girl.” Emily coos, cupping JJ’s cheek and tapping it playfully. Jealousy stirs in your stomach, hot and acidic as JJ shrugs off her hand with an eye roll, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

The key is in your hand so you turn on your heel, a bad taste in your mouth as Reid starts to protest, the sound getting lost somewhere between Emily’s soft laughs.

She knows them longer than she knows you, you think as you take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the beating of your heart. Your somewhat blurry eyes pick out the door with the matching number on your key. Your legs take you to it, almost on autopilot.

“Hey, wait up,” Emily’s voice carries, reaching you in a cloud of spun silk. There’s a rush of air behind you and you feel her creeping over your shoulder, the scent of her perfume choking you sweetly. “You don’t want me to sleep in the hall, do you?”

You can’t bring yourself to rise to the teasing in her voice. Fitting the key in the lock with unsteady fingers, you mumble, “Would’a let you in if you’d knocked.”

But trying to keep your distance doesn’t work, because the one bed in the room glares at you as soon as you push the door open.

Your throat goes dry. 

Emily hovers impatiently at your back and you swallow as you take a step into the threshold of the room, wondering how the hell she’d share a bed with you when she seems reluctant to touch you in the first place.

Panicked, you take your bag and head into the bathroom before Emily can say anything, desperately needing a moment to compose yourself. It’s safe to say you spend more time in there than you usually would, lengthening your short routine to busy yourself.

Only when you’ve semi-calmed down do you go out, finding her perched on the edge of the large—king sized, at least—bed.

“Hey. Are you okay with this?” Emily’s eyes are wide and dark, shining with concern. 

There’s no place for you to sleep anyway if you said no, but somehow you get the feeling she’d make it work if you were uncomfortable. A confused rush of emotion runs hot under your skin; lingering jealousy and ever present bitterness and confusing pleasure at her concern.

God, you need to go to bed.

“I’m fine with it,” you force a smile. It must not be very convincing, because Emily frowns, a delicate pull drawing her brows together. Just before she says something, you speak. “Are you okay with it?”

That snaps her out of it. “Yeah,” Emily murmurs, a dimple winking at you as she gives you a small smile, “as long as you don’t kick.”

You didn’t expect her to agree so easily. Some part of you wonders if she’s lying, but you can’t look at her eyes long enough to decipher that—you’re mildly afraid if you sunk into their depths you’d never be able to claw your way out.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” you try to shrug casually. “Do you prefer a side?”

“No, go ahead. It doesn’t matter what side I sleep on, I always somehow find my way in the middle.”

That makes you crack a smile.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind her and you press your knuckles into your eyes, wondering if you can possibly get through this night without losing your already delicate composure.

It’s just a bed, you tell yourself as you take out a pair of sweatpants to serve as pajamas. And it’s just for one night. It’s fine.

It’s fine. Sure it is.

You’re already in bed and beneath the sheets when Emily walks out of the bathroom. It’s a mistake to look at her, because you think you’ve just fallen deeper in love.

She’s shaking her hair out from the confines of its ponytail and it falls in soft waves around her shoulders, curling at the ends where the water sprayed it. A cotton tank top gently hugs her body, and pale blue shorts skim the tops of her thighs.

She’s not wearing a bra.

You’re staring.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to share tonight,” Emily smiles sheepishly as she lifts the covers and climbs into the bed. A lump is lodged in your throat at the sight of her bare legs slipping through the sheets, shimmering softly from her lotion. It smells sweet, she smells sweet—like warm cocoa butter—and it takes everything in you not to inhale deeply like a creep.

“Neither was I.” You croak. Emily settles her head on her pillow and you try not to stare at her lashes, so naturally long and thick even without her usual mascara.

She’s literally going to be the death of you.

“G’night,” you mumble and turn away before she can answer. The heat in your cheeks burns, and you dig them into the pillow in hopes of cooling them down.

“Night,” Emily whispers back. The sheets rustle as she presumably turns, too.

Needless to say, it takes a while for you to fall asleep. 

It must happen at some point, though, because something wakes you. You open your eyes to the darkness of the room, unsure what it is. You just know that you’re abnormally warm and trapped beneath something smelling like cocoa butter.

Emily.

Your sluggish brain slowly puts the pieces together. Her arm is around your neck, cutting across your chest; her thigh is hitched over your hip. Cold fingertips are hooked into the collar of your t-shirt and you shiver despite the warmth of your own body. Slow breaths puff across your neck, warm and even.

Briefly, you think you’re dreaming, but just as quickly that thought dissipates. She’s too real, too warm—and anyway your imagination could never come up with something as divine as this.

You’re not completely innocent either. Your arm is hooked around her waist, your skin directly touching the warm skin of her waist. Her tank top has risen up and your blurry eyes catch a tattoo on her hipbone; a faded butterfly.

You should let her go. 

It’s an internal battle, because she fits there, perfectly, and even though you know it’s wrong, you close your eyes and continue holding her. 

It’s wrong, it’s so wrong. She doesn’t want your touch. She’s made that perfectly clear, but her warm body, the soft tickle of her hair, they cloud your senses, fog your brain and hide all traces of reason or sensibility.

But still, half asleep or not, you can’t betray her trust like this.

You’re just about to force yourself to let go when Emily snuggles closer, a long sigh escaping through her nose. Her lashes tickle your skin, wispy and light across your neck as she nestles into your collarbone.

Fuck.

You hold still and wait for her to move again. She doesn’t, other than the steady rise and fall of her chest, so you close your eyes too. You would’ve thought it would be difficult to fall asleep with almost every inch of her body touching every inch of yours, but you’re encompassed in warmth and softness and the scent of cocoa butter. 

Really, it only takes a minute before you’re asleep again.

———

She’s still in your arms when you wake up. Your alarm didn’t ring yet—it must’ve been a combination of Emily’s warmth and your internal clock that woke you up.

Her head is now on your pillow, one of her knees slotted between yours and her arm around your waist. She’s like a clingy koala, even in her sleep, and it only makes your heart ache.

Through the blurriness in your vision you see the small freckles that dot her cheeks. They’re tiny, almost unnoticeable, scattered over the bridge of her nose and under her swooping lashes. Her fingers tighten in your shirt and again the guilt surfaces, but it’s so slow to rise in the pale morning light, when you’re sluggish with sleep.

Emily’s eyes flutter open. 

Shit, you freeze, your muscles stiffening. 

You’re caught.

Suddenly you’re staring into dark chips of obsidian, clouds of sleep swirling through them. At first Emily gives no reaction, but then her brain evidently catches up and her eyes widen, her fingers letting go of your shirt.

Just before you apologize, she does.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. Her voice is raspy and you fight the shiver before it travels down your spine. “I get really—”

“Clingy,” you mumble. “Yeah, I know. It’s obvious.” Your voice is soft, mainly because you’re too tired to fight with your own demons so early in the morning.

“I’m really sorry,” Emily whispers again, mortified. Her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she retracts her arm and her leg, curling back into her side of the bed. The sheets she leaves behind are warm, and you fight the urge to place your hand where she once was.

“S’okay. You do it with everyone, I know that.” Then, because it’s the morning and your brain is half asleep and still fogged from holding her, you ask, “Why not with me, though?”

Her teeth chew down on her lip. “Why not with you, what?” She mumbles.

“Emily,” you sigh, “it’s too early for you to mess with my head. You know what.”

Emily gives a sigh of her own. She doesn’t look at you as she fiddles with the hem of her tank top and drags it back down, hiding the exposed sliver of her torso. It doesn’t help that your eyes follow her movements, because her shorts have ridden up her thighs.

“It means…more when it’s you.” She eventually says, her voice quiet. Your breath hitches and she continues looking down, frowning at the hem of her tank top. “Everything does. Can’t touch you like that and pretend it means nothing.”

The slight slur to her voice makes her confession all the more intimate. As does her bed head, the red sleep lines on the underside of her arm. This is a soft Emily, a vulnerable one, and she’s laying herself bare for you in the morning light while sleep still lingers in both your eyes.

It only confirms your love for her.

Your relief is palpable; it quickly shifts to affection, something flowery crowding the back of your throat and making it hard to swallow. She doesn’t hate you, she doesn’t think you’re disgusting or repulsive. 

She couldn’t touch you because it would give her away. Because it’s the most genuine aspect of her, one she can’t dampen or hide any more than she can stop her heart from beating.

It seems almost too big a revelation for this small hotel room bathed in morning light. Still, your hand reaches for hers. You wrap your fingers around her own, both of them now resting gently on her stomach.

“It doesn’t have to mean nothing.” You whisper.

Emily’s eyes snap to yours. They’re like the black, bitter coffee you have no choice but knock back in precincts all over the country. They make your heart race, because they come closer—she comes closer—until both your heads are resting on the same pillow again. Emily cups your joint hands with her free one, reverently protecting the tenderness of your touch.

“You’re…” Her breath hitches and she falters, then sucks in a breath, “You’re telling me you want this?”

You squeeze her fingers. “More than anything.”

Emily blows out a low sigh. You bring your free hand up to trace the curve of her brow; she leans into it. “I do, too.” She confesses. “More than anything.”

Your thumb travels down to the corner of her mouth. “Then there’s nothing stopping us. Is there?” You ask gently.

“No.” Emily sighs. “Nothing.”

She tilts her head, lets you continue exploring her face with your fingertips. Her features are gently traced; the bridge of her nose and the outline of her lips and the shape of her brows. Slowly, her knee worms its way between both of yours.

You smile and Emily smiles back, a shy dimple in her cheek. 

“Be clingy. With me,” you murmur, keeping your voice low because you’re afraid love already spills from it, “I want you to be.”

Her nose nuzzles into your cheek. “You’ll soon regret saying that.” Emily mumbles, the vibration of her voice reverberating through your skin. It fills you with strange peace.

“Never.” You whisper.

Until the alarm rings, the two of you spend your time erasing away the boundaries, learning the lines of each other’s bodies with your fingertips with slow confidence.

Because now, you have all the time in the world.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism

[starsandsuch]

Some notes on Chitra 💎🍡🐅

The 14th Nakshatra. It’s ruled by Mars and is the bridge between sidereal Virgo and Libra. Being contained between 23.20 degrees Virgo and 6.40 degrees Libra.

Deity: Tvastar the celestial architect

Their symbol is a Jewel/Pearl. Some sources would say it’s symbolized as a diamond as well. Their yoni is a female tiger.

This can apply to Sun, moon, Ascendant, lagnesh or Atmakaraka in Chitra. Honorable mention ketu in Chitra.

Here are some observations I’ve made about them:

↠ They look good on camera.

↠ Usually have thick defined eyebrows.

↠ They’re one to obsess over their appearance in a very thorough way.

↠ They have round eyes that look glossy like marbles. Their face is heart shaped.

↠ At a certain point they learn people like looking at them; as many find them physically attractive. They’re not one hide away from that gaze of others, but embrace the attention that comes with being attractive.

↠ They love attention and being the center of things.

↠ They hate having body hair. Many opt to getting laser: permanent hair removal. Ironically enough a lot of them tend to be genetically very hairy.

↠ Even Chitra men hate having body hair. My Chitra guy friend used to shave his legs and I thought it way so weird for a (straight) guy to do that??.😭

↠ Chitra women are thicc. They usually have full hips and big butt.

↠ Fun fact: when I used to do astrology readings , I offered a reading where I’d describe your physical appearance based on your birth chart , and literally every single person who bought that reading had Chitra Sun, moon or ascendant. Mainly ascendant though.

↠ They are good at orchestrating drama. They highkey love drama.

↠ They live for controversy/ creating controversy

↠ Being the conductor of the drama then being the one to try to fix it , is a classic Chitra trope to me.

↠ They actually have a masterful talent of orchestration of drama but never get caught or blamed for it.

↠ They know how to be manipulative of social narratives. They know how to act or say things in order to get a certain reaction from others.

↠ This why they make good lawyers, bc during prosecution you have to make the defendant person look guilty through power of suggestion & insinuation. And put that seed of doubt in the jury’s mind based on their line of questioning. Basically indirectly accusing them without saying it directly.

↠ They’re naturally passive aggressive. They can display the mask of cordiality but secretly plot of someone’s downfall.

↠ They can poke and prod people to get an emotional or angry emotion out of them.

↠ A lot of them are very critical and judgmental. They can be judgmental towards family members especially.

↠ One thing I’ve see with Chitra that no one ever talks about is how good they are at predicting social trends. They usually know about /do something a few years before it’s popular.

↠ I sense they’re good at trend forecasting since Libra naturally has Aquarius in their 5th house. 5th house= talents, Aquarius= the future. So they have a talent for predicting the future.

↠ Two examples of this:

↠ #1 Kim Kardashian (who has Chitra Sun) and her affinity for social media was ahead of its time. Her long-hair-bbl-aesthetic was arguably the first prototype in the copy paste look you see on Instagram.

↠ Also when I watched KUWTK , in a 2012 episode she had a selfie book, and would take selfies with a mini LED light attached to her DSLR camera. Now it’s the norm to have mini lighting equipment in your purse. But she had that even before iPhones were that mainstream.

↠ #2 Soulja Boy (who has Chitra moon) is a known pioneer with music artists/social media. He was one of the 1st to have an online image as a rapper / go viral /have a viral dance for a hit song etc. Basically that formula is the mainstream strategy for success in the music industry in present day. But he did all that in like 2008 before iPhones/IG/tiktok etc.

↠ They will thrive in any career where you have to curate the aesthetics of something. Being a stylist, decorator, image consultant are all very Chitra-like.

↠ These natives are good at making money. Any Chitra person I’ve known IRL is good at money management or they are wealthy. 💰

↠ They’re good at party planning or event planning.

↠ I’ve also seen this be a successful social media influencer Nakshatra. They will post on socials and in a relatively “short” time gain a lot of engagement/followers etc.

↠ They seem to be always on the pulse of social trends/ pop culture etc

↠ They love dressing up as different personas, they are good at impersonating people. They like to personify different cultures through their aesthetic.

↠ They attract very aggressive people as partners.

↠ Libra naturally has their 7th house in Aries so they attract people with Martian energy. Aggressive, straightforward, blunt, controlling.

↠ They have a spouse that is a different ethnicity than them. Likely to be in an interracial relationship.

↠ A lot of them are very intelligent and get high marks in school, some even be valedictorian, magna cumlaude, summa cumlaude etc.

↠ Many get involved in politics or law.

↠ They are social climbers

↠ They love to argue.

↠ The especially like bantering. They’ll be sports commentators, podcaster, fashion critic, pop culture critic, etc.

↠ They get over things quickly. They don’t dwell on the past and let that hold them back from future endeavors. They’re always trying to achieve something new.

[honeylullaby]

“How beautiful you are, my girl.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by the lovely @laverna-fanfictions 🩷 / You trust your new boyfriend, Declan, enough to be your first..

18+ FANFIC / SMUT & Daddy Declan always 💋Short work. Reader character aged at 21.

Pulling periwinkle woollen socks over your glacial feet, you watched adoringly as Declan O’Hara kneeled by the fire, throwing jagged lumps of wood into the blazing fireplace. “There we are. That should keep us goin’ for a bit.” He beamed, rising to his feet and clapping his hands together to rid them of ash. The garden of The Priory was enveloped in a beautiful duvet of crisp snow, still falling and settling. Declan quickly snapped emerald curtains shut on the picturesque scene, and reached over the fireplace to turn on the radio. “And now, George Michael.” The tinny voice of the deejay spoke, promptly followed by Careless Whisper. “My favourite song!” You beamed, jumping to your feet and fiddling with the radio, increasingly the volume loud enough to make Declan’s face contort.

“Come here, you.” He sighed, pulling you tight to his chest — one hand wound around your waist, and one hand clamped onto yours. Declan was aware of your affinity to dancing and although not too partial himself, he would degrade himself enough to see the sparkling grin painted across your lips. Resting your rouged cheek against the warmed cotton of his taupe shirt, you pushed out an exhale. “I love you, Mr O’Hara.” You purr, fumbling over a few steps in your jumbled dance routine. “I love you too, girl.” Declan replies without missing a beat. He inched his face towards yours, chocolate moustache bristling against your lips. His sharpened eyes scanned your elegant button nose, your rounded lips, your twinkling eyes.

“Tonight, the music seems so loud.” George Michael warbled through the radio, as Declan crashed his lips against yours in passion, feral hands pulling at the hem of your golden satin dress. “Take it off.” He grunted, and you promptly pulled the dress over your head. Much to his pleasant surprise, the removal of your dress exposed your tremendous naked body — lustrously silky skin, huge breasts with rosy nipples and a neatly trimmed entrance to your soaking cunt. “Lie down.” Declan instructed, and you steadily lay against the shaggy mauve rug, adjacent to the fireplace. The stirring heat of the flames warming your blood, softening your nipples and coaxing you to spread your legs for your lover.

Stripping the constricting clothes from his person, Declan knelt on the rug to meet you, stroking his gargantuan cock, readying himself for entry. “Declan, wait, wait… I need to tell you something.” You splutter, covering your cunt with a hesitant hand. “What?” He interrogated, shuffling back in shock of your sudden outburst. “I’ve never… I’ve never actually… You know. Done this before.” You mumble.

Declan’s face portrayed quite the picture of bewilderment. You certainly suck my dick like you have, he thought to himself. “You’re joking, aren’t ‘ya?” He most certainly stifled a laugh as he spoke. “Why are you laughing?” You ask, sitting up on your elbows and furrowing your eyebrows in almost-fury. “I’m not, I’m not. Ya’ just…” He paused in disbelief, “Ya’ suck my dick like a fuckin’ porn star.” Chuckling to himself again and pinching the bridge of his nose softly, he was bracing himself for a swift smack on his arm… which you punctually delivered. “Declan! I’m being serious. I’m actually very nervous.” You mutter under your breath. “Well, do ‘ya want to? Do ‘ya t’ink ya’ ready?” Declan questioned, glaring at you expectantly with hazelnut eyes. All you could do was nod, and spit out a small ‘yes’ whilst removing your hand away from your wet spot.

Just the sight of your glistening, pink folds made Declan’s cock jump in excitement. You watched with bated breath as he inched towards you, grabbing a firm hold of your leg and resting it in the muscular crook of his shoulder. “Are ya’ definitely sure?” He asked again, and waited for your peep of a ‘yes’ once more. Lining the pink tip of his penis with your slick entrance, pushing himself into you at a painstaking pace — giving your body time to adjust to his sheer size. “My God, how beautiful you are, my girl.” The Irishman mumbled under his breath, his face twisted in pleasure. “Christ, how are you this fuckin’ wet?” His sultry voice growled, and in response, your muscles tightened around him, causing his eyes to clamp shut momentarily.

As he steadily begun to increase his pace, thunderous whimpers fell loosely from your mouth, toes curling at the newfound pleasure. “Fuck me harder, Declan. I can take it. I promise.” You plead, wisps of golden hair shadowing your leaf-green eyes. Following orders and placing his left hand on the mellow part of your waist, Declan thrusted himself into you with monumental vigour — his balls thumping against you and the delectable wet smack of your skin colliding with his providing the most stunning music to your ears.

Continuing his tempo for a mere matter of moments, Declan spat towards you, “Fuck me, I’m gonna cum already. Tighten it up for me again, girl.” You clenched your soaked cunt again, keeping yourself contracted around him. His resounding thrusts grew sloppy, and a droplet of sweat fell from his forehead, splashing onto the small of your back. Declan quickly pulled his cock out of you, straddling your chest with his fleeced thighs and pawing at his cock over your face. “Where do ya’ want it, love?” He spoke through gritted teeth. Without audibly replying, you open your mouth, waving a yearning pink tongue towards him. Grunting melodically, Declan released his hot load onto your tongue and watched as you swallowed it greedily. “Fuck, you taste so good.” You chime, licking across your lips and savouring the taste in its entirety. “Such a good girl.” He purred, stroking a rugged hand across your cheek.

[slayfics]

Izuku overhears your late night call with Katsuki.

800 Words~

Izuku shuffled in bed becoming conscious of his surroundings as he blinked heavily. His hotel bed was nowhere near as satisfactory as his one at home. Not that Izuku was one to complain- but he found it amusing that Japan’s top two heroes were placed in a shared mediocre hotel while out on a mission.

Shuffling around once more Izuku became aware of what had woken him at such a late hour. It must have been two or three in the morning, but his friend’s low voice surrounded the silent room. Trying not to make Katsuki aware, he peeped an eye open and was met with the sight of his friend on the phone. Even though he was across the room on his own queen-sized bed, Izuku could see the tension in the way Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his hand over his face.

It didn’t take Izuku long to guess who Katsuki was talking to. It had to be you, there was no one else Izuku had seen Katsuki speak to with such softness. Not to mention how strict he was with his sleep schedule. No one else would be lucky enough to get away with calling Katsuki at this hour.

“You don’t need ta’ worry about me- you know that” Katsuki spoke quietly into the phone. “No- I’m not going to hang up… I’ll stay right here till you’re asleep, ok? So quite down… breath alright…”

Izuku fought the urge to interrupt and ask what was going on. It sounded like you must have been upset on the other line. Despite his helpful nature, he resisted the urge knowing Katsuki would only be infuriated by his interruption.

“It’s fine I’m-… I’m glad you called… I missed you too,” Katsuki spoke into the phone, causing Izuku to hold back an audible gasp. The words sounded so foreign coming from Katsuki. He always knew Katsuki had an affinity for you but- it felt so surreal to hear it with his own ears. It was such a sharp contrast to the Katsuki he was used to.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called or- reached out to you since we’ve been gone… I’m just- not good at this stuff you know…,” a low chuckle came from Katsuki at whatever you said next.

“It’s… nice to hear your voice again…I’ll come to see you when we’re back ok? … Yeah, yeah I promise brat. Now sleep for me alright? It’s late as hell and I can hear how exhausted you are… Good just drift off- and I’ll see you soon,” Katsuki said.

Izuku wasn’t sure if the conversation continued any longer because the next thing he knew his alarm was buzzing and waking him up for their mission.

He and Katsuki both sleepily stalked around the room getting ready. Against his better judgment, Izuku had to ask.

“Hey… last night… were they ok?” Izuku asked.

“HAH?! You listened to my phone call?!” Katsuki yelled; the annoyance clear on his face.

“Sorry-,” Izuku stuttered. “It’s not like I had a choice though. This room they gave us isn’t very big!”

“Yeah, cheap asses- whatever… they are fine don’t ask me about it again,” Katsuki spoke sternly.

“Ok Kacchan,” Izuku spoke respecting his friend's privacy as he continued to get ready, but to Izuku's surprise Katsuki called back out to him.

“Hey-…” Katsuki exclaimed, keeping his gaze away from Izuku.

“Yeah?” Izuku answered back.

“… What…,” Katsuki groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “What the hell do I say to them? I… I don’t know how to do this crap.” He spoke. Katsuki knew he wasn’t good at showing affection. He hadn’t even reached out to you in the week that they had been gone- which caused you to call him in panic. He hated that he did that to you but- these things just didn’t come easy to him like they did to Izuku.

“Well- I think that depends. What do you want them to know?” Izuku asked, treading carefully with his friend.

“I don’t fucking know… I just want the brat to take care of themselves…” Katsuki said frustrated.

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing to say: Take care of yourself.” Izuku answered.

“Fine…” Katsuki huffed and typed a quick message on his phone before tossing it aside. “Let’s fucking get this mission over with- wanna go home.”

Izuku nodded in agreement.

The next morning you woke up to a text from Katsuki.

Take care of yourself, idiot.

tags: @queenpiranhadon @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @i-heart-carlisle @derangedmango @matchat3a @bakugouswaif @reneinii @zanarkandskylines @pastelbakugou @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55

[crguang]

l’amour de ma vie

It’s as the title says, she’s the love of your life.

established relationship, disgusting fluff, non-sexual nudity but then there’s straight up smut, gn!reader, service top!reader, puppyfication lowkey (highkey), powerbottom!kafka, oral sex, 6.2k words

A/N: i miss my wife and this was the result. also gonna be busy for the upcoming weeks (midterms) so have this for now… kafka’s so in love in this it’s crazy

You lift your head to the stars and squint through the rain drops falling from the midnight sky but you are unable to distinguish the constellations you love so much from this far below. You long to go back up, beyond the clouds where your life follows a path written in gleaming letters across the firmament. Droplets land on your cheeks and slide down your skin while whistling winds disturb the quietude of the empty street you stand in, stubbornly staring at the faint lights above. Petrichor and notes of burned tobacco take over the air around you, creating an earthy, slightly bitter fragrance you’re strangely used to. Soon, the rain picks up a little and wets your hair as well, it rapidly seeps into the coat over your shoulders and dampens the rest of your clothes. You futilely wipe your eyes. The breeze wafts cigarette smoke your way, you finally tear your gaze from the expanse of navy blue over your head and follow the serpentine tendrils to their owner a few feet away from you. A dark umbrella in hand, the underside of which is only a few shades lighter than the bangs over her brows, and with the ends of a cigarette between two fingers, Kafka leans against a lamppost whose warm light doesn’t reach her. Most of her frame is shaded, both by the night and the umbrella protecting her from the newborn rain, but the dull pinks of her irises are still visible to you from this distance. She brings the roll to her lips, inhales softly, then blows the smoke towards you. It blurs her face from you for the second it takes to dissipate. The thin smoke, along with the drizzle, form a fickle barrier between the two of you, one that is easily broken by the dormant intensity in her gaze as she drinks you in. You’ve learned to associate it with affection; lit embers in the hollow of her chest, incandescent through her eyes. Among them, something else you can’t put a name on. You don’t try to read her mind, you’ll only get a small smile in return like the one almost permanently fixed on her lips. Instead, you brush the strands of hair clinging to your temples and turn back to the sky. 

“I won’t heat you up soup if you catch a cold,” Kafka’s low voice sounds to your right. She says that, but you know she will. 

Your head tilts to look at her. Water trickles down the bridge of your nose. “It’s not that cold. The rain’s warm.”

It’s not entirely untrue, despite the wind and the rain, the weather isn’t particularly chilly. You don’t mind getting wet under such a clear sky with no one around but you two. Kafka doesn’t move from her spot, she stands completely dry down to the sole of her boots while you appreciate the sensation of this shower on your skin. You lift a hand towards her, palm facing the stars. She glances at it and the corner of her mouth quirks up at your silent offer. 

“No, thanks,” she says before taking another puff from her cigarette. Smoke flies out of her lips when she continues, “These clothes are expensive, you know.”

“I’ll buy you new ones.”

“That coat is custom made, baby.”

You pause, your hand steady in the air. “I’ll… pay someone to make you a new one.”

Your ridiculous promise crinkles the corner of her eyes and the creases you’re deeply fond of make an appearance on her face. Kafka says nothing for a moment. She observes your unwavering stance and soft gaze, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the droplets falling from your fingertips. Moonlight illuminates the edges of your cheeks like two loving hands against your skin, and it’s fitting, she thinks fleetingly. You’ve always had an affinity for the moon. The light from her cigarette flickers orange, and time stands still for everything but the beating of your hearts and the rain pouring from above. The pitter-patter of it on her umbrella melts in the background, the wind holds its breath for a precious minute and freezes in anticipation as she comes to a decision she would not make for anyone else.

Kafka lays a gloved hand on your palm. You sharply tug her towards you; the umbrella slips from her hold and the fire is extinguished from the cigarette between her fingers, it joins the item in a puddle on the ground a second later. The rain reduces the volume of her carefully detangled hair and in a couple of instants, strands of dark magenta stick to her cheeks. You hold her heavy stare all the while, a small smile stretching your lips. She stands before you not many inches shorter due to her boots, blinking away the tiny drops gathered on her lashes, her hand around yours. The embers in her chest burn brighter, you can see their glimmer behind the deceiving contact lenses she wears like a second pair of eyes. The fragile fabric of her coat is drenched in minutes, under it her shirt turns see-through and exposes the black outline of her bra. You watch a shade of pink color the tip of her nose in real time. From up close, you can admire the resilience of the makeup she applied this morning, there isn’t a single smudge on the sharp edge of her eyeliner. 

“Now what?”

You tuck her hair behind her ear. “Now… feel the rain on your skin, inhale the smell of it on cobblestone, look at how the sky cries for us.”

“Is this a musical?” Her words carry amusement. “If you start singing, I’m leaving.”

“How about a romcom?”

“You’re not funny enough for that.”

“Hey,” your brows furrow indignantly, “you always smile at my jokes. Especially when we first met, it was a chuckle-fest over there.”

“That’s because I wanted you.”

“Is that right? Well, you must still want me because I know you love my sense of humor.”

Kafka’s light smile is genuine, it differs from her usual ones by the creases around her eyes. Her soaked glove feels soft on your already slick skin, her fingertips take hold of your jaw and a thumb pulls at your lower lip. Her gaze follows the movement.

“I do,” she says simply. Not an admission, but an obvious statement. 

“How much?” You shoot her favorite reply back at her and her smile widens. 

“That’s for you to find out.”

You think you already have. Her clothes are drenched from head to toe, her tights must cling uncomfortably to her legs and you know the care that goes into her hair daily, the effort she makes to present herself the way she does. Her eye makeup is the only thing still intact, the lipstick has faded a little from her mouth and the rosy blush on the apple of her cheeks is intensified by a real flush from the cool shower. A carefully crafted persona melted by the rain, and all for you. How privileged you are.

You fake a disappointed sigh. “All I know is how much I want you. And so do you. Isn't that a little unfair?”

Hand still in yours, Kafka raises a playful eyebrow. “It’s not my fault if you don’t pay attention.”

“How can I? You have a very distracting face.” 

You rest your palm on her cheek. You have to blink more often to see her clearly through the veil of raindrops between you. Your thumb wipes away the ones on her pale skin, just under her eye, and through the contact you can feel warmth you wouldn’t otherwise. The bow of her lips curves beautifully at your touch. 

“Whenever I look at you,” you continue quietly, “all I want to do is kiss you.”

For a moment, you think your words are muted by the sound of the rain all around you because she doesn’t react immediately. Then, the beginnings of a soft chuckle can be heard due to her proximity and her eyelids droop as her attention flits to your mouth like the mention of a kiss reminded her that it was in fact an option available to her. Your lips part slightly, almost instinctively, and you take in the lines of her pink lips in turn. Kafka leans closer, a few breaths away from your wet face.

“Oh, I know. You make it pretty obvious,” she teases, you know she enjoys the reminder anyway. “Always so eager to see me… like my own little puppy.”

The comparison flusters you a little, she’s aware. She revels in the twitch of your brow at the effort it takes you not to glance away from her confident stare. Once again her thumb is at your lip, stroking its outline as if painting a canvas. 

“You can’t even hide it, can you? You just love me too much.”

There’s an edge to her voice, she wants to hear those words from you, for you to confirm what she knows to be true because it gives her the same electrifying rush as falling backwards from a twenty story building and being supported by silk webs at the last instant, a brush with death gets her heart racing in a way that fear and anxiety cannot. She’s found that confessions out of your mouth do more than bring a smile to her face, the sincerity etched in the pigment of your irises simulates the feeling within her even without any immediate life-threatening danger. She is right though, you don’t see the point in concealing something so evident in every action you make, every decision you take. You want the world to know that your heart rests between her palms and most of all, you want her to be so certain of it that she gets sick of hearing the same sentences from you.

“I do,” your heart rate picks up a beat, you sniffle from being caught in the rain for too long, but you look into her eyes and reiterate, “I do love you too much.”

Kafka’s happy expression pleasantly tightens your insides. She leans even closer and presses her lips to yours in a slippery kiss. The water makes it easier to move your mouth against hers and adds a sensation you adore, you lift a hand to her hair and curl the wet strands around your pointer finger, swallowing her every exhale. You almost forget yourself and the fact that you’re standing in an empty street past midnight, you open your mouth wider to deepen the kiss and feel the warmth of her tongue sliding over yours. The hand that was holding hers slips from her grasp so you can sneak your arm around her waist, under her coat, and leave no space between you. You taste raindrops and tobacco on her lips. 

You unconsciously chase her mouth when she begins to pull away, clinging to her like it’s the only thing standing between you and madness. A low hum vibrates against you. The rain stubbornly doesn’t let up and neither do you. Your fingers tremble slightly from the coolness seeping into your skin, you can feel that cold Kafka was talking about earlier creeping up on you and you’re starting to get uncomfortable in your soaked clothes, and still you kiss her. You kiss her because nothing else comes close to the caress of her lips. You kiss her because this is how she spells “I love you too”, under tearful skies, dripping and flushed. You feel the twitch of her fingers cupping your jaw, that momentary lapse in control, and you’re elated to have proof that you affect her as much as she does you. 

A lone car passes by quicker than it should have, dousing the bottom half of your bodies in water sullied from the ground, and Kafka breaks the kiss with a petulant noise, a sound close to a whine. She looks down at herself and the smudges on her pantyhose, pouting adorably the way she does when her outfit is ruined by blood spatter or food stains. 

“Aww,” she clicks her tongue, “now I’m wet and dirty.”

She picks up her discarded umbrella and uselessly holds it above her head, the water from the puddle it was in dripping steadily in front of her. You smile somewhat sheepishly, wiping water from your eyes. 

“Was it worth it for that kiss, though?”

“That will depend on whether I can get those stains out in time. Come on, I want to go home. You’re shivering.”

Home isn’t your home, merely somewhere you’ve been staying for the past couple of weeks until this mission is over, but hearing her say it suddenly makes it more personal than it was previously. You let her shield you from the rain as you follow her back to the small apartment you’ve settled in for the purpose of this mission.

You’re sniffling regularly by the time you walk past the front door and Kafka clicks her tongue in disapproval again, taking off her boots and her coat before carefully hanging the latter on the closet door of the apartment’s entryway. She’ll have it dry cleaned as soon as tomorrow morning. She takes in your sorry state while unclasping the harness over her torso. You readily shed your wet clothes until you’re standing in your underwear, bundling them up in your hands. Though it wasn’t freezing outside, you’ve stayed in the rain half an hour too long and are now paying the price with the occasional quiver of your legs.

“I’m going to take a very hot shower,” you begin heading towards the bathroom, then turn back just as Kafka lifts her shirt over her head. You meet her eyes expectantly, “Are you coming?”

A suggestive smile appears on her lips. Once again you outstretch a hand towards her and in the next second, she takes it. You lead her to the bathroom at the end of a hallway, discarding your clothes in the hamper behind the door and wasting no time in fiddling with the water temperature of the shower. You hear shuffling behind you as Kafka undresses. The rise in temperature and accompanying steam in the air is a welcomed relief. You stick a hand in the shower to make sure it’s just right. You don't wait for Kafka before quickly taking off the rest of your clothes and stepping under the hot water, too impatient to feel it soothe the tension in your body, but she joins you only half a minute later, her hair now completely loose and framing the sides of her face. 

You sigh contently. Your eyes close for a while, you feel Kafka behind you choosing which soap bar she wants to smell like tonight, and the serenity of the moment envelops you like a weighted blanket. The room is quiet beyond the comforting sounds of the shower, you stand under its head aware of the steady beat of your pulse and the notes of honey and cream goat milk soap that Kafka decided on. This respite washes away the day’s fatigue in a few peaceful minutes.

“Want me to wash your back?”

You turn to face Kafka at her soft question and nod silently, your arms circling her waist to bring her slick skin in contact with yours, chests pressed together. Barefoot, she’s five or so inches shorter than you which makes it easier to rest your chin over her shoulder. A fond half-chuckle sounds past her closed lips but she doesn’t say anything more. Her hands travel leisurely down your back, between the sharp bones of your shoulder blades and along your spine, soaping you up carefully. You feel her fingertips following an imaginary path across your skin, drawing shapes and spelling letters you don’t decipher. Your nose brushed the tender skin of her neck. Kafka takes her time like she does with everything and you relish in her full attention. Your index finger toys with the ends of her hair that falls past her shoulders when wet. No words are exchanged yet entire sentences are written on the skin of your back by nimble and meticulous hands, confessions you don’t need to hear from her mouth as she expresses them the only ways she knows how, by dedicating you her precious time. Hours of the day are spent with you. Long minutes pass with the thought of you in mind while she’s away. Brief seconds are used up to compose a text she’ll send to your phone and more tick away as she waits for a response, watching the three dots dance in the corner of her screen. Time awaits no one, Kafka falters in her step so you can catch up.

After some time, it occurs to you that you should wash her back as well. You wait until she puts down the soap to take it into your hands and spread it on your palms. Kafka hums pleasantly when your hands rub her unblemished skin, feeling each small dip and slight curve across the expanse of her back. It’s so easy to lose yourself in her proximity, you crave her nearness especially when she’s already close because it seems like she’ll never be close enough. If you could, you would melt into her and hope you form an homogeneous component, two organisms fusing together to create something more. Your arms tighten around her. 

“I wanna wash your hair,” you murmur into her shoulder.

“…Alright.”

You take a step back from her body to find the shampoo bottle in a corner of the shower. Some of it spurts onto your hand and you rub them together, warming the shampoo between your palms before getting closer to Kafka and tangling your fingers in her locks. She’s facing you, gazing at your features while you shampoo her hair, her hands loosely holding onto your waist. You just then realize that she removed her contacts prior to joining you in the shower, the sight of her pupils and soft pink irises makes you light. Your movements slow while you scratch her scalp to make sure her head is cleaned properly. 

“I love your eyes,” you tell her quietly, briefly following the motions of your hands in her hair and watching the shampoo spread to the ends of it, “not many get to see them. It makes me feel special.”

“Does it?” 

Kafka’s composed smile is beautiful. Without the lenses, she’s stripped of a couple of layers. 

“Yeah. This is the part where you say it’s ‘cause I’m special.”

“Mmm. What if I change the script?”

“You can’t. I want to hear it.”

Kafka sighs like you’re forcing her hand. “Fine... You’re special. Allegedly.”

“I’ll take it,” you match her smile. 

Her gaze is as warm as the shower. You enjoy looking into her eyes, counting the flecks of light reflected in them, watching her pupils dilate and retract. You’re still washing her hair carefully since you know how much it matters to her, but you can’t help drawing closer to her face and planting a chaste kiss to her wet lips, then another, and another because you’re addicted to the sensation of her mouth on yours. She still tastes faintly of tobacco. Each kiss is slow, a gentle press of the lips, unlike the passionate ones you’ve exchanged in the rain. Your breaths mingle with no idea where yours begins and hers ends. You don’t let her pull away and Kafka’s teeth sink in your bottom lip in gentle reprimand for your greed. 

“We still have to shower,” she reminds you against your mouth, chuckling when you pout. “I don’t want to prune.”

“Do I get more kisses afterwards?”

“Oh? You want a treat, is that it?”

You falter in your reply at her teasing tone and the lower register of her voice, feeling slightly flustered whenever she speaks to you that way, like you’re an enthusiastic puppy she secretly wants to spoil. You swallow the embarrassment and Kafka smiles knowingly. 

“You’ll get your kisses, puppy. But… clean up first.”

You focus on washing every strand of hair on her head and let her rinse it off on her own while you quickly soap yourself up. The water’s slowly losing its warmth anyway, and the promise of physical affection is a great motivator to get you to finish showering in the next ten minutes. Kafka turns off the water, then steps out first, grabbing two clean towels from the rack above the toilet seat. You catch the one she throws at you with a small thanks. You dry yourself up as she does the same, inspecting her face in the mirror and stretching her skin here and there. You’re not sure what she’s looking for, her skin is flawless, she makes sure of it. You leave her in the bathroom to change into comfortable sleeping clothes: a graphic t-shirt and knee-length shorts. Kafka joins you in the bedroom just as you sit on the bed to apply lotion to your skin, a blow dryer and a hairbrush in hand; you watch her take a seat on the edge of the bed, plug the blow dryer in the electrical socket next to the headboard and delicately dry sections of her damp locks. She seems a bit lost in thought, a neutral expression on her face, but then she catches your eyes from her peripheral vision and turns slightly to look at you, and one of those smiles you know come so easy to her is on her lips in an instant. Kafka always smiles a lot. Regardless of what’s hiding behind them, you really do love seeing her smile. Something light blooms within you, vines watered by her affectionate gaze, and takes root curled around your ribcage. You smile back at her. 

You’re done readying yourself for bed before she is, as usual. She goes back and forth between the bedroom and its adjacent bathroom, applying expensive products to her face and drops to her eyes, dressing herself and brushing her teeth. You wait for her lying in bed, staring up at the blank ceiling above you. You hear the faucet being turned off and turn your head towards the bathroom door. Kafka walks out after the last step of her nighttime routine. She climbs onto the bed, then on top of you, thighs caging yours in and breasts pressed to your chest. Your hands instinctively find purchase on her hips. She doesn’t speak immediately, just looks at you with those smiling eyes flitting over the features of your face. Having her close and her weight on you simultaneously quickens your heartbeat and reduces your fatigue. She smells of honey and the wildflowers in her shampoo, so close to you you can see each of her long lashes caressing the apple of her cheeks with every blink. Her hair hangs around you like a waterfall of amaranth. 

“About that treat I was promised…” you start softly, quiet words meant only for her. 

Kafka hums and lays a palm on your cheek, her manicured thumb stroking the skin almost absentmindedly. 

“Can I have it now?”

“So polite…” she drawls out with a glance to your parted lips, “I suppose so.”

Leaning forward, she captures your lips in a sensuous kiss, and you nearly breathe out a sigh of relief into her mouth. Her kisses are heavenly, deep and controlled to leave you wanting more. It works, you curl a hand around the back of her neck to draw her in closer and kiss her sweetly until your head pounds to remind you to breathe. Your free hand brushes up the plane of her back over her tank top, eager to touch her. Your lips are still puckered when she pulls away and exhales audibly. You press your mouth to the corner of hers and scatter kisses up to her cheek then back down to her sharp jaw. Your fingers play with the hair at her nape as you find her lips again, your body unconsciously arching up to press against hers above you. You stay this way for a while, kissing under your bedroom lights, breathless and wanting. Your hands slip beneath her clothes, palms wandering up and down her back. The tip of your noses graze each other now and then. Her skin is warm, it spreads to your chest and warms your heart like a fierce hug in the winter. Traveling lower, you firmly grab her ass with both hands, Kafka’s mouth parts wider at the sensation, and you take that opportunity to explore it with your tongue. You knead the flesh as you kiss her wetly, need coursing through your veins at the pleased hum that rumbles deep in her throat. You want more of her, want to feel her skin beneath your fingertips and kiss the parts of her that have only been kissed by the sun. 

Kafka holds your jaw between her fingers to keep you where you are. She responds to your kisses in kind, a reciprocated desire laced with each one. The room’s temperature rises a couple of degrees the longer you stay trapped under her comforting weight and your skin heats up with the prolonged contact. The taste of her becomes yours, you can no longer differentiate the two. Whenever she needs a breather, you make up for the loss by planting needy kisses on her face, unable to part from her for more than a minute, but it isn’t enough to satiate your bottomless greed. With an arm around her waist, you flip her over so she lies against the fluffy pillows and Kafka lets you move her without complaint, fingers splayed over your shoulder blade to pull you closer. You attach your lips to the crook of her neck. The skin is tender and unblemished, it bruises easily faced with your hungry teeth and tongue. Kafka’s breaths reach your ears, a fast-paced rhythm that your pulse unknowingly follows. Your hands sneak under her tank top a second time to feel the curves of her waist and the soft expanse of her toned stomach, fingertips grazing the underside of her breasts. 

“I want you,” you speak honestly into her neck, your hands pausing their trek just between her breasts. “Can I have you?”

Kafka’s fingers stroke your hair with a teasing smile you can’t see on her lips. “I don’t know, puppy, can you?”

You raise your head to meet her eyes and your gaze instantly drops to her enchanting mouth. You don’t forget your manners this time. “Please.”

Both of her hands cup your face and tilt it upward so you have to look at the glint in her gaze. “Are my kisses not enough?”

You shake your head. You lean closer, nuzzling your nose against her cheek and pulling the skin of her face between your lips. You cup her fully and squeeze her breast firmly.

“I want more.”

“Greedy. Be good, then.”

Kafka guides your mouth to hers for a languid kiss before you can acquiesce. You melt against her, surrendering control in favor of letting her lead and chasing the leisure movements of her lips. Your fingers twitch on top of her chest and you take her last words as permission to go further. Her breasts are pliable under your touch like dutiful followers, they’re groped and caressed and flush a pretty hue with your loving ministrations. Your tongue meets Kafka’s eagerly, swirling around and over the wet muscle until your bottom lip glistens with a mix of her saliva and yours. She picks up the beginnings of the trail at the corner of your mouth, licking it up before slipping her tongue in your mouth once more. Your thumb applies some pressure on her hardening nipple and it stiffens further for you. You toy with the nub, pinching it between two fingers, circling it teasingly, twisting it this way and that. Kafka sighs blissfully against your lips. She’s barely touched you, yet you’re the one getting heady with pleasure over the feel of her skin and the quiet hums of satisfaction that escape her. You leave her lips with one last chaste kiss, a promise that you’ll be back, and paint her collarbones with the same treatment, tugging slightly at the hem of her top with one hand. She takes the hint, lifting herself off the bed enough to pull the clothing over her head so that she lies bare before you. Your gaze trails over her sharp collarbones, the dusty pink of her nipple, the dip of her bellybutton. She’s sculpted by her lifestyle and self-care, a breathing artwork you shouldn’t be allowed to touch. 

Kafka revels in your adoration, she observes you observing her and drinks in the veil of devotion over your irises. She’s unashamed under your stare and rubs your earlobe with her thumb and pointer finger, patient as always. The rapid rise and fall of her chest betrays her anticipation. You bend over her to kiss the skin over her heart. Your body lies halfway onto her, one of your thighs slots between hers, and you lift a hand to bring her breast to your mouth properly. Eyes falling shut, you enjoy her at your pace. Kafka’s legs shift somewhat, but she only rests a hand behind your head as you suckle her nipple to get it hard and wet. You make sure not to neglect the other one and use your fingers to play with it at the same time. Kafka gazes down at you with lidded eyes. Long minutes pass like this, during which you wrap your lips around her left nipple and flick your tongue over the sensitive nub. Her chest glows with the reflective sheen of your saliva. 

“Mmm…” You flex your thigh against her and Kafka’s swift intake of breath is crystal clear.

Her low sounds of pleasure fuel your desire. Her slick nipple slips from your mouth, your fingers wander lower to hook under the waistband of her pajama shorts and you lift your head to look at her, tugging at the fabric twice. 

“I don’t know if I want you like this or on my face.”

“I don’t get a say?” Kafka replies, a smile in her voice.

You slide the garment past her hips and down her slender legs. It ends up somewhere across the room. “You do. But I don’t think you’ll be against what I choose either way.”

Her thighs part with little help from your hands digging into the pliable flesh. Her cotton panties are damp with arousal already, and the sight has you wetting your lips. Kafka doesn’t respond to your statement, but her grip on the back of your head proves it true. You settle comfortably between her legs, your stomach pressed against the mattress and your arms around her plush thighs to bring her closer to your mouth. Your tongue darts out to lick her inner thigh, slithering across her skin and enjoying the taste of it on your tastebuds. You kiss her there, over and over, teeth grazing on the sensitive surface before sinking into it to litter gentle love bites across it. Bruises the same shade as the hair over her shoulders are born on her thighs near her aching cunt. Despite your eagerness to taste her fully, you practice a semblance of patience for the moment. You like marking her in intimate places such as these, places no one will see but you. You make a mental note to later add hickeys just below her nape and down the length of her spine. 

Kafka’s fingers tighten on your head in anticipation. You kiss her over her underwear, on the slick hairs of her pussy, and feel your fickle composure stumble. Her heady scent fills your nose, intoxicating your mind. You press kisses down her covered slit to smear her arousal all over herself, a desperate kind of desire flaring up within you from her apparent need for your mouth. Kafka pulls on your hair so you’re forced to look at her. 

“Be good and take those off for me?” Though it’s phrased as one, she isn’t asking a question but rather telling you what to do.

You don’t even think before nodding obediently and pulling her panties from her, swallowing at the sight of her arousal clinging stubbornly to the thin fabric. She’s dripping, glistening with need, and your lips part to let out a broken whine in the face of her slick cunt. Her clit peeks out from her pussy lips, awaiting your tongue, and you immediately forget all notions of patience. Kafka moans in pleasure when the flat of your tongue finally licks a broad stripe up her slit. You swallow a moan with difficulty yourself, eyelids drooping as her taste overpowers your senses. Your tongue slithers between her wet folds, greedily gathering her slick like she’s an expensive sip of wine swirling inside a connoisseur’s mouth. Your nails cause a few indents on her thighs from how tightly you’re clinging to her. You lick her enthusiastically, not leaving a single inch untouched, and Kafka’s noises get raspier by the minute. She never shies away from letting you know just how much she’s enjoying herself, partly because it encourages you to make her feel even better and gets you as needy as she is. You ignore the throb between your legs and focus on her pulsing clit, wrapping your lips around it and sucking the sensitive bud rapidly to earn another breathless gasp from Kafka.

“Oh… Mhmn…”

A tremor goes through her thighs but they stay apart for you. She follows the eager pace of your tongue with her hips, occasionally pulling at your hair. Her heavy gaze is fixed on the pleasure etched onto your features as you lick her clean, her mind fogs up at the knowledge of her control over you, how easily she makes you forget yourself. Your lips and chin gleam with her slick. The tip of your nose bumps into her engorged clit with every flick of your tongue on her pussy. Her insides tighten pleasantly, desire coiled tight deep in her belly. 

“Just like that…”

You taste her at the source, circling her dripping entrance, before getting impatient and slipping two fingers into her. They slide in easily, she’s more than wet enough for it, and a curse is softly uttered by her. You steadily pump your digits into her to coax more of her intoxicating juices out of her, mouth still attached to her glistening cunt. You breathe her in, taste her musk on your tongue, feel her spongy walls clench around your fingers, and it’s almost as though you could come just from fucking her like this. You know she’ll come right before she actually does, shaky thighs closing in around your head and pressing against your ears, low drawn out moans on her lips, shudders traveling down her spine. You still your fingers inside her to prioritize lapping up her cum, uncaring of whether the extra stimulation ends up overwhelming her too soon. Kafka rides out her orgasm grinding on your tongue. You don’t let her go even after her hips have settled back onto the bed, slipping out of her just for the trickle of white that drips out of her. You lick it up, addicted to her taste. 

Kafka half-heartedly pulls at your hair. “Still thirsty, puppy?”

The endeared nickname sends a jolt through your body, you shiver even in the warmth of the bedroom. Your eyes blink open and you move upwards a little to take her twitching clit back into your mouth, sucking softly. You feel her tug at your hair again, out of sensitivity and disapproval for ignoring her. Your tongue flicks over the bud a few more times. Kafka harshly raises your mouth away from her, gazing down at you with narrowed eyes and a small smile, and you whine at the loss of contact. The bottom half of your face is coated in her cum and still, you want more.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” she meets your pleading eyes and chuckles in amusement, “you know how to beg.”

“Please,” you say quickly, voice rough and dry, “I want more.”

“Mmh? You just made me come. It’s still not enough?”

You shake your head as much as you’re able to with her fingers in your hair. “No… I need more. Please.”

“So ravenous…”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, a mix of embarrassment and arousal raging inside you at that muttered reply. Kafka guides you up her body and muffles the indignant plea that begins to escape you with a slippery kiss. She tastes herself on your lips and hums in satisfaction. Your eyes flutter shut again, mouth opening wider to allow her tongue entrance. Her cum mixes with her saliva on your face and you’re so blissfully lost in her wet kisses that her sudden movements take you by surprise. A short squeak is ripped from your throat as she effortlessly flips the both of you over, your head nesting between the pillows while she hovers over you. Kafka withdraws from you in an instant and positions herself above you, thighs pressed on each side of your head and wet pussy inches from your parted lips. She lifts your chin with two fingers and urges you to hold her dark stare.

“You want more? Take it, baby.”

And you do, eagerly, desperately, until she can’t climb off of you on her own.

[ckret2]

Loved the comic above the chapter. It was glorious and this is now my headcanon XD. The art is great too! What's the new programs you got? Had to ask before I dive into this chapter!

-🥸

new program is Affinity Designer, for vector art. My hands are shaky as hell (it's amazing how many weird-ass symptoms ADHD has that you don't hear about until you dig deep) and that makes it a pain in the ass to get my lineart looking as smooth as it does—i'm hoping using vector art for lining will speed up my workflow.

Right now while I'm still getting the hang of it I think it's slowing me down lmao. Got to learn how to deal with entirely new problems from the ones I used to have, like, "why does this damn program keep randomly switching between clicking on the layer I want and clicking on some totally different object group, when i choose a layer in procreate it stays on that damn layer until I tell it otherwise" and "why does drawing a new line sometimes apply the line style I wanted and sometimes apply a line style I used like twenty layers ago for no reason"

But once I've worked out the bugs I'm hopeful it'll speed things up.

Like, this! Look at this. I made a Bill and saved it as an asset. Have a generic Bill.

And now I never need to draw Bill again in my life.* (*this is hyperbole.) I can just slap that asset down, bend some things, rotate some things, and turn it into...

... whatever pose I want.

His body and hat are always the right shape and it's easy to deform them however I want and then instantly un-deform them with one button; his bricks & tie & eye are already applied; his limbs are always the exact same thickness, his feet are always the same shape, it takes one click to put his joints into perfectly smooth swoopy curves at the joints, and even the glow effect is always already applied

and man, I know stuff like an automatic glow is no big deal to people with fancy-pants high-end art software like Adobe Whatever, but I don't have Adobe Whatever, I have Procreate and you have to manually make your glow layers and if you redraw the image you've gotta redo the glow from scratch. Never again!!

You wanna know what I had to actually hand-draw to change the first image into the second image?

That's it.

My two issues are—one—because I'm so new at this, it takes a lot of time twitching around individual nodes and figuring out clever little ways to layer objects to get the right effect that a pro wouldn't have to spend on it, and—two—because vector art is SO precise and smooth, it tends to drain some of the personality and "character" out of the art. Like,

the angry Scalene on the left "looks better" just in terms of having clean consistent lines and pixel-perfect gradients and no sketchy corners—but the one on the right has a better angry face, it's more visually appealing and more intense. There's a lot more rage in those scrawly uneven fists than there is in the smooth flawless fist. I spent a lot of time fussing over her expression on the left and still couldn't get it to look as good as the one I did months earlier with Procreate, because in procreate you can just draw the lines but with vector art you manipulate the curves in strange and esoteric ways.

So I've gotta work to bridge that gap.

and then by god I'll be unstoppable.

[xesnox]

Here’s some more (Minecraft) Lost Ruins concept art!

This won’t be all, I’ll definitely post a general Mc human races lineup as well as some more character specific art of these two in the future, but I thought I’d get this little thing out to start.

Lore rant below, brace yourselves.

On the topic of Neo-Builders

History:

Very little is known about the Neo-Builders’ history, in-fact, the distinction between the ancients and them had only been made as of recent; as before they were assumed to one and the same, wich forced us to call back a lot of information we had thought to have previously established. Therefore, for now, only having been coined “Neo-Builders”, the “Neo” referring to new, and the term “Builder” a reference to older documents of the Ancients.

They’ve been quite the new phenomenon, only having been recorded within the last 50 years (OW time) of documentation: though this is difficult to be certain of as many antique relics, books and murals have since been either purged or stolen, so they very well may be older.

Biology:

Neo-Builders resemble what we know of the Ancients physiology almost to a tea, being a bipedal humanoid mammal measuring the average height of 6’2. Owning an internal skeleton and organs identical to those of any classified human (see page 104.) excluding the illagers (though self inflicted mutilation can be argued is not a standard biological requirement that should classify one to be taken from that category, despite requests from certain Villagers.).

They can be characterised by their slightly elongated skulls and a more often than not rather thin nose bridge. Their skin colouration tends to remain on the cool side, but seem not to range beyond the usual earthy tones, whilst eye colouration varies into each and every direction possible, including odd pupil shapes and unusually large irises.

A properly dissect-able body of a Neo-Builder is incredibly rare to find, as the entities themselves are already practically unheard of, so we do not have a lot of insight beyond one and a half example models;

But strangely enough the lack of visible veins seem to be more of a manmade aesthetic choice than a naturally evolved mechanism, their color nearly invisible and generally settled deeper within the body than what we commonly observe in the remains of the Ancients. They do not bleed, as the body doesn’t seem to utilise energy through a normal circulatory system: instead using “energy of the spirits” (see page 109: “forbidden sorcery.”) as a powerful energy source, giving any actually visible blood vessels (commonly found within the hands, wrists, forearms, neck, ears, ankles and feet.) a strange light blue glow that more often than not overpowers the thickness of their skin at-least partially.

Additionally, their organs and bone structure are supported by mechanical aids made of varying metals, specifically around the femur, spinal chord, arms, heart, lungs, and general joints.

Their eyes show a similar construction to those of the guardians, wich could lead one to believe they weren’t as new of a phenomenon as we had settled on reporting for now, though nothing concrete could be found thus far to fully support this idea.

They show a staggering immunity to both the green plague and the withering disease, and aren’t affected by any kind of physical corruption.

The Neo-Builders also do not reproduce naturally.

Culture:

We have not yet been able to observe any specific overarching culture within this people, as it is incredibly rare to find them within groups, this only having been documented twice across the entire to us beknownst world within the last half a century of literature. However they do share a few common behavioural traits, such as wearing durable clothes identified as ancient working class attire at large, harvesting materials and cleaning the Overworld of junk and rubble, of wich not much remains. They appear to have a specific affinity for saving those in need.

The only sentiment on religion they seem to share, is the fact that there were three Devine entities of some kind, wich overlaps enough with the belief system we established the ancients to have to draw our own conclusions from.

Psychology:

This race, to our, especially my, utter surprise is not only capable of communication but also entirely willing of participating in study, conversation and labour, wich is not only unusual, but unheard of.

The language they speak natively however sounds unlike anything we’d heard before, it doesn’t seem to have connections to any languages we documented beforehand, they cannot write nor read it, wich further complicated early communication as well as desperate attempts to figure whether this was the language written within the hieroglyphs of the ruins, of wich we still have unclear results.

They do not seem aware of who they are, who they were, or what their purpose is: some, of course, have found a purpose over the years, through affinity for something, a newfound passion or a mission they strive to complete, but each one of their earliest memories begin cryptically, as if they had simply beamed into existence within adulthood. None elaborate further.

They also do not appear to have empathy, as in ability to put themselves into the shoes of others unless the situation is explicitly explained to them. So they work better in social situations if you tell them the desired outcome they can strive toward reaching than if you gave them a long and detailed layout of how something could be emotionally upsetting, even if the latter is followed by a suggestion for improvement, if your time requires efficient fast action that is.

They are not afraid of the dead, in fact, they seem to have a strange affinity for it: something that definitely needs to be kept under very strict moderation.

Uncategorised:

- there are no Neo-Builders resembling teens or children, all appearing to be somewhere within young to late adulthood physically.

- they are not afraid of magic, including soul fire, soul magic, experience, potions, enchantment and other forces, unlike the Piglin.

- They have an affinity for the music the realm reverberates from time to time.

- they enjoy watching and analysing fairly complicated mechanical work without having the ability or skill to recreate them, very commonly growing fond of acquiring knowledge.

- the Endermen appear to have a vague interest in them. From what we can tell they enjoy study as much as the next person, however the interest seems to go beyond mere meek curiosity. Wich is a large reason for concern and one of the biggest reasons to try and keep Neo-Builders away from your village if you do not wish for a tear in space and a mass hysteria breakout from realm collapsing issues: remember, they will not hurt you, however, they are a walking anomaly to our world, therefore it’s safer to keep your distance, and keep them away.

- the illagers show a similar concerning interest which definitely sets a top priority in limiting interaction with the Neo-Builders.

- however, the Piglin seem to heavily dislike them, immediately resorting to violence upon seeing such an individual. This is very odd for the maybe a little pessimistic but overall neutral species, but they refused to speak on the matter.

Theories:

We theorise they might be mechanical entities. Not golems, or robotic in nature per say, but definitely reading of bio mechanical interference. I have settled on several possible origins of these entities, very little of them implying this new add-on to the human umbrella term to be reading of any good, but I do not have enough evidence or study to back up my claims as I’ve currently put my research on hold for exterior reasons.

Note: this entry is outdated.

[ncillary]

Self Aware AU (Sylus)

Summary: You have the lowest Affinity with Sylus. The reason is because he is a red flag. As red as his eyes. Spawn of the devil. Unless, he is actually not as evil as you label him to be. Does this change something in you? Yes? No? Maybe so?

Note: Japanese dub, English sub

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Masterlist Self Aware AU

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|  1  |  2 [current] |  3  |  4  |  5  |

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The recent update probably had been messing with the game. Yours especially.

(What's the point of sneaking around to only touch it? Come here. Take my hand.)

(Fine. I'll be the one to hold your hand out in the open. Better?)

You shook your head.

Every time you tap his hand, either, that prompt hasn't failed a single time to appear.

If you tap somewhere else, he'll just not move. Or talk. No dialogue without voice either.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Ever since you showed up, you've given me headaches. Maybe I shouldn't have gone through with the Main Story after all."

He gave a coy smirk without you noticing.

"Whatever. Nothing else changes so I guess it's not that bad. Gotta get ready to work."

+-------------------------+--------------------------+

*Pop*

Your stretched successfully relocated stiff bones and muscle from their rigidness after sitting the whole morning until after lunch break. Data entry was easy, unless, the data played hide and seek with you. Customer service was not your forte but you wing it somehow.

"Heuh... Glad I pushed through over lunch. I'm free all day starting now."

Working remotely has its perks. You can save more expenses by cooking. No transportation fee and so on. The only downside you could think of was, your social life. How awkward you've become with real interaction except for people you know. But that doesn't mean you're timid about it. Life goes on.

"Right. How about I use Quality Time when I cook? The Weekly Plan isn't complete yet."

Blinking, your eyes met red gems.

"Fancy meeting you. I think you've conquered my cafe far more frequently now."

"The lights here are just too bright."

You looked at him, unimpressed.

"Nocturnal creatures sleep during the day. Not sauntered into a cafe looking ready to have a nice walk under the sun."

He somehow gave a cheeky smile at you. Then asking you if you could let him continue checking in on the auction.

"Be my guess." You tapped 'Yes'.

The screen flashes. He sat down while scrolling on his phone to watch supposedly an auction. Not that you could see it.

You propped your phone, letting him accompany you while you're in the kitchen nonetheless.

Somehow you feel bad about forcing him to have a Quality Time with you after he said that. But you kinda want a company too.

You prepared your charger port in the case your phone alerted you on low battery. Eyes briefly glanced to your phone.

His eyes stared at you then they turned back to the phone less in milliseconds.

You shook your head, "Must've have imagine it."

+---------------------------+-----------------------+

"Have you seen the one with the rocking chair?"

"My eyes are clean, thank you. Spare me from that."

"Pleaaaaaaseeee... Just stay in the room with me. Hold me down if I look like I'm about to throw my phone away. I don't trust myself."

You sighed, "Someone save me."

+--------------------------+------------------------+

"Aaaak! Why did you do that?"

Your friend smirked as the Wish Pool animation began it ten pulls.

"You've been staring at it for a long long long-"

"Quit it!"

"And it's your finger who did it. Not mine."

You pinched both of her cheeks, "YOUR FINGER force MY FINGER-"

*Tring*

The golden light shone on your phone.

You both turned to it.

"Can't be him. Can't be him. Can't be him."

You chanted as you hold your phone close to you.

"If he did appear in JUST TEN PULLS then you have my blessing with Crow Crow." Your friend caress her aching cheeks while smiling cheekily.

"I'm not going to accompany you watching Snowy later."

"oOh come on...."

Her complained was drowned out as your focus changed to your current predicament.

One. Two. Three taps. You exhaled.

Four. Five. Six taps. You exhaled.

Seven eight nine ten!

Red. Black feathers. Your breathed stalled.

White hair. Half naked. Head down. Red gems looking at you mischieviously.

Silent. Rustling.

"Oh, wow. It really is Crow Crow."

You pulled her cheeks again.

+---------------------------+------------------------+

"Why didn't she watch the new memory?"

Long finger tapped the table. He smiled.

"Playing a little game of cat and mouse, I see."

+--------------------------+------------------------+

You groaned, "Did you see this guy? Am I a sack of potatoes this time?"

"Yours? Did you see mine? WHY ARE WE ROCKING AGAIN?" She blushed.

You patted her back in sympathy.

+------------------------------+---------------------+

"Ready? One two..." *Tapp*

"How many times?"

"The 8th time. I hope he comes this time even with the rocking-theme still there."

You patted your friend's back.

"You?"

"Third and probably my last-"

*Tring*

Both heads looked at their respective phones. Both had the golden sparks.

Two pairs of eyes looking at each other. Disbelief. Nervous.

They looked back at their phone and started looking through.

A gasp. Snowflakes. Your friend's mushy face as she buried her phone in her chest.

"Careful." You took it away from her before she destroyed it with her love-death hug.

"AH! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!" She pointed at your phone.

Feathers scattered. Your breath hitched. There he was, carrying MC, with that smug face of his.

You raked your hair, "Wow. I was just... testing it out."

Your friend nudged you, "Crow Crow flies straight to your heart, huh?"

Cheeks being pulled.

+-----------------------------+-----------------------+

You let it play out this time.

You were too shy to watch the previous one in-game so you just let it marinate there. Besides, you've already watched it from fan's sharing.

Currently, you were getting a simple dinner ready as you glanced at your phone once in a while. Bluetooth headphones were on.

You've watched it with your friend on another platform. Both of you watched all of the character's new banner. You can't help it but wanting to know how this one played out.

Every scene looks fine.

You particularly like that one scene. Hearing it alone was enough. You rather not have a repeat of redden ears when you watch it previously. Almost being caught by your friend.

"Shavanika." You stopped on your track.

Ears warm. You chance a glance as he said it for the last time.

His face was close to the screen. You knew that. What you just realised was that it stopped there for a long time.

Confused, you approached your phone, noticing the Auto icon was off. You tapped it back.

"How did that happen?"

"You're finally in front of me, kitten."

You stared as you heard an unfamiliar dialogue coming from him. He patted MC's head and walked backwards.

The animation continues playing. Your eyes never leaving it. Your body and attention was locked until it was over.

Hand move up like a robot. You played that part again. The dialogue was back to normal. Finger steadily tapping the back button until you saw him looking at you in the cafe.

His slender finger tapping his temple. Face at an angle as he smiled at you cheekily.

You tapped his head.

"Next time you do a sneak attack, give me a heads up. I'll remember to lean down and cooporate."

You finally let out you breathe.

"I've heard that one before."

"Oh, but have you heard of THIS one, sweetie?"

You moved backwards in alarm. Your focus never wavers from the red gems looking at you beyond the screen.

A hum.

You stilled instinctly.

"Good fight mode but it was just me, kitten."

He's watching you as much as you're watching him

"Not to be alarmed but I hope you don't mind me barging in. Unintentionally."

*CRASH*

Your breath ragged. Your mind reeling. Your phone...

Decorated the floor after hugging the wall nearby.

It happened too fast. You didn't even know how you moved instantly to grab the phone and throw it away.

"What in the actual fantasy I've been smoking?"

You crumbled to the floor, trying to calm yourself down.

+-------------------------+-------------------------+

Chuckling.

"She'll make a good pitcher with that throw."

He dialled a number.

"Send her a new phone. The game included."

The sunlight shone through the blinds. He squinted a little before feeling the slight breeze.

"Let the game begin."

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| 1 | 2 [current] | 3 | 4 | 5 |

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Masterlist Self Aware AU

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[autism-unfiltered]

The Affinity Between Autism and Stuffed Animals: An Unfurling Bond

The nuanced bond between individuals with autism and stuffed animals is a matter of significant intrigue and insight. The soft, predictable, and non-threatening nature of these plush companions presents a calming aura, contrasting the often overstimulating and unpredictable real world. This article delves into the underlying reasons explaining the predilection of individuals on the autism spectrum towards forming attachments with stuffed animals.

Sensory Processing: People with autism often experience sensory processing differences which may make them more sensitive or less responsive to sensory stimuli. Stuffed animals, with their soft and predictable textures, offer a soothing sensory experience. The tactile sensation can provide comfort, reduce anxiety, and help in managing overstimulation.

Predictability and Routine: Individuals with autism tend to favor routine and predictability. Stuffed animals, being inanimate, provide a consistent and predictable interaction. Unlike humans or other animals, stuffed toys do not change their behavior or appearance suddenly, which can be reassuring.

Emotional Regulation: Stuffed animals can serve as emotional regulators. They provide a source of comfort and security which can be particularly beneficial in unfamiliar or stressful situations. Their presence can also aid in self-soothing, which is crucial for emotional regulation.

Non-verbal Communication: For those with autism, interpreting social cues or engaging in social interactions can be challenging. Stuffed animals provide a non-threatening way to explore emotions and practice social skills in a safe, controlled environment.

Unconditional Acceptance: The unconditional acceptance offered by stuffed animals is comforting. Unlike interactions with people, there is no fear of judgment, rejection, or misunderstanding with a plush companion.

Symbolic Interaction: Stuffed animals can serve as a bridge to understanding and expressing emotions, as well as a medium to interact with others. They can act as proxies in social interactions, making the process less intimidating and more manageable.

Conclusion: The affinity towards stuffed animals among individuals with autism is rooted in both sensory processing and the emotional comfort derived from the predictable, non-judgmental companionship they offer. Understanding this bond can pave the way for developing more effective therapeutic interventions, thereby enhancing the quality of life for those on the autism spectrum.

[kirain]

I made a seven-day poll asking what everyone wanted me to write for a BG3 short story, but I don't think I have to wait to know "Gale summoning Tara" will win by a landslide. That said, I promise to also write a short for whichever theme comes in second, if people are still interested. In the meantime, I give you Gale summoning Tara!

Partly inspired by @ah-jiing's gorgeous art.

The boy clung to his mother's skirt, hiding behind her, his cheeks stained with tears. Elminster looked at him, then at the state of the house. An unconscious mephit lay withered in the corner, surrounded by scorch marks. The carpet; what was left of it, had taken the brunt of the damage, but the entire living room was trashed beyond repair—and it was perfect. The boy had potential if he could summon such a creature on his own, and with no formal training besides.

"Impressive," Elminster chuckled, scratching his beard. "Most university students struggle to summon mephits. It's not easy to pull them out of Eberron, especially if they don't want to leave."

"Impressive?!" the father yelled, causing the boy to flinch. "This is the fourth time his 'magic' has caused irreparable damage! No more!" He turned to his son, his eyes burning. "I never should've let your mother buy you those fanciful books. Later today, when I get home from work, I'm gathering every single one and tossing them in the ocean!"

The boy gasped, horrified. "No!"

"Don't you 'no' me." He raised his hand, threateningly. "I'm done paying for your mistakes. Every time you ruin something in this house, it costs me a bloody fortune! I ought to—!"

"That's enough, Alexis," the mother said, sternly. "I did far worse when I was in my teens. He's barely eight summers old. He just needs a mentor."

"No, Morena. He needs to stop. He needs a hobby. He needs friends!"

"That's what I was trying to do!" the boy cried. Elminster shifted as the parents fell silent. "I was trying ... I was trying to summon a tressym!"

"Not this again." The father sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance, as well as exhaustion. "I already told you, no pets! This house is already in shambles. We don't need an animal to add to it."

"Alexis, you're being unfair. You expect him to stay inside all day, learning about your trade, and then wonder why he doesn't have any friends."

"He doesn't have any friends because the other children around here are scared of him. Have you forgotten what he did to that girl?!"

The boy whimpered, the memory invading his thoughts. Once again, the parents fell silent, the mother giving her husband a disapproving glare. After a moment, she knelt down with a warm smile and ran her thumb across her son's cheek.

"Gale, sweetheart, go to your room for a bit. Can you do that for me?"

The boy hesitated, holding his mother's hand against his face, grateful for the comfort. His eyes twitched, then welled with tears. Elminster watched patiently, taking note of their bond. He could sense the mother's affinity for magic, but the father displayed no such talent. Rather, an obvious aversion to it. The realisation made him scoff. It was always a mystery to him, why one with knowledge of the arcane would settle for the most mundane of partners, but he held his tongue. He was there for one reason, and that reason was breaking down in front of him.

"Gale," the mother repeated. "It's alright, sweetheart." She pulled him into a merciful hug. "It's alright. I know you didn't mean it."

"I'm sorry..." he muttered, melting in her embrace. "I'm sorry, mommy. Please don't take my books away."

"Shh, we're not going to take your books away.

The father lurched forward. "Morena, I just said—!"

"We're not going to take your books away," she snapped. "Now please, go to your room. I'll bring you some lunch come noon."

The boy pulled away, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He sniffed quietly, his jaw tense as he tried to compose himself. As he stepped around his mother, he leaned away from his father, but looked up at Elminster with a brief gaze of shame and curiosity. He had no idea who the old man was or why he was there, but he was too upset to ask. Instead, he dashed to his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Morena, I know you mean well, but you coddle that boy."

"I don't want to hear it, Alexis. He's your son, but you've made absolutely no attempt to share his interests."

"Maybe that's because I don't want to get my eyebrows singed off. I'm not like you. I can't just shield myself from his outbursts."

"They're not 'outbursts'. You act as though he's some kind of delinquent. I've never seen him use magic in a moment of anger, not even when the neighbourhood children push him around. Most of the time his spells are harmless, and you're wrong to focus so heavily on his mistakes."

"You're wrong to brush them aside. Mistakes like these get people killed! The housekeeper damn near pissed herself when she walked in on that ... that thing! I don't think she's coming back!"

"She overreacted. If she hadn't started screaming, the mephit wouldn't have panicked."

"The mephit?! Morena, she had every right to 'overreact'. Most people don't come face to face with fiends everyday!"

"It's not a fiend, Alexis, it's an elemental. Loyal to the one who summoned it." With a grunt, she snapped her fingers, and the motionless creature disappeared in a puff of smoke. "There. I've sent it home. No harm done."

"No harm—?" He stared at the now empty space, then groaned, defeated. "Morena, this is getting out of hand. I can't keep doing this. I-I can't support this. I have to put my foot down. No more books, no more magic."

"It's not a choice, Alexis. I've never seen a child with such keen aptitude for magic. It's like it's in his blood. Either we teach him how to harness it or it'll boil over."

"Don't. Don't even try it. I'm no fool, Morena. He's not a sorcerer. This isn't wild magic. It's not spilling out of him like a sieve. He can stop any time we choose to make him."

Elminster cleared his throat, loudly.

"Oh, yes. Forgive us," Morena sighed. "I had hoped to welcome you under ... merrier circumstances."

"Fear not." He waved his hand, jauntily. "This isn't the first mess I've walked in on when it comes to gifted children, and I doubt it will be the last."

"Gifted?" The father squeaked. "Gifted?!"

"Indeed. You'd admonish your son when you should be praising him. As I said earlier, most university students fail to summon a mephit." He turned his attention to the mother. "Did I hear you rightly? He's only eight?"

"Yes, and only just. By a few weeks."

"Incredible."

"I know," she giggled. "I could hardly believe it when the housekeeper came running to me about a 'winged beast' setting fire to the parlor."

"Have you both lost your senses?!" the father interjected. "Morena, who is this man?"

She caught her breath, pushing her pride for her son aside. "This is Elminster Aumar. Remember? I told you he'd be visiting us today. He wrote to me a tenday ago, asking about Gale. It seems word of our little wizard has reached beyond Waterdeep."

"Do not call him that!" The man hissed. "He's not a wizard, he's a boy. A normal boy. I told you, this ends today. No more books, no more spells, no more fiends or bats or whatever you want to call them. No more magic! He'll be an artisan like me and he'll like it. You just have to stop filling his head with nonsense." He pointed to Elminster. "And you—" He went to speak, his tone harsh, but he paused and collected himself, if only to save face. "I'm sorry you travelled all this way from ... wherever you're from, but I'm afraid your services are no longer needed."

"How dare you," Morena whispered, her voice low but laced with fury. "When you married me, you knew this was a possibility. We talked about it. You were fine with it."

"That was before he started tormenting little girls with necromancy!" He let out a long, winded breath. "Morena, this isn't right. You said it yourself, magic like this is beyond a child's comprehension. He shouldn't even be able to—!"

"If I may inquire?" Elminster asked, careful not to incense the father further. "I'm here because I know, better than most, how difficult it can be to raise a Weave-touched child. I can see the strain it's putting on you, and as a neutral party, I can attest you both make valid points. So please, tell me about the necromancy, and let's try to keep a level head. This is about your son, after all. About his future. If you'll accept it, I'm willing to share my expertise."

The parents exchanged glances, then looked away from each other, embarrassed. The father, without a word, walked away and leaned against the wall, his eyes falling to the cinders on the floor. Elminster could tell he was at his wits' end, but he felt very little sympathy. His desire to stifle such beautiful talent, to hold magic in such low regard—it was an affront to Mystra herself.

"He wasn't trying to 'torment' anyone," the mother chimed. "He was just trying to help."

"Tell me what happened."

"There's a girl who lives a few doors down from us. Loria. She had a songbird she kept in her room, but somehow it got out of its cage and flew into a window outside. As I'm sure you can imagine, the impact broke its neck. When Gale found her, she was weeping in the street, holding the poor thing in her hands. He only ... he only wanted to help. To make her feel better."

"Enough," Elminster said, sensing the woman's mouthing distress. "I understand."

"No you don't!" the father barked. "When he brought that thing back, its limbs twisted in every direction, squawking like it was in pain. He wounded that poor girl more than the bird's death ever could have."

"You're overlooking the fact that it was all well intentioned," Morena argued. "And magic like that is practically impossible for a child his age. It's a miracle he managed to reanimated it at all."

"That doesn't excuse it!"

"I didn't say it did! If we just teach him when and where it's acceptable to use magic, as well as how to perfect his skills—"

"Morena!"

"Magic is part of him!" she screeched, clenching her fists. "You need to accept that!"

"I'm afraid she's right," Elminster added. "Gale may not be a sorcerer, but the Weave has called to him. It has plans for him. Mystra has plans for him."

The father paled, his anger waning in an instant. "The goddess?"

"Yes. Taking his books, depriving him of proper study, it won't placate him. Magic flows through him like molten lava, and lava cannot be tamed. I know the toll this has taken on you, but your son is no mere boy. Not anymore."

"Is that so? Then what exactly is he?"

Elminster smiled. "A prodigy."

-----

Gale paced about his room, gripping his hair as his chest heaved. He couldn't figure out where he went wrong. He didn't mispronounce any of the words, and the mephit, though not what he intended to summon, was peaceful until the housekeeper tried to smack it with a broom.

In a fit of emotions, he dropped to the floor and buried his head in his knees, squeezing them tightly. He didn't want to be alone anymore, and he hated his father's cruelty, but maybe he was right. Images of Loria screaming over her bird flashed in his mind, the guilt overwhelming him. First her, then the housekeeper. He never wanted to hurt anyone, he only wanted a friend.

"Why didn't it work?" he sobbed, his nails digging into his trousers. "Is it me? Tressyms only come to the pure of heart, so maybe I'm just not..."

He wept, for a long time. When he lifted his head, his eyes were swollen and heavy, his mouth sore. With a sniffle, he wiped his nose, then looked to his dresser; to the small ornate jar sat on the far corner. Though he felt too numb to stand, he forced himself to his feet and retrieved it, and then he shook it back and forth, rattling the coins inside.

"That was mother's favourite carpet..." He popped the lid and poured the coins onto the dresser. "Not much, but better than nothing, I guess."

With a pained frown, he began separating each coin by value, counting what was there. It was the least he could do, he thought, to make up for his blunder. He truly loved magic, but he never wanted to hurt anyone with it; least of all the people who cared for him the most.

"One hundred and twenty," he said, mournfully. "That carpet ... cost seventeen times that." He gulped, staving off another rush of tears. "So much for our vacation to Neverwinter. Looks like I ruined that, too."

With one swift motion, he swept the coins back into the jar, then moved to take it to his mother, hoping it would make an apt apology. Before reaching the door; however, he gasped, his body freezing. His eyes widened, his back arching as he dropped the jar to the floor.

"Never ... winter?"

A sudden burst of clarity. Of inspiration. He ran to his bookshelf and grabbed a large, leather bestiary from the lineup. As big as his torso, he struggled to lift it, but dragged it to his bed with a determined limp, then dropped it on the mattress.

"That old man said mephits come from Eberron. So maybe ... maybe my spell was too expansive. I need to narrow it down."

For several minutes, he flipped through the pages, tracing the sentences with his finger. Finally, he came across the passage that answered his prayers, and he grinned.

Most tressyms hail from the warm, temperate lands of Faerûn, and are most commonly seen in northern Cormyr, particularly in the village of Eveningstar.

"This is it!"

With renewed vigor, he wrenched up the rug in the middle of his room, revealing a large casting circle painted on the floor; a seven-pointed star surrounded by glyphs. His excitement brimming, he grabbed a quill and wrote 'Neverwinter' in the northern triangle, then tossed it aside and positioned himself in the center. All the mayhem of that morning and the consequences it incurred seemed to fade as he took a deep, calming breath.

"I can do this. I can do this."

Slowly, he clapped his hands together, his mind fixated on what he wanted most. As the magic swirled inside him, ready to serve, his hair stood on end, but not out of fear. Exhilaration. He couldn't help but smile as he closed his eyes and chanted the words, "Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao."

Immediately, the scent of rosewater filled the air, tickling his nose and tongue. It was sweet and welcoming, a sensation he'd grown to crave on an almost daily basis. It made him feel safe. Seen. As streams of azure and violet whirled around him, he lifted his hands above his head and faced the ceiling.

"Ang'alor ko malo fynndo Virr e'etu fem'molij!"

A gust of wind erupted through the room, so powerful it sent several objects flying through the air, but Gale held strong, his arms shaking as a mass of bright colours exploded from his fingertips. His arms shook, the deluge of dancing lights twisting from a shapeless husk into something more familiar. Then, he heard a soft mew in the distance, causing him to gasp. He'd opened a rift, and before long a small feather blew though and brushed against his cheek.

"My word!" a feminine voice echoed. "This is most irregular. Who is—?"

An abrupt and blinding flash, then a weight that nearly brought Gale to his knees. He winced, blinking rapidly to regain his senses—and when he did, his eyes fell upon the face of a cat, which he unknowingly cradled in his arms, her paws pushing against his chest. In that moment, words failed him, his mouth hanging open in a daze.

"I say, who are you?" the creature asked, her ears twitching.

She wasn't angry or frightened, merely confused, but a quick glance around her esoteric surroundings answered in kind. The room was teeming with books, knickknacks, and artefacts that only one type of person would keep, and she knew that type of person well. Stretching her wings, she shuffled in the boy's arms, making herself more comfortable.

"I see. A young wizard, are you?" She peered up at him, her bright eyes studying his face. "Hmm. Very young, it seems. Well then, that explains why you summoned me. You need a firm hand, yes? I'll warn you now, child, I expect you to take your studies seriously. I'll not abide laziness." She pulled back a bit, licking her paw. "And I trust I'll receive a steady intake of fish and pigeons? They're my favourite, I'll have you know. Well, after beholder, but I don't expect you to fetch something so dangerous on my behalf. In fact, I forbid it."

"I..." Gale's brow furrowed, his eyes gleaming.

"My name is Tara, by the bye. Perhaps I should've opened with that. Though you've neglected to tell me your name." She tilted her head, gesturing for a response, but the boy said nothing. "I see I have my work cut out for me. Manners, young man. Manners. So, what should I call you? Mister—?"

"I—I..."

"Yes? Speak clearly, dear. My hearing may be sharp, but mumbles are indecipherable, even for a tressym."

He couldn't contain his smile as he pulled the beast into a tight but careful hug, which was met with the faintest sound of purring.

"I did it!"

[chthonia27]

Divine paradox

Dick Grayson x F!reader.

Content: Two unlikely souls entwined in a sacred affinity, the dance of Life and Death, a romance etched in the skies.

Tw: nudity, suggestive tone implied.

WC: 2k

Yin and Yang, push and pull. Life and death. That was a dance performed since the beginning of time. The balance needed so that the cosmos don’t devolve into chaos, so that all may know the value of life, and the importance of death. Sat on his throne, dressed in the finest of fabrics and engraving of pure gold, a halo of light surrounding his raven hair, was the God of life, Dick. The benevolent ruler of the universe, creator of all life and love, protector of souls. Everything the god touched, life would prosper. His sacred space, the realm to which he resides in, what could only be described as paradise, paled in comparison to his longing for Death.

He ran a thumb over the carved intricacies of his throne, his pink lips curled into a pout as his soul sang in longing for his counterpart, needing her presence always beside him. The god of life was rather.. clingy, to say the least. Such a primordial would be expected to act impartial, however he was absolutely taken by his love. Huffing and puffing, he bridged the distance to her realm without much difficulty. A cold, lifeless interval, wherein his love resided. Death. Such a misunderstood primordial being. She wasn’t evil by any means, contrary to popular belief. Merely continuing the cycle, no matter how intimidating, or outright spine chilling her presence was, she cared for the souls she looked after and justly punished those who have led less than desirable lives, allowing them to atone and relive the pain they’ve caused before their souls may evolve. She was anything but cruel, forgiving in fact. Comforting the souls of the lost, the sick, the injured and the young, a solace for their frayed souls.

Death. So just, so equal to all, so final. It was beautiful, really. How the creations he’d created with his own essence and loved so dearly would always be in her sweet embrace when the time called for it. Almost as if a piece of him would always be with her, cared for in the darkness of the underworld and in her cold yet loving embrace. At least that’s how he viewed it. The God of Life promptly arrived to the gates of none other than the terror of most entities. Calling out to his love, rather obnoxiously, he entered her realm. Death was.. difficult, to say the least. Authorative, hard headed, cold and incredibly standoffish, she was. But hauntingly beautiful, her entire being called out to the god of life’s like no other, akin to the sea nymphs that lured unsuspecting sailors into the trenches of the dark ocean depths. The moon to his sun, the counterpart to his being, his soulmate. The flower to which the beast of his jealousy guards ever so fiercely. None other designed so perfectly for him, and he for her, an indestructible bond so pure shared between the two divinities, a bond so etched into their souls unlike anything ever seen. She was always so curt and dry, never sparing another glance or thought to other beings of the galaxy, never paying any mind to the fruitless dramas that roamed the community of the gods, focusing solely on her duties. He however coaxed another complex faction of hers since the dawn of time, albeit subtle. Wether it was how he’d always pique her interest, her eyes trailing him wherever he’d advance, or the softening of her gaze and even the way she’d pepper gentle kisses to the slope of his nose and the contour of his jaw in the comfort of their realms, he knew deep within his being that he was loved.

”My Death! Where are you, my love?”, he yelled as he passed her soulless garden. Decaying roses, bare and withering trees along the edges of the stream of souls, dried soil and thorned vines covering the masses of the land, but he could only see beauty in it all. Beauty in her. He made his way to her throne room, the very same one to which all beings would enter and be passed judgment upon. His silk, white robes dragging at the stone as he walked to her, his eyes sparkling with sincere, unmistakable endearment as he eyed her form perched on her throne.

“My Death, there you are. I’ve missed you. Still brooding?” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips as he kissed her knuckles. “No smile for me? Not even happy to see me? You wound me, dear. I shall die by the cold hands of death herself. Poetic, no?” He complained with no real malice, only meaning to rile her up. It’s fair to say he isn’t the only one who draws out a different narrative from the other, as she always brought out his mischief, his inner most chaos, and yet still displayed in ways that were reverential to her.

“Must you always be so boisterous in your arrival?”

A deep, velvety laugh escaped him as his eyes fixed on her alluring face, the softness of her plush lips pleading to be kissed. “I am simply expressing my enthusiasm for finally being in your presence after eons of not being in your graces, beloved.” She gave him a deadpan expression as she replied, “it has only been an hour since you last left.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“For you.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress the fond smile that graced her ethereal features, in turn igniting a deep sense of satisfaction in the aforementioned god. She lifted herself from her throne and wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling his chest as she inhaled the naturally intoxicating aroma of the earthy and slightly Smokey notes of her beloved.

“Ah, so you do have a heart.”

“Must you always ruin the moment?”

He gasped dramatically, almost shifting his weight completely on her as he feigned faintness. “Beloved! Must you always be so cruel to your husband?!” He bellowed out, his loudness echoing in the throne room in such a way that almost caused him to wince, the weight of his body crushing his beloved and nearly making her loose her footing.

“Ugh! Dick!”

“You remember my name!”

They both knew well she’d intentionally said it with a dual meaning behind her words, but they’d chosen to ignore it for now. He wrapped his hands on the back of her thighs, hoisting her up so that she may wrap her legs over his waist. He pressed a reverent kiss to her collar bone and to the sternum of her chest, nipping lightly at her cleavage before meeting her gaze once more. He simply admired her beauty, one so unmatched and unique, one that plagued his mind and has during his entire existence. A beauty so special he could worship until the ends of time. The look in his eyes could only be described as love-struck, pupils blown wide and his lips parted as he imagined the feel of once more capturing hers in a kiss. She was perfect, the epitome of beauty to him, no other could ever hold candles to his beloved. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the crevice of her neck before setting her down once more.

“Come with me.”

“Oh?”

That piqued his interest, curious eyes searching her face for any inkling as to what she had planned. She took his hand in hers and turned around, leading him from the throne room to her private chambers, and he couldn’t help but notice how hypnotically her hips swayed as she walked. The soulfully tied divinities navigated through the large expanse of the underworld before arriving at her bedchambers, entering the adjoining bathroom. His eyes scanned the area, a large crystal bathtub, that could truthfully be classed as pool due to its sheer size, coated in rose petals, candles situated on every surface of the room. He inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of vanilla tickling his senses.

“What’s this, beloved?”

“I’ve missed you.”

His heart flipped and his chest tightened with affection at her declaration. The love he felt coursing through his veins only sizzled beneath his tanned skin. He gently backed her up on the sink, forehead resting against hers as he kissed the corners of her mouth.

“Let me help you.”

Slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs gently rubbing the nape of her neck. “Hm, my love, so beautiful..” His fingers found the straps of her dress, slowly slipping them off her shoulders and lowering them down her arms to expose her skin. Ever so gently, he ran his hands over the now exposed skin, admiring her like it was the first time he saw her nude body.

He slowly untied the back of her dress, lowering it further, the soft, silky material falling to her hips. “My beautiful mistress of death..” He gently pulled her body against his, his hands trailing over her bare chest and stomach. He continued to shower her in kisses, his lips moving down her neck and shoulder, his hand exploring her body. His mouth soon found her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered quietly.

“I’m the most fortunate god in the whole universe.”

Kneeling down, he slid the dress completely off of her, gently lifting her legs and pressing kisses from her calves up to her thighs, worshipping her form with the purest of devotions. Once done, the god stood in between her legs, arms wrapped around her waist as he lowered himself to press a chaste kiss to her lips, tongue darting out to lick along her bottom lip, seeking entry into the warm cavern of her mouth. When permitted, the muscle danced with her own, exploring the familiarity of her as he tugged her impossibly closer, the feeling of her soft hands coming to unrobe him sending shivers down his spine. After the soft material of his clothing had pooled at his feet, he hoisted her up once more and slowly sat in the bathtub, his beloved straddling his lap as he continued the kiss, calloused hands palming at the softness of her skin, then moving to cup her face and run his digits through the silky strands on her head. The aroma of vanilla wafted through the room, the gentle flicker of the flames licking divinely on her features, illuminating her beauty even more. He pulled back only to catch his breath, the sensation of her bare body on his enough to make him want to abandon everything and spend eternity in the safety of her arms. He wordlessly pulled her flush against him, her soft curves contrasting with the hard planes of his hard chest and abdomen, lips coming to pepper kisses on her temples as he began to wash her. Skilled fingers massaging at her scalp, rinsing and repeating his steps before applying the conditioner to her strands. He loved to cater to her, his presence in the cosmos was designed for this. To love her, worship her as she should be. He then began to soothe the knots out of her tense shoulders, lips suckling at her neck, leaving evidence of his love in the physical form, gently washing her stresses away.

After completing their routine, lovingly caring for the other in such cherished ways, they simply continued to hold one another, whispering sweet nothings as the worries of their days melted away into the abyss of the forgotten. The warm water washed over the pair as they embraced, their bodies moulding into one, testament of their affections. Their skin slick and smooth from the water, arms around each other, relishing in the security provided within each other, the consolation of their presence a soothing balm to their souls, a comfort only they could find in each other away from the rest of the cosmos.

In the quietness of their moment, in the safety of their embrace and the intimacy thick with their love, there truly is no other place the god of life would rather be.

“I love you.”

[lowpolyshadow]

i transcribed the sonadow bumblekast episode so you don't have to

hopefully the formatting isn't really weird lol

Kyle: So this time, for Pride Month, we get to address the hypothetical fandom ship that's probably helped more than a few Sonic fans figure out their sexuality: Sonadow! A lot of straight fans probably had Rouge or Sally be their awakening, so don't throw stones. 

Ian: True, true. 

Kyle: Shadow is not quite in a place where it's easy to imagine him having a healthy romantic relationship. But it is honestly a bit problematic to have one character shift until they're suitable for another, unless it's a mutual situation. How would you execute the character growth for Shadow and Sonic that would most help enable Sonadow? 

Ian: There would have to be an understood vulnerability to Shadow, he would have to open up to a degree that makes him more accessible at a personal level, and it doesn't take much? We've seen hints of it throughout his appearances, it would just need to become established, and that I think is all you really need to build that bridge because Sonic is casual and accepting enough as he is, and he's going to allow Shadow to be who he is which is kind of prickly and standoffish as you would have that occasional moment where Shadow lets his guard down and is more empathetic or emotionally available. But otherwise they would both play it fairly cool and aloof I think (lol). 

Kyle: Yeah, they're together. What of it? So? Big deal. I like it.  There are obviously a lot of different popular ships in Sonic. In order to make one really stand out, you'd probably need to really spark intrigue on it before pushing the two characters together. How would you arrange the first key romantic spark that was intended to drive the fans towards wanting them together? 

Ian: I think it stems more from the characters already having good chemistry. I mean you look at the fandom in general and the fleet of ships that are sailing and all of them are based off of the fact that these characters are fun in their interactions regardless of who we're talking about. So if it were an intention of building something from scratch, for most of the Sonic cast, I think the work's already been done and there's already a great deal of trust and mutual respect between most of the characters. It would just be a matter of realizing that there is more than respect, there's more than kinship, there's a romantic affinity, and for one of those characters to make that realization and start to pursue it in their own particular way.  And then it becomes a question of well, is the object of their affection going to reciprocate? And if they don't, which leads to an interesting story of, now that they are on this path, yeah, they know that this is an option, do they come around to it? Or do they not? Are both characters kind of interested but they don't want to take that first step and so you have that carrot on a stick that is ever so effective for however long you want to run it? 

(laughing) 

Kyle: There's nothing that gets, uh, Sonic's motor running more than being called a faker. Apparently. 

(more laughing) 

Ian: Oh, he'll show you how real he is. 

Kyle: Oh, no! This is a family show, sir!

(even more laughing) 

With that idea fresh in our minds, how would you make it official for the two of them? 

Ian: God, if that ever came to pass. (lol) 

Kyle: I feel like it would have to be kind of like, understated? Like it would just kind of happen? 

Ian: Yeah, I've, they're both so cool and aloof in their own way, I don't see them making any kind of dramatic declaration or ... suddenly turning all mushy and lovey-dovey, it's not who they are. Um ... I, you know, the adventure concludes and they're standing side by side on the hillside looking at the sunset and the wreckage ... and they share, you know, a compliment, and instead of like a fist bump or a "see you next time" and, y'know, one of them runs off ... maybe they throw arms around each other or something and just kind of stand there. Again, they're not gonna be all "mweh mehmehmeh" ... tonsil action, it's, I see them being very chill about it all. 

(lol) 

Kyle: Also, keep in mind everyone, this is all just ... 'fan ideas', this is probably never gonna happen, it's very unlikely, we're just having fun here. 

Ian: It's hypothetical situations that I am approaching as reasonably and as authentically as I can. 

Kyle: Yes, yes, just to keep that in mind, just keeping everybody on the same page here. 

Ian: I am not endorsing, I am not unendorsing, 

I am just answering questions. Everybody simmer. 

Kyle: Let's assume that for whatever reason Shadow decided to seek out advice from the following, and whoever he asked has to answer with an honest attempt at the best advice they could offer. How would Professor Gerald, Dr. Eggman, the Commander, and Black Doom advise him? 

Ian: Gerald would be the most wholesome and effective, I think. I think he understands people better than ... certainly a lot of his family. Uh, and would advise Shadow to look inward to ask himself what he really wants, and to ruminate on that and then act with caution, you know, don't be hasty on this particular thing. Like all great research, it takes time to get the results that, you know, you want, or the results that will come to be - don't take anything as a given, but don't be afraid to pursue the truth, whatever that may be.  Eggman would scoff at the notion and, you know, sarcastically offer to set him up on a date, making it quite clear that it would all be a trap and an ambush and whatever. The Commander ... I don't see as being a very romantic individual, but I think he might be direct about that, right. He would say that his partner was someone he managed to find for himself, but that was largely thanks to her, and her efforts, because he was kind of clueless about this, but Shadow is also kind of in the same boat so you know, maybe ... at least be aware of your surroundings? If someone is prepared to make that gesture, be ... ready to receive it and understand it for what it is. How do you do that? He's not quite sure how he figured it out himself but you know, he's not good at this sort of thing.  And Black Doom would again, scoff. Love is a weakness, it is a distraction at best, a malady at worst, it is ... an affliction of the mind. An illusion created by inferior beings to facilitate necessary natural processes. You do not need love, you do not need anyone, you are my Ultimate Weapon now go get me them Chaos Emeralds. 

Kyle: (laughing) Those damn fourth Chaos Emeralds! They're all fourth!

Ian: (mimicking Black Doom) Honestly, Shadow, what's love got to do, got to do with it. What's love but a second hand emotion. 

Kyle: (laughing) Well, we all know Shadow can't resist a dying wish. Let's say in the aftermath of a terrifying evil scheme, Eggman once more had to team up with the heroes to save the world, but he died in the process, leaving Sage and her brothers in the care of his uncle and uncle-in-law. Assuming that if money were real, GUN would pay the kind of money that would keep a classy act like Rouge on staff so the boys don't need to change their heroics too much, how would they do as parents to Sage, Orbot, Cubot, and after a while if she so chose, potentially Belle? 

(THIS IS METAL ERASURE >:( whatever he doesn't wanna be part of this family anyways)

Ian: I'm a little lost in the wording on who is acting as surrogate parents here.

Kyle: I think it might supposed to be Sonic and Shadow ... but Rouge is also there? I think? 

Ian: Well I mean someone would have to look after the kids because it ain't gonna be them. 

Kyle: (laughing) No, I guess not?!

Ian: I mean, Sonic would Sonic would kind of show up for birthdays and events and to check in but he's ... he's not the stay at home dad. He's not the stay in one place dad, he's the dad who gets his steps in, if you catch my meaning.

Kyle: Okay, no, it was more an example of they’re ... willing to pay Rouge ... so they would be willing to also pay them ... so ... but ... I guess Rouge would not be the caretaker. So ... they would have to be the caretakers ... I don't think it would go well! Luckily, I think they're self-sufficient ... for the most part ... (starting to lose it)

Ian: I mean I can't really see GUN letting them off ... interestingly, to anyone. They would be on facility. But it would be Sonic and Shadow weighing heavily saying they're not captives, they're not tech to be assimilated into the greater GUN network, they are wards of your facility, right? Right? Which again, Sonic would be checking in on occasion to make sure that it's going well. And maybe Shadow would kind of become a satellite agent of GUN, just keep tabs on everything, check in on the others to some degree ... but ... we wouldn't have a case of My Two Dads on this one, they're not the parental types.

Kyle: We probably shouldn't trust GUN with child care. Probably not. Even robot children.

Ian: And ... you don't even need them to be a pair to get the kind of ... bickering parental - conflicting parental guidelines in this scenario. Sonic would be very much, ehhh let them stay up, let him eat ice cream, let them do whatever they want, Shadow's like no, they need discipline, you're going to spoil them.

Kyle: Worst fathers ever.

Ian: Belle I ... I, again, I can't really see as a parental role but I could see her as the put upon babysitter. She tries her best to look after them and keep things under control but ... honestly ... they're Egg tech, they're not going to cooperate all that much.

Kyle: ... Yeah ... yeah I guess ... Belle would have to be the older sister and she'd probably end up being the one who does most of the work. Ugh.

Ian: Someone who tried to stop the caper of stealing the Commander's loafer or something. "I'm gonna get in trouble you guys! Stop!"

Kyle: Alright. Shadow is immortal, he will probably outlive Sonic. Unfortunately, given Sonic's lifestyle, that may not be that hard ... although given Shadow's first adventure, it could go either way. Sonic would probably understand that Shadow copes with things like this better when he has a sense of meaningful purpose to focus on. This seems like the type of thing Shadow would project onto his partner if it came to it, so what would each other ... so what if ... so what would each of their dying wishes to each other be?

Ian: Morbid. 

Kyle: (lol) 

Ian: You're going for the beautiful sadness type of thing I think. Uh, Sonic's would be ... what he wishes for everyone, is to be true to yourself and to live free. Perhaps that be true to yourself ringing a little more resoundly in Shadow's case, you know, don't close yourself off ... again. You know, be free to open up to someone else again down the road, and just be honest with yourself and be free to make that choice. 

Kyle: Open your heart, Shadow, it'll be alright.

(laughing)

Dammit! You would do that. 

Ian: Yeah, I absolutely would. 

(more laughing)

As for Shadow ... he would want Sonic to endure, you know, to just continue to carry on ... to not be defeated by anything. To find a way to escape death and just continue being, because, you know who else can replace him? Nobody. He would want that to endure forever.

Kyle: Yep. Good thing Sonic's got extra lives.

So Sonic and Shadow have gotten engaged, and they're trying to figure out how to approach their family name. Would Sonic take Shadow's last name, or Shadow take Sonic's, each keep their own, or each add the other's with a hyphen? Given Shadow's right to certain other last names, there could be a timeline with a Sonic Robotnik or (losing it) Sonic Doom.

Ian: No, they'd go with their current surnames, and as a sign of solidarity, they would just swap them so it would become Sonic the Hedgehog and Shadow the Hedgehog.

Kyle: Right, okay, okay ... good, good. Yeah, okay, it'll be fine, as long as Shadow doesn't take Maurice or something we'll be good.

(laughing)

Sonic and Shadow the Hedgehog. No relation.

Ian: We could hyphenate it! Sonic the Hedgehog-Hedgehog! (Shadow voice) Don't make me regret my decisions. 

Kyle: Too late, he already does. He already does.  Sonic has a great found family, and presumably in order to get Shadow to a point where he could date Sonic we'd be dealing with a much more Team Dark take on Shadow, who also has that. How would they both adapt to regularly hanging out with each other's found family? 

Ian: Uhhh ... The Sonic side of things is always very opening and it's ... open and accepting. And that's ... hilarious ... to the Team Dark side of things, because you can take such advantage of that. I think there would be attempts made on Team Sonic's side to incorporate everyone into the big happy family and eventually it would come to the understanding that, you know, there's appreciation ... there's respect, but there also needs to be distance. It's okay that they only get together for like, the holidays, and then they all keep to themselves. Nothing against anybody it's just, you know, oil and water don't necessarily mix all the time. And the time Rouge stole the Christmas presents ... Knuckles’s still a little salty about that one. 

Kyle: Aw. Poor Knuckles.  I play a lot of DnD with my boyfriend, he's big into it and happy to have another person for his DnD groups. Meanwhile I always enjoyed the little bit I got to play, but didn't get the opportunity as much in the past. It is unfortunately, for him, very much a ... forever DM for the group he has assembled. With this new little family we've assembled around the Sonadow pairing, who would be their forever DM? Omega is a war forged Barbarian, right? I mean yes. I mean ... you mean in the game? I mean he could be whatever he wants in the game, but in real life, yes.

Ian: I think you could make a case he's war forged Barbarian in every connotation of the word. 

Kyle: Pretty much! 

Ian: Uh ... I can't remember how we ... because I feel like this ties into just general DnD, we've been asked this before ... I would think Tails would be the DM. 

Kyle: Yeah ... yeah, Tails is the one who has the most, uh ... patience, I think, to really learn stuff. Amy maybe. 

Ian: Maybe ... I mean, he would like to construct the campaigns, he would be the better rules lawyer between the two of them. Um, I think he might be a little more of a stickler than Amy, I think Amy would allow for a little more rule of cool, but I don't think Tails would be obnoxious about it, you know. If you roll a one and things have gone very badly, he'd be trying to help you figure out a way around it. It's like, you know, okay, this is a bad situation! What do you see around you that could stop you from being on fire? Or, Amy! Don't you remember you have this particular Scroll of Healing or whatever? I - I haven't played DnD I don't know.

Kyle: I mean, yeah, that exists, it's fine, you got it. 

Ian: He wouldn't be a "rocks fall, everyone dies" DM, but he would be someone who's like, no, you can't fudge the numbers, you miss. "How do you mean I miss, I'm right in his face!" You rolled a two, what can I tell you! 

Kyle: He might think about "rocks fall, everyone dies" for a second, though, once again fed up - 

Ian Every turn, Omega's like "I KILL EVERYONE IN THE ROOM." Even the party? "YES." No, you can't do that! "IT IS IN CHARACTER." I don't care!!!!

(laughing) 

Kyle: Oh man, yeah, I mean, I don't know how long it would take for him to get fed up with Monty Python references but ... (lol) Probably not very long. Uh, and it turns out Monty Python is an actual python comedian in their world, and ... (losing it again) I'm here for it. That'd be cool. Time for the coveted Digimon question! I don't know who's coveting the Digimon questions, but alright, I guess Twilord is. In Digimon, there's a concept of DNA digivolution, where two digimon can fuse together. Sometimes this phenomenon creates a mental link between the Tamers and lets them glimpse each other's thoughts and feelings. This admittedly varies a bit so you have a lot of creative freedom on your solution. Assume the two of them were closeted for lack of it having come up yet, from those whose Digimon starters you might've ... you might choose to have DNA digivolve with Sonic's or Shadow's partners ... which partners figure it out from the basic mental connection, and of them how would they handle knowing without being told? I'm assuming that ... like, they have not confessed their love for each other but they somehow use this to figure it out.

Ian: And really ... Digimon ... it's not asking about the Digimon themselves, it's acting as Sonic and Shadow are the trainers, right. 

Kyle: Right. 

Ian: Uh ... The hardest question of this is who is more obtuse between the two of them ... 

Kyle: (LMAO) Yes. That's the answer. 

Ian: Shadow ... in general ... might be a little quicker on the draw ... so he would make the realization and that might prompt him to ... open up ... whereas Sonic just already kind of took it as a given, it wasn't really a realization to him, so he didn't really think much of it. 

Kyle: I guess ... Yeah, I guess that kind of fits. I guess that fits. 

Ian: (Shadow voice) Once we were linked, I cam to a realization ... and well, now that I know it's reciprocated, I guess I can say I'm really into you.  (Sonic voice) Oh yeah, I already knew. 

Kyle: (laughing) Yeah, everyone's into me. No, no that's not what I mean - 

Ian: (Shadow voice) It means you don't have a romantic bone in your body. 

Kyle: (LOSING IT me too dude) I think the idea ... apparently .. I'm getting word that the idea behind this question was that they haven't told anyone yet, and their friends find out this way.

Ian: Ohhh, okay. 

Kyle: Okay. Well here's the thing ... Most people in Sonic's world are very accepting and everything, so I don't think it would ... be a big deal? (lol) 

Ian: Yeah, I mean, if anything ... the biggest reaction would come out of Amy. There might be shock she found out ... Well, shocked at first, but if she found out, and they haven't really opened up to each other yet about it, she would go hardcore matchmaker. 

Kyle: Oh, no! (laughing) 

Ian: Like, if they both feel that way, and they aren't being honest with their affections, ohhhh no no no, she will not let that stand. Nope. She will move heaven and earth to see love realized. 

Kyle: (laughing) Even if it's not Sonic loving her, I guess, huh? (more laughing)

Ian: Disappointed, sure ... but, y'know, fine. What she wants is for him to be open and true with himself, and true with others. Love is a powerful force in the universe, and she will see its will done. 

Kyle: Yeah (lol), she is a true ally, yes. 

Ian: A real intense ally. 

Kyle: (laughing) Kind of frightening. 

Ian: Again, put down the torches and pitchforks, this is a hypothetical, this is for funsies. Let it be. 

Kyle: Yes, let's have some fun. 

Ian: Moving on, he's got a question for you, Kyle. 

Kyle: Alright. 

Ian: So in terms of romantic progression for fictional characters, you would say that after the romcom where the parents get home together in the sitcom where they all have to live their lives together ... can you please pitch me three episode ideas for the up and never coming sitcom, The Hedge Hogs, for me to rate?

Kyle: Oh, no. Uh, I didn't read this before we started! Uh ... hm ... come up with these on the fly ... um ... I'm like, not great at that. Let me think here ... Let me think here …

Ian: Let me help you out. 

Kyle: Okay, hit me. 

Ian: Fast and the Furious ... they both run out to get takeout quickly and they deal with incorrect orders. 

Kyle: Okay - 

Ian: Becomes a conflict of their personalities where Sonic's like hey, I'll take the pickles off! And Shadow's like he said no pickles. 

Kyle: Okay .. ! (laughing) Yeah, that's good. That's good. Um ... Hm ... hmm ... God, I really am bad at this (lol). I feel like there has to be one where they're trying to drive somewhere and they can't decide ... they'd like get lost, and then one of them is like, you don't need directions - it'd probably be Sonic, Sonic would be driving and he refuses to ask for directions, and Shadow's like trying to get him to pull over and ask for it. 

Ian: (Shadow voice) Please, pull over. 

Kyle: (laughing) Yeah, yeah ... I mean, that's another trope of sitcoms. (lol) 

Ian: Here's one for you ... Surprise Control - Sonic and Shadow are each trying to prepare a birthday surprise party for the other, not realizing that, son of a gun, they share the same birthday! No, they've never actually discussed this or put it together. Hijinx ensue. 

Kyle: (laughing) Do they, actually? - No, nono, Sonic Adventure 2's like a few days before ... but, you know, it's funnier if they do. 

Ian: Rouge is the first one to figure it out and she runs interference to make sure nobody clears it up for them. 

Kyle: (laughing) Yeah, yeah, I like that one ... Alright, let's see - 

Ian: Turns into a big blow up where they're both angry that neither of them knew what each other's actual birthday was, and then the tension is broken when Omega pops out of the cake like Marilyn Monroe. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE TWO OF YOU. 

Kyle: (laughing) And then ... he sets off the fireworks. Which are actually just …

Ian: Omega, not inside the HOUSE- !!!! 

Kyle: (LAUGHING) Which are actually just more DAKKA.

Ian: Has to be inside an apartment complex so Eggman can pull a Newman(?). "Hello, Sonic." 

Kyle: (losing it) Ohhh, nooo ... 

Ian: "I hear you've got the prime time cable package. Mind if I come in to play games on it?" ... Yeah, sure I guess, it's fine - "COME ON KIDS, HE SAID IT'S FINE!" 

Kyle: (still laughing) Oh, no .... 

Ian: Orbot ... Cubot ... Tribot ... a few Egg pawns ... 

Kyle: (laughing) Uh, who's the Kramer in this situation? (laughing) Knuckles?

Ian: Big the Cat. 

Kyle: Okay. 

Ian: Exact same mannerisms. 

Kyle: OKAY. (laughs) Yeah, okay. 

Ian: You know, mid conversation busts down the door, (Big voice) Froggy? Froggy, where are you? 

Kyle: (truly shitting it now) Oh, no ... Oh, no ... Oh nohoho ... The episode where Shadow's parents all come over for the holidays ... All four of them ... 

Ian: (cackles) (Shadow voice) Why do I have so many parents ... 

(laughing) 

(Black Doom voice) Now, we shall air our grievances on this festivus ... Shadow, finish the bowl. 

Kyle: (losing his mind) 

Ian: (Black Doom voice) Festivus ... is for the rest of us ... 

Kyle: Oh, boy. Oh boy. Terrible. I love it. I love it ... Alright, I think that's enough.

Ian: It certainly is. Happy pride month to all of you celebrating. Be good to yourselves, be good to each other, and we will see you next time.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Pop quiz! If you could only make one change to Silver Flames canon, what would it be???

Just ONE? This quiz feels unfair, lovely Anon! How am I supposed to choose? 🥲 Hmm... Hmmm... HMMM...

Okay, the thing I'm going to change is that I would actually address the Mate sized elephant in the room, particularly in Cassian's POV. It's very clear that SJM was trying to go for a big reveal when Cassian blows up on the bridge about them being mates, very clear she wanted everyone to go "gasp! They're mates???" But the fact of the matter is that everyone and their mother knew they were mates since ACOWAR. SJM never gets the pay off she's clearly hoping for.

Instead, all the "secrecy" does is hurt Cassian's character since we spend half the book in his head! Like he clearly has insecurities around it. He never thought he'd have a mate as an Illyrian bastard. Never thought he'd be deserving of one. Doesn't think he's deserving of someone like Nesta. And we see glimpses of this (especially with the whole Eris thing) but we the readers deserved to really see it! To really delve into "oh shit this is my mate" directly in his thoughts and how he has to battle with that

Especially, because, for me, personally, I think if we saw more mate related thoughts and struggles that I would have been more forgiving of Cassian's affinity for putting his foot in his mouth and his mistakes. If we saw how internally, he has no idea what the fuck he's doing. He doesn't know what to do with a mate that keeps pushing him away! His mating instincts are riding his ass to hell and back and he's just trying his best! All that could have so easily been shown in his POV and we got SQUAT! All to have a frankly uncomfortable reveal on a bridge and him doing stupid shit like leaving her immediately after their Solstice romp with seemingly no explanation

And I also think actually having Cassian think about the mate bond would address a lot of the fandom criticism toward his character. Cassian never says he loves Nesta and though, yes, his actions show how deeply he cares, bro doesn't even think it either because we're out here playing We Don't Talk About Bruno Mate Bonds! And for WHAT? For what, SJM???

Anyways, this got ranty and rambling, but that's my answer 😌

Also, a close second is that I would have less sex in the books. Controversial. But I don't think all the sex things actually add anything to the story or Nessian's romance. And quite frankly some of them give me the ick. Like what do you mean they're having rough sex literally 3 pages after Nesta is SA'ed by a Kelpie????