#though I will be starting writing them tonight

[ichigo-plasma]

I LOVE HARUKA, he's so cute 🥺🥰 I like yandere subs. And can you write more about Haruka? Like if the fem reader is going to confess to Haruka and if the reader is more dominant? pushing Haruka further and further to the limit until he becomes a crying mess...

Can I be the anon"🌙"?

The Attention You Crave

Synopsis: Haruka is super obsessed with you. He started stalking you and memorizing your routine in Milgram, taking some of your belongings... he was pathetic for you really. But unbeknownst to him, you didn't mind, you were into it, you liked how pathetic he was for you. And tonight, you are going to make sure he knows.

On The Menu: you heard 🌙 anon, reader is more dominant, Haruka is a masochist so he is super into it (he is a canon masochist), suggestive, yandere Haruka, stalking, a slap based and choking based on Es's interrogation with Haruka in T1, Yuno, Muu, and Es mentioned!, Haruka lied about his age because he’s embarrassed about how old he is

A/N: Milgram T3 made me sad but while Haruka might be not doing well in Jackalope's Milgram, in the Ichigo-Plasma Milgram world, Haruka is doing just fine! I tend to make Haruka as more of a switch but I am down to try domming him. Let’s make him cry happy tears! Let’s all dom Haruka Sakurai! ^_^ <3 Please enjoy 🌙 anon if you have more requests send them my way!

Haruka had always been drawn to you. It started the moment you first spoke to him in Milgram, the way your voice held a warmth he had never known. You looked at him—really looked at him—without disgust, without fear. Your attention became his addiction, something he craved more than he could admit.

So he started following you. Not in an obvious way, but enough to learn your habits, enough to always be near when you needed something. It wasn’t creepy, he told himself. He just… wanted to be close to you. And maybe he stole some stuff from your cell in Milgram… he managed to snag some of your underwear before it made it to the prison laundry, he’d lick the extra scraps off your food tray that you didn’t finish—savoring licking each spike of your used fork… he knows it was not super normal but he truly just wanted to feel closer, that’s all! You hadn’t seemed to notice!

But the more time passed, the more he needed from you. Your praise. Your kindness. Your touch. He started sneaking into your cell when you were hanging with other prisoners—taking in your scent on your bed and running away before he knew you’d be making your way back (don’t ask how he knew when you’d come back). He will admit though, he was getting a bit bold and clumsy with his stalking and one day when he came to lick the extra food off your tray, you left a little message reading “I left some extra of the foods I know you like Mr. Stalker~<3”.

And when he realized you knew? That you had seen right through him? That was when his whole world completely shifted—because unbeknownst to him you were into it.

You liked how pathetic he was for you.

You liked how desperate he was.

And tonight, you were going to make sure he knew it.

Haruka barely had time to react before you shoved him against the wall. His breath hitched, his body jolting at the force of it, but he didn’t try to run. He liked this. The way you overpowered him, the way your hands gripped him like you owned him.

“W-Wait, y-you’re s-serious?” he stammered, wide-eyed.

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his lips trembling as you traced your fingers over his throat, barely applying pressure—just enough to make him feel it.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” you murmured, watching as he swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing under your touch. “What, do you not want me, Haruka? I know you’re the reason some of my underwear are missing. I saw them in your cell covered in wet stains.”

His breath hitched, his hands twitching at his sides. “I-I… I d-d—” He shook his head frantically, but his body betrayed him—his lips parted slightly, his knees trembling.

You chuckled. “Liar.”

A soft whimper escaped him as you pressed closer, your hand slowly traveling down his arm before catching his wrist. His fingers twitched under your grip, his whole body shaking.

“I bet you love this,” you whispered, your lips barely brushing against his ear. “Being completely at my mercy… pinned against a wall with nowhere to run.”

He shuddered.

“I-I—” he started to whimper but he looked more starstruck than upset. Happy to finally have your attention one on one.

“You can’t even deny it, can you?” Your fingers ghosted down the side of his throat, tracing the rapid thrum of his pulse. “Such a cute little masochist… I wonder what else you’d let me do to you?”

His whole body tensed, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. “P-Please…” he whimpered, not even knowing what he was begging for.

You smiled. “Please what?”

He shivered violently. His hands, which had been clenched into fists inside his cutely oversized Milgram shirt sleeves, hesitantly moved—gripping your own sleeves, desperate, needy.

“A-Anything,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Y-You can do a-anything to m-”

Oh, he had no idea what he had just agreed to.

*Slap.*

A sharp whimper nearing a moan tore from his lips as your palm met his cheek—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to shock him, to leave a lingering warmth on his skin. His breath hitched, and for a split second, his lashes fluttered as his whole body shuddered.

“You're funny, Haruka,” you mused, your fingers gripping his jaw, tilting his head up so he couldn’t look away. “I think you like this a little too much.”

A whimper escaped him, his hands now twitching at his sides. “I-I…”

Your other hand slid down his chest, slowly, teasingly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his pants just enough to make him feel it. You could tell he was getting hard, a small bulge forming in his pants. His breath hitched, his knees wobbling as his whole body became hyper-aware of your every touch down where he needed it most.

“Then beg me,” you murmured.

Haruka whined, his face going impossibly red embarrassed that he was enjoying this so much, finally getting your attention. “P-Please… t-touch me, u-use me, I-I d-don’t care—j-just don’t s-giving me attention—”

God, he was adorable.

You pressed your knee between his thighs, just enough to make him gasp, feeling the now hard bulge begging for relief through his pants, his hands clutching at your clothes in pure desperation. “So needy,” you mused, tilting your head. “You really do love being controlled, don’t you?”

He nodded frantically, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I-I do—I-I w-want you t-to t-take c-control—”

You brought your hands to his neck and lightly squeezed his throat, just enough to cut off the next word, just the right amount you knew a masochist like him would like. (Yuno told you he’d probably like it when she told you what she heard about Haruka’s interrogation with Es, maybe Es even told you themself).

His breath stuttered, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment before he forced himself to look at you again, drunkenly grinning like you were giving him ultimate pleasure.

Your lips curled into a smirk. “Go on, beg for it.”

His whole body trembled but he couldn’t stop smiling drunkenly, his grip tightening on your sleeves. “P-Please… I-I w-want you t-to t-take control… u-use me, d-do whatever y-you want, j-just don’t stop paying attention to m-me—” 

God, he was so cute and pathetic.

You chuckled, releasing his throat to let him to gasp for air. “You’re so cute… I bet you’d let me do anything to you.”

Haruka nodded frantically. His face was flushed and he was crying a bit to the point of whining, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “A-Anything… I-I b-belong to y-you, I-I’ll d-do whatever you w-want—”

Your hand slid down his chest, manicured nails courtesy of Muu sliding up under his shirt tracing his skin. His breath hitched, his whole body tensing.

“Good boy, happy you accepted my confession” you whispered.

A shuddering whimper escaped him, his knees threatening to buckle.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. “You’re mine now, Haruka. I’ll give you all the attention and love you crave.”

A sob tore from his throat. His whole body trembled as he clung to you, his nails digging into your clothes, as if you’d disappear if he let go. He was a mess—whimpering, gasping, crying from sheer happiness, his voice cracking as he nuzzled desperately into you. Happy to finally be noticed by you, to be loved weakly.

“Th-Thank you… th-thank y-you… I-I l-love you, I-I l-love you s-so much, p-please d-don’t l-let me go, p-please…” he whined.

You smirked, petting his hair like he was a cute puppy as his tall stature practically melted in your touch. Hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless for you.

[urmum-lovesme]

The way you write toxic rafe is👨🏻‍🍳💋!!!!!!im obsessed need moreee🫶🏼

He's actually psychotic. (I'm in love...)

The kitchen lights shone above them, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the growing tension between the two. The house was eerily quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator, the air thick with unspoken words. Rafe had been on edge ever since the phone call with Ward- he had tried to brush it off, but his anger was festering like a wound that wouldn't heal. And Y/N had been the one closest to him, trying to ease his mind. But tonight, her efforts had only seemed to make him angrier.

“Can you stop fucking bitching in my ear?”

Rafe spat, his voice sharp, laced with annoyance. Y/N stepped forward, her face flushed, her arm folded trying to remain calm. She spoke back, her voice steady, though she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

“I’m not bitching in your ear, Rafe.”

Rafe shot her a look, eyes narrowing, and he took a step toward her. “You don’t get it, Y/N. You think you can just fix everything with a few fucking words? It doesn’t work like that!”

Rafe’s jaw was clenched tight as he stood by the kitchen island, pulling a small baggie from his pocket. With practiced ease, he tapped a line of white powder onto the cool marble countertop, his movements sharp and unbothered. He sniffed once, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before leaning down, inhaling a sharp drag of the powder, his shoulders tensing as the rush hit him.

Y/N’s stomach twisted at the sight. She hated this- hated watching him do this to himself. Without thinking, she stepped closer, reaching for his arm. “Rafe, stop,” she pleaded, trying to pull him away from the counter.

“You don’t need this.”

“-don’t start Y/N,”

He muttered, sniffling as he rubbed at his nose, his fingers gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding him up. He barely acknowledged her, shrugging her off with a roll of his shoulder.

“Rafe, I mean it,” she pressed, her voice firmer now. She grabbed at his wrist again, trying to pull him back.

“This shit isn’t helping you—it’s making everything worse.”

“You think you know what I need HUH!?”

His voice was cold, sharp like a knife as he slammed his hand down onto the counter with a loud BANG, the sound reverberating in the silent kitchen. He let out a harsh laugh, finally turning his head to glance at her, his pupils already blown wide.

“You think you have any fucking clue what it’s like?”

Her breath caught in her throat at the look in his eyes- wild, unpredictable. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled away from his skin cautiously. She said softly.

“Please- let's just talk about it . . .”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Because in the next second, his face twisted, his expression darkening as his body tensed even more. He took a step toward her and his hands curled into fists at his sides, for a moment, she thought he might punch straight through the marble of the counter.

“Talk to you?” he scoffed. “What the fuck do you think you can do for me, huh?”

“Rafe—”

“What?”

“You need to stop caring about what your dad thinks,” she said, her voice cautious but firm.

“It’s eating you up, Rafe. He treats you like shit... he’s an asshole.”

Rafe’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with anger. His expression shifted completely as he turned to face her, his muscles tensing. He bit out, his voice low but filled with malice,

“Don’t fucking talk about my dad like that,”

Y/N stood still, folding her arms, her eyes never leaving his. Rafe’s jaw clenched so hard she thought it might break. “You think you know everything-” he snarled, taking a step toward her. His anger was palpable, almost suffocating.

“You think you can just tell me how to deal with my family?”

She flinched slightly at the tone of his voice. Rafe’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his body moving towards her, now merely a few feet away. He growled, his breath coming heavier now.

“Don’t you dare tell me how to handle my shit.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened as she urged, her voice shaking with a mix of frustration and concern, "I just think that-"

“Don’t fucking lecture me, Y/N,”

Rafe spat, his voice rising as he took another step forward. His body was radiating heat, fury in his eyes. Y/N’s chest tightened, her words slipping from her mouth before she could stop them.

“I’m not trying to lecture you, I just—”

Before she could finish, Rafe’s hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist with a force that made her gasp. Without another word, he shoved her harshly against the counter, her lower back hitting the counter hard enough to make her gasp. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her spine, but the look in his eyes scared her more than anything. She stumbled back slightly, eyes wide in shock as he hissed out.

“You think I need you to save me from my own fucking life?”

Y/N’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she stared at him, realising just how far his rage mixed with the addicting substance now sprinkled over the counter had taken him.

“No… I just want to be here for you—please listen to me-”

Rafe didn’t move at first. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling with sharp, ragged breaths. Then, his eyes flickered to the counter beside him. The sound of metal scraping against the marble sent a chill down her spine. Her stomach twisted as she glanced down, her blood running cold when she saw what he had in his hand.

A knife.

Her breath hitched. The blade caught the dim light as he lifted it slightly, his grip tight around the handle. He took a slow step forward, angling the knife slightly, not lunging, not threatening outright—but letting her see it. Letting her understand.

“You think you know how to fix my family, hmm?”

He murmured, his voice eerily calm now. Her feet stayed rooted to the ground, every muscle locked in place as he took another step closer. He tilted his head as he ran his thumb absently along the handle. Her throat was dry, words failing her as she forced herself to meet his gaze. He wasn’t looking at her like he wanted to hurt her. No, it was worse than that. He was looking at her like he wanted to prove something. Like he needed to see the fear in her eyes to remind himself of something. She whispered, trying to keep her voice steady,

“I never said that. . .”

“But you fucking think it.” His grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles going white.

“You think I’m weak?”

She shook her head frantically, her hands trembling at her sides as she spoke out desperately,

"No, Rafe. I don’t— I swear—”

“Don’t lie to me”

He cut her off sharply, his voice dark and unforgiving. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her body tense, watching his every move. He tilted the knife slightly, just enough to catch her attention again.

"You know what’s funny, Y/N?"

He let out a breath of amusement, though there was no humour in his voice. He took a slow step forward, the weight of his presence suffocating. Y/N barely dared to breathe as the tip of the knife grazed her bare arm, trailing lightly over her skin. A shiver ran through her, her pulse hammering beneath the delicate scrape of cold metal traveling up her arm slow and deliberate. He paused before the blade traced the curve of her jaw, featherlight yet impossible to ignore. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her body frozen, trapped in place by his touch.

The tip pressed against the centre of her neck.

A single, calculated tap.

Her breath hitched. She didn’t move, didn’t dare flinch, she couldn't as she was routed to the spot in pure terror. Rafe’s lips curled into something almost resembling amusement, though his eyes were anything but playful.

“I could do anything right now. I could do anything I fucking wanted, and no one would stop me.”

She couldn't breathe.

Because he was right, no one would stop him. No one would hear her scream. No one would come running, no one would burst through the doors to pull her away. If he wanted to, he could. The terrifying truth was she wasn’t scared because she thought he would do it, she was scared because she knew that if he did… there would be no one to stop him. A tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly blinked it away, trying to steady her voice.

"Rafe… please, just put it down.”

His lips twitched, like the very idea of listening to her pleas was laughable.

Then, without warning, he let out a sharp exhale and dropped the knife onto the counter with a loud clank. He muttered out, his voice quieter now, a calm settling in as he wiped his hand across his face.

“Don’t ever talk about my fucking family again”

[malk1ns]

february 25 @ flyers, 6-1 loss

good absolute god, guys. consider trying?

a pathetic game overall, capped off by this vibe and this postgame insight:

no joy in mudville and don't expect much in this fic except for my signature 'overly saccharine ending'. sorry!

Sid and Zhenya’s names are up on the whiteboard for press availability when they troop back into the locker room, stunned silent by the loss.

Zhenya’s heart sinks, but he squares his shoulders and starts plucking off his pads, running through his own game. A giveaway, a losing night in the faceoff dot, no shots on goal—they’re going to rip him apart. He can already picture the headlines—Malkin’s sloppy play costs Penguins another crucial divisional match-up, or maybe Malkin’s effort makes it clear why he should be Russia-bound after the season.

At least he didn’t take a penalty tonight.

“Fuck no,” Sid says from one seat down, but Zhenya ignores him until Sid practically knocks him over on his way to the front of the room.

Zhenya raises an eyebrow when Sid reaches the whiteboard and wipes their names off with his sleeve. He turns and faces the comms people who are hovering nervously at the door and crosses his arms. “G and I aren’t talking to them,” he says, jutting his chin out. “He played fine. I played fine. Neither of us have anything to say. Get someone else to do it.” He stares the staffers down, waiting for a challenge.

None comes. Sid’s one of the most spoiled athletes in North America, but it’s all done preemptively—he rarely asks for anything, especially like this. When he does, people listen.

Sid pauses on his way back to his stall. “Get a move on,” he mutters. “If we’re not on our way out when they let the vultures in, someone will try to stop us.” He raises his voice a little bit, still quiet enough to plausibly still be addressing Zhenya privately but loud enough that the guys near them can hear. “Someone who phoned it in tonight can give them a quote. Not you.”

The atmosphere in the room deflates even further, if that was possible. Zhenya would feel bad, but frankly? He’s sick of it.

They’re rebuilding. Everyone with a brain knows that. Zhenya expected it eventually. He knew it was possible that he’d spend the last years of his career surrounded by journeymen who couldn’t keep up, even as his own footspeed declined. In theory, that didn’t bother him. He did what he came here to do almost 20 years ago; he doesn’t have anything to prove.

In practice, though, the grind of trying to lift spirits and motivate a bench that’s half-composed of players who wilt at the first sign of adversity, who aren’t interested in fighting back, is exhausting. Zhenya’s just had a two-week vacation and he’s already exhausted only three games into this side of break.

Sid, who spent those two weeks playing with and against the best of the best, is practically vibrating with anger.

They make it out of the locker room just as the press is let in, and Zhenya looks over his shoulder on his way out, making eye contact with Yohe. Great. At least Sid’s hot on his heels, practically pushing him out into the hallway; nobody will be able to write that Geno Malkin is dodging the press after a shitty game.

“God damn it,” Sid swears once they’re out of earshot, kicking at a trash can as they make their way out to where the bus is waiting. “Fucking hell, I hate it here. I hate this city, I hate this team.”

“Which one,” Zhenya says drily, and Sid snorts, jamming an elbow into his side.

Normally Sid would scold Zhenya after laughing, too painfully conscious of his own captaincy to not feel guilty over insulting his teammates. The fact that he doesn’t tonight says more than any of Sid’s own words ever could.

Zhenya slides into the second row of the bus, and Sid plops down next to him. They don’t speak on the bus; Zhenya’s answering texts from his mama back in Pittsburgh, and Sid’s thumbs are flying over his phone screen, conducting whatever inscrutable business the face of the league is responsible for no matter the hour. Zhenya used to ask. It was never very interesting.

It’s usually a coin flip if Sid wants Zhenya sitting next to him on the plane. It’s less likely after a bad loss, when Sid prefers to brood and Zhenya spends his pique on the card table, but as they pile onto the plane Sid tugs Zhenya into his row, so Zhenya settles into his chair and avoids eye contact with the rest of the team. Now that he’s had a little distance from the game, he feels a little bad about ditching the media. He’s a leader on this team, and leaders don’t welch on their responsibilities.

Sid does not seem to be similarly burdened. He’s already listing towards Zhenya with his eyes half-closed. Zhenya doesn’t blame him—he’s hurt, and he barely got any rest between Four Nations and the regular season resuming. Zhenya spent hours begging Sid to sit for a game, maybe two, just to give himself time to heal.

Sid refused. Zhenya knew he would. He had to try anyway.

He sneaks his hand under Sid’s plane blanket, resting it on Sid’s thigh and squeezing. Sid grunts and spreads his legs, but Zhenya’s not trying to start anything; he could use with a little comfort, and Sid will never admit it but he could too.

Their days of fooling around on planes are well over, not that they ever did that after heartbreakers like this one even when they were young stupid(er). No, they’d save that type of comfort for at home, tucked away in someone’s bedroom and tangled in each other until the memories faded.

That won’t be the case tonight. They both need sleep; there’s a game Thursday, followed by yet another hellish back-to-back over the weekend.

Zhenya wonders if he should push it. Their sex life has suffered badly this season; between injuries and illnesses and the tension from the rink bleeding into their home life, Zhenya’s getting laid less now than he has his entire adult life. Their house is as likely to be filled with frosty post-argument silence as it is with amorous sighs these days.

Sid snores in his ear the entire short flight back to Pittsburgh, and he’s quiet in the car ride back.

“Should I have extended?” he asks when they’re settled into bed back at home. Zhenya was half-asleep, but Sid’s question snaps him back awake.

“Huh?” he mumbles. “You mean like…not sign here?”

“Not sign,” Sid emphasizes. Zhenya feels him turn on the mattress until they’re facing each other. “Maybe I should have said this would be my last season and hung it up. I mean, we’re not going to be good for years, all I’m doing is take up cap space…” He pats gently over the mattress until he finds Zhenya’s arm. “Maybe the PA won’t flip shit if I say that I want to retire after all if I do it before the new contract kicks in.”

“Stupid,” Zhenya mutters, and Sid’s fingers pinch into his skin. “You’re Penguins, Sid. Like, you’re need to be there for kids, for set example. If you’re keep play hard, guys watch, they learn. Sometimes it’s not work in game, but they see. Plus, what you do? You get bored, come to practice anyway.”

Sid laughs a little, scooting closer. “Probably,” he concedes. “It’s just…at the tournament, watching the way the crowd reacted to Mario…he’s a legend, obviously, but he’s in the past. And I was standing there listening to them cheer for me, and it sounded the same. I’m still playing fine, but I’m turning into a legacy even while I’m still in the league.” He sighs. “I have never felt as old as I did during those games in my whole life. Old, and tired. I probably could have used the break after all.”

“Oh, Sid,” Zhenya whispers, tugging Sid’s shoulder until they’re pressed together. His heart hurts. “You’re most important hockey player for Canada ever, probably. It’s not like…you’re not legacy yet, you’re still play. You’re inspire everyone there. They all talk about how good you do, how much you help. We watch games here while you’re gone and the young guys, all they’re say is how exciting for seeing you play international again.” He squeezes Sid tight to his body, shaking him a little. “Not too old. Old, okay yes, we old now. But too old? No. Not your fault team does this, not your contract’s fault. We try, you try hardest always. Other guys, maybe they don’t. Can’t control.”

Sid sighs, and it sounds watery. When he presses his face to Zhenya’s chest, Zhenya can feel damp soak through his sleep shirt. “Sorry,” he says, garbled through the fabric. “I’m being dumb. I’m tired, and that game sucked, and holy fuck I hate Philly.” 

“Game is bad, yes,” Zhenya agrees, running his hands over Sid’s back. “Philly is always suck, yes. But we have twenty more games, try again to play good. It’s okay, Sid. Nobody thinks you’re bad just because of team.”

“It’s probably selfish, huh?” Sid muses, turning his head to the side. “That I care so much about how I look now with the team doing so bad. I never used to.”

Zhenya shrugs. “Allowed to be selfish. You give everything for team, for league. Is okay to want to break records, play well just for you, know that people see. But they do, Sid. Cheers in Montreal, that’s for how you’re play for so long. Not because you’re, like…statue, walking around on the ice again.”

Sid doesn’t reply, but Zhenya can feel his shoulders relax.

“I tell Kyle they put you on your knees for your statue,” Zhenya says, startling Sid into a laugh. “Tell him for goals, but really I want to look at and think of you blowing me. It’s big secret for me, nobody knows.”

“Oh my god,” Sid squawks, slapping at Zhenya’s chest. “You didn’t say that to Kyle.”

Zhenya did. He sent Kyle a half-dozen goal videos of Sid dropping to a knee to score; his signature pose, the one he hits when the other goalie has no chance.

He didn’t say anything about the blowjobs, obviously. 

“Well, I’m going to tell him that your statue should be of…of…” Sid trails off.

Zhenya gives him a minute before shaking his head. “Sidney, Sidney,” he says, pouring as much mock-concern into his voice as he can. “Too tired for dirty joke? Can’t think of even one thing? Maybe you retire after all. Too old to keep up.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sid says, but his voice is light.

Leading a team like the 24-25 Pittsburgh Penguins might be hard, Zhenya thinks as they finally drift off, but leading Sidney Crosby out of his down-moods is easy. Then again, he’s got almost fifteen years of firsthand experience.

[deadly-diminuendo]

WIP Wednesday

Time to share another snippet! And it's actually happening on a Wednesday this time! The lovely @amoremagnificentbastard tagged me this time, so thank you! 💖

I've unfortunately had a bunch of things getting in the way of my writing time lately, but here is yet another piece of the upcoming third chapter of A Fitting Reunion. And we're starting to move into NSFW territory, so check it out under the cut!

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you." How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve. That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is. Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect. Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak. And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean— "And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I'm willing to explore anything and everything that loving you means." Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility. And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality. Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves. You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he. And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter. His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire. This is really going to happen, isn't it? "And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

No pressure tags (and my apologies to anyone who has been tagged recently already!): @strixamans, @denesmera, @goodgirlgonebard, @verbenaa, @larvasmoon, @vividiana, @inkymoonbunny @dramatiquechipmunk, @khywren, @roguishcat, @larvasmoon + anyone else who wants to share something! ❤️

[essie-essex]

Asha's Embrace

I wanted to write about Asha's embrace into Clan Tremere, so here it is! She started out as a VTMB fledgling, but I changed the story of her embrace before the game, as well as her sire.

(tw for suicide)

That night it rained. It rained so hard that it was almost all Asha could see, covering everything like a translucent curtain. She had forgotten to bring her umbrella with her that morning, but the downpour did not bother her, and as she made her way home from work, the sun having recently set as it was one of the shorter days of the year, the raindrops plopped against her shoulders and soaked into her jacket. She could only experience it all without judgment, feeling the wetness of her clothes and the water rolling down her skin and weighing down her hair. Normally, she would have hated getting her hair wet. She would have to detangle it and reapply all the hair products and oils that tamed her natural curls, but tonight she did not care. There was nothing to really care about anyway. She was done. All of it was going to end, which made this moment somehow brighter than usual. Maybe it was because she really liked the rain and the darkness. It made her feel more alive than the sunny, warm days that most people seemed to prefer.

She pulled the hood up on her jacket, wiping her face with her hand as she continued to walk down the road. Luckily, it was not a busy street, so no cars passed by to splash puddles of dirty water onto her. For her, there was only the cleansing downpour, an unexpected step in the preparations she made before falling into everlasting peace.

As part of the first step, which Asha had planned, she had bought herself a box of chocolates, the expensive kind, and a bottle of spiced wine, from a gift shop near to her place of work. She considered stopping somewhere for flowers, but decided against it. She had candles and incense at home. That would be nice enough. She wasn't even the kind of girl who liked flowers anyway. After she left the store, she was no longer upset by the events of the day. She was no longer angry or even cared about her coworkers at the Post Office who had left her to close up by herself, as they had somewhere else more important to be. It was Friday, after all. They had plans, and in their minds, obviously, she didn't. Really, she was not mad at them, not anymore. In hindsight, they had made her decision to carry out her own plans tonight so much easier than it had been that morning.

Asha made her way down the sidewalk and watched her breath in the cold air at every step, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, and her head bowed underneath its hood. The rain had let up a bit, but she focused on the ground, lost in her thoughts. So, when the car drove past, moving in the same direction as she walked, she almost did not notice it. Only when it stopped did she look up. Slowing her pace, Asha watched the two red lights ahead of her as they shined through the darkness, the vehicle partially obscured by the rain. It had pulled over to the curb.

Asha stopped, considering crossing the road. She could see the silhouette of the driver inside the car, its shape changing slightly, as though they were turning to look behind them.

Who cares? Just walk past it and keep going, Asha told herself. It was not as if she really cared about her life, not enough to go out of her way to cross the street, at least. She moved forward, ducking her head and walking at a brisk pace, favoring the right of the sidewalk, as far away from the car as she could get.

If someone grabs me, I'll bite them, she thought. I'll bite them as hard as I can, until I draw blood, until they let go. A vision of herself chomping down into the fleshy hand of an anonymous assailant formed in her head, but she pushed it away, shoving it to the back of her mind.

Now nearly to the car's bumper, she tensed, waiting for the door to open, for the stranger inside to jump out, but the door did not move. Asha peeked to the side from under her hood as she passed by. The window had been rolled down, and she was sure the person in the car was looking at her. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Excuse me,” she heard a voice call. “Excuse me, ma'am?”

Asha kept walking, picking up the pace even more.

“Would you like a ride somewhere?”

It was clearly the voice of a man, though drowned out by the roar of the downpour. Asha was not stupid or suicidal enough to accept a ride from a stranger, much less engage with anyone who would try to lure a woman into his car. There was no way he was just innocently offering her a ride, right? Whatever his motive was, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Asha passed the car, continuing until she was well ahead of it. She breathed a sigh of relief. However, her mind still would not completely relax. She imagined the man running up behind her, hitting her over the head, and dragging her back to the vehicle. She focused her hearing, listening for the sound of feet splashing in the puddles on the uneven sidewalk. She was not going to look back, after all.

No one ran up behind her or grabbed her. Instead, the car moved forward, driving past her and then stopping at a nearby red light at the next intersection. Now, she would have to pass it again. She slowed down, hoping the light would change before she arrived at the car once more. A handful of other vehicles drove though the intersection at the green light, but aside from those few cars, the street remained empty.

Asha considered waiting until the light turned green and the car had driven away. She stopped for a minute, but the light stayed red, much longer than she was used to when waiting at that particular intersection.

Finally, she made up her mind to quickly pass the car again.

Just ignore him like last time if he tries to talk to me, she thought. She approached the vehicle for a second time, not even bothering to look out from under her hood. She waited for the man to call to her again, and sure enough, his voice sounded from the open window.

“Miss, do you need a ride?” he asked. “It's pouring out here. You must be miserable.”

Asha continued on silently, willing the stranger to leave her alone, but before she could react, the car lurched forward, splashing her with water and then turning the corner to cut her off. She froze. The man exited the car, leaving the driver's side door open and striding around it to the sidewalk where she stood.

Run, she told herself. Go!

Asha stayed frozen, and a few seconds later, even her mind was blank. All she could do was listen to her heart beating in her ears and watch the man as he seemed to approach her in slow motion.

He stopped only a few feet away from her, close enough for his face to be visible in the rain, and looked her in the eye.

“GET. IN. THE. CAR,” he ordered.

She got in the car.

They drove silently for a while, Asha still unable to restart her brain. All she could do was watch the rain, as though mesmerized. She had no idea how much time had passed before her thoughts finally surfaced, breaking through the wall that had been keeping them trapped, and she shook uncontrollably, the confusion wearing her nerves thin. Why was she just sitting here?

What are you doing? Get out!

She had to get out. She wasn't going to just let herself be abducted by some strange man. The driver stopped at a light. The perfect opportunity for her to escape. However, Asha's body did not comply. She could not will her arm to rise and unlock the door at her side. It was such a simple thing to do, but something inside of her kept telling her “NO.” She turned her head to look at the driver, taking a deep breath as she attempted to calm herself. The man behind the wheel glanced at her with no particular emotion showing on his face. He was young, maybe mid twenties with dark blond hair in a simple professional-looking haircut. In the darkness, she could see that he wore a button-up shirt with a neat collar, tucked into a pair of pants. He did not look like a serial killer. He looked normal.

Still, he had just abducted her, right? Even though she had gotten in the car willingly. Her mind strained to make sense of it. Why would she just get into some stranger's car? She had never done anything like that before. Maybe this was some sort of intervention? Someone had found out about her plans? She doubted it. She had not told anyone, and she had just bought the chocolates and wine. Asha clutched her purse as it sat on her lap. If she could open it, maybe she could find something to attack her abductor with. Her keys, perhaps.

“You won't be needing that,” he said, as though reading her mind. Did he have some sort of accent? “Throw your purse out the window, and the bag,” he added, noticing the plastic bag containing the chocolates and wine she had just purchased as it sat at her feet.

Asha's thoughts froze once again, but the rest of her body was happy to comply. She rolled down the window and threw her purse from the car and then leaned forward, taking the plastic bag by the handles. She hesitated. She was really looking forward to eating those chocolates, but the man said she had to get rid of the bag, and so she did. She nodded, satisfied, as though what she had just done was completely rational. The stranger closed her window from his side and looked at her again. She gazed into his eyes. They were dark brown.

“You're going to do as I tell you. For now, sit silently,” he said. Asha nodded again, turning her head forward and focusing on the movement of the windshield wipers as they pushed the water on the glass back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Left and right. Left and right. Left and right. Left and right. Left and—

“Let's go.”

They sat in a parking lot. Off in the gloom, a neon sign glowed red above them, reading, “Castle Hotel.” It was an old hotel. She had passed it many times, wishing she could visit to see what it looked like on the inside. The brick building with Art Deco details stood grand like a tower, several stories tall. She had imagined that going inside would be like traveling back in time. However, this kind of hotel was far outside of her budget range.

The stranger had already opened his door, but then stopped as he noticed her staring off into the distance.

“Look at me.”

She looked at him.

“You're going to walk with me. You will be silent, unless someone speaks to you. If they do, just give a normal response. You are simply walking to your room with a friend. Okay?”

“Okay,” Asha replied, nodding agreeably for a third time.

“Come on. Off we go.”

The man held her hand as they walked through the rain to the hotel, grasping an umbrella in his other, which barely kept the rain off the both of them. A doorman stood under the awning and held open the glass door, welcoming them as they entered the building. The stranger gave him a curt nod, while Asha stared straight ahead.

The lobby was empty except for a woman at the front desk. She greeted them from across the room, her voice echoing along with the sounds of their wet footsteps as they squeaked across the checkered tile.

“Hello,” the stranger replied cheerfully. Once again, Asha said nothing.

It was when they entered the elevator that Asha's mind started to wake once again. The first thing she felt was a sense of wrongness, as though she should not be there. Didn't she have plans? Why was she with this man anyway? She didn't know him at all. Presumably, they were headed to his hotel room, but why? Was there something there that he wanted her to see? Something he wanted her to do?

Her thoughts stopped and rewound themselves, and she found herself revisiting the fact that the man who stood next to her was a stranger. She had just gotten in his car and gone with him to this hotel. What was wrong with her?

The bell dinged at the seventh floor, and she followed the man out of the elevator and down the hall.

Run away, she willed. Get in the elevator before it closes, but all she could do was follow. Finally, they stopped at a door. Asha never noted the room number. She entered as the nameless stranger held open the door, beckoning her inside.

“You can hang your coat there,” the man said, motioning toward the closet on her left. She looked at it blankly for a moment before slipping her jacket from her shoulders and moving to fix it on one of the hangers. Behind her, the man closed the door, making sure to lock both the doorknob and the deadbolt. An alarm seemed to go off in the back of her head as Asha heard the click of the lock. She could finally make enough sense of her mind to realize that she was in a very bad situation.

“I'll be right back,” the man said, stepping farther into the room. He crossed it and opened a door on the wall to the left, which seemed to lead to another section of the suite. Had she not been in this current situation, she would have marveled at the existence of a bedroom separated from the main room in a hotel. All the hotels she had ever been to were only one room, usually with beds, a dresser, and a television. Maybe some chairs if it was really nice, but this room was like nothing she had ever seen before. The Art Deco style was apparent in almost all of the items in the room, with the exception of the television and clock. Golden light fixtures on either wall gave the air a warm glow, illuminating the patterned wallpaper and carpet. Two velvet plush couches faced one another, a gold and glass coffee table situated between them. Decorative chairs sat by the window, framing the sides of a tall lamp, and finally, a grand wooden desk of polished mahogany sat near the right corner of the room with a padded, wooden desk chair to match. It was truly breath-taking. Had Asha actually noticed any of these details, she would have been thrilled to realize that she had successfully traveled to another time period, one that she admired. At least aesthetically.

However, Asha's mind at the time was preoccupied as she summoned all of the her willpower to turn towards the door.

Okay, now just unlock it and leave, she thought. However, she found herself distracted by the low voices coming from the adjacent room. Her heartbeat accelerated when she realized.

Voices. That means someone else is here.

She willed her right hand to rise toward the lock on the door. Just two separate motions and then she could open it and leave. Her arm trembled as her fingers drew closer to the deadbolt, and sweat dripped from her temples. She was almost there. Almost close enough to reach the lock. Just a few more inches. She brought her hand shakily forward until it made contact with the cool metal.

Okay, now just twist it.

Her hands attempted to grip the lock, her fingers fumbling as though it were her first time using them. She had just about gotten a grip on the latch when a voice called out from behind her.

“Asha.”

She froze at the sound of her name coming from an unfamiliar voice. It was spoken sharply, authoritatively but quietly.

“Asha,” it repeated, gentler this time. She turned. In the doorway to the bedroom stood a man she did not recognize. He wore round glasses and a red duster and suit, his head completely shaved. “Come to me, childe,” he called.

Her escape forgotten, she went to him.

The mysterious new stranger held out his arms, and Asha could not help but walk into them so that once she was within his reach, he could lightly hold her shoulder while using the other hand to tilt her face to his. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his. They stayed like this for a while, his gaze sometimes retreating as though examining his inner thoughts before returning to her, scanning, studying.

Finally, he spoke.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he said, quietly. “Now come.”

He turned, motioning for her to enter the bedroom. Although the man's voice had calmed her somewhat, she stopped abruptly upon spotting the clear plastic covering the floor.

“Come here,” the man ordered. She went to him, the plastic crinkling under her feet. This time, the crimson-dressed man took her face in both hands before moving his right to the collar of her shirt. He tugged at it, ripping it easily.

Asha tried to step back, her heart pounding, but the man held her by her arm, pulling her closer. She wanted to tell him that she was wearing her work uniform. He wasn't allowed to just tear it like that, but she doubted he would care. Whatever was happening here was much more important than her dark blue United States Postal Service shirt, at least in his mind. She focused her attention back on the strange man, who now dipped his head down to her neck on the side where he had torn her shirt and finally grasped the back of her head, wrapping his other hand around her body, as though he meant to hug her. To embrace her.

She felt his lips touch her skin.

She couldn't help but wonder to herself why she wasn't fighting more. This stranger had a hold of her and was now grazing his teeth against her neck. She should be screaming, hitting, scratching. She should be trying to get away. She should be better than this.

But maybe she wasn't. She had meant to die tonight.

She had imagined it so many times. Her blood draining from her as she drifted away to the tunes of Lycia, sandalwood smoke wafting around her, her breaths growing more and more shallow. The aftertaste of chocolate and spiced wine still on her tongue. It wouldn't hurt. It would probably actually hurt, but in her daydreams it didn't. There was no horror at having done something she could not undo. Soon she would feel nothing more. She would be gone, forever.

In reality, though, she worried that she might regret it. That she might panic. That it would hurt. That she would try to mend the gashes on her wrists, crying as she uselessly wrapped them in towels. She worried that she would call for help only to realize that she would be gone before anyone could get to her. She worried that she would realize that she had made a mistake and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

This, however, was something different. There was pain, but only for a second. She struggled uselessly in the tall man's grasp, but he held her close, his arms never moving. Then the pain gave way to pleasure. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. As he lapped at the open wound on her neck, she felt herself relax, as though she were melting, and his arms were the only thing holding her up. Maybe they were. She didn't care. As he drank, he grunted under his breath. She moaned softly in response. He surrounded her. His lips, his tongue, his arms, which pressed her tight against his body. The song came into her head. The song she had meant to die to, but it didn't fit anymore. “The morning breaks so cold and gray...” That song was about being alone, and she wasn't alone. He was here. Here for her. He drank her in, and knew that they would be together forever. Her heart bloomed like a crimson flower. Her body tingled, and she felt as if she might float away, but she didn't want to leave. She wanted to be here with him. She tried to lean closer, but as she became aware of her physical body once again, she realized that she could barely move. It wasn't like before. It was as if her life force had weakened. She could only give into the pleasure once again. Let him take me, if that's what he wants, she thought. Let him consume me. And so she let him. Even when her body attempted to hold on. Even when her breath quickened and her heart pounded out of control, attempting to make up for her drying veins. And then almost as quickly as it escalated, it became calm once again. Calmer, lighter, slower. So slow that her thoughts ceased to exist, and yet she perceived herself floating lightly in the darkness. Rising, climbing away.

And then something grabbed her from below. It clasped onto her ankles, biting and clawing, pulling her down until she was back where she had started. She could not see, but she could perceive a creature, forever hungry, forever bitter, forever mad, striking out, consuming and destroying and taking in whatever it could. In its desperation, the formless beast continued to chew at her legs as threads in various shades of red reached out from the dark to wrap themselves around her. One embedded itself into her heart. Another, around her neck. They spoke in whispers, each one a unique voice. The first was the strongest. And then the second spoke in a familiar voice. It was him. The one whose name she hadn't even learned before he bit into her neck. The next overlapped his, eventually passing and leading it. It twisted around it, and when the other threads appeared, one voice, a man's, another, a woman's, and five others after that, it joined them as well, twisting around them and guiding them, directing them in a particularly commanding male voice. The only one it did not wrap around was the first, strongest thread. That one remained independent, although as Asha imagined following it to its source, she perceived that the other threads all came from this one. The threads tied themselves around her wrists and ankles and then continued their twisting, covering her as though she were in a cocoon. Soon, she could see nothing but red, enveloping her, crushing the beast as it ate its way into her, whispering to her...

She smelled blood. She tasted blood. As she became aware of her body once again, she could only feel the sensation of her lips being forced open and thick liquid being poured between them. She gagged, moving to spit it out only for a hand to close around her mouth.

“Drink it,” she heard. She twisted her head away and spat it out onto the ground. A hand clamped onto her chin and turned her head forward again. “Drink!��� This time, she was ready, swallowing the cold blood from the bottle that was being shoved into her mouth. Somehow she did this without throwing it all back up.

“Repeat after me,” the voice said, more gently this time. Her mind struggled to remember what had happened before she had woken up. The rain, the car, the man, the hotel, another man, a man in red. He drank from her. He drank her blood. It was all she could think before he spoke again.

“Repeat. I, Asha Mariam.”

She couldn't resist the sudden urge to be obedient to him.

“I,” she croaked before clearing her throat. “I, Asha Mariam...”

“...hereby swear my everlasting loyalty to House and Clan Tremere and all its members.”

“...hereby—wait, what?”

“Say it.”

“But what's—” she mumbled.

“Say it.”

She didn't have the energy to refuse. She wanted to obey him.

“I, um, hereby swear my everlasting loyalty to...” she started.

“House and Clan Tremere,” he repeated.

“House and Clan Tremere...” she said the last word cautiously, unsure what it meant.

“And all of its members.”

“...and all of its members.”

“I am of their blood, and they are of mine.”

With the taste of old blood lingering in her mouth and coating her throat, she found it difficult to say the words, but she formed them as well as she could.

“I am of their blood, and they are of mine...”

Asha stood, dazed, in the middle of the hotel bedroom, the last words of the oath echoing through her mind.

“Woe to they who try to tempt me to break this oath, and woe to me if I succumb to such temptation.”

How could she swear an oath when she had no idea what it even meant? Whatever “House and Clan Tremere” was, she was surely a part of it now, whether she wanted to be or not.

The clear barrier over the carpet crinkled under her feet as she shifted her weight to watch the two men—one young, one middle-aged—as they spoke to each other quietly in the other room. The plastic clung to her shoes as she lifted her foot. The floor was sticky with blood. It had soaked into her pants and her ripped shirt. She imagined that, were she to look into a mirror, she would see her face, especially her mouth and chin, covered in blood as well.

She felt oddly calm, but uneasy. Something very strange had just happened. She wouldn't let herself think of the word she wanted to use. She had always known the difference between fiction and reality, an important skill to have as a lover of horror and fantasy. As a child, she read every book about supernatural creatures that she could get her hands on, even the books featuring true ghost stories. She believed in ghosts, but other things stayed strictly in the realm of the impossible.

Pulling herself from her uneasy thoughts, Asha focused her attention on the conversation between the two men. She couldn't make out any of it and was pretty sure they were not speaking English. Maybe more like German or something. She tensed as the voices grew closer.

The taller, older man entered the room first, followed by the other, who stood to the side.

“Asha,” he started in his calm, authoritative voice.

“Uh huh,” she said, feeling like an idiot. It was all she could manage to get out.

“My name is Maximilian Strauss.”

“Uh, hi,” she heard herself squeak.

Unlike her own, his voice felt somehow soothing. Reassuring. He leaned in close to her as he continued to speak.

“I know you must be very confused right now, and I will let you know what is happening and answer any questions you may have. However, we have very little time now. I need you to take a shower and change into fresh clothes.” He motioned toward the bed, where the other man was removing the sales tag from a gray t-shirt. “Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

Asha paused before responding again.

“Uh huh.”

“Alright,” Strauss said gently. “We will vacate the room. Leave your clothes on the plastic covering, and once you are in the shower, Stefan will collect your clothing to dispose of it.” He pointed again to the young man. “He will also let you know when ten minutes have passed. Do try to make sure there is no blood left over in the bathroom. Once you are dressed and I have checked to make sure that the hotel room is clean, we leave immediately.”

Asha agreed, and Strauss and Stefan left the room, closing the door behind them, only for her to realize that she had no idea where they were going after the hotel.

He said he would answer my questions later, she told herself, but why was she just doing what this Strauss guy was telling her to do? Was she really going to willingly just go with them?

Something's different now, and you know it.

She figured that if she was going to stand there thinking, she might as well do it in the shower.

The warm water felt good on her skin, especially on her hands. She had always had bad circulation and was used to her hands being cold, but under the hot water, they warmed up again. This time, it wasn't just her hands, though. It was as if she had gone numb and the feeling was returning to her entire body.

As she watched the red water flow down the drain, she thought back to the events that had just occurred. She remembered Strauss embracing her, drinking from her, her life leaving her, and then...

. ..she had awoken, sitting on the floor with Strauss behind her trying to force a full bottle of blood down her throat. What was that all about? Had she passed out?

She would have sighed, but it was then that she realized that she was not breathing at all. She waited, held her breath, hoping that she just hadn't noticed, but the urgency for oxygen never came. She simply continued to hold her breath. In fact, it seemed more natural to not breathe.

She put her fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing. Her hand traveled to where Strauss had opened her vein and drank the blood from her neck. There was no wound there anymore. Only a memory.

Had she died? Had the man waiting just in the next room... killed her?

“Ten minutes!” she heard Stefan call from outside the bathroom door. Asha had wanted to take a proper shower, but she settled for rinsing the rest of the blood off of her body before turning off the water and exiting the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

The clothes that Stefan had left her consisted of a pair of black leggings and a dark gray t-shirt, and next to the bed sat a pair of bright yellow rain boots. No bra, no panties, no socks, and her own had disappeared along with the rest of her clothes. Cool. The plastic and blood on the floor was also gone.

She tried on the clothes. The leggings fit fine, though they were a little tight. The shirt was far too big. The rain boots fit her perfectly, to her absolute horror.

She entered the next room to Strauss, who had donned his red jacket once again, speaking to Stefan in what she was ninety-nine percent sure was German. The older man seemed to be dictating orders to the younger, as Stefan had his head bowed, giving only short answers and obedient nods to whatever Strauss was saying.

Asha studied them as they spoke. If they really were... vampires (she let herself think it this time) then Strauss looked far more like one than Stefan. The red duster, the gloves, the suit, the little round sunglasses all screamed “vampire” to her, while Stefan just looked like a normal guy. His button-up shirt was a light blue, and he wore it tucked into khakis with a brown belt. The most interesting thing about him was his footwear, a pair of brown boots with black soles. She looked down at her own yellow rain boots and felt a tiny wave of envy hit her before the feeling quickly disappeared almost as fast as it had formed.

She hoped they would not be going too far away for too long. If they were, wouldn't Strauss have given her time to pack before they left? Surely, he didn't expect her to wear one pair of leggings and a t-shirt for multiple days. She considered that maybe there were more leggings and t-shirts waiting for her at their destination. Also underwear, she hoped.

“Asha,” Strauss called out to her. “Put on your jacket.”

Asha walked past the two men, pulling her jacket from the closet and putting it on. She waited by the door as Stefan hoisted the strap of a duffle bag over his shoulder and Strauss checked the rooms for anything else that needed cleaning. Rifling through her pockets, she located an old hair tie she had thrown in one of them at some point. The color had faded and the elastic was stretched out, but it still served its purpose as Asha used it to tie back her hair, which was getting poofier by the minute as it dried. She reminded herself to ask about hair products when she was able to speak to Strauss about her clothes, in addition to all the vampire and blood stuff.

Look how calm and accepting I am, she thought proudly to herself. I guess all the supernatural fiction and horror novels I've read over the years prepared me for all of this. She forced herself to accept this viewpoint, choosing not to focus on how she was following a pair of strangers to an unknown destination and would probably end up on some show about unsolved disappearances and murders one day. She had been about to kill herself after all. She laughed aloud, prompting a strange look from Stefan who had joined her along with the duffle bag he carried.

Finally, Strauss emerged from the next room.

“Everything is in order,” he said, making his way to the door where Asha and Stefan waited. “Let us go.”

[suzukiblu]

a quickie lil' Saturday night kink meme! ✨️🍑✨️

( for reasons that totally don't have annnnnything to do with me being extremely ADHD and/or susceptible to anons randomly asking me about fun writing meme options when I was already halfway debating doing a writing meme this weekend. definitely not. )

Send me an ask with a kink and a DC character and/or pairing included, and I will write you a lil' bit of related kink and/or porn in return! Also open to just getting sent a kink if you want surprised, and I'll do dealer's choice for the character or pairing.

Also-also, not a mandatory thing, but bonus points for:

a) rarepairs,

b) KON rarepairs,

and

c) giving me a reason why you think the kink vibes with the character/pairing.

Multiple requests are fine; just please send 'em in separate asks, it makes it way easier for me to answer them.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Just curious what the average level of personal investment in these sorts of things is. Like, how much do people usually get into silly stuff like this their friends ask of them? etc. etc. Which I know, only surveying a small sample on a very specific website means I'm not getting an exact average idea lol, but.. curious nonetheless .. Maybe reblog for bigger sample size but also this is not very serious at all/not worth a call to action gbhjbhjb

[gatzbright]

“you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars” — e.e. cummings

[dallonwrites]

wrote 437 words and whilst i'm glad i have an outline for this chapter i forgot briefly about the beauty of discovery writer swag because none of what i wrote was planned and all stemmed from one description line like i got carried away but i had fun. i was free

[spilling-blood]

What if I said during this period of giving myself permission to not write at all I keep coming up with ideas while I clean and pack, and one of them is a pre canon Fyoguchi oneshot...

[omnipicureans]

[S'MORES] - A classic treat, easily made in the bonfires that crop up as the sun begins to set, and perfect for sharing.

The night was winding down, and Fu Hua sat before a fire, a stick before the pit. As heat slowly enraptured the gooey marshmallow, she would hum. She was at peace. That was, until a familiar figure would drift closer out of the shadows.

"Who's there?" She called out, her tone rather sweet. "I'm just making some s'mores and uh, I've got more than enough to share, if you'd like to join me!" Despite all that had come before, that nerve in meeting someone new still managed to find itself tickling the end of each sentence. A soft sigh at the hesitation, before her eyes widened. The realization of who was approaching hit harder than any foe she'd ever faced.

"Aponia..." she whispered, her stick lowering closer to the bonfire. The golden goodness would burn over, blackened and charred like the wood fueling the flame. The state of her snack isn't on her mind, however. Her old friend is.

(Realizing that Fu Hua would probably have a breakdown at seeing any of the flame-chasers but like don't worry about it yk)

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄'𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇! ╱ ghsolstice prompts.

SIMULATIONS HAD NOT THE NECESSITIES OF HUMAN LIMITS, & thus, the drawl of shuddering wind across dark skies had not summoned forth the thought of retreating back home to unceremoniously end the night. or maybe, instead, the simple thought of having somewhere to retreat was the catalyst of discipline's aimless wandering. sand crushed beneath platformed sandals, moonlight caught between clasped hands, aponia walked & walked & walked until the shore was behind her wake——— hooded eyes glazed over with the barest flicker of fatigue ; THE FOREVER EMOTION TRAPPED BETWEEN THE BINARIES OF HER RIBCAGE, an immortal ghost of her humanity.

at least, in this, the mortal delight of watching setting suns & waking moons would be enjoyed, without the ignorance of pretending how numbers made up the sky & codes reflected the light cast upon her. that, as wispy as the breeze, followed the memory of companionship, a———

shy blue eyes blinked away the exhaustion, napping up at the direction of a stranger's voice. how far had she walked, aimless yet inevitably into the radius of another, more fortunate soul? lips pursed into the beginnings of a frown, TOO QUAINT TO MIMIC THE TRUTH OF A SCOWL, one she, herself, seemed incapable of creating. the greeting though was welcoming enough, & truth to the offer, it had been years since she had the luxury of a smore. ( what exactly that was, she seemed forgetful, but the smell of charring sugar shed a possible light on the sweet's making. )

❛ ah, you are too kind. i apologize for interrupting your peace. ❜ wandering feet set themselves forward to a destination, that beneath the brushes of foliage & into the clearing lit only by a pit of carefully tamed fire. pursed lips became that of a smile, gentle & appreciative, before her gaze finally reached the lady perched beside the flames. ❛ if you will allow me, then i will join you. i. . . ❜

FAMILIARITY GRASPED HER THROAT, & STRANGLED FORTH ANY UTTERANCE OF FURTHER EXPLANATIONS. the feeling was so sudden, so impossibly swift, discipline nearly split apart the fragment she stood as, a shock so utterly disobedient, her expression fell with an uncomfortable ease.

in contrast to herself, fu hua sat casually before her, though evidently not absent of a similar surprise as the disbelief that refused to release her. AGAINST ALL ODDS, FU HUA EXISTED. it was simply a strange oddity that she existed in front of discipline, of all ghosts.

her name fell softly from fu hua's lips, though she had yet to tear herself from the disbelief ; CONFUSED EYES MET THOSE OF A VIBRANT COLOR, so unlike the gaze she remembered, yet belonging to the memory as no other would. quiet, aponia uttered, ❛ fu hua. ❜ & said nothing else, simply to digest the name in full. discipline turned taut, then, once all was consumed. she straightened what had relaxed, pressed together lips that fell open, & changed all besides the tenderness of her gaze.

❛ . . . you are different. ❜ came, first, the obvious. second, followed the trail of her feet, guiding her forward until she stood closer, further into the light. in little time, such sternness softened. ❛ i am surprised, but cannot be anymore. you are a force of the untouchable, fu hua. ❜

( HAVE YOU MISSED ME AS I HAVE MISSED YOU? WHAT HAS BECOME OF YOU NOW, & DOES IT BEAR RESEMBLANCE TO THE REBIRTH OF MYSELF? WHAT HAS CHANGED BETWEEN US, OR HAS ANYTHING AT ALL?

[ . . . ] discipline remained silent of all inquiries, scripted only to the very moment it existed within. )

careful gaze flitted to the empty log beside her. an offer, a boundary, ❛ may i sit with you, still? ❜

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning <33

[beautiful-songbird]

Slamming my head against the wall as I write this paper

[quatregats]

Okay I will say another point in favor of this movie (which is perhaps a more concise albeit slightly tangential version of what I was saying earlier) is that it does a great job of showing that institutions are ultimately just people, rather than painting any of them as a faceless entity of good or evil

[lady-of-the-garden]

I love overthinking things just for them to be so simple as to not even be worth mentioning